Take My Hand

The air was dank and suffocating.

Through a small rectangular hole, probably no more than six inches wide, four inches high, a shard of dim light cut through the choking darkness.

Is this Hell? Is this my prison, forever?

The enclosed space was painfully small, six and a half feet by three feet. The smell of sweat, blood, and filth mingled with the remarkably cold, yet humid, air.

Indeed, it was a prison, and the girl who stood inside it, a prisoner. Her arms were secured with rusty, iron shackles above her head. Her legs were shackled together, and secured to the sides of the monstrous cell. The initial shock and pain had worn off, hours ago, and now she felt merely numb, and incredible fatigue. She thought of Tantalus, doomed forever to stand in a lake, thirsty and hungry, with water beneath him and fruit above him. But he could never quench his thirst, nor quell his hunger. She shifted her wrists in the shackles.

Big mistake. The rough iron further chafed her wrists, and opened the old sores that never seemed to heal. Fresh blood began to tickle down her arms, the pain awakened. She gritted her teeth against it and tried to her imagine herself in a different place. A different world, far away from all the pain this one had brought her. But her mind was continually interrupted by the incessant shouting and banging from the prison outside.

I wish I were dead.

She had wanted to die before, but not like this. Before, she had wanted to die to end the trivial suffering of adolescence -- the constant criticism she endured was bad enough, but what had triggered her attempted suicide was the endless feeling of isolation that had plagued her since the day she had discovered how very different she was from the rest of her world. The realization that she would never be accepted, never be the same, never fit in, hung over her head like a storm cloud. A long white scar, running parallel to the thin blue artery on her left wrist, stood as a testament to her internal struggle.

But now...now she longed for death -- no, she ached for it. It was a need like no other. She prayed, begged, pleaded for the mercy that did not come.

How long have I been here?

Maybe a few days...maybe a month. Time seemed to stand still. The world stopped to watch her, to laugh at her. She felt her mind shuddering, as though it were preparing to run.

No...I will not go mad.

She fought against the onset of delirium with the only reality available to her. Pain.

She began to twist her hands against the shackles, squeezing her eyes shut against the brilliant shocks of pain that began to shoot through her arms. A low moan escaped her, as she imagined the skin on her wrists being scraped off by the harsh iron, the exposed nubs of her bones rubbing against the dirt-covered shackle. Her strength was gone -- she managed to coerce her hands to move out of sheer desperation. White sparks of pain began to fleck in front of her eyes, her vision blurred. Breath was coming in short, staccato gasps, as though her lungs were reluctant to continue filtering the dirtied air. Suddenly she became aware of a change in the environment. There was quiet...for the first time since she had arrived in the maximum security wing.

The silence was unnatural, and a feeling of fear bloomed in her stomach. Was there a fire? No, there'd be screaming. What the hell was going on? Someone began to speak in very close proximity to the heavy wooden door that blocked her from the outside world. Another voice, high-pitched and scared, began to shout frantically, but was cut off by a much stronger voice.

Stupefy...

There was the sound of a body hitting the ground. The girl struggled to keep her eyes open, hoping against hope that a psychotic, escaped prisoner would throw open the door and club her to death.

Jesus, at this point death by wild dogs would be fine, so long as I don't rot in this place!

She opened her mouth and tried to shout, but her voice would not comply. Her vocal cords vibrated and whined uselessly against her parched throat. A harsh grunt was all she could muster. Footsteps approached. The door shuddered, and swung open. Harsh white light flooded into the cell, searing her eyes. She squeezed them shut, unable to open them against the white invasion -- it was the first time she had seen anything but darkness in days...maybe it was weeks. She heard muttering, and the shackles on her wrists opened. Her leg muscles were mush, and she collapsed into the arms of an unfamiliar man, who smelled strongly of wild herbs and chemicals.

"Hello, my dear," said a kindly, wizened voice, "We have been looking for you." She drew up her head, and tried to focus. But all she could make out was a very blurry old man with lots of white hair. Her head began to spin with the effort and pitched forward, onto the odd smelling man's shoulder, and closed her eyes.

*** *** ***

Professor Snape gathered the girl in his arms and rose. Dirt and blood flaked off of her bright orange jumpsuit. He turned and faced Dumbledore and McGonagall. Professor McGonagall's face was twisted in horror. She continued to stare disgustedly at the conditions in which the young girl had been held. She shook her head in raw fury.

"Sixteen years old, and they lock her away in this monstrous place. Sometimes I must question my faith in humanity." Dumbledore's eyes were sad.

"People are afraid of what they don't understand. They panic, lock it away, and try to forget it. In this case," he placed a weathered hand on the girl's pale forehead. "They locked her away." Snape tightened his grip on her as she began to shake. There was the sound of shouting -- guards were coming.

"It is time to go." Dumbledore looked very grave. There were three small *pops*, and the solitary confinement block was empty.

*** *** ***

Hermione Granger chewed thoughtfully on the end of her quill, gazing at the equations on the board. Professor Vector sat at her desk, looking over the previous evenings homework while her students attempted to decipher the daily equation. Professor McGonagall appeared at the door, and beckoned to Professor Vector.

"Class, I will be leaving momentarily. No talking, if you please." She hurried out to meet Professor McGonagall. Hermione, having finished the daily problem already, turned her attention to her book, reviewing the material for the coming lesson. It was late December, three days until Winter Break, and she wanted to be prepared for the midterm exam she knew Professor Vector was planning to spring on the sixth years.

"Hermione Granger!" Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway of the Arithmancy classroom. "I will be needing your assistance. Now."

Hermione looked up, confused, but swelled with pride. She gathered her books, shoved them into her bag, and walked out of the class, to the puzzled stares of her classmates. She followed Professor McGonagall's swift step down the hall.

"Anything wrong, Professor?"

"Not at all, Ms. Granger. Quite the contrary. We've admitted a new student to Hogwarts, and she's a bit...well...she needs some guidance. I thought you would be the perfect person to help her out." Professor McGonagall turned and bestowed a look of pride on her favorite student.

"Of course, Professor McGonagall, I'd love to help out!" Hermione became very excited at the prospect of acquainting a new student with the various sights and sounds of Hogwarts.

Professor McGonagall continued to hurry along the corridors, lecturing Hermione on the new student's situation, pausing only to shout at Peeves for leaving marbles all over the floor.

"Due to her late arrival, she was sorted in the privacy of Dumbledore's office. Naturally, I would not enlist your help if she had not been placed in Gryffindor. She is sixteen years of age."

They rounded a corner, Professor McGonagall stopped short in front of her office, and turned to Hermione. Her face was completely unreadable, but it seemed that a look of worry touched her eyes and vanished just as quickly.

"The new student is from America. Until now, she has never been formally schooled in the arts of witchcraft and wizardry. I will not elaborate on that, as it is her prerogative to enlighten you on her past. But I will say that she is somewhat...nervous. I have arranged for Ms. Patil to be removed as your roommate, and the new student will join you. I have every confidence that you will help her to adjust to these new surroundings, and our way of life." Hermione nodded, her mind bursting with curiosity. Professor McGonagall nodded sharply and she opened her office door and they stepped inside.

A huddled figure was occupying one of the wooden, uncomfortable looking chairs that sat in front of Professor McGonagall's desk. She seemed to fuse herself into the chair as though she were trying to disappear.

"Hermione Granger, I would like you to meet Summere Kalliope Natalya Tatum Elissa Lasyrenn Mithra Blackeberry." Professor McGonagall took a deep breath.

"Bit of a mouthful, isn't it," commented the girl in the chair.

"I should say so," Professor McGonagall quipped. "I do hope you will be writing a nickname on your assignments." The girl nodded. Hermione extended her hand to the figure in the chair, who looked up into her face, and Hermione was a bit shocked. Nervous didn't define this girl. She was damn near terrified, although her face didn't show it. Hermione could...feel it...somehow. The girl extended her hand, and a weak smile, to Hermione.

"Now, please get settled into your new dormitory, Ms. Blackeberry. I am sure you will be very comfortable here."

"Thank you very much," came a wan voice. Hermione couldn't help but be fascinated by the strange American accent. And with that, the girl grabbed what looked like a rucksack, stood, and faced Hermione. She was quite tall, much taller than Hermione. Hermione, without realizing it, drew her breath in sharply. Every feature on her face was familiar. Those soft cheekbones, accentuated high on the girl's face. Those full, red lips framed by skin so fair it practically glowed. The color and texture of her hair rang memorable, even though it was secured messily at the back of her head. Even Professor McGonagall noticed Hermione's gasp. The girl dropped her eyes to the floor, as if she had heard something quite unpleasant, and walked silently out of the room. Hermione caught herself, shook her head back into reality, and ran out of the room after the girl, ever mindful of the withering glare she had received from Professor McGonagall.

The girl - Hermione settled on just calling her Summere, for now - was waiting for Hermione just outside McGonagall's office.

"I'm really sorry about that," rushed Hermione, "but you remind me of someone...I can't put my finger on who."

"It's fine," she replied. "I get that all the time." Hermione smiled.

"This way to the dormitories."

*** *** ***

On their way to the common room, Hermione couldn't help but notice how completely overwhelmed the girl was by her new surroundings. She had nearly had a heart attack when Peeves the Poltergeist had swooped down around her ears, screaming, "New girl! New girl!" Hermione continued to wrack her brain for where she had seen those almond shaped, dark brown eyes before. Before she knew it, they were standing in front of the fat lady.

"Password?" Summere jumped a mile.

"Cornish Pixie Stew," said Hermione, and the portrait opened to reveal the common room. Summere straightened herself, and climbed in behind Hermione, wiping her face of all emotion. Hermione strode into the Gryffindor Common Room, the new girl behind her. Hermione had been fully intent on introducing her to the other Gryffindors right then and there, but something told her that now was perhaps not the best time for introductions. She gently took the girl's hand and led her straight through the common room, and up the stairs to the girls' dormitory, through the sea of turning heads. She opened the door to the room they would share, and led her inside. The girl barely looked up at her new living arrangements - instead she sank down on the bed in complete exhaustion.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I am so confused..." and she broke off immediately. Hermione was struck by the suppressed pain in this strange girl's disembodied voice. She felt a twinge in her heart (though she couldn't discern why) and decided staunchly that she would show this girl how wonderful Hogwarts could be. But first, maybe she needed some time to herself.

"I'm going to leave you here to get settled in. I'll be back in fifteen minutes though, and then I want you to meet everyone. They're going to like you, I promise. Gryffindor is the best house in the school!" She smiled the first real smile Hermione had seen at her kind words. Hermione grinned back at her. Then she left the room and went back down to the Common Room.

Immediately, she was encircled by the other Gryffindors and bombarded with questions.

"Who was that?" "Where did she come from?" "What's her name?" "Why is she with you?"

Hermione held up a hand to stop the incessant questioning. A sea of eager faces looked upon her, waiting for answers.

"Well, I don't know anything about her at all, quite yet. I know she is from America. And she's clearly confused and homesick so I think we should all do our best to make her feel comfortable and welcome." This, unfortunately, didn't satisfy anyone's curiosity. Hermione grimaced with annoyance, and told the questioning minions (most especially Parvati and Lavender) to bugger off. She slumped down into a chair, next to her best friends, Ron and Harry. Harry looked as if he were simply bursting at the seams with something.

"What is it?" asked Hermione. "Do you fancy her already?" And she glared at him. Harry was her boyfriend, and she didn't like the look on his face at all.

"Oh quiet down, wench," Harry said fondly. "I was only thinking how she looks like someone I know."

"I noticed that too! But I simply can't recall who it is!" Harry rolled his eyes.

"Star Wars, Hermione. She's the spitting image of Princess Leia." Hermione clapped a hand to her forehead.

"Of course!" How many times had she seen those movies? That was exactly what she was thinking of. "I am so stupid!" Harry grinned, and nodded in concurrent. Hermione giggled and slapped him. She then tried to engage him in a serious conversation about the upcoming exams, and he tuned her out, much to her irritation. Ron was beside himself, fidgeting much more than usual.

"Do'ya think she's got a boyfriend in America?" He asked this with great anticipation, and Hermione could only stare at him in amazement. Then she burst out laughing. Ron fancied the new girl!

Up in the dormitories, however, Summere, who hadn't had the strength to correct Hermione concerning the use of her name, was still in a state of numb shock. She lay curled up on her new bed, her head hidden in her arms. She was in a foreign country, and completely in the dark about everything these kids had been studying for the past six years. She had been taught magic, but underground like. Surely her mysterious instructor had no idea what formal magical education consisted of. What did it matter that he had instructed her in magic since she was six? She was still bound to be completely left behind. It was probably only a matter of time before she was expelled for failing grades. The thought tortured her like knives. Failure, in her mind, was worse than condemnation to a pool of hungry sharks. She instead focused her thoughts on the past four days, which she had spent in the quarantined section of the hospital wing, recovering from her ordeal. Professor Dumbledore had been unbelievably kind to her, and she had liked him immediately. She had taken quite a liking to Professor Snape, however, and for no apparent reason. The man struck her as special. She liked Professor McGonagall too, cold and sharp though the woman seemed. Not that she was complaining, but...Oh well, what did she know anyways.

I don't know anything, she thought, and I miss my sister. Lifting her head from her arms, she took an appraisal of the new room she would call home. It was homey enough - it was even nice enough to describe as luxurious. The walls and floors were crafted of the same rough, gray stone that the entire castle was constructed of. On the wall opposite to the door there was a large window, which could have been described as a bay window (except for the fact that it looked upon a lake, instead of a bay). A large, cushy red sofa was pushed against this wall. Shelving was carved into the walls next to both beds. Hermione's shelving held, at the very least, three hundred books. The two four-poster beds were carved of magnificent dark mahogany, complete with velvet curtains and duvets of scarlet. Hermione's side of the room was immaculate. She tried to busy herself by putting away her clothes and putting up a poster or two, but when she withdrew a framed picture, the grief become far too much and she dashed off to the bathroom where she was violently ill for what seemed like a very long time.

*** *** ***

Hermione knocked. There was no answer. Carefully, she opened the door to the room they now shared. There was no sign of her new roommate.

"Summere?" ventured Hermione. The room was empty. Summere's trunk lay open, clothes folded meticulously on the bed. A small framed photo lay haphazardly in the middle of the floor, clearly a Muggle photo from its lack of movement. Hermione picked it up. Two girls in matching white dresses stood together, one markedly taller than the other. The taller girl had an arm draped around the other girl's shoulder. They were smiling brightly. Hermione placed the picture on the dresser.

"Where are you?"

She walked into the bathroom where she found Summere crumpled in the corner, her knees pulled into her chest, and her head resting on them. She looked like a picture of misery. Hermione reached out to gently touch her on the shoulder. Summere flinched, and her head shot up. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and she looked rather green. She heaved herself to her feet, and immediately went to the sink to brush her teeth and gargle water. Hermione absently patted her back. She was quite aware of the fact that Summere seemed adamant about pretending that absolutely nothing was wrong. And found it quite endearing. It reminded her of Harry.

"Are you ready to meet everybody now?"

"Yah. I guess now is as good of time as any. But there is something you should know." Hermione was not expecting any kind of revelation now, but she looked at Summere with expectant eyes. "No one, at home anyways," a slight shudder seemed to pass through her body at the mention of home, "Calls me Summere. I'm Liss...or I'm Tate, most usually Tate...or I'm...well geez, people kind of make up their own nicknames, since there's so much to choose from." Hermione laughed.

"I've no doubt. Tell me your name once more, for good measure." The girl smiled slightly, and jokingly inhaled a massive breath.

"Summere Kalliope Natalya Tatum Elissa Lasyrenn Mithra Blackeberry."

"Bugger," muttered Hermione. "Seems like one could have a lot of fun with that name." The girl shrugged. "Your parents fond of names then?" She nodded.

"It's a generation thing for my mom. She's got like nineteen names, and she insisted on doing the same with her children. My dad, however, wasn't too keen on the whole idea, so they compromised, and my sister and I only got seven names each." Hermione very much wanted to hear her sister's name, however, she was a master of good judgment. Bringing up the girl from the picture would not be a good idea.

"So pick one."

"Well, what did most people usually call you?"

She was pensive for a moment. "Well, I heard bitch quite often." She smiled, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Fine...Summey, Tate, Mithril, Liss, Kallie, Homewrecker - just kidding! It doesn't matter to me. Pick which one you like."

"Come along then, Tate." And Tate followed Hermione down into the Common Room.

*** *** ***

Everyone tripped over each other to meet the new girl, especially Ron. Hermione was amazed at Tate's resilience. What had seemed like a broken, miserable girl in the privacy of their dorm room had transformed herself into an amiable, receptive person. Everyone liked her immediately. Any qualms she might have had about acceptance, Hermione thought, must have been immediately quelled. Ron though, after shaking her hand, had resigned himself to a chair, by Harry, and he had gone an embarrassing shade of red. It was hard to tell where his forehead ended and his hair began. Harry did not help matters by telling Ron that he resembled a tomato on fire, and he received a painful jab in the shoulder for his trouble. Finally, it seemed that everyone had had their fill of the new addition to their house, and Tate joined Hermione with Ron and Harry.

"Where are you from?" asked Harry.

"Texas," replied Tate. Harry's eyes brightened with mischief, and Hermione gave him a warning look, which he ignored.

"Do you really ride horses to school there?" he asked eagerly. Tate was unruffled.

"Of course," she replied, "and we wear leather pants and spurs there," Ron looked extremely hopeful at this statement, "and we all worship John Wayne as a god among men." Harry and Hermione burst into laughter and, to Hermione's surprise, Tate laughed a bit too. She was remarkably beautiful when solemn, but gorgeous when she smiled. Ron, of course, having no idea who John Wayne was, nor Texas humour for that matter, looked very confused. Hermione made a mental note to explain all these Muggle things to Ron a bit later.

"So why are you at Hogwarts so late?" asked Harry. A muscle near Tate's cheekbone twitched. Was it Hermione's imagination or had she seen a very dark shadow cross Tate's eyes.

"Just am."

*** *** ***

Harry, Hermione, and Ron had resolved into talking about their Potions test, which would take place at the end of the week. After perhaps a half hour of conversing about this, Hermione realized how hopelessly lost Tate appeared to be. She stood up, and announced that she would be leaving. Tate rose to accompany her, as if she didn't need to be asked at all. They exited through the portrait hole.

"Well, she seems like an interesting girl," said Harry. Ron was still staring at the now closed portrait hole. Harry fought back a laugh, and waved a hand in front of Ron's face.

"What?" asked Ron. "I was just thinking..."

"That you wanted to see what she looks like without her kit on?"

"HARRY! That's not it at all! She's just...well...a bit of a mystery." Harry lost control. He fell out of his armchair, laughing hysterically.

"A mystery?!? Are you a poet now, Mr. Ronald Weasley? Has she stirred your heart so that you feel the need to spout corny, lovesick lines?" He was rolling on the floor in glee. Ron stood up, kicked him hard, and walked up to his room. Harry, cradling his injured ribs, continued to laugh. But he was thinking to himself that it was quite about time Ron had found himself a prospect. Hopefully, the American heritage wouldn't pose a problem. Harry recalled hearing that American girls were ruthless heartbreakers, and just as stupid as they were cruel. But Tate seemed like a lovely girl, and he didn't see how a generalization meant anything. Besides, if she had been accepted to Hogwarts, and had been placed in Gryffindor, the possibility of her being stupid or cruel was pretty banished from his mind.

*** *** ***

Hermione swept down the magnificent halls, Tate by her side. She was intent on explaining every nook and cranny of the school to Tate, so that she would not be taken by surprise by anything. Unfortunately, Hermione knew that all she was really doing for Tate was blunting the shock a bit. Tate would, without a doubt, be completely thrown off guard when the magical feast appeared out of thin air on the dinner table for the first time.

"So, where did you go to school in America?" Hermione asked gingerly. Tate's shoulders stiffened a bit, but she did not hesitate.

"Episcopal High School."

"Is that a magic school?" Hermione knew that Tate had had no formal training, but she wanted Tate to tell her this on her own terms.

"No. It was just a high school for kids. They taught stuff like Math, English, and Science."

Hermione smiled wistfully. "I remember those subjects," she said in a complacent sort of tone. Tate looked at her sharply.

"When did you take those?"

"I took them in grade school, shortly before I was accepted here. I came from a Muggle family as well, so I know all about your world."

Tate looked quite sad.

"I was really good at chemistry," she said slowly. "Favorite class in fact. Damn class got me kicked out." She blanched, realizing she had said something she shouldn't have. Hermione's curiosity got the best of her.

"How did chemistry get you kicked out of school?" She posed this question quite innocently, hoping very much that Tate would not think she was prying. Tate, however, ignored the question entirely. Hermione, disappointed, did not ask anymore about Tate's previous school. And on they went, with Hermione attempting to explain every single thing about Hogwarts, Tate listening with interest. Hermione could not tell if it was feigned or not.

*** *** ***

Hermione was quite right about Tate still being shocked at the normal motions of Hogwart's daily life. A ghost, the Bloody Baron in fact, had glided down the hall, and Tate went stock still, too petrified to move. The bloody Baron must have sensed this fear, because he pelted right at her, and she fell straight over backwards and knocked her head soundly on the floor. Her dark eyes contracted, and went completely blank. Hermione fell to her knees beside her and shook her gently.

"Tate, are you all right?" There was no response, just the blank look in her unblinking eyes, which fluttered, then squeezed shut. Hermione went cold all over, and shook her a little more strongly. "Tate!"

"Well, what do we have here?" A drawling, horrible voice sounded the arrival of Hermione's least favorite person in the entire world. Draco Malfoy's impeccably shined shoes appeared on the other side of Tate's prone body. "What have you done to this pretty little thing, Mudblood?" Hermione tensed with anger but, as always, she kept her head.

"None of your business, Malfoy. Do sod off."

"What the bloody hell are those?" Draco nudged the Tate's left foot with his own shoe, and then his gaze raked upwards. Tate's robes had come up to well over her knees and Hermione was disgusted at the way Draco was staring at her bare flesh.

"Those...are mine. And stop fucking staring." Tate grabbed her robes and covered her exposed thighs. She tried to sit up, but winced painfully as the world spun, and she lay her head back down. Draco was taken aback by her use of language (rarely anyone swore as he did), but he quickly recovered and smirked.

"I suspect you'd like to talk dirty to me like that a lot more often. On your back, just so of course." Hermione rose menacingly at Draco's insult, but Tate seized the hem of her robes and held her, tilting her head to look up at Draco.

"By the looks of you, the only way you'll ever hear a woman on her back talk dirty to you in a way you would like is if she charged by the hour." Tate's voice was dripping with acid, and Draco's face contorted in fury. Hermione however, doubled over in peals of laughter.

"Fine then. I'll give you six Galleons, and I'm sure that is well above your going rate." Draco looked completely satisfied with himself, and spun on his heel to saunter away. Unfortunately, he got about four strides away when he was lifted off his feet. He hung in mid air for a split second, with a look of incredulous terror on his pale, pinched face. Then he pitched sideways into a wall, and landed hard on his tailbone, grunting surprise and pain. Hermione was dumbfounded. No one had been there to push him. She was still kneeling besides Tate, and Tate was still flat on her back, no wand visible. Hermione hadn't even heard a spell spoken. But there was a far away look in Tate's eyes, and a shivering voice in the back of her own head, that made Hermione think Tate had something to do with the invisible attack on Draco. Luckily, before he could recover and make any accusations, Tate was on her feet, pulling Hermione down the corridor.

They rounded a turn and Hermione grabbed Tate by her forearms. She would have preferred to grip her upper arms and look directly into her eyes, but Tate was a good head taller than she.

"Did you do that?" she asked incredulously.

"Maybe." There was a twinkle in Tate's eyes and Hermione somehow knew she would not get anymore than that out of her.

"So what are those shoes anyways?" she asked grinningly. Tate grinned back.

"They're Birkenstocks. They're all I ever wear."

"You must be mad! They're - they're sandals and it's the dead of winter around here! Your feet must be freezing!" Hermione was shocked, and looked down to stare at the remarkably odd sandals that consisted of two plain leather buckles strapped over the tops of the girl's rather large and white feet - on one of which, was the tattoo of a multicolored gecko.

"I like the cold." Hermione shook her head and thought, barking mad! But they laughed together, and continued on without another word on the subject.

*** *** ***

Tate choked on her breath when the dinner feast appeared that evening. Harry grinned and slapped her on the back, very chum like. Tate snapped back into reality and her face broke into a wide grin. Ron went red at the sight of her smiling, and busied himself with the mashed potatoes, which he managed to spill all over himself. Hermione rolled her eyes and removed the food from his clothing with quick cleaning charm. Tate was looking curiously at the food.

"What is that?" She pointed to the large bowl of steak and kidney pudding. Hermione told her, and Tate shrank away, muttering something about cheeseburgers and salads. Hermione rolled her eyes, and began heaping food on Tate's plate. Tate looked on, indifferently, as if she had no intention of eating anyways. Realizing that tomorrow was the last Quidditch game before the end of the winter term, Hermione turned to Harry.

"What time is the Quidditch match tomorrow?"

"Two 'o' clock, I b'lieve," mumbled Harry, his mouth full of roast turkey. "'S against Slytherin, as usual. The dirty buggers'll be trying every rotten trick they can think of."

"Not that it'll help them any. There's not a chance Malfoy will catch the Snitch before you, Harry. He never has, not once!" Ron beamed with Gryffindor glory. They definitely had the best team in the school. At the mention of Malfoy though, Hermione's eyes glittered and flickered to Tate. Ron caught this immediately, and said to Tate,

"Met Malfoy, have you?"

"Malfoy? No, can't say that I have. But then again, I can't remember anyone's name, except for y'all." Dean, who had been eavesdropping, snickered at the word 'y'all' and was about to comment, but a death glare from Hermione silenced him.

"Oh yes you have," interjected Hermione. "You met him in the halls, right after the Bloody Baron knocked you over."

"Oh, right. Forgot about that." Tate appeared to be quite neutral about her meeting with the most hated Slytherin in the whole school. Hermione recalled Draco as being particularly horrible, but then she reminded herself that Tate had held her ground extremely well.

"Isn't he awful? No one can stand him, he's a pathetic excuse for a human being," Ron spat, murderously. Tate just shrugged.

"He just seemed like an obnoxious pansy to me. Bet he's not a real blond either." The table dissolved into laughter. Hermione laughed as well, but she still couldn't shake off an unidentifiable feeling she got whenever she thought about Draco and his invisible assailant. She felt as if there was something she knew...but couldn't put her finger on it. To occupy herself, she engaged Seamus in conversation about his ongoing relationship with Ginny Weasley. This brought up the issue of the Yule Ball, which was to occur the evening before the beginning of Winter Break. Everyone began chatting animatedly about what they were wearing, who they were taking, and who the musical entertainment might be provided by. Hermione was in the middle of discussing her dress robes with Lavender Brown when she looked over and noticed that Tate was gone. She hadn't even seen her get up. When she pointed out the girl's absence to Harry and Ron, they were just as surprised. Nobody, it seemed, had heard or seen her get up to leave.

*** *** ***

Professor Snape scrutinized the boiling concoction in front of him. It was a violently red hue, with bright bubbles of bursting acid green. He had been simmering this potion for six days at least. By his calculations, it would be ready within the week. A hand came down on the table, next to the cauldron. He glanced at it. Long elegant fingers, short fingernails, tiny scars adorning the knuckles like lace.

"Ms. Blackeberry," he said without looking up, "how was your first day?"

"Unnerving," she said, "and yet...like I've been reborn. Guess that amounts up to good, eh?" Snape looked up from his potion, fixing his glittering black eyes on her. She looked more alive than ever. He smiled, ever so slightly.

"I'd prefer if you would make your presence known before showing up. You may find it impressive that you can sneak about without a sound, but others merely find it disturbing." Tate giggled and shook her head.

"You know I don't do it on purpose, Professor. It's just habit."

Professor Snape snorted, removed his spectacles and looked at her. "Just like it is 'habit' to use your telekinetic powers on fellow students?" Tate blanched, and looked at her feet. "Yes, my dear, Mr. Malfoy mentioned his unfortunate accident in the halls following his first encounter with yourself and Ms. Granger. This has been discussed thoroughly between you and the headmaster. I trust it will not happen again." He raised an eyebrow at her, and she nodded fervently.

"I'm really sorry about that. He insulted me, and I reacted badly. I'm still a bit sensitive to things like that. I slipped - it won't happen again." Snape nodded, and brushed a bit of lint off her shoulder.

"You realize," he said silkily, "that as a Gryffindor, your presence here could be seen as...suspect...even unbecoming." She smirked.

"So? I don't care. Everyone is at dinner anyways."

The classroom door closed. "Not everyone." Tate whipped her head around. A very familiar, very blond boy stood behind her. "Met you before, but not properly." He extended his hand. "Malfoy. Draco Malfoy." Tate giggled, but quickly suppressed it. A muscle worked in Draco's jaw. She took his hand in hers, and they shook. Draco was quite surprised by her strong grip.

"Shaken and not stirred, I suppose?" Draco and Snape looked at her in confusion. "Sorry. I'm Summerre Blackeberry. Call me Tate." Draco smirked.

"Tate from Summerre? Interesting nick, that is. How did you come by it." Tate smiled at him.

Tate recited her lengthy name. "I gave Hermione a choice of nicks. She chose Tate, so that's what I'll go by." Draco looked annoyed.

"Trust Granger to pick the most boring nick she could find out of that wildly amusing pack." He looked thoughtful. "I believe I'll call you Kalliope." Professor Snape's face twisted into his trademark sneer. Tate nodded to Draco, and leaned over the cauldron to get a better look at the potion that was stewing inside it.

"Nearly ready, huh?"

"Indeed Ms. Blackberry. Perhaps in the next few days." He put a lid over the cauldron, and swiveled around in his chair, to face his desk. He began sifting through papers. Draco settled himself in a chair and kicked his feet up on a table. He lazily put his arms behind his head, and surveyed Tate up and down. She perched herself on a table, and stretched a long leg out in front of her, balancing her foot on the edge of the adjoining table. Draco watched her in fascination. Eight silver earrings glittered in her left ear. Her motions were fluid and graceful, which he found quite odd for her height. She was tall, nearly as tall as he himself was, and he stood at an even six feet. The only girl he knew this tall was Millicent Bulstrode, and she was as clumsy as a cat on roller skates. Tate's sooty lashes rested on her cheek as she examined her hands, running her fingers over the multitude of white scars.

"So," Draco began, "why so sharp this avvie?" Tate looked up at him, as though the answer should be obvious.

"On edge, I guess. Don't particularly like people looking at me for too long."

Draco smirked. "Well, you won't get far round here with that attitude. Everyone watches everyone else. It's how Hogwarts survives. You busy yourself with other people in the hopes you'll forget your own problems."

Tate groaned. "Sounds like my old high school." Draco raised an eyebrow at her. "My old 'Muggle' school, as you people would call it." Draco nodded, and thought for a moment, choosing his words.

"A Muggle, are you?" He tried to be casual about this. Tate didn't blink an eye. She looked right at him.

"Yah. Muggle-born, Texas bred and raised. Hermione told me of your distaste for our kind. What did she say you referred to it as...oh yes, Mudbloods." She looked at him appraisingly. "Not very nice," she scolded, clucking her tongue. Draco shrugged.

"Well, old habits die hard. I've got an image to live up to. Whether or not I buy into it all is my little secret." Tate narrowed her eyes at him. Draco shifted uncomfortably - for a moment it felt as though she were looking directly into his soul. She blinked at him.

"I see," she said. "You play the game."

"I suppose that's one way to put it," agreed Draco. "But if you are curious, I hate Harry Potter and his two lemmings out of my own free will." Tate ignored this remark, and they sat in silence for a moment or two. Tate directed her attention to the cabinets on her left. There were hundreds of glass bottles and flasks inside, all holding colorful fluids. Several large jars held some very curious objects. Tate squinted, and could roughly make out the outline of what looked like a large dead salamander floating in one of the jars.

<

Awesome. I'd love to get into that cabinet! She began mulling over possible combinations, and found her mind wandering back to her chemistry teachings. Her musings was soon interrupted by Draco.

"About your name," he drawled slyly, "I'm noticing a bit of a pattern." Tate's eyes flashed in fascination, and a tiny smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. Draco noticed this, and began to grin.

"A pattern," she asked innocently. "Whatever do you mean?" Draco settled himself back in his languid position and assumed a superior tone.

"Seems to me they're all of different origin and some are historical. Any significance in that?" He stopped when he realized that Snape had spun around in his chair and was studying him intently.

"Unless you children have any more questions for me, I think you had better retire to your common rooms and get to work on the homework I gave you." Draco rose to leave slowly, fully intent on following Tate and haranguing her about the significance of her lengthy name, but he turned to find she had already disappeared. Frustrated, he waved to Snape, and exited the classroom, heading straight for the library.

There's a rhyme to this madness. Draco furrowed his brow and quickened his step.

*** *** ***

Back in the common room, everyone rushed to begin studying. End of term homework was due, and people were working like mad to get it out of the way so they could relax and talk about the holidays freely. Tate was exempted from the homework, having missed nearly the entirety of the first term. Winter break would begin in two days, and, as usual, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had signed up to stay over the holidays.

"Who is Summere Blackeberry?" asked Ron, while he and Hermione were signing the sheet (which was posted on the Entrance Hall bulletin board), shortly after dinner.

"Oh, that's Tate's real name. Tatum is one of her middle names, and I suppose she just shortened it a bit."

"You mean she has more than one middle name?" Ron was quite interested in any tidbits Hermione had to offer on the subject of Tate.

"Yes, she does, but I can't remember all of them. Perhaps you should ask her during free time." Hermione grinned wickedly. Ron turned red and shot her a very nasty look. She laughed, and they made their way to the common room. However, when they got there, Tate was nowhere to be found, and Ron looked very disappointed.

"I'm just going to go to my room and get some books," Hermione said soothingly, and she shot up the stairs, threw open the door, and shouted,

"Tate! Where are you?"

"Right here, where do ya think?" Tatum peered at her through an opening in the thick, red velvet curtains surrounding her four-poster bed.

"Oh," said Hermione, feeling rather stupid, "why don't you join us downstairs."

"I will, eventually." She looked back down at her duvet. Hermione's eye caught a flash of silver, and she walked over to Tate's bed and looked at the foreign objects she was fussing over. Hermione squinted, and recognized the small silver device and the dozens of shimmering, round discs lying next to it.

"Those won't work here!" Hermione was appalled. "There is too much magic in the air! They all go haywire. I'd suggest you read Hogwarts, A History over the Christmas holidays, if you are going to be attending school here." Tate looked up at her with a bored expression, but her eyes were smiling. From her satchel, she withdrew a velvet bag, which she opened and upended, spilling several silver and unfamiliar tools on the duvet.

"I'll bet you ten bucks that in one hour we will both be listening to my impeccable selection of music, and we will be listening to it from this." Tate indicated the small CD player in front of her. Hermione scoffed good-naturedly, and simply nodded in acknowledgement to Tate's ridiculous proposition. Then she stalked out of the room, knowing there wasn't a chance on earth anyone could get those devices to work, even if they were within a five-kilometer radius of Hogwarts grounds. Tate couldn't be serious, but let her entertain herself, if she wanted to.

Hermione re-entered the common room and threw herself into an armchair between Harry and Ron.

"Where's your new friend?" asked Harry, without looking up from his Divination planetary chart.

"Playing with her toys." Ron looked up, and so did Harry.

Harry's eyes were full of mischief. "What kind of toys?" Hermione spluttered in laughter and punched him playfully in the shoulder.

"She's trying to make her Muggle machinery work. Complete waste of time, really. She ought to be studying up on the school, or familiarizing herself with the grounds, classes, and such. Professor McGonagall told me that she's had no proper schooling whatsoever until now." Both boys snapped to attention at this, and exchanged worried looks with each other.

Ron was aghast. "How the bloody hell is she supposed to know what we been doin' then? We're six years into school, and without proper teaching I've an inkling that she won't know shite about potions, charms, or anything we've been looking at! They'll kick her out!"

While Hermione found it quite cute to see him looking so miserable over the thought of never seeing someone he hardly knew again, neither she nor Harry could smile. They too realized how far behind Tate must be, and it was probably inevitable that she would fail out. However, Hermione's thoughts were soon interrupted. A remarkably loud explosion from the girls' dormitory startled the common room. Hermione jumped to her feet, knocking over a side table (this crashed into Ron, although Hermione took no notice). She dashed into the girls' dorm, and up the stairs to her room. She threw open the door only to be assailed by a cloud of thick purple smoke. Coughing wildly, she waved it away and began shouting into the smoke-filled room.

"Tate, are you alive? What the hell d'you think you're doing! You must be completely mad! This cloud smells like bloody CANDY! Are you satisfied now? Do you understand why no Muggle device will -" She was cut short by the song that began to play. "Sing Sing Sing" by Benny Goodman was echoing off the walls of their room.

Hermione was stunned. The smoke was dissipating fast, and Hermione could see the blurry form of Tate whirling around, dancing fluidly to the music. Her silver CD player lay on her dresser, functioning perfectly, the sound magically amplified from a device that would normally require headphones. Hermione stared at her in confusion. A crowd was gathering behind her as female Gryffindors rushed up to see the commotion. The smoke was clearing more steadily now, and Hermione watched Tate dance. Her hair was down, and it fell nearly to her waist - dark brown hair with deep red streaks throughout. It swirled out behind her as she masterfully spun in circles on one foot. She grabbed Hermione's hands, willing her to dance. Hermione laughed nervously and tried to pull away.

"I don't know how to dance!" She had to yell to be heard over the music.

"I'll teach you then," Tate grinned at her. "Everyone should learn how to swing dance. It's great fun." Hermione ducked as Tate went over in a back handspring, and was rather shocked when her long legs didn't knock anything over. Hermione glanced at the CD player once more and realized that it was continuously emitting a small stream of that candy-scented, purple smoke. Laughing to herself as she attempted to identify which candy the smoke's fragrance reminded her of, she skipped over to the CD player and turned it off. Tate ceased her dancing and grinned at Hermione.

"That's ten bucks you owe me, girly." And she danced out of the room. Hermione sighed in mixed irritation and amusement. This is going to be a long, long year, she told herself, and followed Tate down the stairs.

*** *** ***

Everyone wanted to know how Tate had enchanted her Muggle device to work. Tate just smiled, and remained mysteriously evasive, as she had been all day.

"The trick is just to make it a magical object itself."

"Yah, but how do you do that?" Dean Thomas had nearly fallen flat on his face to get near her - he was dying to find out how he could make his Nintendo work on school grounds.

"Do you transfigure it? What're you playin' at?" But Tate wouldn't let anyone in on her crafting. She simply shrugged off all of the questions, settled herself in chair that was separated from the rest of the people in the room, and appeared entertained by the fire. Everyone else returned back to their respective studies. Ron, however, couldn't keep his eyes off of the new girl. When she sat by the fire, her skin seemed to glow with the reflected firelight, and her hair glimmered with gold and red highlights. He watched as she furtively glanced around, and removed a book from her pocket and began to read. He returned his gaze to his Divination homework, and found it already done. Knowing Tate had no homework of her own, he figured now was as good of time as any. He got to his feet rather shakily and walked over to her.

"So..." he began, but lost his train of thought when she looked up at him. How could something be so pretty, he thought to himself. Oh shit, I've lost it - he tried to begin again.

"What is your full middle name - I mean, your full name," he stuttered, and internally kicked himself for being a twitchy git.

"Why?" Ron was not prepared for resistance.

"Cause I'm curious," he said, and this much was true. "How often do you meet a girl whose name is 'Tate'? Sounds like a chap's name, now doesn't it?" He immediately winced, thinking he'd said the wrong thing, but her eyes twinkled in amusement.

"A 'chap', eh? God, you people talk weird here. And yah, I guess 'Tate' is a bit of a masculine name, but at least its remote and I don't have to worry about half the class looking up when my name is called." She looked very thoughtful suddenly, and seemed to talk more without realizing it. "I doubt I'd have a problem sharing the same name with someone at this school though...everyone has such amusing names..." She smiled with him.

"Won't you sit down?" she offered, and Ron beamed and took the seat across from her. They immersed themselves in friendly conversation.

Hermione snuggled next to Harry on the couch, and remarked to him that she had not seen Ron smile so big since Fleur Delacour had graced Hogwarts with her magnificent, if not completely obnoxious, presence. Harry agreed, and lightly stroked her hair while thinking of newfangled deaths he could put on his Divination homework.

"Death by stampeding hippos...now there's an original one..."

*** *** ***

Draco Malfoy sat at a table, surrounded by piles of books. He slammed the one he was reading shut, and tossed it aside. Scanning the titles of the pile nearest him, he seized one entitled Whats in a Name? Grumbling, he opened it, and began skimming the chapters.

Name Charms...Perfect... He flipped to page 492, and began to read.

Name Charms are among the very few spells that are irreversible and totally permanent throughout the duration of life. Name Charms must be performed at birth to be effective. To err in the casting of a Name Charm can cause severe deformations and abnormalities to arise in individual being charmed.

Draco flipped through the pages that described each particular charm, but he could find none that fit the profile of Tate's odd name. Nothing seemed to match up. Most of the charms he looked at focused upon the charming of one specific name, and since this book was not from the restricted section, the charms were very broad and non-specific. Draco sighed. He needed to get into the Restricted Section.

He became suddenly aware of a presence behind him. He sat stock still. He had heard no footsteps, could discern no telltale breathing, but he knew someone was there - his internal sensory alarms had been honed to perfection over the years. Quick as lightening, he kicked back from the table, and felt his chair connect with the stomach of whoever was spying on him. He leapt up, seized the shoulders of the spy, and threw him roughly onto the table. Draco jammed his elbow into the throat of whoever had snuck up on him, and raised his fist threateningly. He found himself staring into deep, chocolate brown eyes, shot through with specks of gold.

"Tate?" She smiled painfully at him. Draco was furious. "What the bloody hell do you think your doing? Sneaking up on me like that...I could have hurt you!" Tate twisted her head, and he removed his elbow from her delicate throat. She gasped and drew in a breath, still staring at him in shock. She rubbed her neck, accepted the hand he offered, and sat up. She was wearing a white tank top and blue flared trousers. She had a small knit hat on her head, and her hair streamed over her shoulders and back, candlelight catching the red streaks in her hair and glinting off them like firelight. Draco found himself momentarily speechless - but why he could not discern. Girls rarely had any effect on his composure, it was usually the other way around. He was used to being fawned over. But the way Tate acted, he might as well have been a statue. Her face was nearly always devoid of any strong emotion, especially the one he had come to recognize so well - lust. This annoyed him greatly, yet intrigued him.

"Well, that's a first," she said grudgingly. "I've never been caught before." Draco smirked arrogantly.

"People find it quite difficult to catch me off guard. You did very well, but I daresay you need a bit of practice." Tate rolled her eyes at him, and looked at the books that were strewn all over the table.

"101 Nomenclature Spells: A How To Guide on Charming Your Children. Reading up on me, are you?"

"Not a chance," Draco sniffed. "I haven't time to go mucking about on an issue like that." It was Tate's turn to smirk.

"Fat chance," she said. "You'll never find it in these books. Hermione's looking too - she won't say so, but I know she is. Why is this an issue?" Draco shrugged.

"I simply like to know things. It's a nice distraction from Arithmancy, anyways."

"Aha! So you admit your studying up on my name!" Draco blinked, and was momentarily furious with himself for giving away his intentions. Too late, however, he surmised, and decided to press her for information. Unfortunately, Tate managed to deflect every veiled inquiry he made. Finally, exasperated, he came clean and asked her straight out.

"Look, I know there is some sort of charm on your name! Just tell me what it is, or I will find out anyways. But it will save me lots of time if you help me out just a bit." Tate looked at him hard, narrowing her eyes. He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful boy she had ever seen. His hair glinted like white gold silk - she had a strong urge to run her hands through it, but immediately pushed it aside. His features were impeccably chiseled, reminiscent of some earthbound Adonis come to life. Everything about him, down to his cold gray eyes, was perfect in an icy, superior sort of way. She withdrew a pen from her pocket, to Draco's complete horror. He snatched it away, and held it out of her reach. She frowned at him.

"May I have that back, please?" Draco shook his head.

"I'll be having none of those archaic Muggle devices around here." He threw her pen across the room. "Use one of these." He went into his book bag and withdrew a quill. He went to hand it to her, but found that she was already writing on a spare of parchment with the pen he had just thrown. Furrowing his brow, he stared at her. She did not look up. Draco shook his head...She must have had another. He scanned the floor for the thrown pen, but it was too dark to see anything. Tate finished writing, and placed the parchment between them. She gestured to the first word.

"Summerre. First name. It's a weird twist on the season's spelling."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Thanks for clearing that one up," Tate continued, unperturbed.

"Kalliope. That's Grecian - she was the muse of epic poetry and eloquence."

"She was the oldest muse as well." Tate glanced at Draco, who was smirking in a very annoying superior manner. Tate resisted an urge to knock his chair backwards.

"Next is Natalya, which is Russian, and means Christmas day. Tatum. That's old English, and it's derived from some sort of homestead...I don't know, a geographical location of some kind. Elissa has got no known meaning, but it's definitely Roman, and that's all I know. Lasyrenn. That's a Voodoo goddess, the goddess of water, bridges, mirrors, and kisses." Draco raised an eyebrow. "Mithra, and he's the Persian god of light and friendship."

"What? Only two deities? Parent's didn't feel you were important enough for three?" Tate rolled her eyes at him.

"I'm not really one to talk on that subject. If I needed advice on arrogance, I'll come to you." Draco looked at her angrily, but softened when he saw laughter in her eyes. "And then, Blackeberry." Draco stared at the paper, and drew it toward him. He exhaled a long breath, and geared up his mind for some much-loved crafty thinking.

"So...season, Russian, old English, Roman, Voodoo, Persian, and food...you're winding me up." Draco looked up at Tate, meeting her eyes. For a moment, neither spoke. Draco felt a sense of peace and calm wash over him, and he reveled in it. Absent-mindedly, he took a lock of her hair between his fingers, and began to wind it around. He returned his attention back to the paper, confounded. Tate grinned to herself. Unbeknownst to Draco, she herself had never found any significant correlation between her name and...well anything. It was charmed, this she knew for sure, but in what way, she had no idea. It was probably nothing special anyways. Lots of people had charmed names.

"Do you dance, Ms. Blackeberry," Draco drawled, formally abandoning the original subject. Tate nodded. "Perhaps you would like to accompany me to the Yule Ball, then?" Tate was thoughtful for a moment.

"Yah, alright," she said, and smiled at him. Draco nodded to her, properly. They pondered over the etymologies of her many names for perhaps another half hour, and then departed for bed. Draco left with a feeling of unnamable emotion. He was relatively sure he had no romantic attraction to the strange new girl, although he did find her quite beautiful. What he felt was something different. Something he had never fully experienced before. As he neared his own common room, his breath abruptly caught in his throat. He matched the emotion with a name. He was feeling the pleasant euphoria of friendship for the first time in his life.