A/N: Revised - 22/07/2020.
AWF
Hem feels a vague sense of foreboding when she spots Professor Lockhart ̶ (who?) ̶ upon walking into the classroom with Sally-Anne. He's obnoxiously dazzling with his flamboyant robes and he nearly smacks a student sitting at the front in the face with his overly dramatic hand gestures.
Sitting behind Harry and Ron ̶ (and some other random Gryffindor that Hermione gives her seat to when she sees Hem) ̶ she squints as static begins to dance in her vision. Professor Lockhart swishes his robes as he says something about smiling at banshees and the movement creates a painful shimmer that forces Hem to shut her eyes.
Under the desk, she focuses on the movement of her Baoding balls as the muffled sound of shuffling paper pushes through the white noise in her ears.
"Well, it's official, then," she hears Sally-Anne ̶ (it should be) ̶ declare from her left. "We're going to fail DADA and that's that. Do you think Dumbledore will wave his hand at the end of the year and give everyone full marks to make up for the sheer incompetency?"
More shuffling paper and the scratching of quills before Hermione replies, "It's not that hard! And that would be grossly inappropriate as the Headmaster, don't you think?"
Sally-Anne's tone is one of condescension when she responds with, "It's not a matter of the material being hard; it's a matter of it being bloody stupid and a waste of our time! He can just go have a wank in front of a mirror rather than inconvenience us with insipid quizzes."
Someone in front of her elicits a violent snort while titters erupt from behind her. The professor is humming something from the front, evidently oblivious. (Presumably, it's Lockhart humming. The voice is masculine enough to belong to an adult. It's just as grating as a whining child, though.)
"Sally-Anne!" Hermione hisses in outrage. Her face is probably red, but Hem doesn't think it's a good idea to open her eyes just yet.
"What's the likelihood of his secret ambition being able to successfully clone himself so he can finally be with the one person he truly loves? Because I think it's very likely and you can't convince me otherwise."
. . .
. . .
By the end of the class, the classroom has become a mess of broken equipment and pixie guts. Hem absently feels some type of goop sliding down her face, but she can't really bring herself to care. She's still trying to blink away the electric blue still stuck in her vision, after all.
(Is it progress to say that she can definitively say that she doesn't like Cornish pixies?)
The sounds of high-pitched screams and giggles are echoing in her ears and Hem only realises that the bell's rung when the other students are scrambling out from under their desks to make a run for the door. Standing as Sally-Anne's hand reaches out towards her ̶ (her best friend is covered in the muck but she's laughing like she's gone mad) ̶ Hem thinks it would be a good idea to get an exemption from DADA.
Kenelm would help, wouldn't he?
("He's a fraud and I want to crush his throat so I never have to hear his voice again," an aggrieved but falsely pleasant voice all but declares. "But there's not enough proof to condemn him. Not yet, anyway. I'll eventually corroborate enough evidence since I happen to know a few patients that have had the pleasure of meeting him before.")
"So, two things I've learnt today," Hem manages to hear through the echoes in her ears. Something wet and fleshy makes an off-putting sound as it drops to the floor. "One; don't let pixies loose. And two; don't let pixies go near Hem."
Sally-Anne's almost deranged laughter follows. "A slayer of trolls and pixies! Oh, I love it!"
Hermione's the one who's the most concerned because this technically counts as an episode, but Hem just has an odd craving for ice cream and she wonders if that's a good thing.
. . .
. . .
"It's stopped," Hem remarks as she rests her head on Tom's shoulder. It shifts every so often when he detangles his fingers from her hair and starts again. "The weird feeling." It's been a few days of serene nothingness and it's been nice. (She's used to emptiness; not whatever that feeling was.)
She feels the vibration when he hums in acknowledgement. "For now, perhaps," he agrees. "You seem to have an unfathomable talent for attracting trouble."
(How angry would he be, she wonders, if he knew the finer details? How would he react if he knew that a large majority of her troubles have been caused by a version of him that's been corrupted by madness?)
Hem reaches for his free hand and he meets her halfway, their fingers intertwining automatically and she thinks she might be feeling content as she shuffles closer. (It's a little disconcerting.) When he starts to caress the side of her hand with his thumb, she stares for an unknown length of time before her thumb begins to stroke against his in return.
Eventually, his other hand reaches the back of her head and his nails gently scape along her scalp. A slight shiver shakes her body before she can even properly register the sensation. (It's not as strong as it would be in reality, but that doesn't change the fact that she can feel it a little in this dream world of theirs.)
Tom stills.
Then, after a few seconds of charged ̶ (why is it charged?) ̶ silence, he tugs on her hair, forcing her to look up and meet his gaze. Hem blinks when she does, unsure of how to decipher the way he's peering at her with darker ̶ (and more heated?) ̶ eyes than usual. When he continues to silently stare at her, she watches as he studies her face with a curious intensity that's different from the other types. (Did something about her appearance change?)
"Hem," he murmurs, perhaps unintentionally ̶ (he's distracted?) ̶ as he releases her hand to brush his fingers along the column of her neck before settling his thumb on her lips while the rest hook under her jaw. She's not sure what he's doing but she feels her chest tightening in confusion.
His brow furrows with frustration ̶ (why is he frustrated?) ̶ as he concentrates on her mouth. For some reason. (Maybe the lip salve?) This seems like it's lasting quite a while ̶ (her time perception might be getting better, lately) ̶ and the longer it goes on, the harsher his breathing becomes. He's not panting, of course ̶ (for even that is apparently beneath him) ̶ but he's obviously not calm and it's startling to unsettle her.
"Tom?"
He blinks, eyes flickering to her own as his face shifts with realisation. The baffling gaze disappears behind his mask and an insincere smile of polite friendliness contorts his mouth before he replies, "Yes?" like he wasn't just acting extremely odd.
Hem feels like she's giving him an unimpressed stare. Tom seems to feel the same, for his smile becomes a touch more genuine when it widens and his eyes unconsciously soften.
She doesn't expect him to give her an answer after that, but he proves her wrong when his eyes lower to her mouth again and he says, "I was thinking," with an appropriately pensive tone. (There's something else, though; something dark and angry and longing.) His thumb is still moving languidly against her lips. The glass smile fades somewhat, although the ghost of it remains.
What he was thinking about in particular, she doesn't know, and he doesn't deign to elaborate further. Hem listens to his heartbeat for the rest of the night and lets the matter lie.
. . .
. . .
On the way to Kenelm's office, Hem passes by the hospital wing only to pause as she catches a familiar ̶ (is it?) ̶ figure sitting on one of the beds and puking slugs into a bucket. Apparently catching her form in his peripheral, he looks up and immediately makes an expression of alarmed distaste ̶ (probably both towards her and himself) ̶ when they make eye contact.
He's alone, but a part of her mind is insisting that he should be surrounded by people doting on him like a pampered prince. (Who is he again?) Another part justifies this mystifying insistence with the possibility that his friends ̶ (whoever he is) ̶ have already visited him.
Or maybe he just wants to be alone because vomiting up slugs doesn't exactly make for a refined figure.
Hem finds herself making her way over to him and watching as his eyes ̶ (steel grey?) ̶ widen. "What do you want, Granger?" he snaps, his shoulders tensing up with defensive wariness. He has to stop that when he violently vomits out another slug and the energy drains out of his shoulders.
Despite that, he seems to have enough energy to glower at her as she comes to stand near him. Tilting her head at him, she tries to wade through the memories to figure out who he's supposed to be. Eventually, a name comes up.
"Draco," she hears, which prompts a blink from the sickly boy in front of her. (Apparently, her mind has deemed it necessary to say it instead of just thinking it.) His expression into something of bewildered wonder and it looks much better than his typical scowl of forced superiority. (Does that ever get tiring?)
"What?" he blurts out, obviously taken very much off guard. Then another slug drops into the bucket and his scowl reappears as he eyes her like he's not sure what she's going to do. (She's not really sure, either.) Hem expects him to say something about worthiness ̶ (she doesn't know why) ̶ but he remains silent, his shoulders bunched up and looking like he's struggling to decide between spouting vitriol or demanding an explanation.
(She doesn't exactly have one. Hem doubts he'd be appreciative to know that she forgets him all the time. After all, he wouldn't expend so much effort if he didn't care about her in some way.)
The moment is broken when a voice behind her says, "Hemera? Why are you wasting your time with the Malfoy spawn?"
Turning around, she spots Kenelm standing by the door and looking at her with his usual smile and a raised brow. When she stays where she is, he stretches out a hand and gestures for her to come towards him with a twitch of his fingers.
So, with one last glance at Draco ̶ (who's now giving her a rather strange glare like he's offended by her sudden departure) ̶ Hem leaves the hospital wing and doesn't look back.
It's only when she's in Kenelm's office that she thinks to wonder why he's vomiting slugs in the first place.
. . .
. . .
After her appointment with Kenelm, Hem wanders the corridors and assumes that her body knows where it's supposed to go around this time. (If not, then someone will find her. Eventually. Munin always manages to find her, so it can't be too difficult.) Occasionally, she glimpses other students about ̶ (some are conspicuous in their attempts to move away from her even though they're hardly close already) ̶ but for the most part, her journey is solitary.
Then Hem happens upon a girl with mismatched socks and blonde, bedraggled hair talking to one of the many portraits on the wall. Said girl pauses in her seemingly one-sided conversation with the painted clown to look at the movement to her left.
"Oh, hello," she greets as Hem registers wide, silvery eyes and an absent-minded smile. "You must be the one the Bloody Baron follows everywhere." That remark receives a bland blink that apparently prompts her to add, "There's sufficient evidence, of course, seeing as he's not too far behind you."
And when Hem looks over her shoulder, she does indeed see the spectral form of the Bloody Baron a few metres away. Despite being referred to in a manner that would usually make one sheepish, he maintains his cold and brooding demeanour. Although, he does give her an acknowledging nod when their eyes meet.
While it's not all that strange for her to be associated with the Slytherin ghost, it is strange that it's apparently become common knowledge for him to follow her around everywhere. Especially since she wasn't aware previously. (Not that there's anything off about that aspect, Hem supposes; she rarely pays attention to what's ahead of her, let alone what's behind her.)
"I also think you must be one of the unfortunate victims of the vox gliplies," the girl says when Hem looks back at her. She's a tad closer than before, but not enough for it to be startling. With a tilt of her head, she continues, "They're like wrackspurts, actually, but instead of floating into people's ears and making their brains fuzzy, vox gliplies go into people's mouths and steal their voice away."
Hem has heard of neither of these creatures ̶ (her mind isn't slogging through any relevant memories, at least) ̶ but she wouldn't be overly shocked if it turned out that she has both. (It'd make things a little simpler, really, that all her problems are caused by outside sources instead of internal ones.)
"Anyway." The unknown girl's smiling a little more and is evidently unperturbed by the continued silence. "My name is Luna Lovegood from Ravenclaw. There's no need to introduce yourself, though I suppose you couldn't, regardless. But I'm very pleased to be acquainted with the Troll Slayer. Dad was hoping I'd get to meet you." Hem thinks it's about ten seconds of no response before Luna nods to herself and proceeds to ask, "By the way, do you happen to know the way to the Great Hall? I've managed to get lost on my way there, you see."
Hem doesn't. (She can't even remember what it looks like aside from blinding lights and too many eyes.) But she continues her trek to wherever she was going before stopping, and Luna takes that as a cue to follow her.
She's not really sure what the blonde ̶ (Sally-Anne's is more sandy and Draco's is more platinum while Luna's is a bit dirtier) ̶ talks about on their journey to somewhere, but her voice has a soft, dreamy quality that makes it easy to listen to.
"How fascinating," Luna gasps when Hem unfathomably tickles a large, painted pear and it giggles coyly before turning into a door to the kitchens. "It's not the Great Hall, but it's just as good." They enter together and are greeted by the many elves who're delighted to see a new face. Luna takes her times greeting them all while Hem drifts over to one of the tables.
She's not sure how much times passes before Luna sits across from her with noticeable contentment in her vague smile. "I think I'll eat here from now on," she states, taking another glance around. "It's much homier than the Great Hall. Thank you for showing me."
It wasn't intentional. Hem nods, all the same.
AWF
A/N: Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.