A/N: Revised - 24/03/2020.
AWF
The journey of finally arriving at the station and going on a boat ride to witness a majestic castle is supposed to be a wondrous experience. At least, Hem assumes so from the awed expressions and gasps of her peers.
Unfortunately, her mind decides that it'd like to float away, now, so her attention to her surroundings is lost as she endeavours to smother the onset of another episode. Hermione will be awfully upset if something happens, and Hem doesn't want to ruin a once-in-a-lifetime moment for her. Or for any of the other children, for that matter.
"It was… something extraordinary," reminisced Tom, eyes in the distance as he played the memory over in his head. "It's hard to name the exact feeling, but I knew from the moment I looked upon the castle that it would be something I'd consider home. I'd never had a home before, as you well know, so it was quite…" The corner of his mouth twitched. "Magical."
Someone grabs her hand before pulling her down and towards them. Hem comes to the slow realisation that she would've had a curtain of ivy stuck to her hair and face if they hadn't.
The boy next to her ̶ (Harry. His name's Harry) ̶ gives her a shy smile when she turns to him. She's dimly aware of squeezing his hand in thanks and his smile brightening in response. Her mind slowly begins to settle, gradually finding its way back to the ground while she blinks away the visual snow and the overly illuminate moonlight.
"You all right, Hem?" he whispers, leaning closer to her. He startles when Hermione abruptly whips her head and smacks Ron right in the face with her ample amount of hair, causing the ginger-haired boy to sputter in indignant shock.
Giving her a squinty look of observation, Hermione's expression soon softens into clear concern, evidently ignorant of Ron's disgruntled stare. "Don't worry, Hem," she comforts, reaching over to place an encouraging hand on Hem's knee. "It's nearly over. We'll be Sorted, eat some food, then go to bed. Then we can go to the headmaster tomorrow to get your medicine."
Hem can do little more than a slight nod before she finds herself standing in a room with a high ceiling amongst the rest of her year mates. Hermione mutters something about which spells she's learnt in order to pass the supposed Sorting test, while Ron and Harry are looking at her with increasing horror.
"Please, stop," pleads Harry with a grimace. Ron wildly nods his head in agreement.
Hermione blinks, eyes widening in surprise. "Oh! Sorry," she apologises, cheeks colouring to a reddish hue. "I have a habit of muttering when I'm nervous. I really don't want to fail. That'd be just horrible."
"S'all right," Harry replies, looking a little green as he adjusts his glasses. "I'm, uh, nervous, too. Don't really know any spells yet…"
Ron looks to the other boy with wide eyes, "Nervous? I'm bloody terrified, mate! Fred said that we might have to fight a dragon or something."
"That doesn't sound plausible," Hermione says with a frown. "I'm fairly sure we'd all die against a dragon, so I doubt anyone in the wizarding world would find that beneficial to society, no?" She crosses her arms in thought, then, probably trying to figure out if they really would be willing to do that. After all, the Grangers are new to this world and abnormality is their normality.
(Shame. She doubts that'd apply to her. Even wizards and witches don't seem to have brains like hers.)
. . .
. . .
"Granger, Hemera!"
Hem jolts, thrown off of her train of thought. As a response, her mind clears just enough for her to remember that they're being Sorted. The bright lights of the Great Halls are blinding her while the curious gazes of an entire school are piercing her skin like needles.
Her eyes eventually flick towards the stern, bespectacled woman ̶ (who's she, again?) ̶ whose gaze lifts from her roll of parchment to sweep over the dwindling crowd of First-Years. When her gaze settles on Hem, it subtly softens and the severe-looking woman gives a coaxing nod. (So she knows? Wait, what does she know about?)
When her body refuses to move and whispers begin to break out like flies buzzing in her ears, Hem vaguely feels a hand place itself flat against her back. Gently, it pushes her forward, allowing her legs to automatically move towards the stool.
Numbly, Hem sits, her gaze lowered so as to avoid the overstimulation the visual of a crowd burning holes into her flesh would inevitably cause. Then her vision darkens ̶ (which is nice; she's going to need specialised glasses at this rate, what with all the light) ̶ as the ratty hat is placed on her head.
'Well, well…' starts an unexpectedly deep voice that echoes and scrapes against her mind. 'Quite the mess of a mind you have, my dear,' it observes, quite bluntly at that. She can't disagree, at any rate.
(Get it out. Get it out.)
'No response? Not even in your own head?' queries the Hat. 'Very well. So long as you'll allow me to try and find a place for your frazzled soul. You've quite the intellect, you know, regardless of your mental setbacks. Rather impressive, indeed, when one considers how afflicted your mind has been from the very beginning. There's a House for the perspicacious, you know.'
Hem is reminded of Tom's words, then, and she wonders if it can see those particular memories. (Are they memories?) But she assumes not, for the sentient object would likely remark upon it. How much can it see? How hard is it to wade through the mud that is her mindscape? It doesn't tell her.
'Stop scratching your arm, my dear,' it orders, somewhat airily so. She listens, unsurprised by her lack of awareness nor by the Hat's casual order. 'Now… Aside from your wit, it would seem that you've the wisdom of someone beyond your years… And you're creative, no doubt; those sketches of yours diamonds in the rough.' It hums, contemplative. It sounds like she'll be in Ravenclaw. Hermione might end up there. 'Ravenclaw would appreciate your talents, yes… But you have no interest to learn for the sake of learning, now, do you? Apathy pumps through your heart, corrupts your blood and your flesh while it rots your bones from the inside out. It is only the brilliant self-preservation of your subconscious and the love from your family that keeps you from falling over the edge; never to return.'
That doesn't sound right. (But it doesn't know about Tom, does it? Somehow out of sight, somehow out of mind.) Hem doesn't bother correcting it. It doesn't need to know.
'Oh, yes. Unfortunate, indeed. Lacking in ambition and courage, you've become far too resigned to the misfortune thrust upon you. But I can see such potential… Do you see? Something untapped and hidden, begging to be realised. And should it be, I am certain that you will become something truly great. Of course… You need to be challenged in order to reach it. Yes, I believe it is so.
'Well, then, my dear, it's time for you to go and carve a place of your own in the cruel, cruel world. And there's no better place for you to do that other than SLYTHERIN!'
Catching herself in time before she falls off the stool, Hem blinks in rapid succession as the Sorting Hat is removed and she's violently assaulted by the dazzling light of the Great Hall. Feeling as though she's stuck, Hem finds Hermione, Harry and Ron gawking at her with varying expressions of bewilderment and shock. But her sister catches herself, trying to bestow upon her a loving smile that's too filled with worry to be very effective.
Then the sound of only a few people clapping politely from the Slytherin table jumpstarts her brain and forces her to make her way over.
Tom will be so very pleased, she thinks. She's always thought his best smile is the one where it's a little crooked, a little imperfect, but unequivocally genuine. It makes him look more like boyish and human than the carved masks that he's so partial to wearing.
The first time he smiled at her like that was when she told him that she could set fire to things with her mind.
("Like me," he breathed, giddy. "We're the same!")
. . .
. . .
The food's nice, Hem decides. She can taste a fair amount of flavour even before she piles more salt and pepper than what's strictly necessary. The company, however, could be better, since Hermione, Ron and Harry were all Sorted into Gryffindor.
(She knows Hermione's going to worry all night, wondering if she's okay and who's going to help her if something goes wrong. They were supposed to be in the same House; the same dorm; together. Once again, life reminds her why disappointment is so familiar to her.)
"Ugh," groans the blond boy ̶ (Malfoy; is it derived from French?) ̶ from the train. "I can't believe they've let a mudblood into Slytherin! My appetite is spoiled from just sitting at the same table as her." He waves a hands towards her like he wants her to shoo, which she would like to do because her senses are blistering.
(Focus on the food. Just the sense of taste. Focus on it.)
Snickers stand out from the background noise around her. Mocking, malicious, some forced for appearance's sake. It falls off of her shoulders, surprisingly, the words and sounds meaning little to her. (Did she really expect it to hurt?) She hears a scoff from somewhere to her right and a mutter of, "Of course, he has to be a little twat, doesn't he?" It's a young, feminine voice. One of her year mates?
"Mudblood," Tom hissed. "A derogatory term for those of purely muggle heritage. They're seen as dirt in the eyes of the pure-blood extremists; stealers of magic from 'real' wizards and witches, things like that. It's not commonly used in polite company seeing as it's considered a rather vulgar word."
"Did someone call you that, Tom?"
He smiled, its appearance saccharine and menacing. "Just once. They know better, now."
"Malfoy," calls an unfamiliar voice. It sounds older. Androgynous. "You'd best not use that word in public; you wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation, yeah?"
An aggrieved hiss and the scrape of a fork against a plate. Her fingers twitch. "What, are you defending her?"
"I'm just saying," replies the same voice. "That word isn't received well in polite society. I don't care what you say in private, though." They seem to think before adding, "Besides, she's one of us, now, whether you like it or not. Professor Snape doesn't like it when infighting can be seen by the other Houses."
In order words; don't get caught, and no one will say otherwise.
Hem wants to sigh, but instead, she lifts her head to address the scorching tingle that's broken out on the side of her scalp. Her eyes sweep over the High Table ̶ (that's what it's called, right? Hermione said something about it, didn't she?) ̶ before landing on a man with a turban twitchily gaping at her with something akin to bewildered alarm.
When their eyes meet, the man literally lurches back with a strangled yelp, startling and drawing the attention of both his colleagues and the student body. With a high-pitched, highly anxious attempt at a laugh, the nervous man desperately waves them off and assures them that nothing's wrong. It doesn't really work, but no one seems to want to question it.
Unsure of how to process that, Hem soon finds herself under the scrutiny of another man ̶ (one with an unusual amount of oil in his hair) ̶ that's seated beside the turban-wearing one. His dark, searing eyes narrow at her with suspicion, but she only stares back, wondering what it is that he's looking for.
His eyes seem to narrow more upon the realisation that she's not looking away, as though finding her subconscious course of action noteworthy in some ̶ (probably unflattering) ̶ fashion. (She can't be that interesting, no?) Then, without warning, their impromptu staring competition is broken when he turns away to supposedly reply to something said by one of the other professors.
And Hem, after a bemused blink, returns to her dinner and thinks about whether or not she'll be able to sleep tonight.
. . .
. . .
Hem supposes she should feel grateful that she's only sharing a dorm with three other girls rather than all seven of the other Slytherin girls in her year. That sounds like a bad idea, honestly, and the girl with the alliterative name ̶ (Parkin? No, Parkinson, right?) ̶ looked at her as though she was something dirty and foul. She won't be surprised if said girl starts heckling her during the year.
The identical sisters ̶ (with brown hair so straight that it's imposing and matching flat expressions) ̶ are quiet as they prepare for bed, their movements in sync and jarring to witness. They ignore her and the other girl ̶ (blonde hair, notably pretty, with a pert nose dusted with freckles while honey irises survey Hem's form with a prickling amount of intensity) ̶ which is fine, since any attempts at conversation would be unintentionally rebuffed.
After they finish brushing their teeth, the twins enter their respective beds before swiftly closing the curtains simultaneously. That kind of coordination is impressive, really.
"I've noticed something about you, Granger," remarks the other girl still sitting up while Hem slides off her tights to replace them with knee-high socks. She can't sleep without them. Every time she tries, the sensation of fabric brushing against her legs sets her off and then she'll just not sleep at all. It annoys Tom to no end.
("Really, Hem? You left me here because you tried to sleep without socks and failed?")
Glancing over at the blonde, Hem blinks, trying to remember her name with little success. The girl doesn't seem to mind her silence as she sits on her bed, leaning towards and examining her like she's an interesting puzzle. It'd be discomforting under normal circumstances.
She doesn't reply.
"You've got a wild thing about you, did you know?" continues the girl with a smile now upon her features, teeth white and immaculate. Theia and Matthias would be pleased. "I mean, your relatively shabby appearance enforces that impression, but I mean to say that it's in your eyes."
Hem contemplates sleeping with her arm holster on. Will that cause any problems?
"My name's Sally-Anne Perks, by the way. You don't speak much, do you?" Sally-Anne tilts her head in thought, still staring with a peculiar gleam in her eyes. "Or is it… You can't speak much? Even the Carrow sisters were whispering among themselves in the Great Hall."
Absently scratching the side of her neck, Hem gives a distracted nod. (Probably?) She decides to sleep with the arm holster on and see how it feels. If she'll feel anything at all. It might stop her from scratching her left wrist, at least. Her right, on the other hand, is still in danger of being assaulted by her nails.
(What does it matter? There's already too much to count. A few more won't hurt. Not her, anyway. Just her family, who are helpless because everything they've tried hasn't worked.)
"They're cold, you know," says Sally-Anne. Her smile is approving, for some reason or another. "Your eyes, I mean. I thought you'd be timid; that your eyes would be full of easily discerned vulnerability." She waves a dismissive hand before settling further into her bed and beginning to plait her hair. "I was mistaken. The way you were staring at Professor Snape doesn't really match that particular description."
Sally-Anne ties her the end of her plait. "You just don't care, do you? About being placed in Slytherin, away from your sister, or Malfoy being a little twat and kicking up a fuss about said placement." Hem blinks, something niggling at her brain, telling her that there's a connection to something, somewhere. But it eludes her, and she lets it go.
Reaching over to turn off her lamplight, the blonde-haired girl ̶ (observant; aggressive; possibly dangerous) ̶ gives her one last smile. Strangely enough, it does seem to be sincerely pleasant. "I thought I'd let you know; Headmaster Dumbledore was watching you, too. You must be someone interesting if the normally genial man ̶ so says my brother, at least ̶ peers at you with such calculation." The light disappears. "Goodnight, Granger. I hope we can be friends in the near future. I'm very good at blink interpretations."
Blinking at the curtain that's hiding the mysterious girl's form, Hem lets out a forceful breath, pushing back the urge to drown. Did she really need to be so thoroughly analysed?
She's been able to stay afloat all day with some effort; it'd be annoying if she failed, now, just as the day's supposed to end.
AWF
A/N: Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.