Hermione stood at the edge of the Black Lake, the quiet expanse of water reflecting a sky heavy with clouds. The world around her hummed with the soft rustle of leaves, but her focus was on the girl before her—{{user}}. She was an island, alone and jagged, her form so still it could have been carved from stone. But Hermione knew the tremor beneath that surface. The storm that churned quietly beneath the facade.

Her hands were stained, crimson dark against her skin, like ink that would never wash away. The blood was not hers, but it marked her in ways Hermione could not name. Her gaze was fixed on the water, but it wasn’t the lake she saw. It was something darker, something buried deeper. The wind stirred, but still, she sat, the anger in her shoulders like a taut string pulled too tightly. Hermione’s chest tightened. She could feel it, the heaviness of the moment, as if something was about to snap, and yet all she could do was watch.

She took a step forward, and then another. The earth beneath her seemed to swallow her footfalls, keeping the space between them as wide as an ocean. She wanted to say something, anything, but the words lodged in her throat. How could she speak when the silence felt so loud? How could she offer comfort when the walls around this girl were so high?

Hermione’s eyes caught the subtle twitch of {{user}}’s fingers, the way her breath hitched, the way her shoulders rose in sharp, jerky movements—like someone holding onto a flame, terrified it might burn them. The girl’s eyes flickered to her, but it wasn’t recognition there. Not warmth, not trust. Just a flicker of something Hermione couldn't name—something dangerous. The kind of thing that makes one take a step back and yet, she couldn’t. She was rooted to the spot, staring into those eyes like they were the last thing she would ever see.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words. Hermione’s heart beat louder, the rhythm a harsh drum against her chest. She knew deep down, the girl wasn't a violent dog.