When Hermione Granger looked in the mirror, she saw herself in a reflection, classified and organized. But Hermione Granger had her own mirror to look into, something not made of glass. She looked down at water and saw herself disjointed, blurred in the waves. Her reflection told all. She was not what everyone thought she was.
She was smart, yes. She was organized, yes. She was sane, no. The many times she had restrained Ron from grasping Draco Malfoy and beating him to death was only a reflex, because when she went upstairs, she put her fist through the mirror and liked to see her red blood. It was red, flawless, never contaminated. Blood was pretty.
She liked to see the glass smash. She wanted to urge the glass to break into ten thousand pieces. She hated glass, it showed things wrongly, it showed things differently.
Glass was nothing.
It was nothing real, nothing simple. She couldn't see herself in a mere shadow, a mere reflection. It was not to be done. It was never possible.
The many times she choked on her own spit, the many times she tried to lick her own blood to feel the bittersweet taste lingering in her tongue, the many times she pictured Draco writhing beneath her while she was merciless, sticking the knife right into the middle of his chest and fixating it, adjusting it until the blood seeped out from his back.
Nobody really knew that 'side' of her. And she didn't intend anyone to find out except Draco. She had planned it carefully, she had observed it, regarded the consequences. But she needed the consequences. She needed the pain.
Draco would find out just how pretty blood was.