In Another Universe

Chapter 3

Hermione sits against a tree trunk on the university lawn, frowning down at her book as she attempts to tune out the racket around her. She's never been a fan of orientation days— ever since she went to school, she dreaded the days before the official start of class: she hated the fact that before she could shine in the classroom, she had to be reminded of how much she hated being forced to socialize and interact with others. It didn't help that, when she went to school, she used to get badly bullied, and orientation days at the beginning of each year were a daylong opportunity to get on her nerves. She's going to university now, and none of her old classmates are around— but still, she wishes she could go straight into class, raise her hand, and be spared the pain of thinking this year would be any different before she invariably got labeled a know-it-all.

However, as she looks around, resigning herself to the fact that concentrating on her reading might be an impossible task, she can't help but feel a pang of jealousy at how easy it is for others to blend in right away. She looks at the girls, already walking around the lawn in gaggles, laughing and exchanging numbers; she looks at the boys, who've started pickup games of football around the lawn and are already kicking the ball contentedly around the lawn. She can't help but wonder what it'd be like to have such an ease with people, to not have to look to others older than her because those her age think she's prissy and stuck-up. I'm not, she wants to tell them, I just have different interests.

But then again, a voice nags her inside her head, you never really make an effort to stay and show them how you really are, do you?

She swats the little voice away, closes her book with the bookmark slipped between the pages, takes a deep breath, and lets her hair down from the hairclip before gathering it up again— something that always helps her refocus. She has nothing to worry about. After today, it'll be the first day of undergrad, and she'll be back in her element, where she feels she truly belongs: in class, between books, immersed in learning. And then she won't have a moral responsibility to socialize, just to study. That's what she came to uni for, isn't it? C'mon, Hermione, she tells herself, just a few more hours of this and then we'll be good to go tomorrow.

Feeling calmer, she peels her gaze from her peers, reopens her book where she left off, and settles back against the tree with the intent to read—

And then she almost gets decapitated by a Frisbee that comes flying out of nowhere, hitting the trunk behind her with a loud thunk! and falling at her feet. She jumps with a start, the book flying out of her hands, and stays wide-eyed until a redhead in a green tank comes bounding up to her, waving his hand cheerily. As he gets nearer, Hermione can start to make out his face: he's tall, with a long nose and a freckled face, his blue eyes sparkling with mirth and his face split in a grin: he's obviously having the time of his life. "Oi!" he calls as he gets closer, breaking into a little jog until he's right in front of her.

He crouches down to her level and grabs the Frisbee, staying down. "Hello!" he greets her jovially, and she swears she doesn't understand how is it that his grin gets wider. "Sorry about that, my bud Neville's an awful shot with a Frisbee. We keep trying to keep him away from it, but every so often he catches it and there's no force on Heaven or Earth that can keep him from chucking it... Anyway, I'm glad it didn't hit you, that would've made for an awkward introduction. I'm Ron, Ron Weasley," he says, extending out a pale hand to her, the other one still gripping the Frisbee.

She watches the hand suspended in midair, the redhead's expression still wild with glee, and reluctantly (he reeks of sweat, after all) she holds her own hand out and shakes his. Contented, the redhead withdraws his hand and she reopens her book, ready to dive back into it. But he doesn't move. He stays crouched in front of her, his chest still heaving with the effort of his sprint, and seems to wait. When it's clear she's not budging, he prompts her: "I didn't get a name, y'know."

She freezes: her name? A million thoughts flash through her head, and she stops herself from huffing out the first H in 'Hermione': back in school, she used to go up to everyone and shake their hand firmly, declaring "I'm Hermione Granger" without having to be asked to do so. And she remembers that, whenever she did that, whoever she was introducing herself to would grimace slightly and pull away their hand— then, when she left, they'd invariably turn to the closest person around them and whisper about how weird that Granger girl was, and did you see what a stupid name she has, 'Hermione'? It sounds like you're wheezing, they'd say, and snigger, and Hermione had to pretend she didn't listen, even as tears welled up in the corners of her eyes.

She thinks now: her name has always been a way for people to make fun of her. In a way, it's the most vulnerable part of her. Does she really want to offer it up to this stranger, even with his wide smile and sparkling eyes, as the first person she meets at uni? She decides against it.

"It's Granger," she declares, and that does it: she feels Hermione being locked away into a corner of her, to be replaced by this cold, hardened, bisyllabic new woman who embodies all the confidence she wants to exude at uni. This is a new identity, and whether she likes it or doesn't, she hasn't yet decided— but she's come out with it, so all that is left is to make what she can from it.

"Granger?" the redhead asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Just Granger," she says hurriedly, turning faintly red as if embarrassed about it. Is she trying to make herself into something she's not? What's he going to think about it? Oh, God, this is just a new avenue to tease her on, isn't it—

"Granger," he interrupts her stream of thought, a more subdued smile playing along his lips. "Good name." He smiles encouragingly, as if sensing her insecurity about the new identity she's dubbed herself with, and stands up with his hands on his knees. "Well, Granger, I'll see you around," he says again, stressing her name as if to give her confidence in it, and bounds back to his mates, waving the Frisbee up in the air as he shouts, "Neville, if you screw a throw up ONE MORE TIME...!"

Granger watches him jog away curiously, and doesn't notice her stare is lingering until her book drops out of her hands again and startles her. She picks it back up and opens it on her knees, trying vainly to get lost in it as she spins her new identity over and over. Granger, she thinks, thinking it doesn't sound half bad.

And, anyway, if she's not sure about it, there's always the fact that that red-haired stranger seemed to think it was cool.