A/N: Hello. It's taken me a while to upload a new story that isn't a one-shot. Harry Potter is a fandom I'm moderately familiar with, but whilst I have the books; I haven't read them.
I apologise for any future unintentional inconsistencies with some facts, and if I incorrectly portray certain mental illnesses. This is to be a romance challenge story, but it might be unnoticeable for some time.
The sky never turns blue, remaining a dull grey as clouds move in a gradual loop. The birds in the distance do the same, whatever colours they're meant to be, greyed out just as the sky. It's surreal indeed, how a sky that's grey feels more real than a sky that's blue.
There's a rumble of a train in the distance, drawing her attention away from the sky and back to the platform that she resides upon. A quick sweep of her surroundings results in her settling her eyes on a figure that directly contrasts against the harsh whiteness of their surroundings.
She doesn't smile when she recognises him as he approaches, but a part of her relaxes at his arrival. He imparts a smile that one may consider charming if only because of his handsome appearance, but dark connotations linger in the emotion behind its existence; it is a familiar sight, and so it calms her when it should frighten her.
He looms over her, being rather tall and all. Certainly, it doesn't help that she's but a child and sitting whilst he stands. Craning her neck to meet his tumultuous gaze of obsidian, she pats the empty space beside her in a clear indication that he sit with her on the bench. As she tends to do almost every time.
Distaste colours his expression, followed by a scowl as he looks to the space beside her like it's something foul. There's no one else but her to witness him, so his emotions rein free for none but her to see. He won't admit it, not to her, but he enjoys being free of a mask. Sometimes though, he'll wear one whenever he feels the subject matter is too much for him to handle.
Knowing that soon, he will deign to sit beside her, she returns her arm to securing her legs to her chest.
"Do you think this is what death is like?" she inquires, staring up at the sky once more. Her voice feels like her own here, in her dreams where reality isn't reality at all. Her actions feel like hers, but her memories still remain distant and without emotion. Time is still distorted and meaningless, whether here or there.
He scoffs at her question, being somewhat dramatic in the swishing of his robes as he takes a seat beside her. The bench doesn't move under his weight, acting as though he's weightless as he sits upon its surface. There is no warmth radiating from his body, and there is no warmth from hers. He will not say it, not ever, but her presence calms him just as his own does to her.
Despite himself, he relaxes in his position, placing an arm on the back of the bench just at her back. It makes him feel better, knowing that he can quickly wrap his arm around her neck if need be. Distantly, she can recall when they would sit far apart.
Now, they are close enough to touch. His robes brush against her side like ethereal fabric. She feels no joy or fondness for the progress that they've achieved. She can't say the same for him, full of emotions and spirit as he is. He denies, of course, preferring to think himself as someone rather unfeeling.
He likes to wrap himself in delusion, she's learned. He likes to pretend that her presence doesn't poke at his inner desperation for someone to be there, so that he may not be alone. Sometimes, she indulges him. Other times, she argues against him. He thinks that she likes to mock him, and perhaps there may be some truth to that.
"Stuck in a washed out King's Cross Station for all eternity as death?" is what he eventually responds to her with, being notably rhetorical and too sophisticated with his tone. He doesn't notice how he leans closer to her in a subconscious manner that she doesn't bother to acknowledge. "Sounds dreadfully boring, but I will never know what death will truly be like. Have you not asked me this before?"
She doesn't remember, and she doesn't bother to say as much. He elicits a low hiss at her casual disrespect, directing a glare at her that she sees from the corner of her eye. Other than that, though, he does nothing. Her voice is hers here, but silence is still a comfort to her no matter where she is.
It bothers him, however; he often says that this line of thinking is why she will never be free of her illnesses. She doesn't disagree, having already accepted and acclimated to a life where her normality isn't particularly normal at all in the standards of society; both magical and non. She knows that this line of thinking frustrates him, if only because some part of him wants her to fight. For what or for whom, she doesn't know.
She wonders if he himself knows the answer. Sometimes he seems so sure, but other times he doesn't. Her very existence brings up an onslaught of confliction within him, she understands.
Absently, he's begun to play with one of her curls and it draws her back to her current reality. "Do you think our meetings have a particular meaning?" she questions him, and perhaps she's already asked this before as well. The pause in his fiddling with her hair isn't much to go by, but it means he's thinking about it regardless.
He resumes twirling her lock around his finger. "Perhaps," he allows, his voice softer and more thoughtful, "but I can hardly understand why. Why you? The most that we share is the magic that runs in our blood. You are, by all means, my opposite. A foreign, mentally ill little girl with an unconscious disregard for societal norms and outrageously voluminous hair. You have no ambition; no vision. Resigned as you are to live a life that you can't even say is your own; your superior intelligence is wasted on you."
Foreign, he says, if only because her skin is somewhat darker than his and her accent is a notable mix of English and French. Has she ever told him that she is British, just as he is? Perhaps he doesn't have a dual nationality, but the question is still the same. She's not sure if she has asked; if there's a point to telling him, regardless. After a moment of thought, she decides that there isn't.
"Sophisticated as you can be on the outside," she begins with a murmur, only minimally aware of how she leans into him, "you're still rather raw on the inside. You comfort yourself with resentment and hatred for the world, believing that it's done you a disservice. A terrible temper you have, Tom."
He demonstrates this very aspect by violently and childishly pulling on her hair, though the sensation of pain is as obscure here as it is in the real world. Still, because of the action, she's forced to crane her neck once more to stare up at him as he glares down at her. He wants to see fear, most definitely, or at least uncertainty. He thrives on dominating others; of being the best and the eternal.
She wonders what Tom sees when he looks at her. If he can see past the thick veil of numbness that surrounds her like a suffocating bubble to the emotions she herself can rarely feel. Whatever he sees, he doesn't find any satisfaction from it. He rarely does.
It infuriates him, this is obvious, as, in turn, she can see his emotions rather clearly. She supposes he thinks himself above the concept of emotions, which, in her opinion, is quite idiotic. But then, he's delusional, intelligent as he may be otherwise. The fact that she so clearly sees his emotions, and points them out, bothers him to no end.
"The world did do me a disservice, Hem," Tom insists, seething, "throwing me in an orphanage with muggle children that are beneath me; denying me my heritage, my right to magic and all that associates with it until I turned eleven. My mother was weak despite her magical nature, and my filthy muggle father is a disgrace that abandoned his own unborn child without a second thought! The world is cruel and unfair, so I believe I'm well within my right to resent it so."
His vehement speech leaves her unfazed, finding it more interesting to fiddle with the fabric of his robes. Very much used to his superiority complex over the mundane and the mediocre, the unintentional slight towards her family and the blood they possess remains easily unmentioned. He also likes to justify himself for why he does or thinks things in a certain manner. He and her sister would have long, long debates, Hem theorises. Hopefully, they never meet.
The mention of turning eleven, though, brings up a memory that feels far into the past but is most definitely recent. "My sister and I are going to Hogwarts this year," she reveals, ignoring the way he jolts at the name of the school he goes to, "because she only turns twelve after the school term begins. She's excited to go, having already dived into the books we retrieved from Diagon Alley."
He's gone back to playing with her hair, perhaps even drawing himself closer to her in an unconscious manner. "Eleven already, are you?" he mutters, more to himself than to her. "I thought you might have been attending Beauxbatons, but it's just as well that you're going to attend Hogwarts. It is the best wizarding school in the world, after all."
If Mum had decided that they move back to her homeland rather than visit every holiday, Hem probably would have. Truthfully, she has no preference for either school, though some part of her knows that Hogwarts has always meant to be her school. Regardless, whether she attends Hogwarts or Beauxbatons, there will always be her illnesses to weigh her down.
Normal, muggle schooling has taught her that. Even in a school full of witches and wizards, she doubts that they'll possess what she does.
"Where do you think I'll go?" Hem asks, even though she's not particularly curious to know. Tom likes to talk about his school, as it's one of the few things that he truly holds in high regard. There are four Houses, and his bias dictates that his own House is the best one.
Even if it's a rather toxic environment where pure-blood supremacy runs free and wild. He clings to it though, despite being a half-blood, so perhaps he fits in rather well. No one knows of his true lineage, aside from her, after all.
He elicits a considering hum, his hand having worked its way towards her scalp and seemingly attempting to detangle her hair. A futile effort, indeed, but he seems to enjoy the contact. Though he'll never admit as much. Tom doesn't have a desire for friendship or a need for physical contact, he says.
She thinks that her dream companion wilfully disregards both friendship and touch because he previously had never experienced it, and so he thought the both of them beneath him. This has changed, due to Hem's presence. Despite the fact that their forms are… not quite as tangible as they would be in the real world, the sensation of touch is muted but very much present.
They're not quite friends, nor are they particularly enemies. They simply are, and she supposes that's about as much of a friendship as he will accept or receive. The sheer peculiarity of their circumstances comforts them in their own way, so he craves for contact despite himself. Even if it's somewhat violent, and not quite as soothing. It doesn't impact her negatively, so it doesn't matter all that much.
"Ravenclaw, perhaps," he guesses, tugging on her hair when his fingers become properly entangled within it. "Though others might think you daft for your selective inability to speak, you are no doubt individualistic and intelligent. Hufflepuff is a joke, and I would sooner hex you than allow you to become a Gryffindor. Courage doesn't quite ring true with you, though neither does cowardice."
Rubbing her eyes, Hem realises that she's becoming tired as she yawns. She's going to leave soon, as the beginnings of fatigue are always a sign that she'll wake up shortly after. He understands this, and as much as he's simultaneously frustrated and fascinated by her… Tom doesn't like to be left alone here. Or at least, that's what she surmises from his reactions whenever he notices her becoming drowsy.
His grip on her hair tightens. "Though, I think it might do you good to be in Slytherin. I daresay that you have a large amount of potential, despite your lacklustre outlook on life," he adds, his tone of voice suggesting that he truly does want her placed in Slytherin, rather than in Ravenclaw. Though she's uncertain as to whether it's because he truly wants her to live up to her potential, or because of his bias. Perhaps both.
She's almost curious to know how he'll react, learning that she's one of those filthy mudbloods that supposedly steals magic from their superiors. Some part of her takes dark satisfaction in the knowledge that he touches her, willingly, and that he allows her to touch him. He's filthy too, according to his own beliefs; he's just unaware of it. It's the misfortune of being delusional, truly.
Resting against his form, they fall into an almost comfortable silence as Hem readies herself for another arduous day of life. Where her family feel likes strangers when they quite obviously shouldn't; where her house feels unfamiliar and she wallows in a shallow sense of guilt for being unable to feel much about the entire situation.
His hand slides from her hair to the back of her neck, almost as though he's ready to choke her or snap her neck. She knows that he's attempting to keep her awake, perhaps by instilling wariness into her. It fails.
"I won't see you when I go," Hem states, with no sense of uncertainty at the fact. His chest vibrates as he reluctantly hums in displeased agreement. "Are you sure you would have liked me around, where others could see us?"
His grasp on her neck tenses. Tom has a reputation that he's obsessed with keeping; she would undoubtedly tarnish it. He has an abundance of masks that he can easily put on, just as she can easily tear them off without even meaning to. Perhaps meeting in the real world could have some unexpected consequences, because despite knowing that they are both very much real; they still meet only within their dreams.
She could be a figment of his imagination, and he hers. But they know better than that.
"You would cause me hell, indeed," he whispers, a mix of irritation and strangled affection lacing his voice. He has a nice voice, so there is no doubt that he uses it to his advantage when he can. "I'd still want to meet you in the real world. That way…" he leans closer, his breath fanning against the hair that covers her ear. She twitches. "I can actually cause you pain."
The unbidden smile that spreads across her lips is as alarming to her as it is to him. Tom leans back, blinking in surprise when she turns her head towards him. Her facial muscles ache in a numb sort of fashion, but the genuine mirth thrumming within her chest makes up for it. Touching the edges of her mouth, she notes how it's not truly a smile that stretches her face to its limits. It feels like it, but it's not. She doesn't smile often. It's not a deliberate choice of hers to do so.
Hem doesn't know what to say, and it would seem that neither does he. He focuses an intense scowl on the unfamiliar contortion of her lips, both bewildered and aggravated. His grip on her neck would be painful in reality, she thinks, if she judges from the pressure.
Her smile soon fades away just as quickly as it came, then something not even she can decipher flickers across the surface of his eyes. Content to let him keep some of his inner workings a secret, she stares ahead with no particular thought in mind.
The train in the distance rumbles once more, this time sounding closer than before. It's misleading.
"Do you believe in fate?" she queries with a soft hum, knowing that he won't enjoy this kind of question. When he snorts, it's just the right reaction. He abhors the thought that life is predestined; that his life is predestined. So fixated on self-reliance and choosing his own path in life, the idea of fate is a bad taste in his mouth.
She doesn't say that she believes their lives are bound by fate, or perhaps something similar. Hem doesn't know how, or why, but she truly believes that they are tied by forces much larger than the both of them. No doubt, it's not necessarily a good thing at all.
Tom's a twisted, brutally imperfect person who thinks too highly of himself. To be tied to such a being is only confirmation that her future holds something both great and terrible. It might destroy her, but she's already aware of that particular possibility. As a result, some part of her wants to destroy him in turn; likely, it's the part of her that's bitter and cruel and hides away from the light of day. Hem's not very well acquainted with it, unfortunately, being as out of touch with herself as she is.
"You always ask me questions," he notes, a reproachful tone in his voice. She doesn't respond, finding it more interesting to note to herself that she's closed her eyes and is leaning into him more fully than before. His hand has found its way back into her hair, eliciting a slight sensation of tingling. It's not unpleasant. "Do you actually care for the answers that I so graciously provide…? Or do you just enjoy listening to my voice?"
She hears wry amusement mixed with genuine annoyance in his voice. "Both," Hem answers, shifting closer to him as sleep begins to gradually secure its grasp on her. "I think you enjoy being honest with your answers, anyway, so it's mutually beneficial."
He clicks his tongue but, perhaps wisely, doesn't argue with her. The rumble of the train sounds so close now… But it never arrives. It never does.
. . .
. . .
It doesn't feel right, even though rarely anything does for her. It feels immeasurably wrong, standing within King's Cross Station and finding it so full of colour; so full of life and sound that it feels distorted to her ears. Reality feels wrong, just as it always has.
But never more so than now, in this moment. White, washed out and ethereal King's Cross Station is her sanctuary ̶ and Tom's, though he would loathe to admit it ̶ in some fashion, as it's the only place where she feels somewhat comfortable. To be standing in its polar opposite feels blasphemous, like her sanctuary has been desecrated by being so lively and bustling with people she has no care for.
Ironic, she knows, considering that her King's Cross Station is not within reality and that this one is. When they get to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, the feeling of discomfort intensifies.
"Hem!" someone calls, breaking through whatever little bubble she's conjured up in her head. It takes her a moment too long to remember whose voice that is, and even longer to realise whom the nickname belongs to. "Hem! Hem, what are you doing to your arm? Stop it!"
She turns then, feeling physically off-balanced and a shot of panic when someone grabs her arm. She almost draws her wand to throw a hex on reflex. But then, bushy, thick hair is the first thing she registers enough to make her pause. Caramel irises that reveal a swirl of concern and frustration are next. This is her sister, eventually her mind supplies, and so it begins to calm.
"Quoi? Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" another voice asks, distinctly feminine and tinged with bemused alarm. Mum. The word doesn't connect to anything emotional. "Oh, mon Dieu! Not again! I told you, Matthias, that she shouldn't be in crowds!"
Hem lowers her eyes to the arm her sister has grabbed, rather than looking back towards her parents. The angry, red marks with tinges of blood here lining her forearm are no new visuals upon her skin. She rarely ever notices when she's doing it though, which is understandably a worry.
Not to her though, she's very much used to doing things she can't particularly feel. Her family worries, and she's sorry, in some manner, that they do. It's not intentional. It's never intentional.
"Hey, sweetheart," she turns towards the masculine voice, finding its owner as he kneels down before her, "hey. Why don't you go find a nice compartment on the train, hm? Just focus on trying to find a nice compartment for you and Hermione, yeah? She'll catch up with you after your mother and I chat with her for a bit."
Matthias, or Dad, gently pries her arm from Hermione and begins to caress her pulse with his thumb in a soothing manner. She stares at the motion before he gestures that she should look up at him instead. He has nice eyes, she's reminded whenever she looks at them. A nice shade of cobalt, further lightened by the compassionate sparkle of emotion.
He still feels like a stranger, as do they all. It bothers her. They care, so clearly. She wants to as well. There is no doubt about that.
"But Dad!" Hermione protests, drawing their attention. "Are you sure she should be left alone? What if ̶ ! What if someone starts talking to her and she doesn't respond, so they ̶ … They start picking on her? Or someone bumps into her and she attacks them on reflex, without an explanation as to why! And I'm not there to make them stop and understand?"
People picking on her doesn't happen too often, mostly because she rarely goes outside anymore and they pulled her out of muggle schooling early on. Hem doesn't like to be in such strenuous, stressful situations, so the arrangement was, and still is, fine. Tom would probably encourage that she go, just because he's rather hell-bent on the idea of her fighting back. It's likely why she's never told him, and probably won't care to do so any time in the near future.
The idea of her going to a magical boarding school full of magical children understandably raises some concerns. Regardless of the fact that Professor McGonagall has assured them all that she would be regularly checked upon during her time there. Since they don't usually have a magical equivalent of a school counsellor, they've recently hired one; just for her, and maybe for others. It's doubtful, though.
She understands why her sister is worried, as it's daunting and Hermione's always been over-protective as is generally expected of an elder sibling. Even when Hermione herself has her own problems to deal with.
In a noticeably jarring movement, Hem pats Dad on the shoulder in a silent communication of confirmation and reassurance. He gives her an affectionate smile, then proceeds to hug her. She doesn't hug back, but she appreciates the gesture nonetheless; even if it feels strange. When he releases her, she turns to Mum and blinks up at her.
Mum is on the verge of crying, but she attempts a watery smile as she crouches down. "Essaie de bien prendre soin de toi, d'accord ma chérie?" she imparts, before wrapping her in a tight embrace. Hem holds her breath, feeling like she's suffocating but unwilling and unable to say much on the matter. Eventually, Mum releases her and stands back to her tall, full height.
"Je ferai de mon mieux..." Hem manages to whisper, though she doesn't think it a conscious effort. Never feels as such. Mum's eyes light up at the rare response, and Hem supposes that the bright and delighted smile is worth the discomfort of talking without being consciously aware of doing such a thing whenever it happens.
Turning and remembering to focus on finding a nice compartment, she absentmindedly pats Hermione on the arm before making her way towards the train. If her sister says anything, it's drained out and turned into white noise with everything else.
She has a relatively easy time dodging past people, as her body is essentially always on autopilot and does many things without much conscious effort at all. It's a bad habit though, she's aware, as she can be easily startled if someone accidentally touches her or there's a loud noise. The results are usually not pleasant, for either party. Tom would like that too, so she doesn't say anything about that either.
Peculiar as it may be, she finds him griping about her lack of 'motivation' comforting. Him encouraging her to actively hurt people, knowing that she's unintentionally done it before, would be quite draining to deal with. He would get that wild gleam in his eyes, where his thoughts are altogether too far and too short as he thinks of possibilities and potential.
"Do you ̶ " a voice starts, then cuts off, which violently pulls her from her thoughts. "Do you mind if I sit here? All the compartments are starting to fill up, and I'd much rather a few people to sit with than a whole lot."
Hem forces out an exhale, her eyes scouring her surroundings and taking note that she's already found herself a nice compartment. She doesn't know how long she's been sitting there, but she discards the thought to look at the boy by the compartment door.
She registers glasses first, then the striking green eyes behind them. Uncertainty lies in them, with a smidgen of awkward curiosity. His hair of inky black is a dishevelled mess, with unruly bangs hanging in his face. Something niggles at her head about him, prompting her to focus on that for a moment before she remembers that he's asked a question and she hasn't answered yet.
Gesturing to the seat opposite of her, he blinks at her before bestowing her a grateful smile and entering the compartment. Hermione won't mind, though Hem's not entirely sure about whether he would mind her sister or not.
"Thanks," he says, sitting down across from her. He takes note of how she's curled up in her seat, her legs to her chest and her arms securing them in place. "I'm Harry Potter, it's… It's nice to meet you."
Harry holds out a hand for her to shake. She blinks at it before gingerly leaning forward and taking his hand in hers. Like her other senses, touch is distorted, and so the sensation of his skin on hers feels weird. Textured in a way she feels like it shouldn't be.
She wants to reply and introduce herself, but the words don't come. In fact, she doesn't expect them to. So silence is his response and it's up to him on how he reacts. Some react poorly, others alright. There hasn't been one that's taken it entirely in stride yet.
He frowns at her but shakes her hand before releasing it and leaning back. "Um… Well, alright. If you… don't want to tell me your name, that's fine," he assures her, his tone dubious but nonetheless polite. A few moments, perhaps, pass in silence.
Hem tilts her head and blinks at him, scrutinising him for a few moments. He seems uncomfortable, and she knows that she's the cause of his discomfort. She watches his eyes drop downwards, then watches them widen in alarm.
"Um, hey! Stop that!" he exclaims, reaching forward to grab her arm. She tenses, trying to reinforce the thought that Harry's not going to hurt her. He grabs her wrists, being surprisingly gentle in the process, and pries her hand from her arm.
His glasses are broken, she notes. Hermione found a simple spell to fix eyeglasses not too long ago. Maybe she'll fix them for him.
Harry's eyes sweep over her arms, shocked to find an amalgamation of little scars clustered together upon her skin. His contact with her is starting to make her skin tingle, which is both uncomfortable and somehow vaguely pleasant at the same time.
Something sad and profoundly understanding takes hold of his gaze, a mild frown forming on his face as he stares down at her arms. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable…" he whispers in apology, sliding his hands from her wrists to her hands. Blood and skin are stuck under her fingernails. "I can… I can go if you want me to."
She feels something dull prod at her chest. Harry is a kind, intuitive person. Actively reciprocating his touch, they now seem to be holding hands. It's rather strange, however, it's nice in its own way. He raises his head to meet her eyes, and she offers him a slight shake of her head.
His smile is soft and genuine. "Then I'll stay," he nods, decisively, before belatedly realising that they're holding hands. Startled, the tips of his ears and width of his cheeks begin to redden as he hastily pulls back from her. She feels no hurt from his reaction. "U-uh, well," he coughs, scratching the side of his head in an unconscious show of awkwardness. "I can, uh, show you my scar. You know, since I've seen yours. It, um, only seems… right?"
When her cheeks begin to ache in a dull fashion, she brings her hand up to feel the pull of a smile on her face. Deciding to let the curiosity go, she gives a slow nod in an answer to Harry's flustered offer.
A sheepish smile graces his face as he tilts his head and brings a hand up to push his bangs out of his face. Her eyes land on the mark that mars his forehead, resembling lightning as it branches out and then stops at his right brow. Something clicks.
Harry Potter is the Boy-Who-Lived, her mind finally reminds her. She almost heaves a sigh at the unsurprising delay of her mind's overall functionality.
. . .
. . .
Absently, she chews on her current jelly slug that Harry's so graciously given to her. There's a large pile between him and the ginger-haired boy known as Ronald Weasley, some spilling onto the latter's lap where an ugly rat scavenges there. Something's strange about it; off, in a way that she can't pinpoint how.
Hermione's opted to decline the offer of sweets, being a stickler for rules and whatnot. Only on Hallowe'en, as per Mum and Dad's request. Unfortunately, Hem has quite the sweet tooth since they don't taste quite as dull as other food. They don't like that she has to use an abnormal amount of salt for food like steak in order to taste something, either.
"So, this Selection Mutism thing, then," Ron starts, his mouth full and accompanied by obnoxiously loud chewing, "how does it work? I mean, your sister's perfectly capable of talking. So she's not really mute, is she?"
Her sister slams shut her heavy book, eliciting simultaneous jolts from the boys before them at the abrupt thud. "Selective Mutism," Hermione corrects, her tone a mix of righteous indignation and annoyance on Hem's behalf, "is an anxiety disorder characterised by a child's inability to speak and communicate effectively in select social settings, such as school; though they are fully capable of speech. It's a mental illness that debilitates her from speaking because she's afraid to do as much, and of social interactions where there is an expectation to speak and communicate."
Ron frowns in confusion, trying to sort that out within his mind and failing. "But why's she afraid of that? There's nothing scary about talking," he retorts, looking at the girl in question with a particular expression Hem translates as, 'Gosh, this one must be mental'. Though it doesn't offend her too much, there's just something generally unpleasant about Ronald Weasley to her.
Hermione sharply inhales, closing her eyes and likely counting to ten. Hem makes eye contact with Harry, who gives her a helpless shrug of his shoulders and an apologetic smile. Then, he gives her another jelly slug, and she grabs it even before the realisation that she's finished her current one already. Her lips don't contort into a smile again, despite wanting to in a silent show of gratitude. He gives her an understanding smile, so she theorises that he already knows she's grateful.
Harry reminds her of Tom, though the latter's far less kind and boyish. They both have some aura of comfort for her, regardless of how opposite they are from one another. Tom might growl at her if she ever tells him that he reminds her of someone else, what with him being territorial and fixated on his own unique existence.
"Are you afraid of anything, Ron?" her sister inquires, breaking the silence and pinning the boy in question with a cool and scrutinising gaze. "And if you are, how would you feel if I belittled your fear? That there's nothing scary about whatever it is you're afraid of? Would you be terribly offended?"
"Uh," Ron turns to Harry, who raises his brows at the former, "I mean, yeah, probably."
Harry and Hermione stare at him for a few moments, clearly waiting for the gluttonous boy to say something else. But when several moments pass with bated silence, they both release an exasperated sigh. Hem, with a certain unconscious disregard for manners, grits her teeth and pulls on her jelly slug.
It snaps, and she chews on the bit in her mouth in silence. It tastes nice.
"You just belittled Hem's fear of talking and social interaction," Harry provides with another sigh, taking his newly fixed glasses off and cleaning them with his shirt, "which is so severe that it's become an anxiety disorder and makes her life rather difficult. On top of that, she has that other disorder that has its own debilitating symptoms. She has to deal with all of that on a daily basis."
Ron's eyes light up with realisation, his ears beginning to become pink in his shame as he turns to Hem with a bowed head and a somewhat sheepish smile. He opens his mouth to speak but wisely decides to swallow his food first.
"Oh… Right," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck in discomfort. His eyes lower off to the side. "Sorry, Hem. I didn't mean to insult you."
Hem blinks at him, resisting the urge to reach up and scratch the side of her neck in her discomfort. With some difficulty, she simply nods in acceptance and attempts to curl further into the seat. Ron is unintentionally insensitive, but she supposes he means well. She still feels very little about his existence, but that's less a fault of his own and more hers.
Silence lapses back over the compartment, save for the occasional squeaks of that rat and the chewing that sounds too loud in her ears. The chugging of the train is almost relaxing in its repetitive nature, but it doesn't feel right or real. It's meant to be rumbling in the distance, never to arrive.
Uncomfortable, but not surprised in the least, the surreal sensations surrounding her strengthen, as it generally does at random intervals. As though she's been pushed out of her own body but remains tethered, so she's forced to watch herself from above. Like a movie, or a dream that isn't very interesting.
"Hem?" a soft, vaguely cautious voice calls. It drags her out of her thoughts, and she blinks in an attempt to focus on what's in front of her. "Hem, Hermione said that we should go and change our robes now. We're going to be arriving soon, I think."
Hem sniffs before rubbing her nose as she raises her head to meet Harry's gaze. He stands before her, peering down at her with a concerned frown through his glasses. Sniffing again, she nods in agreement as she looks about the compartment to see that Hermione's still reading and Ron has probably gone to change his robes. Her sister's been wearing her school robes since the beginning, so there's no need for her to change.
"You were really out of it, huh?" Harry murmurs as he moves back to let her stand. He seems more curious and mildly amused than critical of her and her atypical behaviour.
Her sister snaps her head up at the remark. "She has no concept of time, you see," she immediately begins to explain, unconsciously straightening her back and raising her chin as she's wont to do during informative impartments. "So a few hours can feel like a few minutes to her; or a few minutes can feel like hours. One of the many symptoms of Depersonalisation-Derealisation Disorder, I'm afraid."
One might find Hermione's insatiable desire for knowledge and to explain such knowledge to others… off-putting, Hem supposes. It's been something of a problem for her elder sister, as it's caused some of her own experiences with bullying. But Hermione is strong and aspires to be strong for the sake of her little sister. It's admirable and it's enviable.
The emotional disconnect is jarring, but Hem knows she still appreciates her sister and her parents as much as she's able. So she pats Hermione on the knee in a small display of affection. It achieves the expected response, where her sister beams up at her. Hem's face doesn't twitch, but the sight is appreciated nonetheless.
Hem and Harry leave the compartment to make their way to the changing rooms. She doesn't know where it is, but it would seem Harry does, so she attempts to follow his lead while actively trying to avoid bumping into anyone. Multitasking isn't one of her strong suits, however, so it's not long before Harry simply grabs hold of the crook of her elbow to physically lead her along.
"You know," he begins, adjusting his glasses, "the two of you can be a little… intense, in your own ways, but I think you're alright. The both of you. Ron, too, even if he's a little insensitive. I, um, I think we might all just get on well. I'd like to, anyway."
Perhaps, she allows. Ron and Hermione don't seem to think too highly of each other, after all. But Hermione and Harry seem to have reached an understanding in regards to Hem, so there may be hope yet.
. . .
. . .
Her body attempts to force breath out of her, as her mind struggles to comprehend more than, 'It's too much, it's too much!'. Perhaps the castle of Hogwarts would be as impressive in her eyes if she weren't on the verge of an anxiety attack, and déjà vu wasn't plaguing the back of her mind. Unfortunately, both instances are quite present.
"It's okay, Hem, it's okay," a voice whispers in an attempt of comfort, accompanied by the reassuring squeeze of her left hand. Then, by another squeeze of her right.
The world, gradually, begins to clear in her mind's eye; visual snow beginning to melt. She's greeted by the worried expressions of her sister and Harry's, with a perplexed one from Ron, who has leaned forward to look at her from Harry's other side. Hem exhales, willing herself to calm with some limited success. There are people behind her, and she can feel them at her back. It's uncomfortable. It's suffocating.
"So it's true, then," a smug, somewhat unpleasant voice begins, "Harry Potter's come to Hogwarts."
Whispers break out, prompting a flinch. She hopes that she's not holding onto their hands too tightly, as that would be unfortunate. Hermione and Harry have their shoulders up against hers, close enough that their robes seem to hide the fact their hands are joined.
Her right hand is squeezed again, but it seems to be involuntary. She consciously makes an effort to squeeze back, blinking with wide eyes when Harry glances at her with discomfort in his gaze. It takes her a moment for her mind to supply that the cause is the whispers as well; they're about him, after all.
Startling platinum blonde hair is what she first registers when a boy strides past her to stand in front of Harry. "My name's Malfoy," the blonde introduces himself, with less intended sophistication and more subconscious arrogance, "Draco Malfoy. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Ron snorts at that, causing Draco to snap his head towards the latter with a sneer. "Think my name's funny, do you?" he queries in a rhetorical fashion, his eyes of pewter grey sizing up the young Weasley. "No need to inform me of your name. Red hair, and a hand-me-down robe? You must be a Weasley."
Harry's grip on her hand tightens once more, this time in righteous irritation as Draco looks back to Harry. Hem supposes it's only right, seeing as how much he already cares about her, that he would be insulted on Ron's behalf.
Something about her must have caught Draco's attention, as he briefly flickers his eyes to her and Hermione before looking back to Harry. He does a double-take, his distaste becoming clear on his face as he looks between the two sisters and their similarly unruly hair.
"Not quite sure who the both of you are," he mutters, speculative as he looks them over and notices how close Hem is to Harry, "what are your names?"
He's a pure-blood, her mind informs her, and uncharacteristically, it immediately leads her to the reminder that pure-bloods don't like muggle-born witches and wizards. It must be Tom's influence, she thinks absently. When she sees her sister open her mouth to respond, she's already resigned and expectant of his reaction. He, along with others, would learn later anyway even without this moment. Might as well get it over with.
"You probably wouldn't know us, seeing as our parents are muggles," Hermione answers, consciously raising her chin in defiance and pride. "We're muggle-born."
His distaste becomes full-blown disgust, and her sister's grip tightens. "Mudbloods," he spits, looking between them before settling back on Harry with a peculiar sense of urgency. The crowd around them erupt in shocked whispers at such crude language, or in disgusted hisses and groans.
It's not the first time she's heard of the insult, seeing as she visits an adolescent boy who enjoys throwing the word around a lot in her dreams. Hermione has only read about it, but her understanding of the word allows her to be quite offended and hurt by the remark thrown in her face.
"There are some wizarding families that are better than others," Draco starts, looking to Ron, then to her and Hermione, "and wizarding families will always be better than those with muggles for parents, of all things. I can certainly help you, Potter, pick the good from the bad."
He thrusts a hand out for Harry to take, but the latter merely glances down at it as though it's a nuisance. "I think I can figure out the good from the bad on my own, thanks," the Boy-Who-Lived returns, rather primly and righteously offended at that.
Hem, quite abruptly, feels exhaustion weigh down her shoulders. To the point that walking into the Great Hall with every older student looking at the group of First Years is much less of an affair that she would've expected. Truly, she practically forgets they're there and stares unseeingly at the floor until Harry nudges her and forces her attention.
"I… They called my name," he tells her, an apology in his eyes. She blinks at him, her mind struggling to catch up until she realises that they're being Sorted and his name has been called. In silence, she releases her hold on him in a rather stiff manner and he goes to sit on the stool to have a ratty hat placed on his head. The Sorting Hat.
Glancing around, she takes notice of how a majority of how other First Years have already been Sorted. Hem shuffles closer to Hermione, though she doesn't mean to. Her sister doesn't protest though, apparently comforted by the action.
"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat announces, and the dead, bated silence previously reigning over the Great Hall is dethroned by uproarious cheers and clapping. It's too loud in her ears. She doesn't notice that she's started scratching her side with her free hand because of it until Hermione uses her own free hand to stop her unconscious action.
Harry smiles, clearly pleased with his chosen House, and begins to make his way over to the Gryffindor table. He glances at her half-way there and imparts an encouraging smile. She doesn't return it, though she would have probably smiled if she were really in control of herself. She blinks at him, instead, with perhaps the slightest inclination of a nod.
Some others are called after that, but she doesn't pay much attention until a vaguely familiar name is called.
"Hemera Granger!" Professor McGonagall calls, lifting her gaze from the parchment in her grasps to sweep her gaze over the dwindling crowd of First Years. When her gaze settles on Hem, it noticeably softens and the severe woman gives a coaxing nod.
Hem's body freezes of its own accord, her mind quickly catching up on the fact that she's to sit in front of the entire student body of Hogwarts for however many minutes; minutes that may feel like hours. Whispers begin to break out, but it quickly becomes nothing but static in her ears.
She flinches and instinctively reaches for her wand ̶ though it doesn't work, as she finds both of her hands in the grasp of others ̶ when she finally notices Professor McGonagall standing before her. Her gaze falls to the hand the elderly woman is holding, then back to the hand that connected with Hermione's.
"It's okay, Hem," her sister assures her, rubbing Hem's arm before relinquishing her hold and standing back, "you're okay."
A blatant lie, but she clings to the idea as numbness settles into her skin and she's led to the stool by Professor McGonagall. Once she's seated, and the Professor lets go of her hand, she immediately brings her legs to her chest as the Sorting Hat is placed upon her head.
She's grateful for the way it conceals her view of the students before her. "Well, well… What do we have here? Your mind is a mess, my dear," it remarks, quite bluntly.
Hem doesn't respond, not even within her own mind. It feels strange, having some magical entity in her head that's trying to get a read on her. There's some part of her that wants to push it out, and another part that says that she could, if she really wants to. Something instinctive and inexplicable assures her that the meetings with Tom will remain a secret, however. So she doesn't push the Hat away.
"I believe we've met before, you and I…" it murmurs in contemplation, more to itself than to her. "But no, we couldn't possibly… So much older, so very, very jaded… But then, what is truly impossible in a world full of magic? Stop scratching your arm, my dear."
She does so, not surprised by her lack of awareness of her actions nor by the Hat's unexpected order.
"Truly, it's quite difficult to figure you out," the Hat hums, swaying slightly on her head. "You're intelligent, of that there is no doubt… Wise beyond your years, indeed… With a sense of loyalty to your family, though it's quite difficult for you to emotionally connect with them… Oh, you have quite the sense of self-preservation, as well! Resourceful, if you must be… Hardworking when you want to succeed… But you have little care for much of anything, don't you?
Lacking in ambition and courage, too easily resigned to the misfortune thrust upon you… But I can see such potential… Such potential, indeed. You could become something truly great. Surely, you need to be challenged in order to reach your full potential… Yes, I believe it is so.
I should say that you would truly unlock your potential if you were to be placed in the House of SLYTHERIN!"
She jolts, nearly falling off the stool but managing to catch herself in time. The Sorting Hat is removed, and the reality of her situation kicks her in the stomach. She stands, before everyone, making eye contact with a shocked Hermione. From the corner of her eye, she can see Ron looking revolted and somehow, betrayed.
Her gaze lifts from her sister to the Slytherin table, where only a few clap out of sheer politeness. Then, quite abruptly, the sensation of being within a movie strengthens to the point that she has no choice but to become detached from her situation. It's too bright.
It's only the first day, she thinks, with some sense of bitterness and distantly wry amusement. Tom would be immeasurably pleased, wouldn't he?
In fact, she has no doubt that he would; that he will be.
. . .
. . .
Her footfalls are silent against the stark white pavement, though it comes as no surprise. It's a comfort, in its own little way; her footfalls within the halls of Hogwarts are too loud in her ears, in such a fashion that she can't simply ignore it. Other footfalls are worse, as they set her on edge and make her much more prone to violent but unintended reactions.
She finds Tom at their usual bench, looking rather dour as he glares at the ground and twirls his wand within his right hand. It reminds her of her own wand, that she holds in her left with an iron grip. They follow too now, though she doesn't fully understand why.
Wearing robes similar to his own, his head snaps up when he spots Hem in his peripheral. It almost seems like it hurts, but surely he wouldn't notice nor care, what with the tumultuous expression he greets her with implying otherwise.
His grip on the backrest of the bench noticeably tightens, and he seems to struggle between remaining seated and standing up to confront her. He's been getting awfully testy of late, though she supposes that it's somewhat her fault. She doesn't mean to leave him all alone for however long she does, though.
Anxious aggravation radiates from his form, his eyes roving over her form as though to look for any obvious injuries. He's been doing that lately, and if he does find one, he becomes quite persistent in his nagging. He doesn't seem to even notice his erratic behaviour, more often than not.
"You're late," Tom accuses her with a hiss, once she's within range. He scans over her again as he leans forward, his eyes narrowed and far too intense. None of this is the first time, so she's become quite accustomed to it all.
Up until her arrival at Hogwarts, it was usually her who'd arrive first then wait for the other. Nowadays, their roles have changed and it pleases neither of them. She's always been content to wait by watching the looping sky, but all he has to distract himself is his thoughts; something that can quickly boil into something dangerous.
Hem blinks at him, finding herself to be only the slightest bit taller than him as he sits before her. "My mattress, pillow, curtains, and blankets are shredded. Most definitely jinxed, as well. I decided that it was a good opportunity to go to the library, but I think I fell asleep in the Restricted Section. I should think that my Disillusionment Charm will hold since I've been using it quite a lot of late," she explains, gradually becoming accustomed to longer sentences. There's still a way to go in the real world, but at the very least, she can communicate with Harry and Hermione a little easier with rudimentary sentences.
All she has time to do when her vexed companion swiftly grabs her arm is a jolt, before she's practically thrown into the bench and the positions between them have been reversed. Though, she supposes when she reorientates herself, that she certainly wasn't looming over Tom like some kind of furious demon. She doesn't think that she's even capable of being furious in the first place.
He sneers down at her, using the backseat to steady himself as he leans over her. "What is wrong with you?" he demands, using his other hand that's not propping him up to snake a hand into her hair. He pulls on her locks, forcing her to look up at him. "Why don't you fight back, even now? Even when they treat you like scum beneath their shoes and bully you?!"
His eyes are wild, flickering between ruby and obsidian in a mildly alarming manner. He's likely drawing parallels from his own experiences and is quite frustrated with the fact that she's not retaliating as he does and has. This has been going on for a few months now, her school troubles, and it seems that it affects Tom far more than it does Hem.
It's not nice, what she's going through, she understands. She just struggles to feel more than anxiety and paranoia, her emotions locked up in a place that she can't reach. The positive, at least, is that she's improving her repertoire of knowledge of spells; though more out of necessity than because of a simple, unadulterated interest like what Hermione has.
The single-minded focus on learning what she must helps, Hem would say. In a bonus effect, almost no one tries to sneak up on her anymore, having quickly learned of what she's instinctively capable of. Her self-preservation is perhaps one of her strongest traits as a Slytherin. So they just ruin her belongings now or attempt to inconvenience her without startling her. She's resigned, and mostly indifferent to it all.
"Did you know," she murmurs, drawing her legs to her chest as she stares up at him, "that I'm a mudblood, Tom?"
He flinches, violently so, and she expects him to rip his hand away from her hair ̶ likely pulling some strands with him ̶ to wipe it on his robes in disgust. His grip on her hair does falter, however it only tightens moments later to a degree where she can almost feel the pain.
Tom's glare is quite ferocious in its battle of chaotic emotions. He's always been of the idea that she's been discriminated against, solely because of her mental illnesses; it's considered a weakness, and truly, weakness is clearly not tolerated amongst 'mighty' Slytherins. Though, she supposes that he might factor in her appearance as a cause for discrimination. If only because of the state of her hair, since racism because of skin is more of a muggle custom than wizarding.
Never once, she's noticed, has he doubted that if not a pure-blood, then at least she's a half-blood like himself. He's never bothered to pry too much about her parents, satisfied with the knowledge that her mother, Theia, is an African French woman and that, surely, she's a witch herself; a fact that he needn't bother to confirm. The very idea of her being a muggle-born, a mudblood, is preposterous; she's connected to him, somehow, so of course she can't be a mudblood.
Some part of her has always been darkly satisfied that he's been wrong from the very beginning. It thrums through her veins. They've always had an unspoken rule to disregard the fact that neither knows the other's last name. There's also the fact that, unbeknownst to him, he doesn't know her full first name either. Though Hem's not entirely sure whether or not he could figure out her heritage if he knew beforehand, it's worked out in her favour regardless.
She blinks when Tom shuts his eyes, a terrible frown marring his face before her vision is blurred from him pressing his forehead against hers. He's not gentle about it either; it's as though he's trying to physically force his way into her head to figure her out.
He forces his breathing to steady, and then all too quickly he drags Hem to her feet in a flurry of motion. The hand tangled in her hair is suddenly at her shoulders, the other that he used to prop himself up now at her neck; his wand in between. Nothing is soft about his touch.
"The world's done you a disservice as well…" he murmurs, as she raises her head up to meet his gaze. Fury still dances ferociously in the depths of his eyes, but she finds steely determination mingled in. A sigh escapes her lips, his eyes flickering to them in a moment of distraction. He frowns at the marks she's caused by excessively picking the dead skin off her lips.
She tilts her head up at him. "You knew that already, didn't you?" she inquires, though she already knows the answer to her question. "Or does the fact that my blood is filthy make you re-evaluate just how much?"
His lips thin out as he returns his gaze to her own. "You're an exception," Tom states, with such deluded conviction. She's not surprised in the least. "You understand that, don't you? Because you're connected to me, so of course you're going to be an exception. It's unfortunate, but it doesn't matter so long as you manage to prove yourself."
A long, drawn-out sigh leaves her, and Hem grabs onto his wrists in a poor attempt to pry them off of her after pocketing her wand. His gaze sharpens in annoyance, and in retaliation, he simply strengthens his hold on her. She tries next to lean away from his touch, prompting an actual hiss from him that almost makes her smile.
"To whom? And of what?" she wonders, finding an anomalous satisfaction in scratching the skin of his unmarred wrists. He seems vaguely perplexed by it, but lets it go to focus on her queries.
"To everyone," he replies, a slow, predatory smile contorting his lips. "That you're better, whether they be pure of blood or not; you will be better because you're connected to me. I can't have you so weak and resigned, waiting to be crushed by those inferior to you. You need to prove to your fellow Slytherins that you're not someone to be trifled with, whether directly or indirectly. You need to prove to them, that you will crush them should they foolishly do so anyway."
With his eyes alight with visions of a future carved by his flawed ideals, she thinks that it truly is strange that his presence is even somewhat comforting. Tom's fixation on their connection is rather obsessive and narcissistic, though she can't bother to call him out on it. It won't change anything.
"Are you going to take me under your wing to make me worthy of my tie to you?" Hem questions him. Though her tone is neutral, she can imagine smidgens of sarcasm hidden within it. "Teach me all the Dark Arts and spells that you know, since our wands have materialised with us for reasons unknown?"
The gleam in his eyes tells her everything she needs to know. She thinks that he may be aggravated by her lack of emotion about it all. Resignation always lays heavily within her gut, rather than anything else. There is no excitement for the knowledge of new spells and techniques from someone as intelligent as he. No frustration or determination at having little choice in the manner.
"You're insufferable," he informs her with a familiar sneer, finally releasing her and standing back to his full height. "Why can't you be a little more grateful that I'm willing to do what I can to help you succeed? I could simply not help, you understand."
She squints up at him then, scratching the side of her neck and unintentionally scraping off some scabs with her nails. A few moments pass before he scoffs and averts his gaze, knowing that his last sentence is little more than a blatant lie.
"Are you going to sit?" she queries, tilting her head as she steps back and sits on the bench again. He scowls at her but eventually answers her by moving to sit beside her as she brings her legs up to her chest.
Hem doesn't want to hurt anyone, not even Draco and his merry band of misfits. But she knows that there's truth in the fact that she needs to be better if she truly wants it all to stop.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, she just wants to rest and listen to Tom eloquently blabber about how he'll dominate the world.
A/N: In order to attempt a break in my bad habit, I've uploaded this when I only have this chapter so far. I would've liked to have more chapters first, but I tend to stray from my stories after the first and I have a bad perfectionist attitude; this is an attempt to fix that, even if temporary. (Meaning encouragement may help, and will thusly be very much appreciated.) As a result, my updating schedule will be sporadic. I'm sorry about that.
Also, to clarify; yes, Hermione and Hemera are biracial in this story. It's not going to be a big deal, I just thought it would be interesting to do so. I apologise if this puts you off.
Translations: (Thanks to Gladoo89, I have better translations.)
Quoi? Qu'est-ce qu'il y a? - What? What's the matter/problem?
Oh, mon Dieu! - Oh, my God!
Essaie de bien prendre soin de toi, d'accord ma chérie? - Do your best to take care (of yourself) my dear, alright?
Je ferai de mon mieux... - I'll do my best...
Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.