A/N: Revised - 9/04/2020.
AWF
"A dragon egg!" Sally-Anne exclaims, clutching her stomach in an evidently failing attempt to mitigate the pain of hysterical laughter. She holds onto a desk for support, but it's not working very well. "In a wooden house! Oh, Merlin's bouncing buttocks ̶ " An abrupt inhale cuts her off and she's halfway to the ground, now.
Harry, Ron and Hermione all watch the sight with varied expressions of concern and perplexed amusement. Hem has found a packet of jelly slugs in her robes, which she seems to have forgotten about at some point. But they're still fresh ̶ (probably, they don't look off) ̶ so she takes one for absentminded consumption.
"Uh, Sally-Anne…" Harry starts, uncertain as he pushes up his glasses. The girl in question raises a hand towards him from her spot on the floor. Harry's shoulders drop as he blinks and abides by the silent request to wait. "Well. Okay."
Hermione soon sighs, hair whipping about when she turns to her Gryffindor friends. "Well, you can't blame her for reacting like this," she reasonably remarks with a raised chin, gesturing to Sally-Anne with a sharp wave. "Honestly, what's Hagrid thinking, taking dragon eggs from strangers and illegally trying to raise them in his very flammable hut?"
"He's not, clearly," wheezes a flushed Sally-Anne, who's managed to calm down enough to speak. "Oh, it's so very suspicious, isn't it?" And then she snickers to herself, which is probably better than full-blown laughter because she looks ready to pass out.
Ron frowns down at her, seeing as she's taken to remaining seated on the floor by crossing her legs. "You think Hagrid's suspicious?" he asks, clearly dubious about that particular possibility.
Sally-Anne rolls her eyes as she pulls out a raspberry liquorice wand from somewhere. "No, you dolt. I meant the timing." When she scans the uncomprehending trio ̶ (Hem's expression apparently never changes. "If you ever smile, I won't be surprised if Sal faints and your face cracks," Weston muses) ̶ a sigh forces its way out of her. "Harry, didn't you say that Hagrid's always wanted to raise a dragon?"
Not expecting to be singled out, Harry blinks in surprise before nodding. "Yeah, he told me the first time I ever met him."
"Rather forthcoming of him," comments Sally-Anne as she leans back against the wall. (Where are they? Is it an abandoned classroom?) "He can't really keep a secret to save his life, can he?" There's a vague tone of exasperated mocking in her voice that appears to lightly ruffle the feathers of the Gryffindors despite the reluctant agreement that spills onto their faces. She's unapologetic. "What? You obviously know it's true. And it wouldn't be hard for someone else with even a little cunning to figure him out, don't you think?" The question is drawled out, her eyebrows raised in a coaxing manner like she's hoping they'll get onto the same line of thought.
After a few moments of processing silence, they don't disappoint.
"Oh, my god," Hermione gasps, hands flying to her mouth while her eyes with shocked realisation. "The person who gave the egg to him! They must have known that Fluffy belongs to Hagrid!"
"It had to have been Snape," declares Harry, his tone decisive and his eyes blazing while Ron nods emphatically. "Hagrid said that only he and Dumbledore know how to get past Fluffy, but he was drinking, so he probably let it slip." He begins to pace about the classroom. Hem blinks away the white that's building around him, as though her mind is trying to get to the ethereal King's Cross Station ̶ (and Tom) ̶ when it can't. "That must mean that Snape only needs to figure out what Quirrell's defence is before he gets to the stone!"
A derisive scoff escapes Sally-Anne while she squints at the three Gryffindors, unimpressed with their assumptions. "You're assuming that he's ̶ I still maintain that it's Professor Quirrell ̶ already figured out all the other teachers' defences. Even if he has, I doubt they'd make it easy to just disable all of them except one." They appear to absently rebuff her by shaking their heads, which seems to trigger something in her as her expression slackens and the honey of her eyes become cold. "I see," she murmurs before lifting her head to look at Hem ̶ (who finds herself sitting on a desk) ̶ with a raised brow. "Well, sod it, then. Let's split, yeah? Seems like ya sister and her friends don't need any other hints; got that all figured out, haven't they?"
Hem blinks as her fellow snake gracefully stands, holding her liquorice wand between her teeth as she dusts off her robes. (Sally-Anne's hurt? Should she do something?) Her body automatically slides off the desk to stand beside her friend ̶ (she shouldn't be friends with anyone; Hem's a horrible friend) ̶ and she watches as a hand reaches out to gently pat Sally-Anne on the arm as a weak show of support.
Sally-Anne smiles brightly, anyway, one hand reaching up to take Hem's. "I've still got you, at least. I was going to redecorate this room to make it less hideous because it's like our own little hideout, but never mind that." She begins to lead them both towards the door, using her free hand to secure bag strap over her shoulder as she does. "Maybe we can go to that alcove you and the Bloody Baron frequent. Or the kitchens?"
"Hey, where are you two going?" Ron questions, evidently noticing them just when they're halfway out the door. This causes Harry and Hermione to both look up with similar owlish expressions. "We've got to figure out how to stop Snape from stealing the stone and make sure that Hagrid doesn't kill himself via baby dragons!"
(They don't need Hem. She's just… present. On the sidelines, in the little glass box that she's always been in but sometimes forgets about.)
With a sharp smile and her chin raised in defiance, Sally-Anne replies, "Oh, you'll figure it out, I'm sure! But Hemera and I are going to do something more interesting; something that doesn't involve any idiotic Gryffindors with selective hearing. All right? Brilliant! See you slags later." And with a half-hearted salute thrown the trio's way, she leaves the room with Hem in tow. "I swear to Merlin's balls, if it turns out that they're wrong, I'm going to laugh in all their faces. Might get some spittle in there for extra damage."
Hem thinks that, in the end, she doesn't care if it's Professor Snape or Professor Quirrell who's trying to steal a rock of immortality. (Does Tom know about it?) She'd just like them both to stop giving her peculiar, piercing glares whenever she's within their line of sight. (It makes her skin tingle and she doesn't like that sensation.)
One scowls at her as though he's suspicious of her entire existence while the other appears to just alternate sporadically. As though there are two people in one body and they're both looking at her.
(She would be concerned if she were able. As it is, her emotions remain out of reach.)
. . .
. . .
Kenelm ̶ (his name is Kenelm, isn't it?) ̶ situates himself in the loveseat opposite of her after finally ̶ (finally? How long has it been?) ̶ becoming satisfied with the way his office has been arranged. He gives her a smile that seems simultaneously welcoming and intimidating.
"Apologies, I can become rather anal about where things are placed," is his brief apology and explanation as he waves his hand to summon a tea set onto the coffee table between them. "Moving on; Albus," he tilts his head in thought for a moment before, "no, I'll refer to him as Dumbledore. You struggle with placing the names to people, I'm aware. As I was saying, he's left it to me to provide you with your fortnightly prescription. Yet it would seem that lamotrigine has become increasingly ineffective compared to when you first started using it. This has never been truer since you've started attending Hogwarts." He gestures vaguely to the room around them. "Ambient magic can interfere with the way your body reacts to muggle medicine, I'm afraid. I don't want to bore you with the details, so I'll simply tell you that you'll be weaned off of lamotrigine. Your parents are already aware of this and I'm sure they'll inform your sister soon enough."
Hem watches as he leans forward to pour both of them a cup of tea rather than have it done magically. There's a curious fluidity to his movements that makes her head a little fuzzy. "Severus and I are going to collaborate to brew a potion tailored specifically for you and your symptoms," he reveals as he gestures for her to take her tea, which she does. A stormy glint appears in his eyes, then. "Dumbledore should've had Severus start on it from the very beginning, the fool. It says in your file that you have episodes when you're overwhelmed with sensory overstimulation, which can make you a danger to yourself and to those around you when your magic rises up to defend you."
(It's nice to be reminded that she's faulty. Defective. It'd probably hurt her feelings.)
The man sighs, idly flicking his fabulous hair over his shoulder. "Listen carefully, Hemera; I will admit to you that it's unusual for me to work with children. Their minds function much differently than adults, and it only becomes more complicated when one considers the various types of mental disorders that affect said functionality of both ages." Kenelm fixes her with a firm stare. "However, you are admittedly a special case; not only because I was personally requested by Dumbledore, but because there's been no other record of a young witch with Selective Mutism and Depersonalisation-Derealisation Disorder." His lips thin in distaste before he takes a delicate sip of his tea.
Hem's body follows his example while his eyes take note of the unintentional movement. (She can't taste anything.)
"Because there's no record of a case like yours," Kenelm continues, his brow creasing with irritation, "it'll be difficult to treat you. The muggle world can't deal with the complications that come from being magical while the wizarding world has no idea what either of your conditions are because they're ignorant arseholes who think themselves above muggle illnesses. But I promise you, Hemera," he leans forward, then, a fiercely resolute glint in his eyes, "that I will endeavour to improve your quality of life, no matter how long it takes and no matter how difficult it may be. Even if I'm unable to completely help you, understand that you will be able to experience more in life than what you're currently capable of."
(Can he do it? That doesn't sound plausible. Does she deserve to feel more? Can he do it? Don't hope for anything. It's all right. She can't hope, no need to worry. Can he do it? What does it matter?)
"Now, with that sorted, let's get to know each other better, shall we?" Leaning back and taking another sip of his tea, Kenelm smiles. "We won't try anything strenuous just yet; one can't learn everything about a person just from a file about them, and I'd like more information before we proceed."
. . .
. . .
It takes her a while to realise that she's never mentioned anything about the atypical behaviours of her professors ̶ (which ones?) ̶ to Tom. As he processes the information of Kenelm's presence and intentions, Hem also comes to the conclusion that she won't ever do so.
(But why? Why won't she tell him? What's stopping her? Aside from her own shortcomings, anyway.)
"Anything else of note?" he queries, eyes heavy-lidded as he's ready to wake up in the real world. (He likes to analyse why the people in her world do the things they do. Why certain events happen as they do and if there's something to be gained from it.) They don't see each other as often now since their respective Astronomy lessons have interfered with their sleeping schedules.
Hem thinks about the frostiness between Sally-Anne and the Gryffindor trio. Hermione seems to feel rather guilty for the change in dynamic, but Harry and Ron seem to be fairly unconcerned.
"They're probably glad that I'm not around to tell them that they're idiots for thinking it's Professor Snape." Sally-Anne was grinning, but it was harsh and bitter. "Well, whatever. Let's just see how well they can ensure that Hagrid doesn't get in trouble and doesn't get himself killed. Honestly, I know Harry's fond of the man, but he clearly cares more about the allure of exotic magical creatures than he does about his and others' safety."
In the end, she doesn't have an answer and Tom can only sigh in exasperated defeat before leaving first.
Hugging her knees to her chest, Hem sits and waits for the next day to arrive.
AWF
A/N: Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.