She was locked in the bathroom, crying.

That, that arse Ronald Weasley! He had the audacity to say she had no friends! That she was a nightmare! A sob escaped from her throat.

He was right.

She didn't have any friends, she was a nightmare. She was too stuck up, haughty, annoying.

It was no different here than it had been at home.

At least in the Muggle world, she had her parents to make her feel better. But they had been fighting for a while now, and she was worried that they might get a divorce. If she didn't have her parents, their united front, then who would she have?

No one.

There, she was always weird. Strange things followed her. Her book turned their own pages and the leaves and flowers seemed to gravitate towards her. She understood it now. It was magic. But it was still strange.

She was that freaky little girl, the Bookworm, the Nightmare.

The Weasley boy's angry, annoyed face at her success in getting the spell to work seemed to haunt her. She was too good, too talented for her own good.

Why could she do everything so well? Why did she have to be so good at everything?

Except making friends, of course.

Tears continued to roll down her cheeks. She was so awful. She would never have any friends. She was worth nothing.

She thought about that word the Malfoy boy kept hissing at her whenever she passed him.

Mudblood.

It sounded like a bad thing.

Yes, she was a Mudblood. She was awful and bad.

Hermione sobbed some more.