A/N: Not really my characters or plot, sadly enough.
Chapter 4: Crossing Borders
"So children, how was school?"
"Fine," we answer in unison. Everyday is the same ordeal. Our mother asks us about our day and we answer in cut words. Fine, good, as it always is, and so on. From time to time, we are made to go into details. Tom first, then me. Today, we simply enjoy our dinner in a comfortable silence, until dessert is served and our father comes home. He sits down and tells us about an incident with a patient, speaking in a low voice and showing a grave face; crow's feet around his eyes. Our father is a soft man at heart but often keeps his face strong and unyielding, like showing emotions would make him appear weak. Mother can be the same way, filled to the brink with that semi-senseless pride. Pride in all its glory, I think, but it should never be a priority in matters concerning life and the living.
I feel slightly like a hypocrite upon my thought though, seeing as I myself carry a hecatomb of pride.
As conversation continues, I suddenly hear Tom utter, in that over-sweet voice of his;
"Actually, I think we ought to talk about Hermione's boyfriend."
I could kill him. That evil little fu..
"Boyfriend? What boyfriend Hermione?" Three deep creases plows their way through my mother's forehead.
"No boyfriend. None whatsoever. Tom is just joking." Under the table I poke his thigh with my fork. Not nearly as hard as I ought to do. What is his plan this time I wonder?
"His name is Abraxas. He's in the same class as me," Tom continues. Grabbing the fork under the table, and my hand as well in the process. "And he's very fond of our Hermione."
"Is he now? And how long has he been holding the boyfriend-title?" my mother's voice is sour, like cheap red wine and unripe grapefruit.
"Never. He has never held it mom. Tom's just being an arse."
"Language Hermione."
"Right.. sorry.. Tom's just being a behind."
She sighs overdramatically like some great tragedy has hit us all, while I subtly try to wrestle my hand out of Tom's grip. He's indefatigable and I soon find myself just holding the fork between my sweaty fingers. Still, Tom's hand stays put. After a while, his thumb starts making circulating movements over mine. Gently caressing my thumb and forefinger in a manner that is almost soothing. The table is silent. Tom is sitting on the left side of me and poking at his tiramisu with his left hand. Mother and father are seated across the table, unaware of any discomfort on my part. And I do feel discomfort, Abraxas' words ringing in my head. Nonsense.
"Would you please pass me a napkin Tom?" my little voice then says.
He turns his head fully to meet my eyes and I stare defiantly at him. He lets go of my hand to reach for the napkins and I mumble a thanks as I make a show out of wiping my mouth.
Always keeping my hands above the table.
As I regard my reflection in the mirror, I wonder what in there it is that Abraxas might see that I don't. In my opinion I am perfectly ordinary - nothing worth a second glance really - but then again, it is so hard to be objective when it comes to yourself. Perhaps I have been pretty all this time without knowing it? For I do not think that a boy like Abraxas would like me solely based on my stubborn personality. But then again, I might be surprised..
My hair, which used to be the equivalent of a bird's nest has made peace with gravitation and is now making soft ways down to the curves of my breasts. I have a lithe body and overall small features, but am unmistakably of the female gender. My face though, holds no real charm. Plain brown eyes, a freckle or two spread out over my nose. Nothing out of the ordinary. Without loosing eye-contact with myself, I reach for my hairbrush but find that is it not there where I put it this morning, next to water tap of the sink. Even with my bookworm-status and prissy reputation, I am not an organised person. Often, I just put my things where there is a decent space to be found – a trait that is slowly driving my mother into madness. A missing hairbrush does therefore not surprise me, but going through every space of the bathroom, I am still unable to find it. Annoyed, I look through the mess in my room, checking first and foremost my desk, but nothing. As I walk through the corridor, I pass Tom's room, which is located next to mine. The door is slightly ajar and upon knocking I find it empty. Tom's stuff is in perfect order. I sometimes suspect him of having a light case of OCD.
Hearing the voices of my parents and Tom in the living room, accompanied with the sound of the tele, I take liberties.
There is a minimalistic style to Tom's room. A bookshelf filled with books, a small military-made bed, a desk and a dresser. The dresser holds a couple of frames of us, his family, but other than that, there is no personality to the room.
As I go through the drawers of his desk, I come upon one drawer that is locked. Instantly, I am determined to open it, never wanting a mystery to remain unsolved.
Hairbrush completely forgotten, I go back to the doorway to assure myself that the rest of my family is still seated in front of the tele, I return to the desk, examining the lock to see what kind of method would be best applied. A hairpin might do it, but I never learnt the skill and I am sure that Tom, with his hawk-eyes would notice if I were to leave any scratches. No, I must find the key.
Seeing as Tom is a practical person, the key is most likely to be in the room or on Tom himself. Now, I do not actually think that Tom carries the key on him, as he would be worried about losing it, no, it must be in the room.
Once again, I return to the doorway to reassure myself of the dreaded three remaining stationary. I look through the other drawers again, but finding nothing but notebooks and other various sorts of papers. Feeling brave, I even dare myself to look under the mattress of his bed, careful not to crease the duvet covers. But it is not until I am near giving up, as I hear the increasing sound of the heavy rush of adrenaline pumping through my system, that an idea strikes. After been standing dead-still and looking at the photographs on the dresser, I slowly make my way up to them, carefully as if I am afraid to disturb the peace.
Opening the back of the frame of the four of us - mother, father, Tom and me - I find nothing. The same goes with the other two, but on the fourth and last one, the one holding only me and Tom, I find a key. For a second I stop breathing, regretting the action even before it has been done.
You don't want to know Hermione, a little voice inside me says. Another one preaches about the importance of privacy.
With the click from the key in the lock, I drown the noises.
Carefully I pull out the drawer, casting paranoid looks over my shoulder as I do so.
I do not know what I expected to find, but the contents do disappoint me. A black diary is all there is, with the engravement of T. M. Riddle in gold letters. I vaguely remember it as the diary my father gave Tom three christmases ago.
When I lift it from its place, a hairpin trapped in the last page of the diary falls out and lands within the drawer. It chimes strangely loud in the room. Echoing throughout it.
I randomly open the diary, coming upon a day, dated a week ago. My eyes jump between the words until they settle upon a spot.
"It bothers me. I know it shouldn't - that it never should - but it does. This creature has been brought to life to torture me it would seem.. Invading my every thought, haunting my dreams - and my nightmares too, like the most delicate of ghosts. Hear, hear! – it would seem as if I am attempting poetry! No, I still have my common sense intact, be that on my deathbed.. No, frankly put, I would not waste words on my deathbed, I fuck her into it. Hard."
Feeling weirdly out of breath I close the diary, deciding for now that I don't want to know. I move to lay back the queer thing when the hairpin caughts my attention. It is turquoise with a little star at one end of it. The star is covered with rhinestones, some of which have fallen off. At closer inspection, it is familiar – for it is mine.
Being taking over by a strange calmness, I put the hairpin in between the pages of the diary again, laying it down in its wooden room and pushing the drawer in, shutting it off from the light.
Some things are better remained in the dark.
A/N: Hope you liked it, because my neck did not. Ouch, I say. Ouch.