That morning Arabella Figg was dragged out of her home, kicking and crying.
After the late Mister Figg had passed, his widow had gained a reputation for certain eccentricities. She kept an alarming number of cats in her household, far more than were necessary to mouse a single house, and her disagreeable temper hadn't done anything to endear her to her neighbours.
One such neighbour was Petunia Dursley. Nosy and strongly opinionated, the blonde woman saw herself as the local morality crusader. Her husband, Vernon Dursley, dutifully supported her in the accusations she levelled against Figg, as he did in all of her ventures. The couple was standing outside their home. Vernon wore the usual squinted look that made him look constipated, but Petunia was positively smug.
Hermione had visited the Dursley residence on one occasion in the past and never again. They were the typical English family; there was nothing too commendable to note but also nothing especially amiss either. But of course that was only because their treatment of Harry was largely kept out of the public eye. They treated their nephew as a servant and put him to live in a cupboard under the staircase. Their treatment of Harry had always struck Hermione as a great injustice but Harry had endured it silently, much as he did everything else. He was gone now, but she would never forget how the Dursleys had treated him, the orphan they had made such a public production out of generously bringing into their home. They could present themselves however they wished in public, but the truth would never be forgotten by her.
"I'm not a witch!" the little woman shrieked shrilly. She flailed in the arms of her captors, trying to flee back into her home. Her house was small and dark, nothing like the Augusta Longbottom's large and fine home. Fear had warped Figg's old, weathered face. She was still dressed in a white dressing gown, her tiny feet bare as she shakily kicked the air. The arresting men must have dragged her straight from her bed without even affording her a moment to gather her wits and change into something more presentable. Hermione highly doubted that it was because they thought they had anything to fear from the friendless, frail old woman. "Please!"
A sizeable number of townspeople had gathered to watch in the audience. Some had had advance knowledge of the arrest (Petunia Dursley had been talking up Figg's oddities in the marketplace for days), while others were merely curious of the public spectacle. Either way, no one from either class made a move to help the batty old widow.
Slowly, her eyes never leaving the scene, Hermione crept over to join Tom, careful to avoid bumping into anyone else in the crowd. He was standing outside the home of one of her father's regular patients, the black leather bag in hand. She hadn't planned on seeing Tom so soon. It just so happened that they had both chanced upon the arrest as it was taking place.
She recognised most of the men in the arresting convoy. Diggle himself was among them, directing them with orders too quiet for her to make out, a head shorter than his peers.
As he stepped out of Figg's home, a few steps behind the other men, Gregory Goyle's hulking form was forced to duck to avoid colliding with the head of the door frame. Hermione had been wondering why he had lingered in the house behind the others when she spotted two struggling cats in his hands. He held them fast by the scruff of their necks, a sneer on his brutish face. It wasn't unheard of for animals to be accused of witchcraft, especially the familiars of the accused witches themselves. Witches could take any form. Any witch could be taken to trial. Any witch could be burnt or drowned.
"Tom." She gripped his arm instinctively, struggling to contain the horror she felt from presenting itself on her face. "Those poor animals," she said softly. Hermione had always been especially partial to cats. She had once kept one as a pet herself in her girlhood. He had been a sweet thing with thick, ginger fur not unlike that of a lion. Her parents had forced her to give him up shortly after the Vane sisters were burned together for witchcraft. Cats had always been associated with the occult, and only barely tolerated to keep the mouse population at bay.
"This one scratched me," Goyle was muttering to Crabbe, lifting up a hissing tabby cat. "The others ran away." He stood a considerable distance away and yet his low voice was as clear to Hermione as if he was speaking beside her ear. The heavy-browed man had never properly learned to control the volume of his voice and always spoke in rough grunts.
"Don't worry," Tom whispered back, voice smooth, his lips hardly parting despite the clarity of his quiet words. "I sincerely doubt any of those cats are Animagus."
"Tom." She tugged at his arm sharply in rebuke. "That's horrible." She felt him shrugging beside her. "We should do something." She looked back at the sorry scene, frowning deeply.
That caught his full attention. "They're just cats, Hermione."
"I meant for Figg too, Tom."
"That is a terrible idea." Not deigning to even humour her, Tom began walking away, forcing Hermione to stumble after him when their arms remained locked. Arabella Figg had already been taken away and most of the bystanders were beginning to disperse. To avoid being separated, she had to hurry to keep pace.
She didn't start talking again until they were well away. "You haven't even heard me out." Hermione scowled, looking briefly back over her shoulder. No one was watching.
"I don't have to; that premise is a terrible idea." She knew immediately where they were going to: the oak tree in the meadow. Outside of the forest itself, it had become Tom's favourite place to meet her. In the daytime it was difficult to be snuck up on, and the innocent, open space aroused little suspicion.
"So you would just let her die then?" She abandoned her grasp on his arm to cross her own arms, staring steely back at Tom.
"Hermione, you're being unreasonable." He looked exasperated, his dark eyes rolling up as if he would find support somewhere up in the clouds. Together they entered the open meadow. It was a beautiful day with blue skies and a bright yellow sun. Even the birds were singing. The lovely weather had been difficult to notice in light of the arrest. "What would you have me do? Kill all of the prosecutors? Her accusers? The witnesses? The judge and guards?"
"No." Hermione insisted heatedly. She threw her hands out in frustration. "And, why is your first instinct murder?" she retorted. She pulled at her dress, tugging the pale-blue fabric down past her knees as she sat down in the shadow of the tree, her back to the town.
"Even if we were to break her free, that doesn't change the fact that apparently your town thinks she's a witch. They'll just come for her again." Tom sank down on the grass opposite of her, his back leaning against the tree. He threw the leather bag down beside him. Now their field of vision was nearly a full three-sixty degrees - any nosy intruders would be immediately spotted several feet away. "There's no place to send her." No place for a Muggle. "Regardless, she's not your responsibility. You don't even know her. Are you going do this for every poor soul who finds themselves in trouble? I think that'll be too much - even for you."
"Tom, you know I don't know as much about magic as you." He smirked. "That wasn't a compliment," Hermione insisted hotly. "Tom, she needs your help. I know you can do something, so why don't you? Surely you can think of something."
He sighed, blinking languidly as he stretched his arms out above him, righting the tension in his shoulders. "The world's a lot bigger than your little hamlet, Hermione," he mused. "I've been here far too long. You may think this is awful, what's going on, but you have no idea how often this happens throughout the rest of the continent. Injustices worse than this happen to good people all the time; it's just a fact of life. After a while, you get used to it. Interfering usually just makes it worse for the very people you're trying to help, or you're just wasting your time for nothing. It will never end."
She bit her lips, unsatisfied. He saw the stubborn look on her face and continued. "If that woman has even a drop of wizard blood, she'll be fine. Haven't I told you about Wendelin? She's probably been through every kingdom in Europe and she's escaped from the stake at least three dozens times by now."
"She doesn't though. She's not a witch."
"Then she'll be exonerated."
"You know how unlikely that is. It's not how it goes." She felt like throwing her hands in the air again. But she kept her hands arranged neatly in her lap this time. Tom wasn't going to budge. Her mouth pouted. "Do you only care when someone's a wizard? Are Muggles even people to you?"
Tom didn't look at her; he didn't have to. "Of course. What sort of question is that?"
"Do you even care about me as a person?" Hermione leaned forward, searching out his dark eyes. "You never showed any interest in me until you knew what I was."
"So this is what this is about." Tom muttered out a sardonic laugh. His gaze swung over to meet hers. "Your personal insecurity?"
"Stop twisting my words," she demanded, her fists clenching and her nails digging into the flesh of her palms. But she released her hands just as quickly. "You know, I feel awful for never doing anything before," Hermione confessed, trying a softer approach. "It's just that - I feel like, we can actually do something now. Something good, you know?"
Maybe Tom was trying the same angle too because his hard expression had slackened. "Hermione, this is not going to change anything," he spoke slowly. "We'll just be risking our lives with no real endgame in mind. It'll probably do Figg no good either." He reached out to touch her fingers, his skin cool. "This place is awful, it has nothing to offer us. I've been here too long, and you've been here even longer - all by yourself." His voice was soft, coaxing. "This town is no good, Hermione."
"Tom?"
"My father has a manor in Yorkshire." There was that same animated look in his dark eyes again. "There's a Muggle village close by but they would never have to bother us. You could study magic in peace and I could continue my research."
"What research, Tom?" He had never mentioned any such research - merchantry and medicine had just been a few of his many hobbies, hobbies that he was disgustingly and effortlessly talented at. "Not the Elder Wand again? Tom, you can't be serious."
He shook his head. "Everything, Hermione. Not just the Elder Wand. The Deathly Hallows, magical creatures, new spells, charms, and potions. You could work with me too. I know you're a fast learner, you'll have fresh ideas. We could make a change together. Make life easier for the wizards and witches like us."
"Tom, you said those Deathly Hallows were fables," she protested, refusing to be distracted. There was an uncomfortable ache in the pit of her stomach.
"That's what everyone thought, but they're real, believe me. Dumbledore and Grindelwald were searching for them. Grindelwald already found the wand."
Suddenly a terrible sense of precognition swept over her. She knew why Tom had fell out with his old mentor. "Tom, you didn't try to steal it, did you?" The steely look in his eyes, the stubborn line of his mouth told her the answer. "Tom, why?"
"Grindelwald was an extremist," Tom proclaimed, looking away again. "He wanted to overthrow all the Muggle kings and establish a world of wizard supremacy."
She barked out a laugh. "And that idea really doesn't appeal to you?" She found that difficult to believe; an outright lie, in fact.
"Grindelwald envisioned himself as the benevolent overlord of Muggles and wizards alike. A king ordained not by divine right but by his own force of will. No, I don't find the idea of being subservient to this man appealing," Tom explained, his beautiful mouth twisted in disgust. "Dumbledore and Grindelwald weren't exactly friends by the time Dumbledore took me under his tutelage. If I hadn't tried to take it, Dumbledore would have."
"So did he?"
"I wouldn't know." Tom's jaw clenched. "Grindelwald's been practicing dark magic decades since before I was even born, and Dumbledore never taught me anything remotely useful - he kept me ignorant and pilant. I probably never even stood a chance against Grindelwald." Outside of false humility, she found it bizarre whenever Tom admitted to a weakness. Of course, even now he was trying to justify those shortcomings.
"You really have no idea what magic can do, Hermione. You never had the opportunity to learn. You were repressed all life, weren't you?"
He swallowed, leaning in close. She managed to resist the impulse to shift back, away.
"The Muggles - your friends and family - they will never understand you," he stressed. "But you already know that though, don't you? You've known that for a long time."
The self-assured look on his face, the insistence in his voice - it was infuriating. She was tired of being so easily read like one of her books.
"You may think what you like but you're wrong, Tom," Hermione interjected icily. "I know you don't have the highest opinion of Muggles but they're no different from us. It's all circumstance - they're frightened and confused. If it was the other way around, we would be the same. And I'd like to believe that I could keep an open mind - maybe they can too."
"But it isn't, is it? This is the way it is - you're a witch and they're Muggles." Sighing imperceptibly, Tom went on to remark, "You're a Muggle-born." He shook his head, his dark eyes narrowing in exasperation. "You don't - " He cut himself off just as quickly. The passion with which he now spoke was riveting. "You've grown attached to them, I understand that. But there is a fundamental difference between wizards and Muggles. If you had more experience you'd understand that. You've only ever known one world. Let me show you the one you belong to."
He fully placed his hand on hers. "A few nights ago I discovered the barrier separating the Muggle world from the rest of the forest." At her puzzled look, he elaborated, "It's like a secret entrance, probably related to the wards put up around the forest. It's a split hawthorn tree - you only have to climb through the trunks to enter." Tom smiled brilliantly, his hand squeezing hers, which remained limp in his grasp. "I didn't go far but I saw fairies, Hermione. Real-life fairies. I bet there's unicorns too. Sirens in the lakes and phoenixes in the trees," he coaxed.
"I'm not a little girl, Tom." Half-heartedly, she swatted his hand away. But she couldn't help the smile that threatened to break out across her upturned mouth. What girl growing up hadn't dreamt of fairies and unicorns? Her town life had always been colourless and entirely ordinary. Life was brutish and short at worst, and bland and slow at best.
"There's probably at least a handful of wizards living in that forest," Tom went on to speculate. "Quaint cottages, built up by magic, far away from your Muggle village."
"Do wizards have their own towns?" Hermione wondered, ignoring his slight insult.
"Of course." Tom looked almost offended by her question. "If Muggles can put up a few buildings close together, why can't a wizard do the same?" Blinking, he admitted, "I've never visited any wizard-only towns, but the closest village might be Hogsmeade. In fact, I think if we went straight through the forest and rode on for a few days, we'd hit it. I know it's just west of this place."
Her mouth pressed together into a thin line. The thought was tempting. "But I can't abandon my family," Hermione reminded him. "And I can't leave my friends behind."
"Ginerva and Ronald Weasley?" Tom made a face.
"Don't be cruel," Hermione snapped. "They're good people." Against her better judgement, she admitted, "Besides, what if Harry comes back one day? He'd never know how to find me if I'm gone."
"You don't even know if he's still out there," Tom reminded her. "Why miss out on your life taking a gamble on bad odds?" Gritting his teeth, he ignored her glare, suggesting, "Why not leave town for only a little while then? See if you like it. If you don't, then go home."
"I can't just pick up and leave whenever I feel like it, Tom. You make it sound so simple. You're forgetting that I'm a girl." It was common sense. "I belong to my father until I'm married and after that I'll belong to my husband." It was stifling. "I can't become a merchant and travel as you do. I don't have the same freedoms you do. If I just took off with you, I'm not sure that I'd be welcomed back at all. Don't you know how it'll look?" She looked at him through narrowed brown eyes. "I don't imagine that it's very different for the witches in your world."
He was silent for a time, his eyes fixed on an invisible point off to the side of her. She was beginning to think that he had lost his wits when Tom suddenly looked back up at her, an intense conviction written on his face. "Marry me then. You'll have the freedom to do whatever you want."
"What? You're crazy." She gaped at him, hardly caring for how foolish she must have looked in the moment. "Where did an idea like that even come from, Tom?" Discomforted, Hermione shifted her legs, pressing her knees close to her chest. "We just met. We hardly have anything in common, aside from the one thing."
"That's not true." Whatever angle he was going for, he was sticking to it. "I've never met anyone like you. You're clever. You understand me better than anyone I've ever met - Muggle or wizard. If it's a matter of love, then you should know that I don't care that you're a Muggle-born, I think I could really fall for you."
"What?" She repeated numbly, shaking her head, her face stuck in a grimace. "Tom, don't make such reckless promises just because you want me to go along with what you say. I hate hearing your flattery." It was cruel - mostly because she often did want to believe his sugared words. "Besides." Her voice steadied. "I don't love you. I'm not even sure that I like you very much at all, in fact." Shaking her head again, Hermione suggested, "Why don't you just go by yourself? I know you're dying to leave. You don't need me for this."
"I can't leave you behind," he confessed, still leaning forward.
"You're confusing me, Tom," Hermione stated firmly. She pushed her hand against his chest, to keep him at bay. "We haven't even kissed. We've barely held hands. We're just friends. Why would you make such an outlandish proposal now?"
"Not everything in life plays out like those love stories you like to read. Should I have read you poetry first? Brought you flowers?" Tom pulled away, looking cross. "I thought you liked me."
She gaped at him. "So were you trying to be practical by proposing or are you still trying to manipulate me?" Hermione demanded, a little distraught. She felt her face heating up. Why was it so difficult with Tom? "I'm not one of your lovesick girls, Tom."
His dark eyes flashed. "You're not. You know that I've always liked you, Hermione, and I think that that is why you stood out to me."
"I can't believe that," she refused flatly. "This just sounds like you're trying to tell me whatever you think I want to hear."
"You're special," he insisted. "I think I knew that, even before you followed me into the forest." He leaned further away, his hands planting themselves on the grass behind him. Tom turned his handsome face up towards the sky, giving her a nice view of his jawline and exposed neck. (She looked away.) He squinted up at the clouds, suddenly standoffish again. "Believe me or don't. But it's true."
"This is all too sudden for me." Hermione stood up, her face turning away. "Go by yourself. You're a grown man. Stop trying to play with my feelings." Ignoring the burn of his stare, she stalked away. She didn't have time to waste around in that meadow forever with Tom.
Thanks for leaving a review, Ciule! In other news, I'm planning on posting another Tomione fanfic soon - one based off a personal favourite fairy tale of mine.
