A/N below, as usual.
The Roots of This Tree
Chapter Eleven
One quick stab to the carotid artery — that's all it would take. Surely she'd be able to generate enough force, if she used gravity to her advantage and fell on him. She'd just have to line up the fall and time it right, which she thinks she could do.
The weight and the shock of it; it could work. But what to stab him with?
There are potion bottles just barely within reach and not much else. She could break the glass on the table, then fall. It would have to be fast — he'd startle at the sound — and the glass would likely mangle her hand, but it'd be worth it. Better a hand than a neck.
She concentrates on his breathing, trying to see if he's really as asleep as he seems. Dim candlelight plays across his form like a wavering pulse.
Could she do it?
She looks up into the dark of the rafters. A cloud must have moved, because now she can see a handful of stars. Pinpricks of white in an expanse of hungry black.
She takes a deep breath.
Maybe. Maybe she could do it.
But would it work? That's less clear, and, arguably, the more important question.
He'd likely wake. At the sound. At her fall. At the shocking jagged glass biting through his neck. If it even makes it to his throat, to one of the two very particular arteries she'd have to hit. Her reaction time has never been equal to Harry's — who knows what it would be like now?
And assuming everything went according to plan, what then? She still needs potions. Potions to keep her alive. Potions she can't provide for herself.
But... do long-term needs really matter?
She could always find his wand after. Could find her wand after.
Could call for help. A patronus sent to Hogwarts. To the Ministry. To Dumbledore. To anyone.
She knows the wands are nearby. Perhaps even stashed in the bundled fabric he's cradling so close.
She could snatch back her wand. Could regain control.
Adrenaline pumps through her with every successive thought. A plan works its way into her system, pieces stitched together in bright red thread.
Each second she's closer to it. Each second is another chance he'll wake up.
It's high risk, yes, but higher reward. She could do this.
Her right hand connects with cool glass before she fully realizes it. The lip of the bottle feels smooth and hard, like it was made for her hand.
She can do this.
Hermione inches back inelegantly, scooting along the cot, breath held. She grasps the bottle securely, and when she reaches the right spot on the mattress, she raises it high above her head. Her knuckles are white. Her right arm shakes.
She only has one shot at this. It has to count.
She takes a deep breath, playing it through her mind in an endless second.
She exhales. She swings.
The potion bottle clangs against the bedside table, skidding against it at an odd angle, careening out of her hand. It hits the floor, and far from shattering like she expects, it bounces. Once. Twice. Like a clattering bouncy ball, it clinks its way to the corner of the shack, impossibly loud.
Tom moves from asleep to awake in an instant. He jumps to his feet, crouching low. A wild, intent expression plays across his face.
A wand is out, extended in his hand. It came from just where she'd imagined it would: the fabric underneath his head.
That same head turns quickly in the direction of the still-spinning glass bottle, seemingly tracking it by sound only, trying to find it in the dark. The cot creaks under her, and his head jerks, then re-corrects. He appears frantic. Nightblind.
Something inside Hermione's chest fractures.
Magic. It had been magic. The bottle spelled against breaking, as most potion vials are.
Tom's wand flicks out ever-so-slightly, though it seems like the harshest of movements. A bright white Lumos floods the room.
Hermione flinches at the blinding flash. At her immense desperation and incredible stupidity.
She squints, watching Tom cross to the corner of the room, his steps protracted and rigid and broken, cased in a fury that sparks across his skin.
He bends down. Picks the bottle up.
"Drop something, Hermione?"
.
.
She wants to shrink back, but there is nowhere to go.
She should have prepared something. In case he'd woken up.
She hadn't.
And here she is. The risk instead of the reward.
"I had a nightmare," Hermione says tremulously — and with surprising conviction.
"Oh?"
"I was running, and I was scared, and it - it flew."
He's looking at her, chest moving heavily, bottle held tightly in his hand, like the enchantment really is the only thing keeping it from shattering. The Lumos flares, pulsing in time with each ragged breath. He believes none of it.
"Flew from magic?" he asks.
"No," she says immediately. "Yes," she says a second later. She closes her eyes. "I don't know. I didn't mean to wake you."
"I bet you didn't."
She has to give him something. Something he wants.
What choice does she have? He knows, doesn't he?
His mind is like hers, she fears, only faster.
"I didn't," she says. "In my dream, it was him - Antonin - the man who cursed me. I thought he was here. I thought he was coming. I didn't know what I was doing, I only did."
Tom's breathing slows, his stiff dueling position relaxes. "And the bottle?"
"A beer bottle. At a shop. I was going to smash it."
"Effective," Tom says. Disdain drips off every syllable.
"I woke up at the sound, too," she continues, "but it was already flying. And then it was bouncing. And then - you were up."
Tom frowns. His Lumos dims to a reasonable level, that of a torch instead of a high beam, and the difference is incredible; she can make out his disheveled hair and locked jaw and cruel, clever eyes. So much to take in, so much she has missed.
"I really didn't mean to wake you up. It's just - he was there. Dark hair and pale skin. And he could talk this time, and his wand just slashed, and there was purple flame, again, and I couldn't do anything to stop it, again, and -" she bites her tongue, feeling actually frantic, borderline frenzied. She's seen the fire enough. Then and since. It's like she's telling the truth, because in a way, she is.
Her eyes are wide and pleading when they meet his.
He exhales and lowers his wand.
"It's okay, Hermione. Calm down." Tom crosses over to her and places the bottle back on the table. "You don't have to say anything else tonight, alright?"
She nods, a slow tucking of her chin.
Tom pats her right hand. Crouches down.
Her heart is a rock in her throat, and his lips hover over the delicate shell of her ear, full and warm and far too close. "Good," he whispers, voice low and intent, "because you're a terrible liar."
He moves swiftly, so fast she can barely register it, his arm swinging out in a stunning sideways arc, catching each and every potion bottle on the table. A dozen glass vials fly out. Crash and clang against all four corners of the room.
There is not a sound — not a movement — in this room except for the rolling vials. The cacophony of glass that just won't break.
She can't ever remember being this still.
"Goodnight, Hermione," Tom says.
A beat passes, where she remembers to breathe. Tom sits down, then disappears from view. Lying back, presumably to sleep.
She can't move. Unblinking, inert, she stares straight up. The stars peek out. Wink at her from behind a cloud.
"Goodnight, Tom," she whispers back, and she hates him. She hates him so, so much.
.
.
The next morning, she expects it to be like nothing had happened. And in a way, it is.
The sun is already out. Tom is already up. A single brewed potion sits, ready and waiting for her on the now-cleared bedside table.
But as she glances at the table, that's where all of the previous similarities start to combine and contort, fracturing like a broken carnival mirror.
The single potion. Expectant. Waiting. Red-colored and familiar.
Blood-Replenishing Potion, she'd have said. Just like all the times before.
But really, it could be poison for all she knows. Bloodroot or worse. And she'd have just swallowed it, no questions asked.
"Potion for you," Tom calls out, as if he can tell she's up, can read her mind.
Hermione picks up the stoppered bottle, her hand tightening around it. The heft of it triggers something in her from last night.
"What's this?"
He barely glances at her, distracted, his attention pulled between her and the bubbling cauldron in front of him. "What's what?"
"This," she says, shaking the potion in her hand.
Tom looks up, then looks thoroughly unimpressed. Almost sneers. "That is Blood Replenisher, Hermione, like it's always been. Would you like me to describe its properties?" He pauses meaningfully. "It replenishes blood."
She ignores the insult. Ignores his tone. Feels a fire in her, kindling, and doesn't feel inclined to put it out. "How do I know that it is?"
Tom doesn't blink. "Because I say that it is," he says evenly. "Because you've had it before."
"And what's to say this one isn't different? What's to say you're telling me the truth?"
"Hermione," Tom says lowly, his tone a clear warning.
Her eyes flash. "I said, and what's to say this one isn't different, Tom?"
"Hermione," Tom repeats, and his voice is tense, words strained. "You know very well that I will not let you die."
She knows? She knows?
The fire in her bursts forth in a wild, splintering lurch.
"I know nothing!" Hermione yells. "I know nothing at all! I don't know why I'm here, and I don't know why you're helping me, and I certainly don't know what's in this potion!"
She hefts the bottle up and lobs it across the room. Flings it straight at his murderous, lying face.
Tom ducks, but the soaring glass doesn't even make it half the distance to him, its arc a pitiful and abbreviated swoop. It thuds on the earthen floor and rolls, hitting the worktable's legs with a slight crack.
Tom rises very slowly. Mouth taut and eyes blazing, he glares at her. "Are you quite done?"
"Go to hell."
The bottle spins on the ground.
Neither of them look away.
She doesn't care if this will be a Pyrrhic victory. If her crops burn, if her body suffers. She's waging war, and she's more than ready to salt the earth.
Tom summons the still-spinning potion bottle with a backwards flick of his wrist, eyes never leaving her own. Five quick strides, and he's across the room. He deposits the bottle roughly, pointedly, on the table. "Drink this. Now."
Hermione snarls at him, flinging out her own hand. The bottle topples over, as if pushed, and rolls off of the table.
Tom doesn't turn to watch it fall. He just holds out a hand, and the bottle pauses, hovering in mid-air.
Sweat beads on her forehead. Her hand shakes.
Salt the earth. She will salt the earth.
"You won't be able to keep this up."
"And you won't be able to make me drink it."
"You're wrong." Tom's fingers twitch, and the bottle soars into his hand. "But fine," he says, and stuffs the bottle in his pocket. "I'll make another one. And this time, you can watch each miserable step. Satisfied?"
Satisfied?
Of course she's not satisfied. She's fuming.
The forest-fire anger in her doesn't trust him, wants to hurt him. Needs to keep blazing, keep consuming. There is no such thing as satisfied. Only hunger. Anger. More.
Hermione blinks at him. She pauses.
Unsteady and unsure, feeling like he's pulling one over on her, she narrows her eyes. "Will I be able to see everything? Your hands, the ingredients, and the cauldron?"
"Yes," Tom answers, voice clipped.
"How?"
"I'll find a way."
They're both frowning. They're both staring.
"Alright," Hermione concedes, and a tension breaks.
Compromise. Between the two of them. How unlikely.
Then, half a second later, the tension snaps back into place as Tom pulls a short, blunt wand out of his left pocket. With more pointed emotion than is likely necessary, he makes a familiar but abbreviated gesture, a stunted swish and a swift flick, and suddenly the cot floats up and into the air, following behind him like it's on a leash. Like it's a magic carpet, and she's a stowaway, along for the ride.
She's levitating.
Flying.
Moving through a portion of the room she last visited when she was crawling, near the work table he pulled over from the wall. It's different.
She doesn't know how to feel about it. About any of it. Has never much liked flying, but isn't sure if this counts. How upset she should be.
Before she's able to work herself up into a panic, Tom gestures again with the wand, and her cot settles down smoothly, gingerly, four legs touching the ground all at once.
The linen sheet is taut, bunched between her fingers. She relaxes her unintentional claw-like grip and exhales.
Really, it hadn't been so bad. She hadn't felt so much as a bump.
And now she's here, in his portion of the prison cell.
She wants to look at everything she hasn't been able to see up until now, and can only now just make out — the magically deepened cabinets, the piles of potions ingredients, the colors — but she makes sure to stay focused on Tom. At least for the moment.
After all, he's so close to the knives.
She's not sure why it bothers her this much when he could slice her with his wand, could maim her with a single flick of his wrist, but it does. The longer she thinks about it, the more her skin crawls.
"I'm not doing this for free," Tom says, as a disclaimer. "This will cost you."
It's like he's kicked over a doused campfire. Underneath, an ember burns, waiting.
Something in her wants this, is more than ready for a fight.
"Your payment is my cooperation," Hermione grinds out, stiffening.
Tom looks — frustrated, yes, but more so exasperated. Long-suffering and tired.
"You are aware I don't require your cooperation, correct?"
Hermione glowers. "But here we are."
"Yes," he sighs — actually sighs, "here we are." He picks up a knife.
And, no -
This is not something she's okay with. Not this close, where she can make out the beauty mark under his chin, the now-smooth skin of his cheek, the white-bright glint of cold steel. Not like this, from flat on her back.
Hermione makes an effort to sit up, left arm behind her, pushing against the mattress for leverage, right arm gently resting across her abdomen, like a pregnant woman might cradle her stomach.
The steel knife drops. It clatters on the wooden surface, and Tom reaches out to her from across the worktable like a frantic mother hen. He moves forward but accidentally clips the table with his hip. Has to move around it. By the time he reaches her, arms still extended, she's practically at a ninety-degree angle.
"Hermione, don't -" he starts, arm coming down toward her shoulder. She bats his hand away.
"I'm fine, see?" she tells him brusquely.
And she is. She's up.
Tom backs away but seems untrusting. Uncomfortable. "For now," he says, and Hermione ignores him.
She bends down and manages to pull her feet up into a rough approximation of crossed legs. She's practically singing. She almost wants to smile.
Everything is sore. Everything is stiff. Everything hurts.
But she did it. She's up.
She's not sure how long it will last, but for now, it's a triumph. The biggest victory she's had in days.
She's sitting up. It's an entire world of difference. Of perspective. Of movement.
Before she can think much more, her hand moves behind her head, under her oily, matted halo of dark curls. The river of thick, tangled hair sweeps up, away from her sweaty neck, to pile high on top of her head.
The relief is immediate. A rush of air so sweet and soothing that she practically sighs. Might have, actually.
Her other hand comes up to her neck and rubs across the long line of it. Her skin is dirty. Raw and grimy.
"If I may?"
Oh. Right. Tom.
It's not a question.
He's holding a knife loosely. Frowning, looking at her strangely.
She lets go of her hair, and the brown curls fall, a too-warm and heavy weight. Keeping her face carefully blank, she braces herself on the mattress, fingers digging into the sheets.
This is where she is.
This time, there's no paralyzing, echoing dissonance at the reminder. She's ready.
"By all means," she says, nodding at Tom. "I'm watching."
.
.
A/N: Welp, here we are. Alive, for the most part. (For now.)
For those of y'all itching for Hermione to be well again, I hear you, and I agree. This shit ain't easily fixed, though, so buckle up. We're in for a time.
Beta love to cocoartist. Not much gets by her. If you did happen to catch something, it's 100% caused by me fidgeting with word choice and flow after she gave me the go ahead. I wish I wasn't like this, but what can you do.
Interested in your thoughts, as always, lovely lurkers, so don't be shy. I'm flying out to Seattle tomorrow and am a bit behind, but review replies are coming soon, I promise. Also, re: Seattle, I have researched zero [0] things to do beyond my initial camping trip because I am a certified Mess. Hit me up with recs, touristy and non, and I will love you even more than I already do.
Xoxo. Til next time!
