A/N: Revised - 17/05/2020.

AWF

The moment she hears the rumble of the distant train, Hem finds herself standing; waiting for the figure that will contrast against the white. (Something is aching. Something other than the hole in her chest.) She expects to find him walking with his practised poise ̶ (but he's always walked like that, hasn't he? He's always been abnormally graceful) ̶ as his robes flutter around him.

And, for a moment, he does.

But she sees the way he suddenly stills in the distance, as if unexpectedly petrified. Hem only blinks once to process the immediate lack of movement before she realises that he's suddenly sprinting towards her, almost a blur of black as he does so.

Another uncomprehending blink later and she realises that she's running to meet him halfway.

. . .

. . .

They crash into each other, so abruptly and forcefully that it would've hurt terribly in any other circumstance. (But she can't feel anything in the real world, can she? Morty somehow broke what's already broken.) Here, however, it doesn't.

It's a peculiar sensation when she finds herself swept off her feet ̶ (or did she jump?) ̶ and all her limps wrapped around him like some kind of barmy koala while he swiftly regains his balance lest they both collapse to the floor.

Tom elicits a rough, almost strangled exhale into her neck as he fruitlessly attempts to pull her closer to him. The desperation and relief is clear in his frenzied movements.

She doesn't know if she's holding him back just as tightly and just as desperately. But she hopes he knows that she's relieved to see him, too.

(The ache is fading. But she's still hollow.)

. . .

. . .

At some point, they both find themselves on the ground, still huddled together and trying to find some kind of solace in the numb physical contact. (It doesn't feel like enough. Their mere presence isn't enough to relax them anymore.) One of his hands is predictably entangled in her hair, absently pulling and twisting her curls while the other is flat against her back.

With their foreheads pressed together, Hem brushes her fingers along his jawline while her eyes remain closed. (Open them. There's no ruby red.) His breathes are steady and calm against her face, unlike before ̶ (how much time has passed?) ̶ when it was ragged and harsh.

"Hem," he murmurs. Young. Masculine. No breathy sibilance. No strenuous façade of sanity. "Hem… Look at me."

"Look at me!"

Hem doesn't look. Tom ̶ (the boy from her dreams) ̶ leans back, his hands sliding across her form until they've lightly cupped her cheeks. (His hands are smaller. Smoother. But not completely free of callouses.) She still doesn't look as he gently tilts her head up towards him. (He's being gentle. It's odd.)

"Hem," he repeats, soft and coaxing. (Pleading.) His thumbs caress the skin near her closed eyelids. "Please, look at me."

Her fingers press up against his jaw ̶ (not entirely defined; not a man yet) ̶ and he easily leans into her touch. (He doesn't reject her. He won't crush her hand.) Hem can feel him staring at her with his typical intensity. It's enough to make her skin tingle in a vaguely uncomfortable fashion. (His eyes aren't red. His name is Tom and his body is his own.)

He's not usually so patient, but he waits in silence until she finally listens to his request.

(Why isn't he the one occupying her reality?)

. . .

. . .

They're walnut brown. They belong to a handsome boy with neat hair parted to the side. (It's messier than usual. His waves aren't as sculpted.) There's no irrational hate, unadulterated insanity or manic joy. Tom stares at her, simultaneously conflicted and relieved ̶ (tumultuous emotions bubble beneath the surface, as always) ̶ as she finally opens her eyes to look at him.

(He looks tired. Stressed. Was he worrying about her?)

His lips curve up into a slight, genuine smile that no mask of his can replicate. "Hello, Hem," he greets her, head tilted to the right where one hand remains connected to his face. The other, she places on one of his wrists. (Her thumb caresses his pulse and she reminds herself that she's alive, too.)

"Hi, Tom," she mutters in response, voice hoarse and tired. (She can't remember if she was screaming. Is she even capable of screaming?) Her eyelids are heavy and they lower a fraction while his eyes darken and the corners of his mouth twitch downward in displeasure.

(He doesn't like it when she's hurt. After all, what can he do to help?)

In the ensuing silence, Hem eventually watches as her hands move to his chest, where they then clutch the fabric of his sweater vest. (A Hogwarts student, just like her. But he's not here.) With a sluggish blink, her brain reminds her of the moment she clutched Quirrell's ̶ (it was Quirrell, then, wasn't it?) ̶ robes.

"Fractures in her left hand. Torn muscles in her neck. A heavily bruised jaw and a split lip. Not to mention the mental damage caused via the Cruciatus Curse that was estimated to have lasted for seven or eight consecutive minutes." Kenelm smiled. It was a terrible, threatening expression that Professor Snape was completely unfazed by. "Oh, Severus. Are you up for a duel later? I'm afraid Quirrell's too dead and Voldemort too disembodied and hidden for me to bestow upon them my ire. Worthless leeches that they are."

She blinks when Tom's hands appear over hers, only just realising that they've left her face. He unhooks her grip from his clothes before intertwining their fingers together in a firm grip that's a shade away from being too tight. (Is he restraining himself even though he knows they can't feel pain here?)

Hem knows that he's watching her while she continues to stare at their joint hands. (They belong to an eleven-year-old and a fourteen-year-old. Right?) She knows that he's trying to figure out what's happened to her based on the clues spattered across her body and the ones in her movements. (But she doubts he'll figure out that there's a Tom that isn't Tom in her world. One who's deemed him pathetic.)

"Who hurt you, Hem?" he finally queries ̶ (demands) ̶ and there's barely restrained anger hidden underneath the veneer of calm that he's created. "Who put you under the Cruciatus Curse and why?"

Of course, Hem thinks. The fact that he would be able to identify the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse doesn't surprise her. Neither does it surprise her that she's unbothered by it. (She doubts she could be, anyway.) He's been learning about Dark spells and their uses ever since his first year at Hogwarts.

Hem lifts her head until she meets his perceptive gaze. He's frowning again, the depths of his eyes swirling with the distinctive emotions that arise whenever she's involved. (It hurts him to care about her.) Again, she's reminded of how helpless she makes him feel. (Sorry.) He can only do so much by teaching her spells, after all.

(In his own, peculiar way, he wants to protect her. But he can't, so his only option is to encourage her to survive as he does; to dominate as he does so no one else would even dare to try and hurt her.

It's not really working out.)

"I can't feel anything, Tom," Hem rasps. (Will she tell him who it was? That it was a Tom but Not-Tom who didn't have a body of his own?) "My senses were already dull, but now I can't feel at all. I can't taste or smell anything." (Her nails are filled to the brim with blood and torn skin.) "There was already so little of me to begin with, Tom, and he only took more."

(It's bigger than it was before. That ball of acid and salt and bitterness. Curled in a corner, it grows and she doesn't know what to make of it.)

Tom's eyes glint in a peculiar fashion, then, but she can't analyse it since he releases her hands in order to turn her around. With a bemused blink, she complies and soon finds herself in the new position of being hugged from behind while his chin rests on her head.

Leaning back against him, Hem brings her legs to her knees and begins to fiddle with his robe sleeves. (She feels strange. No one's hugged her like this before.)

The silence returns. For a while, it's almost nice.

. . .

. . .

Later, he breaks it with a quiet, "Is he dead, Hem? The one who tortured and attempted to murder you." His arms around her tighten, but she pays it little mind. (A part of her wonders if her errant curls aren't bothering him.)

It takes a while before she answers, "No." Then she tilts her head in thought and adds, "But I don't think he's alive, either. He lost his body somewhere, apparently."

The small huff of bewildered amusement that escapes him makes her less inclined to tell him about who Morty used to be.

She's too tired to deal with another tirade and he's rather partial to those.

AWF

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