A/N: I am sorry for the delayed chapter, but I had to study for exams, so I couldn't dedicate myself to writing. But thank you for all your support and your lovely and humbling reviews. I'm so thrilled this story still interests you.
Ten
The holiday village was, at this time of the year, already packed with tourists. Tom and Jean had not chosen a particularly fashionable destination, but it was close to an array of popular tourist sights, and it was crawling with like-minded people who had thought to avoid the crowds by choosing a more obscure stop. Hermione was rather grateful for the mob. It gave her the sense that, should anything terrible happen, there would be lots of people to witness it.
The plan, as far as she understood it, was to get lodgings here and then drive up each day to see the rocks and the monuments and the tombstones, and whatever else there was to see in this part of the country.
The main street was already stacked with Christmas lights and holly and festive little flags. It looked a little tawdry, the colours a shade too loud, the decorations chintzy and tacked-on. But as she surveyed the glittering spectacle, she thought how much she would have enjoyed this kind of frivolous trip if Tom had been…well, not Tom. A different version of him. A man with the same dashing looks, but with an undamaged mind.
She did not know if she believed in souls, or even hearts, in the spiritual sense of the word. Whenever she heard someone say "she's got a good heart" she always wondered what exactly qualified that organ to impart goodness beyond biology. It was interesting; people rarely qualified souls. They usually said, "he doesn't have a soul" when they meant that the person was awful. But one rarely spoke of "good" or "bad" souls. A soul was the measure of one's humanity, so there had to be something inherently valuable about it.
No, the source of all evil was the mind, in the end. She was certain that there was something tucked away in Tom's brain, something dirty and sharp; something which routinely cut into the fat slices of his grey matter and injected the membrane with a foul serum. She could picture the operation in her head, could picture the liquid spreading through the cerebellum and Tom's mouth curling up in a satisfied grin as he woke every morning feeling more and more contaminated.
She felt a little contaminated too, sometimes. But Tom was sick. She was still resolutely sane.
They drove past the town park where a gaggle of children was sleighing down a short hill as their parents watched from the bottom, snapping their portable cameras. Both parties seemed rather bored with the activity since the hill was not steep and the snow was more sludge and mud than anything else. Still, we make do, as the English say.
She leaned her forehead against the window and saw two boys sitting under a tree in their winter coats, wrestling with a wax figurine of Father Christmas. They were trying to set it on fire.
Tom had booked rooms at the Grayling Inn in advance. It was a quaint faux-Georgian establishment with painted shutters and lopsided anchors attached to the outer walls. Inside the main hall there were glass-cased sketches and drawings of graylings, which Hermione learnt were a species of fish. Their Latin name was inscribed underneath each portraiture, faithfully, "Thymallus thymallus". The letters were written in a wide, girlish hand which made her think of little girls in sunhats. How long had they been up there? She remembered, out of the blue, the horses and dogs that had bedecked the lonely apartment where Tom had taken her. Why did people cling to such things? What was the point of cluttering your life with paintings of animals, innocent creatures that you could never hope to understand? She stared at the grayling's chequered scales, which shone a mustard gold in the dim light.
There was no immediate body of water close to inn to warrant its piscatorial bent, but then again it did not need one. Modern life was all about being ingenious. Hermione sank unceremoniously into one of the straw-backed chairs in the lounge. The décor was stubbornly trying to keep up the fishing charade. She dumped the suitcase between her legs and stared out of the deck windows into the grey twilight and the twinkling Christmas lights. Jean and Tom were checking in at the front desk, and she left them to this unappealing task, not bothering to move or speak or even breathe. She just wanted to sit still.
Her position was slouched, her legs spread wide as if she were a sailor in the truest sense of the word. She was not trying to be indecent; she was simply tired of always hiding her body in shame. Young girls were like goblets of wine, always dreading to spill over. But she had already been blunted by a man's touch; she could sit now and not have to worry about her legs.
From time to time, she felt Tom's peevish gaze on the side of her neck. He must not be pleased with her sloppy manners. She almost smiled at the thought.
She suddenly heard her mother's voice, high and clipped, like a wing being cut short. " – I'll go ask her, I'm sure she'll say yes."
Hermione looked up in time to see Jean hovering over her chair.
"Sweetheart, Tom booked you a room on a different floor from ours, but –well, the Inn is rather full, so they asked us kindly if you wouldn't rather free it up and stay with us? Tom reserved an apartment, so it's large enough for all of us."
Clever, clever Tom.
Hermione couldn't help another rueful smile. Of course, he had made the necessary show of getting her a separate room; she could imagine him talking to her mother about it ("she's a proper young lady, she deserves her privacy") and then blithely booking it on a different floor, knowing full well what would happen.
Still, it had been a bit of a risk. The inn might have suffered a dry spell. She might have kept her separate room.
But Tom would have found another way to get in. He always did.
They shared a weighted look on the stairs.
They were carrying the unwieldy luggage up to their room, a task that required a certain level of attention, which is why her mother was distracted. But even if Jean had been paying attention, it wouldn't have mattered.
It was getting easier and easier to let the mask fall away. Mainly because no one suspected there was a mask in the first place.
Tom glanced over his shoulder, and she craned her neck to look up. His eyes were like a magnet, drawing her in by force of their wickedness.
He was silently asking her if she had liked his ruse.
Hermione blinked a reply. It was rather childish, she answered petulantly.
"I'm so tired, I could sleep for days," Jean moaned, dropping like a dumbbell on the goose-down pillow.
Tom scolded her affectionately. "My darling, we haven't come here to sleep. A holiday is a time for activity."
Jean smiled at that. "That is why I take one so rarely."
Hermione heard their innocent banter from across the hall. The apartment had a very queer design. She could understand now why Tom had picked Grayling Inn. For there were no doors in the whole place, except for the bathroom. The living area, where her sofa-cum-bed had been set up, was separated only by a short corridor from Jean and Tom's proper bedroom.
She felt exposed, and she imagined that was exactly what he wanted. Tom could walk in on her any time -whether she was in a state of undress or simply enjoying her privacy - and she couldn't say anything, because this was the only way to the bathroom.
Clever, clever Tom.
Hermione sat down on one of the plush recliner next to the coffee table. There was a variety of leaflets on the gleaming glass surface, a lot of them advertising the local Christmas fair, a new spa resort up in the mountains, and what looked like a pub quiz down in the village.
She surveyed them with little interest, hopelessly bored with the whole thing already. She snuck a look at the darkening sky in the porthole above her makeshift bed. Its narrow, oblong shape didn't give her the sense that she was on a ship. No, it made her think of being stuck in the eye of a bottle.
Soon enough, she heard her mother's light snoring coming from the hall.
Hermione clenched her fingers on her knees. She looked up to see Tom stroll in, hands in his pocket.
"Well, that was propitious," he announced jauntily.
She shot him a glare laced with suspicion.
Tom rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, my dear, I did not sedate your silly mother. I hardly need to. She is a weak creature in general."
"Don't talk about her like that," she spat, her back growing perfectly stiff. "I know you have no ounce of respect for her, but keep your insults to yourself."
"Why?" he challenged, raising an eyebrow. He ambled to the television set and turned it on. He flipped through the channels absent-mindedly until he landed on the weather forecast.
Hermione guessed what he was doing. In the unlikely event that her mother woke up, she'd hear the telly first.
Clever, clever Tom.
"Why what?" she demanded, staring at the puffy clouds on the screen and the female presenter making wide hand gestures to indicate heavy winds.
"Why should I keep them to myself?"
She scowled. "Because they bother me. Because I love my mother. Because you're a foul git."
She wasn't sure she had ever plainly insulted him before. Tom did not seem to care or mind.
In fact, his smirk was almost rakish. "Oh, please. Don't let me stop you. Do go on."
"And give you the satisfaction? I don't think so," she said, narrowing her eyes.
"Then pray tell me, what would satisfy you?"
She sneered at him. "A great number of things; all having to do with your early demise."
Tom issued a choked laugh, looking up at the ceiling. "Oh, my darling girl. You have no idea how much you tickle me. Shall I stick my finger down your throat again? Why, you almost begged me to do it."
Hermione seized up at the memory. She forced herself not to look at his hand, not to check if her teeth marks were still there. God, she hated how he managed to push her buttons so easily, with only a few sprinkled words. It was another one of his clever tricks; changing the subject at random, making her feel adrift.
Her thoughts could not help but circle around his words, like hamsters chasing their wheel.
Why had she opened her mouth? Why had she done it? What had possessed her?
I wanted to bite his fingers off.
Chew them.
Consume them.
A wave of nausea and something else - something sweetly sick - overwhelmed her.
"You won't get the better of me, not tonight," she managed at length, taking a deep breath and casting her eyes to the television set.
"You're quite right," he said briskly and bent forward gracefully, picking up a leaflet from the table. "Tonight we are busy. Tonight we are going to a pub quiz."
Hermione blinked at him, not sure she had heard him right. She momentarily forgot her grievance. "Excuse me?"
"A pub quiz," he repeated patiently. "Have you never been?"
She crossed her arms defensively. "No. I'm not allowed in pubs."
"They will make an exception. They must. I hear you are quite the swot. You might even win the big prize," he teased, eyes sparking with mischief.
"I don't think so," she retorted, crossing her legs too, for good measure. "You'll find I'm as daft as a bird. No help at all."
"Modesty does not become you," he replied, cocking his head to the side. "Perhaps you are afraid that I will beat you?"
The question was light, almost innocent, and yet its cadence was biting, like a serpent coiling its tail to snap at her.
I will beat you.
Hermione clenched her teeth. She felt warmth crawling up the back of her shirt, climbing to the roots of her hair. "Or maybe that I will beat you."
Tom's smile stretched grotesquely. And yet, the devil remained as charming as ever.
"Your cheeks turn such a lovely vermilion when you are filled with wrath, my dear."
Hermione hated when her face got red. Her complexion was already susceptible to the whims of her temper. She pressed a palm to her cheek, self-conscious.
In a flash, he was kneeling by her side, like a lynx stalking its prey. She did not have time to protest; he wrenched her hand away from her face. Hermione parted her lips. His hold on her wrist was as fast as manacles. She could feel her pulse underneath his grip, and yet, by a meeting of hands, she also felt his. She couldn't distinguish between them, they were both fast.
"Never hide it like a stain. Wear your rage proudly," he said, almost softly, his other hand coming up to brush against the roundness of her cheek. His thumb stroked the warm patch of skin and left a momentary white blot against the angry red. "Sometimes, that monster digging a pit inside your chest is your only friend in the world."
She wrenched her head away in a show of disgust.
"Turning sentimental now?" she taunted, eyes fixed on the TV screen. Yet she felt the monster digging the pit in her chest.
"Wouldn't dream of it, my dear," he spoke, releasing her wrist with an almost studied care. Like a pianist lifting his finger from a lingering key. The gentleness of the act lashed at her skin like a whip.
"In fact," he said as he rose effortlessly from his crouch and stood over her chair, a princely omen of destruction, "I shall be merciless. Good fathers are supposed to let children win at games. But I am not a very good father, am I?"
Hermione smiled a bitter smile. "No, on that we can agree."
"Excellent," he smirked. "Grab your coat. We don't want to be late."