Hermione took the corner at a run, lithely leaping over the two trick steps and separating one hand from her strategically distributed bags and books to hang on to the post as she rounded the bend. Like everything that she did, it was calculated for maximum efficiency. Such maneuvers would be foolish to attempt at the height of weekday traffic, but this early on a Sunday the early risers would be down at breakfast and the others would still be wrapped in the embrace of sleep. It was with anticipation and almost joy that Miss Granger trotted upwards, floating through the portrait gallery and much to the surprise of certain people….bypassing the library entirely. She reached the door and paused to savor the quiet.
This part of the castle was mostly silent. Years ago there had been more students. There had been more wizards and more people in general, but the two muggle world wars and Grindewald had done much to decimate the population of Britain. The wizard population had been harder hit than that of the muggles, and these empty classrooms stood testament to the loss. Hermione quietly stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind her. She rested her back against the heavy wood as a sense of peace washed over her as she looked upon what she had come to think of as her nest, her refuge, her safe-hold, her garden.
She flung her bag onto one of the low soft couches, and proceeded briskly to the work table that occupied a prominent position towards the far wall. Fires burned and cauldrons bubbled as Hermione crossed to survey her work, frowning at the viscosity of a murky brown liquid on the left, and uttering a very un-lady-like grunt of satisfaction at the contents of a second cauldron. Sliding onto a stool, she pulled a battered and slightly gnawed number 2 pencil from the knot of hair on her head and, flipping open a composition book, began to add current information to the tidy columns of words and numbers that marched obediently across the page. Duty thus discharged, the composition book was closed with a snap and Hermione turned to the unsatisfactory brew that squatted over its burner omitting strange and disturbing odors
The room was bordered on two sides by floor to ceiling windows and had lacked any furnishings whatsoever when she had discovered it. There were no blackboards, no desks, and no chairs. The floors were not the student-resistant stone to be found in most of the classrooms about the castle, but a dark wood that glowed even through the scuffs and marks of age. After she was done with it, it virtually beamed with warmth. She had been visiting this room for three years now and more had been altered than just the floor. The room was truly her own.
Hermione had been raised an only child and knew the beauty of solitude. As much as she had enjoyed having the companionship of others her own age, she never lost the longing for the true peace that comes of being able to retreat to your own room and shut the door on all and sundry. In her early years at Hogwarts, she had found refuge of sorts in the library, but it was still a public place and the knowledge that she was not truly alone sullied her enjoyment of her time there. The room was her peace, her sanity, and her secret. It was a quietness that she hugged to herself in times of stress, a secret to keep her strong.
Casting a hasty glance at her watch, Hermione hefted her satchel up, pulling her hair aside in one smooth motion as the weight settled across shoulder and her hip shifted to the right to keep what seemed to be the elephantine weight of the books from pulling her to the door. She twists her hair up into a knot and jams several pencils in to anchor the mess to her scalp, fighting the good fight against hair with a mind of its own and gravity.