A/N: Revised - 27/05/2020.
AWF
At one point, they're smiling ̶ (shaky, fragile things that don't fool anyone) ̶ and going about their days as if nothing has changed. (But so much has changed. Hasn't it?) Then they're glancing at her from the corners of their eyes or whispering to her that they're around if she needs them to be; that they'll listen to her if she needs to talk about anything. (About her trauma? Is she traumatised?) Back and forth, they flitter between the two.
Hem doesn't like it very much. (She doesn't like it at all.)
The potions Kenelm and Severus ̶ (Professor Snape? Severus Snape?) ̶ have concocted together seem to help in keeping her grounded, at least. Even when cutlery or dishes clatter unexpectedly and her family ̶ (the word should have more meaning to her) ̶ whip their heads towards her with wary concern. They never know if things like that will trigger an episode or some kind of explosive, reflexive reaction.
(She wishes they didn't have to worry about little details like that.)
"So, it should be fine to take just one every week?" Matthias queries from across the table, examining one of the potion bottles with curious awe. The glass bottles are small and simple, but unlikely to break if she or someone else were to drop them.
Kenelm made a point about this, she thinks. "I dealt with idiots dropping and ruining potions for years before I realised that I might as well make it hard for them to casually destroy items of importance. One of the best investments of my life, truly."
Fiddling with the pair of Baoding balls that the caustic ̶ (but notably gentle when he wants to be) ̶ healer gifted her at the end of the term, Hem gives a vague nod of confirmation. They make somewhat pleasant, chime-like sounds as she rolls them in her hands. Apparently, they can be made with different materials like jade or marble, but Kenelm said something about the sound of steel in particular being an additional soothing trigger for her.
"Steel Baoding balls are typically heavier and shinier, but I've made some specific modifications with you in mind. I wouldn't want you to neglect using them because they induce a negative response when they're supposed to do the opposite. Do make sure to keep them on you, all right? I'll be rather proud if you manage to make some progress towards replacing your scratching habits with them by the time I'm able to check up on you. Although, there's no rush if you don't."
Matthias gently places the bottle in his hands back on the table before giving her a kind, almost apologetic smile that she doesn't quite understand. (Why? What does he have to apologise for?) But instead of opening his mouth to perhaps explain said smile, he opts to remain silent, seemingly content to listen to the chime-like sounds that fill the silence between them. (Or is she the only one that can hear it? Kenelm might've said something about them being bewitched so only she could hear them.)
Deciding that she doesn't want to keep eye contact, Hem lowers her gaze to the small objects in her hands. If she thinks about it, she might be able to feel the cold, smooth texture of them before they fade from her senses. (She's not imagining it, is she? It's something, right?) So, she focuses on it, attempting to bring the sensation back so she doesn't have to look into his eyes.
But after a period of time ̶ (how long?) ̶ someone eventually inquires, "Will you tell me how it's been helping you, Hem?" which breaks the calm, almost meditative silence. (It seems like it'd be easy for her to go into some kind of trance.) With a conscious blink, Hem raises her head to meet slate-grey eyes. (They're too soft. Aren't they meant to be cold? Or was that someone else?) "The potions and all the other little trinkets that Sir Kenelm has given you, I mean." He ̶ (who?) ̶ sends her a gentle, encouraging smile. "He's sent a letter detailing the specifics of what they're meant to do, but I'd like to know what you think about them since they're meant to be helping you in particular. If you can, of course."
Hem absently notices the chiming sound stutter before it corrects itself while she tries to voice a response.
The potions do what her muggle medication was supposed to do, only with more effectiveness even with less intake. It works. Even when colours are too bright or she moves too fast or there's a sound that's too loud; it works. (What is she supposed to say?) The Baoding balls keep her hands occupied if she's not doing something else with them, and they're meant to reduce the stress that she can't feel. So far, they seem to be providing some sort of benefit, even if she's not all that aware of it.
(What is she supposed to say?)
"They're helping," is what she gradually settles upon. It's inadequate, but it's all she can do. (Should she be trying harder? Can she?)
The man ̶ (Matthias. Dad. That doesn't sound right) ̶ gives her a complicated, but strangely loving ̶ (why? Why does she deserve that?) ̶ smile in response. "There's that, at least," he softly replies, more to himself than to her as he leans back in his seat.
For some reason, that only makes her feel as though she's disappointed him.
(That's nothing new, though, is it?)
. . .
. . .
Birthdays are a rather quiet affair among the Grangers. (It's her fault.) Even though they usually like to celebrate special occasions with an exuberance that she can't truly comprehend, birthdays are different because Hem has never been much of a grateful recipient to all the fanfare.
It took her years ̶ (did it?) ̶ to finally voice her gratitude ̶ (which is always false) ̶ to her family while they watched her open presents she couldn't appreciate. She remembers them crying even as they smiled and hugged her with enthusiasm, so pleased to finally be blessed with words that're easy for almost any other child to say. (It should be easy. But it's not.)
"Oh, je vous en prie," chanted the woman she was supposed to recognise as her mother. "You're always welcome."
Hem thinks that her twelfth birthday might be the worst ̶ (she's ungrateful and apathetic and she's sorry she's like this) ̶ because the household is wrought with more palpable anxiety than previous years. They fret about as they try to maintain some kind of normality and they grasp for some sort of comforting atmosphere that's meant to calm her instead of upset her.
It, of course, doesn't work all that well.
But it's not their fault that they're unaware of the entire concept of celebrating her birth ̶ (what is there to celebrate?) ̶ bothering her on some level. (Why would they know when she's never told them?) They don't know that it troubles her to know that her existence has dampened an annual event that her sister should have been experiencing to the fullest.
She's always disliked how Hermione has always insisted on a quiet birthday of her own because she doesn't want it to seem like she's getting a grander celebration. But Hermione deserves a birthday with a giant, elaborate cake and lots of candles that she can blow out ̶ (magic made the flames grow once) ̶ while their parents sing that horrid birthday song to her. (Tom's never heard it before, has he?) She deserves to be pampered with presents that're covered in bright, eccentric wrappings and to shriek in excitement upon finding out what they are.
Instead, like Hem's birthday, it's typically simple and restrained. (It'd be easier if they just didn't do anything.) However, as it is, now, Hermione won't even get to spend the day with Theia and Matthias because her birthday is during the school term and Hem won't remember to congratulate her for being alive for another year.
(She's a terrible sister. A terrible friend. A terrible daughter. But no one blames her when they should.)
"Do you have a birthday wish, Hemera?" Theia queries as they all sit around the table, watching Hem while she stares at the modest sponge cake that's littered with soft-hued, edible decorations. It looks like it was neat and orderly in design ̶ (Theia and Hermione?) ̶ until someone ̶ (Matthias, maybe) ̶ basically threw random bits and pieces into it with childish abandon.
The sight seems to trigger something within her chest as a sharp pain begins to poke at her insides and she whispers, "No."
(She wishes they'd stop caring about her so they can be happy.)
. . .
. . .
"Happy birthday, Hem," Tom drawls, peering down at her with a sardonic smirk. He's as much a fan of birthdays as she is, although with a few differing reasons between them as to why. "But more importantly, happy eighth anniversary for inexplicably attaching yourself to my dreams."
That, unsurprisingly, is more genuine. (Is it unsurprising?)
"I think it goes both ways, Tom," Hem replies as she glances at the lock of hair he's curling around his fingers. He's made the decision to face her as he sits, with one elbow propped on the backrest of the bench. She faces him as well, although her legs are still tucked to her chest. She can't imagine laying them out over his lap.
Tom's gaze shifts slightly at her words, and if he were any less of a refined being, he'd likely roll his eyes. Then, rather abruptly, his expression sobers up and he's soon bestowing upon her a rather serious, if contemplative stare that makes her blink at him in confusion.
It feels like a significant amount of time passes in silence before he eventually lowers his gaze to the bit of hair he's been playing with. "Perhaps it does," he finally returns, lifting the curls closer to his face and examining them with a peculiar intensity; as though the unruly curls might hold all the answers to his questions.
"Tom?"
He blinks, evidently broken out of his musings. Hem tilts her head up as their eyes meet once more, that acute glint of his softening as a curious, muted affection appears. For some reason. "I was thinking that there could be a specific correlation between us that allows us to see each other as we do," he informs her, dropping the lock in his hand to take another by her neck. His gaze is focused on her chest ̶ (or her knees, who knows?) ̶ for a moment before he blinks and continues with, "What that might be, however, is still a mystery. If I can figure it out, then perhaps it will be easier for me to narrow down my search for any entries that may enlighten us."
"And if it's not in the library or the Restricted Section?" She's fairly sure that he's already scoured a good portion of the latter with little success. Then again, the library as a whole is quite monumental, so he can only have gone through so many books. Unless it's different to hers. (But they're from the same reality. Aren't they? How does it all work?)
Tom elicits a small sigh. "Well, then, I'll have to just expand my search area if that turns out to be the case. We have time, at the least, so long as you do me the favour of remaining alive and functional." His lips quirk upwards when she gives him a bland blink in response. "Yes, I'm aware that it's quite difficult to be a functional human being, but I have nominal faith in your abilities." The lip quirk turns into a saccharine smile that might blind another person at such a close range.
She merely replies with a muttered, "Yay," because his smidgen of faith will surely help on her journey to optimal functionality.
His fingers give a minute twitch, which is a possible indication that he's about to say something acerbic. The notion only increases in likelihood when his smile somehow brightens even more. It's almost off-putting. "Indeed," he agrees with too much pleasantry. "Yay. Why don't you tell me all about how wonderful your twelfth birthday must have gone, hm? I'm certain it went magnificently, what with your fretful family members hovering around you all day while they attempt to maintain a modicum of calm."
It's Hem's turn to elicit a soft sigh, then. She's not sure if she should tell him about Theia's seemingly abrupt decision to sit her daughters down and talk about what to expect now that they're young ladies.
In the end, she does, and Tom gives her an indecipherable stare that stays until she leaves for the night.
AWF
A/N: Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.