A/N: Revised - 27/04/2020.
AWF
Hem's mind has been foggier than usual. It's unsurprising that it's taken her so long to notice ̶ (the dots either connect after a short delay or they get lost in the haze of her mind) ̶ but now that she's aware, it sets something within her on edge.
(Is she going to asphyxiate again? Drown? No. It feels like something else that she can't identify.)
It's like an ever-present sensation that won't go away ̶ (something's wrong, but isn't everything always wrong?) ̶ mixed in with the mire and making her all jittery. She might be scratching herself more, but she's not sure. The wounds on her arms and neck are always numerous ̶ (scratch away all the scabs until they inevitably become scars) ̶ so it's hard to tell what's different.
"Hemera! Focus on me," a stranger ̶ (or is it someone she knows? Does she really know anyone?) ̶ calls, pushing through the fogged up glass. But it's faint. Muffled. "Focus on my voice, Hemera. Merlin, am I impressed with your survival ability if this is a frequent occurrence." A snap of something ̶ (fingers?) ̶ echoes in her mindscape. "Come back to the ground, Hemera. It's rude to float away while I'm having tea with you."
(Who is Hemera?)
A blink. Then another. Gradually ̶ (it feels like a while, but who knows?) ̶ the white snow in her eyes melts somewhat, allowing her to spot a glaring hue of gunmetal blue. Then a shiny ebony. (Hair?) Light olive. (Skin tone?) Her mind stutters, but it eventually realises that she's looking at the semblance of a person. (A man? Does she know him?)
"That's it, you're doing well."
(What does she do well at? What is she doing well at? Where is she?)
Then, as if pushing her way through some kind of mist, Hem's vision clears ̶ (the colours are simultaneously dazzling and dull) ̶ and the ringing she isn't fully aware of slowly fades out. She feels heavy, as though her body will refuse to move even on autopilot.
"Hello, Hemera," the man ̶ (Kenelm... Kenelm who?) ̶ greets with a strange smile ̶ (a sad smile, maybe; it doesn't suit him) ̶ while she realises that his face is closer than she expects. Like he's kneeling in front of her. Something's different about her angle. (Is she lying on her side?) A hand gently pushes away the hair that's always ̶ (always?) ̶ situated between her eyes. Her body shivers. It's a peculiar sensation when people touch her face, but she can't really describe it.
The hand soon leaves her face. "Welcome back. I suppose it's to be expected that weaning you off of lamotrigine would have some side-effects, but I'm certain that can't be the only reason why you're dipping." His strange smile sharpens, but she can't tell if he's amused or annoyed. Maybe both? "Severus says that you've sent three different students to the Hospital Wing within the past two weeks or so, the latest one having occurred only yesterday. Do you remember?"
That doesn't sound familiar. (Or does it?)
Kenelm does something ̶ (a spell?) ̶ that begins to make her body feel both warm and cool. She's not sure how to process it, but it seems nice. Relaxing, almost.
"According to your friend, Sally-Anne, you have quite the mastery over the Shield Charm." His voice sounds distorted for a moment, as though she's listening from underwater. "As such, she tells me that you don't typically react to relatively trivial jinxes, hexes or curses that make contact with your shields because they tend to bounce off or dissipate entirely. Not unless they're aimed within your line of sight, as the light from the spells is a particular trigger for you." He raises a brow at her, possibly to have her do something to confirm it. She only manages a slow blink. "Now, two of them seemed to have made the unfortunate mistake of doing just that, but the third one…" His expression turns cold.
"What the bloody shite, mate! Who sends the Blastin' Curse at a First-Year?! That coulda killed her, ya right fuckin' bastard! Merlin's tit, Hemera, are you all right?"
"I ̶ I didn't know, I swear! I was told it was just a curse that pushes people over!" Red. Lots of red. Ruby. Garnet. Wine. A horrible, pained sob. Buzzing in her ears and electricity in her veins. "Please! I didn't know! Just ̶ Just take me to the Hospital Wing, please! Please ̶ "
Hem closes her eyes. (Who told them? Why?)
Someone ̶ (Kenelm?) ̶ sighs. "Well, aren't you just a frustrating child of mystery?" he murmurs, a hand tucking her hair behind her ears. "But I'll admit that you're managing to worm your way into my decrepit heart." Fabric shifts and rustles. "This is why I seldom work with children."
. . .
. . .
"Severus," greets someone as a door opens. Hem tries to open her eyes. Her eyelids decide they'd rather not listen. "Has the boy told you anything?"
"It would seem that he can't quite remember who requested that he assault Miss Granger with the Blasting Curse." The door closes. Soft, barely audible footfalls. "I have concluded that his memory has been tampered with."
Paper shuffles. "You're still suspicious of Quirrell? Well. I can't deny that the man is deeply perturbed. If he's working for the Dark Lord, I can understand Harry Potter as a target. But Hemera? Even with all her idiosyncrasies, it shouldn't warrant such vehement assassination attempts. It's personal."
"Indeed," drawls the other voice. "I have yet to figure out Miss Granger's significance. I'd have thought it to be the revelation of her blood status subsequent to her placement in Slytherin, but I admit I consider the theory rather... lacklustre. His attempts on her life should not warrant equal of even greater fervency than the ones on the Boy Who Lived."
A sharp, wry chuckle escapes the other. "Ignoring the fact that you consider most things lacklustre, it seems to be one mystery after another. I see why you and Albus have been so cautious of her."
. . .
. . .
A large portion of the school has learned of the incident Hem can't quite remember. (Is she sleeping properly? How long has it been since she's seen Tom?) Lots of differing rumours circulating, but the one Hem is aware of is the one where she purposefully attacked the boy so viciously for no reason other than she's a sadistic snake. Or perhaps that she's finally snapped from all the threats on her life.
"It was self-defence!" Hermione roars ̶ (or screeches; her voice does become rather shrill at times) ̶ startling the nearby students that're whispering as they pass. They're not being very subtle, are they? "You hear that? Self-defence! She wouldn't have reacted that way if the prat hadn't snuck up on her and tried to blast her into pieces! How dare you insinuate otherwise?" With her wand drawn, Hermione looks ready to start throwing some hexes herself, which makes the other students scurry off in a hurry. She also makes a point of ignoring the one who says that it might just be a violent muggle-born tendency. "Twats."
Sally-Anne nods in approval as she leads the way to the abandoned classroom that's now called the Chimaera Den. ("Head and body of a lion; the tail of a snake. If we make it particularly Hogwarts-like, it can have eagle wings and another head in the form of a badger!" Sally-Anne theatrically declares.) The boys are already waiting for them there. "They always do have to find a way to vilify Slytherin, don't they? But whatever, I just think I've had enough experiences of witnessing Hemera's shields shatter and watching as she retaliates in a blind, automatic panic. As great as drama is, my best friend in genuine distress isn't fun."
Hermione sends Sally-Anne an immensely thankful but equally apologetic look. "It must be horrifying," she remarks, squeezing Hem's hand before lowering her head in apparent thought. After a moment, she adds, "But I'm… I admit that I'm glad you're always with her, at least. Even if you can't help immediately, you pull her back to reality… Oh, I don't know what I'd do in any of those situations. Sometimes, I ̶ " Hermione blinks sharply, and they all stop with the realisation that she's trying to blink back tears. "I feel so horrible, Hem," she admits in a whisper. "Every time you're in danger, I can't help you because I'm too far away or ignorant. And what kind of big sister can't protect her little sister when it counts?"
(Stop it. Please. Please.) It's not Hermione's fault that someone is determined to kill Hem. No one really expected her to be that much of a target during her first year at Hogwarts. (She brings misery wherever she goes, doesn't she?) Perhaps by Draco ̶ (who?) ̶ and those like him, most likely, but actual attempts of murder via trolls, iron balls and naïve upperclassmen were very much unanticipated.
"I don't think anyone will blame you for not being omniscient, Hermione," Sally-Anne replies as she reaches over to awkwardly rub her friend's back. "Besides, I think you'd do admirably in protecting Hem if she didn't already have an admittedly shaky and mostly unaware handle on things. Not to mention the fact that she knows so many spells and has been able to keep up ̶ kind of ̶ in class because of you. And, well, also me, but that's self-congratulatory and doesn't seem to fit in a reassuring speech."
Hermione elicits an ambiguous huff before sniffling and wiping her eyes. "Still… I should've, I don't know…" She shuffles in discomfort for a moment before, "I should've done something more to protect Hem after the first time when she was attacked by the troll." Hem blinks as her sister makes direct, teary eye contact. (Hem dislikes it. She dislikes it when people cry for her. When they worry about her. She's not worth it.) "I just wish that you didn't have to go through this, especially during your first year."
Hem can't reply. She wants to say that she knows and that she's sorry, but her mouth won't move and no sound comes out. But eventually, Sally-Anne coaxes them to resume their trek to the Den and the moment to comfort Hermione is over.
(The numb guilt reminds her of its presence; that it's rotting her bones and flesh.) Her friends and family fret over her while she continues to remain impassive about the fact that someone wants her dead.
(Would it be better if she were?)
. . .
. . .
"I feel it, Hem," Harry whispers, almost feverish as he sits in the corner with her and mirrors her by hugging his knees to his chest. The others are in the middle of the room, revising for the upcoming exams, but Harry's forehead hurts and Hem can't concentrate, so they're sitting together and eating sweets. Or Hem is; Harry seems to be too worked up about something to eat.
"My scar's been burning since that night in the Forest, back when I saw Voldemort feeding on a unicorn." A scowl of frustration contorts his face while he lifts his glasses to rub his eyes. "I can't focus on revisions when I know that something wrong is going to happen."
She blinks when he turns his concerned, slightly pained gaze to her. "I think he's after you, too, Hem. I don't know why, but it's obvious that he's trying to kill us both." He was attacked not long ago, she remembers. (How long ago?) But it wasn't as violent as hers, as Hermione had Stunned the offender before they could even say the incantation. (They don't remember, either.) "Just…" He reaches over and intertwines his fingers with hers. "Be careful, all right? Please? "
"I'll try," she whispers ̶ (it's her speaking, right?) ̶ even though it feels like a lie. (It always feels like a lie.)
Harry smiles at her. It's a little stressed around the edges, but it's soft and genuine and her chest prickles ̶ (it hurts) ̶ with something peculiar. "Good," he returns ̶ (Tom?) ̶ before adjusting his glasses atop his nose. "We've been lucky that you haven't been badly injured all the times before, but luck doesn't last forever."
No, Hem thinks. It doesn't.
. . .
. . .
Sometimes, one of them is awakened unexpectedly via an outside source. When that happens, they always feel a strong but not painful tug in their chests before they disappear into the real world. It's a strange, jarring sensation that Hem's never been fond of. Hermione used to try and wake her up when they were younger and Hem would attack her in a blind panic. (But her sister always hugged her; comforted her and told her it was okay because it was just her. Even when she was bleeding and hurt.)
The tug on her chest burns and she elicits a violent gasp at its abrupt arrival. (Pain is weird. It's weird and she doesn't like it ̶ )
"Hem?" Tom queries, cautious concern lacing his voice. The sensation grows stronger, and he seems to feel it, too, for he's abruptly standing in front of her. "Hem! Hem, look at me! What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong!" He grabs her face and tilts her head up in a rough motion.
Her insides are on fire, but she sees the unadulterated fear and the helpless anger through her blurred vision. (He looks more like a child than ever, doesn't he?) "Tom," she gasps. His nails dig into her skin and there's a feral air about him as he tries to keep her here. "Someone's ̶ "
But she doesn't get to finish her sentence.
AWF
A/N: Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.