She looked outside her bedroom window, watching a torrent of brittle, mud-colored leaves, weakly situated, fall from their skinny tree branches; she counted the leaves as they fell; in her mind they signified every day he had yet to return to the Orphanage, a place she had come to call home, their home if nothing else. But without him there, all the comfort, the memories, happy and sad, that had manifested into a good and warm even if modest home, didn't mean anything, all significance lost; everything that was good in her life, that she found worthwhile, was inextricably tied to him.
With this thought, she finally understood that he was her home. Wherever he was, she lived. And wherever he wasn't, she withered, falling into further disintegration every passing day.
She wished she could forget he happened; that she hadn't given her heart to him, only see him turn from her time and time again until that fateful day when he left once and for all, leaving her and everything they'd talked and dreamed of to accomplish what he'd always been destined.
She'd known that he wasn't meant for this world, especially a small town that wasn't any bigger than petty gossip. But she hadn't realized that he was also bigger than her world. He needed his and his alone, where he could reign, everyone who wronged him groveling at his feet.
And if she were being honest, his need to get out and be better, infinitely greater than everyone else, wasn't new to her. Since they'd first met, he'd exuded a completely evident air of superiority; both a natural force and self-designed will that simultaneously beckoned and repelled those in his presence. If you got too close, you'd be burned, and if too far… that wouldn't be okay either; he demanded that every person bend at his every command.
Knowing that she knew this fact now got her feeling phenomenally stupid. She knew if she had been smart, she'd put herself first; she protect herself over him, not utterly worship him as she had; she'd keep a safe distance, where she wasn't too close or too far; however, somehow, she'd let herself get deluded into thinking that she was exceptional and special; that he held her higher; that he cared for her, even loved her.
She was wrong.
And all it took was some straight teeth, a big smile, and a pair of brooding eyes to get her to completely forget her principles and abandon a once strong conscience.
This led her to one conclusion.
She, Hermione Jean Granger wasn't courageous. All that she'd prided herself on, everything she thought put her ahead of everyone else, besides him of course, really didn't matter. Maybe she and he were more alike than she'd realized, except for that crucial detail; he actually was a tiny bit insane, always had been, but she instead had just been pulled along on his grand scheme, always a part of his adventures, but never entirely invested, 'cause she actually had morals - at least that's what she told herself, which was a lie. She was moral-less in his presence; he always overrode the sense of duty she held for the people whenever he wasn't around. And that indicted her a liar, as she was content to shamelessly brown nose the boy who wanted to be more than a man, who claimed to be greater than human. Acting as obsequiously as she had, she hadn't stopped to wonder, even to stop and think, reflect, who she was.
Who was Hermione Granger, and what did she want?
And now that she wasn't clouded from his omnipresence, she realized that, for most of her adolescent life, she hadn't ever wanted anything, but him. In fact, she could barely remember a time in her life when he hadn't occupied her every conscious, and likely unconscious for that matter, thought.
7 years earlier
"Tom!" a frazzled, older lady called out, waving her hands, her gaze directed at a mess of cooked dinner vegetables spread out across several wooden floorboards.
"Help clean, Tom," she sceeched. "Ye can't expect me to always clean after ye. The lot of ye think I, dear 'ole me, can tend to each and every one of yer needs. Well, I can't. Sometimes I wonder if any of ye got minds. No wonder ye parents don't want anything to do with ye. "
Leaning her broomstick on her hip, she wiped some sweat from her brow and rubbed her eyes, muttering unintelligibly. "And you wonder why yer parents didn't want anything to do with ye. Well, I see why. Oh, I see why. All of ye..."
Hermione shifted her intent stare from the lady, who was getting increasingly angry, to watch the boy, Tom she assumed, clear his throat slightly as he sat calmly at a chair at the one table in the kitchen. After a couple seconds when he didn't get a response from anyone, he put his complete attention on a smaller, slight, frail-looking, extremely pale-faced, and blue-veined boy sitting directly opposite him.
"Abraxas," the boy said, low and clear, rising to his feet. He was very tall; Hermione thought he looked at least thirteen, standing at what looked like almost a full foot taller than her.
He was lean, but there was a strength in his stance. Though he didn't have bulging muscles, every part of him looked hard, from the ridges Hermione could see on his chest through his thin cotton shirt to the steely gaze emanating from his eyes, which were so translucent in color they were almost transparent.
The small boy he addressed drew his blue, almost violet eyes that were much darker in shade than Tom's from his twisted thumbs in his lap, his eyes now flitting between Tom's dark stare and chest, hesitant to establish eye contact with the tall boy.
Hermione watched on, puzzled at their interaction, the small boy acting as if servant to the tall one.
His body language was timid; he cowered beneath the tall boy, who stood with straight posture, his feet firmly planted, chest open, almost puffed-like.
Hermione's confounded disposition transformed into one of surprise, her eyes widening when the small boy, Abraxas she noted, walked toward the lady, who was now kneeling, scrubbing the dirt-specked floors, her rugged hands, cracked from age, on full display.
"Ma'am, I spilled the food. I'll clean," Abraxas confessed, standing before her, his eyes lowering in shame when he heard her dissatisfied grunt.
A moment passed where no one said a word, surprising Hermione who thought the lady would immediately go off on the small boy as she'd gone off on Tom.
Her doubt didn't last much longer.
"Well, what are ya waiting for boy? Get a mop and clean. Do I need to spell it out for ya," the lady hissed at Abraxas, who flinched, but did as he was told, scampering off to the closet.
Hermione, however, barely registered Abraxas' footsteps as he went to get a mop, her eyes instead fixed on Tom, whose upturned lip was concealed by serious eyes, his feet faintly tapping, as if silently dancing in victory.
Hermione didn't have time to ponder further, a hand suddenly pressed into her back, urging her forward out of her secluded spot in the corridor directly outside the kitchen area where she'd witnessed the odd scene between the boys and lady unfold.
As she was prodded into the kitchen, her eyes darted, unknowing as to where to look. Though she desperately wanted to see the tall boy, Tom, up close, she didn't want to draw attention to herself, especially to someone like him, who seemed to wield some sort of power that she didn't entirely understand.
She did, however, know that the small boy, Abraxas, was completely terrified of Tom.
"Ma'am, I was told to speak to Mrs. Babbling. There's another one for her," the young lady at Hermione's back said warmly, pushing Hermione directly in front of her.
The old lady turned around, squinting at the lady before her, coughing out, "Are you that woman that kept writing?"
"Well, I did send a couple letters. I didn't mean to press."
The old lady ignored her response. "I could tell. You look like yer from the city." She turned to the boys. "Doesn't she, boys?"
Not waiting to hear a response, she continued, "You got that hat, and those clothes, and ooooh, look at yer shoes."
The young lady didn't know what to say. She tugged at her hat, seeming like she wanted to crouch into any one of the corners of the kitchen. Instead, she just nervously tapped her shoes, grounding her stiletto heel into wooden floor. At one point, she got her heel stuck in one crack, causing her to nearly topple, but she managed to right herself, blush and looking at the floor.
Meanwhile, Tom and Abraxas snickered to themselves at their table.
"Need some help there, dear? Maybe a little meat on yer bones would go a long way. Keep you nice and sturdy."
The young lady's blush furthered, the blood rushing into her cheeks until she ripened from a soft pick to a deep crimson.
The old lady took pity on the young lady, smiling to herself. "Got another one, do you?" She pointed at Hermione, who was still positioned in front of the young lady.
Glad to get back to business, the young lady put a smile on her embarrassed face."Yes, I reckon there's a fair few more coming still this year." She paused, adding solemnly,"I suppose that's what a war will do."
"Yeah, a sad state of affairs indeed," the old lady said. "But enough of that talk, that's not why you're here. I'm afraid the Missus ain't 'round right now. She's meetin' someone in town. The girl can stay here though. Until the Missus arrives that is. I'll get her some sheets, a pillow, you know the deal."
"Oh," the younger seemed hesitant, skepticism coloring her eyes, as she looked at the boys still seated at the table. "It was my understanding that there'd be some sort of procedure, protocol?"
"Now look 'ere, I work here," the old lady gritted out, her teeth clenched; she was angry that the young lady would distrust her. Hermione could feel the heat that radiated from her warm brown eyes.
"Oh Ma'am, I didn't mean to offend. Certainly, you know best. I wasn't thinking."
Hermione wanted to gawk at her companion. The young lady was spineless it seemed. Was this the lady that had told her that she'd look after no matter what? Ironic, Hermione thought, that this same lady, who professed her goodness daily, couldn't help but crack under a one harsh uttering.
"I mean honestly," Hermione muttered bitterly.
The lady couldn't even stand her ground when she was just trying to make sure that Hermione would get a good place to stay in light of her recent orphantee state.
Before Hermione could think of what to do in this recent, somewhat expected turn of event, she tripped forward as her companion pushed her into the old lady, accidently scraping at Hermione's think-skinned calves with her stilettos as she did.
"Oww," Hermione let out a long howl, covering her mouth quickly when she realized how baby-ish she had sounded, but not quickly enough to flee the old lady's reprimand.
"Don't you start yer whining."
Hermione found herself nodding at the old lady, face to face with her now, the lady's haggard appearance even more apparent in this closer proximity.
"Tom," the old lady then called.
Hermione hadn't been prepared for that name. She felt her heart beat quicken, as she felt his confident, paced steps coming toward her as she watched his shadow approach. Hermione was careful to keep her eyes in front of the lady.
"Get her out of here," the old lady gestured to Hermione with her eyes. "Make sure she gets a pillow, then bring her back for something to eat. She's so skinny she's as good as dead.
Hermione was used to being criticized, and she knew she was skinny so she didn't very much care about the lady's comment. She was more concerned with the tall boy beside her. She didn't dare look at him; she felt her insides lurch just thinking about looking into his near colorless eyes.
Her careful avoidance that she was using to weigh how best to get a peek at him wasn't worth much, 'cause he snatched her chance of decision away when he stood directly in front of her, so Hermione was in direct line of sight of his black leather shoes.
She didn't want to look up from them, just staring at them, remaining still, thinking if she moved, she'd be somehow punished.
"C'mon girl. Follow Tom's lead. No one here's got all day," the old lady tapped her heel impatiently at her.
Tom still didn't say anything. Instead, he moved, and Hermione followed behind him, watching his shadow. When she finally looked up, she only saw the back of his head, his tall stature obstructing her view as they walked to the corridor outside the kitchen. As soon as they were out of sight, Tom grabbed Hermione's small hand, digging his blunt nails into her thin flesh
Hermione wanted to cry out, but held back when she saw a smug expression manifest on his face.
"What on earth is wrong with you," she whispered.
When he didn't responded, she went on. "Doesn't decency mean anything to you?" Her free hand pointed at Tom's face, as if she were a school teacher scolding a child.
The boy looked down at her, the surprise initially coloring his face transforming into some odd expression, looking like some sort of half grimace and half sneer. Hermione couldn't very well tell, but she knew it wasn't good.
Dragging Hermione upstairs, he spun her around, her back crashing into the wall behind her that she couldn't see, but she did hear the crack, loud and resounding, followed by spikes of agony in her spine, her arms going limp, a breath escaping.
When she parted her mouth to speak, she was incapable, finally registering why; his stance was tense, his shoulders hunched forward, and his long, slender fingers were wrapped around her skinny neck.
If Hermione hadn't known what his face looked like, which was completely mad, teeth clenched and eyes maddeningly ablaze, she wouldn't know from his next collected, controlled, and seemingly sincere words what a complete tosser he was.
"I don't know if I heard you correctly? What was it you said?" Tom said, like he were amid buttering some toast whilst sipping some coffee topped with cream.
Hermione, confused, repeated what she'd said earlier, albeit a bit less impassioned, "I said, 'what on earth is wrong with you'? I know you heard me."
"Though I wish it weren't true, you aren't exactly stupid," she spit.
Forgetting where she was for a moment, a surge of confidence flowing through her, she looked him straight in his damned pale eye, "And, by the way, you haven't answered my question. Maybe you aren't as smart as I had first thought."
She raised her head in defiance, regretting her action upon feeling his grip tighten, a pout becoming more pronounced on her lower lip.
"Hmm..." 'Tom mused, looking at her, his face tense as ever.
"If I were another man, I might let this transgression of yours slide, but I'm not. You disobeyed my rules. And as you soon will learn, rules matter. Etiquette matters."
Hermione wasn't even remotely sure where he was going with this.
"But only my rules matter. So, I'm going to offer you some advice that I strongly suggest you heed, which I wouldn't normally think difficult, but given your track record, short as your stay has been here, it may be for you."
Tom paused. Hermione waited.
"I'm in charge around here." He said, still calm, "Obey me, and you will be rewarded. Disobey… well, I'll let you figure that out should you decide to follow your," he paused, looking briefly down her body, "more unprincipled tendencies."
Hermione, big mouth that she was, couldn't keep her mouth shut, "How can you be in charge? You aren't a grown-up. You can't be older than fifteen." She eyed him skeptically.
"I'll be twelve soon." He glared at her.
"Not that that even matters. Power comes to those who claim it," he sneered, some emotion finally coming out.
"You're scarcely older than I am!"
"Your point?"
"You can't be in charge. It isn't how stuff are done."
"Enlighten me. How is stuff done in whichever slum you came from? You look worse than a fucking mole rat."
Hermione tensed at hearing that word; she felt strangely hurt, tears beginning to well in her eyes. He'd used that word, she knew it was dirty, and he'd said it with so much conviction, just to tell her she looked worse than a mole rat.
"Christ." Hermione heard Tom mutter beneath his breath.
"Stop crying."
His command only served to push Hermione over the edge. Her silent tears were now barely heard, but definitely vocal, sobs.
"What if I don't want to?" Hermione gasped between her sniffles.
"You are moronic, you know that? Absolutely, utterly, fucking moronic." Hermione, even with her wet lashes, noted that all this was said with emotionless ease.
How does he do that, she thought.
Tom once again grabbed her hand, ignoring her weak attempt at protest, and dragged her next to the only closet upstairs. Towels and sheets were folded on the shelves.
He agilely retrieved some sheets, disconnecting their hold, pushing the sheets he got into her arms, then right away reestablishing their grasp.
"Why do you keep holding my hand?" Hermione asked, puzzled.
He ignored her, dragging her quickly into a relatively big room with narrow beds lined in rows.
"Sit. Stay, until I return."
She watched him retreat, the door slamming behind him.
And, as usual, Hermione was left on her own.