She threw herself into her work for a reason. Sure, everyone assumed it was just because she loved reading and the insufferable amount of knowledge that came with it. That wasn't the entire case. Reading, having the words swirl about her mind and before her eyes, made her forget. Filling her mind with countless dates and achievements of long-forgotten wizards made her forget; it left less room for memories.
She could forget about having no friends in grammar school. It let her forget about getting called ugly and a beaver and a weirdo by so many of her peers. It allowed the fading of the memory of her second-grade crush, Mark Johnson, calling her a freak when she attempted to impress him by making a blade of grass change colors.
When her Hogwarts letter arrived, she was oh so positive that everything would change for the better. It didn't. No one wanted to hear her spout useless facts that only she cared about. She was still called ugly and a freak, and the vulgar term of 'mudblood' was added to the long list of alternate names for Hermione Granger. She was avoided by all but Percy Weasley, a fifth year who was impressed by her interest in schoolwork and upholding rules. Even when Ronald and Harry became her friends, it was obvious they only kept her around for the essay corrections, homework help, and lingering guilt from the troll incident.
She immersed herself into books and school and work to keep her mind off of unhappy memories. When she tried to stop (oh yes, she really, really did try) because of the teasing and name-calling that tripled at her obsession over books, she couldn't. Studying was an addiction, the only way to keep her mind off of everything else.
And fifty years later, as an unmarried Hermione Granger sits at her desk poring over a thick volume on ancient laws, she can't help but think how ironic it was that she was cursed by the only thing she could ever love.
Disclaimer: if you recognize it, it probably doesn't belong to me
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