Wingardium Leviosa
The first few weeks of classes go quite smoothly, if Hermione were to describe them. Her worries about her magical abilities are quickly assuaged as she realizes the rest of her schoolmates are far more underprepared than she expected. She breezes through her classes, except for Madam Hooch’s flying lessons, which she can’t seem to pick up. Literally.
Even commanding the broom to simply come to her hand is a struggle. Her cheeks had flamed when she was one of the few students remaining in class unable to fly. Even Neville was able to kick off the ground, though he ended up breaking his wrist anyway. She wonders if her inability to fly has to do with her fear of heights, or if it’s an indication of her inferiority.
Hermione had watched with envy when Harry easily glided through the air on his broom, despite having grown up without magic as well. He seemed at home in the sky, twisting and turning with ease. It was quite irresponsible of him, really, to have flown so quickly when Madam Hooch specifically commanded them to stay on the ground until she returned, after Neville had fallen so hard and broken his wrist.
She disguised her envy with annoyance, and pushed away the niggling thought whispering that Harry wouldn’t have done it in the first place if Draco hadn’t thrown Neville’s remembrall. After all, Harry had slighted Draco on the first day of term. It wasn’t really Draco’s fault for being upset, right? Neville just happened to get caught in the crossfire.
Besides, it all turned out alright in the end. No harm done. Harry even received a spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, which Hermione thought to be an incredibly uninformed and quick decision, until she passed the trophy hallway and discovered James Potter’s awards. Of course McGonagall would give Harry a spot. His father was special too- it’s assumed to be a talent running in the family.
She had noticed Draco’s expression when he’d heard the news, as she had been studying in the library when she overheard his friends tell him. Hermione had not been watching him, she just happened to glance up and he was at a table not far from hers.
Draco had been lazily sitting, two of his chair legs propped off the floor as he leaned back in his chair, his feet resting atop the round library table, when his tall friend who was also a talented flier- Blaise, she later learned- broke the news.
“Have you heard? Potter’s been given the seeker spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch team,” Blaise had murmured, his arms resting on the table in front of him, a quill in his hand. Hermione had read about Quidditch, but she didn’t quite understand it. It made no sense to her that whoever caught the snitch would automatically win. What was the point of the other players, then?
Draco had stiffened, his head slowly turning to face Blaise, before he spoke in an almost inaudible whisper. “He what?” His expression, though almost always impassive, was twisted with barely controlled anger.
Hermione found this reaction interesting. Though she hadn’t yet gotten a chance to speak with him since that first day before the Sorting, she had watched him sometimes during classes. He rarely showed his feelings like the other students, burying them rhythmically until not even a hint of emotion flicked through his eyes. It seemed to her that anything regarding Harry is his one exception.
She tilts her head slightly, making it look like she’s examining the candle on her table, watching the flame dance on its little wick, the wax dripping down the sides. It smells nice, like vanilla and cream, and reminds her of the candles her family would use at home during thunderstorms when the power went out. She almost misses Blaise’s response, distracted in her memory.
“...took him out of class… a big fuss. Oliver Wood’s out on the field with him now, apparently. Showing Potter the equipment.” Blaise seemed almost gleeful as he broke the news. Hermione knew him to be a close friend of Draco’s, but apparently that wouldn’t stop him from finding his friend’s frustration funny.
“Of course he is,” Draco had snarled. “Gryffindor’s needed a seeker, and now they’ve got the Chosen One on their team.” Hermione was startled at the vehemence in his voice. He must really hate Harry for refusing his friendship.
Blaise and Draco had bickered a while longer, before Theo joined them and they lapsed into companionable silence. Occasionally one would ask the others a magical question, and if none of them could answer Hermione itched to stride over and help, but something told her it wouldn’t be received well.
Hermione returned to her book on Charms, practicing the wand movements for levitation and murmuring the words under her breath, the trio forgotten. She had almost gotten the incantation perfect, her candle burned down halfway, when the library clock sounded and she realized she actually had class to attend.
She sweeps all of her papers and books off the table and into her satchel before swinging it over her shoulder and all but sprinting out of the library, earning a surprised call of “Slow down!” from Madam Pince.
Hermione’s footsteps echo through the hallways as she runs, several other students giving her curious looks or snickers as she passes. She turns a corner and almost slams into another student, who startles back out of her way. After calling ‘sorry!’ over her shoulder, she continues, finally reaching the Charms corridor.
Stumbling into the classroom, she runs a hand through her wild curls and takes a seat at the front. She notices with a sigh that only two other students are already present. Worrying about the possibility of being late, she hadn’t considered that the clock had only sounded once, meaning she still had 15 minutes before class, 10 now after her mad dash through the halls. Settling her satchel by her feet, she folds her hands together on her lap to wait.
Professor Flitwick’s classroom could be described as cluttered. There’s a chandelier in the middle of the room, hung from the high ceiling, providing visibility for the many knickknacks Flitwick decorates his room with. Bookshelves line the walls, books shoved halfheartedly between odd shaped rocks and statues. Figurines of fantastical creatures are on display, positioned on shelves and across Flitwick’s desk. The desk itself is a massive piece of furniture, bulky and dark, made of a completely different wood to the bookshelves and student desks. Behind the desk is a stack of books precariously balanced into a tower, with a tiny stool at the top, upon which Flitwick is perched.
The man himself is exactly what Hermione expected, based on his interior design taste. He’s very tiny and probably half-goblin, with round glasses that slide down his nose. His light brown hair is smoothed and parted down the middle, making him look much older than he actually is. A mustache covers his upper lip, and his robes look much nicer than those of the other professors, more a suit than academic wear.
Hermione waits patiently, trying not to watch the clock as the minutes tick by before class begins. She drums her fingers on the desk, and her leg bounces in a steady rhythm. Her gaze flits around the room, reading the titles on the books closest to her repeatedly, watching the candles on the chandelier flicker, and the way Flitwick swings his legs back and forth on his stool like a toddler.
When the rest of the students finally arrive, seats quickly begin to fill. Today’s class is a mix of Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years. Hermione surreptitiously watches the door under her lashes, pretending to be engaged in her book. Eventually a familiar blonde head stalks in, every inch smug arrogance, and she hides a smile. He takes a seat next to the bookish boy from the train, across the aisle from Hermione.
Hermione returns to her book, no longer feigning her interest. Absently she realizes the ginger boy has sat in the seat next to her. When the clock sounds the beginning of class, she slips her book beneath her seat, out of the way. Feathers appear, one per pair of students, along the desks in front of them.
Flitwick begins, his voice high pitched and squeaky. “Afternoon, students! Today we will be learning and practicing the levitation charm.” The class breaks out in murmurs, interrupting him. He allows a short pause before continuing. “Watch closely while I demonstrate.”
He raises his wand, pointing it at a little blue feather resting on his desk. He clears his throat before speaking clearly, “Wingardium Leviosa.” Flitwick follows the incantation with a swish of his wand and a flick of his wrist, causing the blue feather to slowly float up to the ceiling.
The class ‘ooo’s, appreciating the spell, and Flitwick gives a small bow from his seat at the height of the book stack. He gestures toward the feathers on the student desks. “You may begin- do make sure to keep the wand movement precise.”
Hermione studies the feather without touching it before turning to the ginger boy. If she’s polite to him, she might make another friend, which would be great progress, especially since it’s still the first week. Hermione waits until he turns to look at her, and smiles at him.
“You can try the spell first, if you’d like. I already know how, so you can use my practice time.” She hopes her words sound genuine, but if the ginger’s face is any indication, he did not take her offer well. He scrunches his nose and pulls out his wand, pointing it at the feather, and Hermione finally remembers his name- Ron…Weasel? Sounds about right.
Ron waves his wand and speaks the incantation. “Wingardiumleviosar.” Of course, it does nothing, and the boy immediately pouts. Hermione holds her tongue, unsure if he’d accept help. Ron tries again, flicking his wrist differently, “Wingardium LeviosAr!”
She watches him, her lips pursed as he continues to fail at the charm. His movements are erratic, and he never says the same incantation combination twice. Her fingers twitch and eventually she can’t control herself.
“It’s Levi-OH-sa, not LeviosAr.” Hermione huffs. The ginger glares at her before leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.
“Well, let’s see you do it then,” Ron spits, obviously frustrated. Hermione feels a niggling worry that she’s offended him, but surely he’ll feel better when she demonstrates the proper movement and incantation… right?
She points her vinewood wand at the feather and straightens her shoulders, taking a deep breath, and her brow furrows in concentration.
“Swish and flick, Ron. See?” Hermione says as she completes the wand movement and murmurs the incantation. “Wingardium Leviosa.”
The little white feather gently lifts from the desk and floats to the ceiling, the first of its brethren to be lifted correctly with the charm. Flitwick gives a little gasp and claps his hands together excitedly.
“Miss Granger, such wonderful charmwork! 5 points to Gryffindor!” Flitwick says, beaming at Hermione. She flushes with the praise and releases the spell, allowing the feather to flutter back down to the desk. Hermione glances sidelong at Ron, checking to see if he’s impressed, already congratulating herself on her helpfulness and securing a new friend, but she frowns when she sees the ginger’s expression.
Ron looks livid that her charm worked. She blinks at him in confusion- why wasn’t he happy? She showed him exactly how to do the spell, and now he shouldn’t have any trouble with it. But Ron isn’t even looking at her, still leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, his head turned away to watch Seamus incinerate his feather, smudging soot all over his face.
Hermione sighs in defeat and chances a look over at Draco. Maybe he had noticed her success? But Draco isn’t looking either, focused on his own feather. That’s alright. He has his own work to do. But why wasn’t Ron happy? she wonders, disappointed.
She remains silent the rest of the class, abandoning her attempts to be friendly. It seems the ginger boy isn’t interested, and she’s not going to keep pushing. She says nothing when Ron fails the spell again, instead looking up at the chandelier and counting the lit candles. When Flitwick finally dismisses the class, she lingers at her desk, purposefully moving slowly to avoid walking out with Ron.
Hermione carefully places her book back in her satchel, as well as the feather left on their shared desk. She could keep it to show her parents over winter break. Soon the room is empty, and she waves goodbye to Flitwick before fastening her satchel around her shoulder and letting herself be swept into the halls. History of Magic next… if I hurry I can read before class.
Following the other first-years through the halls, she notices Ron chatting with Harry. He seemed to be in a much better mood, and she wonders if she should try harder to become friends. Ron seemed funny enough, as currently a group of boys are clustered around him as he speaks, laughing. Hermione watches for a moment before timidly approaching from behind, a book clutched to her chest.
“...wonder no one can stand her. She’s a nightmare, that one. Bloody mental!” Ron chuckles, and the boys around him burst into laughter, holding their bags over their heads to mimic something. Then Hermione’s stomach drops.
She reaches up and runs a hand through her mass of untamed curls- she hadn’t the time to fix them this morning, and she really wasn’t sure how without her mother’s help. Her eyes begin to sting and she squeezes her book closer to her chest, quickly turning and hurrying away. She bumps into someone as she passes, but she’s not sure she can control her voice, so she doesn’t apologize.
Hallways and tapestries pass in a blur as she half runs through the castle. Chilly air nips her skin and she looks up, realizing she’s wandered into the dungeons. She hastily wipes her tears with the back of her hand- it wouldn’t do for a Slytherin to find her crying, and Hogwarts: A History had mentioned the snakes’ dormitories were hidden in the dungeons.
History of Magic has probably already started by now, her mind remarks dully. I should head back. Her feet, however, seem to have a different plan, and continue to lead her through the dungeons. Deeper she delves, until she finds a bathroom. Gods, I needed this.
The bathroom is blessedly vacant, and she takes a stall, leaning against the door, letting her satchel and books fall to the floor. It’s then that the tears come fully, and within minutes her sobs echo throughout the bathroom. Distantly she hears footsteps, probably girls entering and quickly leaving upon hearing the mess of a girl.
I just wanted to be friends with him. Is that really so difficult to believe? And he had to go and say those mean things. Laughter replays in her head, and pictures of the boys mimicking her tangled curls won’t dissipate. Hermione rubs her eyes with her knuckles in an attempt to stop the tears, but they continue to fall. When she cries herself out, she slides to the floor and tucks her legs to her chest, burying her face in her knees, her back to the stall door.
Hours pass as she sits there in her defensive ball. She tunes out the noises of the other girls and doesn’t respond to anything. Maybe she could owl her parents and they could take her home. Clearly Hogwarts isn’t the place for her. She isn’t able to make friends here any better than she was at home.
Her stomach finally complains, and she stands with a sigh. Swinging her satchel over her shoulder and gathering her books, she unlocks the stall door and peers at her reflection in the mirror.
Purple shadows rim her eyes, and red streaks across the whites. Tear stains line her cheeks, dried after her long sit. Her breakdown is obvious, but a quick glance at her watch reveals it’s already past dinnertime. Nobody will be around to see her in this state. She rubs off the tear stains and massages the purple shadows away. Splashing water on her face, she takes a deep breath and straightens.
“It’ll be alright. Those boys didn’t know how cruel they were being, and they’re only kids.” Hermione smiles at her now clean reflection, the only still visible sign being the red criss crossing her eyes. An answering snort alerts her of someone’s presence and she turns, embarrassed, expecting to find an annoyed Slytherin girl wanting to use the mirror.
Instead, standing by the door and blocking her exit, is a massive mountain troll. Green skin smelling of slime and putrid ooze greets her and she gags, covering her nose and mouth with a hand. The troll is staring at her, its club resting on its shoulder. It must be a minimum of 8 feet tall, towering over her, its back hunched to fit under the bathroom’s ceiling. A low groan rumbles in its chest. The only clothing it has is much too little and positively disgusting, and she quickly averts her eyes.
The troll decides she isn’t a real threat and begins to lumber forward with a devious expression, and Hermione squeaks in terror. She quickly drops her satchel and books and skitters back into the bathroom stall, slamming the door. Her breath comes out in ragged pants as she tries to think of any spells she could use to escape. Incarcerous? No, I’m not any good at it yet, and it wouldn’t work on such a large creature.
A loud crash alerts her only seconds before the troll’s club swings over her head, crushing the bathroom stalls around her. Hermione screams and falls to the floor, under the rubble. She quickly wriggles out and grabs her wand, staring wide-eyed at the troll, trembling. Rapidly she flicks through spells mentally, but none seem strong enough to defeat the monster in front of her. I only know basic charms!!
Her panic continues to rise as the troll takes another step forward, growling and dripping spit all over the ruined bathroom. The ground rumbles with each step, and Hermione barely hears the voice through her terror.
“Granger, get out of the way!”