HUNGER.

Chapter 10

She burned the journal.

Tried to, at least.

The fucking thing would flame for a moment, before extinguishing itself, untouched. She couldn't get rid of him if she tried.

Glamours had hidden the worst of her bruising, though she'd kept those masked by her clothes- Hannah wasn't sure why, but she wanted those there.

She'd paid Avery ten galleons to tell anyone that asked, anyone at all, that she'd gone back and fucked him that night. He could've written it in the sky above Hogwarts for all she cared- it was spiteful, wholly unnecessary, and cruel, but then again, so was Tom.

It hadn't taken long for the news to spread.

Whispers whenever the pair were in the same room soon became the norm, and Avery arrived in Herbology that day with a weeping black eye, and his lip split down to his chin.

"Thought he was gonna kill me," she heard him mumbling to Nott, wincing as the stitches pulled. "Not worth ten galleons."

And yet, she pined. Each night she relived what it had felt like, his lips hot on her skin, and each night the same aching stirred in her belly. And then came the sharp pangs of rejection, the way his face dropped- Hannah would have let him be her first. She would have done anything for him, in that moment, and she'd surrendered herself so willingly.

But when he had her there, for the taking, Hannah supposed it had become too easy. Lost interest, she mused to herself. He just wanted the chase.

In fact, when she next saw Tom, she found it painfully easy to ignore him. His knuckles were purple, perhaps broken, and deep circles under his eyes betrayed the confidence in his step, disappearing into the library without giving her a second glance.

I hate you.

She'd heard from Nott that he'd started spending half his free time in the library, and half somewhere else- somewhere no one was entirely sure of. He'd become untraceable, like a ghost within the walls. Hannah wondered if he liked it better that way.

*

Her Amortentia smelled like firewhiskey.

Nott joked that she'd become dependent on it, said he had some numbers she could call.

The faintest trace of coffee, of pine, hid underneath the pungent whiskey scent, though.

She'd smelled that when his hands were tangled in her hair.

*

Tom wondered if she'd ever write to him again.

He wouldn't entirely blame her if she didn't- he'd watch her wandering the halls, still clutching that damned book, but the stab of guilt at the sight of her had become unbearable.

He was purging himself of her, like an addict.

Throwing himself into books- for educational purposes, he'd tell himself. Finding ways to stitch back what he was sure had been broken.

And he drank. Alone. Each night, by the lake, until the cold in his bones was enough to pull him into fitful sleep. She'd stopped taking his whiskey- something he despised himself for even noticing.

He'd tried to kill Avery, too. Would have done, if Slughorn hadn't intercepted. When Avery choked out through a mouthful of blood that she'd paid him to lie, he almost laughed. That was painfully Grey. He should have seen that coming.