A/N: Revised - 27/07/2020. This chapter is a bit spicy, I'd say. Also, I'd like to remind people that this story has a lot of dubious ethics.
AWF
Luna, true to her word, begins to eat in the kitchens and leaves a fairly impactful impression on the others. (Sally-Anne finds her eccentricity fascinating; Keith doesn't care; Fred and George think her fun and the Gryffindor Trio are baffled but welcoming.) She often appears with bold-patterned socks and bracelets and earrings that seem to be fashionable only to her. (Not that Hem would know much about fashion, but the others have mentioned the peculiarity more than once.)
Hermione initially wasn't sure how to take her, for she seems to follow a type of logic that makes her seem like a mad conspiracist. (Hem doesn't know enough about the world to tell what's factual and what's not, so it doesn't matter to her.) But when Luna realises that vibrant colours don't mesh well with Hem, her accessories soften into pastel hues and that makes Hermione warm up to her much more easily.
And then one day, Luna enters the kitchen with no shoes.
"Lost your shoes, have you?" Fred says by way of greeting, though his voice is muffled by all the toast he's stuffed into his mouth. Keith, who's claimed a seat to Hem's right, looks at him like he's scum. Fred catches it and winks as he makes a great show of swallowing his food like a true gentleman.
Luna slides into the spot beside George, who automatically starts piling things onto her plate. It must be a brotherly habit. "Thank you, George." She smiles at the nearest twin before looking over at the other one and replying, "And I'm afraid I have, Fred. I believe the nargles have stolen them."
Sally-Anne drums her fingers against the table, a considering hum escaping her as she stares at Luna with a speculative gleam. "Is this the first time the nargles have stolen your things?" she probes, the smile on her face sharp but not malicious.
With a tilt of her head, Luna takes a moment to consider the question. "No, they usually steal my quills and inkpots," she answers, gripping the edge of the table and leaning back to look down at her feet. She's probably wiggling her toes. "Mischievous things, those nargles. I think they like to steal my things in particular because I know they exist."
But the way Fred, George and Sally-Anne share looks tells Hem that they think otherwise. They're probably going to plan on how to deal with these supposed nargles that keep stealing Luna's things.
(Children are cruel. Children tear down the different and it seems that even the Ravenclaws don't have what it takes to understand or even accept Luna.)
"Well," George starts, draping an arm over Luna's shoulder. She blinks at his hand with a pleased sort of fascination, as if being treated with such familiarity is a novel experience. "You've got us, now, don't you? We'll figure out how to keep those pesky nargles away, won't we, Fred?"
The way Fred smiles, in her opinion, is what visually sets him apart from his brother. (Hem thinks he's always been a little more jagged than George.) "I've already got some ideas in mind, actually," he agrees, a devious glint in his eyes when he glances at Sally-Anne. Sally-Anne smiles back with enough force to make it a touch unnerving.
Keith huffs, uninterested. He puts another sausage on Hem's plate. "You like the ones with bits of cheese inside, don't you?" he questions, to which she gives an absent nod in reply. (There are sausages with cheese in them?)
"I suppose this means I should start working on my own accessories, then," Sally-Anne mutters to herself. She picks up her cutlery and cuts into her own breakfast before asking, "Do you like flower crowns, Luna?"
The girl in question immediately brightens as she exclaims, "Oh, I love them! Mum and I used to make new ones every week before she died, you know." Her smiles becomes more rueful at the mention of her mother. "I tried making some with dad as a way to remember, but he'd always break down in tears, so I stopped."
Fred and George are clearly discomforted, unsure of how to respond to that, but Sally-Anne merely nods and replies, "Flower crowns, then. I'll make some for all of us girls." She peeks around Hem to ask, "You want one, too, Keith? I'll make it extra pretty for you."
"Shove off," is Keith's prompt retort. Luna says something about blue being a good colour on him, which then somehow devolves into Fred and George seriously considering the idea of flower crowns that could change into different flower types and squirted multi-coloured slime on anyone who passed by the wearer.
"Slime?" Sally-Anne sneers, unimpressed. "Is that the best you've got? I'd make them zap people."
. . .
. . .
Ever since Hem accidentally said his name ̶ (when did she say it? Why did she say it?) ̶ Draco's been giving her smug looks as if she's finally come to understand his worth in life. It's strange, really, because he shouldn't care about her opinion on him, but she supposes people are strange and emotions aren't logical.
(Is it better to be logical or emotional? What if she's neither?)
Sally-Anne notices it, too, and eventually decides to confront him in the common room because it's always the most dramatic spot to do things. (According to her, anyway. Something about it having the most eyes without the interference of the other Houses.) There aren't a lot of people currently present, but that doesn't stop her.
"All right, I'll bite, Malfoy," she starts just as they're about to pass the little area Draco's gang has claimed for themselves. "What's made your existence more annoying than it typically is?"
Hem glances around, eventually spotting kids of a similar age scattered around. (The ones that don't mingle with the rest. They stay on the sidelines; waiting; watching.) A sharp-looking boy with dark colouring ̶ (dark skin, dark hair and exceptionally dark eyes) ̶ and meticulously styled hair sits by a bookshelf, poised and unconcerned as his eyes languidly skim the pages of the tome in his lap. A girl with amber eyes, auburn hair and delicate features is sitting next to an older student that looks distantly related, the both of them close enough to witness the ensuing drama without being conspicuous. The Carrow sisters ̶ (are they the Carrows?) ̶ have sectioned themselves off as well, opting to sit near the fireplace. They look somewhat eerie with the green glow of the flames complementing their flat expressions.
And then she notices brown hair and brown eyes that are already looking at her. (She knows him. Doesn't she?) He's not far from the amber-eyed girl but it's obvious that they're not sitting together. His gaze wavers when she makes eye contact, but he evidently steadies his resolve after blinking once or twice.
His lips tilt into a subtle, gentle smile in greeting. She wants to smile back. (She can't.) She tries. (She fails.) His eyes lower and Hem assumes it's to hide the hurt when the gesture isn't reciprocated. (She's sorry.)
"If you must know, Perks," Draco's voice cuts through her thoughts, prompting her to turn back to her best friend and their… rival? (What is he?) He's lounging in a black loveseat ̶ (almost all the furniture in the room is black, she realises) ̶ and smirking up at Sally-Anne like he's royalty sitting before a commoner. It doesn't seem very natural. His eyes flicker to Hem as he continues, "I'm just pleased to know that Granger's finally realised her place in the hierarchy."
"What?" Hem blinks at Sally-Anne, who's squinting at her in confusion. Supposedly, her blink ̶ (accurately) ̶ translates to, 'I have no idea what he's talking about,' and Sally-Anne turns back to Draco like he's barmy. "Are you pissed? What in Merlin's name has made you think that?"
A scowl quickly contorts Draco's face as soft sniggers flutter about the room. Sally-Anne is an outcast as much as Hem is, but Draco's not all that popular himself. "Because she spoke to me, that's why!" he snaps, sitting up and instantly shifting into something defensive. "Everyone knows that she's an uppity mudblood who thinks everyone's beneath her notice, but she's finally realised that I am not." He finishes that statement by lifting his chin, even though it looks rather awkward when he's still sitting and they're standing.
She'd smile if she could, but alas, she has to settle for Sally-Anne's derisive snort. "Yeah? And what'd she say, hm?"
A trace of uncertainty filters into his face before he determinedly answers, "My name." Again, he glances at her, but this time with a spot of defiance as if daring her to lie. (Why would she?) "You did, didn't you, Granger?"
Hem absently feels the attention shift to her as Sally-Anne demands, "When the hell was this?" and looks between the two of them like she's just been told that they've been meeting up behind her back for weeks. A soft exhale leaves Hem as a wave of weariness crashes through the numbing mud.
The silence grows as she stares at Draco, who's clearly unwilling to divulge when she said his name, seeing as it wouldn't put him in a very admirable light. Should she say it? (Could she?)
"Wait," Sally-Anne starts, holding up a hand. "It doesn't matter. My apologies, I was taken off-guard. Why don't you tell me why you think Hemera saying your name is something to be proud of? Did she say anything else? Something along the lines of, 'Draco, I'm dirt beneath your feet,' or did she literally just say your name because she forgot who you are and needed a minute to remember?"
The latter, of course, and she likely wouldn't have said anything else even if Kenelm didn't pick her up.
"Does it matter, blood traitor?" snarks one of the girls of Draco's group when the boy himself is absorbed in regretting the sequences of events that's led up to this very moment. (Is it Parka? Why does she feel like she's always getting it wrong?) "Granger's scum and so are you; everyone knows this." She flips her hair over her shoulder and it smacks into the face of the portly girl beside her.
With that act, any sort of impact that the insult has ̶ (which is honestly none; neither of them could care less) ̶ is diminished and Sally-Anne laughs with the others around them. Weston and the Bletchley cousins are probably somewhere in the crowd as well. Keith and the other First-Years have class at this time. (At least, she thinks so. Everyone present looks older.) It's probably for the best, honestly. Unlike his sister, who likes to play around with her 'opponents,' Keith immediately goes for the throat.
("He doesn't have a lot of patience, see. Most of it goes into his games and even then, you're likely to find him eventually setting something on fire.")
"It matters, yes," Sally-Anne replies after catching her breath. Parkinson ̶ (that's it! Or is it?) ̶ is glaring at her, her face an unflattering red while the victim of hair assault just looks uncomfortable. "Why it does, however," her best friend slides her focus back onto Draco, a sly glint in her gaze, "is quite the mystery. Does someone have insecurity issues, Malfoy?"
Draco is immediately on his feet in response. Hem feels something thrumming as her wand slides into her hand. (Wait. Where did it come from?)
"You should probably stop, Malfoy," a new voice interrupts just as Draco and Sally-Anne look about ready to duel each other right here in the common room. They all turn towards the voice, and Hem blinks when she realises it's the same boy with the brown hair and brown eyes. He's fiddling with that ring of his, but there's something off about him. A façade? A mask?
"What's it to you, Nott?"
A wry smile appears on Nott's ̶ (she's heard it before, hasn't she?) ̶ face as he peers at her for a few seconds. "Aside from Perks and her other friends, I'm probably the only one who's actually had a conversation with Granger," he responds, shifting in his seat in a subtle but purposefully haughty fashion. (The mask he's chosen doesn't suit him.) "She speaks French, did you know?"
"Merlin's left tit, Hemera," Sally-Anne exclaims in a whisper while Hem feels a small part of her wither and die. (What is happening?) "You talk to Theodore Nott enough for him to know you speak French?" Hem blinks. "No? I suppose you must've spoken French from the start, then. Fred and George said your first words to them were in French, after all."
"Are you insinuating that you're superior to me, Nott? Me? The Malfoy heir?"
"Just because the Notts aren't as desperate for attention doesn't mean we're inferior. For example, if I had an interest in quidditch, I wouldn't feel the need to buy my way onto the team."
"Luckily for us, you don't! A diricawl would have a better chance at flying than you!"
And as it devolves into some kind of absurd pissing contest between two acquaintances ̶ (it seems like they've known each other since even before Hogwarts) ̶ Hem continues ̶ (or starts) ̶ her trek to the entrance. She needs jelly slugs and to be away from these strange children who're trying to be miniature politicians with minimal success.
Sally-Anne follows, cackling all the while. "That was great! I wasn't expecting Nott to butt in, but even other 'upstanding' purebloods would get sick of Malfoy's rubbish, I reckon. He's one of the better ones, actually. He, at least, never bothers me when we sit next to each other in class and that's a small blessing in and of itself."
Hem hears herself hum in response. (Theodore's a nice name. She'll forget it soon, but it's good enough that she's learned it at all.)
. . .
. . .
"It's mind-numbing," complains Ron as they wait for Professor Lockhart to make his appearance. Hem doesn't have to attend, so she'll wait until class begins before wandering around. Maybe she'll find something new to draw. "It's all about his favourite colours, his favourite products, his favourite anything!"
"Don't forget his favourite re-enactments," Harry chimes in with a sneer while he cleans his glasses. "I don't know why he has to drag me into it every time."
Sally-Anne rolls her eyes. "Why wouldn't he? The man's a fat leech for fame."
Hermione clutches her bag as the other three continue to banter amongst themselves. She has an expression of dejection and doubt, which has led her to worrying her bottom lip. It's obvious ̶ (to Hem, at least) ̶ that she's unsure of how to reconcile her feelings about Lockhart.
(Feelings don't make sense, do they?)
Hem reaches out to touch Hermione's forearm, the contact making her head snap up in surprise. "Hem?"
She tries to force the words out ̶ (what would she say?) ̶ but it's hard and she feels as though there's something stuck in her throat. (How does she comfort someone? How is she supposed to understand when emotions like this are beyond her?)
In the end, Ron calls, "Hermione?" and Hem drops her hand as Hermione looks at him. "What's wrong?"
"Oh." Hermione blushes, her shoulders hunching as she tries to hide her face. "It's nothing… I just… Well…" Ron and Harry's faces scrunch up as they try to interpret that while Sally-Anne just waits with raised brows. With a frustrated huff, Hermione straightens her shoulders and tries again. "I just felt a bit sad, is all. I thought Lockhart was as experienced and talented as he is charming, but obviously… Well, I can't really deny that he's incompetent, can I? Not when he brought in the pixies and triggered Hem, or when he never actually teaches anything outside of himself."
Harry nods in understanding. "Yeah, I get it. You're just disappointed that he's not what you expected, right?" he replies, reaching over to give her a consoling pat.
Hermione gives him a relieved smile in return. Hem supposes it must've been hard for her to have such a differing opinion on a person compared to her friends, especially when their own collective opinion isn't exactly positive. (That'd be nice, though, wouldn't it? Having opinions on things and being able to express them.)
"I'm just glad you've finally seen the light," is Ron's input as he leans against the wall. "I tried reading one of his books and it's clearly all rubbish. Might as well just sell the books after the year ends so I feel like I've actually gained something out of all of this."
Sally-Anne starts rocking up and down on the balls of her feet before she states, "That's if he isn't outed as a fraud before then. The value of them are sure to plummet if that happens."
"Hello, my darling fans! So sorry I'm late; I was quite busy explaining to a student the exact nature of the Homorphus Charm, see!"
Hem takes that as her cue to leave, so she waves to her friends in farewell and sets off to nowhere.
. . .
. . .
Hem finds a surprisingly empty courtyard filled with various types of flora that she can't recognise and a multitude of fairies. In the centre is a sizeable fountain with a siren made of marble resting on a boulder in the middle, a large bowl held above her head as she sways and hums a soft tune. With every movement, curtain of water spills out of the bowl.
Following along the path that leads to the fountain, Hem soon notices some small, aquatic creatures in the water. Taking a seat on the fountain's edge, she watches as they swim towards her, likely curious about her presence. A lot of them look like small, regular fish with their eye-catching patterns, but some of them shimmer with a curious sort of iridescence before disappearing and reappearing in a different spot. Another few bleed their colours into the water as they make new patterns on their scales.
She even spots a group of cute, tiny octopuses huddled together as they seem to take turns in making their bodies glow. It attracts what Hem assumes to be water fairies, as they look similar to the usual fairies except with more aquatic features like webbed hands and feet.
One of the fairies touches one of the octopuses, which causes the eight-legged creature to suddenly and viciously latch onto the winged one. Hem blinks as the fairy is literally sucked into the octopus like its mouth is a vacuum. Its body soon begins to ripple with a dazzling rainbow hue that might indicate satiation.
The other fairies are seemingly too enchanted to notice what's happened to their friend and heed the warning, for they do the same thing and end up suffering the same fate shortly after.
"Such is nature," the Bloody Baron rasps from somewhere behind Hem. Turning around to face him, she blinks away the residual spots of colour dancing about in her eyes to find the ghost hovering not too far above her. He's silent for a while as they stare at one another, but then he breaks eye contact to look around them with a touch of regret in his silvery face. "No one has come here in many years," he reveals, melancholic. "The path that leads to it is as fickle as the staircases."
Munin caws from somewhere to her left, probably as a way of saying that he'll lead her out if he has to. (If not, he'll have to find someone to fetch her.) She nods, catching him glaring at the fish in her peripheral. Hopefully, they're safe for him to eat if he decides he wants them.
Hem sits for a while, content to just be.
. . .
. . .
Eventually, she finds herself by one of the courtyard's pillars, her hand brushing against the stone as snakes made from the same material slither underneath her fingers. They have small jewels for eyes and they gleam like they're actually capable of seeing through them. Maybe they are.
Then the sound of something squeaking against the cobblestone ̶ (shoes?) ̶ breaks the peace and the snakes all lift their heads to look behind her. Bemused, Hem turns to see what's caught their attention. (As she does, she catches Munin bathing in the siren's bowl and the Bloody Baron staring morosely at blue flowers that look like butterfly wings.)
It's a girl with vibrantly red hair standing by the largest archway ̶ (Hem must've come through there as well) ̶ with a stupefied expression on her face as she gapes at Hem like she's never seen another person before. Hem, unsure of what to do, merely stares back. A moment passes before the other girl manages to make an aborted step towards her, a desperate ̶ (almost mad) ̶ sort of hope shining through the utter shock still etched onto her features. (No, actually, maybe she's a little unhinged.)
Then, abruptly, the girl is power walking towards her, something about her gait and the fierce glint in her eyes triggering a memory of a boy in black surrounded by white. (Which is curious, since she doesn't look anything like him.)
When the girl is almost within reach, Hem feels herself begin to take a step back, and she sees the affronted flash in her eyes ̶ (baby blue, like Ron's. They should be walnut brown, shouldn't they? But why?) ̶ and the way her arm snaps out to grab her in response.
She supposes it doesn't matter in the end, for the girl crashes into her, Hem's back slamming into the pillar ̶ (it's smooth and she hears hisses from somewhere above her as something nearby sounds like it's being detonated) ̶ while her vision blurs and her skin begins to feel like it's being poked viciously with needles.
Hands ̶ (presumably) ̶ snake their way around her neck to latch onto her hair and the back of her head before violently pulling her forwards. Hem shuts her eyes to block out the rapid, unfocused motion just as something smashes against her mouth ̶ (hard but also soft?) ̶ and she blindly grabs onto some kind of fabric. (Robes, is it? What's happening?)
Hem flinches as she feels something wet against her lips before said wet thing pries said lips apart in a rather forceful fashion. (That… She isn't being snogged, is she?) When what she assumes is a tongue ̶ (there's another tongue in her mouth, what?) ̶ begins to move around, she thinks that this is incredibly bewildering.
She pushes the form pinning her against the pillar ̶ (it's a girl, isn't it? Why is a girl snogging her?) ̶ in an attempt to make everything stop, but she gets one of the girl's legs lodges itself between hers ̶ (absently, she realises that this must look very compromising) ̶ and a throaty growl in response. (It's more cute than intimidating, though.)
"Don't," the girl warns against Hem's lips in a haggard whisper before giving her a brief but oddly affectionate kiss. "I've waited far too long for this, Hem," she continues, kissing her again ̶ (although, it's longer and more insistent this time and she thinks her bottom lip is being nipped between teeth) ̶ as the hands by her head loosen their hold and begin to wander down. The caressing touch aggravates the tingling in her skin. (Is she twitching? Shaking?)
Cautiously, Hem opens her eyes and tries to adjust to the image of red hair and blue eyes that are much closer than she expects them to be. (She shouldn't be surprised, really; eyes are usually part of the face just as the mouth usually is.) The unfathomably impassioned way those eyes stare into her soul somehow makes her think that they should be walnut brown.
(But why?
Is it because the girl is ̶ )
"Tom?" Hem nearly coughs out, her stomach abruptly tightening when ruby red inexplicably flashes in her mind. (Will this one attempt to kill her, too, she wonders?)
But these eyes are baby blue and though there's a hint of madness, it's drowned out by the manic delight that changes her ̶ (his, she supposes) ̶ face to the point that the girl ̶ (Tom) ̶ is grinning at Hem like she's a lost treasure. (It almost looks painful.) It's actually kind of off-putting because she can't really imagine Tom's face making that kind of expression. (Not the one in her dreams, anyway. Morty, probably, but with more enraged insanity.)
There's no warning for when Tom aggressively attacks her mouth again ̶ (Hem's never considered being kissed by anyone before, let alone a version of Tom wearing a young girl's body) ̶ while his hands travel across her body until one clasps her hip and the other slides under her shirt.
The moment his fingers connect with her skin, her body involuntarily elicits a violent shiver that makes Tom moan into her mouth. (Her ears are ringing and her skin is on fire and it's too ̶ )
"Hem," he rasps, reverent and feverish and she realises that she's clawing at his neck when blood ̶ (it has to be, right?) ̶ wets her fingertips and gathers under her nails. He pushes more of his weight onto her, practically suffocating her ̶ (she's panting and lightheaded and there's a possibility that she might faint) ̶ while he decides to assault her jaw and then her neck with his mouth. (And teeth?)
"Tom," Hem gasps as his hand nears her chest and his fingers begin to slide under the lining of her bra. (She often forgets that she's wearing one.) "Tom ̶ "
Tom bites the junction of her neck and the pillar in front of her explodes. "Yes?" she hears him reply through giddy laughter, and for some reason, that prompts her to grab some of his hair ̶ (it must feel weird to be the opposite gender) ̶ and pull. He grunts, but it only makes him laugh more before he places another kiss ̶ (this one's softer; tender) ̶ on the spot where he's bitten her in lieu of an apology.
Then, he leans back to face her. Hem blinks, visual snow ruining the quality of her eyesight, but she still manages to see the genuine ̶ (and frenetic) ̶ glee in his face. (Apparently, he can wear all the faces in the world and she'll still eventually recognise him.) And it's odd, she thinks, how he's content to simply gaze at her ̶ (she might describe it as acute in its adoration) ̶ instead of impatiently waiting for a response he might not receive as the silence drags on.
Once her breathing steadies ̶ (he's no longer crushing her lungs, although he's still got his hand under her shirt and has taken to caressing her skin with his thumb) ̶ Hem unhooks one of her hands from his neck to brush her fingers against his jawline. (Her insides are tensing again. A memory of Morty lamenting his weakness floats to the surface of her mind.) He leans into the touch, just as all versions of him have done before. (Even Morty did it before he tortured her.) Unlike other two, however, there's no emotional conflict or hatred in his eyes. But he has a feral energy about him, she notices, as though he's just found something that's been torn away from him and is willing to go to all levels of depravity to make sure he never loses it again.
(No matter which incarnation, Tom can't be Tom if he's not excessively intense in some manner, can he?)
"Hi, Tom," she murmurs. Her breathing is starting to pick up again and it might be because she's feeling something akin to happiness. (He's better than Morty, at least.)
His eyes glint ̶ (they're darkening, now, but the emotion that's causing it is a mystery to her) ̶ and he leans in again until their foreheads are touching. "Hello, Hem," he breathes in reply. Then he's snogging her again like he'll die if he doesn't and grasping at her like she's liable to disappear at any moment and Hem loses herself in the bombardment of sensations.
(She doesn't know why this is necessary, but it's preferable in comparison to torture.)
AWF
A/N: To summarise this chapter; children are brats, Hem is confused and a wild Tom has appeared. (Also, like, spicy scenes are not my forte, forgive me.) Expect more wild things in the future.
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