A Slip of Conscience
Title is a play on the phrase, 'a slip of the tongue.'
Disclaimer: I don't own HP, or the following quote, which I think was said when Hermione had just had enough.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Harry, you can do better than her," said Hermione. "Ginny's told me all about her, apparently she'll only believe in things as long as there's no proof at all. Well, I wouldn't expect anything else from someone whose father runs The Quibbler." (Rowling 262 - OotP)
.
There were few things that Hermione Granger was uncertain of.
One thing she wasn't uncertain of was this: Luna Lovegood was quite the oddball. Ginny Weasley agreed. And the younger Gryffindor wasn't the only one. Now, if Hermione could just get Harry to see that, then maybe he'd stay away from the straggly-haired, protuberant-eyed Ravenclaw.
Maybe.
But Hermione needed proof. Something concrete to further her cause. But what...?
She was pondering that as she headed to the library as was her custom when she had a few hours to spare on a weekend.
Maybe her father's magazine. Hermione had never read it, but its reputation preceded it. And if it was as rubbish as everyone said, it would be a start. A step towards convincing Harry.
And the sooner she did that, the sooner he stayed well away from 'Loony' Luna Lovegood. That was quite the clever moniker, Hermione noted as she turned a corner and started down an empty corridor. Who'd come up with it? she wondered. Maybe Ginny would know.
Maybe Ginny had done it. That thought halted her steps, made her pause uncertainly. She thought her heart may have skipped a beat as a sensation of unease rose within her chest, pushing its way up, towards her throat.
Teeth sinking into her chapped bottom lip, Hermione had to make herself put one foot in front of the other. She had to make herself walk. She concentrated only on that (and not her trembling limbs), even glancing down at her feet while she did.
One foot in front of the other, and in front of the other, and i-
Oh, she thought as she turned a corner.
Speak of the devil and he doth appear (or 'she,' in this case).
Luna Lovegood was walking up the corridor towards Hermione. Well, it was less walking, more talking to the portraits on the walls and moving down the corridor as she did so.
Hermione saw her smile at one of the portraits - one of a dark haired boy a few years older than her. They conversed, longer than Luna had with the others.
Hermione watched as the Ravenclaw exclaimed something while nodding, almost eagerly. (She truly was an odd girl. A preternatural dreamer with her head so far up in the clouds Hermione wondered if she could see stars. Hermione also wondered how she'd ever gotten into Ravenclaw. Some of her insanity must have rubbed off on that Hat - that was the only way, surely...)
Further down, Hermione spotted Ginny and her friends. Her other friends, that is.
They hadn't spotted Hermione yet. She was a bit glad of that; she didn't get on particularly well with Ginny's newfound friends. They were a bit... catty for her tastes (and Hermione did wonder if they ever said anything about her behind her back).
But that was fine, they rarely crossed paths, anyway.
Hermione saw more of Ginny than she did Ginny's other friends, and she saw more of Harry and Ron - with their Prefect duties it was mostly Ron - than she did of Ginny.
It wasn't perfect but she was just glad to have a female friend after so many years alone, or around the boys. Even if the two girls had been pushed together at the start (Ginny becoming a little less standoffish once Hermione rather cleverly implied in conversation that she didn't care for Harry in that way, and that the two were just friends - to never be anything more, ever. So help her. Amen.)
Ginny and her gaggle of friends were almost level with Luna, now.
"... only attention from the opposite sex Loony'll ever get..." Hermione heard the words but she didn't know who said them.
If Luna herself did, she didn't show it.
In fact, she barely acknowledged the other girls as they drew level with her. And those girls wouldn't like being ignored...
Hermione was proved right when she heard one of the girls make a catcall, and another, kissing noises. The girls all dissolved into giggles. Hermione noticed with a strange pang that Ginny was arm in arm with two of the other girls. Two of her other friends. She didn't look like she was missing Hermione, not even close.
Muscles tensing, Hermione suddenly dreaded the moment they'd catch sight of her.
Would Ginny acknowledge her? And if she did, how? With a wave, a smile?
She took deep breaths in order to calm herself down, stepping back behind a nearby suit of armour, regardless. (In some small, relatively inaccessible part of her mind she knew she was being silly - stupid, even - but she couldn't help it.) A lump was rising in her throat, threatening to choke her.
They wouldn't see her.
Surely, they wouldn't see her. They couldn't! They just... couldn't.
Please, please...
They wouldn't see her, the words began again. They wouldn't see her.
Those words of assurance to herself were almost a prayer (and one of desperation, to be sure), on loop in Hermione's mind as she watched them from her hiding place. Even so, her hand, fisted around the strap of her satchel, tugged the leather across her chest. Across her exposed, rather tight, chest - and towards her heart. As strange as the action was, it was almost like armour, of sorts.
It felt like putting on armour to Hermione.
In Primary school whenever Hermione had felt nervous, or vulnerable, she played with the straps of her bag (a rucksack, back then). Tugged them across her chest, mostly. That happened often as she walked by clusters of her fellow students on her own - no one by her side.
No one to stand with her against them. No one else had liked her enough - or at all, really - to do such a brave thing.
A trickle of students started to enter the corridor from both sides.
The few students passing the now stationary and still-giggling Gryffindor girls did so with ease.
That bought Hermione out of her stupor as quick as a stinging hex to the rear. What was she - scared of some fourth years? Pathetic. Some Gryffindor she was!
Hermione shook her head. Then she focused on the scene in front of her once more.
Luna was still ignoring the other girls; it was like she was deaf.
And that's when the Ravenclaw turned around - to the surprise of all the Gryffindor girls present. "Oh, hello," she said dreamily. Hermione had no idea how the younger girl was able to sound so not-quite-there after what she must have heard.
Luna opened her mouth, seemed about to tell them something, but whatever it was (most likely something ridiculous) was lost in the mocking, now outright laughter of the younger Lions. They sounded like hyenas.
Hermione thought she saw Ginny, wry grin on her lips, shaking her head. It was almost like Ginny was amused at the antics of a pet. Come to think of it, Hermione could recall seeing Ginny do the same thing whenever Errol, weak in his old age, crashed into someone's bowl of cereal (only then the look had been mixed with shame and embarrassment and the grin had resembled a grimace more than anything).
That's when she saw it, an odd look distorting Ginny's face as she glanced at Luna. Hermione's breath went whoosh as it left her chest, which felt like it had been ripped open.
Pity.
It was pity.
It was the same look Hermione could remember being directed at her by one of the well liked, pretty girls in primary school. Samantha Marin, her name was...
No! Hermione thought, clenching her free hand into a fist. She was nothing like Loony Lovegood, nothing! She had to get that nonsense out of her head, right now.
Yes, Hermione, there's a good girl came her mother's cooing voice in her head. Or a memory of it, at least. You know there's nothing wrong with you, don't you? They're just jealous!
Yes, Hermione thought, closing her eyes briefly. They were just jealous of my intelligence. I did try to help them, like you said...
Opening her eyes, Hermione rooted herself in the present. Now only distantly noting how vicious, how very mocking, Ginny's other friends were. Inexplicably, an earlier thought made itself known to Hermione.
It made her heart beat a little faster in her chest as uncertainty, an anxiety of sorts, reached for her lungs with both hands.
Whether her other friends spoke about Hermione behind her back, or not, Ginny wouldn't let them continue. She wouldn't let them talk about Hermione like they undoubtedly did Luna...
Would she?
Vaguely, she noted someone - a Hufflepuff - barging into Luna accidentally on purpose to the titters of the younger female Gryffindors. Hermione turned away. She'd take another route to go to the library; she knew them all like the back of her hand, and it didn't matter much if she cut into her time there anyway.
.
Hermione's first real encounter with The Quibbler had been in her third year. She'd been in a bathroom, needing to pee before she rushed off to Arithmancy with the help of Prof. McGonagall's precious gift - loan.
A first year had been in there. She'd been trying to clear up a leakage when Hermione came in, then she just stilled, like she'd glimpsed a basilisk.
Myrtle! Hermione had thought at once. This was her doing. Why didn't she just stay in her own bathroom? Less fun, Hermione supposed, scrunching up her face at the smell. She hoped the ghost wouldn't come back only to see Hermione using the time turner. The wailing ghost couldn't keep her mouth shut at the best of times, but if she could get Hermione in trouble too... (Hermione really wished the ghost would just listen when she said there was nothing going on between herself and Harry. Ginny had.)
The first year girl - a Ravenclaw - had been trying to mop up the spill with scrunched-up bits of paper.
But wait, Hermione had thought, stepping closer. There was a newspaper lying on the wet floor. The girl had been ripping pages out of it to try and stem the flow of dirty water. Then, when that failed she'd used them to try and mop it up.
Hermione, who'd been about to tell the girl to get a professor or just leave it alone, stepped even closer. Her shoes squelched as they slapped against shallow puddles of swirling, murky water.
The front page, rather lurid in Hermione's opinion, had The Quibbler written atop it in large letters. In a dreadfully florid paragraph it proclaimed a second sighting of some creature with such a ridiculous name Hermione had to stifle surprised laughter. It sounded like it belonged in an Edward Lear poem, or maybe a book by Lewis Carroll.
"What is that?" Hermione finally took her eyes off of the newspaper - or was it a magazine? - and looked at the girl crouched, catatonic before her.
Then the girl looked up, face strained.
"Some crazy second year give it me. I only took it for a laugh."
"Hmm," Hermione's lips twitched. Was this some sort of joke? Was this... honestly... real, and not something the twins, or Peeves, or all three had cooked up? But no, Hermione considered, it wasn't their style - not even close.
Yet, Hermione had never - not once! - even heard of whatever that creature was (and she wasn't sure about the pronunciation either, to be honest).
Breaking out of her bemused reverie, Hermione told the girl to get a professor before the whole castle flooded. Alright, so she exaggerated the issue, but she had to get to Arithmancy and she didn't need any witnesses. McGonagall's words, words of warning, had already begun echoing in her head.
.
It was a while before Hermione heard of The Quibbler again.
Ginny's boyfriend, Michael Corner, had mentioned it once in passing. Some time after the Yule Ball, that was. "Load of rubbish," he'd called it. Ginny, all but hanging off his arm, had laughed and agreed.
Months later, her fifth year in fact, after meeting the editor's daughter, Hermione began to ponder over that. Corner was a Ravenclaw so he obviously had to be of, at least, average intelligence. The same went for his housemates.
And, going by how other Ravenclaws treated Lovegood, Hermione had to assume that they thought the same as Corner did in regards to The Quibbler. As, given how attached Luna Lovegood was to her father's magazine (Hermione still remembered the younger girl's coldness towards her when she'd merely stated the truth, that The Quibbler was rubbish, and everyone knew it) it must have been hard to have one without the other.
So, clearly, the other Ravenclaws didn't want to be associated with the strange daughter of some crackpot editor of a paper that's only good use was mopping up toilet leakage. That told Hermione all she needed to know.
.
A few days after seeing Lovegood talking to a portrait ("...only attention she'll ever get from the opposite sex...") Hermione came across the name of her father's paper in a book. She'd read this book countless times, the grooves in the spine, creases in the leather covers and crinkles in the thin pages were old friends. They warmed Hermione's fingertips as if they were singing welcome home while she traced over them, almost lovingly.
The co-author was a woman by the name of Georgette Lyme. Hermione enjoyed her books greatly, there was no flowery language. No florid, winding passages. Just cold, hard facts (if she was a journalist she could have given that banshee Rita Skeeter a run for her galleons). Lyme's introductory to the Wizarding World for muggleborns had been a great help to Hermione; she'd even written a bit in Hogwarts, A History, Hermione's personal bible.
Though she didn't know the woman (aside from the fact that she'd been a Gryffindor, too) Lyme almost felt like a friend. In fact, in her first year, from September to Halloween, she'd been the only one Hermione had.
So it was while rereading Lyme's second introductory that Hermione came across a passage that caught her eye straight away. It was in The Vast and Varied Publications of the WW chapter, under the subtitle The Most Useless.
In third place (out of ten) had been The Quibbler. Hermione had felt a shock run through her at that. She'd missed this the first time round, the Publications section. She hadn't even skim read, she'd just skipped over it entirely thinking I don't need to know this now. And she hadn't rectified that decision on previous rereads either.
Until now. And how glad Hermione was that she hadn't missed this.
Apparently The Quibbler had been a fairly well known source of information, mostly aimed at children, and regarding the sightings of rare animals and plants - or newly discovered ones (and Hermione did marvel a little at how the Wizarding World and its knowledge of itself had expanded, just as the muggle one had - and still did).
Then came the War, and a change of editorship. The changeover was what destroyed any shred of credibility The Quibbler had ever had. The Quibbler was given an overhaul. It veered away from its previous content in leaps and bounds, with its previously relatively sound theories getting wilder and wilder.
It was fairly safe to say that it was now run by a certified madman, an ex-patient of St Mungo's - well, like father, like daughter, Hermione thought, triumphant.
This was proof. A cold, hard fact! Even better than Luna Lovegood being ostracised by her peers, especially those from the reputed House of intelligence. Even better than Ginny's own agreement regarding that and The Quibbler's nonsensical state, too (for Hermione was learning to trust her only female friend's opinion).
Hermione gave a wild laugh.
The Quibbler's only use really was cleaning up leakage with its strangely absorbent pages - It really. Was. Rubbish!
Now, Harry had to see. Oh, he just had to!
With that in mind, and a smile on her face, Hermione finished up her reading and headed to Gryffindor common room.
When she came through the portrait hole the first thing she saw were Ginny and her (other) friends. They were gathered around something on the floor. Was it her imagination or were they breathless with laughter? As if they'd only just stopped laughing as soon as Hermione stepped into the common room...
Her stomach churned with unease - something she'd been feeling a lot of, lately. Ginny had her back to Hermione. Even as her earlier elation slipped away, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief before she walked towards the stairs. (There was strength in numbers, she couldn't help but note distantly, and she was alone now. As she often found herself, these days).
Still, Hermione couldn't resist peeking at them out of the corner of her eye. She was curious, what were they doing? Talking about her? a paranoid part of her mind supplied - it was also currently the most active part of her mind, which didn't help.
So she looked. And nearly stopped dead. They were reading The Quibbler.
She thought back to a few days earlier. When they'd come across Luna talking to a portrait; when a Hufflepuff had barged into her on purpose. Their laughter had really resembled Hyenas' (just as they'd resembled hyenas surrounding their prey).
Then there was the catcall, the kissing noises...
Hermione thought she'd known five year olds with better senses of humour. Not Ginny though, she hadn't laughed back then.
No, she'd only smiled... and it had been a horrible smile (something else Hermione could remember from her Primary school days).
Hermione only realised she'd stopped when someone coming down the stairs brushed past her, huffing in annoyance.
Hermione gave a weak, belated, "Sorry," to the girl before she steeled her resolve.
She turned to the girls, who were still breathless and red from their earlier mirth. She walked a little closer. "Ginny," she called, her throat dry, "A word?" Her treacherous heart was pounding in her chest. She had to wonder if they could hear it, those hyena-girls in front of her...
Could they smell her fear? She perished the very thought.
When Ginny nodded, Hermione (sagging slightly with relief) said, "And bring the magazine." She had an idea. One that would settle the uneasy feeling wresting for control - for dominance - inside of her, once and for all.
"Aww, I wanted to 'ave another look at the... The - the thing." (That's too bad, Hermione thought, somewhat viciously as she turned away.) "Y'know, that snaggly thing? The one that made Mare laugh so hard juice came out of her nose?"
"Everything in that magazine's laughable."
"So true." And they burst into laughter again. Hyenas.
As much as Hermione hated to lump the opinions of adolescent hyena-girls in with the word of Georgette Lyme, that only led further credence to her, earlier in the year, saying how rubbish The Quibbler was, and how everyone knew it, so why was she now feeling even more uneasy?
Just anticipation, Hermione told herself. I love being right; it never gets old.
"Hermione," Ginny said as they walked into the older girl's empty dorm. "Is it a newspaper or a magazine?"
"Well..." it used to be aimed at children before the readership expanded, it's also centred around strange occurrences in this world - new sightings and disappearances.
"Well," Hermione started again, sitting at the foot of her bed, "it's mostly rubbish..." Ginny gave her a look, as if to say well that was obvious, continue (Hermione filed that away in the mental filing cabinet forever known as Evidence against The Quibbler). "Rubbish aimed at a certain audience," - gullible fools - "so - magazine!"
"Well, now that that mystery is sorted." Ginny looked at Hermione, uncharacteristically serious as she jabbed the rolled up Quibbler at her. Like it was a sword, and Ginny a knight, readying for a duel. "I overheard Luna Lovegood talking about something called Wrackspurts... Know what they are, Granger?"
"Let me guess," she emphasised heavily on that last word, barely holding in the urge to roll her eyes. "It was something The Quibbler once published an article on; something that doesn't exist."
"Except in the minds of certain types of people." Ginny gave her a significant look at that before a grin creased her face. She then leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "She even said that she had a pair of spectacle-thingies that would let her see them." Ginny did that poor-thing headshake again, widening grin and all.
Unbidden, a laugh tore its way out of Hermione's throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth. At least she wasn't rolling around on the floor; that would just be undignified.
Ginny jutted out her hip in an outrageous pose that nearly sent Hermione into a fit of giggles again. She placed a hand on that hip, elbow sticking out as she snapped open the newspaper - magazine - with a flick of her other hand.
"Let's see, shall we...?" Her voice was an exaggerated wavering mix of low and intense, as well as dreamy, not-quite-present. "Which of these is real or not?" Her voice was full on dreamy as she scanned the pages.
Ginny met Hermione's eyes and waggled her eyebrows as she stated, "The magazine versus your brain."
Hermione bit her lip, then she got up and went to her trunk. She rummaged through, then, "aha!" found what she was looking for.
She held up her Care of Magical Creatures book for Ginny to see. "This is the best back up we have when we don't have Magical Creatures and Where to Find Them on hand. We can't just rely on my memory; I may require a recall on some things."
"Ah!" Ginny nodded. "Good point." Though, personally, Hermione didn't think Ginny even knew what a recall was. (Neither would most teenagers her age, basic psychology as it was.)
Ginny muttered as she flipped through the pages with both hands. "Stubby Boardman," she scoffed, shaking her head.
Hermione waited patiently.
Ginny's voice, no longer quiet, startled her. "Do you know she grew up around the same place as me?"
She knew who Ginny was talking about, it could only be one person. Despite herself, Hermione's interest was peaked. "No. I didn't."
"Ottery St Cathpole," Ginny said, as if Hermione didn't already know. "I remember my mum talking about hers once. 'No one who messes with what doesn't need to be messed with, is Light. If it ain't Light, it ain't right.'"
That sounded like Molly. Inexplicably, Hermione recalled the tiny Easter egg she'd given her after that Rita Skeeter article (the very nerve -). She shook her head, inwardly, that was in the past. And the woman had apologised. Time to move on.
"And her father?" Hermione asked, outwardly unruffled.
Ginny shrugged, no longer flicking through the pages. "Don't remember much about him. Though this," she shook The Quibbler, "tells us all we need to know, don't you think?"
"Oh, yes." Hermione nodded.
Ginny smiled, flicked though the pages again. Hermione noted that she'd gone back to the first few pages. "I think... Yes! Found something. Prepare yourself, Granger."
Hermione scoffed. "For what?"
Ginny grinned and begun.
She spoke of various creatures and plants and other impossible things. Each time Hermione would counter with logic as her weapon of choice.
The first time she did so, winding down her counter argument, she ended it with, "...so it has to be noted that there is just no proof." Ginny had said the last few words with her, a smile on her face. Blood pumping, Hermione had nodded. It was silly really, because the answer was obvious to anyone with a working brain but -
But, when she and Ginny had finished her argument as one, Hermione felt... She felt connected. Like she'd finally found something someone agreed with her on, something they were just as passionate about as she, herself, was.
Ginny took to skipping, almost dancing, around the dorm when it came to Hermione's counterattacks. "No proof!" She sang at the end of them. Once she even said, "Come on, Hermione, dance with me." Hermione had smiled, shaking her head. That was rather childish, however funny it was.
The articles in The Quibbler read like a muggle children's book, and a very creative one at that. Hermione thought that if the journalists' jobs at The Quibbler didn't keep (and she doubted they would) they could all write wonderful children's books. Except, maybe, that Jones person. If Jones had written a children's book, Hermione certainly wouldn't read it to a younger sibling - if she'd had one, that is.
As they neared the end of the magazine, Hermione beat Ginny to it, ending her arguments with her own declarations of, "no proof," while Ginny beamed at her. (And she had never felt a stronger sense of belonging, never felt more at peace with herself - with the world - than in those moments.)
They were on the last page now, and Hermione's fingers were sore with papercuts and forming blisters from turning the pages of the book before her. She'd been cross-referencing the creatures in there to further exploit the holes in the entire premise of The Quibbler. She'd even dug out another book of hers, this one about plants. It lay open, side by side with the other book.
As Ginny finished reading aloud yet another floridly worded article, Hermione didn't even have to look down at her books. Didn't even have to think - beyond using the common sense she'd been born with, anyway.
She just looked at Ginny, who looked back at her.
And they said in unison: "No proof!" Ginny burst out laughing. Hermione nearly followed.
"Oh - we shouldn't laugh." Hermione had her hand in front of her mouth, ready to catch the laughter that was threatening to burst free.
But they already were, both of them. So maybe... maybe it was alright to laugh - especially if they were both doing it.
And wasn't this what friendship was, anyway? Hermione thought as she let her upper body fall forward onto her bed.
Even so, apart from talk about Harry, it did seem to be all that she and Ginny did; laugh at - no, laugh about other people. (But like everyone else did from time to time, so it wasn't as if it was just them doing it.)
They giggled together once more. The pages made flapping sounds when Ginny let the newspaper - magazine - fall from her fingers, Hermione could hear the rather glossy papers crinkling beneath Ginny's feet as she trod on them. She flopped down on the bed, jostling Hermione as they bounced thanks to her added weight.
A familiar thought struck Hermione then, as she elbowed Ginny to get more comfortable and Ginny elbowed her back, harder.
Was this Ginny when she didn't have a debilitating crush on Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived?
Hermione had to admit - this had been fun.
She'd be good for Harry.
Hermione smiled, pleased with her assessment. She wondered how long it would take Harry to notice Ginny? Of course, she'd have to break up with Michael first - not that they were that serious, to begin with...
Ginny had produced a bottle of nail polish from somewhere. "Lav's," she said casually with a shrug, "she won't mind. Witch used up all my purple eyeshadow." Hermione had a feeling she'd meant rhymes-with-witch. But so what if she had? Lavender probably did deserve it. "You know the one. The one that changes colours, that expensive one...?" Ginny prodded.
Hermione shook her head, sadly. Ginny was probably confusing her with one of her other friends. That thought sent a jab of something strong, something bitter, through Hermione.
She declined Ginny's offer to paint her nails. One makeover in her lifetime had been more than enough - and look where it had gotten her, too. The ghost of the words fraternizing with the enemy fizzled away as the stench of nail polish hit her olfactory senses like a slap. She could hear someone coming up the stairs. Was it Lavender and Parvarti? Ginny's (hyena) friends come to call her away?
And just like that her previous joviality slipped away from her, like water through her fingers. She tried to breath through her mouth without success. The smell had already gotten into her nose, imprinted itself on her memory like a bright red handprint.
Now there was nothing to distract her from the elephant in (her head) the room. It was pressing against her, like a stray dog would a warm, kind stranger it met on the street.
"Ginny," she sighed, raising herself up onto her elbows.
Ginny hmmed from beside her, an 'I'm listening,' even as she painted her big toe with more care, more concentration than Hermione had ever seen Ginny show her own schoolwork. The tip of her pink tongue was even sticking out of the corner of her glossy pink lips.
Hermione opened her mouth, but her mind was suddenly blank. "Um... Never mind." Those were the only words her tongue would allow her to form; the others stuck in her throat on their way out. She swallowed but her throat still felt uncomfortably tight.
She didn't know this girl, this Ravenclaw who looked and behaved as if worthy of a life-long residency at St Mungos'. Hermione couldn't say that Luna Lovegood didn't deserve this...
Even in her own head that fell a bit flat. Later, much later, when she could afford to ruminate on such things instead of school work or S.P.E.W, Hermione would lie in bed and connect the dots.
She remembered Primary school and... and how the other students had taunted her when she'd only wanted to be acknowledged as something other than the bushy haired girl with large front teeth. When she'd wanted them to ooh and ahh at her intelligence, not the way her hair seemed to defy gravity - even after a soggy, half eaten tuna sandwich had been thrown at it.
Hermione had tried to help her peers too, like her mother had said she should. Hermione should never have listened to her.
"Here's alliteration for ya, Granger." One student had said, after a particularly bad day in class. English, it had been English - right before lunch.
That was when they jeered at her, alternating between sing-song voices and deep, threatening booms - stutters that mimicked rappers when their voices skipped over and over, like a scratched CD. Hopping and skipping around her as if they were at play (the faraway teachers had probably thought they were). Some of them even had their hands over their mouths or one ear, their free hands skidding across air as they pretended to be DJs. And they'd chanted, "Buh-buh-buh-buck tooth beaver-"
Hermione pressed the edges of the pillow to her ears as if that could block out the voices. The memories...
No, she thought, desperately, no more!
She didn't want to be that girl again; the outcast.
The buck-toothed beaver, brainiac, bookworm with bushy hair.
And, God, if that wasn't the worst moniker ever. Yet, still it haunted her.
The ghost of her socially awkward younger self (beaver teeth and all)...
She'd thought that would change when she came to Hogwarts. It hadn't, not even after the troll incident. The other Gryffindors had simply preferred her friends to her (even Ron). Her, they had merely tolerated. To this day they tolerated her.
And even with her own friends she felt as if their acceptance was tenuous. Like when they'd shared a carriage up to Hogwarts with Luna Lovegood, and Hagrid had been brought up in conversation.
"He isn't a very good teacher, is he?" Luna had said.
It was like she'd read Hermione's mind. That wasn't to say that she didn't like Hagrid, that he wasn't a good friend, but... Well, his teaching methods left much to be desired.
Of course, she never said that. Even without the added pressure of Harry glaring at her, she would never had said it.
She would never have agreed with Luna Lovegood.
"Well, we think he's a bit of a joke in Ravenclaw." Luna had continued, without a care in the world.
That hadn't annoyed Hermione. Even now. Even now, as she puzzled over Luna's choice of words ("we... in Ravenclaw,"), the show of unity that had been present in those words - a unity Hermione herself had never quite felt with her own house - that wasn't what made Hermione's hand clench into fists.
No, the thing that rubbed Hermione up the wrong way was that Luna Lovegood had been right. And, damn, if those words didn't sit right in Hermione's head.
Agreeing with that girl...
That didn't make Hermione as bad as her, she refused to believe that. For one thing, Hermione was willing to change so that she could feel that elusive sense of belonging. So that she could belong - just for once in her life.
She. Was. Willing.
And she hoped that they would be willing to accept her. Accept her as they hadn't been able to before.
But now - now, maybe that could change. Maybe it would.
Then Hermione thought of how she'd felt like she'd belonged earlier, when she and Ginny had been pontificating over The Quibbler.
Even at the expense of another...?
Trying to bury the emotion that rose inside her, that stung her eyes, and closed around her throat (and felt horrifyingly like guilt), Hermione thought, I hope it changes.
Please don't fav without reviewing.