When Harry had slipped the liquid luck into Ron's juice, Hermione had almost turned them in. Almost. But the look of joy and hope on his face broke through all her barriers and crushed all her strict rules, for he was Ron and he needed hope.
She was watching him soar above her, she was truly trying to feel sorry for him. She knew he would be shattered when they were found out. But she saw him drunk on glory and allowed herself to soar with him and glide on his adrenaline high. She prepared herself for bitter disappointment and guilt, expecting to take his heartbreak as her own, for he was Ron and he was glorious.
Afterwards with all plots revealed, she let go of her fears with relief. She would be fine, until the kiss. That fateful, disgusting, heart-wrenching kiss. The kiss that pushed her off the edge. And then she fell, spiralling through the dark alone. She ran, tears blinding her, stumbling deeper into her despair, for there was lavender and he loved her.
She watched the birds soar above her, glimmering in the air. Like tiny rays of hope they broke through her gloom. Tears still clung to her eyelashes, making her eyes sparkle, but no new ones fell. She was calm, at peace. And Harry was there comforting her, for he saw what Ron could not.
Then he came. Anger mixed with salt and water to create tears of rage and resentment. She rose on her fury, adrenaline pumping through her veins. She revelled in her power, watching him trying to protect himself. She mocked his wounds, so shallow and weak compared to the ones he had inflicted upon her.
When he ran, she collapsed, falling hard and fast. Her legs gave out and exhaustion claimed her body. Her strength fled and she was crying again. She cried, for now she hated the man she loved.