Granger.
It's an odious word, a word that conjures up visions of hair in need of a severe combing, of essays that go on for pages and pages, and, worst and most detestable of all, of an air so insufferably know-it-allish that its very brilliance becomes sickening.
Granger.
A word synonymous with annoying mudblood, with obnoxious prude, and a multitude of other, loathsome things. A word that had, for six years, been neatly written at the top of every interminable essay handed to me (oh, how grudgingly I marked them with that all-too-deserved perfect score!), and was prefaced only by a dainty, anally correct 'H'.
Granger.
It was insufferable—absolutely intolerable—that now that word should begin to possess an unnamable fascination for me, a sort of muted aura which drew my attention even as I strove to despise it.
Granger.
I sat at my desk and looked at her, doing my utmost to despise her. Damn it all, the girl ought to be despised. She was entirely too clever, and far too aware of it, for her own good. I stared hard at her, trying to conjure up all the numerous, well-deserved taunts which had, for so long, flowed so silkily from my lips.
Know-it-all.
Insufferable.
Plain.
Granger was all of these things, all of these and several others which simple delicacy forbid me from voicing. Yet, at the moment, I was incapable of seeing it. Why?
It was not that she was particularly lovely at that instant—the clear silvery wisps rising from her potion were clearly detrimental to her already unmanageable mop, and her face, though, perhaps, not unattractive, was screwed up almost comically as she rapidly consulted her Potions book, running splotched fingers through her—mane. No, it was not that; Granger looked as she always looked, and whether that was a positive thing or not was not for me to say—yet. If this was so, then why were those well-honed arrows dulled, broken, and nowhere to be found? The answer came to me with a scowl of sheer disgust.
I was going soft.
No. No, this would not be. I would not be soft, whether for Granger or any other prattling brat who stepped foot in my classroom. My job was to teach, and I knew by now that learning entailed tears, and sweat, and often blood. I was not here to coddle and smile and pass out sweets; I would leave that task to Gilderoy Lockhart, and the millions of fools like him, convinced that, so long as your students adored you, you were a superb teacher. Imbeciles, all of them. Quickly, I averted my gaze from the frustrating Granger to Potter.
Ah, Potter.
There was an easy boy to hate—Potter, with the absurd cowlick of his bantam-cock father, and the wide green eyes of—of her…but I was resolved not to think of that. No, I would concentrate on all of the despicable qualities of Potter. I let my gaze linger on his disheveled robes, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and his cloak fastened sloppily under one ear, and the unflattering streak of pixie blood on his cheek. Next to Granger, whose work was immaculate and whose potion was the precise shade of silver denoted in the textbook, Potter's blockheaded efforts looked yet more idiotic; his concoction was nearly purple, and issuing puffs of foul steam. I smirked; yes, I would definitely enjoy grading Potter's work tonight. I could already taste the big, spiky D; I allowed my smirk to widen.
However, my comparative happiness was to be shortlived; the infuriating Granger approached, smartly carrying a vial of her faultless brew, and I was appalled with the way my eyes flickered over her quickly, from her long, coltish legs to her sensitive, candy-pink mouth. Foolishness, all of it! The girl was not even remotely nice-looking! She caught my eye, and I saw a flush, the same pale pink as the work of the imbecilic Mr. Finnigan, crawl into her cheeks; already, she anticipated a scathing remark. Consoling myself with a sneer, I read blindly over a sheaf of parchment until I heard her quick, harried pace retreat back to her place, with the mooning Weasley and the detestable Potter.
Unbidden, the thought came to me that she was worth more than that. More than them, her asinine companions.
Inexcusable. I stormed out of the dungeons after class that day without casting a backwards glance, leaving the bumbling students to stare, bereft of comment.
Granger.
Still, that one, hateful word rose to my lips, not nearly so dreadful as it should have been. Abruptly, I remembered that neat, perfect 'H', always correctly followed by a proportionally flawless period and never deviating an inch from the line on the top of the parchment.
Hermione. The H stood for Hermione.
I clenched my hands until the knuckles stood out in sharp contrast, white and bulky. Damn Hermione Granger, and damn the way she—her full, sensitive mouth, her eyes, flashing and dark and eager to prove herself, her well-cut profile, and the subtle lines of her body beneath those black robes and pull-over sweaters—returned, over and over, unwanted, unsought, to the forefront of my mind.
Granger, the loathsome know-it-all….Granger, the conceited pain in the ass…Granger, the bookish outcast, and rightfully so…
Or was it Hermione?
"Dammit!"
An inkpot fell with a high, clear clatter to the stone floor, spilling its thick black innards all over, till they encroached upon the edges of my robes. I was, at the moment, too furious to be concerned.
"Unacceptable!" I hissed, livid. "Idiot, do you know the repercussions of such absurdity?"
Of course I knew—I had read of teachers, sometimes in Hogwarts itself, who grew…soft for some student or another and were, upon the discovery of their preference, immediately sent away, never to be hired again. I would not be the next victim of such a calamity.
And certainly not for one as unbearable as Granger.