A/N: Revised - 23/03/2020.
AWF
Hem has never been fond of going to King's Cross Station. Her family attributes it to the fact that it's too much for her mind; all the colour that intensifies and the life that feels misplaced. Bouts of accidental magic during her episodes have conditioned them to find alternative modes of transport whenever they can, despite the varying inconveniences.
(Sorry. Sorry. So much trouble because of her and her inability to be a normal child.)
They're not entirely wrong, she supposes. It is generally too much for her to process properly. They just aren't aware of the fact that she expects ̶ (that she needs) ̶ a King's Cross Station that is a pure, painful white with no signs of life except for a boy with a jagged soul and a girl who doesn't know how to exist.
Somehow, to be witness to its polar opposite feels blasphemous. (It's wrong, it's wrong, it's wrong.) To Hem, it's as though her sanctuary has been desecrated by the liveliness of humanity, curious as that is. The sounds she can't quite make out ringing in her ears; the mix of scents that she can't identify paving way to an oncoming headache; the constant state of motion as people move to and fro to reach their destinations, causing her vision to blur.
No. She's not very fond of it at all, so her family herds her as quickly as possible to the supposed platform of Nine and Three Quarters.
"Right, so," Hem hears a vaguely familiar voice begin, "I do believe that we're just meant to run straight at the brick wall here and hope that magic lets us through. Quite ingenious, I'll say; what, uh, muggle, would think to do that?"
Glancing around with a well-known haziness in her headspace, Hem automatically takes notice of how the crowd around them seems to unconsciously avoid this particular spot and anything near it. That would make sense. Hermione's mentioned something about spells that would prevent people from noticing things they aren't actively looking for.
"J'espère vraiment que ça va marcher," sighs another, more feminine voice. "All right, Hermione, take my hand. We'll go first."
Hem blinks, turning in time to watch a woman with voluminous curls take the hand of someone younger before running at the brick wall in front of them. Her brain then decides to finally remind her that the two are her mother and sister just as they disappear behind the wall.
An impressed whistle jolts her back to reality, prompting Hem to glance up at the man beside her. "Magic's rather amazing, isn't it, Hem?" he chuckles, smiling down at her as he takes her hand in his own. The slate grey of his eyes ̶ ("You have your father's eyes, Hemera, did you know?") ̶ dim slightly as they both notice that she's been scratching at her wrists again. They tried bandages once.
She accidentally set them on fire and she thinks it's rather strange of her magic to have given her the courtesy of not burning to death.
"C'mon, sweetheart," the man ̶ (dad, Matthias, dad) ̶ coaxes, smile deliberately brightening. "Our turn, hm?"
. . .
. . .
"Veille sur ta petite soeur, d'accord?" Theia imparts to her eldest daughter, a watery smile upon her dark, pretty features. She's hugged both of her daughters numerous times at this point, with Matthias smiling fondly at her antics and acting as though he's not as worried about them as she is. "Don't let anyone bully either of you and make sure that Hemera gets her medicine from the headmaster, yes? Write to us if you need anything."
In response, Hermione nods, resolute despite her own glistening eyes and wobbling lip. "Je le ferai," she promises, grabbing Hem's hand with a firm, steadying grip. She can almost feel the warmth. Almost.
It takes a while before Hem processes that this is supposed to be a big moment between the Grangers. The two sheltered, home-schooled daughters about to go off to a magical boarding school where neither Theia nor Matthias can watch over and spend time with them whenever they're free. Where they can't protect them from all the troubles of the world or of childhood itself.
Hem tries to conjure up some kind of emotion, something other than the ever-present numbness ̶ (and guilt that's seeped into her bones) ̶ that comes with breathing.
She fails, though that doesn't come as a surprise. As a mere passenger tied to a body she can't truly recognise nor fully control, one might say that she's bound for failure. Going to a magical school with magical people ̶ (children, mostly; that doesn't sound great) ̶ that follow a curriculum she can't afford to go through at her own pace will likely only confirm it.
"I suppose it'll be difficult for you to actively pay attention," sighs the memory of Tom. "However, you still manage to learn passively and retain a large amount of information despite your conscious mind stuttering so often. Perhaps you'll need some direction from your sister, but I'm certain that the first-year curriculum would be simple enough for the both of you. And you have me to bother if things become truly strenuous."
Hem flinches when someone gingerly grabs her face, her gaze snapping up to the image of Theia bestowing upon her a fragile smile. (It must be hard to know that her child flinches under her touch.) "Prends soin de toi, my Hemera," she says, brushing Hem's hair out of her face to press a kiss against her forehead.
It tingles. (Is she breathing?) She doesn't like it very much. (Shame froths against her back.)
"Je vais essayer…" a soft, raspy voice whispers. When Theia blinks in surprised delight, Hem realises that the voice belongs to her and that she's fairly sure she's just lied to her mother's face. After all, when has she ever tried to be anything other than a disappointment?
So, while her family smiles and wipes away stray tears, she remains blank-faced and lost to the world. Does it count if all she's trying to do is not drown?
. . .
. . .
The compartments are surprisingly spacious, something that Hermione remarks upon and theorises as to whether the train has a charm that increases the size of interior spaces implemented. Hem is still trying to blink away the mental imprint that the vivid red of the exterior has left. Her mind likes to play with her perception of reality too much.
"I'm going to go find a prefect and ask how long it'll take to get to Hogwarts, all right, Hem?" Hermione squeezes her hand ̶ (a strange sensation of dull pressure) ̶ and maintains eye contact until Hem slowly nods in understanding. Satisfied, she gives a prim nod in return and assures her that she won't be too long before whipping around and leaving the compartment like a whirlwind.
Hem soon finds herself sitting by the window, her legs already dragged to her chest and secured by her arms. It's a default position; one that someone at Hogwarts will presumably try to condition out of her. Teachers probably won't like it if her feet are on the seats.
Idly, she wonders if Tom has boarded the train to Hogwarts in his life. A small part of her wants to nap, to maybe meet with him during a rare moment where the sun is in the sky. But she knows that he wouldn't be there, guarded as he is to ever fall asleep in a precarious position.
"I won't see you when I go," someone ̶ (her, right?) ̶ stated, the words ringing true despite the miniscule possibility of it being otherwise. "Have you ever wondered if we're in separate but parallel realities? Or that we're perhaps only figments of the other's imagination?"
Maybe it's fate that ties them together. He wouldn't like that, though. Too whimsical for his tastes.
(No, they won't see each other. But it'd be nice, wouldn't it?)
She remembers Tom's penetrating gaze searching for something again. He was conflicted with something internal when he murmured, "I'm still researching." His grip on her hair tightened, perhaps enough to hurt. "But you're real, Hem. Just as I am. Never forget that you are real."
Who was he trying to convince? Her? Him? Maybe both. He wouldn't like to entertain the possibility of the girl in his dreams being nothing more than a phantom his mind had conjured up. Hem doesn't think that she'd like to, either.
"Do you ̶ " a voice starts, then abruptly cuts off, prompting a violent pull from her wandering thoughts. "Do you, uh, mind if I sit here? The other compartments are starting to become quite full and I'd, ah, much rather less people than more."
Hem squints, clearing her vision as she scours her surroundings only to find a thin boy standing awkwardly by the compartment door. She stares, despite wanting to look away, the startling green of his irises beginning to set her retinas aflame. But she blinks until the illuminate hue begins to fade into something a little less surreal.
Rubbing her eyes with one hand, she catches her other hand gesture to the opposite seat without her permission, much to his visible relief. His shoulders sag and he breathes out a sigh, throwing her a grateful smile before he moves to sit in the place she's directed him towards.
Hermione's not likely to mind his presence, but it can't be said for certain that he wouldn't mind either of the Granger siblings in turn. Neither one of them is very good at socialising since one is said to speak too much and the other too little. According to their relatives, at least. Theia and Matthias have never been appreciative of the redundant remarks.
"Thank you," he says, blinking at her from behind round-rimmed glasses and seeming rather out of place. She's probably the same, curled up in a corner as she is like she's attempting to hide away from the world at large. It wouldn't be much of a stretch.
After a few moments ̶ (minutes?) ̶ of silence, Hem becomes aware that he's become increasingly uncomfortable and she realises that he said something to her. She attempts to voice a reply, but her mind goes against her ̶ (typical) ̶ and the silence continues. When he seems to shift and fidget, she registers the fact that she's also been staring at him for an indeterminable amount of time in complete silence.
They're going to hate her, Hem reaffirms to herself. They're going to dislike her because they won't be able to understand that she can rarely speak of her own accord and that her mind is made of mud. She'll unnerve them and they won't be as nice as her family because she'll be little more than a perplexing stranger in their eyes.
(She can't find it in herself to care. Even though she knows that it'll bother Hermione, protective as she is.)
Hem finds her attention directed towards the window after a moment, unsure of when she turned her attention away from the boy who's surely questioning his decision to sit with her. But then, out of nowhere, he exclaims, "Um, hey! Stop that!" and her wrists are seized.
Startled, she tries to swallow the panic that bursts forth ̶ (kick it away, push it! Make it stop!) ̶ because it'd be bad if she were to hurt him, wouldn't it? The train hasn't even moved yet and she's on the verge of kneeing someone in the chest and setting them on fire.
(No screaming, no sound aside from static. Like watching a television show, Hem watched as the man bled.
"He shouldn't have startled you like that," Tom hissed. When?)
"Sorry…" Hem hears herself rasp ̶ (she thinks) ̶ eyes stuck to green that shifts in brightness ̶ (is it jade? Emerald? Forest green?) ̶ and in emotions. Unguarded, she thinks, bemusement and concern ̶ (that's strange, why does he care?) ̶ swirling and mixing. Tom's eyes aren't like that.
He blinks, gaze sliding from her face to her lips ̶ (she picks at the skin with her teeth until it's raw) ̶ then to her neck ̶ (she scratches until she bleeds and she can't feel any of it) ̶ then finally to the length of her arm. (His touch makes her skin buzz. Weird. Are his palms calloused?) The tension in his shoulders dissipates, his grip on her apparently loosening as he examines her arm with a mild frown of profound sadness that she can't comprehend.
Too many self-inflicted scars, maybe. Too many. Tom's eyes darken ̶ (they're already so dark, it's impressive) ̶ every time he glances at them. He never says anything, though. Sometimes, she wonders why. What does it remind him of? What scars does he have under his clothes?
"No," whispers the bespectacled boy, one of his thumbs caressing one of her many scabs while his eyes sweep over the clusters of marks and scars on her wrists. "I'm… I should be the one who's sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." His hands slide, almost absent-mindedly, from her wrists to her hands as he says, "I can, uh… I can go if you want me to."
Hem unexpectedly exhales, something dull prodding at her chest as her breath seems to have been stolen. He's not supposed to understand.
(But he does. Not entirely, not wholly, but it's there, regardless.)
Unbidden, her hands move to actively reciprocate his touch and then they're holding hands. It's strange, she realises, but she might be able to call it nice. Calming. It reminds her of ethereal stations and handsome boys that smile too sharply.
When he raises his head to meet her eyes through unruly bangs, she shakes her head. The smile he gives her is soft, genuine and utterly blinding.
"Then I'll stay."
. . .
. . .
When the boy's belated realisation of their unanticipated display of intimacy finally comes into play and he hastily pulls away from her, Hem thinks she might feel some kind of amusement. It bubbles underneath the surface, trying to force its way through her glass interior and mostly failing. But she knows it's there.
He's red all over as he stutters out, "I'm, well, my name's, ah, Harry. Harry Potter." He tries to give her a sheepish smile, but it's more like a grimace and he runs his hands through his black mess of hair as he endeavours to regain his composure. "Do you… Well, I mean, I can show you my scar." A wince as he seems to rapidly process how peculiar that might sound. "Y-you know, since I've seen yours and all. It, um, only seems… right?"
He's trying, Hem thinks. Social interaction also doesn't seem to be his forte, either, but he's trying. It's curiously endearing. Is this what it's like to try?
So, she gives him a sluggish nod and smothers the speck in her chest that she suspects might be hope.
There's plenty of time for her world to fall apart again, after all.
AWF
A/N: Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.