A/N: I'd like to say thank you, to all those who favourited, followed and especially to those whom reviewed; your thoughts give me something to look forward to.

Moving on from that, my beta is currently busy for a while, so he wasn't able to read through this chapter and won't be able to read through some future chapters. Because of that, the quality might not be as great and I don't know if I'm doing anything right. Hopefully you enjoy it, anyway.


There's a room that was added before the start of the school term, on the same floor as the Hospital Wing. It's a room intended to be an office for the Healer, Kenelm Cheshire. She supposes that it's also a room intended for her, seeing as it all started with Hem's mental illnesses.

One might wonder why there hasn't been a magical equivalent of a school counsellor before. Surely, there's been students before her with severe mental illnesses just as she. But then, she supposes that school counsellors are more of a muggle custom than wizarding. One that Mum and Dad had insisted upon when they learned there was no magical equivalent. Being a prestigious school of magic, the request was fulfilled rather easily.

She's meant to be familiar with Sir Kenelm's office, seeing as she visits every other day when someone ̶ generally Hermione or Harry, and occasionally Ron ̶ reminds her to do so. Hem's meant to be a lot of things, but she continues to fall short regardless. So she's about as accustomed to his office as much as she's accustomed to her own room back home; which is not a lot, shamefully.

It's still marginally better in Sir Kenelm's office than it is just about everywhere else, of course. It shares that quality with her room, the one that she shares with Hermione. The difference here is that one part of his office remains the same whilst the rest is always changing. As though he's never satisfied with where his belongings are placed. It's a mess that she tends to overlook, having no particular preference for either a neat room or an untidy one. It's all the same to her.

His mahogany desk lies at the end of the room, right across from the door. A black loveseat is situated in front of it, close enough that one may reach over to grab the jar of jelly slugs from the edge of the desk if they wanted to. Both items ̶ the jar of jelly slugs and the black loveseat ̶ are there for her benefit. He has another seat, designated for others. Anything else though, she's not bothered to notice.

"Hemera," Sir Kenelm greets with an unfeigned smile in his voice, as she appears by the door, "it's good to see you alive. I hope you enjoyed your stay in France for the Christmas holidays."

She blinks at him, automatically stepping forward so that the door may close without her being in the way. The trip to France feels so long ago if she thinks about it, but all her experiences feel like that. Sorting through the memories associated with the trip, she can't say that she did enjoy it. The emotions aren't connecting to them, not unexpectedly so. It all still feels like pieces from a movie. That hasn't changed.

Familiar with her general lack of responses, Sir Kenelm simply hums with a light smile and gestures to the loveseat with his hand. He pointedly doesn't resume writing down whatever on his piece of parchment, perhaps under the impression that he must give her his full attention lest he gives her an impression of disinterest. Hem wouldn't mind either way and isn't sure whether the gesture is appreciated or not. She supposes that it's more likely to be the former since he's not opposed to a casual show of disrespect to those whom he dislikes. The fact that he's putting effort into giving her the right impression is clear of his partiality towards her, however baffling it may be.

Taking a seat and bringing her legs to her chest as she's wont to do, she watches him as he reorganises the things on his desk with a wave of his wand. She's of the opinion that he's lazy, seeing as there isn't much to sort in the first place. Reaching over and plucking a jelly slug from the jar, Hem decides that it doesn't matter anyway and proceeds to refresh her mind of his facial features.

It's been a task that he's set for her; to recognise him should they cross paths in one of the corridors. She has a bad habit of focusing on destinations more than the people around her, being as such because it doesn't help improve her situational awareness. Though her body tends to automatically manoeuvre around obstacles ̶ people, mostly ̶ the fact that she's not actively aware of her surroundings is something he wants her to work on. He wants her to pay enough attention to recognise him without consciously looking for him. Before she went on holidays, it went about as well as can be expected.

Hem has managed to associate giggling with his presence, at least. It's a peculiar sort of progress, but progress nonetheless in her opinion. Sir Kenelm is a reasonably handsome young man, so it's understandable for the female youths of the school to appreciate his aesthetics. Where the staff consists of Professor McGonagall, Flitwick and Quirrell, among others ̶ those whom young students wouldn't normally consider all that visually appealing in terms of attractiveness ̶ Sir Kenelm the Healer stands out among this particular crowd.

Personally, Professor Sinistra is quite pretty in her own manner. Professor Snape has potential as well, but his severe disposition and poorly groomed appearance squander whatever potential there is. Perhaps it's for the best, as many would be quite disturbed to put 'Professor Snape' and 'handsome' in the same sentence together. She doesn't think it really matters regardless, being one who doesn't bother with appearances herself.

Mirrors are bad for Hem, if only because she can't recognise who's looking back. The sensation of floating and drowning intensify in those moments, so she tends to avoid mirrors. She's not sure if she even owns a hairbrush, having long given up on trying with her hair. Her hair isn't as curly and voluminous as Hermione's, but it's still a handful of work to properly maintain. It's troublesome enough to keep a consistent hygiene schedule. Hermione would sometimes brush her hair when it was damp, but being in different dorms limits the possibilities of that occurring.

"What are you thinking about, hm?" Sir Kenelm's voice inquires, prompting a focusing blink on his face. He folds his arms on the surface of his desk, then uses them as a pillow as he leans forward and stares through upturned, heavy-lidded eyes. She remembers that his irises are of a fawn hue, then. "I'm thinking about how much I've missed you sitting in my chair, eating my sweets and staring at me in complete silence."

Despite the saccharine smile and tone of voice to imply some subtle sarcasm ̶ and that they both know the chair and sweets are both officially hers ̶ his words are sincere. He's an anomalous person, somehow finding genuine enjoyment from associating with two people whom aren't well-versed in the art of socialisation; herself, and Professor Snape. One rarely speaks and has a disconnected sense of self among a disconnect with the world around her; while the other is catty and has a partiality to drawling in a distinctly dramatic manner, usually to impart demeaning insults about whatever's drawn his ire.

Then again, Sir Kenelm's social skills aren't quite as up to par himself despite being a pseudo counsellor. He likes to complain with a smile that's too sweet to be real, as it seems to be his niche. Whether it's about the gaggle of admirers that like to stalk him or the gifts they try to force upon him in an attempt to gain his favour. He mainly likes to complain about the female student body and their infatuated tendencies, but sometimes he likes to complain about how annoying it is to have such long, lusciously wavy hair of hickory brown. His words, more or less. She agrees because the description is true. He has bangs that frame his face, a few locks hanging on the right side of it. The rest travels the length of his back in a wave.

Sir Kenelm is quite proud of his hair, in spite of how much he complains about how it gets in the way or how he sheds everywhere. It makes him somewhat effeminate in appearance, but he has enough masculine qualities to shine through and make it evident that he's a man. He's quite tall, for one, perhaps the height that Tom will be once he reaches adulthood. Thin, but not gangly as he moves with grace. With high cheekbones, a diamond jaw, thin lips and a sharp nose; he can almost be seen as one of those aristocratic pure-bloods.

But, as the name Cheshire is a muggle surname, it's quite obvious that he's either a half-blood or a muggle-born to wizarding society. A shame, some of them are likely to think, as if it lowers his worth because he's not pure of blood. Not that he cares, either way. He's of the opinion that the fewer people that bother him, the better. Hem has to agree, though it's likely that people will always be bothering the both of them.

She blinks when he shifts, unfolding his arms and resting his chin on the desk to reach across it; towards her. "I asked you a question, Hemera," he reminds her, wiggling his long fingers at her. They almost reach her face. "What are you thinking about?"

Hem isn't sure how to reply to that. Her body answers for her, the index finger of her left hand pointing at him as her right hand reaches for another jelly slug. Despite their close association, she still has trouble speaking to him. He helps her with his own unorthodox methods, seeing as he's a large reason why she can speak to Harry and Hermione, even if in a miniscule and rare fashion. It's still demanding, as even when she does speak it's not a particularly conscious effort.

Sir Kenelm blinks in mild surprise at her response, leaning back somewhat. But then, his eyes soften and his smile widens to become something more noticeably genuine. Straightening his back and dragging his arms to his chest, the smile then colours into something teasing and light. His eyes gleam to match the emotion.

"Me?" he croons, holding his hands to his heart as though overly touched by her answer. "Why, I should've known. This must mean that you brought me a souvenir from France, surely?"

The question of jest makes her blink and pause in her diligent chewing. She has a few souvenirs, actually. Hem forgot about them until this point. The idea was Hermione's and considered them almost like a commemoration for the fact that they both have friends to give them to. There's one for Sir Kenelm, somewhere. Professor Snape, as well. She'll have to look in her trunk when she gets back, as her sister's likely tagged which souvenir is for whom for her.

Seeing her seriously contemplate the question, Sir Kenelm raises his thin brows. "You did? Well, now I'm ashamed that I have nothing but free jelly slugs to give in return. I could give you one of the gifts those insipid little girls forced upon me, but I'm afraid it may be contaminated with some kind of love serum. That would be awkward, would it not?" he leans back in his chair, grasping his chin between his index finger and thumb in thought.

It would be awkward indeed if she was to become infatuated with an unknown female peer of hers. What would an infatuated Hem do to gain their attention, she wonders? It's probably best left as a mystery.

They lapse into another bout of silence, with the occasional shuffle of fabric when they shift. It's familiar to her, and so it's comforting enough that she distantly notices some of the rigidity in her shoulders to relax. Her body is quite tense, she's taken a notice of, though she does nothing to fix it. Anything could happen at any moment, she could use as an excuse. In truth, however, she doesn't think there's much she can do to solve her wound up muscles.

"You'll bring me my souvenir next time, then?" Sir Kenelm asks of her eventually, breaking the silence and her train of thought. He tilts his head at her, hair shifting with the motion. She notices then, how long his eyelashes are. "If you bought me a souvenir, then you would've brought Severus one too. I'll have to bring him too; drag him if I must. He can also take another break from being a hero in the shadows." he murmurs the last sentence, eyes directed somewhere above and behind her in contemplation.

Well, she supposes that listening to those two complaining to each other isn't so bad. Even if it's about persistently annoying girls and a certain bespectacled boy who is apparently just like his father. It's better than sitting in a crowd of children whom generally have little understanding of how cruel they can be.

Thinking of the free tea and sweets, Hem nods in confirmation. Sir Kenelm's smile widens.

. . .


. . .

Sometimes, she forgets that she automatically executes the Disillusionment Charm whenever entering a potentially dangerous area. Which is virtually everywhere. Because she forgets, sometimes she can be sitting or standing somewhere, unacknowledged for quite some time. Usually, it's either when she realises or someone inevitably bumps into her that the charm ceases. The latter is an unfortunate situation she's been trying to avoid.

It's not uncommon for her to send someone completely innocent to the Hospital Wing. They don't tend to have a plan to startle her and start a fight, only bumping into her or surprising her by accident. Her mind doesn't sort through it all fast enough though, and her body reacts before she knows what's even happening. There are some dangerous spells floating in the back of her mind, mixed in with other spells that are less Dark by nature. Mostly Tom's fault, but she can't put on all the blame on him. She does have a habit of traversing through the Restricted Section, after all.

But like drawing lots, Hem doesn't know what spell she uses; only that they can be applied to cause harm or protect her. It's possible that one day, she might simply kill someone because of her irrational behaviour. It could be sooner rather than later because she's barely half-way through the school year and there have already been countless incidents.

So she understands why most of her peers even outside of Slytherin avoid her. She understands why they don't like her; that there are multiple reasons to dislike and fear her. She's weird. Mental. Mute. A mudblood. They whisper her chosen derogatory nickname, finding ways to fit in with each other by mocking the notably different. The strange and not easily understood. Because they don't want to be her, or those like her. Fitting in and/or feeling like they belong somewhere is predominantly what everyone wants.

Though Hem has no choice but to feel close to nothing about it all, she's quite aware of the little ball of bitterness that steadily builds itself up in the shadows of her soul. She doesn't know what it'll do, or when it'll make an appearance, but it signifies nothing positive. There's an option here, to do something about before it becomes something terrible.

She will do nothing but wait, she knows. Resignation sinks into her bones, weighing her down and making her lighter in a mix of good and bad. Perhaps she'll never be rid of it, and that'll bother Tom something chronic.

Hermione seems to be more bothered than Hem is about the situation, and that's understandable. Her sister's always been resilient against belittlement to herself, but the same can't be said if the subject of mockery is her family. It's unfortunate because now others know how to push Hermione.

If the younger sister won't have a satisfactory reaction to their scathing insults, then the elder sister surely will. Harry is in a similar category, quite clearly susceptible to insults directed to either Granger. Ron is as well, having a strong sense of loyalty once he's gotten over his Slytherin prejudices. Towards her, at least. Only her, it would seem.

In all honesty, it's not something that they should bother with. They have enough to deal with, what with them going after trolls and finding out what giant three-headed dogs guard of their own volition. They also appear to be under the impression that Professor Snape is after whatever the three-headed dog is guarding. If Hem wasn't… herself, it's likely they would've tried to make her do some espionage on him since she's in Slytherin.

She knows that her Head of House can be quite unnecessarily mean and biased, especially towards Harry. The bespectacled boy clearly brings up some bad memories for the batty teacher, though it's no excuse to treat a child who's done nothing wrong with such contempt. She knows that.

Hem just… doesn't care. She wants to, as the dull ache of guilt is still nestled somewhere in her chest. But there's not much point to, other than to be a subjectively good friend. It's not as though she can inform the two of the other's good points, for obvious reasons; she can't speak such long sentences, and neither are willing to see the good in one another anyway. Both of them are convinced the other is incapable of anything good.

She's never quite been the one to stand up for those close to her, Hermione could confirm. Just as she doesn't care for insults thrown at her, she doesn't care for insults thrown at others. There is no instinctive compulsion to defend her sister's honour and integrity, or to dissuade others that Harry is not starved for attention and that it's actually quite the opposite. No wish to impart that the poorness of the Weasley family isn't something to belittle, or that they aren't inferior just because they openly support muggle-borns and muggle culture. No desire to tell that Professor Snape has hidden depths almost no one cares to look for; that he is human with faults like any other, not a soulless bat without an ounce of good in him.

As it is, what does it matter to inform the ignorant of such things? When they don't care to know, so locked within their own beliefs that it's only a futile effort? Tom would berate her, surely, if only because she's exhibiting her resigned nature and also using these reasons as mere excuses to remain resigned. Her cynicism, however, is something he overtly approves of.

"Would Miss Mera likes some more teas?" a squeaky, but eager voice asks of her. Hem blinks, vision clearing and train of thought stopping as she turns towards the owner of said voice. One of the house-elves of the kitchens stares up at her with its wide, glistening eyes. It rubs its hands together in a show of anxiety and shuffles on its feet.

Looking down at the cup being nursed in her hands, she nods at the house-elf in confirmation for more tea upon the realisation that there's no more of the beverage left. Immensely pleased to once again be of help, the house-elf beams and snaps its fingers. Milky liquid magically fills the cup, as the surface of the table before her is filled with plates of new snacks and a pot of tea.

"Miss Mera's nearly always in the kitchens late at nights," the house-elf nods to itself, "Miss Mera's very popular amongst the house-elves heres, yes she is. Wilkie knows from the others that Miss Mera likes snacks with hers tea, he does."

That's true, she supposes. It's a common thing for her to roam the corridors at night, seeing as she's not welcome in the dorms. Hem still visits, since her trunk is there and left untouched because there is an abundance of protectives charms on every trunk to prevent theft. But most of the time, she hardly ventures to the Slytherin dungeons. It's always an arduous journey because her discomfort of being in a hostile environment affects her more than the people within said environment.

Tom was the one who informed her of where the kitchens are and how to get to it when she told him that she skips meals because it means going to the Great Hall. Hermione and the others would try to save food for her when they caught on, but they've told her it's hard to find her if they realise that she's not in the library.

"Thank you…" she hears herself whisper in gratitude. It's easier to talk if she's in a comfortable environment, and there are not so many house-elves late at night. The process is still a rather hit-or-miss, unfortunately, so being in a comfortable setting doesn't always guarantee that she'll speak. Taking a sip of her milk tea, she watches Wilkie gasp and his eyes bulge in shock.

"Miss Mera thanked Wilkie!" he exclaims, covering his mouth and looking around as if to see if anyone else has also just witnessed something shocking. "Miss Mera hardly evers talks, Wilkie knows froms the others! Wilkie's so happy to have Miss Mera's thanks, yes he is!" his eyes seem to glisten further, looking ready to cry out of joy.

Nodding in acknowledgement, she remains silent and opts to try one of the gingersnap cookies. Tom's going to be unhappy again, she realises, since it'll be awhile before she falls asleep. It was easier over the holidays, even though his mood was as surly as it usually is around Christmas. Now that the term's just resumed, it's going to be difficult again.

Vaguely noting that Wilkie's gone off somewhere, Hem wonders where she should sleep tonight.

. . .


. . .

Hem's focus on the looping grey sky is broken when Tom ceases in his fitful pacing before her to practically slam down in the space next to her. As always, the bench refuses to budge under the violent addition of his weight. Unwittingly placing an arm on the backrest at her back, he uses the other to run a hand through his already mussed hair in a subconscious show of festering frustration.

Blinking at him, he eventually catches her gaze with his own when his eyes flicker towards her. Then, the frown already marring his expression turns into a conflicted glare that seems to accuse her of being the cause for his annoyance. Perhaps some of it may be, but he's always been good at blaming others for things that might partially be his own fault as well. He rarely admits his mistakes to himself, let alone to her or anyone else.

She tilts her head up at him, the locks that resolutely hang in her face blocking some of her vision.

Clicking his tongue, he turns away from her and sinks further into the bench. "You need to start sleeping earlier," he declares, though his tone implies it's an order. An order that she'll likely not bother to listen to since it's not a choice that she willingly makes to sleep late all the time. "I'm tired of waiting for you to show up. No one, not even you, should be making me wait."

That sentence elicits a prickle of amusement that almost makes her smile at his conceited point of view, but instead, Hem simply readjusts her position. His hand has found a way into her hair again, and she notices how the action affects him when some of the tension in his shoulders relaxes. His breathing also appears to calm, returning to a more steady rhythm.

A contemplative frown soon takes his face, so she lets him sort through his thoughts as she focuses on the way he seems to be attempting to untangle her hair again. His fingers move in a way that's similar to how he twirls his wand, though it would appear to be an unconscious effort. It feels familiar. Soothing, almost.

"There's a room," Tom eventually begins, breaking the vaguely comfortable silence between them with a strain in his voice, "in Hogwarts. It's called the Room of Requirement… You should be able to get sufficient sleep if you were to go there every night."

Hem stares at him, but he refuses to turn his head to meet her eyes as his grip on her hair tightens a little. He stubbornly stares ahead, his jaw clenching as though telling her is an unfortunate compromise on his part. Likely, this room's existence is a secret that he doesn't want anyone to know about. A secret that is incredibly useful to him, so of course the fewer people that know, the better.

Swallowing, he turns his head further away from her, lowering his eyes to the empty space on the bench. "On the seventh floor, in the left corridor. There's a hidden door opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy," he informs her, frowning all the while from what she sees. His jawline is what's taking up most of her view. "Walking past it three times whilst thinking of what you need will make the room appear."

It certainly sounds useful, yes. She'll have to go check at some point, no doubt sometime soon. He'll begin to nag her if she doesn't do it immediately, and as much of a comfort his presence is; she's not quite fond of nagging in any form. It can be tolerable when she zones out, but he ensures that she keeps her focus on him in those cases.

When Hem makes no effort of responding to him, Tom whips his head around to finally look at her. Dissatisfaction with her lack of her reaction curls his upper lip, and he pulls on her hair to demonstrate his vexation with her. Perhaps he's bothered that she hasn't thanked him for divulging such a great secret to her. It sounds like a plausible reason.

"You're going to go find it once you wake up," he informs her, leaning closer in another futile attempt to intimidate her. He never learns. "You understand, Hem? And you'll tell no one. It wouldn't do for you to go blabbering such information to your sister and her moronic friends. They'd want to use it for their own idiotic needs, I'm sure."

Ever since she told him about how Hermione, Ron and Harry went to subdue the troll that was let in, Tom has formed subpar opinions of them. Especially Harry, for some particular reason. Perhaps it's natural bias towards Gryffindors and the equally natural compulsion for unintended heroics that Harry possesses. It might even be the fact that Hem cares for Harry, about as much as she can care for someone who she's known for only a few months. It's not a lot, but it's enough for Tom to notice.

She hasn't told him that the reason they went to subdue the troll, was because they knew Hem was lurking in the dungeons at that moment. A small part of her is curious to know how he would react with that bit of information, but the other is content to leave it be.

Regardless, she has to agree with Tom that it would be a bad idea to tell the trio about this Room of Requirement. They would most definitely want to use it to their own needs, and she supposes she just wants this room to herself, even if for a little while. It's going to be her temporary room, after all. She'll tell them at a later date when the situation truly calls for it.

"Damn it, Hem!" Tom hisses, pulling on her hair again and forcing her to focus on him once more. "Respond to me. You may not be able to speak in the real world, but here; you are fully capable of doing so. So I would advise that you do it. I won't have you give me the silent treatment when I'm being gracious enough to provide you secrets that only I know!"

Letting a sigh slide past her lips, she turns away from him to stare ahead, with little regard for how he tugs at her hair for looking away. It's amusingly childish of him to do so. "You just don't want to be here alone for so long," she retorts, resting her chin on her knees and hugging her legs closer to herself. He flinches, though it's only so noticeable because she's right beside him. "If not, you'd be content to leave me unaware of this room. But my affairs affect you just as they affect me. Perhaps not to the same degree, but you have to compromise either way. There's nothing gracious about it, Tom."

Forcing a hiss out from between his teeth, his grip on her hair tightens even more. "What does it matter?" he practically spits in retaliation, again forcing her to turn and look up at him as he lours down at her. "Do you understand that I need you here for much longer than an hour or two at best? How am I meant to teach you anything meaningful in such a limited amount of time? For the past few months, how many hours have been wasted because you've been negligent in your own sleeping schedule? This would all be fixed if you would just subdue those insipid little girls that you call roommates, but no. You're content to leave them be, letting them dominate the dorms as you wander about in the middle of the night with nowhere to sleep!"

Roughly untangling his hand from her hair to the point that her head jerks back from a few caught locks, he grunts in aggravation and runs his hand down his face in exasperation. Scratching the back of her head, Hem merely stares at him and wonders.

Tom doesn't want to say or even realise it, but she knows that her prolonged absence is jarring to him. His loneliness and destructive thoughts habitually rip him apart when he's alone, without her to distract him from them. In simple terms, he misses her. It's possible that he'd rather die than ever admit to such a thing, though.

Why is it that it's those around her that are more affected by her troubles than she is? It's a question that often plagues her.

But then, she tends to remember that it's because they feel a great deal more than she ever has. That's what it means to be human, and Tom is human no matter how much he wishes it wasn't the case. Immortals aren't human, for humans are mortal and mortality is a weakness in his eyes.

People are all interconnected, their experiences in life impacting themselves and those around them. Disconnected as she is from life, the same concept is still applied to her. It's inconvenient because it's a constant reminder of the things she doesn't possess.

Leaning into him, she feels him tense for a moment before he reluctantly relaxes. Shifting in silence, they readjust and his fingers are back to fiddling with the locks of her hair. A feeling of quietude reigns over them, and the mild calm that it elicits is accompanied by a heavier discontent than usual. If she looks up, she'll notice the creases between his brows that are steadily becoming a permanent fixture on his face.

"After class," she murmurs, closing her eyes. Hem feels his chest rumble with his quiet and impatient hum, silently encouraging her to elaborate. So she obliges. "I'll find the Room of Requirement after class. Maybe. I'll have to make sure no one follows, which shouldn't be all that difficult to accomplish."

In response, he simply hums again, this time in acknowledgement and some satisfaction. If she looks up, she'll take notice the involuntary twitch of his lips and the softening of his frown. Instead, her eyes remain closed and she listens to the small but significant increase in his heartbeat when he pushes her head closer to him.

As if she'll disappear if he doesn't have a good grip on her. Inevitably, she disappears regardless of whether he does or not. There's a fair chance that this disconcerts him in a way that he would rather it not.

. . .


. . .

The unfortunate fact about attending class is that it's quite difficult to focus. While she can do relatively well when focused on one thing at a time, she's learned that it's a bad idea to do so in a classroom full of other children. Hem's acknowledged by everyone to rather easy to startle; a certain fact that can result in others getting hurt. Her situational awareness is still a rough work in progress.

She tends to sit ̶ or stand, depending on the class ̶ in the back of the classroom and by the corners, where no one is at her back and only some are on one side of her. Her classmates understandably give her a wide berth, if they can. For some reason though, there's this one boy that seems to join her almost every time. Others have noticed this, though mostly Slytherins. Hem is shunned for multiple reasons, so to have someone consistently near her raises some questions and concerns.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if he was to simply ignore her at every turn. It would make sense if he just likes to be at the back as well, and would even tolerate her existence if it that's what it costs. Their Slytherin peers seem to be of that mindset, so far.

Theodore Nott, she unexpectedly remembers his name to be. He's a solitary, studious boy who doesn't bother with little cliques like Draco's. She's heard that his grandfather is one of the original Death Eaters, so one would expect him to be even worse than Draco in his attempts to crush her existence.

But the fact of the matter is that he talks to her sometimes, without malice or disgust. As if she's not someone whom people want to eschew existing near.

"How is it that you're so good at nonverbal spells?" he questions her during Charms when they're meant to attempt the Fire-Making Spell. Charms is one of her better classes in terms of skill, along with History of Magic, if only because everyone usually sleeps in that class. Theodore stares down at the bowl of flames in front of her, watching it flicker erratically with some curiosity in his eyes. The fire makes the pecan brown of his irises glow somewhat. "I've noticed that you're proficient in it, but it's meant to be difficult and require a large amount of concentration and mental discipline."

Absently twirling her wand with her left hand, Hem blinks and stares at him. He stares back through long curtains of sable ̶ otherwise known to be his bangs ̶ for a few moments, but then accepts that he won't be receiving an answer and averts his eyes to his own bowl. There's a sufficient amount of fire burning within it, but he still seems dissatisfied.

She has a natural aptitude for nonverbal spells, Hem's unable tell him. It's theorised that her Selective Mutism has made her adapt better to silent incantations. Her wand is also made of willow, which Tom says is capable of enabling some healing magic and advanced nonverbal magic. She still practises despite her natural aptitude, since the core of her wand is a phoenix feather and she needs to further win its allegiance. It has a habit of strengthening the spells she instinctively uses when she's alarmed, which tends to hurt whomever she aims it at far more than intended. Even if that wasn't a goal in the process of being fulfilled, she'd still practice anyway. There are not many other ways to improve in general, after all.

"Is it because of that illness of yours," Theodore mutters, glancing back over at her again as she's brought back to reality, "that's it's easier for you?"

Tilting her head at him, she studies him before finally nodding in confirmation. His tone is particularly monotonous, which is atypical of an eleven-year-old. Never mind the fact that hers is as well, as the only one who hears her speak on a notably semi-consistent basis is Tom. Her fellow Slytherin's lips twitch slightly, and he nods to himself as though pleased to be correct. Hem isn't entirely sure why he treats her normally, though it could be an attempt to get on her good side. That seems rather probable. Why, is the question. Most see her too inferior or too unpredictable to become allies with, regardless of her mostly unintentional combat prowess.

It could be to fool her, humiliate her in some manner. Looking at him, though, he doesn't care for such matters. He isn't particularly close to anyone in Slytherin, despite their numerous attempts to recruit him into their 'gangs'. Nor does he laugh at the insults thrown her or Hermione's way about their blood. He doesn't smile at anything, really, let alone laugh.

"So, do you also know spells that are well above our year level, like your sister?" he inquires, leaning closer. For some reason, he appears to be interested in having an actual conversation with her today. "And if you do, can you do those nonverbally too?"

Before she can either nod or shake her head in answer, someone else intrudes on their one-sided conversation. She feels her body tense more than it already is, but tries to force herself not to react any further than that. Something inside her twitches, as though warning her that her nerves are more than ready to snap.

"Oi, Nott!" they call, and Hem soon recognises it to be Draco's voice. Theodore frowns, but turns to address the platinum blonde pure-blood. "What in Merlin's name are you doing? Talking to the mudblood like it's the most natural thing in the world. You could catch her filth, you know. We wouldn't want that, would we?"

The round of obligatory snickers and giggles is expected at this point. Some might find Draco's slights mildly humorous, but most react because he doesn't like it when no one laughs at them. It wouldn't do to displease a Malfoy, after all. Too bad, really, that her very existence quite obviously displeases him.

Theodore, however, seems to find himself uncaring of the prospect of indulging a Malfoy. He cracks his neck and leisurely rubs it. "I want to talk to her, Malfoy," he responds, voice neutral but also somewhat tired, as if talking to Draco is a nuisance and a waste of time. "I'm allowed to, did you know?"

Because Draco is in the third row of desks with them, she can't see him properly unless she looks around Theodore, who's taller than her. Disinterested by whatever expression the former's making, she stares at the back of the latter's head. His hair is sticking up at the back like he neglects to brush it. It's different to the front, where his bangs look vaguely neat despite hanging in his face like it does.

"Why on Earth would you want to?" Draco demands, like the idea of speaking with her as a respected human being is blasphemous and unheard of. "It's not as though she can talk back, being a mute and all. Half of us have a bet that she doesn't even understand what we're saying, so that's why she can't talk and doesn't react to anything we say. I wouldn't be surprised if she's so daft to be unable to understand the language."

Hem's lucky that they have Charms with Hufflepuff, as Hermione and the others would kick up a fuss in her honour. As appreciated the gesture should be, she doesn't really appreciate it at all. It stresses her out, being in such a volatile environment that then only escalates.

Theodore sighs, similar to how Sir Kenelm does when dealing with idiots. Which is often. "She's bilingual," he murmurs, but not loud enough for Draco and his gang to hear. She blinks, not having expected to learn that he knows that about her. Raising his voice, he says, "I think you should get used to seeing me talk to her, Malfoy. I'm not going to stop, just because you think it's distasteful. Slytherin doesn't belong to you."

An utterance of oohs ripple through the back part of the classroom like a wave, more appearing to be tuning in to the conversation between Draco and Theodore. Likely, the former's frowning now. She doesn't bother to check, brushing away some stray piece of cotton that stands out on the back of Theodore's robes. It stands out against the stark black, so it's distracting her.

He tenses under her touch, but he doesn't turn to look at her. Her hand doesn't linger, soon returning back to her side.

"Is that a challenge I hear, Nott?" Draco hisses, sounding infuriated and confrontational now. "Wait 'till my father hears about this. He'll be quite appalled, to know that the pure-blood family of Notts are affiliating themselves with such filth."

Unfazed, Theodore elicits an unimpressed hum, shifting in his seat to readjust. "Always so ready to use your father, aren't you?" he easily retorts, quite clearly unruffled with the situation and attention settled upon him. "The Notts have been followers of the Dark Lord for far longer than the Malfoys. My grandfather was one of the original Death Eaters, you already know. He told something to my father that was then told to me. Something that the Dark Lord himself once said."

Silence follows his statement, for it would seem that Theodore is effectively making use of a pause for dramatic effect. Shifting once more, he props his elbow up on his desk and rests his chest on his knuckles. Hem takes a moment to look down at her arms, realising that the hand not occupied by her wand is scratching away at the skin of her arm again. Despite her awareness of it, it continues to scratch away even as she begins to bleed. Classes are so strenuous.

"'There are always exceptions to the whole,'" he begins to impart with a notable deadpan, as though indifferent. "'Ally yourself with them, and perhaps you will stand with them when their enemies fall; as they themselves begin to rise like a phoenix from its ashes.'"

The silencing effect such ominous words have on the back part of the classroom ̶ which seems to have been a notable length of time, but she can't be sure ̶ is shattered when someone indelicately snorts. As though previously holding their breaths, Hem watches as some of her classmates' shoulders sag at the break in tension and shuffle in their seats.

"How are we to believe that?" Pansy's grating voice haughtily huffs, sounding close to where Draco is. "And why would the Dark Lord say such a thing, anyway? He's the one who wanted purge the world of muggles and mudbloods more than anyone."

A round of agreement follows her words, with some mocking snickers accompanying it. Theodore, however, still appears to be impassive. He hums again, though it's soft enough that only she hears it. Opting to shift once more, he leans back in his chair and scratches the back of his head. Through heavy-lidded eyes and his bangs, he stares up at the ceiling.

"I don't particularly care if you believe it or not," he answers, nonchalant, much to the annoyance of his peers. "I believe that Hemera Granger is an exception. As does my father and grandfather. She's a Slytherin as well, one that's already capable of killing us if she truly wanted to. Which means it's all just a matter of when she decides to retaliate, really."

Turning to her then, she blinks when their eyes connect. Calculation gleams in his gaze, but underneath that is something less decipherable. Tilting her head, she attempts to figure out what it is, but then she notices his lips twitching downward and his eyes falling onto her abused arm.

"So," he starts, angling his body towards her and reaching out to stop her involuntary scratching, "I'd like it if you were to call me Theo… Hem. I'll make sure you stop scratching yourself and involuntarily attack people on reflex. As friends do, right?"

Staring down at their point of contact, she notices that his fingers are smeared with small specks of her blood. Filth runs in her blood, and he has touched her of his own will. Hem responds with neither a shake of her head or a nod. In fact, she doesn't respond at all.

No, her response wouldn't dissuade a boy like him from doing what he wants. In the end, it doesn't matter.

. . .


. . .

Ever since Theo's bold declaration to essentially befriend her for the sake of his survival, he's been more apparent in his familiarity with her. She's still unsure about his existence near her, but there's not much she can do in an effort to push him away. Not that she would, anyway. So long as he doesn't harm her in any deliberate form, she's not worried about what he does.

His actions seem to have planted some seeds of doubt in the other Slytherins of their year, however, which is steadily being spread around because of the Dark Lord's supposed words of ominous wisdom. They seem to be conflicted about shunning him or not, since he's still a pure-blood of a family with about as much social standing as the Malfoys. Perhaps even more so, but apparently the Notts are a quiet family and not as ambitious for political positions of power.

It's still going to take more than Theo for them to treat Hem decently, though. She doesn't expect any more or any less. She is still scum in their eyes because being an equal human goes against what they've been taught to believe about muggle-borns. It's for the best, she thinks, as a sudden switch of attitude would raise her suspicions and set her on edge.

Hermione, Ron and Harry aren't pleased with the development at all. They're certain that he's up to something, and probably give him the stink eye when they're in the Great Hall where she seldom makes an appearance. In truth, the only thing he's up to is allying himself with her and treating her decently.

He's been quite upfront about that from the beginning, under the belief that she's going to go about attacking people of her own volition at some point. So, in a Slytherin fashion of self-preservation, he's made the choice to go to her 'side' to avoid being among those whom will apparently be deliberately attacked in the future. She doesn't blame him for doing such a thing, really, and Tom seems to have a relatively high opinion of the studious boy.

Never mind that the adolescent megalomaniac adamantly believes that this is the beginning of something great. As if Theo is the first member of her own future group of minions because it would seem that she can't go through school in Slytherin without underlings to do her bidding.

"I don't trust him," Harry states, the other two quickly nodding in wholehearted agreement. Though, Hermione's expression becomes unsure soon after. "He's a Slytherin, after all. A pure-blood, at that. He might just be trying to befriend you so that he can get your guard down."

Hem blinks at him from across the desk they're all sharing within the library. The three of them are still searching for Nicholas Flamel, the alchemist who created the Philosopher's Stone. She, on the other hand, has been sitting here for a while, doing research on her own projects. Her finals are going to be a little different to everyone else's, she's been told. Hem's not entirely sure how different, other than the fact that she'll be taking them in Sir Kenelm's office rather than with her peers.

And though she could point the trio in the right direction in regards to Flamel, she chooses not to.

They'll get there eventually, even though it would probably be best to just let the situation die. Professor Snape is quite aware of their suspicions about him, and quite equally bothered by it. He's confided in Sir Kenelm that the true suspect is that Professor Quirrell ̶ which, admittedly, there is something off about him ̶ but Harry wouldn't listen to her even if she was capable of communicating it.

Harry has his faults too, and that's alright. He's human as well, even if many forget about that particular fact.

"The Notts are one of You-Know-Who's oldest followers, did you know?" Ron informs them, in that scandalised but gossiping tone he often uses. Looking at them all, he appears to be rather worried about her well-being. What with his wide and fearful eyes, and all. "This Nott doesn't seem to have many friends, but I wouldn't be surprised if he and Malfoy were secretly working together to make it seem like that. Notts can be annoyingly crafty, I hear."

Periodically checking behind her ̶ because paranoia itches at her skin ̶ Hem turns back around to see Hermione frowning in deep consideration beside her. Her sister hums, then looks at her before seeming come to a decision in her mind.

"I don't like it either," Hermione begins, placing a gentle hand on Hem's shoulder and relaxing her own expression of worry, "but he hasn't actually hurt you in any way, has he? I just realised that we haven't really heard your opinion on him."

They rarely hear her opinion on anything, but that's beside the point. With a delay in her response, she responds with a slight shake of her head. It's possible that he's one of those people whom frequently trash her belongings behind her back, but his personality dictates that he wouldn't do something so pointless. For reasons she has some ideas of, he seems to spend more time analysing and learning more about her when she's not looking. Which is apparently more often than one would expect.

She still doesn't know how he knows she's bilingual, and probably won't ever. Perhaps she's written something in French without meaning to and he's seen her do so. She's done it before.

Eliciting a sigh, Hermione's shoulders sag before they square up and she pivots her body towards Harry and Ron. "I think we should let it go, for now," she tells them, in her resolute tone of voice that implies she won't budge. It might falter soon, considering the context of this conversation. "Unless he actually does something to put Hem in danger, we'll just have to trust that his intentions aren't malicious."

"What?" the two boys blurt in sync, sharing concerned and bemused frowns.

"You can't be serious, Hermione!" Ron exclaims, almost standing before a harsh shush from Madam Pince makes him flinch. "Sorry, Madam Pince…" he apologises in a grimaced mutter, before piping right back up. Albeit, in a quieter volume. "He's a pure-blood Slytherin, you know? There's no way that his intentions aren't malicious."

Harry nods, but Hermione frowns at that. "I know that Hem's the only muggle-born Slytherin there, but it seems kind of… I'm not sure… Prejudiced, I suppose, to think that every pure-blooded Slytherin is bad," she tries, though she's rather uncertain herself. "Even if this one is apparently on the same level as Malfoy in terms of pure-blood supremacy. I've seen him around, but he's a bit of a loner. We should probably give him the benefit of the doubt."

The two boys both open their mouths to reply, but Hem doesn't hear whatever they say. She lowers her eyes back to the book before her, skimming over the words. This page has already been read, but rather than turning the page, she opts to stare at the current one until the words become a blur.

Hermione, Harry and Ron are her friends. Because they say they are her friends, they are. It doesn't matter that she doesn't feel like the friendship is mutual; that she doesn't even know how to be a friend, let alone a good one. She doesn't know how to be a daughter or a sister. They're always worrying about her, unable to be at ease because of that.

Hem doesn't even know how to be human. How is she meant to know how to be a friend? How is she meant to be as great as Tom and Theo expect her to be? When everything is strange and everyone is a stranger, no matter how much she wishes otherwise. How? How?

She notices, barely, how something tight and painful clenches at her chest. She feels like she's drowning again, and everything feels cold and clammy. Head wrapped in a bubble of fuzz and snow, she belatedly realises that she might be having an anxiety attack again.

Something ̶ someone? ̶ tugs at her arm, and it hurts. Like a violent jolt of lightning that spreads up her arm and throughout her body. The world is a blur; off-balanced and unfocused.

Her ears are ringing by the time the visual snow around her vision fades, so loud and jarring that she can't hear whatever Harry and Ron are frantically yelling about. Time is strange, and Hem feels as though she's witnessing a movie scene in slow motion.

A scene of distress. She turns, her chest heaving with a lack of breath, then realises that she's standing and her sister's hunched over. Something's wrong, that much is quite clear for all to see. The books on their side of the desk are a mess, scattered about with some pages ripped free of their bindings.

Madam Pince appears, then. Hem gives a slow blink as the librarian takes hold of Hermione's arm and hoists her out of the seat. Her sister's front teeth are growing at a phenomenal rate, far past the point of anything normal and is quite alarming to witness.

Hermione catches Hem's eyes, and the latter isn't sure what to expect. "S'not chor fault," she hears her sister manage to say through her hand and growing front teeth, caramel irises swirling with a strangely pleading desperation, "H'okay?"

But then Hermione is whisked out of the library before anything can be said in response. Hem lowers her gaze, looking at her white-knuckled grip on her wand; at the small amount of blood that's managed to travel down to her palm. Her wrist is red and raw, more skin and blood than usual stuck under the fingernails of her right hand.

She scratched too deeply this time, though it looks like she simply dug her nails in under it pierced her flesh. It must've scared Hermione and the others.

"Hem?" someone tentatively calls. She recognises that voice. "Hey… Hem? Hermione'll be okay, you know that? We… We should probably go to the Hospital Wing to check up on her though, just in case. It's not your fault, okay?"

Hem turns, looking at Harry and staring into concerned irises of startling green. He stares at her with a troubled frown, then down at her wrists. His gaze softens, and he slowly grasps her wand hand to coax the dark and thin piece of wood out of her hands. Obliging him, she relinquishes it to him and he pockets it.

Mentally exhausted, she blinks at him and watches how he intertwines their fingers as a replacement for her wand. She clutches it with the same tight grip, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"She won't blame you, you know…" he whispers to her, keeping his eyes on their joined hands as though he doesn't have the strength to look her in the eyes. "None of us will. We know it's hard for you… It's not easy to live in a school that doesn't want to accept you."

As much as she wants to be comforted by those words, she feels nothing but a small sensation of annoyance for feeling nothing. The same festering pool of guilt still lingers in her stomach, invulnerable to the soothing words spoken by one who cares for her as a person. It is her fault, and no one can convince her otherwise.

This should be a realisation, she thinks; an epiphany that her lack of true desire to improve herself has made her dangerous to those close to her. It should be. Her sister has luckily only received a relatively minor hex, in comparison to what others have unfortunately received. Next time might not be the same because there's always the next time. Especially in this context. It should've happened sooner, actually.

Leading her out of the library and ignoring the whispers of students scattered around, Harry guides her to the Hospital Wing to go check up on Hermione. The sounds of their footfalls echoes in her ears, sounding strange and discomforting. Surreal, as if she's in a dream that she can't wake up from.

This should be a moment where she finally builds up the motivation to improve herself, for the sake of others. So that people around her don't have to get hurt because of her paranoid disposition.

But Hem knows. This isn't enough to change her mind, for the consequences of her actions to truly click. As close as Hermione is to her as a sister and a familiar sight in an unfamiliar place; Hermione is virtually still a stranger. Harry is still a stranger, as is everyone else that she knows. Close strangers, but strangers nonetheless. There's always a wall between herself and the rest of the world, isolating her and distorting her view of everything. Always.

So she knows that this changes nothing. Because Hem admits that she's afraid to change, despite her desire to. She's afraid of a life without the wall; the haze in her mind; the inability to speak and the detachment of her soul. Because as unfortunate it is, this is her normality. This is her life. She knows no other way.

Hem is afraid of what she would do, feel and say without the illnesses that debilitate her. And so, because of her fear and her selfishness, nothing has changed.

Not yet. It will, she understands… But not yet. Not yet. She's not ready. She doesn't think she'll ever be.


A/N: So I don't have a clear picture of what I'm doing, but I do have goal points to reach. I'm mostly just glad that this chapter was even made, so there's hope for this story yet. Maybe you'll stick around with me to see how it develops.

I would truly appreciate your thoughts, if you liked anything in particular or not. It would probably help me with whatever direction I want this to go. (Mostly, reviews just make me happy and remind me that my writing doesn't have to be perfect in order to be enjoyable.)

Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.