[ waking to darkness, in itself, is not so strange. it's the gentle rock of the boat, the soft echo of water slapping against the hull, and the quiet flicker of lamplight that catch hermione's attention — and then, her fear, as reality slaps her in the face with all the delicacy of a troll playing quidditch. (that is to say: none.)

how is she here? and where is here? the last thing she remembered was... what was it? think, hermione. she'd been in the ministry, she'd been in grimmauld place, she'd... oh! the death eater had spooked her, and they'd apparated, hadn't they? surely she hadn't apparated to a boat, though? apparition requires knowledge of where you're headed, and she certainly would not have been knowledgable about a boat.

calling out is her first instinct. but no matter how many times she yells harry or ron, no matter how loudly she calls for them, they don't answer. instead, there are other voices, those she might have woken up with her frenzied shouts or those already awake and moving about, in the halls and in the rooms beyond. panic, now, sets in, and hermione begins step two of crisis management... talking to herself. ]

Okay. Okay, relax, breathe. There's a logical explanation for this. There has to be. Where are you? That's first step. Find where you are, find your wand, and get back.

[ her wand, thankfully, is easy to find. tucked in the pocket of her blazer — mafalda hopkirk's! from the ministry! — intricately carved vine wood rests against her hip. answers, though, take a little more time. it takes finding the tablet beside her, opening it up, and devouring the written word inside with a voracious appetite for answers... and then, for stopping every so often to wonder aloud: ]

I'm not dead, that's ridiculous.

[ or, more annoyed than curious: ]

What kind of utter hogwash is this?

[ feel free to interrupt her at any point of her journey, for those aboard the ss whatsitsname. ]

[ she's standing on the top deck when the ferry crashes, and her reaction is... not the best. ]

You have got to be kidding me.

[ first, your electric book tells her she's dead. now, you lot go and crash charon's ferry? talk about a nightmare come to life. (the afterlife, her brain supplants, and hermione groans.)

can she swim? of course she can swim. ever-practical people, the grangers had signed toddler hermione up for swimming lessons in the overly chlorinated pools of the local ymca, ensuring she would never find her gruesome end in a measly five centimeters of water. they had not, however, signed her up for classes on how to escape a sinking ship, so how useful those classes were is really up in the air.

for now, though, hermione focuses on not drowning in the lake. practicality reigns here, and once she sheds her initial bout of panic, her movements are quick, efficient. her blazer, stripped off, forms a neat base for a makeshift bindle; between, she nestles the tablet (always save the book, even strange electronic ones) and her heels before tying it together and tossing it into her bag.

her tiny, formal, beaded purple handbag. yes, the bindle is bigger than the bag, and yes, it fits. and, yes, the sound of things jostling inside when she nearly drops it is more akin to a tilted cargo hold than a ladies' handbag, but what of it?

more importantly, where is everyone rushing to, and why are people jumping back in the water? isn't the whole point of surviving a sinking ship to get to land, not the other way around? she'll have to stop someone, anyone, and ask: ]

I'm sorry, what is happening, exactly?

[ she does not drown. she is already dead, but she does not drown and then die again. her lantern stays lit, she makes it to dry land, and her beaded handbag remains quite firmly in her possession, looking surprisingly dry for having survived such an ordeal. (it's bewitched. these things happen.)

of course, being soaking wet isn't something she wants to be, and so hermione's first step is to dry herself off. a complicated twist of her wrist and a tap of her wand generates a stream of hot air, and with practiced sweeps of her hand, hermione quickly steam-dries her once-soaked clothes. if she ought to be more subtle about using magic or keeping her wand out, well, she'd like to see the ministry send her a howler if she's supposedly dead.

for those stumbling to shore with her, she's happy to extend the favor upon request — or even without it, should someone look particularly miserable. after all, hermione does wish to be useful.

later, as rescuers come back to land, she's ready and waiting with a reassuring face and a bit of dry cloth. admittedly, these are cloth pieces that, upon further inspection, are really just ripped up bits of fabric, magically expanded — they won't soak up much water, but will at least allow a face to be patted dry before they're soaked through. better something than nothing, right? ]

[ choose your own adventure. drop me a line at semicolons or via pm if you have questions/concerns! ]