A/N: Revised - 21/07/2020.
AWF
Lately, every time Hem goes to sleep, there's a tight, discomforting sensation in her chest that doesn't go away until she wakes up. (It feels vaguely familiar and it springs forth memories of ruby red eyes.) But Tom's the one who broaches the subject first because he can feel it, too, for some reason.
"It's from your end," he says rather decisively. His voice is calm, but his eyes are dangerously intent and he stares at her with demands that'll go unanswered. "It was from your end last time." His brow twitches upwards even as his eyes darken further. Somehow. "You still haven't told me how and why that man elicited such a reaction."
("Because he's you," she doesn't say. He's Tom but he's not so he's become Morty and she doesn't know how it works.)
She doesn't know why it's happening this time; why it's weaker and less insistent but irritatingly constant. All she can remember is that it started sometime after the trip to Diagon Alley. (Somewhere around that, maybe. Draco's appearance couldn't have caused a change in her. Unless he did something? But that doesn't seem likely.)
"I don't know what it is," Hem replies as she reaches up to absently trace his jawline. (His head instinctively tilts towards her touch and it doesn't seem like he notices anymore.) Tom's gotten sharper and more handsome, lately. She wonders if the admirers will increase to dramatic proportions this year because of how well he's sculpting his façade. "It feels like it's trying to pull me away from you."
His eyes glint in that desperately possessive manner of his, his hand snatching hers as though she'll disappear from him again. "Will it?" he essentially demands, his voice soft but no less insistent. If she feels like she's being pulled away, then maybe he feels like he's trying to fruitlessly pull her back. (Doesn't he always feel like that, though?)
Hem thinks that the weird phenomenon isn't strong enough to take her away like Morty was. Not yet, at any rate. "I don't know," she answers. "Maybe." Hopefully, it won't hurt as much if it does.
He doesn't like her answer, of course, but there's nothing he can do to change it.
. . .
. . .
Trying to fit twelve people into the Weasleys' car seems to be a touch difficult, even with the expanded interior that makes the seating arrangement look rather surreal. Somehow, though, they manage after shrinking all the luggage and fitting six people both in the front and the back.
Munin and Hedwig ̶ (is that the name? Who does she belong to?) ̶ have opted to fly since the former doesn't like cages and seems to have some kind of vendetta against Ron's rat. The latter, on the hand, just doesn't want to deal with the raucousness of the car for hours on end. At least, that's what Harry says.
(Ah, that's right. Hedwig is Harry's.)
Hem sits in the front, between Sally-Anne and Ginny, fiddling with her Baoding balls ̶ (where they came from, she can't remember) ̶ and trying not to stare at the book in the younger ̶ (she thinks so, anyway) ̶ girl's lap. Really, though, she's probably been blankly staring at it this entire time.
(She's never seen it before, right? Why is it bothering her?)
"I can't wait to try out my new wand at school," an excited voice from the back exclaims. "It already feels loads better than Charlie's."
"See," says Sally-Anne, who's turned around to face the voice's owner. "Aren't you glad that I spontaneously organised this? I'm still surprised that you even managed to use the first one at all, really. It had the core sticking out of the end and everything. What did you even do to make it like that?"
Laughter from two individuals ̶ (probably, the sounds are identical and it's confusing) ̶ bursts forth as another, primmer voice answers, "Charlie, our elder brother, said that he found a pixie in the Forbidden Forest during his sixth year and it inexplicably decided to bite his wand. I have my reservations, however."
"Yeah, it was probably something more dangerous than a pixie," agrees someone else.
Hem catches Hermione's wild mane of hair whip about from the other side of Sally-Anne. "Wait, Ron; what's the wood and core of your new wand?"
"Uh, willow, I think. With unicorn hair as the core. Why?"
"Hem has a willow wand, too! Mine's made of vine with a dragon heartstring core. I bought a book about wand lore at Flourish and Blotts but I haven't had a chance to look at it yet."
Fred and George both exclaim, "Ooh, search for ours!" in simultaneous excitement. "You should whip it out so we can all see what our wand woods mean," suggests one of them. "We get dangerous when we're bored and mum's already giving us a dirty look from the rear-view mirror."
. . .
. . .
"Granger."
With a bewildered blink, Hem turns ̶ (where is she?) ̶ to come face to face with a boy whose brown eyes are much closer than she expects. She blinks. The boy does the same, his head tilting downwards as he hastily takes a step back. (Through the windows, the scenery is moving. Is she in a train?)
"Granger," he says again after seemingly regaining his sophisticated composure ̶ (she assumes he's the one who said it the first time) ̶ and there's something about him that niggles at her mind. (Brown hair, brown eyes.) "Are you lost?"
She tilts her head at him, wondering if she's supposed to know him or if he's one of the many who knows who she is while she remains oblivious in return. He has a fringe and it hangs in his eyes and something about it seems off. (There's nothing wrong with it. He looks pretty. But it feels wrong and she doesn't understand why.)
He elicits a soft sigh after a significant amount of silence stretches between them. "I suppose I should've expected this," he murmurs, more to himself than to her as he subconsciously fiddles with the gaudy ring on his middle finger. Hem watches as his expression subtly becomes conflicted, like he's trying to figure out what he's supposed to do with her.
Opening her mouth, she catches the way his gaze darts to her mouth as she forces out the question, "Est-ce que je te connais?"
A sliver of pleased surprise appears on his face before it's smothered by bitterness. "No," he answers with an oddly self-deprecating tilt to the corner of his mouth. "You don't know me. Our last interaction was brief and the fact that you don't pay attention to the people around you is common knowledge, so I'm not shocked that you don't recognise me from class."
(Common knowledge amongst who?)
Bemused, Hem reaches out ̶ (to do what, she doesn't know) ̶ and she notices how he stills, eyes glued to her hand with a mixed look of trepidation and anticipation. He twitches at her touch as she evidently styles his fringe into something that vaguely resembles a side-part, but he doesn't move away from her.
Instead, he frowns at her, clearly as lost as she is when it comes to figuring out the reason behind her action. Then he blinks and clarity appears just before he remarks, "I've grown out my hair a little since then." His finger twitches as he glances to the side. "I… can't be bothered to style it anymore."
(Neat side-part. Gaudy ring. Brown hair, brown eyes. The answer's somewhere in her head, she knows it.)
"Sorry," Hem whispers, retracting her hand. She wants to say more, to explain that her memory is terrible because her mind is filled with the mud that's supposed to be in her blood, but her mouth stays closed. (Wait, why would there be mud in her blood?)
He blinks. "For not remembering me?" he asks, to which she manages a tilt of her head that could probably be interpreted as a nod. "It's fine," is what he says next, though his eyes are lowered and his expression doesn't exactly imply that it's fine. Running a hand through his hair to undo her impromptu styling, he softly adds, "It should be enough that you've actually spoken to me."
Hem's not sure what's happening with him, but it feels like his low mood is her fault. (She's trying to remember who he is, but all that comes up is, "I'm surprised he didn't tamper with it.")
As she tries to figure out how to apologise again, she catches his eyes flickering to somewhere behind her. "One of your Weasleys are here," he informs her as he seems to take in her entire appearance before finally meeting her eyes. The way he looks at her is complicated and she'd like to know why. "I'll see you, Granger."
And just like that, he ends their strange conversation by turning around and promptly making his way down the corridor. (A train corridor, right? Where are they going?)
Hem watches his retreating back until Ron ̶ (maybe) ̶ reaches her and asks her why she wandered off on him.
. . .
. . .
Hem blinks away the fuzz in her vision, only to blink again when she finds a lock of ebony hair between her fingers.
"Hello, Hemera," greets an unfamiliar voice from somewhere above her. Lifting her head and following the trail of hair with her eyes, she eventually spots a handsome, smiling face and gunmetal-blue eyes. "I hope you understand that I'm only allowing you to touch my hair because of my mystifying fondness for you."
Another blink from Hem as she tries to put a name to the face. After wading through a sea of names she doesn't recognise, she manages to find it. (At least, she thinks so.)
"Kenelm?"
His eyes flash and his smile widens. "That is my name, yes," he replies, one hand reaching out to grab the hand holding his hair. "I'm pleased you've remembered. Now, come along; we'll have dinner in my office." Gracefully swivelling around, Kenelm begins to lead her down the corridor. (This time, it seems to be a castle corridor.) "I've already forced your friends to attend the Feast, otherwise they would have skipped it to eat in the kitchens with you. Thoughtful, truly, but Severus would think that his least favourite Gryffindor students were up to something again."
That's nice and all, but Hem would like it if she didn't have to jog just to keep up with being dragged by a tall adult with long legs.
. . .
. . .
"He's blinding," remarks Sally-Anne as she plaits her hair for bed. "Lockhart, I mean. It offends me. I'm wondering if I should collaborate with Fred and George or if I should do something to him on my own. Maybe both?"
Hem has no idea who she's on about, but she tries to listen instead of floating away somewhere. Munin, who's perched on her bedside table, gently pecks her hand every time she's on the verge of doing so.
(Is Tom waiting for her? Will they feel the discomforting sensation again?)
"I think Hermione might have a slight crush on him," her best friend continues, her eyes following the Carrow ̶ (is that right?) ̶ sisters as they walk to the bathroom with startlingly identical movements. Even Fred and George don't go that far. (They're likely to try, though, if they find out.) "It's honestly a little disappointing. I'd have thought her standards were higher. Next thing we know, she's going to fancy Ron."
Sally-Anne snickers to herself at that. Hem, on the other hand, wonders what it's like to have a crush on someone. (Tom wouldn't know, most likely. It's much more plausible for him to just think himself above the very idea of it, really.) She doesn't think it would be pleasant to be so emotionally fixated on a single person.
(Nothing for her to worry about, then.)
"Aside from that, Keith got Sorted into Slytherin ̶ there was no other outcome, obviously ̶ and he had a bit of a sulk when he realised you weren't at the table. Understandable, really; you're our only Slytherin friend aside from Weston ̶ the Bletchleys don't count ̶ so we had to sit amongst a bunch of plebeians. Malfoy, the git, noticed my brother's sour mood and decided to get a hex to the face by provoking him about it because Malfoy's an idiot. It's truly baffling, you know, since his marks last year were just below first place. Then again, there is a difference between street smarts and book smarts."
Sally-Anne ties the end of her plait and flips it over her shoulder just as their dormmates exit the bathroom. "Well, anyway, Keith now has a week's worth of detention and I'm honestly very proud. He beat Wendy's score by three days. My score was during second week because I forgot about it, but never mind that."
That's weird, though, isn't it? How Hem has managed to have so many people call her their friend when she's little more than an empty shell that can hardly even speak?
(Tom should be able to explain that, at least. Crushes are out of his depth, but knowing what draws people to others is well within his frame of knowledge.)
AWF
A/N: Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.