A/N: Finally got around to editing all my current NaNoWriMo chapters, so now, hopefully, I can actually write new chapters. In other news, to quote my original notes for new readers; apologies if I incorrectly portray the mental illnesses, subjects and characters involved. I'm trying.

Revised - 23/03/2020.

AWF

The sky has no colour.

No slate or stone or spruce. Just a sea of dull grey that birds of black and clouds of white wade through in a perpetual, unchanging loop. And it's strange, she supposes, how a sky like this is more real to her than a sky of blue.

(But her life is strange. She is strange. So, in the end, is it really?)

In the distance, the sound of a train rumbles. It forces her attention back down to the platform where an approaching figure contrasts heavily against the harsh whiteness of their surroundings. Though she doesn't smile when she eventually ̶ (eventually, because her mind works against her) ̶ recognises him, a part of her lightens at his arrival.

(She scratches herself in her sleep, she's been told. It stops when he's in her dreams to keep her company.)

In comparison, he imparts a smile that one would strongly consider charming. To her, however, it only seems as such because it's aided by his naturally handsome appearance. The curve of his lips is sharp and practised; a survival mask made for Hogwarts. She expects it to become perfect as he grows into himself more.

"I have to, Hem," she remembers him saying. When, though, she can't recall. "One has to adapt to their surroundings if they want to survive. And so, survive, I shall."

Perhaps it should frighten her; how she can see through all his masks and find his true face underneath. After all, he's not overly fond of being so transparent. But he is familiar, even when he sometimes tries to act like a stranger. Even when he occasionally attempts to intimidate and dominate her as he does with his peers at school.

He doesn't like feeling weak and she's one of the few capable of making him feel just that. Unsurprising, considering that they've known one another for seven years. (It's him who keeps count; who reminds her that the twenty-first of July is both an anniversary and a birthday.)

"Hi, Tom," Hem absently greets as he looms over her with his superior height. The fact that she's still a child ̶ (in comparison to an early adolescent who's quite tall for his age) ̶ and currently seated only emphasises their size difference, which forces her to crane her neck to meet his intense gaze of walnut brown. Maintaining eye contact, she pats the empty space beside her as she tends to do when he's the one who's late and refuses to sit for a noteworthy amount of time.

The figurative frost around his shoulders thaws while his expression reluctantly softens. He soon sighs, "Hello, Hem," and gracefully ̶ (but also dramatically) ̶ moves to occupy the rest of the bench. It doesn't budge under his weight, for concepts like time and mass don't seem to work as they should in this place. Lots of things don't work as they should in this reality. She supposes it's fitting.

Neither of them really work as expected; her more so than him, much to his displeasure. The chemicals in his head make him excel ̶ (mostly; there has to be a downside to bottling all that anger) ̶ while hers gleefully ruin her way of life.

(He wants her to be so much more, she understands, but she only knows how to be a disappointment.)

Tom always opts to sit so close to her that she would feel the textured material of his clothes and the warmth of his body rub against her if they were awake. (And if she could feel properly.) But they aren't ̶ (it's hard to tell the difference, sometimes) ̶ so the fabric feels smooth and ethereal while the heat is replaced by a numb absence. Neither of them particularly mind, both being of the opinion that the mere presence of the other is enough to relax them on a visceral level.

He wouldn't want to admit it, of course, but he knows there's no point in denying when she already knows. It bothers him, actually, and the fact that it does is yet another thing that he wishes he could keep to himself. Hem supposes that, when one is so used to hiding their true feelings, it would make sense for them to be uncomfortable with being laid bare. Even if it's Tom and even if it's her.

(She doesn't know what she's hiding. If she's hiding anything at all. It wouldn't be a surprise if it turns out that the gaping emptiness within her is hiding nothing because there's never been anything there to begin with.)

But the way he snakes his arm along the backrest behind her neck is as instinctive as the way he props his elbow to play with her unruly curls. Like the way he twirls his wand when in thought ̶̶ (he does that, right?) ̶ he does the same with her hair.

(Sometimes, she forgets which was first; her hair or his wand. But then she remembers that he didn't get a wand until after the wizard with the strange clothes set his wardrobe on fire.)

Hem doesn't know how long it is before he breaks the silence that's settled around them with a sharp sigh. (Here, her voice is hers, but silence is both a burden and a comfort. She suspects that it always will be.) Feeling her eyes begin to droop, she leans into him.

"You're starting school soon, no?" he queries, gently tugging on her hair once he realises that she's close to falling asleep in this reality. Falling asleep here means waking up there, and Tom doesn't like to be left alone in this space.

Left alone with his thoughts, surrounded by unrelenting white; it's not healthy for his mind, even if his body heals as it rests.

(Her mind is fractured. Broken. It's easier for Hem because her sense of time is essentially non-existent and she only has to deal with scratch marks that have always marred her skin.)

It takes her a few minutes ̶ (maybe, possibly) ̶ before she replies, "With my sister… She only turns twelve after the school term begins." Hermione was ecstatic to learn that they'd be going to a magical boarding school together. Their parents are somewhat mollified that neither of them will be alone, but they worry. They're always worrying.

(They should stop. The muted guilt gnaws at her insides and she has so little within her as it is.)

Tom hums in acknowledgement. "Beauxbatons or Hogwarts?" is his next question. His hand steadily moves closer to her skull, perhaps in a futile attempt to detangle more of her hair. It elicits a tingling sensation that dances across her scalp and she feels the muted urge to shiver and scrape it away.

"Hogwarts," Hem whispers, closing her eyes and opting to listen to the quiet, steady rhythm of his heart.

Maybe she and Hermione would've gone to Beauxbatons if Theia ̶ (if mum, it should be… But it's wrong; it feels wrong) ̶ decided to move back to her homeland rather than visit every holiday. But while Hem has no particular preference, something unnameable tells her that Hogwarts has always been the only option.

His heart thumps loudly for a single moment before he murmurs, "Good," into her hair. And though he wants to say more, he doesn't. It wouldn't do to say that she'll like it there or that it'll make him feel closer to her if they're attending the same school.

The first is a lie and the second is a truth he's unwilling to give.

. . .

. . .

Diagon Alley is bustling with life and magic. The people are dressed in eccentric robes and hats, moving about like a sea of obnoxious colour. They're loud, voices mingling together to create a white noise that buzzes within her eardrums.

Hem isn't good with crowds. They overstimulate her dulled senses. It's only the medicine and Hermione's firm grip on her hand that usually manages to keep her somewhat afloat.

(She still feels like she's drowning. It never goes away, not really.)

"Isn't it wonderful, Hem?" breathes her sister, whose attention flitters about with every new and wondrous thing that others find to be a mundane part of their daily lives. "Oh, I'm so excited! We'll be able to officially practice magic! What do you think the other children will be like?"

"It's a flawed system, in my opinion," Tom's voice echoes. "Those raised among muggles only learn of their true nature at eleven or twelve. What about all the years before? It's as though our introduction to the wizarding world is more of a courtesy than a right, don't you think?"

Hem doesn't reply. Her sister smiles at her, comforting and understanding as is expected of the protective elder sibling.

(If she could, she'd ask Hermione to stop giving her something that she doesn't deserve.)

. . .

. . .

"Willow," mutters the wandmaker. "Phoenix feather core ̶ quite the spitfire, this phoenix was ̶ and nine and three quarters in length." He holds the dark piece of wood as if he's going to break it. "Rather stiff," he nods to himself, as though he already expected it to be so. "Here." Abruptly, he holds the wand out to her with both of his hands before proceeding to stare at her with piercing, speculative eyes of powder blue.

Hem watches in a disconnected manner ̶ (as per usual) ̶ as her hand reaches out to take it while a vague feeling she thinks to be anticipation begins to bubble beneath her skin. Then, something within her sings and the urge to cry until she's a mess on the floor threatens to overwhelm her.

(She doesn't know how she's still standing.)

"Ah," the elderly man sounds with a pleased gleam in his eyes as an illuminate, emerald thread materialises from the tip of her wand and snakes around her forearm before dissipating. "There we go. Such a beautiful wand, that is. I've always said that those with the greatest potential are often chosen by the willow. You may have some trouble with the inherent detachment of the phoenix feather, but I have faith." Ollivander opens his mouth as though to say more; instead, he tilts his head and studies her as she slowly comes to the realisation that her vision has been blurred by tears.

She doesn't know how long it takes before she hears someone whisper, "Holster," while she absently wipes her face. Her nerves tingle in that subdued manner that she's used to; it tells her that Hem should be feeling more than an indistinct sense of something without texture touching her skin.

It's a shame that she can't tell it that she already knows and that the times when her senses function as normally as possible are sporadic and unreliable.

In response, he smiles at her, something cool brushing against her face as he bows in a decidedly whimsical fashion. "Of course, Miss Granger. Arm holster, yes? Might I suggest one for your sister as well?" And maybe he would've said something else about potential, but she'll never know now.

Then Hermione, excited by the practicality of wand holsters, steps up to the counter to pepper the old man with questions that he's only too delighted to answer.

Clutching her new wand to her chest and feeling it thrum against her palm, Hem wonders if she'll ever feel that sense of belonging again.

. . .

. . .

"How did you know about the wand holsters, Hem?" Hermione asks as they sit at a booth inside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. Their parents are talking with Professor Sinistra ̶ (that was her name, wasn't it?) ̶ about the school curriculum while also marvelling at the magical displays of edible foods.

Staring down at the bowl of ice cream that changes colours like Christmas lights, Hem blinks in an attempt to rid herself of the oncoming visual snow. She feels like she's floating again, away from life and her mind.

(Maybe she'll float away, stuck in the sky and among the clouds. The blue, blue sky that she'd prefer to be grey.)

Someone grabs her hand, trying to bring her back to the ground. Brown skin that doesn't see enough sun, like hers; unmarred, unlike hers. Hermione. (The sister that loves her while she feels like her family are strangers.) Under her sister's immaculate nails, there's no skin and blood to be found.

"Hem?" she calls, tentatively. Soothingly. Theia and Matthias and Professor Sinistra have stopped talking, Hem thinks. "Hem, focus on me, please."

The ice cream is still shifting into different hues. Her mind tries to give her the names of specific tints but it stutters and freezes.

"I'm sorry, Aurora," apologises Theia. Fabric shifts. "It's been a long day for Hemera; we'll need to be getting back home now." Worried again, Theia ̶ (mum) ̶ is. Always worried. Her accent becomes a touch heavier when she's like that. "It was lovely of you to show us around, of course. We would've been lost without you."

Hem is gently pulled out of the booth, both her hands taken so she can't scratch at her wrists or neck. So, she blinks away the fog in her mind and the dots in her vision as her body refuses to be her own and the world refuses to accept her. Everything feels both weightless and not. Yet still, she manages to walk without conscious effort. Autopilot.

Hermione's hair. Shimmery robes. A brief exchange of French. "Je garderai un œil sur elle."

"I've got you, sweetheart," a voice assures her. (Who?) "I'm here. We'll go get some ice cream that doesn't change colours, how about that?" Matthias, her mind gradually informs her. (Dad.) "Not that it wasn't spectacular, but magic folk seem to have an innate need to make everything move. I'd probably be the same, though, so I can't blame them too much."

Hem focuses on his voice; the constant that fights against the temporary. She focuses on Hermione's voice, her normally prim words tempered by her genuine joy of sharing something strange and thrilling. Theia's laughter as she banters with her husband and questions her eldest daughter on what she thinks about something or other.

But she hears it; the undercurrent of concern that unites them just as much as it tears at her existence. She feels it. Will she be all right, surrounded by magic and all its overwhelming wonders? Will she be all right, surrounded by children who possess magic and undeveloped brains? Children who wouldn't understand why she can't talk or feel or think properly?

(She doesn't know how to say sorry without sounding like a liar. So, she supposes it's a good thing that she can't say anything at all.)

. . .

. . .

Despite her unintentional disinterest, Hem asks, "Where do you think I'll go?" because he's fond of talking about his school. To him, it feels like a place where he belongs despite the subtle snubs of being a supposedly ̶ (he insists on having a magical parent, dead or alive) ̶ muggle-born orphan. He says it's not as volatile as the orphanage, just that people expect him to be inferior because of his heritage and that they're surprised when he consistently shows that he's anything but.

Tom abhors the orphanage and those within it. He disdains the ill-maintained building he was born in; the adults that come by and don't actually care to adopt anyone; even the children, who are too helpless to thwart the abuse that no one cares about because they're unwanted. He condemns them all.

"They can force their chores upon me, Hem, but I'll never let those dullards violate me like they do with the others. I'll shatter their kneecaps and break their hands before I ever allow them to even breathe near me."

Eliciting a hum of consideration, Tom eventually answers, "Ravenclaw, perhaps. You're intelligent, individualistic and creative; traits they embody." He tugs on her hair, his fingers properly entangled as he forces her to look up at him. Hem blinks when he frowns down at her, most likely aware of the fact that she doesn't think herself intelligent, let alone individualistic. Even creativity is debatable; she draws only because it was recommended that she find hobbies to keep her grounded. "Regardless of your mental debilitations."

Hem reaches up to brush her fingers against the lining of his jaw before she's truly aware of what she's doing. His eyes narrow, and he deliberately refuses to flinch, but he leans into her touch and searches her soul for answers. Tom's gaze has always burned, too acute for most people to maintain eye contact with even if only for a few seconds.

(What does he see when he looks at her, she wonders? What is he looking for when he tries to take her apart? How disappointed is he when he doesn't find it?)

"But do you really want me in Ravenclaw, Tom?" Hem murmurs in question, meeting his eyes and watching the emotions flicker across the surface before disappearing into the unreadable depths. She doesn't expect an answer. "What about the other Houses?" For this one, though, she does.

He doesn't reply immediately, opting to grab her hand with his free one when she tries to take it back. Their fingers intertwine, a possessive edge to the action as she takes in how pale he is in comparison to her. No warmth.

(It's all right; she can't feel warmth even when she's awake.)

"Hufflepuff and Gryffindor don't suit you," Tom finally replies, his voice soft. He places their joined hands on her knees. (She often hugs her knees to her chest to make herself as small as possible.) "Your brain doesn't let you possess those traits, I'm afraid." A rather articulate brow is raised at her when she slightly raises her own. She doesn't have half the sass that he does. "Not that it's much of a loss. I doubt you'd fit in with either even if you were mentally healthy."

She twitches when his nails scrape her scalp. "Slytherin doesn't suit me, either," Hem whispers, and she feels his grip on her hair and hand tighten minutely.

His lips thin in vexation. "No," he agrees with a sigh, although his tone is of terse reluctance. "That could change with time, however. The Sorting Hat is partial to placing students into Houses that will help them reach their potential, after all." Then, to finish off that statement, he gives her an overly pleasant smile that she thinks to be a touch ominous.

And despite what that kind of expression should elicit, Hem can only feel something akin to endearment.

She would smile at him, if only she could. But alas, even her face is not her own.

AWF

A/N: For those who don't know, this is a rewrite (of course) of another one of my stories. In the original, Tom was mad aggressive towards muggle-borns and it was really odd, considering his age at the time. Also, I'd like say that, because Tom is in this, this story will have dubious ethics and dysfunctional relationships, which may discomfort some. There's also eventual ambiguous polyandry (meaning it's messy and uncomfortable for just about everyone involved). Just so you know.

Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.