╰┈➤ ❝ [𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑃𝑇𝐸𝑅 𝐸𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇] ❞ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-
⁺⤾·˚.⃗.  [ ɪɴ ǫᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀɴʏ ] 𑁍ࠜೄ ･ﾟˊˎ
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

Hospital Wing
( October, 1993. )

𝓓raco was lounging in the hospital bed when Esme returned from dinner, his bandaged arm propped on a pillow like a badge of honor. His expression brightened when he saw her enter, but it was quickly replaced by his usual smugness.

"Ah, finally you're back," he said, his tone dripping with mock drama. "I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me to die in here, all alone."

Esme gave him a small, reluctant smile, pulling a chair closer to his bedside. "Madam Pomfrey said you're fine, Draco."

"She doesn't know how much pain I'm in," he retorted, wincing theatrically. "That overgrown chicken nearly took my arm off."

Esme stiffened at his words, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Buckbeak is a hippogriff," she said quietly, her voice devoid of its usual warmth.

Draco smirked, undeterred. "Whatever he is, he's dangerous. I've already told Father about the whole thing."

Esme's stomach dropped. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her chair as she stared at him, her voice barely above a whisper. "You...you told father?"

"Of course," Draco said, reclining back as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "He'll take care of it. That creature has no business being anywhere near students."

Esme felt her chest tighten, her mind racing. "But, Draco..." she began, her voice faltering. "He'll have him killed."

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly unfazed. "It attacked me Esme."

Her breath caught, and she looked down at her hands, unable to meet his gaze. A wave of dread washed over her, mingled with a familiar frustration she couldn't articulate. After a moment of silence, she stood abruptly, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor.

"I need to study," she muttered, her tone flat and distant.

Draco blinked in surprise. "What? You just got here!"

Esme didn't answer. She turned on her heel and walked briskly toward the door, her hands trembling as she clutched the strap of her bag.

"Esme!" Draco called after her, his voice laced with confusion. "What's wrong?"

She didn't stop, didn't look back. The moment she stepped into the corridor and the heavy door clicked shut behind her, the tears began to fall. She pressed her hand over her mouth, stifling the sound as she leaned against the cold stone wall. Her chest ached, her thoughts spiraling with worry for Buckbeak and anger at Draco's carelessness.

After a few moments, Esme was leaning against the cold stone wall in the corridor, her breathing uneven as she fought to regain her composure. Her eyes were red, her usually calm exterior cracked from the weight of her emotions. She flinched slightly at the sound of approaching footsteps, quickly straightening and wiping at her face as Hermione Granger rounded the corner.

Hermione paused mid-step, her eyebrows knitting together in surprise at the sight of Esme. It wasn't like her to show any emotion, let alone one so raw. "Lestrange?" Hermione said hesitantly, her voice soft but filled with curiosity.

Esme straightened further, forcing her expression into one of neutrality. "Granger," she greeted coolly, though her voice wavered just enough to give her away.

Hermione's gaze lingered on her for a moment, sharp and perceptive. "Are you alright?"

Esme hesitated. "Of course. Just tired, that's all." She glanced away, her hands fidgeting with the strap of her bag.

Hermione didn't buy it—she could see the lingering redness in Esme's eyes and the stiffness in her posture. But they weren't exactly friends, and pressing the matter felt inappropriate. Instead, Hermione decided on a different approach.

"Do you want to join me in the library to study?" she offered gently, her tone lacking the usual edge it carried when she spoke to Slytherins.

Esme blinked, caught off guard by the invitation. She opened her mouth to decline out of habit, but something stopped her. Maybe it was the genuine kindness in Hermione's voice or the fact that she couldn't bear to be alone with her thoughts right now.

After a beat, she nodded. "Alright."

Hermione gave her a small, encouraging smile. "Come on, then."

The two walked in silence toward the library, an unspoken understanding settling between them. Esme didn't need to explain herself, and Hermione didn't ask.

The library was quiet as ever, the soft rustling of pages and the faint scratching of quills the only sounds in the expansive room. Esme followed Hermione to an empty table near the back, away from the handful of other students scattered throughout the space.

Hermione set her books down in a neat pile, and Esme mirrored her, pulling out a textbook and a roll of parchment. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable—just a quiet hum of focus and thought.

Hermione was the first to break it, her voice hushed. "What are you working on?"

Esme glanced up briefly before returning her gaze to the page in front of her. "Advanced Potions essay. Snape wants a detailed analysis on the properties of the Elixir to Induce Euphoria."

Hermione nodded, her eyes flicking to Esme's parchment. "That's due next week, isn't it?"

Esme hummed in agreement, her quill moving swiftly across the page. "I like to work ahead," she murmured.

Hermione offered a small smile. "Same. Though most people think I'm mad for it."

Esme's lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile. "Efficiency isn't madness."

For a moment, they lapsed into silence again, the scratch of their quills filling the void. Hermione stole a glance at Esme every now and then, still curious about the girl's earlier distress. But the Slytherin was as composed as ever now, her movements precise, her expression calm.

Still, Hermione couldn't ignore the faint tension in her shoulders or the way her gaze flicked to the window every so often, as if her thoughts were far away.

"I'm surprised you stayed," Hermione said suddenly, not looking up from her book.

Esme paused mid-sentence, her brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?"

Hermione shrugged, keeping her tone light. "Most people would've brushed me off. Especially..." She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "...considering we aren't really friends."

Esme's quill hovered over the parchment for a moment before she set it down. "I didn't feel like being alone," she admitted quietly, surprising even herself with the honesty.

Hermione looked up at her then, her expression softening. "Sometimes it helps, being around someone. Even if you don't talk about it."

Esme didn't respond immediately, her gaze fixed on the lines of text in her book. Finally, she nodded, a barely perceptible movement. "Maybe."

They returned to their work, but the atmosphere between them shifted slightly—warmer, more understanding. For the first time in a while, Esme didn't feel the weight of her thoughts pressing down so heavily.

Hermione glanced up from her book, her curiosity finally getting the better of her. "Why don't you ever really... talk to people?" she asked, her tone gentle, without judgment.

Esme's quill stilled as she considered the question, her eyes fixed on the parchment before her. She let out a soft sigh, almost imperceptible. "That's not true," she said at first, but the faintest smirk tugged at her lips. "Well... maybe it's a bit true."

Hermione tilted her head slightly, watching her. "I don't mean it in a bad way. It's just—you seem so... contained. Like you're always in your own world."

Esme tapped the feathered end of her quill against the table, her gaze distant. "It's easier that way, I guess. Talking to people... it can be exhausting." She paused, as if searching for the right words.

Hermione nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. "I can understand that. It's hard when people don't really get you. When they assume things."

Esme glanced at her, surprised. "Do people assume things about you?"

Hermione gave a small, rueful smile. "Oh, constantly. People think I'm a know-it-all, or that I enjoy being bossy. Sometimes they don't even bother to ask what I'm really like." She shrugged, her voice quieter now.

Esme studied her for a moment, her usually guarded expression softening slightly. "You don't seem like the kind of person who cares what people think," she said rather bluntly.

Hermione's lips quirked into a small, understanding smile. "Oh no, I definitely do. Sometimes too much, I fear," she admitted, her fingers tracing the edge of her book absentmindedly.

Esme nodded faintly, a glimmer of something unspoken flickering in her eyes. "Me too," she said softly, almost as though the words had slipped out without her permission.

Hermione blinked, her surprise evident. "Really?"

"Yes," Esme replied after a moment, her quill still poised above the parchment. She didn't look at Hermione but kept her gaze fixed downward, her voice steady yet quiet. "I suppose that's really why I don't talk much. It's... safer, I suppose. If I don't say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing, then there's less to worry about."

Hermione tilted her head slightly, considering this. "But isn't that lonely?" she asked, her voice gentle, without a trace of judgment.

Esme hesitated, her fingers gripping the quill a little tighter. "Sometimes," she admitted, the word barely more than a whisper. "But it's better than feeling... exposed. Vulnerable."

Hermione nodded again, her expression softening further. "I get that," she said quietly. "I think a lot of people would, honestly. Everyone feels that way, at least a little, whether they admit it or not."

Esme finally looked up, her guarded gaze meeting Hermione's. "You really think so?"

Hermione offered a small, reassuring smile. "I do. People just have different ways of hiding it, I think. Some talk too much to fill the silence, and others..." She trailed off, gesturing gently toward Esme.

"...Don't talk much at all," Esme finished for her, her lips twitching upward in the faintest hint of a smile.

"Exactly," Hermione said. "But I think, maybe, not talking doesn't make it go away. It just... keeps it inside. Sometimes, that's harder."

Esme looked down at her parchment again, her quill moving idly over the edge as if drawing invisible shapes. "You sound like a book," she said, her tone not unkind.

Hermione gave a soft laugh. "I've been told that before."

The quiet between them wasn't heavy, but thoughtful, the kind of silence that felt like something shared rather than something awkward.

After a moment, Esme spoke again, her voice low but steady. "Do you ever... wish you were different? Less... bossy, or whatever people call you?"

Hermione's brows furrowed slightly as she considered the question. "Sometimes," she admitted. "When I was younger, I used to think maybe I'd have more friends if I were quieter, or... less opinionated. But then I realized, the people who matter? They'll see past all that." She paused, her eyes meeting Esme's. "What about you? Do you ever wish you were different?"

Esme hesitated, her grip tightening on the quill for a moment. "Maybe. I don't know," she said finally. "It's hard to tell where... I stop and where all the things people expect of me begin." She glanced at Hermione, her expression carefully neutral but her eyes betraying a flicker of vulnerability.

Hermione didn't press her, instead nodding thoughtfully. "I think that's something a lot of people struggle with. But for what it's worth," she said, her voice quieter now, "I think you're fine just the way you are."

Esme blinked, startled by the simplicity of the statement. She didn't reply, but the faintest hint of a smile lingered on her lips as she dipped her quill into the ink and returned to her parchment.

For the rest of the study session, they worked in silence, a quiet understanding lingering between them. It wasn't a friendship, not yet, but it was something. Something Esme hadn't realized she might need.

𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦 !
— oh my gosh, Hermione Granger getting a female friend??? I just did what Jk Rowling should've.