Author's note: Hi adorable humans, FINALLY another chapter! Gosh, I've been experiencing some strange writer's block lately, partly because I was not home a lot and battled with some minor anxiety. I hope you guys are doing well and are having a nice weekend. Thank you so so much for the support, it means the world!
TW: references to self-harm and depression in the chapter.
February 1944 - Numb
"J'ai parfois eu des pensées suicidaires
Et j'en suis peu fier
On croit parfois que c'est la seule manière de les faire taire
Ces pensées qui nous font vivre un enfer
Ces pensées qui me font vivre un enfer"
- Stromae
The girl was progressing in the darkness, the sound of her footsteps muffled by the puddles of wastewater. The foul smell from the sewers made her nostril flare and she gagged. "What am I searching for?" she asked herself as she brought her hand to her mouth and tucked her nose in her scarf.
"What am I even doing here?"
Annabel turned to the right, her fingers grazing the pipes' concrete. Voices were audible in the distance, hinting that she was close to her destination. A horrifying scream made her blood curdle but her legs kept going, carrying her further into the darkness.
The girl was met with a harsh light when she finally exited the pipe. About thirty Slytherins were massed on the limestone floor of an opening which was surprising large for the school's sewers. All students were facing a rostrum located against the back wall. It mostly looked like a bunch of wooden planks nailed together, yet it seemed sturdy enough to carry the two people who were standing on it.
Annabel recognised the stocky figure of Leonus Nott in the distance. He was facing the crowd with rolled up sleeves despite the coolness of the air.
His entire behaviour betrayed his agitation, as if he was some sort of wild animal in a cage, his movements imbued with brusqueness. He had a rictus as he looked at the boy who climbed down the dais. Annabel assumed he was the one who had yelled, an easy guess for he was injured.
"Who's next?" roared Nott, and someone was already raising their hand.
With wide eyes, Annabel observed the kid who was now covering his mouth with both hands, blood leaking through his fingers. His lower lip was split in two, the flesh red and glowing. He headed towards the sewers, his gait uncertain and Annabel gasped when he stumbled.
Multiple pairs of eyes turned towards her, silently condemning who dared disturbing the show. She ignored the looks though, and watched a tall dark-haired girl join Nott on the stage.
Annabel briskly tucked a few strands of hair behind her ears before she brought a nervous thumb to her mouth. She glanced around once the eyes were back to the front to watch the fight. Some faces were familiar, yet, most remained concealed by the hood of the cloaks they were still wearing. Annabel had not bothered to cover herself up despite her scarf, and the cold and humid air of the sewers made her miss her woollen coat.
Suddenly, the uneasy feeling of being watched made her scan the room. She found the culprit with ease, for he did not bother to look away.
Tom was staring at her, his back against the wall, arms crossed. His looked as detached as usual, yet, Annabel believed she found an ounce of cautiousness in his eyes. Just like if he was expecting her to suddenly start doing something mad…
That very morning, Annabel had attended her DADA class, and just like every day since the Christmas holidays, she was feeling numb, insensate. As if her body was not hers, and neither was her mind. For a few weeks now, she had been operating on automatic mode.
The rational part of her should have known that the promise of marriage was to blame, for it hung over her head like the Damocles sword. Slowly, the trap was closing, and she had no way out.
Because her parents had found her a suitor.
A fairly good-looking lad with strawberry blonde hair and a binational upbringing, just like her. "I've got my American mother's looks but my British father's humour" he had said jokingly as they had gone for a walk in her parents' garden, the man astute and mild-mannered. He was in his mid-twenties, schooled in Durmstrang, almost pure-blood.
"My grandmother was not a witch" he had admitted sheepishly.
The perfect match.
On paper only.
For when the man had taken her hand as they had strolled, when his lips had brushed hers under the pavilion, Annabel had thought that this kiss had only tasted like duty.
So that very morning, once the ringing bell had announced the end of the class, as she had stood up to pack her things, Annabel had heard her friends laugh heartily. It had her wonder: when was the last time that she had felt so carefree?
Mechanically, her feet had brought her to the vivarium that contained the flesh-eating slugs. The next thing she knew, she was about to shove her hand inside the gastropod's gelatinous slime. The little creatures were already convulsing ecstatically, thankful for such providential meal.
Yet the girl was brought up short.
"Don't" had snapped a voice next to her and suddenly, her wrist was being clasped by strong fingers.
"God, Anna" had said the young man with a cautious glance before he had pushed her away from the vivarium. Annabel had watched Tom close the lid of the container while he had peeked at her from over his shoulder.
"If it's a thrill you're after, come fight tonight. But for Merlin's sake Annabel, I swear, you do not want to do something that stupid"
A cheer suddenly interrupted Annabel's thoughts and her eyes moved from Tom to the rostrum where the dark-haired girl was being carried out of the stage on a makeshift stretcher.
"Who's next?" had asked Nott with a sly smile and before she could even realise it, she had raised her hand and moved her lips.
"Me"
—
Tom's back was pressed against the wall, his arms crossed against his chest. He watched pensively Nott destroy the boy on the stage, the latter having at least the merit to distinguish himself with his bravery. Painfully, the kid stood up, his gait uncertain, before he aimed his wand at Nott.
The sudden sound of footsteps drew Tom's attention to the closest pipe. He exchanged a brief glance with Lestrange, who readied himself to sound the alarm in case the unexpected visitor proved to be the school's janitor. Yet, it was a feminine silhouette that exited the sewers.
Tom had no longer believed that she would come.
Her lateness had him think that she had decided to join them rather spontaneously, and he found himself both pleased and troubled by her unexpected presence.
Tom watched Annabel walk towards the crowd, her shoulders slouched, her pace sluggish.
The roar from the crowd informed him that Nott just defeated the boy, and he noticed how the girl's eyes widened at the sight of the injured student. The prefect had not lied when he had said that they did fight dirty and somehow, he had assumed that Annabel would not blemish for a few drops of blood.
Yet, it was with mixed-feelings that he gazed at her, how she tucked her hair behind her ears and began to chew on her finger in that despicable habit of hers.
Her finger…
His stomach churned at the thought of what could have happened if he had not been there that very morning, if he had not intervened and prevented her from losing her hand. He had been so frightened and upset by her behaviour that his own digits had trembled, doing his best to keep himself from cursing her. Only Merlin knew how much he had wanted to knock some common sense into her in that very moment.
He had had enough of her sick behaviour, he thought as he watch her lazily peep around. For since the holidays, the girl was acting odd.
Shortly before Christmas, she had walked out of his bedroom with a proud grin on her face. She had managed to provide him with an accurate translation of the text about Horcruxes, and Tom's heart swelled as the souvenir of that day came back to him.
He remembered how Annabel had been expectantly standing next to the door, grabbing his arm with determination the very moment he had entered his bedroom. "Sit" she had ordered as she had pushed him on the chair once he had come back from his patrolling round before she had bypassed his desk. She had stood there, shooting him puckish glances that had forced a smile out of him. Just like the dutiful student she was, she had recited the translation, parchment in hand and fingers lightly shaking. Oh, how delightful he had found the way she had held herself upright, her voice sweet like honey as she had introduced him to the fruits of her hard labour. Just for him, she had solved the mystery, all devoted she was, and the way she had glanced at him through her lashes that night had given him unholy thoughts.
During the holidays, Tom had racked his brain for another riddle for her to solve, for another reason to request her help once more…
Yet, something had changed. Just like if someone had flicked a switch, the girl he knew had come back from her vacations transformed.
She was now nothing but an empty sheath. Quiet, withdrawn.
Worse, she acted as if she willingly, desperately, was trying to harm herself.
A lump grew in his throat as he remembered how he had seen her stand dangerously close to the edge of the astronomy tower a month ago, when the whole school had gathered up there to watch the solar eclipse. How that day, Annabel had been the only one looking down, staring into the void instead of the disappearing sun…
Tom recalled that other time, when she had been feeding the carnivorous plant during the Herbology class they shared, listlessly throwing the rat between the plant's teeth. She had watched the creature grind the prey without batting an eyelid, her face so close to the jaw that blood had splashed on her cheek. She had not even bothered to wipe off the viscous liquid, exhibiting the stains with an irritating indifference.
The Slytherin repressed a sigh. He had seen enough kids put an end to their own lives at the orphanage to recognise such ominous signs…
Back in November, he had wished for Annabel to join the duelling club to find out what she was worth. Three months later, he only hoped for a wake up call.
And when he finally heard the cheer raise from the crowd, when he saw Annabel raise her hand in response to Nott's query, he found himself surrendering to the urge of stepping in.
"My turn" he issued, his voice low and commanding.
He would fight her.
He would shake Annabel out of her lethargy.
End note: I never said that Tom would make a good therapist.