Chapter 2

1991/ 1st year

Hera Potter woke to the screeching sound of Aunt Petunia demanding for her to get up and make breakfast. The odd dream slowly faded into the background as she got ready for the morning, and if she tried hard enough the details seemed to fade. She had to put it out of her mind if she didn't want to get distracted and burn the bacon again anyway. Last time she did that, Aunt Petunia hit her across the face and threw her in the cupboard for the day. Quickly, she rushed through her ablutions, and made her way to the kitchen.

Cooking was the one thing she actually liked to do. She knew that she was good at it, despite what the Dursleys said. No matter how much they complained, or pretended it hadn't been her who'd made it, they still ate what she gave them. Besides, she remembered eating her Aunt Petunia's cooking once, such as it was. Granted, the woman had done the bare minimum because she hated Hera, but if that was genuinely how she cooked…Well, it was better that Hera did it.

She shoved that dream aside, as she had so many others like it, and got to work. It was one of her secrets anyway, a cherished thing, even if she didn't understand what it meant. She put it alongside the dream about flying motorcycles, feeling that it was too precious to share with the Dursleys, even if she'd been a man getting ready to be sentenced; that man had called her…him Loki. There was something in the air that made her think of magic, not that that was real, but that hadn't been the only one like it that she'd had. The Dursleys were always saying that magic wasn't real, followed by 'don't ask questions', or vice versa. After breakfast, it was time for her to check the mail, and as she stared at a letter for Hogwarts Witchcraft and Wizardry, she wondered what else the Dursleys had been lying to her about.

She waited till she was in her cupboard to open it, having shoved it down her blouse before it could be seen by anyone. It certainly explained a lot, but she also knew that if she were to take this to them, there would be some kind of attempt to keep her away from magic. She decided it was better if she went to London herself, and thankfully there was directions for where in London she needed to go to shop for her supplies. It was nothing then in the wee hours of the morning to break out of her cupboard, and take the money she knew Aunt Petunia kept in her purse for when she made Hera 'help the neighbors'; it should hardly count as stealing since it was her money. When the Dursleys woke up enough to make it downstairs, they would find it devoid of her, and only a note on the table.

'I know'

Where the Dursleys liked to pretend she didn't exist, in between making sure she was as miserable as possible, finding her way to the Leaky Cauldron was actually no hardship. The owner even let her through the back and into Diagon Alley. He'd given her a spot of advice, to go to Gringotts first, even pointing the building out to her. This must not be his first time seeing a child alone like this, with parents or guardians that hated magic. While the goblins weren't happy that she didn't have her vault key, when she explained things they were more than understanding, and issued her a new one; the matter of getting other peoples sticky fingers out of it for things like monument upkeep was really a side benefit.

She didn't stick to the list. Who would? She could finally have clothes that fit, have her eyesight corrected, order lots of books, prank items, (Was that a store dedicated to chocolate? Why, yes. Yes, it was), a trunk with very specific specifications, all kinds of things, and so she did. They'd charmed her glasses to be unbreakable, and to look like they had glass in them when they didn't. The only purchase she made that day that she wasn't sure about was the snowy owl that had sort of adopted her and refused to let go, but that was only because she was sure that the Dursleys would try to kill them both when she went back; and she would have to go back. She wasn't so foolish as to think she could live on her own out of the trunk or something, but if she were to have outfitted it with everything she needed to keep house, and if it was fully stocked thanks to a trip to non magical London then all the better. The Dursleys pretend she doesn't exist when she gets back, which gives her the time to look over her books in her new room (Dudley's second one).

Someone comes to get her anyway, a rather tall man who went by Hagrid. She'd tried to explain that she'd already gone shopping, but it was like he didn't hear her, or wasn't listening. The Leaky Cauldron is a vastly different experience this time, with people crowding her just to shake her hand, but the man who introduces himself as Professor Quirrell gives her a bad feeling. Maybe it was nothing, or maybe it was a later problem. Either way, there was nothing she could do about it now.

So she goes along with Hagrid, shows her own key to the teller behind his back when he places what must be her old key onto the teller's station, and takes another trip down to her vault. Hagrid picks up a grubby package, which she purposefully makes a bad showing at pretending she doesn't see. Finally, she convinces Hagrid that she needs to pick up some 'ladies things' alone, and he opted to wait in The Leaky for her. To be fair, she does actually need to do that, and spends a bit more time in various shops before she can't think of a reason to procrastinate anymore. Watching Hagrid's face turn various shades of panicked embarrassment while she's talking loudly, pretending to try to show Hagrid what she got while shopping for ladies things is an added bonus.

It was odd for her, seeing things others couldn't, knowing things they didn't when she'd not grown up in the world. The Dursleys had kept a strict 'Don't Ask Questions' policy with her, and so she just didn't ask about it. She could see magic around a person, especially now that she had been exposed to it more. Some felt complimentary to her, while others did not. It's how she knows the girl with facts and so much hair needs a friend, how the ginger boy with dirt on his nose needs to feel like he matters, and why she tries to befriend the blond boy who hadn't known who she was before; though that last one doesn't go so well. She knew the right sort for herself, wanted him to know that too, but she'd planned to shake his hand. She had! But then the rat bit one of the bigger boys, and it was all down hill from there.

She could hear Hermione spitting out facts about the ceiling, as if it could calm her. It was rather fascinating, but it did little to calm Hera. The floating candles were nice though. Behind her, Ron was talking about having to fight a troll. She hadn't even known trolls existed! When Hera realized all she would have to do was put on a hat, she relaxed. She shouldn't have.

~Well, this is unusual~ Hera startled, hearing the voice in her mind. The hat? ~You are not who you appear to be, or rather, you are more than only who you appear to be~

I don't know what that means. Hera thought back.

~Don't you? No, no, not awakened yet. I see. Well then, let's have a look at you. Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of wit in that mind of yours, plenty of courage too, and such cunning! There's talent. Oh, yes, there'd have to be with what I can see here. And a thirst to prove yourself. But where to put you!~

Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin

~And why not? You could be great, you know. It's all here in your head. Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, there's no doubt about that~

I just want to hide, and I won't be able to do that in Slytherin, no matter how well I'd fit. Won't be able to do that anywhere really, not with how people reacted to just hearing my bloody name. Gryffindor is what they'll expect, because of my parents. So it's where I can hide best. No one would ever expect a snake to hide in the lions den.

~That you have worked this out shows just how suited to Slytherin house you are, and it is indeed a cunning plan. If you're sure, better be~ "…Gryffindor!"

She didn't miss the look of relief on the Headmaster's face, nor the look of contempt on the dark haired man that set next to Quirrell. His magic felt conflicted, like Quirrell's, but more muted. She rubbed at the scar on her forehead, it had never healed properly, but it had never quite hurt like this. The pain was gone before it had hardly begun, but the dark haired man's contemptuous glare lingered still. Hera is not one to ask questions, 'Don't ask questions!' is ever prevalent in her mind, and so she doesn't; but still…as she tentatively picks at the food they just let her have…she wonders.

"There, look."

"Where?"

"Next to the tall kid with the red hair."

"Wearing the glasses?"

"Did you see her face?"

"Did you see her scar?"

Whispers followed her in a way they never had before. Tactless, the lot of them, standing outside classrooms, lined up, or doubling back, just to stare at her. Did they not realize how uncomfortable they were making her? Would it have been worse or better in Slytherin? She wished she knew. She'd chosen Gryffindor so she could hide, but this felt far too exposed for her liking.

Baring that, she loved the study of magic. They had to study the night sky on Wednesday at midnight, learn the name of different stars and planets. Three times a week, there was Herbology with Professor Sprout. Hera decided she quite liked herbology, as it felt a little like growing ones food before they made anything with it, much more enjoyable than working in Aunt Petunia's garden. History of Magic was easily the most boring class, and taught by Professor Binns, a ghost that droned on with all the enthusiasm of an eyesore.

Professor Flitwick was teaching Charms, which she rather liked, but she didn't understand why he was standing on unsteady book piles if he had magic. Professor McGonagall was strict and clever, teaching Transfiguration, giving them a stern talking to when class started. Transfiguration was another one of those classes that she rather liked a lot, and for some odd reason it came easily to her. Hermione Granger was the only other student in the room to make any progress, but she didn't reach near the level Hera had. Thankfully, Hermione didn't glower at her for it, but she did look put out for a bit.

Defense against the Dark Arts was an outright joke. Professor Quirrell stuttered so much that whatever wisdom he imparted couldn't be understood. The room smelt of garlic, and the turban did as well. It gave Hera the worst headache every time she was in that classroom. The one class she was really looking forward to was Potions, even if it was taught by that man that had stared at her in anger, who she learned was Professor Snape; surely he wouldn't let that affect his job.

"Ah, yes." the professor said softly. "Hera Potter. Our new…celebrity.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making." He began. Like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort; from the way he stood, to the way he moved, even how his robes billowed as he'd entered the room. Git or not, the man had a presence. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death – if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

She was wrong. Potions had been awful. She would still try to learn, but that man hated her! Why though? She hadn't done anything wrong, hadn't been there long enough to even attempt anything. Everyone kept telling her how much like her father she looked, but with her mother's eyes. Could that somehow be it? Hera just didn't know. His contempt of her made all the more real by how he'd berated her in that first class, but oh how she hated that she was going to have to pretend to hate him. That speech had her hooked, and even if she could never show him that she was listening, she would learn what she could from him.

...

Severus Snape did not expect anyone to stay after class, especially not Potter.

"I'm going to tell you a secret, Professor." Potter stated, before leveling him with eyes that hurt to look into. "I've not known her for very long, but I hate the Girl-Who-Lived, and I would really appreciate it if everyone would stop rubbing it in my face that my parents are dead because of me. I hardly find it something to celebrate."

She did not stay any longer, gone before he could muster up any anger at her calling him out for his behaviour; for surely that's what she'd done. What had she meant by hating the Girl-Who-Lived? She'd not said that she hated the title. Was she meaning herself? That thought about took all the air right out of him. The title told her all she felt she needed to know, that she had survived something her parents had not. Did she hate herself for that? He would not think on this again for years to come, but he'd seen in her eyes far too much of himself at that age; a thought he promptly locked away.

...

She'd taken Ron with her to meet with Hagrid. As oblivious as the man was, and he had to be half giant or something, he meant well. The groundskeeper was probably the first adult to really ask after her well being, and she enjoyed telling him about her classes. Ron told him how Snape had reacted to her, and she could see how Hagrid wouldn't look her in the eyes after that. Don't ask questions, she reminded herself, so instead she turned the conversation to the…rock cakes. Strange that she had no problem eating them, but Ron had to soak his for several minutes, time he used to update Hagrid on how the rest of the Weasley brood was doing. She would tell Ron later about the vault Hagrid had emptied before Gringotts had had the robbery attempt she'd seen in the paper Hagrid had been reading before.

Hermione was not having the best of luck at the moment. No one would be friends with her, despite the sort of camaraderie she had with Neville, and the shy acceptance of Hera. It was strange to her how Hera would shift from shy and withdrawn to confident and enthusiastic, depending on the subject matter. The girl had easily gotten her broom to leap up to her, as if she had a force of will all her own, but Hermione's broom just rolled over. Neville wasn't doing much better, and she feared their nerves were making this worse.

"Think of it like a horse, or a dog." Hera whispered to her, surprising her out of her thoughts. "I can feel a kind of sentience in the wood itself. It will respond to your confidence. You have to believe you can, and then will it into being."

After that it was easy to call the broom up, for Neville as well. She managed to hover as well with the rest of them, but she didn't have the confidence that Hera or Malfoy seemed to possess. She's not even sure why Hera has the confidence she does in this, as she was muggle raised too. Was this a case of fake it till you make it, or trusting ones instincts? In that case, Hermione was definitely a feet on the ground person.

But then Neville kicked off, and he kept flying up and up. Madam Hooch tried to calm the boy down, but it was clear that only made Neville panic more, which inadvertently pushed his broom to new heights. The more he panicked, the more his broom rose, the more Hermione was certain both of her feet belonged on the ground; thank you very much. Feeding on his panic, his broom shot towards their flying instructor, causing both to fall. Hera didn't hesitate, rising like a shot and then a sharp dive, nimbly catching both Madam Hooch and Neville by their wrists as she herself lay along the length of the broom.

"Slow and steady, Potter." Madam Hooch coached her through landing the broom. "That was some catch."

"I don't know if you know this, Madam Hooch, but I have noodles for arms." Hera huffed, trying to do as Madam Hooch had asked. Her arms were already shaking.

They were barely on the ground for more than a second before Madam Hooch was inspecting Neville for injuries.

"Broken wrist, I suspect. Mine too. That's some grip you got for noodle arms there, Potter." Madam Hooch murmured, as she looked Neville over.

"HERA POTTER!" Professor McGonagall stormed over to them, but paused when she saw that Hera hadn't moved from her place on the hovering broom. "Miss Potter, what are you doing?"

"Thought I'd have a bit of a lie in, I suppose." Hera commented almost dreamily. "It's quite nice, all warm and sunny like this. I highly recommend it."

"You'll need to come with me, Miss Potter." McGonagall explained, in bemusement.

"That would be great. I'd love to do that." Hera replied. Did anyone else hear how strained her breathing was? "There's only one problem."

"Oh?"

Hera looked a bit sheepish at this, as she replied. "I may or may not have lost the use of my arms."