Hogwarts Reimagined

CW: Panic attack, revelation of disability, transphobia, transmisogyny, outing

Rhiannon came to perhaps an hour later, not that she would know – while her vision had returned for the most part, everything was too sharp now and too bright. Her right wrist was bandaged, and she groaned and clutched her ears, drawing her knees up to her chest as slowly she figured out where she was.

The room was bare, save for a single bed and a few chairs – all currently occupied. The room itself was round, with a large window opening out to the sky. Neither the bed nor window was curtained, but Rhiannon recognised the stiff bed-linens and coarse undyed flannel covering she lay on as belonging to the Hospital Wing regardless – indicating she was probably in a side room. She’d not been tucked into bed, instead curled against a stack of pillows under a heavy blanket – by the feel, one weighted evenly for the purpose. Slowly she rolled over and, squinting against the oppressively bright afternoon sunlight, sat up and huddled back against the wall, now hugging the blanket to her chest.

Aside from Professor McGonagall, the other two chairs were occupied by Hermione and Neville, all three wearing concerned expressions. They clearly hoped for Rhiannon to explain herself, and she haltingly shook her head, looking pleadingly at Hermione for help. The other girl hurriedly retrieved the overstuffed backpack from under her chair and rummaged in it, drawing out a battered notepad and green ballpoint pen and passing it to Rhiannon, who smiled shakily, looking up at McGonagall for a prompt.

“Harry-” at this Rhiannon winced, prompting Neville, who came and sat beside her on the bed for some measure of comfort. Gratefully she leaned into the solid boy’s shoulder, signing quietly to Hermione who was clearly too anxious for physical contact, one hand flapping arrhythmically in her lap even as the other was occupied with pressing into the pressure points of the wrist of that hand. Rhiannon smiled wearily at her friend, miming a little ‘grabby hand’ gesture – their private signal for comfort without physical contact, before returning her attention to the professor.

“Potter, lass. I’m not sure I understand everything, but what is clear to me is that your meeting with Professor Dumbledore went poorly. You don’t need to tell me the specifics right now, it seems easiest to keep it concise so you can write less. If you are comfortable, please fill me in on what happened – and please don’t be worried that I will be angry, I will not, your distress is evident to me and your safety and wellbeing are what matter most in this situation.” Professor McGonagall explained kindly, scooting her chair closer to the bed so that she could reassure Rhiannon more physically, as the thin girl bit her lip and wrung her hands in her lap and twisted the pen in her grip.

Uncomfortably, Rhiannon nodded, and opened the hard-backed notepad, hunching over under Neville’s protective arm as she considered how to explain. She started several times and scribbled it out each time, a line growing between her frustrated brows. Filling a page with failed scrawl, she tore it out and crumpled it up, then hurled it across the room. The paper bounced off the wall and skittered across the floor pathetically, she growled at it and opened her mouth to speak. Nope. Still nothing. With another frustrated grumble she returned to the notepad and the room was almost silent, uncomfortably so, the only sound being the uneven scratching of the ballpoint pen.

With many errors and further crumpled missiles, Rhiannon managed to pen a haphazard account of her brief meeting with Dumbledore in thin detail. She didn’t want to relive the horrible things he’d said so callously, but at the same time a none-too-small part of her mind wasn’t convinced that he was entirely wrong. Maybe she was too sensitive. Maybe she did need to be with the Dursleys for her own protection. Maybe she needed to try harder to be normal.

Rhi felt ill and empty, there was nothing productive to be found in that thought train. She shook her head, striking her temple a few times to clear it until Professor McGonagall caught her wrist in a firm grip. “No, lass. None of that.” she murmured, holding the wrist now in both of her lined hands. Rhiannon wilted, ashamed, and bit her lip. Before she could lose her nerve, she tore off the written page and handed it to the older woman hurriedly, then retreating to hug her arms around her torso as she rocked back and forth quietly, one hand moving in a fluttering rhythm against her side.

As she read, Professor McGonagall’s face grew darker. Rhiannon swore she could smell burning wool, and the professor’s usually stern expression became positively murderous. Wordlessly, she passed the letter to Hermione with Rhiannon’s gestured permission. “That’s not happening. None of that is happening.” the professor stated, her voice shaking with fury. “No wonder you couldn’t speak... the old bastard, to come out the blue like that. How dare he...” she trailed off into incomprehensible muttering, twisting her wand in her grip.

“If Professor Dumbledore summons you again, you come to me, even if I am teaching. From this alone, there’s not much to be done. But rest assured, if he attempts to send you back, I will challenge him legally if need be. You are my student, and you are safe in Gryffindor tower. Oh the insufferable old-” here, she devolved into muttered swearing again. Hermione abruptly stood and left the room, leaving the note on her chair. She slammed the door behind her, and Rhiannon heard a scream from outside – too much anger to stay inside.

“Neville, dear, please go and take care of Miss Granger. I will return your friend here to Gryffindor tower.” Professor McGonagall asked, patting the blond boy’s pale hand gently. Neville complied awkwardly, leaving them alone in the small room. “Harry, lass, I wanted to talk without your friends here. It’s about earlier, in a more practical sense. Madam Pomfrey assessed you to some degree, but I need to confirm – you couldn’t see me, could you. Or hear me, at first. And your knees and hands are grazed.”

Numbly, Rhiannon shook her head. She hadn’t noticed the grazes. One word on the page – no. Sadly, Professor McGonagall nodded, taking Rhiannon’s free hand in both of hers. “Madam Pomfrey suspected that was the case. Her assessment indicated accumulated traumatic injury to your brain, likely the cause of your brief period of deafblindness. Hopefully such episodes will remain intermittent, but until we know more – I must ask that you ensure you don’t wander alone. It will take a few days, but Poppy is procuring a cane for your use. It should fold into your bag, but just as a precautionary measure so that you have some means of navigation if such an episode occurs again. You’ll be shown how to use it but Harry, lass, this might well put the kibosh on Quidditch for you.” she explained, her tone regretful.

Frantically, Rhiannon shook her head, the significance not really registering – only the immediacy of the last phrase. No no no no she mouthed, scribbling in the notebook for a moment before passing it to McGonagall, flapping her left hand free of the professor’s grasp. Happens under distress. Second time it’s gone completely.

Professor McGonagall’s expression was inscrutable, considering. Clearly the professor was unhappy with the idea, and the waiting was agonising. Finally, McGonagall sighed. “We’ll get that broom tie rigged, critical safety exemption. You can play the friendly match. But I need to tell your teammates – so they can keep you safe.”

Rhiannon smiled crookedly, flapping excitedly and wiggling in place – at least she wasn’t losing that, not yet. She’d show them. Then she sobered, considering the events of the last few weeks – her physical safety was in question in more ways than one. Malfoy. Snape. Coughing, she began to write again. Dumbledore had been callous and arrogant, but Malfoy was actively malicious and Snape had not ceased his snide commentary in class. And between the three of them and her usual discomfort with the world, being Harry Potter to most was beginning to hurt.

I’m not Harry Potter, she scrawled absently at the base of the notepad. She didn’t even notice she’d written it, having been answering the thought train in her head as she mused on the issue before her.

Gently, Professor McGonagall slid the notebook out from Rhiannon’s absently doodling grasp. The girl spluttered, but McGonagall pointedly circled the starting piece. I’m scared. “I can’t just ignore that, lass. I’m sorry.” she explained, skimming through the rest of the doodled-on letter with a frown. “Malfoy. And Severus. Well, I’m not surprised more... disappointed they couldn’t hold out any longer, the gits. And you’re not... Well, that explains the flinch. I know you lied to protect yourself at the start lass, I’m under no illusions about the tolerance of the magical world. I’m not angry with you. But I would like to know you as yourself, if it would make you more comfortable.”

Warmth suffused Rhiannon from deep in her core, somewhere older than magic. I’d like to know you as yourself, replayed in her mind. Her weary, tangled mind seized on the simple honesty of it, and she choked back a sudden urge to cry. Happy wasn’t the right word – it was too bittersweet and new. Rubbing at her tired eyes, she smiled a genuine smile, meeting the professor’s gaze for a brief moment and finding only support there. “Rhiannon,” she rasped, her voice a little hoarse and clogged.

The professor’s features crumpled, her lips quivering as tears sprang to her eyes. “Rhiannon,” she repeated softly, the name sounding like a spell in an accent of it’s nature. “It’s like...” here she trailed off, hugging herself gently for a moment and bowing her head. Only that moment of vulnerability was allowed before Minerva McGonagall recomposed herself, dashing the tears from her grey eyes. “Now that I know, I can’t imagine how you were mistaken for anyone else.” she replied, a wry smile creeping into her still strangely sorrowful expression. “But I can’t imagine you are ready for the rest of the castle to know, are you lass. Not given the day you’ve had.”

Slowly, Rhiannon shook her head. She could feel the proverbial closet looming behind her already, hear the creak of its’ hinges. No, she signed, before remembering McGonagall didn’t understand that. Wearily she repeated the phrase on paper. Scared. The professor nodded understandingly, a weary sympathy written in the lines around her eyes. “I understand. I know. When you are ready, or if you are forced, I will be here and I will enforce the change in the school paperwork.” she reassured, a gravel rasp creeping into her voice. Without Rhi’s noticing, the sky outside had dimmed, taking on the faint gold of early evening.

“For now, you are exhausted. I will escort you back to your common room, unless you would prefer to stay here for the night.” Minerva changed the subject. Rhiannon shook her head adamantly, though she was loath to leave the comfort of the weighted blanket. Waking up in an unfamiliar space was frightening, and she wanted her friends and her bed and her cat. McGonagall nodded, and helped Rhiannon out of the bed as the still-frail girl struggled with the weight of the blanket. “Let me see what I can do about finding a spare of those, if it helps,” she added as a final reassurance, letting a disoriented Rhi lean on her offered arm as they made their way out of the secluded side room and up through the castle to Gryffindor tower.

________________________________

Following Professor McGonagall’s reassurances, Rhiannon’s school life improved greatly. While the rumours were as vicious as ever, especially given that now more knew about her disability, she was comforted by a sense of protectiveness by much of Gryffindor house. Once in early October, she overheard a fourth-year refer to her as ‘our Potter’ and had to take a moment to cry. Now aware of the problem, Rhiannon’s friends grew quite adept at spotting the onset of a sensory shutdown. So far it had not affected Quidditch – something about the sensation of flight was simultaneously exhilarating and calming, and any other feeling was held separate as if the slipstream was a shield.

The friendly game fast approached, and it was on a breezy, pleasant Sunday the 21^stof October that Rhiannon found herself outside on the training grounds, half-assedly studying with her friends in an effort to de-stress and focus in the hours before the informal match. In an unusually introspective mood and surrounded by the adamant support of her friends, Rhi considered over and over the idea of writing to Evelyn and Danjuma Granger, Hermione’s parents, to thank them for their care of her., and was about to voice such when a strident horn sound blasted out across the fields. She clutched her ears a half-second late and startled, swearing under her breath as she swept up her broomstick and belongings in a rush to avoid them being trampled in the rush of students that carried her up with it out to the Quidditch pitch.

Rhiannon dressed in a rush, her back turned to the wall and eyes fixed firmly ahead as she hurriedly switched her school robes for Quidditch ones – labeled with the number 07 and her surname in gold on the red fabric, a caped short tunic in scarlet edged with gold, over leggings and a long-sleeved shirt. Then, vibrating with anxiety, she laced up her pads – reinforced shaped leather from knee to ankle and elbow to wrist, over the top of a pair of fingerless leather gloves

Considering that neat enough for an informal game, Rhi left the changing room with the Chaser girls to join the Weasley twins and Oliver in an adjoining common room, Nimbus in hand and quivering with nerves. She was drawn into a huddle between a Weasley twin and Alicia Spinnet, holding back a sneeze as the taller girl’s blonde hair tickled her face. “Alright, team,” Oliver began. The Weasley twins mouthed along, to his annoyance and everyone else’s amusement. “The first game of the season’s not for a few weeks. This is just a training run – to get the feel of a competitive environment as a team, especially for new players.”

Here he nodded to Rhiannon, and Alicia squeezed her affectionately around the shoulders for a moment in their huddle. “The other teams are going to have new players too, so it’s a last chance for us all to suss eachother out and for older players to figure out how our opponents might have changed from last year before the real season starts next week. We’re facing Ravenclaw. They’ve a new Beater this year, Bliss Kingsley, as well as their new Seeker. Word is she’s a right dead eye, so look out. Fred, George, keep her and Affleck off our Potter here, she’s our secret weapon. Potter, you watch out for Sorcha Cho. She’s got a real fierce streak, likes to play feints but don’t worry too much – you’re as sharp as she is.” Wood continued, reaching over the huddle to muss Rhiannon’s hair good-naturedly. He carried on in this vein for some time, running over possible strategies to watch out for and playing quirks of their opposition, until the eventual interruption of a shrill horn. “That’s the warning. Form up everyone – Potter, behind me. And remember, we’re a team. We’ve got eachother’s backs, whether we’ve been flying together three years or three weeks.”

With that, the team formed up and filed out of the small common area into the passageway leading up to the Quidditch pitch. Rhiannon was glad they’d taken time to practice hovering, and the subtle vibration of the broom while not so noticeable in flight threw her off a little as they waited, white-knuckled and anxious, for the second signal.

So intent on the idea of it, Rhiannon missed the sound of the airhorn itself and was spurred into action by the Weasley twins, quickly catching up to Oliver as the team soared out from below the stands into the air above the pitch to the scattered cheers of the crowded students.

Rhiannon’s pulse thrummed in her ears, the safety harness across her chest felt as if it constricted every breath, and the world around her blurred. The stands were faceless noise, she couldn’t make out details – until she caught on the Ravenclaw players. Their blue robes stood out against the faded green of the ground far below, and to Rhiannon it felt as if the world had shrunk to fourteen people circling the arena. Sounds were muted, but there was no prickling curtain in her vision – it wasn’t a panicked loss of detail, it was a sort of focus she’d not experienced before. Immediately she understood why Wood insisted on a practice match – no amount of training could have prepared her for this particular environment. Her lips chapped in the wind, Rhiannon scanned the opposing players in blue, at once hyper-detailed and insignificant as they – save the Keepers, who headed for their end posts indicated by coloured banners – slowed, forming two semi-circles in the air facing eachother. Across from Rhi in the line, a slender Asian girl with short-cropped spiky black hair and an intense expression hovered between two mismatched beaters – one a broad-shouldered blond boy who held his short club in his left hand, the other a stocky girl with a disarmingly cocky smile and untidy blond ponytail, the bottom third dyed a vibrant sky blue. The Seeker, Sorcha Cho, grinned crookedly at Rhiannon, and she felt her cheeks flush imperceptibly. “First time, Potter?” she teased. Rhiannon coughed into the neck of her tunic, embarrassed, and refocused her attention below them on Madam Hooch. The hawk-eyed Sportsmistress stood before a heavy leather case, open to reveal the four balls within. Though not fully visible at this height, Rhiannon’s attention was on the pocket she knew contained the Snitch. That was her business – she could pass a Quaffle though not score, she could deflect and dodge Bludgers, but the Snitch was worth fifty points and its’ capture ended the game. A quick glance told her that despite the teasing, Sorcha’s focus was on the same. A whistle blast from Madam Hooch, and Rhiannon and Sorcha drew back from eachother to allow the Chasers a united line in front. Rhi barely dared blink lest she miss anything. Three seconds. Two seconds – and a whistle blast. One.

At once, the stillness was shattered as the game erupted into action around her. Rhiannon lurched backwards, grip tight on the broom as she narrowly avoided a Bludger as it rocketed skyward on release. She’d caught the barest glimpse of gold in the turmoil but soon lost it, instead falling into a rhythm from her position a little above her team-mates. She and Sorcha moved as if opposite magnetic poles, circling eachother and keeping their distance in equal measure. The Seeker’s job was as much to block the opposing Seeker as it was to catch the Snitch, and Rhiannon found the split focus a challenge as gradually she formed a patrol arc across the airspace.

Her musing was disrupted by the telltale whistle of a Bludger and she swore, casting about frantically for the culprit. Too late – something collided with her side, knocking the wind from her as she shot sideways. More by good luck than good management she remained mounted on the Nimbus and she swore, shaking her head to clear it. Blue robes and a crooked smile – Cho. Rhi laughed, as much amused as embarrassed. “Better you than that Bludger,” she offered by way of thanks – to a surprisingly good-humoured cackle from her opponent. “Consider it a save, Potter – there’s no sport in you getting knocked off your broom five minutes in, I’m sure Elodie’s not that keen to get up in the air today.” Sorcha replied, her snarky tone balanced by the genuine smile before they broke apart again. Rhiannon snickered to herself. The other Seeker was correct – Gryffindor’s Seeker substitute, Elodie Au, had jokingly made it clear that she was too busy to play, that was why Rhi was on the team after all – and that she’d be ‘right disappointed in you, Potter’ if she had to step in and pick up in Rhiannon’s place. The short Chinese French girl could come off a little severe, but she’d been a surprisingly patient and humorous mentor to Rhi over her first few weeks into team practice.

Time seemed altered as the game drew on in bursts, but gradually Rhiannon’s exclusive focus lifted and she became more aware of the crowd outside of the game – or more specifically, the commentator. When she first noticed him, he’d been positive enough – she couldn’t recognise him at this distance, but by the green she guessed he was a Slytherin – a neutral party she supposed. But as Rhiannon’s confidence grew and she began to interact more closely with the rest of the game, his commentary turned snide. “Unconventional tactics from an unconventional team this year,” was the remark as Rhiannon, too late to dodge a Bludger, pulled up to deflect it off the reinforced handle of her Nimbus instead. And as she and Sorcha narrowly avoided a near miss midair following the Ravenclaw seeker’s feint that Rhiannon had fallen for in frustration, “Oooh, did you see that? A display of aggression from Gryffindor’s Harry Potter – almost masculine there. Good show, ladies,” the commentator drawled. Rhiannon’s skin crawled not at her name – he knew, someone told him – Malfoy told him. The blond boy’s resentful scowl flashed across her sparking retinas.

Doggedly she tuned him out, his remarks growing more and more mocking as Gryffindor drew ahead of Ravenclaw in points, and every creative tactic Rhi employed was met with sly taunting that ranged from backhanded compliments to uncomfortable insinuations, and at times barely-concealed derision.

Rhiannon’s perception of the crowd was patchy at best, and she failed to calculate a dodge properly, fully colliding with the Ravenclaw Chaser Hugo Fowler. Dazed and swearing, she lurched backwards, the commentator’s mocking drawl blending into the boos of the crowd, her hip aching where she’d caught Fowler’s broomstick. Frustrated at her own inattention she hit herself in the temple with the palm of her head and then shook herself, refocusing on the match and-

There.

Hovering low in the air, metres above the ground, was the Golden Snitch. Sorcha had already noticed, and Rhiannon ducked under a poorly-aimed Quaffle to give chase. Her Nimbus was faster than Sorcha’s Cleansweep Seven but Sorcha had the head start, and Rhiannon flattened herself against her broom, eyes streaming behind her glasses, to give chase.

They closed on the Snitch, memories flashing back of the time she’d first caught Neville’s Remembrall and overlapping with the present as she drew nearer. Golden Snitch, red and brass Remembrall. Sneering commentator, Draco Malfoy. Nimbus 2000, school loan Shooting Star, the images alternated in a disorienting fashion and Rhiannon clenched her teeth, left hand outstretched and trembling. Still Cho was ahead, and the world seemed strangely flattened as Rhi gained inches on her opponent.

Just as it had the first time, the catch happened all at once. Rhiannon tucked her right shoulder, urging the Nimbus forward in a last desperate lunge and crashed into the opposing Seeker. Her palm struck the winged ball and she clutched it tightly, off balance from the move as she struggled to pull up with her free hand.

Rhiannon slowed and pulled out of the dive but failed to calculate momentum and she tumbled forward from the broom, winded and free-falling and – whump. She hit the ground not far below, her elbows striking the ground first, Rhi skidded in the dry grass with her broom tucked awkwardly under her left arm still attached by the harness. Dazed, she lay a moment face-down in the dirt, too winded to even curse. Then, coughing weakly, she propped herself up on bruised elbows, the crowd’s roar dizzying and disorienting – could she stand? No ribs broken. Glasses – glasses, she found them crumpled beside her, frames bent but lenses intact. Rhi took a moment to straighten them and unclipped herself from the broomstick, holding it tail up as she used its’ handle to push herself up off the ground and then steady herself as she swayed in place. Her knees ached and she coughed again, ribs protesting. They’d be bruised too.

Gradually, Rhiannon began to take in her surroundings as the other players landed, sound still patchy. One voice though, that carried. The commentator. “And that’s the game, Hogwarts! First dry run of the season, 90-40 to Gryffindor! And a right tenacious move at the end there – truculent tactics from rookie transsexual Seeker, Harry Potter-”

Rhiannon wasn’t sure if she’d heard, she processed it so slowly. Then she went very cold, and very still, as the implication registered with her and she stared up into the stands around, numb with horror as the dull roar of the crowd washed over.