A/N: Revised - 20/07/2020.
AWF
Watching Fred ̶ (or is that George?) ̶ disappear in violently green flames is surreal and Hem has to blink rapidly in an effort to rid herself of the visual snow it causes. It doesn't really work, so she tries rubbing them away with her hand.
(Her ears are starting to ring.)
Just as she realises that rubbing only exacerbates the discomfort, someone grabs her hand and gently pulls it away from her face before she can unwittingly damage her eyes. Hem manages to catch pale fingers intertwining with hers ̶ (Sally-Anne wears nail varnish, doesn't she? Where's the nail varnish, then?) ̶ through all the spots in her vision before she decides to keep her eyes closed and wait for her body to cooperate. (It might take a while.)
"Don't fidget," someone advises ̶ (Ron? Who's Ron?) ̶ from her left. (Who is he talking to?) "You might fall out of the wrong fireplace, otherwise."
"You might want to keep your elbows tucked in, too," adds another. (Sally-Anne?) "Harper broke one of his once because he was trying to rub the soot out of his eyes mid-travel. That means you might also want to close your eyes."
A new voice tentatively says, "I'm not sure if the Floo is a good method of transportation for Hem. It could trigger an episode and the fire's already agitating her." They're to her right but the voice doesn't sound close enough to belong to the person holding her hand.
Hem chances opening her eyes again to see if things have settled as yet another feminine voice replies, "Oh, dear, you're right." The world is tinted green and white with spots of black; she opts with staring at the ground lest anything else sets her off while she's waiting for the world to right itself.
"But Apparating isn't likely to be much better," an older, masculine voice points out. "And driving to London in the Ford Anglia or flying on a broom would take far too long."
"Not to mention the possibility of being seen by muggles. What are we going to do?"
As her vision returns to normal ̶ (as normal as it can be, anyway) ̶ Hem lifts her head just in time to watch Harry ̶ (who?) ̶ cough out some word and vanish into the fire. (Where did he go?) Unfortunately, the vibrant green sticks to the back of her eyelids like glue and she resigns herself to beginning the process once more.
(Has she taken her medicine yet?)
. . .
. . .
Hem has no idea where she is and why she's having a staring competition with a raven ̶ (or is it a crow?) ̶ that's sitting on the head of an abnormally large, orange cat. (Is it a cat or a tiny lion? Are cats meant to be so big?) She feels like they're both appraising her, as if they're deciding upon whether or not she's worthy enough to be in their collective presence.
"Oh, hello. When did you get there?"
Hem blinks ̶ (was she blinking before?) ̶ as she turns to find a balding man by a door and staring at her in polite confusion. They stare at one another for a moment before he takes in her whole appearance ̶ (wait, what does she look like?) ̶ and appears to follow some trail behind her with his eyes.
"Ah," he sounds, apparently having come to some conclusion. Looking behind her, she does see a trail of soot leading from the fireplace in the middle of the room and ending at her feet. However, Hem can't quite remember why that's supposed to make sense. "I suppose you must've fallen out of the wrong fireplace."
("I'll go by Floo," a voice interrupts before the concerned chatter about how she'll get to Diagon Alley can continue.)
A soft caw prompts her to turn back to the odd animal duo as the man says, "Well, not to worry. It happens on the off occasion," and begins to bustle about the room. "Crookshanks and Munin aren't usually so accommodating, but they seem to like you. Oh!" At that, Hem looks to the stranger, who's looking at her from across the room with an excited and somewhat desperate expression. "You wouldn't happen to want one of them, would you? Or both? They've been here for so long that they're basically permanent residents."
"Woodrow!" calls an unfamiliar, raspy voice from another room. Hem thinks both she and the man ̶ (is he Woodrow?) ̶ flinch simultaneously at it. "Where's the rat tonic?!"
"Sorry, Munson!" Woodrow calls back as he practically dives for a box in the corner. "There's a girl who got spat out of the fireplace!"
"Bring her out here, then!"
Woodrow pulls out a bottle of what Hem assumes is rat tonic before gesturing for her to follow him out. She, instead, watches as the cat ̶ (where did the bird go?) ̶ leisurely stretches and jumps off the table to stand by her feet; when she doesn't move, it stares up at her with a judgemental expression on its squashed-looking face.
So, perhaps because of a subconscious fear of the feline's wrath, Hem finds herself following the wizard ̶ (she assumes he's a wizard) ̶ out of the room. She regrets it immediately when she's greeted by the cacophony of animals sounds, senseless chatter and cramped spaces. (It probably smells something awful, too, but her sense of smell has always been poorer than even her other senses.)
"I've got the rat tonic, Munson," says Woodrow as he moves to stand by a woman managing the counter.
Munson effortlessly snatches the bottle and hands it to some child on the other side of the counter. "Sorry for the wait," she apologises with a monotone. "Make sure your rat sips on a few drops every three days, okay? Come back if there are any problems."
"What if she dies?" questions the child, although his tone is more curious than worried.
"Buy another one," Munson promptly answers.
The boy nods, apparently satisfied with that answer since he spins around and leaves. Once he does, Munson dusts off her hands and turns towards Woodrow ̶ (is that his name?) ̶ to snap, "What are you dawdling around for? Go see if anyone needs help."
"Right!" Woodrow yelps before scurrying off to do just that.
Unsure of what she's supposed to do, now, it occurs to Hem that she's lost and that she's probably supposed to be somewhere else with other people. (The realisation that she's worrying people again is most definitely making something within her wither up and die.)
"Well, now," someone mutters as she registers a body being inexplicably close to her and that things are touching her. (Cleaning her?) "So, Munin, your kind of girl is one covered in soot, bleeding from the neck and like she could kill in cold blood?"
Hem feels a bemused twitch in her brow as a caw that sounds uncomfortably close answers the voice and a black shape in her peripheral shifts.
A sigh follows the bird sound and the body near her steps back as the same voice remarks, "Typical. 'Bout time, anyway. Now, all we need to do is wait for another poor soul to buy Crookshanks. You don't happen to have a brother or sister, do you, miss?"
. . .
. . .
It's later ̶ (how much later? How long has she been here?) ̶ when Hem realises that she's inadvertently bought a raven ̶ ("That'll be eight galleons for Munin. I'll give you free supplies for life if you promise to never give him back, okay?") ̶ that's currently cawing his farewells to the giant cat.
Said cat looks at his ̶ (at least, she thinks Crookshanks is male) ̶ friend with a strangely grave look before meowing his own farewell and disappearing back into the shop in a rather snobbish manner. Munin takes that moment to fly onto her shoulder, and Hem thinks that she must look rather odd with a large, fully grown bird on her small shoulder. (Is her hair in the way? How heavy is a raven supposed to be, by the way?)
As Hem turns around to be assaulted with the visuals of people bustling about Diagon Alley ̶ (where is Diagon Alley?) ̶ she wonders where she's supposed to go, now. (How did she get to the Magical Menagerie in the first place?) If she starts wandering, she's probably going find herself someplace else where the people inhabiting it are less likely to be accommodating. There's also a high possibility that something's going to startle her and trigger some accidental magic that'll hit everyone in her immediate vicinity.
(She's already so tired and she's barely done anything.)
Munin cawing from a short distance away ̶ (when did he get there?) ̶ draws her attention, and she finds him perched on the armrest of an empty bench, looking like he's ready to pick a fight with the closest person. Which would be bad since he's hers, now.
Hem walks towards him with the thought that sitting and waiting for someone to find her is probably the best option.
(Maybe he knew that. Ravens are supposed to be intelligent and one that's also a familiar would be even more so.)
. . .
. . .
"Granger," says a derisive ̶ (and surprised?) ̶ voice that cuts through the white noise in her ears.
Hem blinks, her blurry vision focusing enough for her to realise that there's a boy before her with blond hair and a vaguely conflicted sneer on his face. (Who's Granger?) He's in the process of giving her a onceover, though his eyes linger on some lower part of her that prompts her to look down and see if there's something off about her clothes.
(There doesn't seem to be anything of interest aside from that fact that she's evidently wearing a sundress.)
She lifts her head when the boy ̶ (maybe? It could be someone passing by) ̶ elicits a harsh sound from his throat and quickly snarls, "Why aren't you with the blood traitors and your mudblood sister in Flourish and Blotts?" in an apparent, awkward attempt at conversing ̶ (debatable; his voice is rather hostile) ̶ with her. (Is she supposed to know him?)
It doesn't really work out when Hem simply scratches her neck and doesn't reply, leaving him to stand there in discomfort as he waits for a retort or something to work off of.
(Is his face reddening or is that just her?)
As the silence continues, she watches as he seems to become more uncomfortable with her unblinking gaze, his own shifting off to the side as he tenses, perhaps so he doesn't start fidgeting. (Her mind suggests something about pure-blood training, but she doesn't know why that would apply here. Is he a pure-blood? What's a pure-blood?)
"Ugh!" he eventually exclaims, his eyes snapping to hers in a defiant manner that confuses her greatly. "I should've known that you wouldn't have answered! What, Granger," he steps closer to her, then, and Hem is abruptly reminded of a taller boy with sable-black hair and walnut-brown eyes, "am I not good enough for you to speak to me? Even though you're just a filthy mudblood?! Who do you think you are?!"
His voice has become loud enough to attract attention from the crowd and Hem feels so very bewildered. (Who is he and what is he talking about?)
He's leaning over her, now, eyes flickering from her own to her neck ̶ (she's not actually sure, but something on her is obviously distracting him) ̶ as a wand slides into his right hand in a vaguely foreboding manner. Although, his expression implies he has no idea what he's doing but can't stop because it'd mean admitting defeat or something.
(There's something swelling in her chest and she thinks it might be magic.)
However, before anything particularly dramatic and possibly life-threatening can happen ̶ (Munin's about to poke him in the eye or something, she can tell) ̶ her possible assailant is unexpectedly shoved out of the way just as a masculine voice hisses, "Draco! What are you doing?" from somewhere in the crowd.
"Ya hear that, wanker?" snaps the girl with French plaits ̶ (Sally-Anne?) ̶ as she comes into view with her hands on her hips. "Daddy's calling. Better go before he decides that he wants matching black eyes with his clone."
Draco glowers at her as he rights himself ̶ (truthfully, he looks a little relieved) ̶ and seems to think about engaging before looking into the crowd and seeing something that makes him panic. So, to presumably regain his composure, he purposefully straightens his robes before imparting, "Wait 'til school starts, Perks. You and your mudblood will get what's coming to you, then," in a self-important but shaky manner. Then, without a second to waste, he swivels around to take his leave.
"I hope you trip and break your nose, prat," Sally-Anne snarks to his back, which noticeably flinches as he power walks away. It definitely looks like he's fleeing.
Hem watches his back until he disappears completely. When she looks back at her best friend, she finds Sally-Anne grinning with an excited ̶ (and relieved?) ̶ gleam in her eyes.
"I'm so glad you're all right, Hemera," she sighs as she grabs Hem's hands and pulls her off the seat to look her over. "Everyone's been worried. Harry landed somewhere in Knockturn Alley but Hagrid found him before he was gutted or something." Sally-Anne glances up before remarking, "I suppose it makes sense that you'd end up at the Menagerie. You did say, 'Chemin de Traverse,' after all. I wonder why you got a bird, but it does fit your enigmatic vibe."
Munin makes an odd trilling sound but Hem's not sure what that's supposed to mean. Regardless, he perches on her shoulder as Sally-Anne begins to lead her somewhere.
"Anyway, let's tell everyone you're alive before I take us to Magical Materials for Maturing Madams. My sister owns it, did I tell you? Curt was the one who chose the name, though. Wendy had the idea to introduce less medieval methods to deal with the horrors of femininity since the wizarding world can be so behind the times."
As Sally-Anne continues to talk, Hem glances behind her as a delayed thought pops into her head.
(Does Draco feel unworthy when she looks at him?)
AWF
A/N: So, Hem now has a bird and I don't really know why. I'm okay with it, though. Research tells me that Munin is from Norse mythology and roughly embodies the concepts of 'thought,' 'desire,' and 'emotion.' I might have a slight fixation with symbolism.
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