A/N: Not really my characters or plot, sadly enough.

Chapter 5: While My Guitar Gently Weeps

Who is it?
That is the nagging question that has kept me rolling restlessy in my bed throughout the night. Who is it that keeps Tom restless at night? That he wishes, as he so bluntly put it, to fuck on his deathbed. My head spins rapidly and my high pulse can't seem to find a glimmer of rest. It is not like I am totally oblivious.. I have my theories. That does not make the lines in which those theories run in more acceptable though. It was your hairpin Hermione. Yours. You.
No.
I shake my head vigorously, feeling my neck spur in the process. It isn't so. I'm his sister. Just the idea of it is mental. We may not share the same blood, but we have shared an entire upbringing together. We have shared parents, vacations, dinner, even clothes.. all those innocent pleasures that comes with being a family. At the word "pleasure" I shiver. Pleasure should be a word of innocence when connected to your family at least. Having thought too hard about this, I hold on to the consolation that there isn't a name. That when I looked through Tom's diary, I did never make out a name. It could be anyone for all I know.. Maybe I will share a laugh with myself over this in the end.
But the need is clear. I must go back. I must cross the threshold to anxiety again and look through the damned book until I find a name that can put my worry to rest.
Some things might be better left in the dark, but help me, for I am aware of the moving shadows in there and they keep me up at night.
I need to know if the shadow is a dog or a wolf.

At breakfast I can scarcely breathe. Mother always insists on us eating breakfast together and I am afraid that an early leaving on my part, would arouse unnecessary attention. As protection, I have brought a book, one which I can use as a refuge and escape into if necessary. My mother is reading one part of the newspaper and my brother another.
I study the little black ants on the yellowed paper. It will soon make sense again, I comfort myself.
When I look up to stir my tea, I accidentally lock gaze with Tom.
He is looking at me intently. Curiously almost.
He knows, I think, encaptivated by the sound of my heart, beating faster and faster, while simultaneously trying to climb up my throat. He knows I went through his things.
He is going to kill me.
The notion is ridiculous, but in the moment I believe it. For I have never been as afraid of Tom as I am during that second. I have never even feared him before! The second our eyes meet and I can almost read his thoughts through the apple of his eyes. Through those black holes he is silently telling me that he knows, that he knows what I have been up to, that he will punish me for it.
After that second has passed, I feel silly and I find myself blushing as I look down at my toast. This is Tom we're talking about. Not some random stranger. You're brother, Tom.
Still, a part of me wants to cry, like the relief of it all will kill that tension.

"I'm going," I say as I tuck my book under my arm and take my plate.

"Wait Hermione." Tom's voice stops me. I turn around.

His face reveals nothing, not an emotion, not a thought. Who is this person?

"You forgot your mug," he says, pointing with his fork towards said object.

"Thanks," I say, quickly grabbing it and making for the kitchen.

After school I hurry home, not wanting to be accompanied by a certain individual. But my worry is unfounded, for halfway home, I get a text from Tom telling me not to wait for him and that he going out with Bella today. One problem less in the world it would seem. With earbuds plugged into my ears, I let the music drown all my thoughts, in preparation to later be buried by them. Singing along to "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" by The Beatles, I skip home, allowing myself to feel unburdened.
The house appears empty when I arrive. Just like I want it. I decide to act fast, pulling out my earbuds, but still singing along. I don't know how you were diverted.. "Hello!" I scream in the hall, in case someone is home - no one answers. ..you were perverted too.. I put down my bag and hang up my coat. ..I don't know how you were inverted.. and then I run swiftly up the stairs. ..no one alerted you.

The fact that I find Tom's key lying within the same frame as last time, diminish my concern of him having found out about my snopping through his stuff. Nervous, I open the drawer, finding the diary to be in the same place as it was yesterday also. It still does not quell my nervosity, I can feel those butterflies - or is it woodlouses? – tumbling around my belly.
There is no new note so I go a bit further back, searching for a name. Soon I conclude it to be impossible as Tom refers to every person only by one letter. But reading through the content should lead me to an answer – still I am not sure I want to know it.

Dated two months ago.

"I have a new addiction concerning S, or tendency if you will. Whenever she bathes or showers, I stand outside the door, listening to the stream of water, the little moans of pleasure that escapes her delicious mouth and the faint sound of her voice, humming in unfamiliar tunes. It comforts me as well as excites me.
I picture myself in there with her. Fucking her up against the tile, while mother is outside the door. Her body is wet and soapy and I have my hand in her mouth to stop her from screaming. Not over her mouth, but in, and she bites me, hard, so she won't scream. And I have my nose pressed into her neck, her beautiful, slender neck, and mumble soothing words against her skin, that vanilla-scented skin. I tell her that she must calm herself or mother will hear. I tell her that while my thumb brushes over her clit and she whimpers desperately, close to tears. Tears of pleasure or the tears of the pain that comes with holding back. There's no telling. My voice edges her on and so does the thrill of almost being caught. Behave, I tell her, and her dark, watery eyes meets mine and she pleads with me, silently. Fuck me, they say, please fuck me Tom. And I obey, because I'm not able to deny her anything.

The thoughts I have about her should fill with me shame. I am almost worried by the fact that they don't.
Almost.
Usually, I go into the bathroom after her, just so I can linger in the after-presence of her showering. Then I wank to the smell of her vanilla-scented shower gel. That's how depraved I have become. I almost cried of joy the first time I found this outlet for my.. whatever this is. When I by accident walked by the bathroom while she was showering and I heard her moan. In my mind, her hand was between her legs and she was thinking of me. Like I'm always thinking of her."

Even though the name is not there, there is no question as to whom Tom is referring to. Me. It can only be me. Only me that he can have that kind of access to – unless he has taken to breaking into other houses and listening to women showering. It is the alternative that makes most sense, sadly. But S.. S can stand for anything. Anything and nothing.
My gaze fastens on the apple-tree in our garden, which never found its source of love and has become tiny and weak in the process.
I am repulsed. There is no other word for it. It is sick. Sick sick sick.
A big part of me still denies it and I am eager to let the rest of me agree with that part.
There is still hope. There is no name. It might not be you. There is always the possibility of you being wrong.
But I am so rarely wrong.

I hear the front door open and I quickly put the book back, locking the drawer, before leaving the key and running into my own room.

"Hermione?" I hear my father shout.

I ignore him and let my face collide with the soft pillow on my bed. It smells of vanilla.
And it is not until there, on safe ground with my door closed, that I allow myself to cry.

A/N: We are moving forward people. I just like a slow build-up. Also, out of the four Beatles, I would so pick George. There. I've said it. Wanna fight about it?