Rowan had found the room quite by accident, especially since she was nearly blinded by her tears when her groping hand found the doorknob. Dinner had been excruciating, and although nearly everyone had been unfailingly polite to her she didn't really fancy going back to the Common room to be stared at like some sort of circus attraction. Again.
She didn't understand what was happening to her, hadn't ever since the owl had flown up in the dusking afternoon and dropped the letter squarely into her hands. It had said she had been accepted to some school, a school of witchcraft and wizardry. But such things couldn't exist, they were the stuff of fantasies, fairy tales, books and films. The letter wasn't real, it was a practical joke performed by some boy down the lane and picked up by a wandering bird. Never mind the fact that it had dropped it right into her hand.
That had become harder and harder to believe as more letters had followed, instructions on where to go, how to go there, what to do when she arrived. She had been guided to a place called Diagon Alley, told to purchase a wand, some robes, some books. She had even read a little through the books. It was all so fantastical, so hard to take in all at once. The words were lined up properly on the page but her mind couldn't grasp that the grammatically correct sentences had any meaning. The final letter had told her to go to London, to a train platform that didn't exist, and wait for a train called (of all things) the Hogwarts Express. She'd stood on the train platform near tears for nearly an hour before another family had taken pity on her and showed her how to catch the train.
And then some horrible and neverending ceremony involving a singing hat. She'd been sure it had been going to swallow her whole and spit out her bones, despite the fact that it didn't do to any of the students before her. It had only talked at her a little, and she'd sat on the stool shivering until it shrieked Ravenclaw! at the top of its lungs. The blue and gold table had clapped, and she'd tottered over…
But they'd all stared at her so wide-eyed to see her so disconcerted.
After a torturous week during which she'd been trying and trying to get used to this strange world (and failing, and failing) she just needed a quiet place to cry. A place where no one would find her, where no one would laugh at her or try in a conciliatory but ineffectual way to make her feel better. Preferably a place with something soft onto which she could throw herself. She'd been stumbling around the corridors for nearly an hour after dinner.
But somehow she found the room, managed to fumble open the door with a sticky hand, and stumbled in. There were overstuffed armchairs, she could see, and a table in one corner. And a couch. She threw herself onto it and sobbed, grateful to hear the door close behind her.
"Here…" a voice said at her shoulder, making her screech. "You might as well take this."
She sat up, stared first at the handkerchief that was being offered (and did it look a bit papery?) then at the hand that offered it. Slender fingers, almost too slender, with the bony look of a growing and always hungry child about them. Like her cousin's fingers, who was just starting to hit his growth spurt. Her eyes traveled up the arm, an inch of bony wrist sticking out from the sleeve of the robe. The colors were green and silver; Slytherin colors, she understood. Even the name had sounded nasty, and the folk who had laughed at their table hadn't looked friendly either. Certainly not the kind of folk who would offer a weeping first year a handkerchief.
She looked up and met his eyes now, watery green to dark. His face was lean, sallow, and had the pinched look of a boy who hasn't smiled since he was three. His hair was greasy and untidy. There was a smudge of ink or something else dark by his nose, as though he'd been rubbing his eyes with a pen in his hand. His eyes were dark, sullen and hooded. Whatever emotion had been there before she'd entered was covered up in icy silence.
"Th-thank you…" she fumbled the handkerchief into her hand and wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry…" she didn't want to be a bother, but she didn't want to go either. "I thought I was alone."
"Obviously," he muttered. He also waved off her efforts to return his handkerchief which, she noticed, smelled like paper. "Keep it, before you leak all over the carpet."
Rowan drew back, stung into a fresh burst of tears despite her best efforts not to show weakness in front of this horrible, nasty boy. "You're awfully rude, you know that?"
"I'm not the one who came blubbering into a quiet study room," he pointed out, returning to the desk she had stumbled by before. Now that she could see clearly she could make out that his books were on the table, his bookbag by the chair. She couldn't tell what he'd been studying though.
"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "I was just… I was looking for a quiet place where no one would…" she trailed off. It seemed stupid now that she wasn't crying anymore, now that she was all right if still sad and homesick.
"Where no one would see you blubbering like a baby?" he offered, although there seemed to be only habitual sarcasm in his tone, nothing personal. She thought about pitching a cushion at his head.
"Do you have to be so terribly mean?" she asked, wondering if anger was going to overtake her grief. "It's not as though any of your friends are here to watch you pick on the poor little firstie."
He didn't seem to know what to do with that.
"Weren't you ever homesick as a first year?"
Something crossed his face, a grimace or a scowl horrible enough to make her want to take a step back if she'd been standing. As it was she shrank into the couch. But he wasn't looking at her, he was looking at some thought in his own mind. "No," he said after a split second. "Never."
"Never?"
"Just because you're in here blubbering over your mommy and daddy and your stupid pets doesn't mean the rest of us have to spend our first year whinging about it, all right?" he snapped.
"I'm sorry," she said reflexively, and then wondered why that had popped out. Clearly she'd hit some sort of nerve, a sore spot. But she couldn't tell what.
"Hmmph," he said, and turned back to his books. But this time she could see clearly, and noticed that his back was tense, his shoulders hunched, waiting for the teasing or blows or recriminations from her. She wondered why. She didn't dare ask.
Studying looked like a thing to do, at least, and now that she wasn't so upset or under so much scrutiny she actually thought she might be able to. It would be easier to wrap her mind around all the new concepts, the new things to learn if she didn't have people constantly staring at her or asking her about 'Muggle' things. And it was quiet in here, the other boy made no sound except the turning of his pages or the scratching of his quill on the paper. She still had to get used to writing with a quill. It was awkward, and she kept leaving blots everywhere. At least she was getting better at it, if only slowly. She pulled out her books and spread them over the end table, leaning over the arm of the couch to read.
"Are you still here?" the rude boy asked. A quick glance over her shoulder told her that he wasn't actually looking at her, just going on the fact that he hadn't heard the door close again.
"Of course. It's quiet, it's warm, and there are couches. It's a perfect place to study."
She braced herself for another sarcastic remark, but evidently he couldn't think of one. When she risked a second glance over her shoulder he had returned to his books, scratching out notes on parchments, his hair brushing the pages as he read. Perhaps she'd actually won that argument, or at least achieved some sort of cease-fire. Satisfied and relieved to have found a place out of the public eye, she went back to studying as well.
She didn't understand what was happening to her, hadn't ever since the owl had flown up in the dusking afternoon and dropped the letter squarely into her hands. It had said she had been accepted to some school, a school of witchcraft and wizardry. But such things couldn't exist, they were the stuff of fantasies, fairy tales, books and films. The letter wasn't real, it was a practical joke performed by some boy down the lane and picked up by a wandering bird. Never mind the fact that it had dropped it right into her hand.
That had become harder and harder to believe as more letters had followed, instructions on where to go, how to go there, what to do when she arrived. She had been guided to a place called Diagon Alley, told to purchase a wand, some robes, some books. She had even read a little through the books. It was all so fantastical, so hard to take in all at once. The words were lined up properly on the page but her mind couldn't grasp that the grammatically correct sentences had any meaning. The final letter had told her to go to London, to a train platform that didn't exist, and wait for a train called (of all things) the Hogwarts Express. She'd stood on the train platform near tears for nearly an hour before another family had taken pity on her and showed her how to catch the train.
And then some horrible and neverending ceremony involving a singing hat. She'd been sure it had been going to swallow her whole and spit out her bones, despite the fact that it didn't do to any of the students before her. It had only talked at her a little, and she'd sat on the stool shivering until it shrieked Ravenclaw! at the top of its lungs. The blue and gold table had clapped, and she'd tottered over…
But they'd all stared at her so wide-eyed to see her so disconcerted.
After a torturous week during which she'd been trying and trying to get used to this strange world (and failing, and failing) she just needed a quiet place to cry. A place where no one would find her, where no one would laugh at her or try in a conciliatory but ineffectual way to make her feel better. Preferably a place with something soft onto which she could throw herself. She'd been stumbling around the corridors for nearly an hour after dinner.
But somehow she found the room, managed to fumble open the door with a sticky hand, and stumbled in. There were overstuffed armchairs, she could see, and a table in one corner. And a couch. She threw herself onto it and sobbed, grateful to hear the door close behind her.
"Here…" a voice said at her shoulder, making her screech. "You might as well take this."
She sat up, stared first at the handkerchief that was being offered (and did it look a bit papery?) then at the hand that offered it. Slender fingers, almost too slender, with the bony look of a growing and always hungry child about them. Like her cousin's fingers, who was just starting to hit his growth spurt. Her eyes traveled up the arm, an inch of bony wrist sticking out from the sleeve of the robe. The colors were green and silver; Slytherin colors, she understood. Even the name had sounded nasty, and the folk who had laughed at their table hadn't looked friendly either. Certainly not the kind of folk who would offer a weeping first year a handkerchief.
She looked up and met his eyes now, watery green to dark. His face was lean, sallow, and had the pinched look of a boy who hasn't smiled since he was three. His hair was greasy and untidy. There was a smudge of ink or something else dark by his nose, as though he'd been rubbing his eyes with a pen in his hand. His eyes were dark, sullen and hooded. Whatever emotion had been there before she'd entered was covered up in icy silence.
"Th-thank you…" she fumbled the handkerchief into her hand and wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry…" she didn't want to be a bother, but she didn't want to go either. "I thought I was alone."
"Obviously," he muttered. He also waved off her efforts to return his handkerchief which, she noticed, smelled like paper. "Keep it, before you leak all over the carpet."
Rowan drew back, stung into a fresh burst of tears despite her best efforts not to show weakness in front of this horrible, nasty boy. "You're awfully rude, you know that?"
"I'm not the one who came blubbering into a quiet study room," he pointed out, returning to the desk she had stumbled by before. Now that she could see clearly she could make out that his books were on the table, his bookbag by the chair. She couldn't tell what he'd been studying though.
"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "I was just… I was looking for a quiet place where no one would…" she trailed off. It seemed stupid now that she wasn't crying anymore, now that she was all right if still sad and homesick.
"Where no one would see you blubbering like a baby?" he offered, although there seemed to be only habitual sarcasm in his tone, nothing personal. She thought about pitching a cushion at his head.
"Do you have to be so terribly mean?" she asked, wondering if anger was going to overtake her grief. "It's not as though any of your friends are here to watch you pick on the poor little firstie."
He didn't seem to know what to do with that.
"Weren't you ever homesick as a first year?"
Something crossed his face, a grimace or a scowl horrible enough to make her want to take a step back if she'd been standing. As it was she shrank into the couch. But he wasn't looking at her, he was looking at some thought in his own mind. "No," he said after a split second. "Never."
"Never?"
"Just because you're in here blubbering over your mommy and daddy and your stupid pets doesn't mean the rest of us have to spend our first year whinging about it, all right?" he snapped.
"I'm sorry," she said reflexively, and then wondered why that had popped out. Clearly she'd hit some sort of nerve, a sore spot. But she couldn't tell what.
"Hmmph," he said, and turned back to his books. But this time she could see clearly, and noticed that his back was tense, his shoulders hunched, waiting for the teasing or blows or recriminations from her. She wondered why. She didn't dare ask.
Studying looked like a thing to do, at least, and now that she wasn't so upset or under so much scrutiny she actually thought she might be able to. It would be easier to wrap her mind around all the new concepts, the new things to learn if she didn't have people constantly staring at her or asking her about 'Muggle' things. And it was quiet in here, the other boy made no sound except the turning of his pages or the scratching of his quill on the paper. She still had to get used to writing with a quill. It was awkward, and she kept leaving blots everywhere. At least she was getting better at it, if only slowly. She pulled out her books and spread them over the end table, leaning over the arm of the couch to read.
"Are you still here?" the rude boy asked. A quick glance over her shoulder told her that he wasn't actually looking at her, just going on the fact that he hadn't heard the door close again.
"Of course. It's quiet, it's warm, and there are couches. It's a perfect place to study."
She braced herself for another sarcastic remark, but evidently he couldn't think of one. When she risked a second glance over her shoulder he had returned to his books, scratching out notes on parchments, his hair brushing the pages as he read. Perhaps she'd actually won that argument, or at least achieved some sort of cease-fire. Satisfied and relieved to have found a place out of the public eye, she went back to studying as well.