A/N: Revised - 28/04/2020. Also, fair warning of creep vibes.
AWF
Hem seldom feels pain to the point that it overwhelms her. Her pain receptors don't work as well as they should ̶ (or is it just her brain that doesn't work?) ̶ so the sensation of being hurt is only distinctly unpleasant because her mind tells her that it's probably supposed to. Sometimes, she'll feel whatever's hurt throb ̶ (sting, ache) ̶ somewhat, but in the end, it doesn't affect her as much as it would others.
However, there's something fundamentally different about the blistering pain that's erupted within Hem's chest and leaking towards the rest of her body. (It hurts. Why does it hurt?) It feels like it's deeper than it should be ̶ (but how did she get injured there?) ̶ and it's as if something inside her is being pulled in two different directions.
(How does that work?)
At some point ̶ (how long has it been?) ̶ it begins to subside, the dull mire of her senses slowly wrapping themselves around it until it's numbed enough for her to notice other sensations prickling her body. Parts of her seem to be aching, like she's been lying on something hard and cold for too long. It's a better sensation than whatever made her feel like some unknown force was tearing at her soul.
"Finally," chuckles a tired, masculine voice. (Is it echoing?) She gradually pries her eyes open, only to be greeted with relative darkness save for a dim light in her peripheral. Then something shifts in the black. "You're awake."
The world around her gradually becomes brighter, prompting Hem to blink a few times in rapid succession before she manages to make out the shapes of candles. A figure is standing to her left, blocking off some of the light and becoming somewhat of a silhouette. It's a strange shape since the head looks rather disproportionate. (Who is it?)
Sitting up, Hem feels herself frown as a section of her head aches. (A migraine? Or just a headache?)
"I must say, Miss Granger," the voice starts, sounding louder as the figure stalks closer to her. Glancing around, she realises that she's been lying on a desk ̶ (how did she get here?) ̶ before her attention is grabbed by the clearer image of the person in front of her. "All these attempts to rid the world of you, and yet… In the end, it's you who we need."
The first thing she registers is a turban ̶ (it's a turban, no? Does she know someone that wears a turban?) ̶ but the second is the strange expression of the man wearing it. His eyes are dark enough that she can't make out the colour, and the ill-looking pallor of his skin only seems to add to the acute, disturbed fashion that he's staring at her with. (Was he always this close?)
He soon reaches out, her skin beginning to tingle ̶ (it's odd and she doesn't think she likes it very much) ̶ as his hand cups one of her cheeks. Hem makes an attempt to move away from the touch ̶ (she probably shouldn't let weird men touch her) ̶ but then another hand has her other cheek, forcing her to keep still.
"Where is Lord Voldemort's body hidden, Miss Granger?" asks the stranger, whose irises now seem to glow with a reddish hue. (Are red eyes common among wizards and witches?) She blinks, but the image doesn't go away. "Or should I call you Hemera? Hem, perhaps? I think that, after all we've been through, I can call you Hem, yes? Miss Granger only reminds me of your sister."
(Who is he?)
The man smiles to himself ̶ (or at her?) ̶ looking strangely delirious as he does. He brings her closer to the edge of the desk where he's standing, practically dragging her by her face and only stopping when her hands and knees are pressed against his chest. (When did they get there?)
"Do I make you uncomfortable, Hem?" he murmurs in an apparently rhetorical question, his tone of voice almost affectionate as he addresses her. (But why? How does he know her?) "I hope not. I've only attempted to kill you three times, you know. It could've been much worse, but…" He elicits a shaky exhale, his breath fanning her face and making her skin itch as her hair tickles her face. "I've been busy, see? Trying to find a way past the defences to the Philosopher's Stone; trying to find the body that my master has hidden here in the castle. Of course, I was also trying to kill your friend, Harry Potter."
He tucks her hair behind her ears, one hand moving to stay by her neck while the other grasps her chin and lifts it up so that's she's facing him better. "You don't recognise me, do you, Hem?" His smile becomes oddly fond, then, as though her spotty memory is something that he's well aware of and thinks of as endearing. "Well, that's all right. I know how you are."
(Does he?)
Hem blinks, temporarily breaking eye contact to glance at her hands. (Staring makes her head hurt more.) She can't feel it, but her fingers are clutching to the fabric of his robes and ̶
"Look at me!" the man abruptly shouts, causing her to jolt in alarm as he roughly forces her to meet his eyes again. The red hue has darkened ̶ (and yet it's dazzling in its brightness) ̶ with fury and madness and whatever else that she can't identify immediately. (They're moving too quickly.) A snarl contorts his face as he looms over her and orders, "Don't look away from me, Hem."
It's different to Tom, she thinks. Tom's an adolescent boy, even if he's tall for his age. He cares for her, despite it all, and he doesn't possess an intense, irreversible insanity that oozes off his very form. Tom might not be the most well-adjusted of people, but he's not mentally unhinged like whoever this is. (Just damaged. Like everyone else in the world.)
She should be more scared about this, she's aware, because this man is a stranger and he's dangerous to her. He's tried to kill her multiple times, if what he says is true. But her mind has never really comprehended fear all that well aside from blind panic caused by a fight-or-flight response. (Or is she mistaken?)
"I'm Quirrell," chuckles the man, scowl forcefully gone and replaced by a manic cheer. "Quirinus Quirrell. Your Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, remember?" Something begins to caress her neck. (It feels like a thumb?) "Don't you see me looking at you, Hem?" he queries, leaning forward even more so that she can see the anger that morphs his face again. "Don't you ever see me?!" His grip on her noticeably tightens and there's a vague feeling of things digging into her skin. (Nails?)
"Don't you see me wishing that you'd come to talk with me; that I'd be the only one who would hear your voice?" And then his face becomes despaired ̶ (the erratic, insane emotions are starting to make her eyes sting and her ears ring) ̶ the expression so genuine that she can only frown with bewilderment. "You have no idea, do you?" he whispers. "That he's inside my head, constantly thinking about how I'm supposed to retrieve his body and the Stone; about killing Harry Potter the Chosen One and you. It always comes back to you, you see?" The desperation returns, a pleading edge to it as he stares at her unblinkingly. "Because you should know where it is, shouldn't you? About where his body's hidden? Please, Hem, I need to know. Please, I won't try to kill you anymore, I promise."
Hem stares at him, uncomprehending. (What body? Who's in his head? Why does he want to talk to her? What body? Whose? Why?)
"I…" a rough whisper starts, and she watches as his face lights up with dangerously unstable joy. "I don't ̶ "
And then it promptly disappears. "Don't lie to me!" he hisses, violently shaking her for a moment ̶ (it makes the ache in her head pulsate with displeasure) ̶ before he stops with a vice grip. Hem shuts her eyes in order to mitigate the abrupt motion. (Her ears are ringing as static fills her head.) "You have to know where it is, Hem! He said that you would! I can't get past those blasted defences aside from the bloody dog! I can't even get to my own defence because the other professors' are in the way! This is the only other option!"
The words, "What body?" force themselves out of her mouth before she can swallow them. (Why would she know about a body? Whose body?)
It seems to be a bad idea when something swiftly smacks her in the jaw.
. . .
. . .
" ̶ m sorry, Hem, I'm sorry, I apologise, please," mutters a voice ̶ (Quirrell?) ̶ as she struggles to remember what's happening. (Has she ever felt so terrible?) Someone's hugging her ̶ (they're squeezing her) ̶ as they seem to rock back and forth. "I shouldn't have done it, I know. I lost my temper. We're wasting time when you're unconscious. But you shouldn't have lied to me. He's angry, too, you see? If you won't do it for me, do it for him. You care about him, don't you?"
(Who?)
"Do it for Lord Voldemort," Quirrell continues. She's not sure if he knows whether she's even conscious or not. (Did he knock her out?) "He only wanted you dead because you make him feel things that he doesn't want, don't you get it? You know this. You've always known this."
Hem feels herself frown. Who's Lord Voldemort? (That's a horrible name.) She doesn't know anyone ̶ (or does she? There's a prickle of something in her head, but it's not connecting) ̶ that has such a specific opinion of her. (Yes, she does.)
"Tom?" rasps a small voice. It seems to echo in her ears.
Quirrell stills immediately. She's uncertain how long it is before he's suddenly in her line of sight, with his sickly face and ruby eyes. (It clashes with the purple turban thing and it's making her eyes water.) His visage is somewhat blurred, but she tries to clear it by blinking. It doesn't work much.
But she notices something about his expression. It's crazed, but it's intent while a sharp gaze stares into her soul and keenly searches for something. (Tom searches for things in her eyes. But his eyes are walnut brown.)
Hem watches as her hand reaches out, and he's so very still. So statuesque ̶ (Tom does that) ̶ until her fingers brush against his jawline and his eyes are aflame. "I was weak," he declares, his tone eerily calm while his arms trap her body and his eyes trap her soul. (It's not Tom. Tom's prettier. Younger. The boy in the white King's Cross Station that she only sees in her dreams.) "When I went by Tom Marvolo Riddle, I let you become a weakness to me." And then he's silent for a while, glowering at her with dark, heated emotions that make his eyes seem molten.
How strange it is, to be so hated by someone. It's obvious that he wants her dead. (But he wants something else, too, doesn't he?)
Then, finally, he continues with, "When you disappeared from my dreams and left me with nightmares without a word, I realised just how much." He tilts his head, leaning into her touch, and there's a desperate sort of longing in his glare before it's violently smothered away. "In the end, I managed to rid myself of my weaknesses; of any reminder of them. Then here you appear to me, in your filthy mudblood form, daring to remind me of the weak little boy that I used to be."
She can't understand what he's on about. (It's all so very dramatic, isn't it?) "You're no longer Tom?" Hem whispers in question as she stares at a face that would never have originated from the boy in her dreams. (Tom doesn't actually think muggle-borns are inferior. They're magical, after all. But muggles aren't.)
He smiles at her, all jagged and cruel edges sharpened by instability. (Insanity probably does that to people. Has he blinked yet? Has she?) "No, Hemera," Quirrell ̶ (not Quirrell? Not Tom?) ̶ murmurs. "I haven't been Tom for a long time."
(It's not Tom. But it is? Another version? How?)
"You're real?" Hem breathes, her ears ringing as her sluggish mind tries to process. (How long has she been drowning?)
"But you're real, Hem; just as I am. Never forget that you are real."
(She doesn't feel like she is.)
"Oh, yes," Not-Tom confirms with a conflictingly amiable tone, the mad glint blazing once more in his eyes and smile. "Very real." Grabbing her outstretched hand, he begins to squeeze it. She can only feel a vague throb before her body automatically tries to pull away. (He's crushing her hand, she realises.) But he doesn't release his grip. He barely budges. "Tell me, Hemera… Will you finally reveal where my body is if I were to put you under the Cruciatus Curse?"
"I'm curious if the Cruciatus Curse would actually do anything to a person with dulled pain receptors," Sally-Anne remarked to Hermione. "Not that I'd actually bother to see for myself; I'd much rather just punch someone in the face than watch them writhe about. That seems really boring, honestly."
"That's… an interesting theory," Hermione replied with an uncertain smile. "I'm not sure. Maybe it would just take a little longer before the victim feels anything? You know we're supposed to be revising about something completely different, don't you?"
Hem feels as though something within her is coiling up ̶ (it's salty and bitter and acidic; it's trying to burn through the mud) ̶ as she mutters, "Voldemort is a dreadful name, Tom."
But it fits, she supposes. This Tom seems like a dreadful version.
(Do they live in the same reality, after all?)
AWF
A/N: Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.