A/N: A wild update has appeared! Mild warning for kind-of-not-really spice?
AWF
It's odd, Hem thinks, to be so thoroughly baffled that all the confusion caused by her faulty mental health pales in comparison. (That's how she feels, anyway. Truly feeling mystified and being able to confidently say as much is weird as well, honestly.)
Tom's inexplicable breakdown where he told her he hated her while groping her the same day another Tom possessing her friend's sister's body popped up out of nowhere… has made Hem realise that she needs a break.
So, she takes one. (Which really just means that Hem has opted not to leave the dorm for a few days.)
Unfortunately, she still has to deal with the one in her dreams, but that's more manageable than trying to deal with everything during the day ̶ (class, her friends, Tom being a grabby prat) ̶ and at night ̶ (Tom being a grabby prat) ̶ which has a high chance of causing another episode. (She was doing well, wasn't she?)
Sally-Anne takes it in stride ̶ ("I'll tell Sir Kenelm and the others that you're not dead, then," she says with a flick of her plait) ̶ for the most part ̶ ("You are all right, though, yeah?") ̶ and even convinces one of the house-elves to send food to their dorm during mealtimes. Hem manages to thank her ̶ (why does it have to be so difficult?) ̶ and Sally-Anne smiles as though she's hung the moon.
Hem doesn't deserve to have such a smile directed at her, but she tries to ignore the guilt gnawing on her insides to avoid drowning in her own head again. (It only works a little.)
The ever-present bewilderment helps in that regard, at least, since Tom is still being odd and… clingy. The word suits him. A little too much, really. (He'd hate it if she ever told him, though.) Because something seems to have snapped within him, causing him to touch her insistently even though it doesn't get to the same level of utter desperation and desolation from that first night.
It's always close, though. He might've calmed down somewhat, but he's still on some kind of edge whenever he looks at her; whenever he touches her.
He's doing it, now, actually, and she's still too exhausted to really ask him what the hell is wrong with him.
"Bloody dream physics," Tom mutters to himself as he focuses intently on trying to rub away the marks on her neck. (He doesn't like them in the least.) His attempts do nothing, of course, because he can't do anything physically substantial to her.
(Is that a good thing?)
In a way, it's fortunate for Hem because he would've hurt her as much as he could when they were younger because he's a wanker who feels the need to assert dominance over everything and anything. (Why is she even fond of him?) And she's always known that it's been a source of frustration for him, but she's never expected him wanting to touch her like he has in the past few nights.
Maybe it's a puberty thing. Theia said something about puberty affecting kids like this, right?
Tom elicits a harsh sigh, evidently giving up on removing the marks with his hands when he simply leans down and uses his mouth instead. It feels soft and faintly cold, and Hem is honestly concerned about this entire affair. Tom's never really been all right ̶ (although, in comparison to her, he's at the peak of mental health) ̶ but he could, at least, hide that fact. For the most part.
When she reaches up to touch his hair, the pressure on her neck increases as if he's biting her. He probably is. (It's a peculiar compulsion. She couldn't imagine wanting to bite someone.)
And then it's gone, his forehead resting on her shoulder while he holds her arms like he wants to break them. (Should she be grateful the other Tom is actually fairly gentle with her?) Neither of them speak for a while, Tom likely trying to sort his thoughts ̶ (and failing, because he seems to be doing that a lot as of late) ̶ while she cards her fingers through his hair and wonders what it would feel like in real life.
"Hem," he eventually murmurs, his voice rough and a little broken. (She doesn't know how to feel about it. It stirs something within her chest, at any rate.)
When Hem finally manages to whisper, "Tom," she realises her voice doesn't sound much different. (She knows how she feels about that, at least.)
Tom lifts his head, her fingers brushing against his face as he does so. They find themselves at his jawline, his eyelids drooping as he savours the positioning before he properly looks at her. He's tired and unkempt, but the chaotic energy is still within the depths of his gaze even though it's been rather dampened by recent events.
"You want to feel me, too," he says, then, voice soft as he leans in again, his forehead touching hers. His arms snake around her, pulling her closer until it'd be almost suffocating in normal circumstances. "Don't you?"
(Like what? Like this?)
"I…" The word spills out without Hem's input, so she doesn't know what the rest of the sentence is supposed to be. Tom's grip on her tightens, both a warning and a plea.
"You do, right?" Tom continues, essentially cutting her off as though he's afraid of her answer. "You want to feel my face and my hair and the warmth of my body when I embrace you." Which really just sounds like he's trying to convince himself of that fact. "I can't be the only one, Hem," he adds, kissing her with a gentle sort of obstinance. "I refuse to be."
It's the spiteful part of her that wants to tell him that he is the only one; that his strange desires make no sense to her and that he probably needs to find someone like Kenelm to talk about it with.
It's the pitying ̶ (it's the fond) ̶ part of her that hums ambiguously and kisses him back, if only because it makes him feel better.
The way he tries to crush her in his arms tells her that he's probably aware of that.
. . .
. . .
Hem looks at the calendar hanging on the wall between her and Sally-Anne's beds. The crossed-out dates inform her that she's been holed up in the dorm for six days, giving her the idea that she should probably try to get back into the world before anyone starts making a fuss. Hermione and the others have been sending notes via Munin and Sally-Anne, so she expects their well-wishes to become statements of concern if she doesn't see them soon.
Tuesday is a good day to try as well, since she only has Potions with Gryffindor at eleven thirty for the day. (And her mind has settled, for the most part. Tom is still off, but that's his problem.)
Sally-Anne and the Carrow sisters have already left, so Hem leaves the dorm by herself, her body working on autopilot as it guides her to the common room.
The first thing she hears is, "She's just practice, of course, but I've evidently done so well that she needed a few days to recover," and her brain is, surprisingly, quick enough to tell her that the smug voice belongs to Draco. (It just doesn't give her an idea on who Draco is supposed to be to her.)
As she fully steps into the room, it quietens down, people turning to her with a predatory gleam in their eyes. Draco is sitting at his usual spot, a few students standing around him while she catches his face promptly drain of colour.
Something surfaces from the mire of her mind.
He's talking about her.
(But she doesn't remember him kissing her. He didn't, right? Or does she just not remember?)
Hem blinks at him. It's still quiet aside from a few whispers. (Something's off about that. She feels like someone should be hissing insults at Draco in response to his remarks.) Draco's complexion is looking worse by the second, his eyes averted as though he wasn't expecting her to show up right at this moment.
"Well?" a feminine voice finally says, breaking the silence. It belongs to a girl with amber eyes and auburn hair who's sitting not too far from Draco's left. (A classmate? She can't remember.) "Why aren't you talking to your practice partner, Draco? I thought you had her wrapped around your finger."
"Oh, shut up, Daphne," snaps another girl. (Parkinson. Maybe.) She doesn't seem very happy, her face scrunched up and her arms folded.
Daphne smiles. (It's rather angelic, as if she's not mocking her peer but is genuinely being friendly.) Draco seems to be trying to sink into the furniture.
Hem isn't really sure what's going on, but a curiously large part of her thinks of this as an opportunity. (Draco's implied that he's kissed her before. Does he want to kiss her? And if so, why?)
So, disregarding her surroundings and the rumours it'll inevitably cause ̶ (not that she's ever bothered to care in the first place) ̶ she reaches out to Draco.
Someone gasps dramatically while a few begin to whistle. She thinks she also hears what may be glass aggressively cracking, which is an odd thing to hear at this moment.
Draco blinks rapidly, dumbfounded. His expression has contorted with bewilderment and disbelief even though his body ̶ (apparently unconsciously) ̶ is poised to shoot out of his seat. Then it shifts, uncertainty bleeding into his form for a moment as he warily assesses her.
He's very conspicuous with his emotions. If he wasn't from a 'respectable' ̶ (why is that insincere again?) ̶ pure-blood family like the Malfoys, more people other than just the Perks ̶ (and the Bletchley's by association) ̶ would antagonise him. Theodore ̶ (who?) ̶ is apparently on the same 'respectability,' though, so it would seem he can do what he likes. Maybe Daphne's the same.
"What're you waiting for, Malfoy? She's clearly asking for round two," a masculine voice in the crowd exclaims as someone else wolf-whistles. (What's a wolf whistle?)
That's enough for Draco to finally get up and stride towards her, his chin up and a smirk on his face as he attempts to pull off a self-congratulatory demeanour. His eyes are wavering, though, and he moves towards her with hurried steps as if he's trying to flee from the crowd.
He hesitates for a moment when he finally reaches her, his gaze switching between her face and her hand as though she'll retract it the moment he finally decides to grab it.
She's tempted, honestly. But he grabs it before she can follow through, making the interesting choice of intertwining their fingers as he then leads her somewhere. (The boys dorm?) Behind them, the common room has become rowdy enough that she's glad to leave it. (No one's been mangled yet, so her return could be considered a tentative success.)
Draco's probably the same since she can see the tips of his ears and the back of his neck reddening. (Hem's trying to imagine Tom so flushed, but it's not working.) His palms are sweaty, too, but he's holding her hand like a lifeline. (Is he afraid to let go?)
As if deciding to experiment on its own, her hand squeezes his.
He flinches, making an aborted movement of whipping his head around face her before seemingly thinking better of it and walking faster.
His skin is really red, now. Hem idly wonders if it can get any redder.
. . .
. . .
They make it to the boys dorm, Draco bringing her towards the closest bed before letting her go and hastily moving to close the door behind them. Hem glances down, finding an assortment of obnoxiously expensive items on a polished side table and absurdly shiny sheets and pillowcases on the bed. (Silk?)
It can only be Draco's. Well, maybe not. It's possible it could be someone else's, but, for some reason, she has a strong inclination that it's his.
Hem hears the click of the door lock and a shaky exhale, but her attention is focused on a piece of paper that's peeking out from under a few books. It has a gold edge that she recognises from her sketchbook. (Does he have the same kind?)
When she goes to pull it out, Draco elicits an affronted ̶ (and startled) ̶̶ that prompts her to turn around. She blinks when she finds him leaning against the door with a strained sort of squint, appearing to be both annoyed and afraid.
He's looking by her feet rather than her face. (What is it about her that scares him?)
"You ̶ " he starts, but doesn't finish because the words seem to get stuck in his throat. (She understands.) Hem tilts her head, waiting for him to finish, but he simply glares at the ground in silence. (He's still red. Is he all right?)
Hem reaches out a hand, curious to see if he'll come to her again. (If she thinks about it, she's probably acting rather strange, too. All the Toms have really thrown her off, it would seem.)
He flinches, but otherwise doesn't move. (Somehow, he reminds her of a stray dog.) When her fingers twitch of their own accord, though, he pushes off the door like it's burned him to make his way to her. (Was he expecting her to do something?)
Draco hesitates when he's within arm's reach, a confused and offended frown on his face as he stares at her hand like it's done something nefarious to him. Hem doesn't really know what to think of that, but her body decides to step forward and grab his hand, putting them much closer than before. (Has she ever been this close to him?)
Taken off-guard by their sudden proximity, Draco freezes as his eyes widen with shock and his grip tightens as she takes in the fact that he's taller than her. (She can vaguely feel his breath on her face and she wonders if Tom wishes feel her breath on his face like this.)
"Draco," Hem murmurs, testing the name. (She's said it before, though, hasn't she?) Oddly enough, some kind of ripple travels through him as his breath hitches and his head tilts towards her, his eyes ̶ (coin grey; his pupils are dilated, for some reason) ̶ shaky but locked onto hers as if he's been compelled to do so.
Some kind of high-pitched sound escapes him, which is probably his acknowledgement of her calling his name.
Hem's not sure what to do, now. (She hasn't been sure about any of this, in all honesty.) Her incomprehension towards everything that's happened lately has apparently led her to seeing if all boys are the same as Tom. (In this way, at least. No one's quite like Tom. There's about three versions of him in existence, after all, and who knows if there are more.)
"You're…" she hears herself start. Draco swallows, tense. "A boy."
"I ̶ Yes," is what spills out of his mouth as he blinks in confusion. That's fair. It's fairly obvious. But there's a feeling at the edge of her mind that's telling her she means something more with that particular statement.
"Does that mean… you want to kiss me, too?" Hem forces out, absently realising that his breaths are getting heavier and warmer on her face. His face morphs into a pained grimace. "You claimed you were the one…" The red of his skin is flaring up again as he finally averts his eyes. "Does that… mean you want to touch me, Draco?"
He whimpers, seemingly unable to formulate a proper response.
She wants to know how he'll react if they kiss; if he likes kissing her as much as Tom does. The curiosity is bubbling. (It's a very foreign feeling.) There's a need to understand this particular thing because it's happening to Tom and he's genuinely suffering because of it. Which, in turn, makes her suffer as well. (She already has enough to deal with.)
Hem blows on Draco's cheek ̶ (why?) ̶ which forces him to wince and look at back at her with offence before realising that he turned away for a reason. He tries to look away again, but his gaze is wavering, now, shifting between somewhere to the right, her eyes and her mouth.
Eventually, he builds up enough courage to focus solely on her mouth, his face inching closer. (He doesn't seem to be aware of that, though.)
She waits. (Will it feel the same as when Tom in Ginny's body does?) And then, when their lips are just about to make contact, the door bursts open and Hem wrenches her hand away to pull out her wand. Something in the room shatters, but she doesn't know what.
"What the bloody fuck do ya think you're doing, Malfoy?!" a familiar voice exclaims, blonde hair being the first thing she notices and an enraged, freckled face second. (Sally-Anne. Where did she come from?)
To her right, though, is, strangely enough, a brown-haired ̶ (it doesn't feel right) ̶ girl with a saccharine smile that promises murder. She's also wearing green, but her mind is telling her it should be red.
They make eye contact, then, baby blue irises reminding her of walnut brown and then… it clicks.
"Hem," Tom calls, glancing at a flustered and terrified Draco with obvious hostility as he powerwalks towards her. "Are you all right?"
Sally-Anne wildly swings her wand hand, shouting something unintelligible in her Cockney accent ̶ (she does catch, 'limp dick wanker,' though) ̶ as Draco goes flying backwards onto his bed and bouncing off to the other side.
Hem thinks that even if she might be all right, Draco probably won't be.
AWF
A/N: I have plans, boys, and Draco is not okay. Honestly, no one is. Which leads me to warn you all that things will get darker as we get further into the story because... Tom. Just so you know if you're not okay with all the iffy.
Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.