The Hogwats Gaijin

The walk to the hospital wing seemed endlessly long to Hermione, though it took no more than five minutes. The morning corridors were unusually echoey; most students were still finishing breakfast in the Great Hall, and only the occasional latecomers hurried past, casting them surprised glances.

Hermione walked with her hands held carefully away from her robes. The burning in her palms where the thick yellowish sludge from the envelope had landed was dreadful — a pulling, throbbing pain, as though her skin had suddenly shrunk by a size — but more than the physical discomfort, she was oppressed by the sheer feeling of filth and absurdity of it all.

‘Just a little further,’ Ginny kept saying, walking confidently beside her and supporting Hermione by the elbow as if afraid she might stumble. ‘Madam Pomfrey will sort it all out in no time. Just don’t rub them together, alright?’

‘I wasn’t planning to,’ Hermione muttered, grimacing with both annoyance and pain. ‘How stupid. How utterly stupid… Falling for such a primitive trap. I should have checked the envelope with a spell.’

‘Stop it,’ Ginny interrupted gently, pushing open the heavy oak doors of the infirmary. ‘No one expects the morning post to be stuffed with bubotuber pus. This isn’t a Defence lesson, it’s real life.’

Inside the hospital wing the usual quiet reigned, along with the smell of antiseptic mixed with dried lavender. Madam Pomfrey, busy counting phials in a glass cabinet, turned at the sound of the door. Her stern gaze softened instantly into professional concern the moment she noticed the unnatural way Hermione was holding her hands.

‘Oh, heavens,’ she exclaimed, hurrying towards them with a rustle of her starched apron. ‘What have you managed to get up to so early in the morning? Not another one of the Weasley twins’ pyrotechnics, I hope?’

‘A letter, Madam Pomfrey,’ Ginny explained, guiding her friend to the nearest chair. ‘Some “well-wisher” sent undiluted bubotuber pus.’

The matron clicked her tongue in disapproval, shaking her head.

‘Barbaric. Simply barbaric,’ she grumbled, already reaching for a large jar of thick orange ointment from the shelf. ‘Give me your hands, Miss Granger. Don’t worry, it will feel better in a moment.’

Hermione obediently held out her palms. Madam Pomfrey worked quickly and precisely: several flicks of her wand to cleanse the skin of the remaining caustic substance, followed by a generous application of the cool ointment.

Relief came instantly. The burning subsided, replaced by a pleasant coolness, as though her hands had been dipped into a refreshing stream. Hermione let out an involuntary sigh as the tension drained from her shoulders.

‘There we are,’ Madam Pomfrey nodded, satisfied with the result. ‘The burns are superficial, but the skin is irritated. You’ll need to stay here for a couple of hours, Miss Granger, while the ointment is fully absorbed.’

She pointed to a bed further away, screened off from the rest of the ward by a tall white curtain.

‘Go and lie down. And most importantly — no books!’

Hermione, who had already opened her mouth to ask whether she might fetch her textbook on Ancient Runes, deflated.

‘No books?’ she repeated in a crestfallen voice. ‘But I have an essay on Transfiguration…’

‘Your hands need rest,’ Madam Pomfrey declared in a tone that brooked no argument, fetching a roll of bandages. ‘Any friction, even against parchment or pages, will only make things worse right now. You are to lie still and do nothing. I’ll bandage your hands; it will speed up the process, though it may be a little awkward. Try not to move your fingers more than necessary.’

Hermione meekly allowed her hands to be bandaged. The white fabric wrapped snugly, turning her palms into two soft cocoons. The feeling of helplessness was irritating, but arguing with the chief healer of Hogwarts was never wise.

‘Thank you, Ginny,’ Hermione said quietly once Madam Pomfrey had moved away to fetch a sleeping draught, which she apparently intended to press upon her as a precaution. ‘If it hadn’t been for you, I probably would have panicked.’

The younger Weasley perched on the edge of the bed, straightening a fold in the blanket. She looked slightly embarrassed, fiddling with the hem of her robe.

‘Listen, Hermione…’ she began, lowering her voice. ‘Just don’t be too angry with him, alright?’

‘With whom?’ Hermione pretended not to understand, studying her bandaged hands.

‘With Kieran.’ Ginny sighed. ‘He’s just… well, you know. A bit of an idiot, but he’s trying to do what he thinks is best.’

Hermione rolled her eyes, leaning back against the pillow.

‘“Trying”,’ she echoed without real malice. ‘Somehow the consequences of his trying always seem to land on me.’

‘At least it’s never boring with him,’ Ginny smiled weakly.

They didn’t get to finish the conversation. The infirmary doors burst open with a crash, and noise flooded in. Someone was breathing heavily; there was the shuffle of feet and muffled swearing.

‘Where are you dragging him?! Careful with his head!’ came a voice.

Hermione tried to sit up to peer round the curtain, but Ginny gently held her shoulder. Even so, they could hear Madam Pomfrey hurrying towards the new patients with indignant gasps.

‘What is it this time?’ her strict voice rang out. ‘There’s no Quidditch today, yet there are more injuries than on the day of the final!’

‘Fell down the stairs, ma’am,’ someone grunted. ‘Badly.’

Ginny nevertheless peeked through the gap in the curtain. Her eyebrows rose, and a knowing smirk played on her lips.

‘Who is it?’ Hermione whispered.

‘Bole,’ Ginny replied just as quietly, returning to her seat. ‘The Slytherin Beater. Looks like he’s been chewed up and spat out by a mountain troll. And you know… I have a vague suspicion that this particular troll had black hair and a very bad temper this morning.’

Hermione sighed and closed her eyes.

‘Go on to lessons, Ginny,’ she muttered wearily. ‘You’ll be late for Flitwick. I’ll be fine. I’ll just lie here and enjoy the quiet… provided Bole stops groaning.’

‘I’ll come back after lunch,’ Ginny promised, standing up. ‘I’ll bring you the notes. Rest, Hermione. And really — try to relax.’

Ginny’s light footsteps faded into the distance. Behind the curtain Madam Pomfrey was scolding the Slytherins, clinking bottles, but here, in the cosy dimness of the screened-off corner, it was peaceful. Hermione settled her bandaged hands more comfortably on her chest, breathed in the scent of lavender, and despite all the morning’s anxieties, felt fatigue taking over, pulling her into sleep.

Hermione surfaced from sleep as abruptly as if someone had flung open the curtains in a dark room. But it wasn’t light that woke her — it was a touch: cool and professionally confident.

‘There now, Miss Granger, time to wake up,’ Madam Pomfrey’s voice sounded considerably less worried than it had that morning. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

Hermione blinked sleepily, focusing her gaze. The matron stood by the bed, swiftly and deftly unwinding the bandages from her hands. The white fabric fell away in loops, revealing her palms. Hermione cautiously wiggled her fingers, expecting the familiar burning, but there was none. The skin looked perfectly clean, pink and healthy — not a trace of blisters or redness.

‘Hm,’ Madam Pomfrey nodded in satisfaction, examining the backs of her hands. ‘Healed even faster than I expected. Young body, good regeneration.’

She straightened up, tucking the bandages into her apron pocket.

‘You may go, Miss Granger. But for Merlin’s sake, be more careful with your post in future. I shall speak to Headmaster Dumbledore today. This is completely unacceptable — sending such filth within school walls! Pupil safety is hanging by a thread, and I will not tolerate it.’

‘Thank you, Madam Pomfrey,’ Hermione replied politely, swinging her legs off the bed. ‘I… I’ll be more careful.’

She straightened her robes, feeling somewhat groggy after the daytime sleep but physically well, and headed for the exit. The heavy oak doors of the infirmary closed silently behind her, cutting off the smell of medicines and lavender.

Hermione took a step into the corridor and froze.

Leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed over his chest and staring at the floor stood Kieran. He looked as though he had been standing there for hours: motionless as a gargoyle, his face like stone. But the moment the door clicked shut, his head snapped up. In his eyes flashed such sharp, painful tension mixed with relief that it stole Hermione’s breath.

Yet instead of pity, a hot, prickly wave of irritation suddenly surged inside her. She remembered Bole being carried past the curtain, remembered Ginny’s hints, remembered all the absurd chaos her life had become since his arrival.

‘You,’ she breathed, walking straight up to him.

Kieran straightened, pushing away from the wall. He opened his mouth, probably to ask how her hands were, but Hermione didn’t let him get a word in.

‘How could you be such… such an idiot, Kieran?!’ Her voice rose into an angry whisper that echoed off the stone vaults. ‘Bole is in the hospital wing! Do you think I don’t know whose doing that was?’

Kieran didn’t answer. He merely lowered his chin slightly, watching her with that unreadable dark gaze.

‘It’s not normal!’ Hermione continued, feeling words that had been building for weeks finally break through the dam. ‘You can’t just go around maiming people who look at me the wrong way! We’re in school, not on a battlefield!’

She jabbed a finger into his chest, forcing him to take a step back.

‘I’m not a thing, Kieran Morgan! And I’m not a little child who needs to be led by the hand and protected from draughts! I can stand up for myself. What you’re doing… it’s… it’s suffocating!’

Hermione paused for breath, her cheeks burning.

‘We’re just friends, Kieran. Friends! And you’re behaving as though… as though I’m your property. That sort of behaviour would be unacceptable even between husband and wife, let alone schoolmates! You lash out at everyone, you make scenes… Do you even realise how this looks to other people? It’s paranoia! It’s stupid and irrational!’

She fell silent, breathing hard, waiting for him to start defending himself, snap back, or slip into that aristocratic haughtiness of his.

But Kieran remained silent.

Hermione blinked, looking at him, and her anger began to cool rapidly, giving way to confusion.

He wasn’t arguing. He wasn’t angry. He stood before her with slumped shoulders, and his entire posture expressed a frightening kind of submission. He had shrunk in on himself, as though expecting a blow. There was not a trace of aggression in him — only a dull, hopeless weariness, like that of a beaten dog who knows it is guilty and is ready to accept its punishment.

He wasn’t looking her in the eyes, but at her healthy, unbandaged hands.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. His voice was hoarse and cracked. ‘I just… I can’t lose anyone else.’

The words hung in the air, heavy as a tombstone. There was so much genuine pain in them, so much long-buried fear, that Hermione felt physically ashamed of her outburst. All her logic, all her proper arguments about personal boundaries and school rules crumbled to dust.

She looked at him — strong, covered in scars — and saw before her a completely broken man.

‘Oh, Kieran…’ she breathed, feeling treacherous tears prick at her eyes.

Her own anger now seemed petty and out of place. Forgetting what she had just said about distance, Hermione stepped forward and impulsively, tightly, hugged him.

Kieran flinched; his body was rigid as wood. For a second he froze, as though not knowing what to do with this sudden warmth, but then slowly, uncertainly, he raised his arms and carefully hugged her back, pressing his face into the top of her head. He was trembling. Barely noticeably, a fine tremor.

Hermione rested her cheek against the rough fabric of his robe, listening to the heavy, uneven beat of his heart.

‘What on earth happened to you all those years?’ she whispered into the quiet of the corridor, feeling him pull her closer, as though she were a lifebuoy.