In Diagon Alley, a very tired Ollivander was putting away his unsold wands - there hadn't been much business that day, but still enough for there to be many wands strewn around the room. There was an obsessive-looking glint in his eye as he picked them up one by one.
"Ah, my eleven-inch, holly delight. Phoenix feather, yes? So you didn't choose anyone today?" He stroked the wand and laid it carefully down in its box. "And I was so certain he was the one for you...It's all right...We'll find you someone..."
He carried the box over to the shelves and placed it into a narrow space. He turned back to look at the rest of the disheveled and jumbled-up boxes.
"Oh, my dears, you just can't seem to choose anyone, can you?" He picked up another wand. "And you, eight-inch oak? What, your unicorn hair didn't tingle at any one of them?" He put it in the box. "There were simply no sparks, were there?"
Wand after wand was shelved, and finally there was just one left. Ollivander sat down on a stool next to it and picked it up with his long, slender fingers.
"And you? You dragon-hearted minx. You're years older than any wand in my store. Day after day you go unsold. How wrong I was to make you - you've gotten too spoiled, my child. Just because you're the only one I ever made with dragon bits, you've decided you're too good for anyone." He chuckled and put it in the box. "But I will sell you. Just you wait and see." He started to close the lid, but hesitated. "I hate to put you away. It feels like giving up on you."
He made up his mind and firmly closed the lid. "You're going on the shelf just like everyone else. Hopefully it'll deflate your ridiculous ego."
He walked to the shelves as slowly as he could, and had just slid it onto the shelf when there was a knock on the door.
"Come in," he called automatically, and turned around as the door opened.
There was no one there.
"Hello?" Ollivander called uncertainly.
"Hello," said a tired voice, and the door closed. "I'd like to buy a wand."
"Er," was all he could think to say. "What?"
"You are Ollivander, right?" the voice sounded nervous. "The wandmaker?"
Ollivander nodded, uneasy. "And...er..."
"I'd like to buy a wand," the voice repeated impatiently, and for a moment it almost sounded familiar.
"Who are you?" Ollivander asked cautiously.
"No one of importance. You know my name, but you've never met me; you only thought you did."
"And you'd like to buy a wand," Ollivander said stupidly.
"Yes," said the stranger, tired of discussing this.
Ollivander hesitated. This wasn't right. He really, really didn't want to sell one of the potentially most powerful weapons in existence to someone who he couldn't see.
"Who are you?" he asked again. "And I want an actual answer this time, not a riddle."
"A riddle?" the voice echoed. "What's wrong with a riddle? Do you always know the names of all your customers?"
"Well, no..." Ollivander said, taken aback. "But I can see them at least...who knows what you might use your wand for?" He knew that wasn't much of a point, but there was just something obscene about selling a wand to someone who didn't appear to even have any hands to hold it.
"You can never know that, not with anyone," the voice snarled. "You sold the wand that ruined my life, and many others."
"I- what?" But it was obvious. He only had one great regret...only one wand that had nearly destroyed the world as they all knew it...
The stranger ignored his pathetic confusion and continued. "It is not your task to choose who will strive to improve the world and who will strive to destroy it. Your task is to give wizards a means to choose for themselves. I was never given such a chance..." The stranger's voice shook. "It was stolen from me." Then, suddenly calm, and a bit menacing: "Do your job."
Feeling embarassed and foolish, Ollivander selected a box form the shelf and passed it in the direction of the voice. He gasped as he felt someone take it; a moment later, the box disappeared.
"What do I do now?"
"Wave it around a bit." This was just habit now, he had no idea how often he'd said those words to terrified first years. But the voice sounded much deeper than a first year's...
"You've got to be kidding me, " the stranger said, and for the second time, he could've sworn he'd heard it before. There was a silence as the stranger apparently waved it around, but almost immediately it was clear that the wand was not enjoying it.
"No, not that one," Ollivander murmured, and reached out for it. It was set, invisible, into his hand, and quickly became visible again.
It was an odd phenomenon, but as the night grew older and wand after wand rejected the mysterious invisible man, Ollivander almost got used to it. It became clear, however, that even wands thought an unseen person suspicious. The stranger sounded completely dejected when, close to midnight, he asked "Is that it, then? None of them work for me?"
"It would seem so," Ollivander said, almost relieved. The wand chooses the wizard; if no wand had chosen him, it wasn't his fault.
"What about that box?" the stranger asked with a newfound energy in his voice.
"Which box?"
"That one, right there." Obviously, the voice couldn't point, and was very frustrated about it. Ollivander heard footsteps heading toward the shelf and tried to follow them. Suddenly, one of the boxes vanished. "This box."
"Well, I can't see it now, can I? If you would so kindly put it back..." He was stalling, of course; he knew where each and every wand was kept. It was just that this little twist was more than anything he had expected.
The box promptly reappeared. Ollivander opened it: sure enough, it was his dragon-hearted failure. "I made this one years ago," he said quietly, shame filling his mind, "and it still hasn't chosen anyone. I'm almost certain it's defective..."
"Give it to me," the voice said excitedly, and Ollivander handed it over.
"Really," he said, "I'd hate to sell you that piece of - "
A bright shower of red sparks erupted from the end of - well, he assumed it was from the wand, since he couldn't see it.
"It would seem," the stranger said, sounding pleased with himself, "that it's no more defective than I am."
That wasn't exactly reassuring, but the fact that the stranger promptly dropped a bag of Galleons on a stool and left without a word was comfort enough as far as Ollivander was concerned. You never quite knew where you stood, with invisible people.
It was already starting to lighten when Harry finally decided it was useless to try and sleep. He sat up and looked around. All was quiet in the boys' dormitory, save for Neville's occasional nightmare-induced squeal of terror. The deep, bluish morning light was tranquil, yet it creeped the hell out of him. It was the color of insomnia.
Harry got dressed and walked out into the Common Room. There was no one there to ask him what the hell he was doing up this late (or was it early?). He went to the window and looked out at the snowed-over Hogwarts grounds. There was no movement anywhere - not on the Quidditch Pitch, not on the open area around it, not in Hagrid's hut...even the Forbidden Forest was still. At least, it seemed like it...
He squinted through the age-old, rippled glass at that one little blob of forest that looked darker than the rest of it. Stupid old windows, can't see anything.Carefully, he opened the window. The cold air numbed his skin, and he drew back instinctively, then remembered what he was looking for and stuck his head out as far as it would go.
The snow had been knocked off a few branches close to the edge of the forest, and there was an eerie flurry of snow where it should have fallen. It lasted about half a minute, then settled, and then nothing moved for seemingly ages. Then little bits of snow began to be darker, one after the other, making a strange curved line that moved gradually toward the castle.
The curve stopped abruptly, apparently uncertain that it should proceed. Then it moved forward a tiny little bit, as though testing its strength, then another tiny bit, and another... It stopped moving again...and restarted at twice its previous pace, heading to the castle across the Quidditch Pitch.
Harry sprinted to his trunk and started throwing his stuff out of it. Trousers, shirts, books all flew through the air until, finally, his fingers found the watery silkiness of his Invisibility Cloak... He quickly threw it on and rushed out of the Common Room. The fat lady yelled "Whozzat?" after him, but he didn't care - nothing could stop him - not the fat lady, not the Cloak's goddamn swishiness, not the closed doors that kept appearing in front of him, not the wind that whooshed past him as he opened the last door...
He ran out onto the Quidditch Pitch. There was no one in sight; no person, animal, or even wind. He gasped: the curve he'd seen earlier went right under him. . He knelt down to look at it, basically blind without his glasses...they were footprints.
What the hell.
He turned back toward the door and opened it, looking to see if this strange intruder had left any signs of his presence inside. And so he had: there was snow on the ground, and a few feet away, Harry could see more.
Harry followed the tracks down the hall: first fallen snow, then wet footsteps...he had gone almost all the way up the stairs when the tracks stopped completely.
He continued going up, knowing the stranger must have gone somewhere in that direction. At the top, however, there were no signs of anyone whatsoever, save for a sleeping Mrs. Norris.
"Who are you?" he yelled out, and heard nothing but the echo of his words bouncing around the hall. He quickly rushed away from the echo, hoping no one had heard it. There was no chance of him finding the intruder now that there were not even any tracks. He groaned and headed back to the Gryffindor tower, carefully avoiding stepping on everyone's least favorite cat.
Hours later, a calm, after-class laze spread through Hogwarts, and had a stranger suddenly walked into almost any room in Hogwarts, they would assume that all Hogwarts students were lazy beyond belief. In fact, there were very few people in the castle who were actually interested on doing anything even vaguely useful within two hours of classes being over. At least one of them, however, had no way of doing so quite yet, and another's "productivity method" had just walked out of the library with a huge stack of books in her arms and a determined expression on her face.
Ernie looked up in surprise. "What - ?" He jumped up from his seat and ran after Hermione. "Where're you going, we're nowhere near done!"
"I've got things to do," she called back without even turning around.
"What 'things'?" Ernie asked, baffled.
"I just remembered I'd made plans to meet someone today." When his only response was silence, she finally turned around. "And don't look at me like that; I do have some friends, you know."
She turned and left before Ernie could even say "That's not what I - " (even though it was). He was pathetic. Ernie, a model student, suddenly pathetic. It was one thing for Cho Chang to tell him that he was "sweet and all", but that she'd go on ignoring him "for poor Mariette's sake"; it was quite another to be ditched halfway through studying by one of the most friendless girls at school. And how was he supposed to do his homework without her notes?
I need a place where I can study... It was a routine thought for her now, at least as far as this particular hallway was concerned. I need a place where I can study...she deliberately looked down at her feet and kept on walking. I need a place where I can study... Really, really study... And now, finally, she turned around to see a dark wooden door that hadn't been there a minute ago.
She stepped in. As always, there were bookshelves lining the walls. She found the exact place where she'd stopped last time. A History of Magic, all the Standard Books of Spells they'd had so far, all of her Potions notes…a rather small heap when compared to the enormous one that she had yet to brave. Oh, yes, remembering every book she read was easy…provided she had read it recently. She did, in fact, do far more reading than the rest of the students – she was well known for it – and of course everyone knew that Hermione Granger reviewed endlessly, but they had no idea just how endlessly.
Occupying this sad niche of class brainiac was both difficult and depressing sometimes. Hermione knew that she could be spending most of this stupid study time being socially interactive, and that if she'd just forget about the books for a while, she'd have time to straighten and sleek-ify her hair, put on makeup each morning, buy some heels, and never have to hear the word "ugly" again.
And sometimes she wondered why she didn't. After all, here at Hogwarts there was no mother to ask her what on earth she was wearing, no father looking at her sadly if she didn't do her homework, no one who was ever seen taking class seriously and glaring at you if you didn't – here, that was considered her job. And yet…there was one thing that Hermione Granger of Hogwarts and the true Hermione had in common, and that was a complete unwillingness to give up on anything she started.
She sighed...and then froze. Somewhere in that sigh she had heard something quite strange...definitely a sound she hadn't made...
She turned around, but saw nothing...except an open door.
Her breathing accelerated to an alarming speed. Who had seen her?
The door slammed shut.
"What?" she shouted, as close to venting as she could get right now. What?...What?...What?
And against all odds, someone answered. "I'm sorry. Can you help me?"
"I'm so sorry. Are you alright? I really didn't mean to startle you..."
What the hell.
Hermione's eyes were squeezed shut from the impact of the fall. Taking care not to open them, she assessed her situation.
Okay, so my back hurts and I probably made a very stupid face when I fell, too. Probably no major injuries, though.
It was really uncomfortable to lie on a chair like this. She squirmed around, trying to understand how on earth she could have sat on it properly when it was upright. She really had no clue. It was really amazing how uncomfortable a chair could be.
She knew he was still there; he was breathing warmly on her face. In fact, he seemed quite close. She slowly picked up her hand, wincing at the dull pain it caused her. Feeling quite silly, she poked the air in front of her. He was one step ahead of her, however: a sharp intake of breath and a step away were the only evidence of his presence.
She opened her eyes, afraid of what she might see. She then became much more afraid of what she didn't see.
"What- ?" She was very irritated to discover that her voicebox had practically shut down. Come on, Hermione, you're the cleverest witch of your age and you can't even form a sentence? "Who are you?" she finally choked out.
"Don't ask me that," he said softly. "Please."
What the hell.
"Er, all right then... Why are you here?"
"I need your help." The voice sounded annoyed, and almost...familiar?
"Right, well, I - " she was shocked to discover that she was hyperventilating. While on the ground. It felt really, really awkward. "At the moment, it would appear that I need your help." She rolled to the right, finally escaping the chair's uncomfortable clutches, and extended her hand toward the stranger.
She felt another hand grasp hers and felt a vague tug up. Right, I'm supposed to be putting in some effort too. Right. She pushed herself up a bit and suddenly found herself on her feet.
"Thank you." She adjusted her robes and looked the stranger into what she hoped was his eye. "What was it you needed help with?"
"Teach me magic."
"What?"
"Teach me magic; there is no one else who would do it, not at this school. Possibly not even in the world."
It took a while for Hermione to process what he was saying. "Look, I know the whole thing with near-human species not being allowed to do magic is stupid and racist, but I don't want to break the law..."
"I'm not near-human," the stranger said quietly. "I'm as human as you are. I'm just...different." There was something terribly close to sorrow in his voice.
"Why?"
"I can't tell you that." The voice was almost inaudible now.
"So what do I do? Just hope that you're telling the truth and teach you everything I know?"
"Yes." Before she could say anything, he continued. "Even if you don't want to talk to me...all you have to do is say yes now. I'd follow you to classes, read your notes, watch you study. If I want to survive, if I want to actually live life instead of being locked away from it, I must have abilities, I must be educated..." And then, completely out-of-place in this passionate speech, Hermione heard a sob. "Please, please help me. You have no idea how long it took to get here. Right at this moment, I'm almost glad I'm invisible - if you had seen me, you would have been even more terrified of me."
Think, girl, think...this would be a silent rebellion, like you've always wanted...if only the nerdiest silent rebellion in the world...
He continued, speaking quicker and quicker, emotion overtaking thought in everything he said. "If you had seen me, you would have screamed. Believe me, I am quite a sight right now. My robe is ripped, my hair is dirty and matted, my face is grimy and scratched-up. My fingernails have been broken to the point where I wouldn't be able to untie a shoelace. And my arms..." Suddenly, he grabbed her hand, dragging it along his arm. It felt wet. He then let go and stood there, panting.
Hermione looked at her hand in confusion, and then gasped: blood had suddenly appeared on her fingertips. What was really strange was that it was thick, almost...congealed.
She looked up at where she thought his face was. "What happened to you?"
"...I've escaped." She automatically stepped back. "I promise you, I haven't done anything wrong - at least, nothing that you wouldn't think fully justified. I will do something wrong, but that will be later...much later... but even that, I think you would understand. Help me. I would do anything for this. Help me, Miss Granger, please...You want me to beg? I'll beg." She heard a shuffle, and suddenly he was grabbing her feet. "You want me to be your slave? I'll do anything for you: I'll steal food, I'll do your laundry, I'll carry your books: anything. But please, please help me."
Hermione bit her lip, thinking this over. "Am I correct in thinking that if I refuse, you're still going to follow me around until I say yes?"
"Maybe. Yes."
"Let's assume, then, that I have said no."
There was the sound of footsteps; for a second, Hermione's hyperventilating started up again. Then a hand touched hers. She gasped and moved it - and felt that same warm hand that had helped her up a few minutes go, shaking hers. "Thank you, Miss Granger. You have no idea how important this is."
"You're...welcome?"
She felt him drop her hand and heard him step away.
"Oh, and...um... it's just Hermione."
"Come on, you admitted yourself that you need this..."
"This is embarrassing, Miss Granger."
"It's Hermione, and I can't even see you!"
"But you're there..."
Hermione crossed her arms and glared angrily at where she hoped his eyes were. "Look, let's put it this way. Where do you plan on sleeping for the next year?"
The stranger was confused. "Huh? What does that have to do with anything?"
"Really, answer the question. I'm already missing dinner for this."
"I...hadn't thought about, really..."
"Well, what I'm guessing is that wherever you'll sleep, I'll have to lend you some sheets. And probably a blanket and pillow, too." She paused to let this sink in. "And I do not want...blood or dirt or anything like that on my stuff."
"I suppose that makes sense..." The voice sounded pained; after all, he'd just understood that embarassment was unavoidable.
"So get in." She gestured toward the compicated bathtub.
"Mrrghhh."
xxx
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