Chapter Text
CHAPTER XXXI:
Hermione's POV:
Hermione looked across at the three Slytherins, having managed to get her expression back under control. Their... support had taken her off guard. As had their firm, if somewhat embarrassed on the boys' part, declaration of friendship.
They were right when they said that before she met Harry she had been alone. She had loved Sting– she still did; she owed him her life, after all– but what they had was complicated, and while she possessed various degrees of fondness towards the other crew members those friendships were ones born out of sheer necessity brought along by a shared set of circumstances.
Of course, she could also point out to herself that her friendship with Harry had started from a shared set of circumstances– and the friendship with Tom had started out of necessity. But both of those friendships had grown into something more then any of her other friendships had; something that could almost be called... love.
Urgh. Using that word always made her feel so uncomfortable and self-conscious.
But back to her year mates... she'd always appreciated the companionship she'd shared with the boys, Tracey and Daphne. Even Greg and Vince on a good day. She just hadn't been prepared for the declaration of a friendship she still wasn't sure she understood.
Oh, she knew the definitions of course; friendship was a state of mutual trust and support between allies, a friend was a person with whom one has a bond of mutual affection. Logically, she understood what it meant perfectly, but... well, was just more used to friendship having more, er, mutual benefits for each party where everyone in a friendship gained something obviously useful from the other.
From Sting she'd gained back-up, a teacher, a mentor and a brother. In return, she'd always given him a share of whatever 'profit' she'd made and, later, the benefits of her magic during winters, before she actually knew what magic really was and just thought it was some sort of odd genetic mutation.
What she shared with Harry and Tom, it was more then friendship; it was a whole separate category of relationship entirely, as relationships often were when sex entered the equation– sex and, in this case, love. Urgh.
A friendship where all that was required was for a person to just be themselves seemed so foreign to her and left her hiding her confusion behind a mask as she tried not to stare at the three Slytherins.
By the knowing look in Daphne's sky-blue eyes, she was fairly certain she wasn't as successful as she'd hoped, or maybe the pretty young woman's intuition was sharper then she'd originally thought. Daphne truly was surprising her today– all three of them were.
"Well, now that I'm no longer in need of a strong calming draught, I can inform you, Harry, that mother is planning you a birthday party." Draco announced. "Your attendance, of course, is expected. Hermione's too."
Hermione couldn't help her smirk of amusement as Harry visibly blanched. "What?" He practically squeaked, his green eyes, not hidden at all by glasses, wide and horrified.
"Oh don't be a baby," Draco scoffed, expression haughty. "You know that mother adores you and Hermione, what were you expecting?"
"I wasn't expecting a birthday party!"
"It's not even going to be a big event," sniffed the blond, "friends and family only– and, of course, the family of said friends."
"My parents look forward to formally meeting you both," Daphne said, with a pretty, prim smile. "Astoria too."
"I've met her already," Harry said weakly, looking overwhelmed by the forcefulness of Daphne's sugar-sweet smile and the steel in Draco's eyes that very clearly stated he was going to be at that party– or else.
"Give up, mate," Blaise advised, before giving a wicked grin of his own. "Madre wants to meet you both, too. And Madre always gets her way– ask any of her six ex-husbands."
"They're all dead." Hermione pointed out. Blaise's grin widened further and his teeth were very white against his dark skin.
"Exactly."
"But– but–" Harry looked like a baby deer in headlights as he turned from one unsympathetic face to the next and Hermione tried not to look so amused. Draco pointed his finger threateningly at Harry.
"No. Buts." He glowered.
"Fine." Harry slumped, defeated.
"What about you, Hermione?" Asked Blaise, turning to face her, a single eyebrow arched. "When is your birthday? You've never told us."
"I know," she said, with a lazy smile. "And you missed it. I'm fifteen."
Well, she wasn't technically fifteen, not yet anyway. She vaguely remembered her actual date of birth being around mid-September but she'd never bothered to confirm it; birthdays had never been a big deal to her and there had been no individual birthday events at the orphanage– the nuns thought it bred entitlement– so when Sting had suggested picking a new date to go with her new name she'd agreed and had lived by it for the past almost nine years. She'd just never really celebrated it– Sting had been the only one who'd even known and it wasn't like it was her real date of birth. It was just another day to survive.
"How are we supposed to buy you birthday presents if you won't tell us when your birthday is?" complained Draco.
"Just combine them with my Christmas present," she suggested with a careless shrug.
"Why won't you tell us?" Draco demanded, with a pout. Hermione just shrugged again.
"It's just not important. I don't celebrate my birthday." She said and Draco huffed.
"Fine," he grumbled. "Harry, Hermione, you're expected at the Manor the day before Harry's birthday."
"If we must." Harry sighed theatrically and Draco turned his pout to Harry instead and she laughed.
-
"That was surprisingly decent of Abraxas's grandson, warning you like that." Tom mused.
They'd parted ways with the other three, heading back towards the shopping district of Diagon Alley while Draco, Blaise and Daphne used the private Floo in Matrona to return back to their various Manors, Villas and Chateaus.
"Draco's not a bad sort," Harry immediately defended the blond, like Hermione knew he would– if Harry could be considered one thing in this world, it was loyal to his friends and his loved ones.
"It's his mother's influence, then," Tom said, smirking lightly. "The only thing Abraxas cared about more then himself was his money and his reputation, and according to my older and less handsome self, Abraxas's son Lucius is cut from the same mulberry silk cloth."
"Draco might be a spoiled git at times– well, most of the time– but he still cares." Harry said simply and Tom inclined his head in agreement, conceding to the point. Harry's mouth turned up in an embarrassed smile. "I've never had a birthday party before," he admitted. "It's... it's really nice of Narcissa plan one for me. It makes me feel bad that Voldemort hasn't let Bellatrix contact her to say that she's alright. She must be so worried for her sister ever since she heard about the breakout."
"Dumbledore's people are keeping a close eye on the Malfoys since the break out," Tom reminded him sharply, a warning in his voice. Hermione's lips tightened, discomfort making her stomach twinge.
Living with Voldemort, it was far too easy sometimes to forget just who he really was– when she saw him in the mornings sipping his coffee while scowling at the morning paper it was hard to remember he was the same man who'd had a nation cower before him, that people were still too terrified to even speak his name and they thought he'd been dead for over a decade, difficult to even reconcile him with the same man who had so casually tortured one of the very Death Eaters he'd broken out of Azkaban with the Cruciatus simply because the Death Eater had tried to write to his wife when Voldemort had given them all strict instructions not to contact anyone outside the Manor.
Do not upset him, Tom was warning Harry. Do not forget who he is.
Message received, Hermione thought grimly as Harry ducked his head.
"I want to pick something up from Knockturn Alley I had ordered in," Tom said after a moment's silence and Harry looked back up at him with alarm on his face. Hermione felt herself stiffen too and she could swear that she felt the scar on her shoulder, a set of teeth marking her skin that would never fade, ache slightly. "You will not be accompanying me, obviously." The older boy said, giving them both a stern look and Hermione tightened her lips at being given an order. Harry touched her hand gently, concern clear in his green eyes.
"Greyback could be there, Hermione," her best friend said, his expression beseeching with her to not make a fuss. "I don't want him anywhere near you and neither does Tom."
"Fine." She said shortly. "I don't want to wait out in the open though, in case Dumbledore has any lookouts posted around to keep their eyes open for us."
"You could wait inside Gringotts," suggested Tom. "The building is considered sovereign soil and Wizarding laws aren't applicable within its halls. It wouldn't stop Dumbledore from trying to take you from there, of course, but it would give him enough pause to allow you time to escape and the bank is one of the closest buildings to the Leakey Cauldron– Dumbledore and his people would have no idea how to navigate muggle London."
"I did like the goblins," Hermione said, remembering the entertaining banter she'd shared with the two who had been guarding the magnificent doors to the bank. "They were quite the amusing conversationalists."
"Really?" Harry asked, looking at her doubtfully. "They all seemed kind of... brooding and mean-looking to me."
"I'm mean-looking," she reminded him.
"Not anymore." Harry said and when she gave him a horrified look, he hastened to explain his words. "Well, you're dressed all nice and your hair is done up and you– you look like Daphne does."
"You mean I look like a proper young pureblood heiress?" she asked, aghast.
"Is that such a bad thing?" Harry asked nervously.
"Yes!" She looked down at her hands, examining the elegant French manicure and the sparkling silver bracelets with real diamonds adorning her wrists. The purple robe and sash she wore were dyed mulberry silk, expertly cut and tailored to her form and the grey wool cloak she wore was made from cashmere. Even her shoes, silver strappy sandals with two inch tapered block heels, were completely useless for any sort of running or kicking arse; they were the sort of shoes that she would have scoffed at and never even consider putting on her feet, back when she was twelve and magic was just something she read about in books.
Lifting a hand to touch the straight, shiny curtain of gold spilling like silk over her shoulders and prod the pretty star-shaped diamond earrings in her earlobes with her fingertips, she came to a horrifying realization. "Oh my fucking god," she breathed, her eyes wide with genuine horror. "I've become one of them!"
She'd become one of those girls; with their frills, ribbons and lace and their silly shoes and their showy jewellery. She'd become one of the girls she'd always looked at in the past and thought mark; the type she'd target and then rob blind, ending up a block away before the ditzes even knew she'd robbed them of their useless, expensive fancies and trinkets.
"Hermione!" Harry looked alarmed and Hermione realized her breathing had sped up and her pulse was skittering as she stared at her hands wildly; her soft, scented hands, adorned with real jewels set in pretty rings. The littered knife scars were still evident on her skin but they seemed faded, the sparkling jewellery drawing attention away from them. This– this wasn't who she was! This had never been who she was; she'd never tried to hide the truth of her past, recorded on her skin as a testament to her survival. She'd never tried to disguise her years of homelessness and poverty with expensive fabrics and jewels. She'd never wanted to; she wasn't ashamed of her past. This, this person she was dressed as, this wasn't her; it was a stranger wearing her skin.
"Calm down, it's not that bad," Harry coaxed her, "think of it as– a disguise!" She looked up at her best friend, her expression still horrified. "Or you can think of it as dressed to kill?" Harry blanched in the face of her visible distress. "Oh god, please don't kill me Hermione! I swear to Salazar, you are still absolutely terrifying!"
Hermione felt her upset start to abate, even as she narrowed her eyes at him. "You're not just saying that, are you?" she asked, suspiciously.
"You can terrify anyone with just one murderous look," Harry said with a slight shudder, and his face and words were painfully earnest. "I swear, you could be wearing a frilly tutu with pink ribbons in your hair and I'd think the same– everyone would."
"Now that your existential crisis is over, how about you go wait inside Gringotts so I can go... encourage the shopkeeper to put a rush on my order, if it hasn't already arrived." Tom said dryly, looking annoyingly amused by said existential crisis.
Hermione gave him a dark look before linking her arm through Harry's and dragging him towards the towering white building near the entrance to the Alley. She recognized one of the goblins at the first set of doors and stopped to greet him.
"Stuck on door duty again, Uric?"
"Ah Jane," the goblin said, a surprised smile on his face. "I see you have a wand now– and several years of schooling under your belt too, I imagine. Have you come for our challenge?"
"I'm fairly well funded at present," she told him. "But should those funds ever dry up, or I feel like a good old hands-on academic challenge, I just might turn my sights back to your lovely bank." She winked at Uric and he laughed, the goblin beside him giving a chuckle of his own, and her answering smile was wide and sincere. She wondered at this, remembering the cynical or darkly amused smiles she used to give; the ones that had been honest or genuine or warm had been so small and so rarely graced her guarded face. Apparently it wasn't just her appearance that had changed in the past few years; she herself had changed and right now she couldn't decide if that was for the better.
That self-analysis, however, could be undertaken later, in the privacy of her room. Right now she was in public and she needed her focus to be on the here and now.
"This is Zaxil," Uric introduced his fellow guard, who gave her a polite nod. "Zaxil, this is Jane."
"Well this handsome fellow is Harry, my companion for the day." Hermione introduced Harry, who was watching her exchange with Uric with a surprised interest. He ducked his head, his cheeks going pink at her comment, and she smirked at her embarrassed friend.
"Harry Potter," Uric said, sounding surprised. "The Boy Who Lived."
"That is what people seem fond of calling him." Hermione agreed even as Harry winced. Uric looked amused at Harry's discomfort for the title Wizarding Britain insisted on calling him by, reaffirming her opinion that goblins were clever, vicious little bastards with sadistic streaks a mile long– she knew there was a reason she liked them so much.
"Well, what can we at Gringotts do for you both today?" Uric asked.
"Actually, we're just waiting for a friend." Hermione explained.
"And you're waiting here, because Gringotts is so well known for its generous hospitality?" Uric arched an eyebrow.
"What can I say? Sovereign soil is just so very... useful." Hermione showed the goblin her wolf smile and Uric started chuckling again, sweeping a hand toward the giant doorway.
"Then you might want to pass through our doors, as it is inside our halls, not outside our doorway, that is considered goblin nation." He advised.
"Then we will do just that," Hermione nodded her head in thanks and gave a quick bow. "Have a pleasant day, Uric. And you, Zaxil."
"Yourself and your companion too." Uric returned her show of respect with a slight bow of his own.
Together she and Harry passed through the second set of doors without any trouble and Harry finally spoke up. "Please tell me the academic challenge you were discussing wasn't bank robbery." He said, his voice hushed as though afraid to draw any attention to his words.
"Okay, I won't." She agreed, easily enough. Harry looked horrified.
"Hermione! Tell me you're joking!"
"Oh Harry!" She laughed at his aghast and slightly terrified expression. "Ask me no questions and I will tell you no lies."
"Hermione!" he repeated a third time, this time with a hint of a whine.
"Yes, Harry, Hermione is my name." She nodded, sagely, and he made a defeated sound.
"And I have heard a lot about you," a much deeper voice spoke from behind them, "though I have yet to meet either you or Harry face-to-face."
Hermione spun around, her wand now in her hand as she smoothly stepped to place herself between Harry and the man who had spoken. He was tall, thin and handsome with long hair that was worn back in a ponytail. His clothes were certainly not what could be called typical wizarding fashion and probably wouldn't look out of place at a muggle rock concert and his dragon fang earring only added to that impression. Hermione would have considered approving of him for that fact alone, were it not for his particular and entirely recognizable damning shade of hair– bright Weasley red.
"William Weasley, I presume." She said through stiff lips.
William 'Bill' Weasley had been Head Boy, she knew, and from her brief research of the Weasley family back in her second year after Ronald and the twins had landed Harry in the Hospital Wing following their sister's 'abduction' at the hands of the Heir of Slytherin she knew that he was a curse breaker at Gringotts– her immediate thought upon reading this had been that he would likely prove the most challenging out of them all to kill.
Behind her, she heard Harry's sharp intake of breath but she kept her eyes firmly on the Weasley.
The bank was busy enough that no one noticed the small standoff between the three of them, tucked away from the bustling crowd of witches, wizards and goblins as they were. Hermione debated whether the goblins would come to her and Harry's aid if she made a fuss but with a sinking heart she realised it was far more likely that they would side with their favoured, talented Curse Breaker over two school children, which made the whole sovereign soil thing entirely redundant. Adding the fact all the witches and wizards present would no doubt be more then happy to turn a runaway Boy-Who-Lived back over to the 'grandfatherly', 'benevolent' and 'understanding' Headmaster of Hogwarts, the one and only Albus Dumbledore, well... Hermione could feel the panic settle in her gut, her heart speeding up as blood rushed in her ears.
Shit. This was not good. Her only real consolation was that nobody would likely be willing to actually try and cast any sort of spell on the Boy Who Lived, so she and Harry might have a chance of running if she managed to incapacitate Weasley, or at least slow him down in some way, as Weasley was the only one she guessed would actually try to chase them down.
In preparation to attack, she shifted slightly into a ready position. Weasley's eyes sharpened at the movement.
"I prefer Bill, actually," the Gringotts curse-breaker said in a steady voice. "And I wouldn't try that, if I were you. Using magic in Gringotts is against goblin laws and harshly punished unless you are in their employ."
Hermione could feel her panic growing, her lungs threatening to seize up and refuse to take in air, and despite the cavernous hall they were standing in it felt like the walls were closing in on her, trapping her. Bill Weasley simply watched her steadily and she wondered if he could hear the way her heart was beating in her chest faster then a rabbit's, if he could see the cold sweat under her expensive robes. She sincerely hoped he could feel the sheer level of hatred she felt for him in this moment, for the way he had backed her and Harry into a corner. She hated being backed into a corner; hated it with a desperate sort of rage that made her want to lunge at the man, to strike out and cause him pain and suffering.
"Any reason you decided to leave wherever it is you've been hiding and take the enormous risk of entering Diagon Alley?" Weasley asked, and his voice was still so calm that she hated him all the more for it.
"I don't see how that's your business." She answered, her voice as warm as a corpse and her smile sharp as steel and twice as dangerous.
"It is my business when an underage Boy Who Lived moves out in the open without any protection other then his equally underage companion." Weasley countered.
"Well you can certainly rest assured it won't be happening again!" She said through clenched teeth.
"It better not, because I won't be stepping aside a second time." Weasley said, and it was Harry who spoke up first as Hermione had to take a moment to process what the man had just said.
"You're not going to try and stop us from leaving?" Harry asked in shock, his voice shaking slightly. Weasley's eyes shifted away from hers, presumably to meet Harry's behind her.
"The Weasley family owes you a debt." He said slowly and sudden rage had her mouth taste like copper, her grip on her wand tightening to the point where the pointy bones of her knuckles looked like they might cut through her skin. Her hands ached for her knives, ached to feel the hard bite of the handle against her palms as she used the sharpened steel to map out the weaknesses of the human body on Weasley, to extract the payment he owed them in blood, tears, suffering and anguish, carving it out from his very flesh and bones.
"You think that letting us leave right now could possibly make up for your brothers nearly beating to death an innocent twelve-year-old?" her voice was pure poison and hatred and Hermione could feel the adrenaline, hatred and fear twisting in a sickening cocktail that made her veils boil and her bones tremble.
"No." Weasley said in a matter-of-fact tone. "But it is a start. The two of you have exactly five minutes to leave Diagon Alley or I will personally be escorting you both back to the Headmaster– with force, if necessary."
With that, the still-calm man turned and walked away, his pace even and confident as he not once turned back as he made his way toward one of the tellers.
"Let's go." Harry said lowly and she turned away from the eldest of the Weasley children for the first time since he'd revealed his presence to them both, switching her focus to Harry. Her best friend looked afraid and strained and she grasped onto his hand with the one that wasn't still clenched tight around the handle of her wand. She wasn't sure if the slight tremors she could feel in the hand held tight to Harry's were hers or her best friend's, and she wondered if her expression was as harsh and ugly as it felt.
It was Harry who made her start moving forwards, who tugged her into action. Hermione thought she might be in some sort of shock– it had been a long time since she'd been outmanoeuvred in the way Weasley had just cornered them and it was even more unpleasant then she remembered.
Control was something Hermione valued above almost all else, the exceptions been the precious few relationships she had amassed in her short lifetime. To have it stripped from her left her feeling naked and vulnerable and furious. Bill Weasley had backed her into a corner so thoroughly that she'd only escaped because he'd let her go.
He had beaten her, and she hated it, she hated him even more and she wanted him dead.
She vaguely registered Uric's surprised expression as Harry led her from the bank, her face numb and wand still in hand, but Harry didn't stop to exchange any sort of farewell with the goblin, instead pulling her to where Tom was in the process of cutting his way through the crowd towards the bank.
Tom wasn't holding anything that she could see but his satisfied expression made her think that he'd either got what he wanted or had a thoroughly enjoyable time threatening the shopkeeper into putting a rush on his order. Tom's look of satisfaction faded, however, when he caught sight of her and Harry and he swiftly closed the distance between them, eyes narrowing dangerously. "What happened to her?" he asked Harry sharply and Hermione was first annoyed that he hadn't directed his question to her, before it really registered that her body was so numb and unresponsive that she didn't think she could have answered his question even if she wanted to.
One of Tom's long fingered hands pressed against her cheek and he hissed slightly. "She's freezing," he said.
"We need to leave– now." Harry said, eyes darting around, scanning, she guessed, for red hair or signs that Bill had alerted Dumbledore.
Tom wrapped his hand around her wrist as Harry was holding her other hand already and she had yet to let go of her death grip on her wand, and he apparated them both straight back to the Manor.
The second she regained get bearings, Hermione wrenched both arms free from her boys and half stumbled straight to the room that was hers, for all intents and purposes, shutting and locking the door behind her, ignoring both Tom and Harry.
Finally blessedly alone, she backed herself into one of the corners of her room, sliding to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest. Her breathing was far too fast, and she was shaking violently. Her whole body felt cold as ice, and a very distant part of her registered that she was either in shock or having a panic attack.
Refusing to make a sound, she bit down on the sleeve of her robe so hard that it made her jaw ache and prepared to ride out whatever this was.
It had been a long time since she'd felt like this. Anger, grief, fear– she experienced all of those on a semi-regular basis at Hogwarts, but this had been different. She had grown arrogant and overconfident and she'd been backed into a corner by someone who'd proved they could play the game better then she did.
There was a saying, that a cornered animal is the most dangerous. Hermione didn't feel dangerous right now– angry and vengeful, yes, but not dangerous. Instead she felt... pathetic; like a scared little girl.
She bit down harder and shut her eyes to prevent tears.
Rationalizing what had happened wasn't helping– she knew that what she was feeling right now wasn't logical. She knew, but she couldn't help it, because irrational or not, all she could think of was the absolute powerlessness she had felt and every time she felt as helpless as she had at Gringotts something terrible had happened; the Dementors, the troll, the boggart, the Heir of Slytherin debacle, the trio of Weasley boys attacking Harry–
Greyback, Jed, the tiny girl with long red hair and hand-shaped bruises on her neck–
The locked room with no windows and no light–
(The first time she'd felt this helpless was when she was three years old and trapped in a sinking car listening to her parents die)
-
-
Harry's POV:
Harry stared anxiously at the closed and locked door, itching to pull out his wand to spell it open so he could go to Hermione's side.
He didn't understand what had happened to make her react like she had. They had faced way worse situations then Bill Weasley and Hermione hadn't even batted an eyelid, but today she had freaked out the moment they were away from Bill and the very second that they had appeared back in the Manor she'd ripped her arms so violently from his and Tom's grip so she could lock herself in her room and Harry was worried she'd injured herself. He couldn't hear anything from inside the room but he knew better then most Hermione's ability to suffer in silence– people who grew up like they did learned how to cry without making any sound.
"What set her off?" Tom asked flatly, his eyes burning with a sort of muted fury as he stared at the locked door, spinning his wand between his long fingers in a way that looked very much like a threat.
"I don't know," admitted Harry, running a hand through his hair. "I... can you just watch it in my head?" Tom nodded shortly and one of his hands lashed out to grip Harry's chin, turning his head roughly and tilting it up so that their eyes met. His fingers were pressing in too hard, but Harry just swallowed and maintained eye contact as the older boy cast Legilimens.
Re-watching the confrontation with Bill Weasley a second time didn't make Hermione's reaction anymore clear to him then when it had actually happened, but Tom looked less furious and more thoughtful– Harry wasn't ashamed to say it was far more terrifying expression on the older boy. He released Harry's chin, expression briefly apologetic for what Harry assumed would be the red marks on his jaw that would be a perfect match to those long fingers.
"I suppose," Tom mused, "it was to be expected that she would have certain... triggers."
"Triggers? What triggers?" Harry demanded, still bewildered but frustrated now too that Tom seemed to understand what had happened but he was still lost as to why his best friend was in pain.
"Weasley was smart. He had you both on the defensive from the moment he revealed his presence and he didn't even need to do so– he could have summoned Dumbledore who would not have had any trouble rounding up two runaways in front of a crowd of witnesses. I doubt even the goblins would have kicked up a fuss at the actions of the Supreme Mugwump. You'd be in Hogwarts or back with your relatives before I'd even be aware you were gone, while Hermione would be sent Merlin knows where. From the moment Weasley opened his mouth, he was in charge and you were at the disadvantage. It's by his goodwill alone that you're both not out of my and my older counterpart's reach."
"You shouldn't call Voldemort that. You're both different people." Harry muttered absently as his mind struggled to understand what Tom was saying. "I still don't get why she freaked out." He admitted.
"All of the verbal sparring aside, I suspect the reason for her distress is much simpler then even she might consider," Tom said simply. "In an unfamiliar environment, a male with negative intentions and superior strength cornered her. This time it was for a verbal spar but last time– well, I think you remember Greyback well."
Harry shuddered, remembering holding a limp Hermione, half naked and wet with her blood, in his arms.
"When was the last time she let down her Occlumency shields?" Tom asked him suddenly.
"I don't know, she struggled a lot with the dementors but the last time I know for sure was when the boggart messed them up." Harry said, after a pause. "And before that, I don't think since our first year, not that I'm aware of at least." His heart sunk in his chest. "That's not good, is it?"
"It's not necessarily... bad, per se, but things will start leaking through. Non-typical reactions to situations, like today, will become more common place and eventually the shields will fall and she'll be faced with everything she contains behind them all at once and in an uncontrolled environment." Tom explained and Harry shuddered, remembering the Mirror of Erised incident vividly as well as the boggart lesson.
"And that would definitely be bad." He said flatly and Tom nodded.
"Yes. She could be sitting in the middle of class, or in the Great Hall or even in the Common Room and be hit with every thought, memory and emotion that she is suppressing. And that is not something anyone wants happening." He agreed quietly.
"Well, how do we help?" Harry asked helplessly and Tom shrugged, an odd movement for the older boy to make– Tom was typically more old-fashioned when it came to his mannerisms, which was understandable seeing as he'd actually been born and 'raised' in the early 1900's.
"We find a boggart?" the older boy suggested and Harry scowled at him.
"That's not funny, Tom!" He snapped.
"It wasn't a joke," Tom replied, the corners of his mouth curving up into an eerie sort of half smile. His eyes looked... strange, suddenly, glinting with some emotion Harry didn't recognize and he shifted nervously in place without even realising it. Tom stepped towards him and Harry almost stepped back on pure instinct alone and as Tom advanced he had to fight the urge to move away from the older boy.
"Harry," Tom's voice was nearly a purr as he closed the distance between them to less then a foot. One long fingered hand rose to brush away his bangs and Tom pressed his thumb lightly against Harry's suddenly tingling scar, tracing the zig-zag pattern. "I am not a nice person." He said quietly and the crushed violet color of his irises turned a brilliant, vivid crimson, like glittering rubies. "When I made the Diary, I was just a schoolboy and had already opened the Chamber of Secrets and created 'Lord Voldemort'. I do not feel emotions the same way you do or Hermione does, even damaged as she is. If we put a boggart in there, with the vulnerable state she is in I guarantee her Occlumency walls will be broken apart and then she can build them up again stronger then they were before. I see that as a perfectly adequate way of dealing with this situation. Harsh, perhaps, but it will get the job done with minimal fuss."
"Tom," Harry said, suddenly feeling heartbreakingly sad for the older boy. "Oh Tom." They were close enough that all he had to do was reach up on his tiptoes to kiss the other boy. Tom seemed startled but receptive, his mouth hot and wet against Harry's, a slow slide of lips and tongue. There was no heat or passion in the embrace, just Harry trying to convey the emotions he felt for the other boy through touch because he didn't have the words to make Tom truly understand.
Because he couldn't understand, Harry now realized. That wouldn't stop him from loving the older boy, but it did hurt Harry that Tom would never really understand how he felt about him and would never be able to experience those same emotions in return.
He broke apart from the older boy, pulling back and blinking away the tears he could feel building up. "I'll help Hermione," he said quietly, giving Tom a gentle push. Tom caught his hand, lightly pressing the nail of his thumb over his pulse point. "You go plot world domination." Harry told him. "We'll come find you when we're done."
Tom looked mildly amused by his light-hearted teasing and nodded easily enough, letting Harry order him around. Harry gave him a tremulous smile before making his way back over to the door and knocking. "Hermione? I'm going to come in." He called out softly through the wood.
He didn't feel confused or upset or unsure anymore, just calm with the new realization he had. Someone had to be able to deal with the emotions and emotional wellbeing of the relationship the three of them shared and it had become abundantly clear to Harry that neither Tom nor Hermione would be the ones to do so, which left the job up to him.
He also supplied a moral compass for the three of them, another full-time job but one that he had already both acknowledged would be necessary and had agreed to take on.
Hermione didn't reply or unlock the door, so he pulled out his Knockturn Alley wand and tapped the handle. "Alohomora." He muttered and lock clicked open, allowing him to gently push open the door.
Hermione was curled up in one of the corners of the room, her back to the wall and her knees to her chest, and he wasn't sure she'd even realized he'd entered the room. Closing the door behind him and locking it again for good measure, Harry made his way over to her. After the Dementor lessons last year, Harry knew enough about panic attacks and how to deal with them that he didn’t try to touch her or pull her into his arms like he wanted and instead he sat down beside her where she was huddled in on herself next to the wall.
Slowly, Hermione leaned her head against his shoulder, pressing her cheek against it. Harry carefully wrapped his arm around her, gently pressing his palm against the curve between her shoulder blades. At first, he only rubbed her back in small strokes along her spine, from the small of her back to the base. Gradually, as he felt the brittle tension that was keeping her spine stiff ease, her breathing evening out as alertness returned to her eyes, he moved his hand from the nape of her neck, lightly tangling his fingers in her curls before repeating his earlier, soothing motions until she looked up at him. Her expression was ghastly, her face so pale it almost looked white and her red-rimmed eyes hollow-looking, and Harry prepared himself for a long night of getting her to lower her shields and then riding out the resulting emotional overflow. But it would always be worth it and he vowed to always be there for her.
“I fucking hate them,” Hermione broke the silence, her voice little more then a whisper.
“Weasleys or panic attacks?” he asked and she flashed him her knife-smile, eyes dark and glinting.
“Both.”
“Me too,” Harry admitted and she curled closer to him, her hands reaching for his wrists and her fingers encircling them like manacles. Harry ignored the little pinpricks of hurt caused by her nails cutting into the thin skin at the back of his arms; he loved it when she held onto him like this with her hands forming restraints that trapped him in place, binding him to her with the silent promise that she’d never let him go.
“I hate what they make me,” she said quietly, looking away from him as if she was too ashamed to meet his eyes. “I hate how they make me feel like I’m dying. It’s pathetic.”
“It’s not,” Harry argued instantly, because the last word he’d ever use to describe her was weak. Hermione’s past was one riddled by traumas on a scale most people couldn’t imagine; the sort of trauma that shattered a person’s sense of security, that sort that had severe and long-lasting effects and left people feeling helpless and hopeless in a dangerous world. The agony of having those horrible, painful memories triggered was a suffering beyond his comprehension and he loathed that Hermione saw something that was so goddamn normal and understandable as a reflection of how she was lacking when he saw the strength involved in holding herself together and pulling her out of the spiral of panic her brain tried trapping her in when a sight, sound or smell had triggered a past horror in her mind and her brain misinterpreted the trigger and set up a fight or flight reaction– she had been very thorough when explaining the mechanics of panic attacks to him, which was why Harry didn’t understand her self deprecation.
“Tom thinks your Occlumency shields might need redoing,” he offered when she didn’t reply to his fierce denial and Hermione pulled a face but he didn’t miss the way her face seemed to pale further.
“He’s probably right.” She admitted.
“Let’s not tell him that,” Harry replied with a mock-shudder, “he’s insufferable enough.” Like he’d been hoping, his light jesting succeeded in making Hermione grin before the brief lightness on her face faded.
“It’s going to be a long hour or two.” She said so quietly that Harry could barely hear her. “You should probably leave.” Despite her words, her grip on his wrists tightened– Harry wasn’t sure she even realised she’d done it.
“I’m not going to anywhere,” he told her firmly and he meant it.
-
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Tom's POV:
"Sometimes," Tom mused aloud, "I forget that they're still children."
He was sitting in the extravagant study across from Voldemort, reflecting on the past few hours. Swirling the wine in the goblet he was holding, he frowned thoughtfully down at the liquor.
"Children you're having sex with." Voldemort pointed out, looking vaguely entertained by it all, and Tom snorted dismissively.
"I've barely touched the boy and the girl is certainly no stranger to carnal pleasure."
He was no stranger to it either, but with the two of them it was something else altogether– kissing them alone filled Tom's world with colours he'd never known before and when he was with the pair all he wanted was to consume them entirely; he wanted to tear into them with his teeth and lick their bones clean, to own every single part of them, to open them up and devour them until not a single particle of Harry or Hermione existed outside of him.
"Hmm," Voldemort looked calmly across at him and Tom made sure that the resentment that rose within him from the knowing look on his older counterpart's face didn't show on his face. "The girl will recover from this mishap as she has done before and you can ensure it will not happen a second time."
"And how will I do such a thing?" drawled Tom, face lightly mocking as he arched an elegant brow. "The last I was aware, I was a Legilimency master, not Occlumency."
"You will ensure it by making her stronger and colder." Voldemort replied, not reacting to the disrespect. "Identify what triggers her and how and why it is so, then use the knowledge to prevent another such event as today from happening by going to the source and assisting her to achieve a sense of closure. You can start by locating the werewolf and getting her to dispose of it."
"You think that will prevent the triggers relating to his assault of her?" Tom asked, skeptical.
"It's certainly a start." Voldemort said, taking a sip of his wine. "The boy, of course, is a different matter altogether."
"Despite everything he has experienced, the boy has stubbornly managed to retain a moral compass and developed an overinflated sense of empathy." Tom said, with a slight shudder of distaste. "He has enormous potential yet does not see that which holds him back as something he needs to rid himself of."
"I may have an idea for dealing with that," Voldemort mused, thoughtful.
"Oh? Do tell."
"The effects carrying one of a Horcruxes on his person would certainly have a specific... emotional effect." Voldemort appeared to be selecting his words carefully.
Tom frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Horcruxes are the sort of Dark magic that bring forth the Darkness in people, feeding it, strengthening it. The boy's birthday is coming up, is it not? Perhaps I should give him a special gift– one that you will advise he wear."
"We should also increase their exposure to Dark magic. Death too." Tom added after a short pause to consider the original soul's idea and Voldemort smiled. It wasn't a nice smile, not even close. Tom felt an answering smile slide onto his own face, one mirrored by the face before him.
"They do both have such potential," Voldemort said softly, "it's time for us to start working towards bringing it out, ridding them both of those ridiculous moral constraints holding them back."
"They will be glorious." Tom murmured, more to himself then to his counter-part, but Voldemort made a sound of agreement anyway.
Harry and Hermione would be glorious and they were his.