APHELION
PART ONE OF THREE
The First Year
Fall 1991
He was sitting in her favorite chair. This, Hermione quickly decided, was unacceptable.
It was a very particular chair, one she had discovered on her second day at Hogwarts. No one else in her year had seemed very interested in the library so she had set off alone, traversing long lonely aisles covered in dust and keeping each sparkling new discovery entirely for herself. The books proved better company to her anyway – at least they were concerned about things more interesting than Quidditch and gossip. It was in one particularly faraway corner, nestled in an alcove rimmed with entrancingly complex runes, that she found her perch: that chair, almost throne-like in its proportions and yet delightfully squashy due to the generous use of what she tentatively identified as Cushioning Charms.
Her immediate attraction to the chair had confused her until, overwhelmed with curiosity, she checked out Runic Inscriptions for Better Furniture and a Better Life. While that book in particular couldn't identify all the runes in the alcove (and she hadn't quite finished going through the rest of that section yet) she could identify ones for rest, peace, calm, but even more wonderfully, runes for learning, for memory, for wisdom, for cleverness and creativity—indeed, for all of the traits she treasured most. Someone had put a lot of care into crafting that chair, surely some like-minded soul from a long ago generation, she told herself, who had thought to make themselves a cozy little hideaway to get away from the world. Given the age of the runes, perhaps it had even been one of the founders, there since the very construction of the castle. Had Rowena Ravenclaw sat in this very chair, the learning of the whole wide world arrayed around her, more precious than any kingdom? The thought made her giddily excited for when she found the time to go through the For Further Reading section in Hogwarts: A History.
Whoever it was, Hermione could think of no better way of honoring the intent behind the alcove than to curl up within that cozy chair herself and lose herself in the written word. It comforted her a bit to think that she hadn't been the only one to find solace in books, and settling into that chair for a long night of reading even let her believe it was what she wanted most.
But then here was someone, in the one place in Hogwarts she had really begun to think of as her own, sitting there quite contentedly with a book of his own in his hands, like a cat on a high perch with the sun on its back and cream on its whiskers and completely uncaring of anything else in the world. She didn't recognize the young man, though she had been so thoroughly discouraged in her attempts to socialize with the student body she couldn't say she was surprised to meet someone new. Still, he was distinctive: dark hair, dark robes, dark lashes over pale eyes, all the shade and sheen of the feathers of the raven that delivered Professor Snape's post. The way he lounged in the chair brought out the long lean lines of his body, and Hermione blushed a bit. It was never the nice looking ones in the library. They were always out flirting with older girls or polishing their broomsticks or some such. Not... reading.
He glanced up from his reading as she stared, but clearly unconcerned, just as soon looked back down.
With some trepidation, she cleared her throat and stepped a bit closer. "Excuse me," she said, fighting to keep her voice from trembling with nerves, "but that's my seat." Then she flushed and looked down at her hands. "Um."
He looked back up and suddenly she felt very silly and wanted nothing more than to run a very long ways away, favorite chair or no—but she couldn't, she was pinned to the floor, a mere bug under the magnifying glass of his clear eyes. The sense she got from him was one she had been quickly beginning to associate with Slytherins—that hint of honed coldness, an aloofness superimposed over raw wounds like the crispest bandage money could buy. All of the Slytherins, behind their petty cruelties, seemed prematurely thrust into an adulthood before they properly understood what their lauded ambition was even supposed to mean. That was the theory, anyway, that she had developed out of some books she had read on the Houses of Hogwarts, and it translated well enough into her practical everyday experience: her classmates proved her hypothesis sound every time they tripped her in the hallway or tangled her hair with just-learned jinxes in order to establish superiority, gain social status, etc. Knowing what was going on in their heads didn't make the sting any easier, but maybe at some point knowing something could actually be useful. She hoped so. "Really," he said, his voice cool.
"I-I mean, seating isn't assigned or anything," she said, stammering a bit. "This is just where I usually sit and I thought—I mean, I guess I sort of assumed—" Her shoulders slumped as she wilted under that calm, level gaze. She came here to get away from judgmental people, to rest up a bit, not to have just another confrontation; this wasn't something she felt like she could deal with right now."I didn't know anyone else knew about this place," she ended with a whisper. She felt her eyes grow hot with embarrassment.
"Nor did I," he replied. She knew he was looking at her, judging her, but she couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. "I daresay that is the appeal of this place for both of us."
With that she peeked up a bit in hope, her bushy hair partially shielding herself from his gaze, but she didn't quite feel brave enough to push it out of the way lest he see that she was red eyed and close to tears. His expression seemed to have softened somewhat, from that crisp, clean neutrality to something with the barest hint of warmth, like a candle flickering at the end of a corridor, but for some reason that made him seem even older, as if that candle had already almost burned itself down to the barest stub. Probably a Seventh Year, she reasoned. NEWT stress and all. She'd start studying around this time of year too. He waved a hand and another chair materialized across from his, considerably less grand but still eminently comfortable looking. Definitely a Seventh Year, he had done it out of thin air! "Come. Sit. It would be less than generous were I to not share such a lovely place of rest with someone in obvious need."
At least he didn't bite. Some of the more upper level prefects, the more studious ones she felt like she could at least on some level relate to, had a tendency to lash out when she wanted to borrow a book or ask a question about their classes. She decided to take the offer as it stood and walked hesitantly over to the newly transfigured chair, setting her book bag carefully beside her and inspecting the seat. Oh, he had done such a lovely job, it felt like just like real leather beneath her hand. He must get very good marks. She felt the young man's eyes follow her, and she furiously fought down the flush in her cheeks. "I suppose I ought to thank you, then."
She chanced a glance upwards to see his response. He had a ghost of a smile on his lips, small but seemingly genuine. "I know how easy it is to be possessive of such places," he said, "as much as I know how easy it is to get irritated at intruders. Besides: sharing the space seems easier than wasting time arguing about it. We'd both rather be reading, no?" With that, his gaze went blithely back down into his book.
A smile broke out on her face. She reached for her own bag, drawing out her coursework for the evening and quite firmly setting quill to parchment. Lovely!
She grew used to his presence over the next few weeks; he probably had a term project or some such, she reasoned, though she didn't dare ask lest that penetrating gaze impale her truly this time. Notably, she found that his appetite for reading exceeded even hers: despite his lack of a prefect badge, sometimes he would linger past the library closing hours that had her scuttling for the door—but when she visited before breakfast in the morning, sometimes she found him sitting there then as well, pouring over ancient manuscripts as if he had never stopped.
She was curious about him, of course, but found that she enjoyed his silent company far more than she had previously enjoyed the library silence alone. Given how poorly her social life was going outside of this tightly bound bit of camaraderie, she didn't want to risk losing him by pushing the parameters too far. It was.. enough, just to sit next to him; it felt like the only thing in her life at Hogwarts thus far that she could truly be content with, the only subject she didn't absolutely have to ask questions about because no questions were actually necessary.
One time she came in, and, upon opening her Potions textbook, found that Malfoy had slipped in a little something for her: a modified Howler that belted out her physical attributes with an eye towards humiliation, from buck teeth to bushy hair and likely all the synonyms for ugly he could find in the thesaurus. Mortified, she cast spell after spell at the note, attempting to Silence or Disappate it or anything, but nothing seemed to be able to quiet its methodical destruction of what little self esteem she had left.
It took conscious awareness of the tears rolling down her face before she really recognized that she was upset: all that was running through her head were the ways in which one could possibly make such a thing go away before Madam Pince heard. The last thing she needed right now was to be kicked out of the library, to lose her one safe space and to be thrust back out under the gaze of her carelessly cruel classmates. She supposed, in some distanced part of her mind, that she was in shock, though the dissociation didn't seem to be doing her spellwork any good. She had been spending a lot of her spare time learning counter curses, as her Slytherin classmates in particular seemed to enjoy tormenting her with creative hexes, but they must have beaten her out in the arms race on this one. Dazed, it occurred to her that she'd have to read some more books on that, too, she could get back to Amazing Arithmancers of the Eighteenth Century later...
She felt a cool hand her shoulders, and the note burst into a tiny puff of green fire. Shocked, she let her wand arm fall, but now the sobs broke out, her body quaking like a tree in a storm as she stood there, bookbag having fallen forgotten to the ground. The hand at her shoulder led her back into her chair through her haze of tears. She felt so ashamed she was dizzy with it, wanting nothing more than to collapse and cry it all out in some corner far away from everything. None of the things Malfoy or any of her other classmates were supposed to matter, she was supposed to be above it all, but she couldn't help but care and somehow that made it worse. Her hands clenched, nails biting into her palms in helpless grief, her wand made slippery with heat and sweat.
The cool hand stayed there on her shoulder for the seeming eternity it took for her to stop uncontrollably sobbing and lapse into hiccuping sniffles. Eventually she worked up the courage to look through eyelashes still soaked with tears to see her savior: the black-haired young man, of course, who must have been sitting there in the alcove all along while she was panicking over the note. The thought of him listening to Malfoy's awful note horrified her anew, but he wasn't looking at her, despite the cessation in crying. Rather his eyes seemed to focus a long ways off, as if he could bore right through five sets of shelves straight into the section on Alchemy (Ancient Times and Early Antiquity subsections.) There was a frown on his brow, and a very sad look that managed to draw her out of her shell. "I'm sorry," she blurted out, raising her hand to wipe away her tears for some semblance at dignity.
"For crying all over my shirt?" He looked down at her and smiled, but it was a very sad smile. "It would be a silly pursuit indeed if magic couldn't get a bit of salt out of silk."
"No," she said, and dared herself to say the next bit; it wasn't as if she had any more self respect to lose around him anyway, and this seemed like a good time to test the Muggle psychology books she had read to try to make sense of people. Practical application, so to speak. "Sorry for you. You're very sad. Like how other people who get bullied get sad when they see someone else get bullied. Like how Neville looks when I get bullied. That's you." She stopped. "Isn't it?"
He looked startled at this, but didn't move away. His thumb was making little circles on her shoulder; she found the gesture strangely comforting, for such a small motion. Not at all like the big, yet brief bear-like hugs her parents would give her, a squeeze and then release. This was... constant, calming, even though the point of contact seemed insignificantly tiny. "I was bullied, once upon a time." He laughed and though she didn't pretend to understand she could hear the bitterness that shot through like veins on a hand, pulsing just underneath the surface like a living thing. "I am still bullied about, really. Some people never really grow up, irregardless of the circumstances of their upbringing." He turned and looked at her, into her, reminding her of one of Professor Snape's magic-laced gazes that seemed to see far more than the dull brown of her eyes. "This will be hard to hear, but I am afraid you'll have to get used to this sort of thing. It won't end, ever. Whomever sent you that note—those sorts, they will always be afraid of people like us."
"People like us?" she whispered.
He looked sharply at her, but then his gaze softened, something very strange passing through his eyes. "Like us," he repeated, and drew her into the warmest hug she had ever known and held her there for a very long time. She wondered if this was the sort of thing a big brother might do. Hogwarts was supposed to be a family, right? Her body was stiff at first against his, but she found herself relaxing, leaning into his chest and borrowing her nose into the soft wool of his robes, her aching eyes closing as the last of the wetness in her eyes slipped out.
Eventually they drew apart and wordlessly went back to reading. She looked up at him, sometimes—and, sometimes, he'd even look back. Considering what Malfoy had done, she felt quite happy right now, more so than she had since she had gotten her Hogwarts letter. She had a friend. Wasn't that grand?
When she was done with her coursework she got up, reluctant to leave. "Goodbye," she said softly, turning to go.
She could feel his eyes following her as she left, and perhaps she was imagining it, but she thought she heard a quiet, "Farewell" trail behind her.
The next morning she strained her neck looking for him at House Tables, a gesture of familiarity she hadn't felt comfortable presuming before—but could not find him. Ron teased her for how silly she looked, half out of her seat, and she fell into a nervous despair. All morning her anxiety rose like a swelling tide, that this sudden friend had just as suddenly abandoned her, and at lunch when she didn't see him there either she felt panic welling in the back of her throat, threatening to choke her. Nor was he in the library, where she had always been able to find him before. Was his research done? Was he hiding? Had she just hallucinated it all in a fit of nerves, was it some newly subtle trick played on her by her Slytherin tormentors?
She overcompensated in Charms, trying to draw in confidence around her like a cloak, spitting out the correct answers as if she was sucking the venom out of a snakebite. She tried so hard to be good, tried to show people how to do things right, tried to correct them so they wouldn't get so much wrong, tried to be helpful, tried everything she knew to make them stop staring at her like she was something out of a freakshow... but everything she did just seemed to make it worse.
It didn't take her much to send her over the edge, some careless comment by a thoughtless classmate in the hall on the way to dinner. She felt the tears bubbling hot and fast in her eyes and she broke into a run, desperate to hide herself away. She knew he wasn't in the library somehow, knew it in the pit of her stomach as if a lead weight had been dropped there to drown her. The bathroom was closer anyway, she reasoned through the haze of tears threatening to fall. Everyone would be at dinner anyway. She'd have a good cry and then settle back into the rhythm of being alone. She just needed a safe space.