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Growing up, Harry wishes for someone, anyone to pay attention to him with an expression more than derision.
Then he meets Hagrid and Ron and the mysterious boy on the platform and abruptly, now that he has what he’d ached for, he has no idea what to do with it.
And then he has Hufflepuff, and the way they look at him? Without pity, without greed or malice- but with kindness and curiosity? It makes his skin c r a w l from wariness. He’s not used to it- will probably never be used to it.
(And isn’t that a sadness in this world, that Harry views kindness, not with contempt but with a warranted wariness, uncomfortable from something he has never known in great amounts in all his 11 years. Isn’t that the true tragedy?)
But there is kindness in this world. There’s kindness for those who know how to wield it. Not like a weapon, but like a choice. There is kindness, and Harry has found it. What to do with it though? Now that’s another question that he seeks the answer to.
**
There’s kindness in Hufflepuff. Harry doesn’t know what he expected, but it’s not this. It’s not that it’s an unnecessary abundance of kindness, no questions asked. There’s still whispers behind his back, and gossip he can’t control. But there’s curiosity and smiles. Kind words and offers without strings attached of favors- there’s equality and fairness and kindness and Harry has never been more terrified in his life. Never more confused either.
There’s a depressing repetitiveness, a familiarity in his routine with the Dursleys'. There’s malice, yes, but there’s also- not comfort- but a kind of comfort in knowing what to expect in the day-to-day routine. That Aunt Petunia will always swing the frying pan at his head when he inevitably over or under cooks the food, and it’s not to her specifications. That Uncle Vernon will always prefer to solve a perceived slight or disobedience with his fists. That while Dudley takes after both his parents, in cruel pointed words and solving issues with his fists when the words aren’t greeted with the preferred reaction of hurt.
But now there’s worshipful glances that he doesn’t know what to do with; rumors of his greatness instead of his strangeness. There’s soft words and kind glances and well.
Harry doesn’t know what to do with it.
**
There’s a girl hiding in the classroom. The empty classroom, one of many, on the second floor, east wing corridor. The classroom that no one else goes to except Harry when he needs to hide away from all the- the- everything that makes up his school house. The everything that he is unused to and will never be used to (he thinks, at least. There are some tragedies in this world, and a young Harry, unused to kindnesses and cups of tea, is unfortunately one of the many.)
Ron hadn’t come with him today- understanding that as much as Harry may seek companionship, he also seeks solitude, and is easily overwhelmed by all the strangeness as much as he craves to understand it.
So there’s a girl, hiding in his usual spot. But she doesn’t notice him. And for good reason too, Harry realizes.
Dark skinned and knobby knees, she’s sobbing. For a moment Harry tastes smoke on the edge of his tongue, almost choking on the acidic taste that permeates his senses. For a moment his eyes unfocus behind his thick glasses, and he could swear that he sees double - a memory imposed over her figure. He blinks and it’s gone. He looks away, ashamed that he’s been standing so long without saying anything, but. Well. Harry has never claimed to be social or good with people.
He wonders for a second, if he should turn around; pretend he never saw anything- leave her to her misery. But the memory of being alone, being heart-achingly alone, pauses his motions. His split second of indecision costs him, because it’s in that moment the girl spots him.
“Oh” she hiccups, wiping her eyes quickly, as if that would make Harry forget that she’s been bawling her eyes out.
“I can leave?” Harry ventures cautiously, but he doesn’t put much heart into it. He likes this classroom after all. It’s out of the way and the moving portraits are always kind to him- they never tell him to leave, not like some of the hallway portraits when he stops and stares for too long.
“No! No…” She rushes out, interrupting his halfhearted sentence, “I, um. I didn’t realize anyone would need this classroom, I’ll leave.” She says. And Harry, well. He’s blocking the doorway, with this nobody girl from another House (Gryffindor, he thinks, since her uniform has the red and gold embroidery on it, but he’s not so sure, as he hasn’t really been paying much attention to the people when there’s an entire castle to explore) and he can’t.
“It’s… it’s ok,” he starts, fumblingly. “It ah, looks like you need the privacy more than I do.” He winces, at his less than stellar statement. He turns to go. Not very far or fast enough, because he hears another hiccup and the girl speaking up again.
“I’m sorry.” She says in a small voice, and “Please don’t tell anyone, I know we’re not supposed to wander off in between classes, I just. I needed to be alone.”
She continues, “which I’m not, since you’re here too and oh I knew I should have gone to the library. Even if Madame Pince is so mean, it’s easier to hide in the stacks. I’d have gone to the Forbidden Forest but it’s well, it’s Forbidden, and must be for a reason and..” She rambles on, clearly embarrassed, and Harry can feel himself tense up. This girl is clearly as lonely as he is, but seems to fill silence with chatter rather than seeking the solitude of it. He wants to snap, really he does, but well. Maybe there’s kindness in Harry too.
When he realizes that the girl’s chatter has petered out, too busy wiping the tears from her face and nervously twisting her curls to continue, Harry softly interrupts her quiet mumbling to herself.
“I really can go, if that would make you feel better, but well. You look like you might want some company, and while I’m not much, I can try and listen, if you want to talk.”
The girl, for lack of a better word, looks flabbergasted. Her mouth is hanging open, and her dark eyes are wide, and Harry wishes so desperately to take his words back. But he doesn’t. And this girl? Her smile starts small, but soon bursts its ways onto the rest of her face, making her eyes crinkle and her cheeks dimple.
“Well,” She says wetly, laughing a little at herself, “if you’re offering, I might as well accept. As long as,” she thinks for a moment, “you really don’t mind?”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it!” He says hotly, and the girl’s eyes go wide for a second before looking at him in a slightly different way, eyes not quite narrowed but curiosity in them nonetheless.
“In that case, you might as well pull up a chair.” She says.
“Oh, I’m Harry.” he awkwardly says, not putting his hand out for her to shake, still too self aware with contact to initiate it with a stranger, but nodding at her to acknowledge that he’d heard her as he pulls out one of the chairs at a desk nearby hers.
“And I’m Hermione Granger.” The girl, Hermione, says.
And that, we shall say, was another puzzle piece locking into place.
**
That night, going to sleep curled up in his dorm bed, Harry doesn’t realize it, but the itch under his skin is back.