There are things that make me wonder if my mind is not my own. It feels as if I'm slipping somewhere dark, and there's a hand reaching from within my own body to clutch at my mind; but it's not my hand, nor is it my will.
I'm not my own.
There was a period of long-awaited rest following the battle between Voldemort and Harry Potter. Witches and wizards breathed their relief and retreated to their homes, or what was left of them, wincing as they tended to their wounds and their fallen loved ones. But it had past.
With a calamity narrowly avoided, there was celebration; but it was quiet and mournful and filled for regret for the many who had fallen and who would never again stand to walk, or sneeze.
Hermione Granger was lauded as a hero alongside her school friends, but could not bring herself to do anything more than beg Bill and Fleur for the temporary use of Shell Cottage for respite, and long-awaited rest. Was this what she wanted, her friends asked, didn't she want to go find her parents? An easeful smile; a month longer couldn't hurt, and I could use the sleep. They were bemused, but allowed her to go without questioning any further, telling her to write and take good care of herself.
With Crookshanks as her only company, Hermione set off for that little house on the shore, warm waves reaching for the grave of the free elf. She had packed lightly, but brought a few comforts in her slightly battered beaded bag: a Muggle photo of her parents, a Wizarding picture of herself smiling with Harry and Ron, and her usual small library of books. As she set them about her room, she felt a great sense of relief, followed by an unshakeable feeling of disquiet. Hermione promptly shook this off brusquely, an action she would later come to regret.
(She's always followed her instincts, why not then?)
Days were spent in languish. Stretched out on the warm sand, or across the bed still tangled in the sheets mid-morning; for once in her life, Hermione Granger was relaxing. After a year in cramped quarters with two boys, the solitude and space were cathartic, and she found herself ignoring the small voice that pursed its lips and told herself she would have to return to her life soon enough.
But that life was painful. It meant looking for her parents in Australia, and the unbearable knowledge that they may never get their memory of their daughter back. It meant having a choice between careers, and the inevitability of Ron.
It was with a pang that she realised she saw her relationship with Ron as a chore. She loved him, dearly, but she could only panic when she thought of growing old with him. And she hated herself for that.
But there was something else her shrewd little voice had noticed, something she herself had brushed off as an aftershock from the war: tiny, near-imperceptible happenings. Crookshanks would suddenly rise from a deep slumber to hiss at something in the corner, and Hermione would find nothing. When glancing in the mirror, she sometimes caught sight of something flitting past, but upon second glance it would be gone again. Sometimes while she was sleeping she would hear screams, but forget about them when morning came.
It happened quietly, inconspicuously. Reclined in a chair outside, Hermione felt something tugging at her naval, not unlike a portkey. She twisted around to see if Crookshanks was playing with her chair, and saw a shimmer of light, a spectral figure bending over her from behind. Hermione toppled from her chair in surprise, and retrieved her wand in a fumbled frenzy. She distinctly heard a derisive snigger, and blushed furiously as she got to her feet; she had grown a little out of practise in her time off the battlefield, yes, but she was still a more than capable witch.
"What-who are you?" Hermione meant for her voice to be commanding, but it crackled from lack of use. "What are you doing here?"
The figure merely folded its arms. As she shielded her eyes from the sun, she could see the person (ghost, thing) was distinctly male. More than that, her cheeks pink once more, quite an attractive male. But most significantly, he was undoubtedly dead. The light from behind him flooded through him and straight onto her; it was uncomfortably cold.
"I'm not sure of anything actually. But I appear to be dead, I'm certain of that." His voice was crisp and cool like good white wine, and carried the slightest of drawls. Slytherin, Hermione thought absent-mindedly. "Would you mind lowering your wand? Not that I'm incredibly concerned, your display earlier didn't demonstrate anything remotely close to magical prowess." His chuckle was dark and deep, and she huffed indignantly, dropping her arm but gripping her wand all the same.
"I'll have you know I received ten O.W.L.s and-" Hermione began, stopping herself with a sigh. "Oh, that's really not the point. But you startled me, I've been alone for the past few weeks and it's not exactly common practise to sneak up on someone, particularly when you're aware of your…alarming condition." She murmured, suddenly regretful; this poor person had died, and she was being entirely tactless. "I am sorry, by the way. That you passed away, that is."
He regarded her with hard and indiscernible eyes, but she did not look away. He dropped his gaze, and his lips quirked ever so slightly.
"Thank you."
"What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't, it's Thomas. Don't ask me for a surname though, I'm afraid my memory is serving me too well at the moment." Hermione frowned ever so slightly; an echo, a memory ricocheted in her mind. Melting her expression into neutrality swiftly, she pushed the feeling aside.
"It's nice to meet you Thomas, I'm Hermione. Nice, but strange." She smiled, and he returned a small smile. She noticed it was a little more perfunctory than hers, and did not quite reach his eyes.
"So…you're a ghost, with no memory beyond your name and the existence of magic, and you're here, far from any magically-related deaths as far as I know – is that correct?" When he raised his eyebrows disdainfully, Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Oh, could you be any more Slytherin? Honestly, I'm just trying to get the facts straight. Speaking of facts, I have never read of a ghost having any sort of amnesia following their death. And furthermore," Hermione squinted once more as she examined his person. "You don't appear to have any distinguishing marks that point to your cause of death, but of course the Killing Curse leaves no mark." She was struck by inspiration, and dashed inside.
"Where are you going?" Thomas asked, a hint of annoyance tainting the neutral tonelessness in his voice.
"I believe I brought a volume with me that might have a chapter on what we're dealing with," Hermione tossed the comment over her shoulder, and knelt down to sift through the pile of books littered on the floor of the lounge room. She produced a immense book, clambering to her feet and placing it on desk with a clunk. "Odgen's Encyclopaedia, I can't believe I didn't think of it should have at least a paragraph on the ghosts." Thomas observed from the doorway impassively and watched her flick through pages; her bright eyes scanned sentences with methodical precision.
"Aha!" A triumphant cry, and Hermione tapped the page. "'On the subject of ghosts, it shall be said that no one ghost is like the other in form, circumstance or power. However, those who share their lifeline with such a spectre beware: you risk opening a route for them to return, perhaps at your own demise.'" She paused, her brow wrinkling slightly before glancing up at Thomas, whose impression did not betray any emotion. "Well, that was nice and cryptic. Obviously "lifeline" is referring to blood, it always comes back to that with Dark Magic, doesn't it?" Hermione was mostly musing to herself, biting her lip and narrowing her eyes at the polished floorboards in distant contemplation. She missed the unmistakable flash of something dark, thirsty in Thomas' eyes.
"I must write to my friends about you, Thomas. They might be able to send me some more reading materials on the matter, as well as talk to someone from the Ministry." Hermione was already reaching for a quill and parchment, still stretched across the floor surrounded by her volumes, and Thomas made no move to stop her. She scrawled a short message to Harry, knowing Ron was likely to read it and accidently bury it into a pile of laundry, neglecting to mention its contents to anyone else. She performed a short spell, summoning the closest owl, and shot a quick smile at Thomas.
"Sorry this is happening so suddenly, but I suppose you'd like to get to the bottom of this as much as me. I really am curious as to why you've materialised here of all places, there were no deaths here except for poor Dobby of course…" Hermione trailed off, her manic thought pattern cut off by the hoot of a barn owl swooping through the window. She accio'd a slice of bread from the cupboard and broke it up, feeding it to the owl. She stroked its neck, and secured the letter, glancing at Thomas to make sure he hadn't disappeared. He was watching the owl contemplatively, and as it flew out the window, he returned his drilling gaze to Hermione. She felt her skin prickle, and vaguely registered the faintest thud in the distance.
"Thank you for helping me, Hermione. I am curious to see what your friend's response is." He was so polite and had a beautiful way of rounding his vowels; it made her feel as if she were in a different time. Hermione realised she was staring with her mouth gaping stupidly, and fumbled to collect herself.
"Don't mention it, Thomas, really. I want to help you, and my friends are somewhat experts in the field of helping." She hoped he hadn't noticed her embarrassing lapse of social skills, and tucked a stray lock of wild hair behind her ear.
"Oh?" Thomas appeared to be interested, though something in his tone suggested nothing would bore him more than hearing Hermione speak; she brushed it off a mannerism that she was simply not accustomed to.
"Yes, they're fantastic! All throughout school they - well, we, I suppose - helped others; we even started a secret group at Hogwarts where we could learn magic to defend ourselves against the Dark Arts in a time where the school had forbidden the students from practicing skills in Defence Against the Dark Arts." Hermione spoke animatedly with a wistful smile on her lips; she missed her friends. She remembered the stranger in her lounge room, and returned her steely eyes back to him. "I don't suppose you remember school? You must have gone to Hogwarts, although you do have a Durmstrang look about you." Hermione remarked a droll smile playing at her lips. Thomas rolled his eyes in response, and Hermione tittered. "See! Though you're ruder than any Durmstrang I met, and I knew one…well, I knew him well." Her cheeks went a little pink, and Thomas observed this reaction with sharp eyes that did not forget.
"For your information, I attended Hogwarts as well, and it's quite clear you're a Gryffindor; though from how much you've been babbling, I could easily mistake you for a Hufflepuff." Thomas sneered, and Hermione's flushed a shade of wine.
"Gee, what House could you possibly belong to?" She muttered under her breath derisively. Thomas' eyebrows quirked, and what appeared to be a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth; though this disappeared so quickly Hermione did not see it. Hermione sighed, and bit her lip indecisively.
"Look, I feel as if we've gotten off on the wrong foot; if you are stuck here, as ghosts often are anchored to a place, we should make an effort to get along. I acknowledge I may not have been as polite as I could have been, particularly with how alarming it must be to realise you've…well, you've died." She uttered, meeting his eye with a sympathetic gaze. She reached to touch his incorporeal form in some effort to comfort him, but he stepped away brusquely. He registered the way her face fell, and softened his expression a little.
"I'm…sorry. I suppose I'm a little wary of people. I'm not sure how long I've been floating in the ether, or wherever I was. And before that…" He shuddered, and Hermione nodded in understanding.
"Of course, you don't have to explain yourself." She attempted a tentative smile, which he returned; but it turned steely as she turned away.
Over the next few days, Hermione received no word from her friends. Despite this, she felt at ease, and was not concerned. Maybe the ocean air truly did hold rejuvenating qualities; but Hermione was also occupied with conducting her own tests regarding Thomas, and found they were slowly building a rapport. Unlike anyone she'd ever met, he kept pace with her rapid out-loud thought process with ease, and challenged her theories and ideas with a startling rationality she had never considered. At one point during a particularly complex charm, which allowed Tom to become slightly more corporeal – temporarily of course – Hermione caught a flicker of admiration in Tom's neutral eyes, and couldn't stop feel the swell of pride that rose in her chest. It had been some time since someone had paid her any attention that didn't involve flinging a killing curse her way (she shuddered at the memory, cold and bloody), and Thomas was stimulating company.
She saw the sun disappearing over the ocean and beckoned Thomas to follow her outside. "Even if you aren't alive, at the very least you can enjoy the small and beautiful things." She sighed happily, sitting upon the warm sand watching the dying light dance over the water. Thomas glanced at her; the light flooding onto her was making her tanned, freckled skin glow obscenely, and a faint smile was stretching to reveal her almost-perfectly straight teeth.
He, in contrast, was still cold and the light just filtered through him; he could not feel, but he soon he would. As the sun sunk away, they lingered in the twilight for a while longer (the heat slowly fading from the sand) until they finally ambled back to the cottage; languid in a way neither of them had ever known.
A/N: not sure what this is, but it's been sitting in my documents for an age and a half. first tomione attempt. shoot us a line and let me know what you think.