A/N: Revised - 8/05/2020.
AWF
For a while, it doesn't seem to hurt. All she currently feels is the slightest niggle of something foreign invading the mud in her body while her gaze is stuck to the ominous, blazing red that's intently focused on her in turn.
A wry, mangled gleam appears as his lips curve into a derisive smirk before she hears, "Of course… It would take longer for you to feel its effects." It's a deceptively calm sentence, laced with irrational hate and strangled affection. "But don't worry, Hemera, you'll experience it properly before long. Care to tell me what I wish to know before then?"
Hem's eyelids begin to droop. The foreign feeling is wading through the fog, the mire and the sea; building and building into something foul and malicious. Her head. Her jaw. Her hand. He's hurt her and he's going to hurt her more. (But even now, her brain doesn't care. Even as a something dark hides away and hisses, it's not enough.)
She wonders if Tom is still in their shared space, pacing and aggressively running his hands through his hair as he attempts to understand what's happened. Or if he's also woken up, unable to stay due to the harsh nature of her sudden departure.
(Walnut-brown eyes. Porcelain skin. Sable-black hair. Tom. His many masks and his many emotions.)
Her chest feels hollow, for some reason. (Doesn't it always feel hollow?) It feels like everything else is being pulled in, acting like a black hole and leaving her with nothing. (Why does she feel like that?) When she stares at the stranger ̶ (acquaintance?) ̶ with the purple turban ̶ (it's really undermining his intimidation factor) ̶ it feels as though the hole in her chest grows bigger. (Has she lost something?)
Her body is starting to tingle, random warm spots bubbling up within her flesh.
"I've always hated your silence," Not-Tom ̶ (Voldemort? How is she supposed to remember that?) ̶ hisses, wand still pointed at her chest. "The mentally decrepit little girl without a voice or purpose… Pathetic. How pathetic I was to be so attached to you."
(Vol. Vollie. Dem. Demmi. Mor. Mort. Morty. A dead sea? Not-Tom wouldn't like it. It'd be too ill-fitting in regards to his own supposed majesty.
She thinks it suits him just fine.)
Hem feels her body twitch involuntarily. "You're… attached to the… turban man," she breathes out, the words once again making themselves verbal without her permission. (The bitterness builds as the pain does. She should probably stop antagonising him.) But she doesn't disparage the dissonance within her. Not now. Not when his eyes ̶ (not walnut brown; ruby) ̶ flare with outrage. "Without a body… of your own…"
(Tom would be offended to know that Morty thinks of him as pathetic. Morty's lost his body, after all. That seems sadder than a boy who cares for someone.)
An inhuman screech escapes him, then, and he appears to put more force in his wand-pointing ̶ (how does one point harder?) ̶ as a result. "When I rip the truth from your flimsy, pitiful mind, Hemera, I promise that I will take my time killing you with the very body you've hidden from me!"
(She only has one body, last she remembers. Unless she has another one somewhere?)
The sudden, agonising ̶ (she's never felt the need to use the word; isn't that odd?) ̶ ripple through her body prevents her from replying.
. . .
. . .
"Oh, what a handsome boy!" Theia praises, peering at the sketches with surprised delight. That's the word. "Matthias! Come, look. Our youngest is such a talented artist."
Hem lowers her gaze to the sketch in her lap. A boy stares up at her, eyes shaded in but it doesn't fit. All sharp lines and yet it's still soft. (Somehow.) He scowls at her with a mix of suspicion and curiosity ̶ (where did she learn those words?) ̶ unsure of what to make of her. To her left, a sketch shows him sitting on a bench, staring into the distance with a peculiar intensity.
All around her. Papers filled with a boy named Tom in a station that isn't supposed to be white. (Is it?)
"Very nice, if a little aggressive," compliments Matthias as he appears beside the lady. (His wife.) His gaze slides over to her, kind and pleased. "Does he have a name? I hope you're not going off to visit boys, Hem. I'm not sure I'm ready to let anyone near either of my beautiful daughters."
She blinks.
Tom. His name is Tom.
But the answer doesn't come out. Her answers hardly ever come out. They don't want to. Everyone else makes it seem easy. So why is it so hard? (It's just her. Just her and the silence.)
"I'm Tom. Who are you?"
(Who is she?)
. . .
. . .
Her throat feels strange, Hem notices. (Is she sweating?) Her ears are filled with static again, and her vision is a pure, blinding white. When she inhales, coughs wrack through her body ̶ (smoke?) ̶ and there's a numb realisation that her body is shaking erratically.
"Hem!" someone yells, sounding muffled and far away. (Who's Hem? Her? She's Hem, right?) They sound concerned. Terrified. They cough. (Or is that another person?) She flinches as something ̶ (someone?) ̶ collapses by her side and begins to touch her as if checking for something. (Injuries? She's injured, right? Or is it in her head?)
A shaky exhale. "Hem," they murmur, shaken up by something. "Hem, it's me. It's Harry. Are you all right?"
(Harry? Who is that?)
"Get away from her, Potter," another voice growls. They're further away. (And winded? Pained?) An object thuds against the floor. (Multiple objects? Rubble?) "I'll deal with you once she's given me what I need."
Hem closes her eyes, willing the white to fade away as Harry ̶ (her friend, Harry; the boy with green eyes and a kind smile) ̶ protectively clutches onto her. "What do you want from Hem?!" he demands, voice cracking with his heightened emotions. "What did you do to her?!"
Another hiss. (It something burning?) More objects clattering to the floor. "Get away from her, you filth! She's mine to do with as I please!"
Harry tries to move her, but her body seems to reject the attempt and he reluctantly listens. "She's not an object, you barmy weirdo! What do you even ̶ Wait. Are… Are you the one who's been trying to kill her?"
"And you, dear boy," returns the other person. (Morty?) "But it would seem that Quirrell is as incompetent as the trolls he communicates with… No matter. Give her to me, Harry Potter, and I will offer you the chance to save your own life." A considering pause, then. "Join me, and you won't meet the same fate as your parents."
The arms around her tighten and her flesh ̶ (everything, really) ̶ twinges in a fair amount of discomfort. "Never," Harry declares, the vibration of his resolution transferring to her. (Is she leaning on him?) "As if I would ever join Voldemort! He killed my parents! And you tried to kill me and Hem!"
"Ah… But don't you see, Harry? I am Lord Voldemort…"
Hem tries to listen, but their voices begin to muffle and fade until only silence remains.
. . .
. . .
"How did you know, Harry?" a feminine voice queries. (Hermione? Who's that?) Their voice shakes, as though they're on the verge of tears. "How did you know where they were? It was in some abandoned classroom that would've taken you ages to find. Not to say that I'm not thankful that you did, but… Well, it just seems so implausible."
Fabric quietly shuffles. "I… I don't know," replies a slightly more masculine voice. (Harry?) "It was like… I was dreaming about it, you know? Like I was seeing through Voldemort or Quirrell's eyes and I… I could see him torturing Hem ̶ " They break off in a gasp before taking a moment to calm down in order to continue. "And then I woke up and just… ran. I guess it was because I know the Slytherin common room is in the dungeons that I ran straight there, but it was actually a miracle that I was nearby when she pretty much blew up the classroom. Quirrell was blown across the room, practically buried in the wall with his face half-burnt off. I think we were lucky that she managed to destroy his wand because he looked rabid."
"I soddin' told ya!" hisses another feminine voice. (Sally-Anne?) There's the sound of someone being slapped and a responding hiss of annoyance. "Merlin, fine. Lowerin' my voice. I soddin' told ya!" It's not that much quieter. "I knew it was Quirrell, the rat bastard creep ̶ Shut up, Ron, let me gloat! But, of course, I obviously didn't account for his Voldiness to be stuck on the back of his head. No wonder he was such a nutter." A frustrated groan escapes them. (Her?) "I'm still pissed off that he just essentially waltzed into our dorm and kidnapped her!" They snap their fingers. "Just like that!"
"Why did he even want her, anyway?" questions another slightly masculine voice. "Wasn't he after the Stone? Hem wouldn't have known how to get past the other defences."
Harry ̶ (maybe) ̶ makes a strange sound of incomprehension. "He thought that she knew something, I think, but I'm not sure what. Not that she'd be able to tell him, anyway." A sigh escapes him. "I didn't get the chance to ask before he, you know, tried to murder me with his bare hands. Didn't seem too keen on me touching her, for some reason."
"Ew," utters Sally-Anne. (Probably. It sounds like her. Right?) "That sounds like he was jealous ̶ Oh, Merlin's balls! You don't think he had a weird obsession for her, do you? Oh, it makes so much sense but it's so grotty! I mean, Hemera's pretty and all ̶ in a wild, exotic sort of way ̶ but she's eleven. I don't know how old he was, but definitely too old for her! It's a good thing he's dead, huh?"
"Miss Perks! You are disturbing my patients! That's it, you've had your fifteen minutes; out!"
The other masculine voice groans, "Ugh. Way to go, Sally-Anne."
"Well, shite, my bad," Sally-Anne snarks as feet shuffle about. "Let me just keep my composure as I process the fact that two of my friends ̶ one a lot more important than the other; sorry, Harry ̶ were nearly murdered in the dead of the night! Anyway, bye, Harry. Tell Hemera that we came to visit her when she wakes up, yeah?"
"We might see you at dinner in the Great Hall," murmurs Hermione ̶ (probably) ̶ as footsteps echo. "Or in the kitchens. If Hem goes with you, you'll take her to the kitchens, won't you?"
A sound of confirmation. "Sure, Hermione. I'll come by the Great Hall first if we do, though. But I think Madam Pomfrey wants to keep her here for a while. I'm not as badly injured as she is so I'll probably be discharged first."
. . .
. . .
Hem tilts her head as she takes in the pile of sweets on the table between her and Harry's respective hospital beds. The colours all blur together into one, forcing her to rub her eyes so that the surreal image will go away. When it eventually does, she finds that she's holding a glass of fruit fool in her lap.
"Fred and George apparently put that in a Stasis Charm for you," Harry informs her, sitting up as she grabs a spoon. When she glances at him, he gives her a lopsided but friendly smile. (Hem feels empty. Emptier than before. She has so little left in her. It's horrible.) "The whole school knows that we faced off against Quirrell. Not about Voldemort, though. Well, they do, but no one really believes that he was sticking out the back of Quirrell's head. I'd be the same if I didn't see it myself."
Staring down into her fruit fool, Hem watches as it gradually disappears. (Is she eating it? Why can't she taste it?)
"Hem?" She raises her head to look at Harry. His expression is one of concern and sheepishness. "I… Do you know why he was after you? He seemed to think that you knew something. Was it about the Stone or…?"
"Where is Lord Voldemort's body hidden, Miss Granger?"
The empty glass in her hands shatters. Harry jumps, startled, while Hem tries to feel something from the shards that have pierced her skin. (Nothing.) She clenches her fists ̶ (to what? Ensure that the shard embed themselves further?) ̶ and watches as red blooms from the wounds.
(Red like the ruby eyes. Red. Red. Red. If she could hate someone, would she hate him? Does she already? Is it there, only hidden away, blocked by glass? But where would she hide it?)
"He was mistaken," a cold, hollow voice murmurs. She finds wide, green eyes staring at her with troubled bemusement. "Thank you for coming to find me, Harry."
Harry lifts the sheets, then, shuffling to the edge of the bed until he's standing. Walking towards her with some amount of caution ̶ (as though she'll lash out if he moves too quickly, which is likely) ̶ he reaches for her clenched fists, fingers brushing against the back of her hands in an apparent attempt to coax her fingers open. Hem isn't sure how long he stands there, waiting for her fists to unclench to assess the damage. But eventually, she exposes her palms to him.
There's a mild pull of confusion when she notices that his eyes are all watery. "I'm sorry," he whispers, beginning to gently pull the larger pieces out of her bloodied palms. "I'm sorry I couldn't get to you quicker, Hem. I'm sorry you had to go through all of this."
(Ever the hero, isn't he? Tom would scoff at it.)
She wants to say something. That she forgives him; that there's nothing to apologise for. She's sorry that he was and still is worried about her. (No one can leave her alone before something happens to her, can it?)
But the nurse appears, then, horrified to see what a mess Hem has made of herself, so she says nothing.
AWF
A/N: Some events have been moved for the first year due to variables, so it's not the end of the year yet. Also, Voldemort is now Morty because Hem is low-key and unknowingly a snarky bitch.
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