It was raining again. She loved the rain. It was religious, purifying. Hermione couldn't help but smile at the thought, pure. Who really determined what in this world deserved such praise, and yet censure. There was such a persona wrapped up with such a simple adjitive.
In the wizarding world Hermione was not considered pure. She was tainted an outcast, a muggle born witch, but she was still innocent. She often pondered on the irony. Her mind drifted to those who held the title of pure in the magical community.
Ron
… Hermione wouldn't say she was better than her friend, but things that, one would think would come natural to those raised in magic he struggled with.
Same with Neville Longbottm.
Both were pure, both in Hermione's eyes still innocent.
Then there was Draco Malfoy, the epitome of purity,
and yet the most self serving narcissist she had ever had the miss pleasure of meeting.
Still Hermione couldn't shake the obscurity of such a notion.
Certain things where expected of those with pure blood.
Things none of the three boys were able to embody.
None were academic scholars, though Malfoy, she shamefully had to admit, had a bit more sense then the others.
Really none of them were excellent fliers.
It was Harry that was a god on a broom, and he was half-blood.
No, Hermione couldn't really find one ascending attribute that raised those with such a title of pure above her self.
She had only to come to the conclusion it was all clogs wallop, as Hagird had proclaimed.
Hermione stood straighten her skirt and began to walk towards the court yard. She had the need to taste heaven's tears, dance in the soften earth.
Yes, rain was proof enough that when one is caught up in purifying that which is already perfect, the only thing you end up with is mud.
