Chapter:
Lonely Hearts and Jagged Edges
Part Two of Seven
Warnings/tags: Minor angst, mentions of violence, mentions of trauma and abuse.
Jon & Haraella
VI
{This is over. I'm done. Don't message me again.}
Haraella scoffed as she furiously spooned sugar into the awaiting cups, the click of silver on fine china drowned out by the whistling of a stove-top kettle -someone needed to drag her father, Rhaegar, kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. Who used stove top anything anymore?-.
{Just listen.}
Before she could type anymore, the reply came sailing back.
She really had shoved some bees under his bonnet, hadn't she?
{I've heard enough.}
Haraella slapped the spoon down on the table top, the whistling pitching as high as her temper.
{All I said was Big Trouble in Little China Town deserves more recognition. It's a brilliant John Carpenter film.}
{You implied it was better than Halloween, The Thing, They Live and Assault on Precinct 13. I've never witnessed such blasphemy before.}
{There was no implied about it. I said it. There. Big Trouble in Little China Town is the best John Carpenter movie of all time. You have it in writing here, folks.}
{You've gone and lost the plot.}
{Says the bloke who told me to read Stoner. An academic writing about academics, so unexpected. Nothing but posturing on top of pretension. Your judgement is clearly impaired.}
{Pretension? Didn't you say Pale Fire by Nabokov was one of your favourites? I smell a whiff of hypocrisy.}
"Shit."
Haraella cursed as she jostled for the tea towel, lifting the whistling kettle off the stove as the screeching of steam grew deafening.
And yet… Yet she was still smiling.
{You're right. This conversation is done. There's just no hope with some people. I'm out.}
{No, really, I do have to go. I have friends' round, and they've already been waiting twenty minutes for a cuppa. If I loiter anymore they're going to send a search team out for me.}
{Can't have that, can we. Later, then?}
Haraella paused by the fridge, carton of milk left dangling in her hand. She should say no, there will be no later, there will never be any later. She should say I will see you in a fortnight, and we'll, hopefully, spend a few… Pleasant days together, before Haraella hightailed it out and, where, they would never have to speak, see, or hear from the other again.
That was what this was supposed to be about.
I scratch your back, you scratch mine, and then it's never spoke about again.
The whole never part should have nullified any possible laters.
There was a purpose to this madness, and somewhere since yesterday, between not being able to walk properly after a mind-blowing orgasm and waking up to a message sitting in her inbox, that purpose had gotten muddled with talk of books, and movies, and food and anything else that cropped up.
Haraella didn't want to know this stranger.
She didn't need to for a Heat hook-up. Knowing his favourite classic rock band was Whitesnake wouldn't help her get her hands down his jeans, or up his shirt, or tangled in his hair, or wherever else her fingers -and teeth, don't forget teeth, and while she was at it, tongue too- wanted to go exploring. Which, of course, was outrageous in and of itself.
When it came to classic rock, the only answer was Billy Idol, and-
And off point.
Haraella just wanted to get this mess over with, optimistically rid herself of some… Unsavoury thoughts regarding a certain someone, and get… Well, get some.
Lots of some if they were anything like that toe-curling moment on the bed with the-
This was nothing. There would be no later. The only time they should message each other was if their schedules altered, and the plan changed.
And Haraella was going to tell LordCommander998 just that.
{Speak to you later!}
Or not.
Bloody hell.
This was bad.
This was real bad.
{Be good for daddy now.}
A pulse at the crux of her legs, a little tinge of delight promised, and the sloshing of spilt milk.
Haraella glared down at herself in accusation.
"Don't you start. You're what got us into this trouble."
Perhaps he was right.
Perhaps she really had lost the plot if she was standing in a kitchen chatting to her own vagina.
Haraella cursed and stormed for her bedroom.
She was going to have to change her knickers for the fifth time that day.
It was only ten am.
VII
Haraella carried the tray of drinks out the door, down the veranda, and across the green backyard, trailing the snaking granite path to the very back of the gardens where a pitch of decking opened to some iron wrought table and chairs.
She placed the tray squarely in the centre of the table, and then promptly sank down deep in the free seat, slumping.
She waited until they had taken a sip of their drinks before she broke the silence.
"I think I have a daddy kink."
Hermione, who had come baring shortbread and chocolate to visit her friend, spluttered around a mouthful of Earl Grey.
Margaery, Hermione's bonded girlfriend of two years, and a friend of Haraella's for just as long, threw her head back and laughed.
Glaring fiercely, Hermione tried to mop up most of the tea from her shirt with a tissue she plucked from her handbag.
It was a hopeless endeavour.
Tea stains like a bitch.
A shame really, that top really suited Hermione's eyes, and was clearly bought by Margaery.
The brunette had let slipped once how much she enjoyed seeing the other woman dressed in gold.
Haraella would her some money for a new one.
No point ruining others sex lives just because hers was in pieces.
"Harry, you don't just drop that sort of thing as a conversation starter. You gently lead into it."
But then Hermione was beaming a grin that would have put Crookshanks to shame.
"So you did message that redditor, then? Come on, give us details."
Haraella shuffled in her seat.
"He's twenty-eight and has black hair and black eyes."
Hermione blinked at her, and blinked some more, and blinked all over again.
"That was all in the post, Harry. What's his name? Do we know him? London is surprisingly small when it wants to be."
Haraella shrugged.
"He never gave his name, and I didn't tell him mine."
Names meant familiarity.
Familiarity spoiled fantasy.
She couldn't very well moan Jon when, Circe forbid, Greg was messaging her.
Oh… She really hoped he wasn't called Greg.
Or Sherman.
Please give it to me Sherman or Right there Greg didn't quite have the best ring to it.
Then again, nothing sounded as right as a breathless Jon and-
No.
Naughty.
Haraella was not going there.
She was supposed to be getting over this.
A nice name will do.
Any name but Jon.
Margaery cocked a clean, sharp brow.
"Unless talking wasn't what you two did. You are looking a lot better this morning, love. As an Omega myself, I know of only one way to clear the mental fog so close to a Heat."
Hermione, poor Alpha, couldn't quite pick up on the nuance.
"What do you mean not talking? Of course they had to talk, Marg. How else would Harry suspect she had a kink when-… Oh… Oh."
Hermione leant in closer, as far as the table between them let her, voice dropping low, salacious grin firmly in place.
Haraella flushed hard.
"Harry you dark horse, you!"
Haraella waved her hand dismissively.
"It doesn't matter what we talked or didn't talk about, or what I did to my pillow-"
She grimaced.
That didn't need to be said.
Margaery's grin grew, enjoying this far too much for Haraella's liking, as the girl in question rambled on.
"What matters is we talked… after. And this morning. And now… Well, he's nice. Really nice. And I… You see…"
Hermione's smile fell, picking up on what Haraella couldn't get out.
"You obviously like someone."
Haraella's jaw clamped shut.
Hermione wouldn't be deterred.
"Black hair and black eyes are a bit specific for a onetime fuck with no strings attached, Harry. There's preferences, and then theirs a mugshot. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out, for whatever reason, you think this person you have the hots for is out of bounds."
Jon wasn't out of bounds.
He was out in the bloody stratosphere of acceptable longing.
Hermione leant back into her seat, crossing her legs.
"You thought you could get someone to cover for you. However, as you said, this guy is nice, and now you're feeling shitty about using him to fill someone else's shoes."
Haraella huffed and crossed her arms firmly over her chest and did what she did best.
Divert attention from a sore, very sore, topic.
The only way Haraella knew how to deal with distress.
Act as if it didn't exist and hope she could convince everyone else the same.
Pinocchio pretending to be a real boy, that was Haraella Targaryen.
"Third year psychology students always think they're therapists, don't they? Keep your armchair diagnosis of my horrendous psyche for your thesis, where you'll actually get something out of it apart from nightmares."
Hermione was having none of it.
"And Criminal Justice students think locking up the bad guy will solve all societal issues. We'll talk the pitfalls of our occupational choices at a later date, Harry, when I know you aren't trying to use it as a shield. I know you too well by now. I'm right, though, aren't I? It's… It's not Professor Snape is it?"
Haraella promptly choked on her own tongue.
"Snape? Fuckin' Snape?! Our behavioural cognition Professor? No… No. Fuck no. I can't stand him. Snape?!"
Well, Haraella knew now that her voice could reach an octave only heard by canines. The German Sheppard down the way had, in fact, barked back from her lofty tossed exclamation.
Hermione held her hands up in defence.
"You can't blame a girl for guessing! And he does look good brooding. You know, when he scowls in just the right lighting-"
Haraella chuckled dryly.
"Maybe it should be Margaery worrying about what you feel towards dark hair and dark eyes, 'Mione."
"Your poor attempt at turning the tables will not-"
"Girls!"
Both Hermione and Haraella sizzled to a silence at Margaery's intervening huff.
"To play devils advocate, Haraella is right, sweet. It doesn't matter who it is or who it isn't. And, Harry, dear… Hermione only cares. She doesn't mean to judge. No one here is judging anyone, right?"
A nod from Hermione.
"Oh, no, I'm judging. I'm judging real hard."
Margaery scowled.
"Harry, now is not the time for your spectacularly dry wit and maddening charm."
Haraella hunched down, defeated by the kindness of her friends, perhaps kindness she didn't deserve considering the dirty thoughts she had about her brother, arms dropping from her chest to rest on the table.
"Of course I'm not judging. When have I ever judged either of you? Anyone for that matter?"
Margaery stretched across the table, plucking up Haraella's prone hand to clasp between her own, voice soft, hands softer, eyes softest.
"And that's the problem. You never criticise anyone, Haraella. Everything, somehow, someway, ends up being your fault to you. It's endearingly blind of you. You spend too long, and too much, condemning yourself for every choice you make. You never think to look and see that other's around you are doing, and perhaps thinking, much as you are. You've spent so many years believing you were alone that now that is all you can trust. But you're not alone anymore, and not everything is your fault."
A lingering squeeze before Margaery's hands retreated.
"The post, if I'm not mistaken, said; must be between 20-25, lithe, below five-five preferred, and have curly blond hair. The lighter and curlier the better. Must be willing to wear contacts, which I suppose means coloured contacts in this context."
And the pieces all fell together.
"He's using me to scratch his itch. I'm filling in someone else's shoes for him. That's why he never asked for my name neither."
Margaery chuckled.
"Bingo."
Haraella huffed, frustrated with herself, frustrated with this whole thing-
Frustrated in general.
"Then there's no reason to feel like shit. We're in the same bloody boat."
Unexpectedly, she stood from the table.
"And it's not the sixteen hundreds! Omegas aren't put into seclusion anymore! I can do what I want with my own body. I don't have to answer to anyone! If I have any kinks, I have them! If I want to sleep my way through London's social elite, I can bloody well do so! If I want to have a no strings attached Heat hook-up, I can! If it doesn't work out, there's always toys to buy!"
Margaery lifted her teacup high into the air, as if she were toasting a king with a flagon of mead.
"Here! Here!"
Margaery rose.
"Do you know what this means?"
Hermione sighed as if she knew exactly what was coming long before Margaery grinned.
"Shopping!"
Haraella frowned, momentarily faltering.
"Shopping?"
Margaery swept Haraella's form with a keen and clever eye.
"You can't tell me you were going to meet this Lord Commander dressed like that, can you?"
Haraella glanced down at herself.
Her jeans did have one too many holes to be considered a stylistic choice.
And there was that rather prominent coffee stain on her hoody.
But her clothes were soft, worn smooth, and she couldn't bare the thought of wearing anything stiff right then, something that rubbed at her already sensitive skin.
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing now?"
Margaery huffed, and diplomatically side-stepped the perplexed question.
"What did you two do before I came along?"
Haraella grinned.
"Mainly eat a shit tonne of doughnuts and watch reruns of Top Gear."
Margaery bent down and pulled up her handbag, slinging the Italian leather purse over her dainty shoulder.
"There's nothing else for it. We're going shopping, and we're going right now. This is a code red if I ever saw one."
Haraella scowled.
"Wasn't I just finished with my feminist speech about doing what I want with my own body, and not having to fit social's warped standards?"
Margaery shuffled over and braced a kind, but rigid, hand on Haraella's shoulder.
"Exactly, you poor, sweet summer child. Clothes can be power. Trust me on this. When you feel sexy, the whole game changes. You're not doing this for him, or anyone else, you're doing this for you."
A pat, and Margaery was already heading for the back door.
"Come along you two, daylights burning, and I have a feeling we've got our work cut out for us."
Haraella turned to Hermione.
"If you don't marry her, I just might."
And promptly ducked from the soiled tissue thrown at her head.
"You're a scoundrel, Targaryen. A scoundrel."
"Declares the girl who obviously considered fucking Professor Snape at some point. After all this time, you still surprise me Hermione."
VIII
When Margaery Tyrell mentioned clothes shopping, Haraella did not think that involved her standing outside a dressing room in Harrods being swamped with wafer-thin strips of lace, silk, and pretty pink bows.
"I thought we were going clothes shopping?"
Margaery, holding up an almost see-through baby doll -or that's what Margaery said it was called- in red tutted and threw the hanger, and the offending garb, back on the rack behind her.
"No. Red washes you out. Too pale. Makes you look dead. Does nothing for those eyes of yours. Perhaps… Blue? And this is clothes shopping, Harry. When dressing to feel sexy, you start from the bottom up."
Haraella winced, sounding just a little too petulant.
"I like red."
Margaery chuckled.
"Well red doesn't like you… Let's see, blue-"
She held up in front of Haraella a little two-piece number.
Haraella immediately flushed and shook her head.
"Those knickers are thinner than dental floss, Marge. I'd be picking them out my arse all night, and that's not sexy at all."
Margaery shrugged and, again, discarded the piece.
"Blue didn't work anyway. Too cold. You're warm toned… Peach. Let's try peach."
Haraella, desperately, looked to Hermione, who was standing by the rack, watching, bemused.
Bastard.
"Can't you reign in your girlfriend, 'Mione?"
The girl merely smirked back.
"You started this fire; you can wait till it burns out."
A peach number, nothing but criss-crossing loops, was shoved under Haraella's nose.
"Marge, I don't know if you have noticed, and I thank you if you haven't, but there's no way I have the tits to fill that bra. I barely have the nipples for it."
Margaery glowered at her.
"You do have breasts, hidden beneath those appalling sports bras you wear, yes, but you do have them. We just have to find the right approach to show them off… But not this. Peach detracts from that delightful blushing you're always doing. He, whoever he is, will want to see that in full bloom."
How Margaery knew she only wore sports bras was a matter Haraella knew not to question.
Only the ancestors knew how Margaery Tyrell's mind operated most days.
Yet, Haraella tried one last time.
"This is recompense for the Snape comments earlier, isn't it?"
Hermione winked.
"You're god damned right it is. Now shut up and let Marge do her thing, or we're going to be stuck here for hours. She won't let either of us leave until she's found something."
The next thing shoved against Haraella was a bodice, grey, stitched in alluring velvet.
It got thrown away immediately.
"Too conservative and old."
"I liked that one too!"
Margaery turned, ruffling through the stacks, when, low and behold, she pulled one out.
"No accounting for tastes… Oh… Oh, yes! I have it! Red, blue, yellow, pink-… Got ya."
She measured it against Haraella's front and whistled low and long.
"This."
It wasn't too extreme, Haraella would admit. Relatively simple, really. A bralette and a pair of hipsters without too many frills and tassels and straps. The lace, a design of buds in blossom, made the material tantalizingly transparent, but not too blatant that it made the point of wearing underwear redundant.
And it was in green.
Emerald green.
The same shade as her eyes.
Haraella reached out and thumbed the material.
It was soft.
So very soft.
"I don't know…"
Surprisingly, it was Hermione who grumbled.
"What is there not to know? It… Suits, Harry. Really well."
Haraella shambled on the spot.
The bralette had a plunging neckline, and the hipsters would curve up and over her hips and…
"I have… Scars. A lot of scars. Maybe the bodice is a better way to go. You know, cover the sins and all that…-"
Margaery actually slapped her arm.
"Don't be ridiculous! Scars? Harry! Look at me."
Haraella did, slowly.
"You are beautiful. Scars and all. And if this man gets put off by it… Fuck him, and fuck anyone else for it too. This is your skin… Be comfortable in it. Own it."
Margaery's chin tilted proudly.
"Now go in there, try this on, fall in love with it, and let's move onto dresses! I'm thinking small, velvet and black. Oh, I know just who can help!"
Margaery shoved the hanger into her hands, slipped out her phone, began dialling, and was walking away before Haraella could say thank you.
Thank you for saying what no one had else ever said to her before.
"Hello dove! Yes, I need you to come down to Harrods, the one in South Kensington ASAP. We have a situation, and I need your keen eye… You're already in Kensington? Brilliant… You'll be here in five? Ah, yeah, I see. No, it'll be perfect. He can drive us all back. Yeah, yeah, see you soon!"
Nevertheless, Haraella still hesitated from walking into the dressing room.
Hermione pulled the discarded grey bodice from the rack and walked over, holding out the hanger.
"You know, Margaery is right. But if this makes you more comfortable, go for this. This is about you. No one else… But at least try the green one, Harry. You might be surprised."
Haraella filched the grey, nodded, and made her way for the dressing room, Margaery spinning and shouting at her retreating back just before the curtain could be drawn.
"Don't forget to give us a little peak! We'll be back in ten minutes max! We're just popping out for a moment, and then over to the food court for a smoothie!"
Haraella hollered back and slipped the curtain closed.
"Bring me one, please! Cherry!"
IX
Haraella stood staring at herself in the full-length mirror. Margaery, the bitch, was right. The grey just… hung there pathetically.
It did nothing for her breasts, what little she had.
And what it did do to her arse, perhaps the only good feature Haraella had, was almost evil.
And it kept slipping down, drooping pitifully at her waist that wasn't full enough to hold it in place.
Circe, she looked like a child that had broken into her mother's closet.
Not exactly wet dream material.
Haraella cursed as she unzipped and shimmied out of the set, watching as it plopped to the floor woefully.
She would still have to buy the damned thing, certainly. She had tried it on, and store policy, when it came to lingerie, was if it's on at any point, especially anything with panties, it's going home with you.
Going home to burn in the fire pit in the backyard, that is.
She squinted over to the railing of the small dressing room, to the green number dangling tauntingly.
You know what they say?
No risk, no reward.
Worst case scenario, she had a good laugh at how ridiculous she looked.
Or cried.
It really was a fifty-fifty chance.
Haraella snatched it down, turned her back to the mirror, and slipped the lace on.
At least this one fit.
Snug.
And it really was soft, delicate, like downy lashes brushing against her skin.
Taking a deep breath, Haraella spun on her heel and faced herself.
You could still see her scars.
Lace couldn't magically erase years of abuse.
The jagged slice over one of her breasts, right over her heart, still pink even five years later, where Tom Riddle had -briefly- killed her that one time, and the dots from the staples of her subsequent life-saving heart surgery.
The fang marks on her forearm, from the anaconda he had set on her when she was twelve.
The scarlet oval on her sternum from the locket Tom had burned her with, branding an S upon her skin.
The blotches on her hand from the bite that European wolf spider gave her in a maze she had been forced to run through in the dead of night.
The carve across her other arm, from elbow to wrist, given by a toothed blade after that time she was tortured in a graveyard next to the body of a dead classmate.
Yeah, those were still there, as the memories they symbolized always would be.
But they weren't the only things there.
She was more than the marks upon her skin.
The bralette clung to her flesh, and while it didn't miraculously turn her A cup to a D, it did make them appear like breasts, for once, and not a washboard.
Perky Margaery would call them, Haraella thought.
The hipsters themselves sat just right on her hips, made her legs appear impossibly long and dipped precisely into her waist, and cupped her just so to make her silhouette curve enticingly.
Haraella stretched up and pulled the elastic from her hair.
The silver curls fluttered down her back, dancing, as Haraella twisted about her reflection.
She looked… Good.
Hot, one might say.
Sexy, Margaery would insist.
And she felt it too.
She felt comfortable, and sexy, and powerful.
Scars and all.
Possibly there really was something to this fashion thing after all.
Lace could be armour.
Lace could be liberating.
Haraella beamed, chuckled, and made for the curtain, grasping it in a firm grip before she unceremoniously yanked it open.
"Ta-da!"
Between the second of striking what she hoped was a coquettish pose, and seeing what was on the other side of the curtain, Haraella nearly had a brain aneurism.
Margaery wasn't there, neither was Hermione, or whoever Margaery had invited along to their trip -Sansa, it must have been Sansa, she should have realized it was fucking Sansa Stark-, even though they had said they would only be ten minutes max, and Haraella had spent at best fifteen faffing about with that grey monstrosity trying to get it to look good.
Indeed, there was only one person present, sitting on the round bench before the dressing rooms, resting elbow on knees in that bloody grey oxford shirt and too-tight slacks, staring dead at her, perhaps looking as startled as Haraella was feeling.
Jon.
X
Haraella jerked the curtain closed, disappearing behind the heavy fabric, yelping, heart bursting to a mile-a-minute sprint.
"What the fuck are you doing here?!"
Silence.
"What-"
His voice was unusually low, dangerously low, bordering on the line between deep and those rumoured Alpha commands, before he coughed vigorously and attempted to converse in an acceptable manner again.
"Sansa got a call from that Tyrell girl. I was already over visiting Robb and Theon and said I would drive her over and then take everyone home once she was done. What in the name of the seven are you doing wearing something like that?!"
The question, and the disbelieving tenor, part-lost semi-despairing, rubbed Haraella the wrong way for all the wrong reasons.
She may predominately run around in sneakers and jerseys, and she may not be a six-foot runway model, but she wasn't that god awful that the prospect of her in anything other than a paper bag should bring such obvious irritation and disgust.
"What do you mean you? News flash, I'm a girl too!"
"That's not-"
"And I can wear pretty things if and when I want to!"
"I didn't-"
"And you shouldn't be here, anyway! This is a girls shopping trip, and unless you've gone and grown a pair of tits then-"
"If I knew you where here I wouldn't have fucking come at all!"
That… That hit home.
That made Haraella quiet.
That… Hurt.
It shouldn't have been surprising, obviously, Haraella told herself.
She knew Jon didn't like her, could barely stand her presence, woke up hours before anyone else and fled the home before she had even showered.
Yet, it was one thing suspecting something, and the other to have it thrown completely in your face.
It was for the best, certainly.
However, that didn't make any of this hurt any less.
Finally, Haraella let go of the curtain, swivelled, and began tugging off the lingerie, swiftly eager to get it off her, to get those dreams of being something pretty, something loved, as far away from herself as possible, shirking on her own clothes.
Morgana, why did she ever think this was a good idea?
That she was capable of being anything but… This.
Tatty, obnoxious Haraella.
A creeping sigh from outside.
"Haraella, that didn't come out right and-"
"Don't. I get it. Just… Forget it."
"Haraella-"
She fell out the dressing room, and stoutly refused to look anywhere near Jon.
"I'm going home. Tell the other's I'll see them at some point."
Jon didn't even try to stand up from the bench.
"Don't be stupid. Just give me a… Moment and I'll drive-"
Haraella didn't slow down. She needed to get out of there. She needed to get far, far, far away.
"Don't bother."
A hand wrapped around her wrist, searing through the wool of her hoody, tugging her to a stop.
How he had managed to move so fast was beyond her.
How he, an Alpha, had done so without making a single fucking noise was disconcerting to say the least.
"You can't possibly go swanning around the underground smelling like that."
Haraella snatched her wrist free from the grip, the touch that clouded her brain, and she whirled, snarling.
The sound that came roaring out her chest was something animalistic, savage rather, wounded absolutely.
"So not only am I ugly and stupid, but I also now stink to high heaven, is that it?"
Because there was no way he could smell anything on her, not with how much scent blocker she had bathed herself in before even contemplating venturing outside her father's house, and so it must have been a jab, yet another one, just for the sake of being petty and mean and bloody Jon Targaryen.
Jon scoffed at her.
Actually scoffed.
"Why do you have to be so fucking defensive all the time!"
Haraella exploded, grabbing him by his perfectly pressed oxford shirt, and shoving hard.
Jon barely stumbled back a step.
"You self-righteous prick! Defensive? I'm not the one who sneers every time you enter the room! I'm not the one who refused to come home because you were there! I'm not the one who locks my bloody bedroom door as if I'm afraid you're going to come crawling in through the night and smother me in my sleep!"
Haraella laughed humourlessly.
"I have tried! I tried to be nice. I tried to be kind. When that didn't fucking work, I tried making myself scarce at school so you could come visit your parents. I tried giving you space, because obviously you can't stand the very sight of me!"
She held her hands up, defeated.
"And I get it, alright?! I'm a tosser! I'm too loud, and I'm too mouthy, and I keep eating all the cheese in the fridge! I know I'm not a very likable person! This isn't news to me! The long line of foster parents who sent me packing back to the orphanage made that point very, very fucking clear! But you dare stand there and ask me why I'm so defensive when all you've ever done is be leery of me?!"
Jon righted himself, and gazed long and hard at her.
When he spoke it was quiet, subdued, sad.
"You don't remember, do you?"
Haraella gaped blankly.
"Remember what? I haven't done anything! That's the point! I haven't done anything, and you still hate me!"
All those dreams, all those fantasies, all those naughty little thoughts that came fluttering through her head at night when she was alone and couldn't drown them out, and not once, not ever, had Haraella acted on them -as she definitely, absolutely, positively shouldn't, she's not asking for a gold star for being a functioning decent fucking human-.
Haraella could understand Jon hating her if she had.
Merlin, she hated herself for just having them.
But she had tried so hard, for so long, and they weren't a divorced couple. Rhaegar, Lyanna, Elia, Aegon and Rhaenys weren't their kids. They shouldn't have to split visitation rights, Haraella having them on weekdays and Jon on weekends, and that tense hour where they handed them over to the other.
Do you know how unsettling it is to have a birthday party, and have someone walk in, spot you, and then walk right on out again?
Haraella did.
And it stung, stung more than it should have, more so perhaps because she had tried so hard to fit into this family, tried so hard to be-
To be good.
To be something worth finding and taking in.
To be… Worthy of a family that stayed longer than a week.
Jon didn't even have the notion of knowing her to hate her as he did. That, too, she could understand. She put pineapple on pizza, and she always forgot to switch out used toilet rolls, and, worst of all, she squeezed the toothpaste tube rather than rolling, all hate worthy crimes according to BuzzFeed.
If he hated her for that, she could get it.
She wasn't a very likable person.
Jon didn't answer. He simply reached into his pockets, pulled out his car keys, and threw them at her.
She snatched them out the air on reflex.
"Go buy your… Things and wait in the car. Me and you need to talk. I'll find Sansa and your friends; Robb can pick them up in twenty."
He gave her no chance to decline the not so gracious offer before he was marching away.
XI
For a majority of the ride home in Jon's SUV, they didn't, in truth, talk. Haraella mainly stayed close to her window, rolled all the way down -the only way she was going to survive sitting so close to Jon in a car-, cramped right up to the door, and Jon stayed focused on the road ahead, hands at two and six, and gaze somewhere else further away than the end of the street.
Until he broke their timid calm with a question right out of left field.
"Do you remember the first time you met the family?"
Haraella turned away from the window, fingers stopping their mindless picking of the holes in her jeans.
It seemed there were to be other more dangerous things to be picked apart in that car that evening.
"It was just a few weeks after I got out the hospital after my surgery. Rhaegar, Lyanna, Elia, Aegon and Rhaenys came to the Burrow where I was staying until the wound closed fully."
The, without you, didn't need to be said.
It still hung heavy between them though.
Unsaid things could do that.
Linger.
Jon stared dead ahead, out the windshield, the passing lights of turning on lampposts dipping his face in shades and fairy lights.
"No. We met before that, actually."
Before that?
No.
Haraella had never-
Jon carried on.
"We visited you in the hospital, where that case worker said you would be after Dad caught up with Social Services. You'd just gotten out the operating room by the time we arrived in the Intensive Care Unit. Mum was a mess and Elia was crying and-… I remember seeing you there. You looked so small beneath the starched sheets and tubes… So many tubes…"
He shook his head as if he, too, was shaking his thoughts loose, turning left on the road that would lead to home.
"The doctor's said you weren't going to wake up for a few days. Major surgery like that could keep a person under for a week in some cases, and they weren't sure you were going to wake up at all-... Maybe they used too little anaesthetic, maybe it was a bad batch, maybe you simply burned through it too fast."
Haraella didn't remember much of her time in the Intensive Care Unit.
Previously, she had thought that was a blessing. What she did remember of those murky weeks battling for her life under ducts and wires and the beeping of a ventilator were… Painful.
Shots of awareness, flashing lights that blinded, murmuring voices speaking gibberish she couldn't understand smothered in meds and pain, so much pain, a chest made of fire and fury-
She didn't remember much, but what she did remember was enough.
"You woke up while we were in the room one day, and you took one look at me, right at me… And you lost it."
The indicator clicked with the beats of her heart.
"Tom, you kept saying. Get away, Tom. You… You took one look at me and you thought I was that… You saw…"
Haraella could hear him swallow from the other side of the cab.
"It took three nurses to pin you back down so the forth could inject you with a sedative. I… Didn't come to the hospital again. We couldn't risk you pulling stitches and opening your chest cavity back up."
He laughed.
There was no humour there.
"I suppose it just became habit after that. I didn't want to cause… I know how trauma can… I just… Wanted you to feel safe. I wanted you to feel at home. I didn't want you looking over your shoulder and seeing Tom-… To do that, it seemed I needed to take a step back. So I took it."
And all of a sudden it made a horribly, sad, depressing sort of sense.
What a couple of bloody idiots they made.
She thinking he hated her, he thinking she hated him, and somewhere in the middle, a broken pair of eyes.
After a slow tick of an unseen clock, Haraella answered.
"I wear glasses."
From the corner of her eye, she saw Jon frown as he dared a fleeting look her way before snapping that dark gaze back to the road ahead.
A bumpy road, Haraella thought.
In more ways than one.
"No you don't."
Haraella snickered.
"I don't anymore. Not after Dudley blinded me and left me stranded in the middle of a highwa-… I wear these now."
Reaching up, she ran the pad of her finger across her eye, a sweep and a slip, pulled the finger out, and held it out between them.
A small see-through disk was perched on the tip.
Jon stole another glance.
"Contacts?"
Pushing it back into her eye so she could actually see, Haraella blinked furiously and nodded.
"Yeah. I have really bad eyesight. Barely better than a mole rat, really. Without these, or my glasses, all I can see are vague, coloured blobs. It's how, when… Tom… When he… Attacked for the last time… It's uh… It's how he got the upper hand. He waited until night-time. When I was sleeping. When I didn't have my contacts in and… Well."
Haraella didn't typically speak about that night.
She generally didn't voice anything when it came to Tom Riddle.
Hermione called it dissociative denial. Haraella refuted that ardently.
She just didn't want to linger in the past, with ghosts she never wanted to see again.
But she was trying.
She had not lied about that.
Jon's hands stiffened on the driving wheel, knuckles bleeding white.
"You didn't have them coming in or out of surgery. All you saw that day was black hair and pale skin. The last thing you remembered would have been…"
Haraella sagged back into her seat, as Jon pulled into the last stretch to home.
"Tom. I remember… Tom, above me, knife raised as he pinned me to the floor and-… I don't remember how I got the knife from him. Hermione said I had pulled it from my own chest and-… I don't remember when or how it got into his own. I just…"
Jon pulled into their driveway and killed the engine.
"Remember him raising it, and the next moment you're awake, you see me looming in the corner of the room."
Haraella nodded.
Jon's head thunked against the headrest of his seat, as he scoured a hand down his abruptly tired face.
"I've made a right mess of things."
Haraella shrugged.
"Maybe not as much as I have too."
Because Jon was right too. Haraella was defensive. It was her default mode of operation. She didn't… Communicate well. Couldn't imagine a time, place, or person where they wanted to know anything about her, and so she just… Didn't give much unless directly asked, and even then, she would bluster and divert and joke.
If, perhaps years ago, she had let slip, told anyone, out rightly, that she wore glasses, wore contacts, then-
But Tom Riddle had known, and Tom Riddle had used that against her, and for something, vision problems, that sixty-four percent of the population had in some form, it became something else to guard, to protect, to not let anyone peak.
This was all her fault for being a headcase and-
Everything, somehow, someway, ends up being your fault to you.
That's what Margaery had said, wasn't it?
That's what people don't tell you about dealing with the trauma left behind by your abuser.
Their actions didn't end when they ended.
They remained.
They infected.
They didn't just hurt you once, twice, thrice. They hurt you for a lifetime. In the ways you interacted with those around you. In the ways you felt unsafe in your own home. In the ways you saw relationships, and love, and laughter. In the very way you saw the world.
In the way you leapt to the worst possible conclusion of a distant brother hating the mere thought of you because that's what Tom had taught you.
You only deserve the worst.
But she didn't deserve the worst.
Haraella wasn't perfect, this whole mess had shown just that, but she wasn't what Tom had seen her as either.
There was hope.
The first step was awareness, knowing your own code of behaviour, your own ticks and tricks and tell-tale thoughts.
This wasn't her fault. Not all of it.
Tom Riddle hadn't been her fault either, despite the immense guilt she still awoke with most days when she dreamed of her mother Lily, and wondered about the life she could have had had Haraella never been born.
Somethings are just… Shitty.
Bad things happen.
Sometimes trauma wasn't as pretty as the T.V made it out to be.
Sometimes it had real consequences, such as hiding stupid things from people who you know, you know, care about you on the far-off chance it was somehow weaponized against you once again.
As Haraella's vision issues had once been weaponized.
"We make quite the pair."
The porch light of the house came flickering on, Lyanna in a dress robe peeking out the door, smiling wide as she saw the car in the driveway.
"Are you two coming in or what?"
Haraella turned to Jon.
"You staying for tea?"
It was the most she could give, but at least she was giving something. That was a step in the right direction. The most she dared to in that moment.
The start over? was indicated.
Jon pulled the keys from the engine and smiled over at her.
"Wouldn't miss it."
A.N: No smut this chapter, only much needed set up, but it comes barrelling in like Miley Cyrus on a wrecking ball next part, and pretty much stays for the rest. So buckle up! Hope you all liked this chapter!
BIG NEWS!
I have a poll up on my profile about which short story/One shot you guys want next with a few little synopsis's I've cooked up (The promised Oberyn one is coming, it's just taking a bit longer than expected). If you can, please go and vote on it. The voting closes Monday 15th February. If you are not logged in, or are on guest, or would simply just prefer to vote by PM or Review, please do, and here are the options:
Cowboys and Carnivores: Sent packing to live with her estranged grandfather and grandmother during the summer after getting into one too many fist fights, Haraella Targaryen tries desperately to adapt to countryside life, where the days are long, the sun is hot, and her cousin and uncle, Jon and Daeron, ride shirtless on horseback. There's definitely something not quite right about the Valyrian Ranch, and she's going to get to the bottom of it. Jon/Haraella/Daeron. Werewolf AU.
Laundry Liaisons: When Haraella accidentally picks up the wrong dry cleaning from the laundromat, so begins a spiral down into what could only be called madness. With nothing but the faint scent left on the sheets, and the V.T signed tag on the bag, Haraella is determined to find the man they once belonged to, and maybe with him the answers of why he smelled like home. Haraella/Viserys. ABO AU
Cat o' Nine Tails: Viserys Targaryen and his nephew, Aegon, are sent out on a hit. The only thing they know of their target is their street name: Cat o' Nine Tails. Whoever the lad is, he's causing big trouble for the Targaryen Crime syndicate, emptying bank accounts, busting their operative's jaws, and tipping off police to their shipping containers full of illegal merchandise. Yet, no matter what they do the boy always seems ten steps ahead. Viserys/Haraella/Aegon. Mafia AU.
Soot-Stained Kisses: Called into the Valyrian Dragon reserve to uncover how Poachers are getting in and out of the highly guarded Dragon park, Auror Haraella Targaryen reconnects with her family roots, and her old childhood friend and cousin Rhaegar Targaryen. Rhaegar/Haraella. Magical AU.
Shangri La: On the hunt for a mythical treasure that is rumoured to bring the dead back to life, Haraella Targaryen's research led her to hiring a motley crew of experts. A pirate, a blacksmith, a flowery knight, and a cantankerous dog set sail on the seven seas, beginning a journey no man had ever returned from. Aurane Waters/Haraella. Indiana Jones AU.
Handcuff Hours: Robb Stark arrests a foulmouthed, hot-tempered, vicious little thing after unrest breaks out at the local bar. Someone should have really told him that Haraella Targaryen was the new Detective on the scene before he tried booking her down at the precinct. Robb/Haraella. Police AU.
Bookstore Brawl: Haraella Targaryen inherits an old occult bookstore known as Hogwarts from a kindly neighbour called Dumbledore. Everything would be perfect if only the other bookshop across the way, The Rock, wasn't run by the most annoying man she had ever had the misfortune of meeting, Jaime Lannister. This clearly means war. Jaime/Haraella. Bookstore AU
You have the option of up to two votes (So two stories), and the one with the most votes will be the next story, the second place will be the one after that and so on.
Hope you guys are looking forward to what's in store, and please don't forget to help a girl out and go vote! Hopefully I will see you all soon! ~AlwaysEatTheRude21
