May I submit a prompt? Angsty Tomione where Hermione is dying and Tom doesn't realize what she means to him until it's too late? I'm dying for a good Tomione tear-jerker and you're one of my favorite Tomion writers asdfghjkl T__T
(I’m writing this on my phone like an animal because my laptop is being fixed and this is all I have and I just want to WRITE so)
The world was somber, now.
He was still soaking wet from the rain, though the weather had long since quieted. The only sound in the room was his breathing and the unsteady drip, drip, drip of water falling from his hair onto the floor.
He was used to seeing this room from behind his desk. From there he could see the door, he could see out the window to the pathway that led up to his front door. Three out of the four walls were lined with books, save for the doorway which had been empty, once, and now was cluttered with art, cheap paintings from garage sales and thrift stores or something a friend had made, a friend he had never met, it wasn’t his friend who made it after all.
It was hers.
From behind his desk he could see her curled up on the arm chair by the window. She sat there so often he hardly felt angry about it any longer. It had been her idea, although she would swear it had been their agreement, that if she were not allowed to remove his books from his office she would read them there, whether he was present or not.
He started locking his door. She learned how to pick locks.
But he didn’t sit behind his desk now. He sat on the floor against one wall of books where he couldn’t see out of the window, couldn’t see the pathway that led to his front door, couldn’t make out the details of the art on the wall. But sitting there on the floor with his knees tucked up to his chest he could see her.
He could always see her.
It was dark. Dark enough that he couldn’t make out the titles on the spines of his precious books but there was no mistaking the red that stained his fingers and soaked into his floor.
He closed his eyes.
The world was quiet now.
This wasn’t supposed to happen–of course not. His world was always a whirlwind of shit, never ending, but never had he thought even for a moment that she would be caught up in it. Why would she? She wasn’t involved, she wasn’t aware, she wasn’t–
She wasn’t important.
She was just a girl, just someone he rented a room to, just someone who didn’t understand personal boundaries or how to keep her opinions to herself or how to stop asking so many fucking questions. All she understood was how to fucking burrow under his skin and stay there, festering, digging deeper into him until he couldn’t get her out, couldn’t fucking get her out because she had been there so long that she was a part of him. Like a growth. Like a tumor.
God, the world was cold, now.
He shivered, and opened his eyes.
Had she suffered, he wondered, and cursed himself for thinking it. Of course she had. They would have made sure of it.
He rubbed his hands over his face, forgetting for a moment they were still soaked in her blood. He couldn’t remember the last time he had panicked, but seeing her there on that floor, her throat split open left-to-right like a goddamn sock puppet’s mouth, bloody and grotesque, he had felt a panic so intense he found himself wheezing, falling to his knees and clasping his hands over her throat as if he could save her, as if he could close the wound and she would blink her wide open eyes and look at him again and tell him what a careless, thoughtless, overconfident fool he had been to ever think he could escape this, to ever think he could have her.
You’re an idiot, she would say. And maybe–maybe she would be happy to see him so afraid, to see the moisture in his eyes. She had never seen that before.
He curled his fingers, dug his nails into his hairline, and screamed. It felt like he was ripping something out of his chest, like he was reaching down in his throat and tearing himself apart, and maybe that was her, he thought. Maybe that’s what it felt like when you actually gave a shit about a single, beautiful thing in your life.
But now he sat, with his back against the wall, and he was silent. He felt like maybe he was bleeding, too. Maybe he was dying, too.
The world was dark, without her. It was dark and cold and quiet and angry.
He lifted his hands, pressed his bloody palms against the books behind him, used them as leverage to pull himself up on shaky legs. His fingers left a red smudge behind, and his feet stuck to the floorboards and left behind crimson footprints as he made his way toward the door.
He couldn’t feel fury, not really, but he felt something so much stronger take its place. He had heard of it, he had been told he should feel it on the day his father died and on the day he mother died and on every goddamn day of his wretched life ever since but he hadn’t. It coiled right around his stomach now, and he could feel it tighten with every step he took away from her, tighten and tighten and tighten like it would fucking cut him in half, but he didn’t stop. His throat burned and his chest felt torn open and he wanted to scream and scream and scream until he had no voice left but he didn’t.
He couldn’t save her. He never could. She was damned the moment he had decided he wanted to keep her, and he was damned the moment she allowed him to.
He couldn’t save her.
But he knew who killed her. He took a knife from the kitchen. They would expect him, he knew. But he wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t go there first.
Let them feel what he felt. Let them come home to the ones they care about bled out on their floor. Let them see their world dead at their feet and feel as if their throats are being torn open, too. Let them mourn the loss of every good thing they have, of every lovely, perfect thing. And then–
He didn’t get to say goodbye. The thought occurred to him in the doorway, and he paused.
It didn’t matter.
After he was done, he would get to say hello.