The library was hushed, the air thick with the mingled smell of old parchment, dust, and ink. Gabriel sat tucked into a shadowed corner, a thick tome spread open across the desk. Its title, in gilt letters across a battered spine, read: "On the Subjugation and Neutralization of Great Humanoids: A Treatise on Trolls, Ogres, Yetis, and Giants" by Edgar Stump.
He had chosen it at random out of a list of related works that had been recommended by Madam Pince.
Gabriel glanced down at his hands, flexing them slowly. They were still mostly bound in thick rolls of linen that reeked faintly of medicinal paste. His fingernails were black and ridged, though thinner than before - he had to keep clipping them almost daily, from how fast they had been growing while turning back into something more human. The leathery scars that crept across his knuckles and fingers had shrunk since that night, but they remained stubbornly visible, patches of dark hide marring his skin - it was why he still kept the bandages, it was Pomfrey's hope that they would get smaller with a bit more treatment.
Personally, he liked them - but decided it was better not to piss off the person who'll be responsible for healing him in case of any magical mishaps for the next seven years.
His teeth had dulled somewhat and seemed to retract into his skull - a supremely uncomfortable sensation -, but too many retained their wicked edge; he had already cut his tongue more than once. His hair, however, seemed determined to ignore all natural law. It had stayed just as it had been when he woke in the infirmary: thick and coarse as copper wire, if a lot more flexible. His eyes had shed their black sclera, though their original brown seemed to be gone for good, replaced with a silvery-white color that made more than one student ask, in hushed whispers, if he had gone blind.
The most change of all, in his personal opinion, had been his height. Once, he had been of average size for an eleven-year-old boy. Now, in a scant few weeks, he stood a bit taller than Hermione, who had always looked down at him before.
He shook the thoughts from his head, focusing on the book. A moving illustration filled the page: an Armored Mountain Troll, tusks gleaming, armed with goblin-forged silver and bound in chains of runes he didn't recognize - not that he had much knowledge on the subject. Unlike the sluggish brute in the bathroom, this creature radiated intelligence and fury, its tiny black eyes glaring out from under its helm.
For a long moment, Gabriel just stared, imagining himself on that page, facing it. His jaw tightened. He almost let out a snort at the thought.
He was an eleven-year old half - 'not even that, really' - giant, not bloody Superman. He had only just managed to beat a surprised, sickly troll that had been purposefully weakened in order to teach Hogwarts students how to deal with them. Even then, that had been more of an act of Accidental Magic than anything - he should take those ideas of fighting off monsters barehanded and throw them into the trash where they belong. He knew that.
But still...
"I'd like to try it," he muttered quietly. But not so quietly, it seems, that the person by his side didn't hear it, even as immersed in her own literature as she was.
"What was that?"
Hermione's voice made him start. She leaned over from the other side of the table, eyes flicking down at the page. The look she gave him was drier than the Caatinga in a drought.
Gabriel barked out a laugh. "Just kidding."
But her expression told him she wasn't buying it.
"Unbelievable," she muttered, shaking her head.
Well, he couldn't possibly let it off at that.
He shoved her shoulder gently with his own, grinning when she glared at him. He sniffed, over-dramatic, until she gave up and smiled despite herself.
"If you ever go charging after something like that," Hermione warned, stabbing a finger at the illustration, "just because of some ridiculous - some ridiculous macho idea, or - or instinct," She huffed, apparently unable to find the right word, which he wagered was more infuriating for her than what he had just said. "Then I swear I'm going to - well - I don't know! But I'm going to do something!"
Gabriel laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Something?" He repeated back teasingly. Before adopting a look that conveyed all the innocence he had, which is to say, none at all, "That sounds terrifying. Don't worry, I've been properly chastised." He swore solemnly,
She rolled her eyes with an involuntary smile and returned to her own book - a tome almost as thick as his head, titled "The Many Chronicles of Albion: From Druids to Romans". Just looking at the tiny script marching across its pages gave Gabriel a headache.
He watched her for a moment as she bent earnestly over the text, lips moving faintly as she read, already lost in the words. Then he turned back to his Troll illustration, lips quirking in a private smile.
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The orange light of the setting sun spilled through the tall library windows, gilding the rows of books in the firelight. Gabriel blinked, realizing only then how long they had been holed up among the shelves. A gust of cool wind sneaked through a crack, tugging at the curtains and jogging his memory.
He leaned toward Hermione. "Hey, Mione-"
"Don't call me that," she interrupted automatically, nose still buried in her book.
He smirked. "Right, right. I appreciate the company, I really do. But… didn't you have something else to do today? Like, oh, I don't know - your House's first Quidditch game of the season? Against Slytherin, no less. Isn't that supposed to be, like, a blood feud or something?"
Hermione didn't even look up. "I don't have much care for these supposed House rivalries, and I care even less for Quidditch," she sniffed. "It has all the violence of the worst Muggle sports with all the added nonsense that only wizards could possibly think sensible." She turned a page with unnecessary sharpness. "Did you know a single player can define the entire game? Honestly! They may as well do away with the other two balls and goals altogether. Just let everyone chase the Golden Snitch, it would at least be more logical - and certainly faster. And don't get me started on the length of matches. Did you know some of them have lasted months?"
Her voice had risen with every word, arms flailing as her hair went flying in all directions like a stormcloud. Gabriel watched, barely containing his amusement as she worked herself into full lecture mode.
"Shhh!"
Madam Pince's hiss cut across the room. The librarian glared from her desk with all the fury of a dragon disturbed from its hoard.
Hermione clamped her mouth shut, cheeks reddening, and squeaked a tiny, "Sorry!"
Pince huffed and went back to her paperwork.
Gabriel's chuckle slipped out despite himself. Hermione's glare snapped toward him, eyes flashing as she puffed her cheeks in a pout. She stomped on his foot under the table for good measure, though it earned nothing but another muffled laugh from him.
When he finally calmed, she stuck out her tongue before whispering again, quieter this time. "Anyway. I don't even know anyone on the team. What difference would my being there make?"
Gabriel tilted his head. He couldn't really argue with that.
They settled back into their books, the silence this time companionable. But, surprisingly, Hermione was the first to break it. She shut her tome with a soft thud and pushed it away a few inches. Gabriel immediately did the same, seizing the rare moment of reprieve.
"Do people play Quidditch in Brazil?" she asked, curiosity brightening her voice despite her apparent vitriol for the game.
"More or less," Gabriel said, leaning back in his chair. "It's not the most popular sport there, but you'll find some folks who really enjoy it - especially down south and up north."
"So what did you play, then?" she pressed.
He grinned. "Baleado."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Not the Muggle kind," he corrected quickly, chuckling, when he noticed that didn't mean anything to her either. "It's… well, kind of a wizarding version. You'd get a ball, charmed to act like a Bludger, and place it right in the center of a circular field. Then everyone - however many wanted to play - would line up on the edges. When the whistle blew, chaos started." His grin widened at the memory. "Some rushed for the ball, others just tried to find cover, which usually meant ducking behind bigger kids. Whoever grabbed it had five seconds to throw. If you didn't, you were out. The ball was charmed to fly straight like a bullet wherever the one holding it wanted it to go. So it could end up shooting sideways or even to their back."
Hermione leaned closer despite herself, eyes narrowing with interest.
"If it hit you, you were out. If you caught it, the thrower was out. Then the ball would just hover, waiting for the next person to snatch it." Gabriel chuckled, shaking his head. "Simple, brutal, and a whole lot of fun. I got my nose broken four times playing it, and mom tanned my hide for each of them, despite fixing it - though that's just changing one injury for another, if you ask me."
She narrowed her eyes, lips twitching as she nodded slowly.
"Of course. That sounds exactly like the sort of game you'd play."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She refused to answer, and his grin widened as he nudged her shoulder. "Oh, come on, tell me."
Hermione only raised her nose primly, though her eyes gleamed with amusement. "For a game like that, there must have been a lot of wizarding children where you lived."
"There were," he admitted. "Which shouldn't surprise you, really. Brazil's got, what, four or five times more people than the Isles? And the wizard-to-muggle ratio is higher there, too. I grew up in a small countryside city where a lot families were made up entirely of witches and wizards. And even the ones who weren't, were usually descendants of Abortos - Squibs, you'd call them here."
Her face lit up with interest. "Then you must have gone to a magical school when you were younger!"
He exaggeratedly glanced around and said in a dry voice, "Hermione… we're in a magical school right now."
She huffed. "You know what I mean."
"Fair," he said, smiling. "Yes, I did. It was mostly a normal school. In the mornings we had Math, Portuguese, Geography, Science, Arts - all that essential shite-"
"Language!"
"English, anyway - in the afternoons we studied Magic Theory and History. And some teachers ran open workshops: Herbology, Magizoology, Potions. You could choose which one to attend."
"That sounds wonderful," she breathed, almost envious. Then she frowned. "That reminds me, why is it that instead of going to Castelobruxo you came all the way to Britain to study in Hogwarts?"
Gabriel glanced around once more, then leaned in closer. "Because my mum finally landed a joint research project with the Department of Mysteries. She's been trying to get it for… decades, really."
Hermione's eyes widened. "That sounds fascinating- wait. Decades? How old is-"
Before she could finish, a loud sigh interrupted them. Neville, draped in Gryffindor colors, dropped heavily into the chair beside them, shoulders slumped.
Gabriel winced sympathetically. "Judging by your face, I'm guessing the match didn't go well?"
Neville groaned. "Disaster. Absolute disaster. Slytherin's Chasers flew rings around ours, Fred and George nearly got themselves banned, and McGonagall was yelling in Gaelic by the end. Honestly thought she'd turn into a bear and start mauling someone."
Hermione blinked, startled, then gave him a small smile. "Hello, Nev."
"Oh- hi, Hermione," he said, as if just noticing her. "Didn't see you. Why didn't you come to the match?"
She gave a simple shrug. "Didn't feel like it."
Gabriel clapped Neville on the shoulder. "Well, good luck next time."
Neville let out a dry chuckle. "That's the same thing you told me when I broke my wrist in Flying class."
Both boys laughed, only to be immediately shushed - loudly - by Madam Pince from across the library. They ducked their heads.
After a moment, Gabriel leaned toward Neville. "Hey, by the way - you ever work with Puffapods?"
Neville blinked. "A little. Why?"
Gabriel smirked faintly. "I read that they're good against trolls. Thought it might be worth knowing."