Unbeta-ed, but thanks to AnitaBlake/Buffy fan for reading it through. (I lost it again afterwards - call me stupid)
Disclaimer: Harry Potter in all its forms belongs to J.K. Rowling. No monetary profit was made from this fiction.
Enjoy.
-
"Damn!" Hermione swore. Her wooden brush had snapped off at the handle again. The willow handhold now lay in her hand, wheras the actual brush used to comb her hair was now embedded within the layers of frizz. She tugged at it, inhaling sharply as it caught in a knot or tangle. Her brunet hair tangled so easily, she mourned, looking sorrowfully at her reflection in the mirror. She hoped that she wouldn't have to cut it off like she did last time.
Brown eyes stared back at her, surrounded by a mass of curls. Her hair reached almost to her waist now. Briefly, she considered using an anti-frizz charm, but she needed to look up the incantation first. She shuddered at the thought of a wrong pronounciation or incorrect sylablle - who knew what she would end up with? She was sure it was in one of the books she had read whilst doing an essay for Professor Lockhart several years back. Hermione had an amazing talent of memory when it came to books and other academically related subjects.
She could always use the gel to subdue her hair; the one that she had used for the school ball during the Triwizard tournament, but it took so long, and about four pots of the serum - the effects weren't worth it. Her fluffy hair was a stereotypical part of her; that was why Hermione had got noticed so much. Then again, maybe that was because her date had been Krum, an international Quiddich player, and they had been one of the four couples to open the feast.
Harry and Ron had been so dumbfounded, the idiots. They hardly registered that she was a girl, for Christ's sakes. Harry acted less surprised, he was remotely in contact with his brain - but Ron! He had gibbered like a monkey, and finally realised that yes, Hermione Granger is not just your best friend, but one of the opposite gender. He had the nerve to have asked her as a last resort. Krum, at least appreciated her as feminine.
Then Ron had accused her of helping Krum! The nerve! She jerked her hand hard at the memory, and almost teared at the pain it bought. Well, she'd better not do that again. But she had forgiven him. It was just that he was so pigheaded. Even now. Especially now.
She had liked him once - Ron, that is. Most people thought her too involved in books to like anyone. Shows what they knew. But she had eventually given up - all the hints she gave out had never penatrated his thicker-than-dragon hide. She had also realised that Ron would have been an inattentive and severely lacking boyfriend. As she had said once, the ginger haired Weasley had the emotional capacity of a teaspoon. Platonic was fine.
Both he and Harry were down in the common room, copying her answers to the Herbology essay, no doubt. She had expressly forbidden then to touch it, but had she truly not wanted them to go near it, a few choice spells would have done the job. This way, she could pretend not to have known (My my, Ron - you must have used the same research books) and didn't have to go through the hassle of telling them to do their own homework.
Ron was probably the one who talked Harry into it, he was too moralistic to think of it himself. He was the only one she could talk to about the muggle world - and the word electronic didn't a) confuse him like a Confundus charm, or b) throw him into an estatic babble. Sometimes she felt so much pity for the Boy Who Lived, the paparazzi was always upon him, waiting for his next move, and poor Harry was always on edge, waiting for Voldemort to challenge him - and only one of them would emerge from the fight alive.
Harry was the one she talked to if she had problems, as they could think of feasible solutions together. He had more than his fair share, though, all because of a scar on his head. Once, tentatively, she had tried to touch it, and felt a strong magical emanation stop her an inch away. Harry hadn't been actively aware of it, and she had finally convinced him to let his natural hostility go and she got through enough for a split second, to touch the lightning shaped mark. She had seen a Dementor, green flashes of light, and a glimpse of a face she never wanted to see again. She had staggered back dizzily, and been caught by her other best friend. Good thing the Slytherins hadn't got wind of that incident.
Worst of the lot was Draco Malfoy, who always taunted Harry, and sneered at her. Mudblood, he called her. She recalled the time where Ron had come to her defense in the second year. His wand had broken after the incident with the Whomping Willow, and it had backfired. He had ended up spewing slugs out, and all they could do was wait for the spell to wear off. Malfoy was so prejudiced, so narrow. His smoothly handsome looks were totally overruled by his biased, narcissan personality. His pale, almost vampiric skin and white-blond hair had all the 'I go for the bad guys' girls swooning at his feet. To everyone else, he appeared as he did to Hermione. An egotistical, annoying flea.
Pansy Parkinson was another of her main torturers, every time Hermione passed, she would sneeze, and then apologise,
"Sorry, Granger, I'm allergic to Mudbloods." This only happened when no other teachers were around, and Hermione was often sorely tempted to whack the grin off her face with a well placed curse or two, or even to do it the old fashioned way - with fists. However, Pansy was always surrounded by her house mates, who would choke on their laughter, slapping her on the back. Sometimes they even went as far as to physically abuse her, just a leg stuck out to trip her, but they mostly stuck to following her menacingly in the corridor.
As a prefect, Hermione had the power to give them detention, but had never exercised it, knowing that they would want revenge and wait patiently to exact it. It was hard being herself sometimes. Good marks didn't make a life, nor would they.
Looking in the mirror, she studied the face that stared back at her. A decisive mouth and dark brown eyes grimaced back as she untangled a particularly difficult knot. Not pretty, but not ugly either, she settled. Muttering a few words, the mirror fogged, and she could see everything a metre around her parchment down in the common room. She didn't put repellent spells, but this just detected everything around it. She would remove it before the essay was due, of course.
"... more commonly known as Demons Bane." It was Ron. He was reading the third paragraph, fifth page. She could see his plain, freckled face frowning at the paper, trying to read the tiny writing she used to fit more in.
"Why can't Hermione use bigger writing?" the red head demanded crossly, squinting even more closely - nearly squashing his nose against the ink.
"Because she wants to fit more on" a distant voice answered - Harry. "She's always been like that, do you expect her to change now?"
"Well... no..." Ron admitted, putting the essay down. Hermione shook her head, smiling - and entangled her hair even further. She swore, mood swinging from good to bad, and erased the mirror's image. Once again, she concentrated on releasing the brush from the tentacle-like grip it was sucked into.
At long last, she teased the top half of the hair brush out of its habitat. Placing the two halves next to each other, she pondered the best course of action, then decided immediately.
"Reparo!" she commanded, pointing her slender wand at the pieces. It slid together instantly, and she picked it up again. Inspecting it closely, she could see no sign that the comb had ever been shattered, not even a line to indicate where it had broken. Well, this was the second time today, so if she hadn't perfected it by now she would eat the Sorting Hat. Sighing, Hermione resolutely started to brush her stubborn hair again, focusing on her ability to look presentable before she left the dormitory.