A/N: Revised - 17/05/2020.
AWF
"Well, you know, since Quirrell's dead and all, someone has to overlook the DADA exams," Sally-Anne explains, waving her hand here and there while sitting regally on the couch she's sharing with the Bletchley cousins. She talks without a care, as if unaware of all the eyes and ears around them. But it's clear to everyone that that's hardly the case. "So, Professor Snape is the temporary replacement while Sir Kenelm is overlooking the Potions exams. Of course, the entire student body was once again stupefied because everyone knows that the majestic, billowing bat gets all aggro when it comes to his Potions."
"It's actually quite impressive how they elicit similar reactions in the Potions classroom despite the fact that one smiles too much and the other doesn't deign to smile at all," says one of the Bletchleys. (She's unsure of who is who despite their physical differences.) When she glances to the one with the bored expression, she thinks the one speaking might be Miles. "It's really no wonder that they're friends. I daresay they might be best friends, although the concept does seem awfully strange when regarding our Head of House."
Hem, curled up in a loveseat beside Sally-Anne's brother ̶ (Weston, her mind supplies. Is he guarding her?) ̶ stares down at the sweets on the coffee table between them. (She hasn't been eating anything outside of the general mealtimes. There's no point in eating sweets if she can't taste them.) They're at once too dull and too bright, for her mind is struggling ̶ (it's always struggling) ̶ to remain grounded in reality.
(Reality isn't that great, though, is it? But it's better than getting lost in the muddy sea and coming back to chaos.)
She knows that the other snakes are watching her, their stares digging into her skin from all angles. (But nothing tingles. There's nothing when there should be something. Even if it's miniscule.) They're even warier, now, which is understandable since she's been connected to too many interesting events in the past year. And since it's come to light that it was Professor Quirrell trying to kill her ̶ (and Harry, but he's the Boy Who Lived and trouble is apparently expected to come for him) ̶ for some inexplicable reason, they're even more curious than ever before. Especially now that he's dead and they don't know the exact details of how he died.
(Actually, she doesn't think she knows, either. Did he burn to death from trying to touch Harry or did the strain of Morty leaving his body inevitably kill him?)
After all, what would a fully grown man have to gain by murdering a muggle-born First-Year who has no prior history in the wizarding world? Why did he try so hard by bringing in a troll, bewitching a bludger and coercing students into using dangerous curses before finally confronting her himself?
Some might say it's because of the Dark Lord who was stuck to the back of his head, but no one believes that particular bit. Even if they did, they'd only have more unanswered questions.
"Oh? Looks like you're still alive, Granger," a somewhat recognisable voice cuts through the common room. Hem glances to the entrance to find a blond boy with a seemingly permanent sneer on his face standing there with his supposed minions at his back. "You're like a cockroach in that fashion, aren't you? And here I thought your filth would finally stop stinking up Slytherin, but I suppose Potter just had to come and prevent Quirrell from doing the world a favour for his own glory."
And some, like Draco, think the reason to be obvious. She's a mudblood witch in Slytherin, which is apparently a place that she doesn't belong in.
(She doesn't belong anywhere, really. But why does he seem like he's relieved and trying to hide it?)
With an absent sort of notice, Hem realises that a deafening, possibly tense silence has fallen around the common room. Unsurprising, she supposes, considering that he's literally just implied that the world would be better off if she were dead. Rather blatant of him, but he doesn't come off as the subtlest of people.
(Somehow, it tickles something within her and it might be akin to amusement. She doubts that he has much of an understanding of any of the pure-blood elitist ideals despite how often he refers to them. Perhaps that's why he seems so insecure and desperate to prove himself.)
Unconcerned, Hem is about to turn away and attempt to draw ̶ (she can't feel the pencil in her grip or the vague texture of the paper as she moves her hand across it) ̶ when a blur of blonde and black whizzes by her.
Draco's expression abruptly shifts into alarm just as the blur ̶ (Sally-Anne?) ̶ punches him square in the face, preventing him from being able to do anything except unceremoniously drop to the floor before Hem has time to blink.
There's a multitude of varied gasps of shock and horror, intermingled with outright laughing and poorly smothered snickering. One of the girls near the ̶ (unconscious?) ̶ boy drops to her knees in a panic, probably to assess the damage.
"I should've known that a single punch to the nose would knock ya out, ya wanker," Sally-Anne ̶ (her hair's in a French plait, so it's her, no?) ̶ snarls, her fists clenched to her sides as she stares ̶ (or glares, more likely, but Hem can't see from her angle) ̶ down at her victim. But then she lifts her head and whirls around, as though she's about to address the rest of the room. There's a wild, protective glint in her eyes.
(Hem's not sure how effective it might be against their upperclassmen, but it's true that her friend has a presence.)
Sally-Anne then opens her mouth to declare, "If any of ya ever soddin' imply, outright state or make any sorta indication that my best friend would be better off dead; ya'd best be careful, yeah? The Perks may be blood traitors to all ya pure-blood elitist twats, but everyone knows ya don't fuck with one of ours." Sally-Anne smiles, the visage dazzling and so wide that it looks painful. She must be channelling Kenelm. "But if you don't," the accent disappears, "we'll do our utmost to rectify such a clanger, of course. Thank you for listening, have a good day."
The snakes behind her ̶ (Draco's minions? Friends?) ̶ look at each other, conflicted on whether or not they should make a grab for the girl who has swiftly decked the Malfoy scion ̶ (is that Draco's last name?) ̶ in the face.
Weston hums, leaning back in the loveseat and looking utterly unconcerned with his sister's intense declaration. But Hem catches the way he eyes the other First-Years, and the hard-faced girl among them ̶ (Pancreas? No, that's an organ, isn't it?) ̶ notices it, too. Unsubtly, she nudges the larger boys and hisses at them to just pick Draco up so that they can take him to the Hospital Wing. When they do just that, her and her female posse ̶ (probably) ̶ leave even though they've just arrived. But not before imparting a glare at Sally-Anne's back, though, maybe as a silent declaration for revenge.
"He crossed a line with that one," Miles ̶ (or is that Dyson?) ̶ remarks as Sally-Anne practically skips back to their area, like the previous moment hasn't happened at all and no one's cautiously eyeing her. "I think he's lucky to have gotten off with just a broken nose, but it'd be poor taste for her to go any further while he's unconscious."
"Little tosser," Sally-Anne sighs as she returns to her seat. "At least it shut him up right quick."
Dyson ̶ (or Miles) ̶ yawns, glancing around the room with a bored but perceptive eye. It seems to elicit a response from the rest of the House as they conspicuously return to their respective activities. "Next year will be interesting, I think. There's a clear power struggle here in the lower years. Will our infamous muggle-born witch finally start engaging in all the politics or will she remain as unnervingly aloof as ever?"
The other Bletchley nods, pinning her with an assessing peer. "It truly doesn't faze you at all that someone has all but said they would rather you have died that night, does it?" he asks, seemingly rhetorical. His lips tilt up when she maintains eye contact with him. (Hazel irises. They're nice.) "What an enigma you are, Granger. So vulnerable and yet so impenetrable. Even I would be offended if some uppity prat ignorantly spouted such nonsense to my face like that. Especially in public."
"Indeed," Weston murmurs, prompting Hem to look beside her. He leans forward to pluck one of the sweets on the table. "I doubt Malfoy would appreciate anyone saying that to him if he were tortured and nearly murdered. I suppose he'll learn consideration in the future, one way or another." Once he's popped the sweet in his mouth, Weston reaches over to grab Hem's closest arm.
With a mild feeling of bemusement, she looks down to find her nails digging into her wrists again. Ah. (Nothing.) They unhook at his tugging, and Hem takes the opportunity to try sketching. (She was going to do that before, right?) The end result is usually a surprise even to herself, so it's a fair way to pass time.
"Right!" Sally-Anne interjects with her usual exuberance. "Where were we in our conversation before that untimely interruption? Oh, yes! Sir Kenelm and Professor Snape's awe-inspiring friendship. Do you think the 'Sweet n' Sour Sods' is a good nickname for them?"
. . .
. . .
The concern is starting to make her insides itch and bleed. (That's a lie. It's always itching. It's always bleeding.) Maybe the reason why people like Fred and George ̶ (the prankster twins?) ̶ are partial to her is because she reminds them of a feeble younger sister. Maybe it's an elder sibling thing that's ingrained in their heads. (So fragile.Treat her carefully or she'll break. Won't she?)
"Are you sure she's all right, Hermione?" questions Ron as they lounge in the Den ̶ (What Den? The Chimaera Den?) ̶ to take a break from their exams. Hem takes them alone, however, in Kenelm's office. (It's quiet and she barely remembers doing them at all.) Ron eyes her with a mix of concern and apprehension. "I know she's usually stoic and all, but I'm getting all sorts of dark vibes, you know?"
Hermione pins him with a ferocious glower. "She's been tortured, Ronald," she grits out, appearing to be at her wits' end. "She has been tortured with an illegal spell that specifically targets pain receptors. Do you understand what that means, Ronald?" Ronald ̶ (Ron?) ̶ doesn't get to reply. "It means that the damage attained from such a spell is all mental!" Her voice quickly becomes shrill, her hair frizzing up as she waves her hands around in a wild, frenzied fashion. "And her mental health was already unstable beforehand, so, no, Ronald Weasley, Hem is not all right but there's nothing we can do about it except let Sir Kenelm make slow progress with her while we worry about exams!"
And then she promptly bursts into tears, with Ron looking regretfully uncomfortable while Harry has the quick mind to work through his own discomfort by lending a shoulder. It's tense and uncomfortable as Hermione clings onto Harry and cries into his shoulder while Ron awkwardly comforts her by rubbing her back.
Sally-Anne is sitting beside Hem, watching the scene with an odd, indecipherable expression. But then she tilts her head towards Hem and whispers, "You don't like it, do you, Hemera?" When her answer is an unsure blink, Sally-Anne continues, "When people cry for you, worry about you; all that. You already have cold, flat eyes, but I've noticed that scenes like this make them seem especially so. Or maybe it's a trick of the light?"
(Always worrying for her. It never ends. It never ends and she doesn't deserve it. She can't worry about them in return. Why won't they stop?)
So Hermione cries, unable to help her sister, and Hem ignores the guilt the stabs her when she thinks about how it's a good thing that it's Harry who's hugging her. Of course, then the world goes against her ̶ (as it does, because reprieves aren't meant for her) ̶ by having her weeping sibling hug her next and promise her that it'll be all right and that they'll get through this together.
Hem stares as the glass of pumpkin juice on the middle table shatters. The Gryffindors jump, but Sally-Anne goes, "Oh, whoops, silly me. Let me clean that up, hm?" and the moment passes.
(She can't feel Hermione hugging her at all.)
. . .
. . .
I'm alive. Sorry for worrying you.
Kenelm is helping me. He'll give me a new potion to take as a replacement to the lamotrigine after the year ends. He'll send a letter about how it's supposed to help. Or he already has. I'm not sure.
Sally-Anne says that she wants to meet the parents of her best friend. She thinks you're not going to let me come back for my second year.
I think you'll let me return to Hogwarts next year, though.
You said it was my choice.
AWF
A/N: Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.