A/N: Revised - 25/03/2020.

AWF

She can't remember where anything is. Not consciously, anyway, but it'll take a while before her subconscious memorises all the routes to get to her destinations. Being a snake means that other Houses tend to avoid her on principle, while her own House has marked her as a pariah, so they, too, give her a wide berth.

It wouldn't be all that surprising to find herself wandering aimlessly, but Sally-Anne and her older brother ̶ (whose name currently escapes her) ̶ have prevented that with their almost lackadaisical inclinations to stick by her. The former more so than the latter, though, since they're in the same year. It would be rather risky for their reputations if not for the apparent fact that the Perks are already notorious for being truculent blood traitors.

Hermione and the others can't help much, to their displeasure, since they don't know where the entrance to the Slytherin common room is. After all, they can't help her to her next class if she doesn't show up for the first one.

Her dormmate doesn't even seem to be particularly bothered by the fact that her own persecution has gotten worse due to her association with a mudblood. "Oh, please," scoffed Sally-Anne once she caught Hem idly examining the bruise on her cheek. "This is nothing. I get into fights all the time with my brothers at home ̶ two of them go to Durmstrang, for Merlin's sake ̶ and these arseholes don't hold a candle to them."

Curiously enough, though, the brother doesn't seem to receive the same treatment. She manages to catch some sharp barbs exchanged between the other older students, but mostly, Sally-Anne's brother is left alone. She supposes that, as a Fourth-Year, he'd have already carved his place within Slytherin.

"I'm curious, Hemera," starts the strong-willed blonde as she leads the two of them to the first class of the day. Hem doesn't know what it is. (Who is Hemera, again?) "About how you know the Shield Charm. It's not in this year's curriculum and Weston says it's a moderately difficult spell to learn. It's dead useful; how do you put it on your clothes?"

(Oh, that's right. She's Hemera.)

"You've mastered the Shield Charm?" Tom asked, gaze acute upon her form. He'd barely looked away at all since she told him she was Sorted into Slytherin. In fact, he had barely blinked, too. It would be rather unnerving to a normal person, no doubt.

Inclining her head, she answered, "Hermione helped me with it over the summer." Her sister thought it was a great idea, even as she questioned how Hem even knew about it since they didn't have any books mentioning the charm. She didn't answer, and Hermione let it go easily enough.

Her wand's good for nonverbal spellwork, apparently, which is favourable since she's not able to even whisper incantations on most occasions. She herself seems to be suited to nonverbal magic, much to Hermione and Tom's immense pleasure. It may or may not be a small blessing granted by her magic, but Hem doesn't feel all that mollified. (It'd be great if magic could fix her head entirely, but no. Even witchcraft has its limits.)

Tom gave a sharp, pleased nod. "Good. Use it every day on your clothes, your belongings ̶ anything that you find valuable ̶ until it becomes second nature to do so. As of today, you're a target." The walnut brown of his eyes lightened with vicious anticipation as his fingers tightened around her curls. "Time to survive, Hem."

To be surrounded by children with magic and a lack of awareness as to how cruel they can be is a precarious situation, indeed. She doesn't think it's been too long since school started ̶ (she could easily be wrong, however) ̶ but the amount of jinxes and hexes thrown her way has reached an impressive number, most likely. Not that she's been counting ̶ (not that she can, with the way her head is) ̶ so she can only presume as much with the numerous times she's had to recast her worn Shield Charms.

She might have to minimise her time in the Slytherin Dungeon. Going through the common room and to her dorm is always a rather unsafe journey, especially if Draco is present since he likes to try and establish his dominance all the time.

He doesn't like it when she looks at him, she's noticed. His favoured jinx to use against her is one that's meant to blind her ̶ (he's always aiming for her eyes, she's noticed) ̶ but she's wrapped in layers of the Shield Charm and it tends to ricochet onto some other unsuspecting child. (The light of it bothers her, though. She only learned that she once severed two of his fingers with a jinx she doesn't remember learning after Sally-Anne cackled about it in their dorm.)

Sometimes, she wonders if it's because he's disgusted that someone so inferior would dare to meet his eyes or if it's because of something a little more personal than that. He sneers at her, but sometimes he twitches like he's uncomfortable. Regardless, it's his problem more than it's hers.

Her brain prods at her skull, telling her that Sally-Anne's asked a question that she can't answer. So, to compensate, Hem pauses to unholster her wand before pointing it at the other girl's robes. (Are they friends? What constitutes as a friend, anyway? Maybe they're allies.) One might think nothing's happened since it's meant to be invisible until something hits it, but she can feel the familiar, instinctive pull of magic from within her.

Blinking in surprise, Sally-Anne looks down at her clothes before speedily looking back up with an excited, childlike gleam in her eyes. "Oh, that's unexpected! Thank you! I suppose this is your way of saying you can't exactly tell me?" A nod, which is responded to with another nod of acknowledgment. "I suppose I should've been more mindful of my questions. My aunt ̶ she's mute, you see, her tongue was cut out by a Death Eater during the war with a curse ̶ often informs me that it can be difficult for her to communicate with people since writing is a lot slower than talking. Maybe we should get you a book to write in for communicative purposes."

And somehow, Hem is reminded of a less strait-laced Hermione; one who likes to wear cherry-red Doc Martens, studded bracelets and style her hair into French-plaited pigtails. It's probably why they get along relatively well even if one favours hard academics and the other just likes to take people apart in her head.

"No matter," dismisses Sally-Anne, grabbing Hem's hand to resume their trek to class. "Let's go to the library later, then. Or maybe I can ask your sister since we have DADA with Gryffindor right now. Professor Quirrell never takes points away for talking during class; he'd have too much trouble stuttering it all out. And everyone knows that he avoids you like the plague, even if he gives you creepy stares when you aren't looking. Aren't you just the enigmatic girl?"

Sally-Anne grins at her, brows raised cheekily. Hem wishes she could say that she's not very interesting at all and these weird attitudes from her professors are decidedly unwelcome.

Even though she does have atypical dreams where she communicates with a boy who's possibly from an alternate reality and a mind like mire.

Not that they'd know about the first part. (Wouldn't that be terrifying if they did?)

. . .

. . .

The dynamic between her Slytherin companion and the Gryffindor trio is somewhat tenuous, one might say.

Ron was apprehensive, at first, when the younger Granger sister that he had just met was Sorted into Slytherin, but that soon changed when the elder sister told him off for thinking Hem was going to suddenly become some kind of sneering bully.

"She can barely find it in herself to care about anything, Ronald Weasley! Why would she waste her time and effort harassing others for an emotional response she's incapable of feeling?"

Harry seemed to be contemplative, but he gave Hem a welcoming smile the next time she showed up with green on her robes. Hermione, of course, ever the supportive sister ̶ (she doesn't deserve this, please, stop) ̶ told her that she'd teach her all the jinxes, hexes and their counterspells that she currently knows for self-defence when and if the Shield Charm ever fails.

(Sally-Anne also likes to show her various hexes, but they're a little Darker than Hermione's repertoire.

"You never know when you need to puncture someone's lungs so they cough up blood. Can't cast spells effectively if they're doing that, now, can they?")

Hermione can be terrifyingly vindictive when it comes to those she cares about, as Harry and Ron have learned.

"You know, Hermione, I thought you'd be all bookish and rule-abiding. I mean, you're definitely bookish, but," Ron waved a hand, trying to articulate his thoughts, but his bushy-haired friend caught on before he strained himself.

Eyes still glued to her DADA book, Hermione responded, "Well, rules are important, mind you, but I've learned that not everyone cares about that. The world can be very cruel, especially to people who aren't easily understood." Her face darkened as she turned to the next page. "And if my following of those rules means my sister gets hurt because others disregard them, then I'll happily break them."

Sally-Anne smiles roguishly at the ginger-haired Gryffindor, who regards her with a suspicious squint. Even if Ron thinks Hem's all right, it doesn't really extend to the rest of the House. It's something the other Slytherin girl immediately picked up on during their first meeting.

"Fellow blood traitor," she greets, smile widening as Ron's face scrunches up. She decides to give him a reprieve as she greets the other two Gryffindors. "Hermione." Her smile becomes more genuine, but that disappears back into mischief when she turns to the bespectacled boy of the group and intones, "Boy Who Lived. Nice to see you looking so suitably ordinary for a celebrity."

Harry grimaces, running a hand through his messy hair in discomfort. "You really enjoy getting under people's skin, don't you?" he remarks as they all take a seat to settle in before class starts. Hermione is with Hem at one desk ̶ (she insists, and the other Slytherin of the group knows not to push it) ̶ Ron with Harry and Sally-Anne at the desk in front of the two Grangers. A quiet brunet ̶ (something Nott, maybe; a Slytherin boy. He has a nice side profile) ̶ often sits next to her, some unspoken rule in place as they ignore each other completely.

"Force of habit, I'm afraid," nods the blonde with mock solemnity. "One needs to have a certain amount of impertinence in the pit of snakes. You'd think one of us Perks would've landed ourselves in another House by now, but no. It's probably the fault of associating with muggle biker gangs. Dad does so like his motorcycles, you see."

Ron, confused, asks, "What the hell is a biker gang?" which elicits a joint explanation between Hermione and Sally-Anne that seems to short-circuit his brain while Harry listens with a slightly puzzled smile.

Hem listens for a bit, but it soon becomes white noise when she focuses on doodling in her sketchbook. Later on, she realises it's a rather severe sketch of a boy with black eyes staring up at her, all hard edges and dark undertones. It must have been unconsciously imbued with magic, for the boy tilts his head a fraction every so often. She thinks it makes his intense, unblinking stare more unnerving.

She gives it to Harry at the end of the lesson, who blinks rapidly in shock, like he's seldom received gifts in his life. "Really?" Hem nods, and he beams. Something akin to a needle pokes her chest. "Thanks, Hem! I really like it."

"Your art's kind of scary, Hem," Ron observes from over Harry's shoulder. "Wicked, of course, but it's a little disturbing to stare at. Don't know why."

"I'd like some sketches, too, please," requests Sally-Anne. "In your own time. Maybe it can be a design on the side of a bike!"

. . .

. . .

Professor Snape covers himself in bitterness and hostility, evidently trying to find some kind of vindictive satisfaction in degrading schoolchildren. (What scars are hidden under his dramatic, billowy cloak? What's he lost and who does he see when he looks at Harry and Hermione? Or is she just overthinking things?)

It's clear that he dislikes everyone save for Draco ̶ ("Probably because he's friends with the git's father," snarks Sally-Anne) ̶ but it's also rather obvious that he abhors the group of misfits that is the so-called Gryffindor trio. Sally-Anne is generally ignored, but he seems to also have something against Hem, so it's not unusual for him to throw sneers and insults her way as well. They effortlessly slide off her back, though, which visibly bothers him.

But he usually appears to be mollified by the enraged responses from her sister, Ron and Harry, so it's most likely considered a win in his eyes, anyway.

(They should stop, honestly. It means nothing to her and the bickering is more annoying than the insults.)

As he stands in front of the class as opposed to looming over everyone, she inadvertently meets his eyes. Again, his eyes narrow and, for some reason, Hem has a tendency to maintain eye contact if the other person doesn't decide to look away immediately. It's probably a habit picked up from Tom.

(She has a fair few habits adopted from him, it would seem. Once or twice, now, she's caught herself twirling her wand between her fingers.)

But then she blinks and Professor Snape's turned away, off to harass one of the Gryffindor pairings. Half of her expected him to call her out, to try and make her uncomfortable by forcing everyone's attention on her.

Then Hermione asks her to pass over some kind of leaf and Hem tries not to blow up their project. It'll be take some time before she can internalise all the intricacies of potion-making.

. . .

. . .

When Hem revealed to Tom that, after the Sorting, she hasn't gone back to the Great Hall since then and so she might've been unintentionally starving herself, he was furious. His ire is not often directed at her, but it happens on occasion. Usually when she's causing herself more harm than the usual scratching. He didn't even give her time to mention that Sally-Anne smuggles food into the dorm every so often to share it with her.

"I can't believe you!" he hissed, incensed enough that he stood above her in the blink of an eye, her head tilted up to what would be a painful degree as he roughly seized her face with his hands. "You ̶ How dare you?" And his eyes were so very dark, tempestuous emotions flickering in and out with his distress. (Anger. Desperation. Fear. Why fear?) "I won't have you starving yourself, Hem! I won't allow it!"

She hadn't responded, instead opting to grab his wrists as he worked out his rage. Something that was rather swift, for he stilled, eyes boring into her own and gradually softening, even though what he found was lacking.

(He wants her to care. He needs her to care, she knows, but she can't and she's sorry. Somewhere within her, she knows she's sorry.)

"There's a way to enter the kitchens," he murmured after a prolonged silence, the rest of his vexation draining out of him. The timely manner of it all would be perturbing to some. "If you won't go to the Great Hall, then go to the kitchens." His thumbs brushed against her cheeks for a while, but eventually, he let out a sigh and released her, standing back to his full height and running a hand through his hair. "Oh, Hem, have you ever seen what starvation does to people? How it ruins them?"

"Sorry."

Tom gave her an imperfect smile, his cracked mask repairing itself as he stared at her. "I don't know what will happen if you die, Hem. If I'll still dream of a white King's Cross Station but no curly-haired girl with cold, grey eyes to keep me company. And, since I plan to live for a long time, I'd like it if you would take some precautions so that you can do the same."

"Here we are! The Hogwarts kitchens," announces Fred ̶ (it is Fred and not some other name, right?) ̶ after tickling a painting of a pear that giggled and turned into a door handle. The Third-Year boy ̶ (alongside his brother, who stands on her other side) ̶ gestures grandly towards the room, where small creatures are bustling about. House-elves, supplies her mind.

The elves nearby pause in their tasks, turning towards the three students with giant, owlish eyes before they immediately begin to swarm at them with greetings. Hem jolts, alarmed by the abrupt bustle of sound and movement, but the twins quickly shield her. Which is considerate of them.

"Whoa, careful there," starts Fred.

"Our ickle snake startles easily," continues George. "She's not very fond of the inferior lifeforms up in the Great Hall, see. Too much sound ̶ "

"And movement ̶ "

"From said inferior lifeforms." They both wink at her from over their shoulders. She'd smile, but they don't seem to mind her lack of a response.

After numerous apologies that the two boys have to wave off, Hem soon finds herself sitting at one of the tables with the two of them on either side of her. There're all sorts of food in front of them, and she knows they won't be able to finish it all. It doesn't stop the other two from trying.

Still, it's been a while since she's had a decent meal, so she eats an ample amount while Fred and George talk in between bites about various options for their next big prank. It's comfortable to be in their shared presence. Their chatter is soothing even as they have a curious habit of occasionally continuing each other's sentences.

(Would that be a sign of co-dependency? What would happen if one of them died?)

Eventually, as Hem takes a sip of her Cambric tea ̶ (an American term, so says Hermione) ̶ a small voice whispers, "Thank you," which makes the conversation between the two brother stall. (It's her voice.)

"Did you hear that, Fred?" gasps George, who sounds notably incredulous.

Fred leans back, pressing a hand to his chest and sounding breathless as he replies, "Did the silent snakelet just thank us, George?"

"Why, I think she did," George answers with a smile, his expression genuinely pleased from what she can tell when she turns to look at him. "First, she surprises us by asking if we know the way to the kitchens ̶ in French, mind, but we're fair at it, luckily ̶ and then she surprises us again with a verbal thanks!"

"We're not worthy!" Fred exclaims, expression matching his brother's. "I don't think you've even said a word to Ron yet, have you?"

Not intentionally, she doesn't say. Active attempts at verbal communication are usually hit or miss scenarios. And, like George reminds her, sometimes she slips into French when she should be speaking English and vice versa. Ron doesn't usually address her directly, anyway, not in a way that generally warrants a response like a question.

"Well," Georges begins, the both of them draping an arm over her shoulders. It's an affectionate gesture and she doesn't know how to feel. "You're very welcome, at any rate. We'll keep the fact that you clearly like us more than ickle Ronniekins to ourselves." He looks over at Fred after winking at her. "Right?" His tone almost makes it sound like a warning.

Fred lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Yes, fine," he agrees. "It's probably for the best. He gets jealous easily and he'd probably take it out on you even if it's not your fault. That won't stop us from giving him devilish grins, though, will it?"

Snacking on the fruit fool that's appeared on the table, Hem listens to the two of them joke. It's nice, in a way. A small part of her is glad that her assumption about their prankster ways ̶ (Hem can't recall how she learned that; maybe Ron mentioned it) ̶ probably meant that they'd know secret passageways and the like was right.

The rest is focused on the dessert that she's eating.

AWF

A/N: Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.