The Weight of Arrival
Hermione
The first thing Hermione Granger noticed about the university was how it felt less like a school and more like the kind of place where one might accidentally summon a demon. Not intentionally, of course—this wasn’t some ridiculous supernatural boarding school novel—but the gothic architecture, the looming spires that looked like jagged teeth, the ivy snaking up the walls and the dark clouds threatening to burst into torrential rain in the distance made it seem like the perfect setting for a blood pact gone wrong.
She adjusted the strap of her overstuffed bag, ignoring the ache in her shoulder as she stepped off the train and onto the cobblestone platform. A few other students milled about, laughing and potentially enjoying the last few days of crisp autumn air, but Hermione kept her gaze forward, resolutely focused on the enormous wrought-iron gates in the distance. The gates were flanked by two stone gargoyles, their grotesque faces twisted in permanent snarls. Welcome, indeed.
The campus was beautiful—there was no denying that. It was the kind of beauty that demanded awe, that dared you to criticize it. And yet, as she dragged her suitcase across the uneven path, she couldn’t help but feel the weight the environment tried to bury under fancy architecture and ostentatious displays. The school was too perfect, too pristine. The kind of place made to make one feel small, inconsequential or inadequate. The kind of place that swallowed people whole and spat them out as something unrecognizable. Or maybe she was just being dramatic. That happened sometimes.
“Excuse me,” she murmured as she sidestepped a group of students taking selfies in front of the gates. One of them glanced at her, their eyes skimming her plain clothes and scuffed boots before dismissing her entirely. She bit back the urge to roll her eyes.
It was fine. She wasn’t here to impress anyone. She was here to prove something—to herself, to the world, to whatever cosmic force had decided she deserved to scrape her way into this place on sheer determination and a scholarship.
The admissions letter had called it "a rare opportunity." Hermione had called it "an escape." Not out loud, of course. She didn’t talk about things like that, even to herself. Especially to herself.
Dragging her suitcase up the hill, she took in the details of the campus. The main building loomed ahead, its façade a patchwork of gray stones—uneven in sizes and slightly jagged in places—and stained glass. Latin inscriptions carved into the arches promised knowledge and wisdom, though Hermione suspected the promises were more aspirational than practical. Of course, had they been written in English, the air of importance the words exuded would have been lost— a shame. Students flitted in and out of the building like well-dressed moths, their laughter bright and carefree. It grated on her nerves more than it should have.
Her room assignment was tucked somewhere in the labyrinthine network of buildings to the left. She glanced at the map in her hand, its creases already worn from how tightly she’d gripped it on the train, trying to retain and memorize the many paths she'd have to take. The dormitory—or "residential hall," as the overly formal brochure had called it—was a sprawling structure with ivy crawling up its sides—as it seemed was the norm with every building she had encountered so far—and gargoyles perched on the edges of the roof. Someone on the architectural committee had clearly been compensating for something. Or really liked gargoyles—an odd choice but a memorable one.
Hermione finally reached the gates, pausing just long enough to take a deep breath. The air was cooler here, crisp and sharp, the scent of the upcoming winter already permeating the breeze. She told herself it wasn’t intimidating. Just... different. Different was good. She’d had enough of familiar.
Beyond the gates, the path split into several winding trails. The main one led straight to the central building, its massive doors flanked by intricate carvings of what she assumed were saints or scholars. The other paths veered off toward dormitories, lecture halls, and what looked like a library large enough to get lost in. That, at least, was promising. If all else failed, she could hole up in the library and pretend the rest of the school didn’t exist. A thrilling social strategy, to be sure.
As she trudged toward the residential hall, her thoughts wandered to the letter folded neatly in her bag. She hadn’t shown it to anyone, not even the handful of people who might have cared. It wasn’t that she was ashamed—well, not exactly. But this place felt like a secret, like something she needed to keep close until she could prove to herself that she belonged here. If she belonged here. Which, if she was being honest, felt increasingly unlikely with every passing moment. The opulence was a far cry from the world she had left behind. Not that it had to be a bad thing, but it certainly felt unnatural.
A group of students passed her, their chatter bright and insubstantial. One of them glanced at her, their gaze lingering just long enough to make her uncomfortable. She tightened her grip on her suitcase and kept walking.
The residential hall loomed ahead, its arched entrance framed by ivy and carved stone. She paused in front of the door, her reflection faintly visible in the polished brass handle. She looked tired, her curls frizzing from the journey and her coat slightly wrinkled. It was fine. She didn’t need to look perfect. She just needed to survive.
With one last glance at the intimidating façade, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. If the outside was imposing, the interior was downright oppressive. The high ceilings and dark wood panelling felt more like a cathedral than a dormitory, and the faint smell of floor polish mixed with something vaguely floral.
Hermione’s footsteps echoed as she made her way to the check-in desk. A student worker sat behind it, flipping through a thick binder. They barely looked up as they handed her a key and a slip of paper with her room number scrawled on it.
“Welcome.” they said, their tone flat. “Good luck.”
The comment might have been sincere. It might also have been a warning. Hermione decided not to ask. Instead, she gripped her key and headed toward the staircase, her suitcase bumping against each step. If this place was trying to intimidate her, it was going to have to try harder.
She’d survived worse. She just didn’t let herself think about it.
The further she watched the space around her, the more details she noticed. The air smelled faintly of lavender and beeswax, an oddly domestic scent for a place that looked like the interior of a medieval fortress. The ceilings soared overhead, framed by dark wood beams and punctuated with hanging iron chandeliers—because clearly simple lightbulbs were suited only for the pleb. A fireplace the size of a small car dominated one wall, its hearth cold and empty, though Hermione suspected it would look terrifyingly majestic if lit.
Her gaze scanned the space, lingering on the intricate carvings that adorned the walls—leaves, vines, and the occasional snarling animal, all rendered in the same dark wood that seemed to be a recurring feature of the building. Someone had taken “grandiose” as both a design principle and a personal challenge.
She tightened her grip on the key in her hand. Room 204. Second floor. Easy enough.
Except, of course, that nothing in this place could ever be truly easy.
She hesitated at the base of the staircase, her suitcase wobbling precariously on the uneven floor. The stairs rose in an imposing curve, the banister so thoroughly polished Hermione believed she could have used it as a fully functional mirror, its intricate ironwork casting spindly shadows on the walls. It looked less like something designed for practical use and more like something meant to impress visiting aristocrats and other nobility of sorts.
“Because clearly, that’s what every dormitory needs,” Hermione muttered under her breath, her voice swallowed by the cavernous space.
The key dug into her palm as she hefted her suitcase and began the climb, the wheels bumping against each step with a hollow thud-thud-thud. Somewhere above, footsteps echoed, accompanied by a faint hum of music. The noise was reassuring in its mundanity, a reminder that this place was, in fact, inhabited by real people and not just the ghosts of overachievers past.
By the time she reached the landing, her arm was aching and her mood had soured further. She paused to catch her breath, glancing down the hallway. The walls were lined with identical doors, each painted a muted gray and adorned with a small brass number. Hers was easy to spot, situated near the far end of the corridor.
Room 204.
Hermione took a deep breath and approached the door, steeling herself for whatever awaited inside. She hadn’t been assigned a roommate since primary school, and the idea of sharing a space with someone else again was… less than appealing. Still, it wasn’t as if she had a choice. Scholarships didn’t exactly come with penthouse perks.
The door creaked ominously as she pushed it open, revealing a room that was somehow both impressive and oppressive. It was larger than she’d expected, with tall windows that let in streams of late-afternoon light. The furniture was sturdy and dark, the kind of wood that looked like it had been hewn from ancient forests by craftsmen who took their work far too seriously. The room was divided into two halves, each side a mirror image of the other, right down to the placement of the identical desks and wardrobes.
And then there was the other occupant.
“You must be Hermione.”
The voice came from the left side of the room, where a red-haired girl lounged on one of the beds. She was propped up on her elbows, her legs stretched out in front of her, one bare foot bouncing in time to music that played softly from a phone speaker. Her hair was a vivid, fiery curtain, and her expression—somewhere between curious and amused—gave Hermione the distinct impression that she was already being analyzed.
“That’s me.” Hermione said, stepping inside and setting her suitcase down with a thud. “And you are…?”
“Ginny Weasley.” the girl said, flashing a grin that was as bright as her hair. She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Roommate extraordinaire. Welcome to your new home.”
Hermione glanced around the room, her skepticism evident. “It’s… nice.”
Ginny laughed, a warm, bubbling sound that seemed to fill the space. “It’s awful, isn’t it? I mean, look at this place. It’s like someone’s posh grandmother had a midlife crisis and decided to renovate.”
Hermione’s lips twitched despite herself. “I was thinking medieval fortress, but sure.”
“Medieval fortress works too,” Ginny said, hopping off the bed and crossing the room in a few easy strides. “Let me help with that.” She grabbed the handle of Hermione’s suitcase and hoisted it onto the unclaimed bed as if it weighed nothing.
Hermione blinked. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Ginny said, plopping back onto her own bed. “So, what’s your story? How’d you end up at the illustrious institution of nightmares and overachievers?”
Hermione hesitated, her grip tightening on the strap of her bag. “Scholarship.”
“Figures,” Ginny said, not unkindly. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re smarter than everyone here and you know it.” Ginny smirked. “Don’t worry, it’s a compliment.”
Hermione wasn’t sure if it was, but she let it slide. She set her bag on the bed and began unpacking, carefully arranging her belongings in the small wardrobe. Her books took up most of the space, their spines neatly aligned, their titles a mix of well-worn classics and obscure academic texts.
“Wow,” Ginny said, peering over her shoulder. “You’re really leaning into the whole genius vibe, aren’t you?”
“I prefer prepared.” Hermione said without looking up.
“Same difference.” Ginny said with a shrug. She picked up her phone and resumed her music, the faint strains of something upbeat filling the room. “Let me know if you need help finding anything. Or if you want to know who to avoid. I’ve got a running list.”
Hermione’s lips twitched again, but she hid it quickly. “Noted.”
As Ginny settled back onto her bed, Hermione allowed herself a small moment of relief. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Or maybe it would.
The library was exactly as Hermione had hoped: cavernous, dimly lit, and quiet in a way that bordered on oppressive. After unpacking in her dorm room and enduring a well-meaning but overly enthusiastic crash course on campus social hierarchies from Ginny, she’d needed a reprieve. Something grounding. Something familiar. The library, she’d decided, was her safest bet. It was the kind of place where the air itself felt reverent, as though it understood that here, among the rows of ancient tomes and dust-frosted shelves, silence wasn’t just encouraged—it was mandatory.
She paused in the entryway, taking it all in. The ceilings rose above her, arching into intricately carved beams that cast strangely formed shadows across the stone walls, adding—albeit involuntarily—to the eerie atmosphere the space itself fostered. Stained glass windows ran along one side of the room, their jewel-toned light spilling onto the floor in fractured patterns. At the far end of the space, a spiral staircase curled up toward a second level, its wrought iron railing twisting like ivy.
It was beautiful. Intimidating, but beautiful.
And yet, even as she stepped further inside, a small, annoying part of her mind couldn’t help but catalog the impracticality of it all. The windows, for instance. Lovely, yes, but entirely useless for letting in actual light. The chandeliers overhead—all wrought iron and dripping candles, because of course—were picturesque but hardly functional. And the chairs looked like they’d been designed for aesthetic value rather than comfort, with their high backs and overly polished wooden frames.
“Why make a place look like it belongs in a fairy tale if you’re not going to let anyone enjoy it properly?” Hermione muttered under her breath. Her voice was swallowed by the vastness of the room, disappearing into the thick, book-scented air.
She let her bag slide off her shoulder, gripping the strap tightly as she made her way between the rows of shelves. Each one was taller than her by at least a foot, their contents packed so tightly that it seemed the books themselves might burst free at any moment. The titles ranged from the familiar to the obscure, with spines in every state of wear. Some gleamed like they’d been rebound yesterday; others looked like they might crumble if touched too harshly.
The further she walked, the more the room seemed to stretch. It was almost disorienting, like the shelves weren’t fixed in place but shifting subtly when she wasn’t looking. Her theory about accidental demon summoning was starting to hold some water, it seemed. It wasn’t until she reached the far corner—a quieter, darker section that felt largely untouched—that she allowed herself to stop and breathe.
This was good. Here, tucked away from the rest of the campus, she could think. She could work. And, most importantly, she could observe while strategically avoiding people.
Hermione found a small wooden table near one of the windows, nestled in a small alcove, and set her bag down with a satisfying thunk. The chair creaked loudly under her when she sat, but she ignored it, already pulling out her battered leather notebook and flipping it open to a blank page. This was where she thrived—in the quiet, surrounded by information and possibility. She could almost forget the rest of the world existed when she was like this.
Almost.
Her pen moved slowly at first, forming tentative lines across the page. The familiar scratch of ink against paper was soothing, a welcome distraction from the chaos of her thoughts. As she settled into her work, she allowed herself to relax, the tension in her shoulders easing bit by bit. Here, in this small corner of the library, it didn’t matter that the rest of the campus felt overwhelming. It didn’t matter that she still felt like an outsider. It didn't matter that even that far from home she still felt like she had to jump at every shadow. All that mattered was the task in front of her—organizing her thoughts, preparing for her first day of classes, putting order to the chaos.
Minutes turned into an hour. The light filtering through the stained glass windows shifted slightly, taking on a warmer, golden hue. Hermione barely noticed, her focus entirely consumed by her work. She filled one page, then another, her handwriting precise and methodical. For the first time since arriving, she felt a flicker of control, a small victory against the intimidating enormity of the school.
But, of course, it couldn’t last.
A muffled thud broke her concentration. Hermione’s head snapped up, her gaze darting toward the source of the sound, cataloguing every shadow between her and where she thought it had emanated from—instincts, she bemoaned, were a funny thing. A book had fallen from one of the shelves, its cover splayed open on the floor. There was no one nearby, no movement that she could see. She frowned, her grip tightening on her pen. Breathe.
“Probably just gravity.” she muttered, though her voice lacked conviction.
Still, the interruption was enough to unsettle her. She closed her notebook and stood, stretching her legs as she glanced around the library. It was mostly empty now, the few other students who had been studying earlier having packed up and left. The vastness of the space felt heavier in their absence, the silence pressing down on her as though trying to make her understand how small she really was compared to the enormous structure surrounding her.
Hermione wandered over to the fallen book, crouching down to pick it up. The cover was worn, the title faded almost beyond recognition. She squinted, trying to make out the embossed letters. Secrets of the Mind: A Study of Perception.
“Fitting.” she murmured, placing it back on the shelf.
The act of shelving the book gave her a brief sense of accomplishment, but as she turned back toward her table, she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. Her head whipped around, her heart pounding, fingers clenching around the pen she still held, like a makeshift weapon that would—undoubtably—be no good to her in just about any situation. Nothing. Just the endless rows of shelves, stretching into shadow.
Hermione took a steadying breath. “Stop being ridiculous...” she told herself. It was just a library. A ridiculously grandiose, slightly intimidating library, but a library nonetheless. Nothing sinister. Nothing out to get her.
She returned to her seat, though her earlier ease had vanished. The sense of control she’d felt was slipping through her fingers, replaced by an uneasy tension she couldn’t quite shake. She stared at her notebook, her pen poised above the page, but the words refused to come this time around.
Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the stained glass. Hermione stayed where she was, forcing herself to focus, to work, to push through the unease. After all, she’d come here for a reason. She wasn’t about to let something as trivial as her own nerves stop her.
Even if the library’s silence felt less like a comfort now, and more like a stark reminder that she was still balking at shadows that weren't there.
After hours in the library, Hermione’s stomach had made it abundantly clear that her focus on work had come at a price. Reluctantly packing up her things and navigating the towering shelves once more, she’d made her way back across campus, finding solace in the peace and quiet of the evening air that followed her to the cafeteria.
Said cafeteria was chaos incarnate.
Hermione paused just inside the double doors, her hand gripping the strap of her bag as she surveyed the scene. It was her first proper foray into the heart of campus life, and it was… overwhelming. Students swarmed the room like ants, their voices blending into a low, constant roar. The air smelled faintly of burnt toast, over-brewed coffee, and something suspiciously metallic that Hermione didn’t want to think about too hard. For all the overdone opulence of the school itself, students were students—loud, rowdy, boastful and judgmental—regardless of their surroundings. There was something comforting about the thought. Maybe.
She pressed her lips together and stepped further inside, skirting the edge of the crowd like a wary animal. The cafeteria was vast, its ceilings stretching high overhead, decorated with a series of light fixtures that looked more ornamental than functional. Of course. Everything here had to be unnecessarily grandiose. Even the tables, long and made of dark polished wood, seemed designed for aesthetic intimidation rather than practicality. She half-expected a medieval feast to break out at any moment.
Her stomach growled, an embarrassingly loud reminder that she hadn’t eaten since arriving to campus earlier in the day. With a resigned sigh, she joined the queue for food, carefully keeping her head down and her expression neutral. It wasn’t that she disliked people—well, not all people—but large groups like this made her skin crawl. Too many variables. Too much noise. Not enough clean exist strategies.
The line moved at a glacial pace, giving her plenty of time to observe her surroundings. To her left, a group of girls stood near the salad bar, their laughter sharp and bright, cutting through the din like knives. To her right, a boy gestured wildly with a fork as he recounted what Hermione could only assume was a highly exaggerated tale, judging by the disbelieving expressions of his audience. And directly ahead of her, the food on offer was…
Uninspiring, to say the least.
“Is that supposed to be lasagna?” Hermione muttered under her breath as she stared at the tray of unidentifiable sludge. It wobbled faintly, as if mocking her, a smell that could've potentially been akin to overcooked tomato wafting from it.
“You’ll build an immunity eventually.” a voice said behind her, startling her enough that she nearly dropped her tray. She turned to see a girl with cropped black hair and an easy smile, her eyes gleaming with barely concealed amusement.
“Sorry.” the girl added, not sounding remotely sorry. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t.” Hermione said automatically, though her pulse and the way she was now white-knuckling her tray begged to differ.
The girl grinned wider. “Sure. Anyway, word of advice? Avoid anything that comes in a tray. The sandwiches are safe. Usually.”
Hermione nodded, grateful for the tip, even if she wasn’t entirely sure she trusted it. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” the girl said, already moving past her. “Good luck.”
Hermione turned back to the counter, opting for a plain turkey sandwich and a bottle of water. Safe. Simple. Unlikely to poison her. Probably. With her tray in hand, she scanned the room for an empty seat. Most of the tables were packed, their occupants engaged in animated conversation or scrolling through their phones. She spotted a free corner table near one of the tall windows and made a beeline for it, weaving through the crowd with practiced precision.
The seat was as uncomfortable as she’d expected, the chair’s wooden frame digging into her back, but it didn’t matter. Here, at least, she was alone. She unwrapped her sandwich and took a cautious bite, her eyes flicking around the room as she ate.
This was fine. Manageable. It wasn’t the library, but it would do, for a few minutes at least.
Her gaze drifted toward the far end of the cafeteria, where a particularly loud burst of laughter drew her attention. A group of students sat clustered around one of the central tables, their presence impossible to ignore. They were too well-dressed, too self-assured, too perfectly placed in the room to be anything other than deliberate.
Hermione’s brow furrowed as she watched them. She recognized the type. The kind who moved through life as though the world had been built for their convenience. The kind who didn’t need to ask for attention because it was given to them freely, unconditionally. It grated against something deep in her, though she quickly pushed the feeling aside. They weren’t her concern. People like that never were.
With a small shake of her head, she returned her focus to her sandwich. This was fine. She was fine. She hadn’t come here to be distracted by people—or to meddle in socialization at all, for that matter. She had priorities. Goals. A plan. And she intended to stick to it, no matter how obnoxiously loud the laughter at the far table got.
Hermione’s dorm room felt both smaller and larger than it had when she’d first walked in. The fading light from the window gave it a cozy glow, but the dark corners seemed to stretch endlessly, as if the shadows themselves were trying to claim more space. It was unsettling, in a way she didn’t care to analyze too deeply.
Ginny was absent, likely at the party she’d mentioned earlier, a gathering she’d enthusiastically described as a way to "show Hermione the ropes" and "celebrate her arrival." Hermione had declined, her polite smile masking the dread that curled in her stomach at the thought of stepping into a room full of strangers. Not a chance in hell. Now, with the quiet hum of the radiator and the faint creak of the ancient floorboards filling the space, she was alone.
Normally, she would’ve welcomed the solitude, but today it felt heavier. Maybe it was the weight of the day—the overwhelming grandeur of the campus, the suffocating noise of the cafeteria, the sheer bigness of it all. Or maybe it was the simple fact that for all her careful planning, she still felt like an intruder here, still felt too small for the world around her—albeit a much different one now.
She sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers tracing absent patterns along the embroidered coverlet. It was nicer than anything she’d expected from student housing, but that only added to her unease. Everything about this place screamed money and power, from the ornate woodwork on the wardrobe to the gilded mirror hanging on the wall. It wasn’t a dorm room; it was a museum exhibit that someone had mistakenly labeled as “livable.”
Her suitcase lay half-unpacked on the floor, its contents spilling out in a mess of practicality: neatly folded clothes, well-worn books, and a small stack of battered journals that had seen better days. She stared at it for a moment before forcing herself to move. Staying still was dangerous. Staying still gave her thoughts too much room to grow.
Methodically, she began unpacking, her movements mechanical but precise. Clothes went into the wardrobe, books onto the desk, toiletries into the small cabinet by the door. She worked quickly, efficiently, as though completing the task might trick her brain into believing she belonged here. By the time she finished, the room looked… no less intimidating, but at least less alien. Her side of the room was stark and organized, a sharp contrast to Ginny’s explosion of color and clutter.
It was fitting, she supposed.
With everything in its place, Hermione sat back down, her gaze drifting to the window. Before she could settle, an old habit stirred—one she couldn’t seem to shake, no matter how far she’d come. She stood again, crossing the room in a few swift steps to check the lock on the door. It clicked solidly under her hand, secure as it had been the first three times she’d tested it. Next, she turned to the window, her fingers brushing the latch to ensure it was fastened tight against the frame. Only then did she allow herself to sit back down, her gaze drifting once more to the window.
The campus stretched out below, bathed in the amber hues of twilight. The spires of the main building loomed in the distance, their silhouettes jagged against the darkening sky. It was beautiful, in a way that made her chest ache.
Her fingers itched for her journal—as it often did, but she resisted the urge. Writing about her feelings wasn’t going to change them. She needed action, progress, something tangible to hold onto. Something to prove herself she was on the right path. And yet, as the evening deepened and the shadows crept further into the room, she found herself staring at the blank page again, her pen hovering just above the textured surface.
This will get easier. she wrote finally, the words small and unsteady. She stared at them for a moment before closing the journal and setting it aside. She wasn’t sure if she believed it, but for now, it would have to be enough.