A/N below.
The Roots of This Tree
Chapter Ten
The migraine subsides, as all things do.
Nothing lasts forever.
.
.
It leaves like a lifting fog. Slowly at first, then suddenly, like it had never been there at all.
Abruptly, there is more to the world than biting pain. More to the world than her consumed, overwrought senses would have her believe.
Time has passed. It always does.
(She hurts until she doesn't. That's the way of it, too.)
Unceremoniously, she stumbles forward and back into rational thought. It's like vertigo as she recalls details she had lived through but only vaguely registered. Like retroactive awareness.
Mostly, the awareness centers on Tom.
During the shroud of her migraine and in the direct afters, she knows he had been dutiful with her care. There when she'd needed him, feeding her potions like clockwork, then silently slipping back and away, like smoke dispersing within a set confines — touching everything but remaining untouchable in turn.
He'd been attentive, yes. Competent, certainly. But despite all of his efforts, he had not been alone; Death still clings to this plane. She can feel it, even now, like a presence in the room.
To be fair, she's not exactly getting worse. By some measures, namely the lack of a migraine and the ability to remain conscious for hours at a time, her situation could even be labeled as improved.
But she isn't well. And she isn't herself. And the compulsory bedrest is driving her insane.
It doesn't surprise her, that it's difficult. She has never taken well to idleness. She's a person that has to go, has to learn, has to do. And this period of convalescence — it's not exactly like when she had the flu at age seven, or returned from petrification at age thirteen. There's no library book to teach her how to knit, no Madame Pomfrey to look the other way as she furiously caught up on coursework.
(Reflecting on that period now, her post-petrification stay in the hospital wing, she's struck by the many other uncanny similarities to her current situation. Unresponsive bodies and lost time. Snakes. Dangerous — even deadly — eyes. And the worst, most glaring consistency: him.)
He continues to do battle over the dented pewter cauldron.
Nestled in the corner of the shack, the cauldron boils, and the cauldron bubbles, and Tom is incredibly efficient, approaching each precise cut and careful stir with the steady intensity of a bomb squad technician or a student sitting their NEWTs.
As he should. The potions will, after all, keep her alive.
And what a state it is, to be kept alive. Time moves forward, but there's no rising action. No falling action, either. Just the dangling hope of stasis and the heavy-weighted fear of stagnation.
Still, while she is by no means healed, especially from her recent foray with wandless magic, the mind-numbing, crazy-making pain that has been her near-constant companion seems to have retreated somewhat, leaving her with what feels like an empty, unclouded mind. No distractions.
She has, of course, already come up with a dozen different escape routes and contingency plans for how to get out of this house, away from this man, back to the Ministry. But barring unexpected Auror intervention or the sudden use of her legs, there is no way out. Nothing to do but wait.
Her mind whirs and whirs and whirs with just how much nothing there is to do.
So Hermione comes to what she thinks is an exceedingly logical decision. She decides to ask him for work. She even prepares a five-minute speech on why it's a good idea. How it will be better for them both.
It takes her ten minutes to summon the nerve.
"Tom," she begins cautiously, calling to him from flat on her back. She can't even prop herself up on a pillow because of the pressure it would cause to her stomach. It's yet another thing that frustrates her to no end.
"Hmm?" He glances over at her.
Hermione swallows. From this angle, Tom appears taller and thinner than she knows him to be. It's like looking up at the branches from the base of a tree.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Hermione asks, voice scratchy from misuse. "Maybe with prepwork or note-taking or keeping track of potion regimens?"
She clears her throat, then inhales, ready to justify her request, but she doesn't get the chance.
"Actually, I do have something," Tom says immediately, surprising her. He puts down his ladle and casually wipes his hands on his trousers, like this is normal. "If you're sure."
Hermione nods, not wanting him to change his mind. Not expecting it to be this easy.
"I am," she says out loud, to be sure.
Tom nods back, looking at her a little funny. "Okay," he says, "then I have just the thing."
And there it is. Just like that.
The thing turns out to be a wide wicker basket stacked to the brim with Polypody ferns.
He approaches with the basket, looking tall and slightly oblong, like a study in foreshortening. She has no idea where it came from, where anything has come from; for all she knows and for all she can see, it could have been gathered that morning while she was sleeping or summoned from mid-air two seconds ago.
Regardless of its origins, he still sets it on the bedside table all the same, blessedly within her reach. Then he pivots, like he's on a swivel, and leaves.
Hermione doesn't watch him go, fixated as she is on the basket. The small thing she asked for that she didn't quite believe she was going to get. Almost of its own accord, her right hand reaches out and lightly strokes the limp tangle of ferns like one might pet a stray cat.
For a moment, Hermione can't help but sit with the plants, hand splayed among them, allowing the verdant green to wash over her. The color sparks something in her, and mere seconds pass before she gives in and grabs one. Before she brings it close.
The first cutting is larger than a handheld fan, but it weighs next to nothing. Picking it up is like lifting her own hand, which is to say not exactly easy but certainly within her current limits.
And as for the cutting itself, each frond blade is long. Each leaflet complex.
The task before her promises to be tedious and moderately consuming.
It's perfect, really, and she basks in it. It's like a forest, here in this house, in this room, on this jail cell of a bed, and uncaring that Tom is likely watching her every move, Hermione drops the fern until the lush green of it kisses her face, spanning the entirety of what she can see.
It's cool, and it's smooth, and it smells like a memory. She closes her eyes and breathes in deep.
It helps. And it also doesn't. And anyway, it doesn't matter, because she has a task now. Something to do.
After one last long inhale, Hermione lifts the cutting and begins to strip the fronds, one by one, as single-minded as a child picking petals off of a daisy.
There's no instruction given to her, almost as if he trusts her to know exactly what needs doing.
And, of course, she does know. She's read One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi so many times that she can practically recite it from memory.
Separate rhizomes from fronds, preserving root systems. Remove fiddleheads. Pluck individual pinnule from leaflets, taking great care to keep them fully intact. Conserve each respective stipe and axis for separate potions and herbology work.
She knows this.
Does Tom know she knows this?
It could be exhaustion on his part that he hadn't protested her request. Hadn't given her instructions. She hasn't exactly seen him sleep, and it's not like there's a spare bed hiding in the room. He could be running on empty, too.
More likely, Hermione thinks, is that it's a play at civility — and certainly not one she feels inclined to trust.
She frowns. Picks apart another bit of green.
Or perhaps it's everything rolled into one. Trust and civility and exhaustion. Things can be "and," not just "either". One doesn't have to preclude the other.
Not that his motives really matter at this point. She has a task.
Carefully separated piles grow, leaflet by leaflet. She pours herself into the tediousness of it all. Can't help but marvel.
Ferns are such mundane things, honestly. Large and ancient, littering the countryside. Years of camping in Wye Valley and the Forest of Dean, and she had never really given them any mind. Before reading Phyllida Spore's book, she wouldn't have ever guessed these prehistoric plants carried magic, common as they are.
She turns another cutting, and the fronds spin, producing the barest whisper of a breeze against her cheeks.
She knows better now. The world is so much bigger and stranger and more magical than she ever thought.
Hermione shakes her head minutely, refocusing on the task at hand. On the plant in her hand. She combs through its turning fan of leaves. Finds a lone fiddlehead hiding in the remnants of its root system.
She picks at it, grabbing it securely between her thumb and forefinger. There's resistance, some fight, but after another pinch and a sharp tug, it gives easily enough.
Bottom lip between her teeth, she turns the tiny thing, scrutinizing its intricate spiraled furling. It is bright green and oddly beautiful, the curling whole of it no larger than a snail's shell.
It's a younger green than the larger ferns, coiled so tightly, not yet ready to come out. Her thumb and forefinger twist so that she can see more of it, and it turns as she does. She brings it closer, and she turns it further, balancing her fingers on its smooth outer rim, and then her hand slips, and then she overcorrects, and then there's too much pressure, and then, before she can do anything at all, its rigid membrane splits with a wet, soft snap.
She swallows a sudden, unexpected sob.
The squished thing falls, hitting her chest.
Oh god.
Another shuddering intake of breath, and she nearly chokes. Fronds whip as the partially plucked fern swings down to cover her face. From the corner of her eye, she sees Tom stop what he's doing and glance over at her.
She doesn't care. She doesn't care.
She bites her lip and clenches her eyes, determined not to cry.
It's all in her head.
It is all in her head.
She inhales in quick, stuttering spurts, sucking in a lungful of stale, humid air filtered through the earthy fronds. It smells so very much like freshly mown grass.
Her shoulders shake.
Damp linen clings to her back, just as moisture-laden as the humid air, if not more so. Hermione bites her bottom lip again in order to keep her mouth closed, and a coarse layer of skin sloughs off between her teeth.
Things. So many tangible things.
She is present. She is here. Plucking Polybodys in 1940-something with Tom Marvolo Riddle.
She is. She is.
Get used to it. You are.
Hermione takes a deep breath, hiccuping through it.
She concentrates on breathing.
Her chest fights her, rising and falling in a rough staccato. The fern covers her face like a child's blanket in the night.
A minute later, and she's still breathing.
Another minute, and the fern slides down. Another minute, and she concentrates on plucking.
Another minute, and she thinks it's even working.
Which is perhaps why Tom takes that minute to break the silence. Of course he does.
"What happened to you, Hermione?" he asks, and it's so nonchalant that the past few minutes of concentrated calm nearly wash away.
She tenses, breath held and mental alarms blaring.
The question is too open-ended, too much of a trap.
Seconds pass before she responds, and even then, all she stitches together is an evenly spoken, "I'm sorry?"
Tom doesn't seem to mind. "What happened to you?" he repeats patiently.
Hermione wants to laugh.
This man is not patient. This man is not kind.
Perhaps that's what pushes her reply.
She drags her free hand over her forehead. "I believe it was from the wandless magic, like you initially surmised. Why? Did you have another theory?"
Watch it.
It comes to her immediately, an internal knee-jerk reaction in his voice. She practically hears him say it.
He doesn't say it, of course.
Instead, he clears his throat slightly, like it's really no matter to him at all, and gestures to her stomach. "No, I mean your abdomen," Tom clarifies. "What happened there? It couldn't have been an accident."
"It wasn't." Hermione's fingers pick at another fiddlehead. She removes it. Places it in its designated pile. "I was cursed. I don't know the spell."
She doesn't say more.
She'll tell the truth, but he hasn't earned any answers.
Riddle nods, like she's given him valuable information, then pulls out a solid white mortar and pestle and settles it on his workstation. A handful of what might be pink peppercorns clink into the white marble bowl, one after another, before the pestle follows them to the surface. He twists it, baring down with considerable weight. The peppercorns pop, and the pestle scritches horribly against the marble bowl. The sound connects directly to her spine.
"I imagine whoever did that wanted to harm you terribly."
"Yes," Hermione says after a moment, eyes fixed on her fingers. "I'd say that's a safe assumption."
"Wanted to kill you?" Tom presses. Another peppercorn pops.
"Perhaps," she replies steadily.
Hermione strips one last green stem. Sees a flash of purple fire.
Swallows thickly, then brushes it all away.
Most of the Polypody components are stacked in separate neat piles to her right. Stipes. Fiddleheads. Rhizomes. She'd been placing the stripped fronds in her lap, and they'd collected in a mound, piled high between the crevice of her thighs like a great green dune. She transfers them carefully, loose handful by loose handful, back to the large wicker basket.
She glances at Tom when she's finished, unsurprised to find he's staring straight at her.
Their eyes meet. The last time that happened comes back to her. Feels far too close for comfort.
She continues meeting his dark brown eyes anyway.
Tom tilts his head, and she could almost swear his lips twitch up slightly.
"Where do you sleep?" she asks.
Now Tom's lips really do move. He opens his mouth, then closes it. His dark eyes narrow.
"Do you sleep?" she presses.
"Of course I do," he snaps. "Everyone does." His eyes flash, and he pauses. "I've been sleeping on the floor."
"Oh," Hermione says meaningfully. She looks away from him and back to the piles for a moment. "Ferns are done."
Tom lowers the pestle as gingerly as one might a knife, looking like he wants to burn a hole in something.
He approaches slowly, rigidly, but with each step, it's like he gains more control. The fire diminishes, the expression drops more and more. Eventually, his face is once again a mask. Or perhaps his mask is once again his face.
One of them is his natural state, and she isn't sure which.
Regardless, the room isn't that large, and he crosses it soon enough. This time around he comes closer, stopping when he's mere inches away from the cot, looming over her.
Before she can adjust to his presence, he crouches down, next to the wooden chair instead of in it, his long legs bent, his face hovering dangerously close to her own. Too close.
Tom focuses, seemingly intent on the piles she's laid out. Hermione's simply trying to get a handle on the sudden perspective shift, reminded of exactly how much her back is to the wall.
Still, he is methodical in his approach, taking his time, as if searching for fault.
For Hermione, it's the same.
His face is handsome, as ever. But the individual parts?
Hints of what will soon be dark, patchy stubble form on his chin and cheeks. Around his mouth.
His nose no longer appears as straight as it once did, the bridge bending almost imperceptibly to the right.
Under his eyes, the thin, sensitive skin is noticeably darker, puffy and swollen.
He blinks. His eyelashes are absurdly long.
"These look good, Hermione," he says. "Well done."
Moisture dots his brow, and it's unclear to her whether it's perspiration or potion fume condensation.
Maybe it's both.
Maybe it doesn't matter.
This close, she's finding it hard to look away.
"Thanks," she responds and doesn't know what else to say.
.
.
Tom leaves without saying another word, taking the potions ingredients with him.
Hermione determines not to let it throw her off.
She'd asked for a task. She'd been given a task. She'd completed her task. That's something.
She thinks about asking for another. Wants one — even needs it.
It's only logical, after all. Helping with the potions is just another way of helping herself. Having a hand in her own healing — it makes her feel better. Provides actual relief.
She stares up at the exposed rafters, at the tiny break in the ceiling, imagining the ferns as a piece of a whole and productive day. They're no book, but with them, her time hasn't been wasted. She can do.
Hopefully the next thing she does will be of a similarly consuming calibre.
Measuring. Chopping. Reading.
Magic, even, maybe. Sometime soon. Tomorrow, perhaps.
Today, now, a potion bottle enters her field of view. A pale hand jutting out, extended above her.
Tom. Interrupting her mid-thought.
He holds out a large bottle of a clear colorless something, offering it to her without saying a word.
He's playing a part she's seen before. Aloof. Separate. Above.
Prat.
Hermione reaches up for the bottle, equally silent. She wishes she could float it down instead, thinking about how easy that should be. But she isn't ready to skirt the consequences of wandless magic. Not quite this soon.
She wavers. There are so many unspoken things in this shack, dancing between them and off of the walls. This isn't the kind of person she is. It's a twisting feeling, counter to her every impulse.
But she also won't be the first to say them. Not yet. Not quite this soon.
Instead, she fumbles with the bottle, large and more weighty than usual, and drinks until it's dry.
It tastes delicious.
It tastes like nothing.
She blinks slowly a couple of times, thinking of the next potion he's going to bring her, maybe another task she can ask for. He takes the bottle from her, and her hand lolls to the side, and then suddenly she's not blinking anymore.
And then suddenly it's dark.
Her first thought is that it's noticeably cooler than before.
Her second thought is that she must have fallen asleep.
Her third, fourth, and successive thoughts are all Tom.
Where is Tom?
Hermione scans the room cautiously, anxiously, searching for his pale form among the shadows, as if he might emerge at any moment. She hasn't been conscious during the night before, and the change in light creates something new. Entirely and dreadfully unfamiliar.
At least it isn't pitch black. By the large wooden front door, three squat candles burn, casting faint hints of flickering amber light through the space and across the earthen floor. Her eyes adjust, and the shadows stretch and dance, elongating with every passing second.
He's not by the door.
He's not by the workstation.
He's not by the cauldron.
He's not by the fireplace.
He's not here.
Not here.
Her heart beats faster.
Could it mean - ? Is he gone?
Is it - should she leave?
It takes her an embarrassingly long time to think to look down. He'd been sleeping on the floor by his own admission, after all.
Hermione scoots herself to the side of the mattress, going slowly so as to cause minimal damage, so as to make minimal noise. Hands curled around the bedsheet, neck turned at an awkward angle, she peers over the steep edge.
There's a mass on the ground. It moves.
Her heat spikes up in her throat, and she jerks back.
Which is, of course, a patently stupid reaction, because it's exactly what she'd been looking for. Tom, the body, on the ground.
She calms her treacherous heart, staring up at what should be the rafters but is instead a wide expanse of inky black. Hovering. Waiting.
She frowns, hand over her heart, waiting for it to slow to a reasonable pace. She is always looking, looking, looking. Never doing. Never doing enough.
She will do more.
Steadying herself, she leans back to the edge. Peers over, inch by inch, careful not to let her hair fall over the mattress, careful not to breathe too loud.
He's curled up on his side. Because his back is against the cot, she can't make out his face, but his chest rises and falls with the slow, steady cadence of deep sleep. Locks of his wavy black hair are mussed, swept sideways and disheveled, echoing the darkness above her. She thinks she can make out his white collared shirt. The stark white of it is visible on his arms. On his shoulders, too. He's wearing it, even now, Hermione thinks, a bit judgmentally.
She stares, muscles straining from the awkward position, and tries to make out the brown of the hard-packed dirt floor.
It doesn't appear that he's sleeping on anything, and he certainly isn't covered by anything, not even a blanket.
Her hands dig into the lumpy mattress. She leans further.
She thinks she spots a hunk of some kind of dark fabric, bunched up in his hands, under his exposed head and neck.
She looks at his neck, at that long stretch of pale skin, and wonders if she could kill him.
.
.
A/N:
Endless thanks to the living, breathing goddess that is cocoartist for the last minute beta. She is an absolute treasure. If you haven't read her epic fic unsphere the stars yet, what are you even doing here? Just cancel your plans for the rest of the day and go read it immediately.
Also, to everyone who reviewed or messaged, y'all are the real MVPs. It's actually super helpful and signals to my dumb, irrational brain that I'm not boring you to tears with this fic; every "thanks for the update!" helps push out future chapters. (Also, lol, to those of you speculating about what's going on... know that you absolutely ARE giving me life, and I am enjoying every word.)
Til next time!