Author's Note: There isn't any plot to this; I just wanted a chance to show Hermione as the normal, teenage girl she is, as opposed to a Mary-Sue mutation that seems to be so very popular.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Hermione was a good student.
She was intelligent, she was resourceful, she was able to see things that others couldn't, or wouldn't, see. Sitting an exam didn't faze her (once she had progressed past the compulsory pre-exam hyperventilation routine). Having conversations with people older and wiser than her now felt like part of everyday life. Taking control of a situation and analysing the best way to continue was something she was so used to, her brain just went on autopilot.
However, she'd always known that good things didn't last forever, although she just hadn't expected it to be in quite the way it had happened. A tricky equation she could handle. An unfathomable code to decipher she might have seen as a welcome challenge. But love … …
No. Hermione Granger was well in over her head with that one.
The art of flirting didn't come naturally to her, like it did some of the other girls she'd observed. She couldn't produce teasing little smiles at the wave of a wand. She couldn't roll her eyes downwards and flutter her eyelids demurely. Hell, more times than not she found herself rolling her eyes exasperatedly at boys rather than giving them flirtatious glances.
If she was going to be honest with herself, she'd made an attempt – consciously or not – to distance herself from boys, to make them see her as more of a friend rather than a potential girlfriend. Having boys for her two best friends helped her practice her technique. Hermione wasn't experienced, she was very aware of the fact.
Whilst the other girls in her dorm would giggle and get flustered over how their boyfriends-of-the-month had tried to add a little tongue to their kissing sessions, or had put their hands in places that were slightly inappropriate, yet not altogether unpleasant, Hermione would keep quiet, turn over in her bed and try to ignore the fact that she wouldn't even know what to do if a boy tried to hold her hand, let alone do anything else.
The amount of times she would catch sight of her reflection in the dorm room mirror – a full-length affair with intricate carvings twisting snugly around the frame – were becoming increasingly frequent, and Hermione couldn't help but become more scrutinising every time she saw the face that stared back out at her.
She wasn't supernaturally beautiful like Fleur. She didn't possess that alluringly exotic appearance that Cho carried off so well. She couldn't mimic that innocent, petite elegance that Ginny seemed to have accepted about herself, and used to her advantage.
When she looked in the mirror, Hermione saw herself, the same face she'd seen for the past 16 years of her life. Ordinarily brown eyes framed with dark lashes. A smattering of freckles that had mercifully faded slightly over the years. A nice body by teenage girl standards although, like every other teenage girl in the world, Hermione sometimes wished that certain parts were slightly bigger, or that other parts would be nicer if they slimmed down slightly. Her hair – her most noticeable feature since her teeth had been resized – could never decide what it wanted to do, curling into springy ringlets one day before smoothing out into lazy waves the next, and then reverting to the irritating frizz that she always pretended she wasn't bothered by.
Hermione sometimes found herself wishing she could just have long straight hair in a tone other than 'just brown'. Whilst she was at it, she'd wish that her skin would tan more often, or than her face was a little less circular, or than her legs could be slightly longer and slimmer. Like every other person it the world, it only took Hermione a few moments in front of the mirror for her to pinpoint at least five different things she'd change about herself, given half the chance.
Ron never seemed to notice all these physical shortcomings that Hermione saw in herself every day.
He never complained that she seemed uncomfortable when they flirted clumsily in between lessons.
He never got frustrated when she tensed up and panicked when he tried to her hold her hand, or when he kissed her in the common room.
He always said she was beautiful.
The first few times he had said it, Hermione had studied his face long and hard for any signs that he was lying, or simply taking the piss.
She could never find any.
Eventually, Hermione just found herself accepting that Ron had a warped sense of beauty, and that she was never going to understand what he saw in her.
She couldn't understand why he'd want to wrap his arms around her waist in spontaneous displays of affection, rubbing his face in her neck in a hope to elicit a giggle from her.
She couldn't understand why he liked to hold her hand under the table at breakfast, casually stroking his thumb across the top of her had, even though it inhibited his usage of his knife and fork.
She couldn't understand why she'd catch his watching her across the common room, a small smile playing on his face and a look in his eyes that both flattered her and scared her.
She couldn't understand why he wanted her, but she was willing to try and learn.
She was, after all, a good student.