A/N: Revised - 21/05/2020.
AWF
The well-kempt man ̶ (is it Kenelm?) ̶ bestows upon her a firm stare ̶ (it's not as aggressive as Tom's usual stares) ̶ that she's unable to look away from as he declares, "It's in your head, Hemera." When she blinks with incomprehension ̶ (there're a lot of things in her head, most of which are unpleasant) ̶ he continues with, "I'm referring to your inability to feel the sensations of touch, smell and taste in any sort of capacity. It may be your mind's misguided attempt at protecting you from further negative stimuli, but we'll have to stop that since I'm quite aware of the distress it's causing you."
Hem tilts her head. Is she distressed? (Yes, probably. She's rarely aware of anything that pertains to her hidden emotions.)
Kenelm ̶ (the man with the shiny hair, right?) ̶ elicits a sigh, his eyes suddenly ablaze as he straightens and leans back in his seat. "I'm afraid I'll be busy over the summer holidays, so I'll likely be unable to personally check on your progress. Those bastards at the Ministry are being careless idiots again ̶ although, when are they not? ̶ because they're shaken up about Voldemort ̶ "
"Morty."
He blinks in mild surprise, prompting her to do the same in return. (Maybe. Sally-Anne's the one who tends to interpret her blinks with startling accuracy.) The corners of his mouth twitch upwards, a single brow raised as he slowly repeats, "Morty?"
After a few seconds ̶ (just a few? Or was it longer?) ̶ of silence, Hem finally realises that she's the one who interrupted him.
"Morty," she whispers. (Forcing it out is distinctly uncomfortable.) The sound of her voice makes her feel odd. (It feels wrong.) "I don't like Voldemort." Because it's a rubbish name that Tom ̶ (what version, though?) ̶ probably came up with via an equally rubbish method. (Is it supposed to mean something along the lines of stealing from death? Was that a conscious choice?) But Hem knows he doesn't like his name. He's never liked his name because there are too many Toms in the world.
"Thometheus is a name. I think."
"You think I still want to be referred to as Tom?" he responded with a frown of distaste. "Even if it's a nickname?"
She ̶ (it was her, yes?) ̶ replied with, "To me, you're always going to be Tom." She's horrible with names, after all. "You know that."
An indelicate snort escapes Kenelm, his eyes lightening with mirth. It's a mocking sort, though, so his eyes are still rather dark. "Very well. Severus always does his little twitch of annoyance whenever I refer to the cur by name," he reveals with a sharp, anticipatory smile. (Who's Severus?) "He'll be pleased to learn that I have opted to use a highly regal nickname for the benefit of my patient. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. the Ministry is filled with detritus and incompetence and I have to go deal with the fallout."
(He's the only one that matters. To her, at least. Granted, she only knows one Tom.
Does Morty count if they're somehow the same person?)
. . .
. . .
Hem's marks are average, apparently. (She can't remember how things are marked.) It doesn't seem so bad, seeing as she's managed to pass at all when it was more likely of her to fail. She wouldn't have cared, either way, but her family would most likely be disappointed. (When are they not? Some part of them must always be disappointed with her.)
Ron and Harry have also passed ̶ (with better marks than her, which is unsurprising; they're both smart in their respective ways) ̶ with Hermione and Sally-Anne tying for the top marks of their year. The latter is pleasantly surprised while the former appears to have some mixed feelings on the matter. Hermione's always been rather competitive when it comes to academics. Still, they congratulate one another on their shared achievement.
"I wasn't expecting it, to be honest," Sally-Anne admits as they make their way to the Hogwarts Express. (Is that the name of the train?) "Well, I was expecting to be in the top five, at least, but I was mostly just making sure Hemera wasn't falling too far behind." With a shrug, she continues, "It's all worked out, I suppose. You should've seen the look on Malfoy's face when he learned that a muggle-born and a blood traitor beat him."
Ron scowls at the mention of Draco. He doesn't seem to be quite over the whole ordeal where Hem was essentially told she was better off dead. (Wait, how does he know?) Then again, Fred and George don't appear to be, either. It might be safe to say that Draco won't be safe until he's gotten off the train at King's Cross Station.
"This calls for drastic measures," Fred announced, apparently too riled up to even pretend to be playful. His smile wasn't very friendly.
George, who was equally solemn, nodded. "No one says that to our beloved Troll Slayer."
"Excuse you," interjected Sally-Anne. "She's my Troll Slayer. I claimed her first, after all, so I demand to be involved in these events of retribution for the honour of my best friend. Or is demand too strong of a word? Perhaps I strongly recommend that you allow me to be involved for fear of bodily harm done to your persons."
Fred and George grinned, their usual cheer seeming to have returned. Albeit, in a slightly sharper form. "Territorial, aren't you?" Fred remarked. "But, you know, so are we. We don't just collaborate with just anyone."
"She's a Perks, brother mine," George said with a theatrical sigh, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We're going to have to include her or we might not get out alive. Her brothers ̶ and that one sister? ̶ have set a deadly precedent, according to ours."
"Of course, you'll get out alive," retorted the Perks present. "I wouldn't deprive Hemera of two willing guardians, after all. And I don't want to deal with the trouble of hiding evidence for homicide. It's terribly inconvenient."
They laughed. "That's reassuring," George quipped, his tone good-natured despite the thinly veiled threat.
"You're a gem, Perks," added Fred. "All right, you win. It'll be a pleasure doing business with you, I'm sure. We'll admit that you do know your fellow snake better than us."
It's all rather dramatic, in her opinion, but she supposes that being told such a thing would have a harmful impact on her mental health if said mental health wasn't already compromised. As it is, she couldn't care less while her friends probably couldn't care more. (If only she could feel grateful for it.)
Hem blinks, then, thrown out of her thoughts as she hears Harry say, "I didn't think that we were going to win the House Cup, but I guess winning the Quidditch Cup gave us enough points to win. I'll have to ask Wood how many House points you get after winning the Quidditch Cup next year."
She must've missed parts of the conversation. (Not that they'd be all that interesting. Has she ever considered something interesting?)
"It was quite close, wasn't it?" Hermione murmurs with a thoughtful hum. "Everyone was worried that Dumbledore was going to award surprise House points to Slytherin at the feast when he stood up. I suppose they didn't know that Hem already received points for being brave during the… During the Professor Quirrell incidents earlier."
(Hem doesn't know how to be brave and she doesn't think they should mistake apathy for it.)
Sally-Anne chuckles from Hem's left. "As if Dumbledore would do that for us. For Gryffindor, though, I bet he'd come up with something to award House points to you if Slytherin won," she theorises, flicking one of her plaits over her shoulder. "You can't deny that he's biased."
As the conversation turns to Professor Snape ̶ (who's that? Severus?) ̶ and his obvious bias for his own House, Hem doesn't mind as their voices begin to turn into white noise.
. . .
. . .
"Promise you'll write to me?" Sally-Anne asks after giving Hem a hug. (It's in her head, Kenelm said. She'll be able to feel soon. Probably.) When she merely blinks in response, Sally-Anne turns to Hermione. "Promise you'll make her write to me when I write to the both of you? I don't want to have to resort to anything unsavoury. Not right away, anyway."
Hermione smiles and nods. Two adults ̶ (Theia and Matthias? Her parents, no?) ̶ are standing behind her and conversing with a woman surrounded by children with matching red hair. (Ron, Fred and George's mum? The intense saturation is too much for Hem.)
"You'll write to Harry and Ron, too, won't you?" Hermione queries with an inquiring tilt of her head. Her expression becomes uncertain as she glances in the direction of where Harry's disappeared with his relatives. (They were afraid of him.) "Harry said that he'd have fun messing around with his cousin, but I think he'd appreciate having us write to him."
Sally-Anne scoffs. "Of course! I might even spice things up a little by making my brothers kidnap him for a bit. You never know. Maybe Cornel can stab Harry's muggle relatives with that unicorn horn of his. Someone's going to have to buy him a new one, I think. All the blood is starting to make it look unseemly ̶ the Scouring Charm can only do so much over time ̶ and he hates it when it doesn't sparkle while he's being a barmy menace." She somehow manages to sniff delicately before, "It won't be from me, though. Twenty-one galleons spent on him is a bad investment."
"So, you do have friends!" interrupts a remarkably deep voice. The three of them turn to find a tall, blond man ̶ (young adult?) ̶ smirking down at them with a strangely familiar glint in his brown eyes. He looks a little roguish, his clothes fashionably casual and likely to blend in with both muggles and wizards. "And here I thought you were all joking. You're not blackmailing them, are you?"
Another scoff escapes Hem's friend. (Best friend? What's the difference?) "I am perfectly capable of attaining friends through legitimate means, thank you very much," Sally-Anne retorts, raising her head to look down her nose at him. Then, turning to Hem and Hermione, she gestures to the man and says, "Hermione, Hemera, this is one of my inferior brothers. This one's called Lincoln. He doesn't live with us anymore, but he always finds time to bother us, anyway." Lincoln gives his sister a fond, lopsided smile while she's not looking. "Link, meet my best friend, Hemera, and my close friend, Hermione. Aren't they cute? Hemera's the one with the smashing art."
"It really wasn't a commission that she tried to play off as being a gift from her friend?" he questions, turning to Hem. She wonders why Sally-Anne's family seems to be so surprised by her having friends. Or maybe it's an inside joke among the Perks. (She's unsure if the Grangers have inside jokes.) "Well, it'd be awfully sad, I suppose, and Sal's never one for being sad. In any case," Lincoln makes of a show of bowing to them, "it's a pleasure to meet the both of you. I hope my sister's not a burden to you. I know she can be quite a handful, making others do things for her and all. My other siblings indulge her too much."
Said sister simply waves her hand in dismissal while Hermione giggles and replies, "Oh, no. She's wonderful. It's nice to have someone that can follow my babblings, and she's always looking out for Hem, so I can't complain."
"Hermione? Hemera? C'est l'heure de rentrer," calls a feminine voice. (Theia?)
"I suppose that's our cue to leave as well," says Lincoln as he gestures for Sally-Anne to come to him, which she does after hugging Hem and Hermione one more time. "It was a pleasure meeting the two of you lovely ladies." His gaze seems to linger on Hem for a moment, as though assessing her, before giving her a peculiar smile and turning away.
Sally-Anne cheerily waves at them and bids them farewell, "Bye! See you whenever, write to you soon," as she turns to follow her brother. "Hey! Stop walking so fast with those egregiously long legs of yours! Where's your consideration for a lady, arsehole?"
Hermione shakes her head with reluctant amusement at Sally-Anne's antics before grabbing Hem's hand and pulling her along to their parents. "They seem close," she murmurs, an odd tone laced within.
Hem wonders if her sister wishes they could be just as close. (It's hard to do that with someone who's surrounded by glass, she knows.)
AWF
A/N: Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.