A/N: Revised - 29/03/2020.

AWF

Hem has a feeling that going with Sally-Anne to watch the Quidditch match between Slytherin and Gryffindor is going to be a bad idea. Wind howling in her ears, the cheers and jeers of the audience while fast-moving objects fly by and the sunlight bears down on her retinas; it doesn't bode for a very calming environment.

But it's Harry's first match, and though he would understand ̶ ("I guess you wouldn't like flying much, huh? You weren't bad during the lessons, actually, before Neville flew off and broke his wrist," Harry remarks) ̶ a part of her wants to support him even if the rest of her is urging her to abort.

(Is it really so hard to act like a friend? But that's a stupid question. There's only one answer.)

So, she takes her medicine during breakfast in the kitchens with a mild hope that it'll be strong enough to keep her brain under control. Its effects are stronger in the beginning, before weakening as it wears off after a few hours, where she'll have to take it again. Maybe Sally-Anne's presence will also help temper the unpredictability of her body and keep her above ground.

"Ready to watch us win the match, Hem?" Fred asks with a grin, swiping a bit of bacon from her plate as he sits on her right. "Because we're going to win the match. You can count on it."

George replaces it a moment later after taking a seat on her left. They don't have to come to the kitchens to keep her company. Not Hermione, Harry, Ron, Sally-Anne, Fred or George. But they do, usually when they don't have something pressing to attend to in the Great Hall.

(Hem still hasn't figured out why the Weasley twins like her. She still hasn't figured why anyone likes her.)

"I bet you're hoping we do," George continues, his expression matching his brother's. "Even if you're green. Your House team is basically rubbish, anyway."

"We're ignoring the fact that they've consistently beaten Gryffindor for the past few years," adds Fred while he butters some toast. "Shouldn't count when their strategies are always dirty."

"So, it should be obvious why you'd root for us lions instead." Then they both wink at her, and she wishes that she could smile at them. "Don't worry, your hopes and dreams will be fulfilled. Oliver says we've got the best team in years."

(Hem doesn't have any dreams. And she's never been very good at hoping for things.)

. . .

. . .

"Oh, Merli ̶ Hemera!"

Something heavy and with a startling amount of strength slams right into the first layer of her Shield Charm. The force of it shatters her invisible shield ̶ (two, three layers? No, four. One left; she should make it seven or ten layers next time) ̶ and knocks her back while the object rebounds off. Hem's ears are ringing as the sound of shattered glass loops in her mind, the noise of wind and yells drowned out by its increasing volume.

It's too bright, she thinks. It's blindingly bright and Hem can't see or hear or feel anything. (Is she bleeding?) Back in the bubble. Back in the glass cage that blocks her off from the rest of the world.

(She can't breathe. She's suffocating.)

. . .

. . .

"It's okay, Hem," a girl sniffs, arms wrapped around her. Protectively. That fits. (Who is this?) "You're ̶ You're okay… The doctor's okay. E-everyone's okay."

(No, he's not. He's bleeding. Who is he?)

"You just got startled, is all." The girl leans back to give her a watery smile. Watery, because her face is wet. Hem remembers various shades of brown ̶ (she thinks, maybe) ̶ russet brown, warm beige, hickory brown. Colours for art. (Hermione. Her sister.) "He wasn't trying to hurt you."

A man, bleeding from the forehead. He's staring at her, mouth open ̶ (gaping?) ̶ while two other adults talk to him. Talk at him? He's staring and staring and staring.

"I ̶ I can't treat your daughter anymore," he mutters, but he's staring at her. Did she do something? He looks scared. Is she scary? "I… I won't tell anyone about what's transpired here today ̶ client confidentiality ̶ but I'm afraid Hemera's case is… above my ̶ my ability."

The woman starts to cry into her hands, and the other man's eyes are all shiny. Is he going to cry, too?

(Why's everyone crying? Is it her fault again?)

. . .

. . .

A spot of black amongst white. It's growing bigger, as though it's coming closer to her at a rapid pace. (That's odd.) She stares, until something in her screams and panics while it's drowning within the muck, but a smidgen breaks through to the surface and grabs her by the hand. (Probably. Her hand is moving on its own.)

Her vision abruptly fills with blue ̶ (azure) ̶ and the sound of something exploding shakes her head around. (Or is her whole body shaking?)

"Did you see that?! The Granger from Slytherin ̶ also known as the Troll Slayer, as dubbed by the Weasley twins ̶ has just blown up one of the bludgers! Fair play, it was trying to kill her ̶ what was that shield thing, by the way? ̶ so you can't blame ̶ Oh, look! Potter's back on his broom after it went wild! And he's going after the snitch! What is with today's match? Did one of you slimy snakes tamper ̶ "

"Jordan!"

"Sorry, professor ̶ "

Hem is trying to blink away the blue, but it's not working, and she flinches violently when something ̶ (someone?) ̶ grabs her wrist. Her head snaps up too quickly for her vision to adjust.

"Just me, Hemera," assures a young, feminine voice. It's just familiar enough for her brain to calm somewhat, the defensive ball in her chest dissipating at the edges. (Magic?) The hand begins to direct her somewhere. People are following. (Or are they? Stares are burning into her flesh. She can't tell if they're meant to hurt or not.) "C'mon, let's get you inside where rogue bludgers can't bludgeon you. Oh, Boy Wonder's swallowed the Snitch! Happy ̶ if unorthodox ̶ endings all 'round!"

The voice calms her, even if it's a little shaky. Through the fog of her mind, Hem remembers. (Sally-Anne.) Is she worried?

"Out of the way, Malfoy! We don't need your prat boy vibes right now, yeah?" A flash of platinum blond. It pushes through the blue for a moment.

(From azure, the vibrancy bleeds away to a baby blue.)

A mocking, vaguely high-pitched tone laces the words, "What's wrong with your mudblood, Perks? Can't she ̶ Ouch!" It cuts off with a pained yelp as something sparks in her ears. "You filthy, savage blood traitor! How dare you?!"

"You'd best sod off, mate," warns Sally-Anne, a peculiar change in her voice. A cockney accent? (Wait, what's that?) "Let's see you block a bloody bludger and then blow it up, ya puffed up twat! Where was your Shield Charm when I flung that hex at ya, hey? Do ya think you'd have survived a bludger to your unsightly face, ya fu ̶ "

"Sal," calls another voice. Masculine. Older? "Hemera's sister and her friends have been trying to get your attention for the past two minutes. And I think the professors want to make sure she's okay." It sounds mildly amused.

"Oh, right, thank you, Weston." The change in accent disappears. "Well, come along, Hemera. Let's give Harry our congratulations when he's no longer surrounded by peasants, yeah?"

. . .

. . .

"I think someone's trying to kill Hemera," Sally-Anne casually theorises as Hem takes a sip of her lemon balm tea. "I mean, it can't be a coincidence that a troll was let loose in the dungeons and so close to where Hemera was. And it was quite clear that the bludger was bewitched to specifically target her while someone tried to kill Harry via the force of gravity."

Hem stares into the fireplace, both entranced and bothered by the sight but unable to look away. Its flickers cause bright spots in her eyes that she has to blink away.

"It was Snape," supplied Ron. "It's got to be; he was staring right at Harry, muttering a curse or something. I bet he's the one trying to kill Hem, too! Merlin knows she and Harry get under his skin just for existing near him. Luckily, Hermione was on a warpath ̶ "

The half-giant ̶ (Hagra? Hagrid) ̶ waves a large hand from her peripheral, forcing Hem to instinctively duck away and nearly smack her shoulder into Harry's. "Rubbish," he scoffs while she steadies her tea. She wouldn't want to spill any on herself, let alone Harry or Sally-Anne. "Why would Snape do somethin' like that?"

She misses a few sentences, voices muffled. When the voices come back, Hem finds herself nibbling on a raspberry liquorice wand. Probably from her fellow snake. The girl always has sweets on her and Hem wonders how she manages to fit it all in.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me about the three-headed dog hidden in the castle!" Sally-Anne reproves, hands waving about as she squints at Ron and Harry in exaggerated betrayal. "A three-headed dog named Fluffy that you found on a midnight stroll! Merlin's tit, what a time to be alive! And here I thought I had an exotic pet in a Jarvey called Bob." With a miffed sniff, she leans back in her chair. "Bob killed himself when I was eight because he was, and I quote, 'sick of our shite.' Rest in peace, Bob." She looks to the ceiling of the hut. "May you be happy in whatever afterlife your tortured soul is currently occupying."

Ron's face quite clearly indicates his feelings of baffled concern for Sally-Anne's mental health. (Funny.) Then, slowly, he asks, "Do you realise how odd you are, Sally-Anne?"

The girl in question bestows upon him an overly pleasant smile as a response. "You should meet my family, Ron. Then we can compare which is the cooler blood traitor family ̶ it's mine, obviously, but I'll give you a chance ̶ because I'm a little irked that people consider the Weasleys the more infamous family." She elicits a dramatic sigh and adds, "I mean, I suppose it's because most of my siblings have decided to go to Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts ̶ my little brother, Keith, will probably choose the former next year ̶ so we're not as well-known. In Durmstrang, we're the blood traitor family, but since the Perks are pure-bloods, our family get to stay despite everyone wanting them expelled. And it's likely because we're rich while the Weasleys are known for being impoverished."

"Uh, not that I'm not interested in all that," Harry interrupts as they make their way back to the castle. (When did they leave?) "But I think it's more prevalent to figure out who Nicolas Flamel is and what his connection to whatever Fluffy's guarding is. We'll have to ask Hermione when we see her at dinner."

"No, go on and have some tea with Hagrid and the others. I'm going to write to mum and dad," Hermione sighed, looking so very tired. All the righteous anger has been drained away. "They deserve to know. Oh, I hope they don't consider pulling you out." But Hem saw it; the flash of consideration before it was aggressively pushed away. "Maybe the specialised healer's presence and the fact that you haven't been hurt badly by either incident will help convince them? Either way, I suspect we'll be having an eventful Christmas this year."

Sally-Anne looks at Harry with an expression that seems to question whether or not he's an idiot. "He's an alchemist, obviously. The one who created the Philosopher's Stone. Didn't you know?" she informs them, before abruptly gasping with wild excitement in her eyes. "Wait, does that mean that the Philosopher's Stone is in the castle? What the shite!"

"Wait, go back. What's a Philosopher's Stone?"

Frowning at the two boys, Sally-Anne looks as though she's reassessing their intelligence. Nevertheless, she explains, "It's only considered among alchemists ̶ my mum's one ̶ to be the symbol of perfection within their profession. It can turn any metal into gold and produce the Elixir of Life, which can lengthen one's lifespan indefinitely. So long as they keep drinking it, that is." Folding her arms, she tilts her head in consideration. "Well, I suppose it makes sense that you wouldn't know, now that I think about it. I probably wouldn't have known either if not for the fact that my mum has mentioned him at least once a month my whole life."

"Of course!" Ron and Harry exclaim together. "Now it makes complete sense why Snape would want it," mutters the former. "Slimy git."

"Still on about that, are you? I told you, if anyone's suspicious, it's Professor Quirrell!" The boys give Sally-Anne sceptical looks, to her irritation. She curls her lip at them and continues, "Just because someone has a stutter and a nervous disposition doesn't mean that they're incapable of secretly planning to off someone for their own purposes, you know? I have a cousin who cries when he looks at his own shadow, but he swears he's going to dominate the world via the power of unicorns. He even has a horn or two of one and stabs us when he's annoyed. Blood everywhere, I tell you."

Hem found him ̶ (who? Quirrell? Yes, Quirrell) ̶ goggling at her, his face a touch more sickly than what her mind remembered. (Where did she see him?) Then there was a flash of something else, something darker and more feverish and ̶

"Tom?"

Something else in the depths of his eyes, then, but it was too unstable, like emotions were constantly switching between like a slideshow rapidly going through the slides to the point of incomprehension. Then he was gone and time moved.

(He reminds her of Tom. If he was unequivocally deranged to the point of no return. Why is that?)

. . .

. . .

Fred and George sit on either side of her, strangely solemn while she eats her dinner ̶ (coq au vin? Theia likes cooking it) ̶ and absently watches the house-elves bustle about. Hem notes that she's partial to the kitchens ̶ (Hermione was concerned about the wellbeing of the creatures the first time around, but they aggressively stated their contentment, so she just vowed to research more) ̶ despite the possibility of the little creatures swarming her whenever she arrives.

"Miss Mera's back, she is! Don't all bother her, now! Only one!"

"Treamy will go! Treamy will attend to the missus!"

The comfortable ̶ (to her, at least; or maybe she just doesn't care) ̶ silence is eventually broken when both boys break it with a simultaneous, "Sorry."

Hem blinks, bemused as she lifts her head to look between them. They're avoiding her gaze, apparently ashamed of doing something to her. What that is, she's currently unaware of. George, however, seems to catch onto her confusion when he sneaks a glance at her.

"For, you know, not protecting you from the bludger," he reveals, discomforted as he rubs the side of his neck and shifts his gaze to the side.

It doesn't really explain much, in her opinion. What makes them think that she expected them to protect her?

Fred sighs out, "We're beaters, Hem. The bludger's our responsibility and we were too focused on Harry to notice that it was trying to bludgeon you to death."

Hem continues to chew on a piece of chicken, looking between them and wondering how one would usually respond to the situation. (All hypothetical, of course. Most of the options, she can't do.) Probably accept the apology or wave it away, as it's no big deal. (It would've crushed her face with the force that it had, says Professor Sinistra. It would've killed her instantaneously.) Maybe tell them that she doesn't blame them, as it wasn't like anyone expected it to go after her the way it did.

She offers them each a bit of her dinner, instead. They blink at her ̶ (do they practice the synchronisation or is it instinctive? Has she wondered this before?) ̶ before frowning in thought. Probably to decipher her actions.

"Is this your way of saying that you forgive us?" queries George with an uncertain, but hopeful ̶ (why?) ̶ tone of voice. Hem slowly nods, and there's a prickle of something pleasant ̶ (the mire within her immediately tries to asphyxiate it) ̶ when they both grin. Fred drapes an arm over her shoulders as his brother leans over to eat the food from her fork.

"Many thanks," Fred says with a chuckle when he does it next. The moment he swallows, he admits, "We were worried you were going to just stare at us until we went away. Which we wouldn't blame you for, but… Well, you know." He shrugs.

George drapes another arm around her. "We're glad you're safe, Troll Slayer," states George, and her responding, dull blink elicits a burst of laughter from the both of them. "Our little Slayer of Unseemly Trolls ̶ "

"Destroyer of Rogue Bludgers ̶ "

"Master of the Invisible Shields ̶ "

"Ickle Snakelet the Silent, Hemera Granger!" They declare the last one together, their free arms lifted dramatically while Fred remarks, "You do know that we're planning a prank in your honour, right? We're trying to decide between the Great Hall or the dungeons. I'd say both, but who knows how long that'll take."

And then they're back to their usual antics, scheming about new ideas and experiments to be tested out.

Hem wonders if this is what it's like to have brothers.

AWF

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