The years of running had been kind to her, molded her in a way that a book could never have achieved. Her quest for knowledge was unassailable and she learned from every person, book, scroll and tablet to cross our paths. As we grew older she stopped constraining herself to the white dogma that shaped our early years and dove head first into any subject that she could ever possibly need. Hunted as we were, she deemed our need great and let no pretty morality drag her down. My poor girl, driven half mad by the strain and self-imposed isolation, kept reading and seeking every master who ever chanced an original thought.
She stood there, in the center of the bar. Though the room was crowded they formed a perimeter of sorts around her; warned away by the tilt of her chin and the glare on her face. Slowly she let her robes drop to the floor, leaving her in a faded blouse and a moth eaten skirt. As if that were the signal, the room surged toward her. It was an ambush, but we knew that coming in, the war was coming to a head and we needed all the information that we could get. So we took a chance. I stationed myself in the corner to watch, it was the first time in years I stood in a crowd unnoticed and I'd take full advantage. Hermione seemed to dance around her attackers, her feet searing runes on the floorboards while she cast one devastating hex after another. Quick as it had begun, it ended. Once more at center stage, with tangled hair and a wrathful smile, she activated the runes that brought them to their knees. Now came the tedium; it'll be days before we can extract all relevant information and cross reference it with what we already have; let alone draw up a new plan of attack. But for now Hermione's grin has turned wicked and my own magic surges in reply, and it seems to me that I owe my girl a proper dance.