A/N: Awfully sorry for this long break, but I'm so thankful for your continued support, and I hope this chapter partially makes up for my absence. Thank you!

Eleven

"You're a brainy little bird," the barkeep let her know with an inappropriate wink, passing the steaming mug of tea in her direction. She had ordered a strange concoction - possibly native to the holiday village – which consisted of strongly brewed black tea and a dash of rum and vanilla. He didn't bother to ask if she was of age, because it did not seem to matter. Alcohol here was judged only by the pint, not the mug.

Hermione issued a small 'thank you' to the drink, not the compliment. She was aware that the barkeep wasn't the only one looking at her. The other patrons at the counter gave her appraising looks. On the one hand, the attention bolstered her confidence, but on the other hand, it made her painfully aware that she was being admired for the precocious child that she was, like a fascinating exhibit at the zoo.

She returned to her and Tom's booth with a strange mixture of elation and disappointment.

Tom had been eyeing the friendly bartender with something like aristocratic distaste.

Hermione plopped down in her seat opposite him, sloshing some tea on the table.

"Are you thinking of murdering him too, then?"

He turned to her with an affable smile, not missing a beat. "I thought I only murdered women, in your estimation."

Hermione clicked her tongue. "At least you're admitting to it now."

"I admit to nothing. Tell me, are you enjoying yourself?"

She scratched at the plastic coaster with her nail. "No."

It was a weak lie, even for her. The truth was that she liked having got so many of the questions right, even if it made her look like a nasty know-it-all.

Her score card was the second highest in the pub. But Tom was unbeatable. True to his word, he was not giving her any leeway. They all had to write their answer down on a piece of paper after the host gave them the question. Whoever said "Constable!" the fastest got to reveal their answer. Hermione had to shout at the top of her lungs to be heard over Tom, and she had to be twice as fast and twice as vigilant. Even when she got to say her answer, she did get it wrong sometimes. Like in the round where she'd mixed up her facts and put Michael Faraday as the inventor of the friction match.

"John Walker," Tom had corrected her smugly.

It had taken all of her might not to slap the card out of his hand. But she enjoyed the brutish competition, even if she wasn't winning. The few times she managed to get the upperhand were glorious.

"Point to number twenty-seven!" the host would shout. She was number twenty-seven, and very proud of it.

Tom flicked the tip of his cigarette in the ashtray, looking at her as if he knew what she was thinking.

Hermione grew stiff. "How do you know all this stuff, anyway?"

He shrugged, blowing smoke in her face. "Picked it up here and there."

She folded her arms. "I suppose you're the kind of bookseller who actually reads his books."

"And you're the kind of schoolgirl who thumbs her textbooks front to back," he replied amiably.

"It's slightly more pathetic coming from a – how old are you, anyway?" she asked airily, taking a sip of her tea.

She didn't know why she was being so obliquely sarcastic, like an older woman who was used to sizing up younger men. It was unlike her. She thought it must be the atmosphere in the pub, it made her feel more grown-up.

Tom cocked his head to the side. "Why do you think we know so many things?"

Hermione stuck her nose in her drink, trying her best to ignore his feline eyes. "I don't know that many things."

"I think it's a form of defense," Tom continued, ignoring her comment. "We are scared of being naked in the world."

The rum tasted like caramel on her tongue. She swallowed quickly. "You admit to being scared of something?"

"Only the very foolish never fear," he said, lighting a new fag.

"Then…you are scared of being vulnerable?" Hermione asked, thinking that somewhere in this conversation there must be a trap.

"Do you know the etymology?" he mused, lightly. "It comes from vulnus, Latin for wound. And if you go a bit further back, vul becomes welh, an Indo-European remnant. Try to sound it out. Welh. It reminds one of wellness, of good. But it's…it's a tearing. You are being torn apart. That's what it means. And yet, you float on welh, like a newborn child, and you suspect nothing."

Hermione watched his lips as they gently cupped the filter. She blinked, trying to break the spell of his words.

"You are afraid that you'll be caught off guard?"

Tom smiled, cigarette between his lips. "That is a very philistine guess, Hermione. I'm disappointed."

She frowned, gripping her mug tightly. "Shut up. Let me think."

And she could see he loved her need to be right. He waited, pleased with her struggle.

"You're afraid that," she began tentatively, "if welh should happen, if you got torn apart, you would…not know. You wouldn't know it's happening."

Tom exhaled smoke. "Mm. Closer. That's why we equip ourselves with so much knowledge. Because at any moment…"

The smoke curled into soft, meandering half-moons which glided on the air and broke apart when they reached the ceiling.

And she imagined a great claw ripping through the walls and tearing their flesh as they stood there, in their little booth. And they would be none the wiser. You never know, until you're in the middle of it.

"Contestants, it's time for another round!" the host announced on the stage. "Get ready to say constable!"

Tom rested his unfinished cigarette on top of his glass of brandy and picked up his pencil.

Hermione readied herself, though her thoughts remained on the claw.

The crowd rustled with excitement as the man on the stage cleared his throat. Their eyes were glowing, whether from drink or from sport, she did not know.

"For those of you with a penchant for literature, name the Orwellian novel where the character Dorothy Hare appears."

Hermione bit her lip in distress. She didn't know this one. But Tom was scribbling away, undisturbed.

She resented his writing, his confidence. She wanted to stop the game. She wanted to knock the pencil from his hand. Her eyes glided over to his abandoned cigarette. It seemed to be waiting for someone to pick it up.

She reached out, her hand like a tentacle, and seized it between trembling fingers.

It was warm. It even seemed to have a heartbeat.

She brought it shakily to her mouth, watching the burning end, the way the paper withered into a murky brown. It glowed, like the people's eyes, like the Christmas lights. She felt grown-up, but not adult. She did not put it between her lips, but she kept it very close. Instead, her tongue darted out tentatively to lick the filter.

Tom had stopped writing and was watching her.

She tasted tobacco at first, but underneath there was the flavor of his lips. A taste that was wood and metal and a kind of lime-bitterness which made her swallow.

Tom leant forward, watching her tongue with interest.

Her eyes darted to his card quickly, catching half a word, before looking up. The blue around his pupils was dense, like the gloaming above a church steeple. His jaw was locked, the muscles aligned like parts of an orchestra, ready to strike the instruments.

She pressed her lips to the filter, but she did not breathe in.

His profile was very handsome to someone looking from a distance. But up close, like this, his appetites bloomed under his skin and his beauty was seized by the throat and made to choke. Sometimes, that monster digging a pit inside your chest is your only friend in the world, he had said. Well, his monster was suffocating. She had called it out, and robbed it of breath.

She parted her lips and let the cigarette dangle carelessly, as her tongue charted a slow circle around the filter.

She could almost hear the hunger in his bones.

Hermione spat the cigarette out. It landed on the table between them.

"Constable!"

"Yes, number twenty-seven!" the host roared like a tempest.

"A Clergyman's Daughter!" she said out loud, twisting in her seat. "That's the answer."

"Correct! Point goes to number twenty-seven!"

Hermione turned around, a feeling of euphoria in her gut. Tom was crushing the cigarette's tip into the ashtray.

"My little vixen," he said, and tossed his card in the ashtray too.

Despite her little cheat, she hadn't won the quiz. But it had felt good to deceive, if only for one moment. Looking back on it, she didn't know if she had done it consciously. So many things in his presence seemed guided by raw instinct.

They walked down the deserted street towards the hotel. She picked at her gloves, listening to the sound of boots on the pavement.

"Was that your first cigarette?" he asked conversationally.

"Technically, I didn't smoke," she replied, her breath coming out in a fog. The rum had given her a light buzz. Her forehead was burning.

"Did you like the taste?"

"It was disgusting," she said tartly.

Tom chuckled. "All the best things are."

Up ahead, they saw a communal garden surrounded by a small fence. A clumsy Nativity scene had been erected between the frozen shrubs. The Christmas lights twinkled anemically in the winter mistral.

Tom stopped in front of it. "Do you mind looking away, my dear? I need to take a leak."

Perhaps he knew she would not look away, that disgust is always a little bit married to curiosity. He stepped towards the fence which barely reached his knees and he unzipped the front of his trousers.

Hermione watched, unable to help herself.

She could hardly make out his cock in the dark, but she felt its presence anyway. She had never seen that offensive organ. Was this nakedness? Vulnerability? Was it welh? A claw should come and take him. She could be the claw. She looked down at her fingers. She imagined them squeezing his cock until he screamed. She imagined kneeling and –

She let out a gasp of revulsion.

Tom swiveled his head around, as a thick stream of piss landed on the muddy flecks of snow on the ground. The spray hit young Mary on the cheek, and some drops landed on the bundle in her arms. The donkeys were grinning.

"You're not looking away," he admonished with a smile.

Hermione sank her gloved hands in the pockets of her coat. She shrugged. "There's nothing to see."

But her eyes absorbed each detail with alacrity.

Tom's smile grew fangs.

And she understood momentarily something she would later put out of her mind. If welh does happen, it's not that you won't know it, it's that you will enjoy it.

Tom zipped himself up and joined her on the trek back to the hotel.

"I hope they serve a good breakfast in the morning," he said wistfully, sounding very much like a normal young man. A well-bred, well-educated young man who had just won a pub quiz and had pissed all over little Jesus.

She licked her lips. She could still taste that cigarette. "I'm not hungry."

"I imagine you will be," he said softly, barely above whisper.