You get dolled up for this fucking Hogwarts Remembrance Ball.
The enchanted mirror says, "You look lovely!"
In the mirror, you—the real, flesh and blood Hermione Granger—see a mentally scarred, fucked up 25 year old.
You always wondered how Moody became so paranoid. Now you know. Seeing a snake burst out of a decaying, reanimated body will wreck your brain, will make your hand twitch for your wand when you see a senior citizen look at you the wrong way at the market.
You frighten your family. Your parents struggle to say "I love you" now, and affectionate pet names like love, dear, and sweetheart never exit their mouths.
So you rely on experience. You've coped with loneliness and borderline depression before. You drown yourself in books, in work.
It would be a sight easier if you could fall out of love with your best friend.
No, not your boyfriend. Or, if you're being brutally honest, your soon to be ex boyfriend. Your other best friend.
Jealousy is a hunger, and it gnaws at your bones for nourishment.
You never thought such a petty emotion could overwhelm your calculating, logical mind.
But you're left adding things up in an irrational equation.
"Doesn't he get it? I fucking Obliviated my parents for him! I wouldn't do that for just anyone!"
You know you've gone batty as Bellatrix when you hiss, "He owes me."
The catchphrase of deluded witches and wizards everywhere. As if you could loan someone five galleons and then ask for them to date you as proper compensation.
Ron comes in, plants a kiss on your cheek. Glances at the glass of vodka and—well, there's two or three drops of Sprite, so you can call it a mixed drink, right?
"Merlin, I could use a drink too, since we're gonna be dealing with the press and everything," he scowls.
"Yep," you reply, going along with both of his lies. One, you're drinking since dealing with the stress of PTSD and Mer—God knows what else occasionally bitch slaps your desire to remain sober. Two, the Weasley clan has—unlike you—embraced the fame that came with their part in "The Triumph of the Light," despite their façade that they disliked the publicity.
That caveat—"unlike you"—fits so much of your miserable life right now.
You do not fit in with the Weasleys. You do not stuff your face at every meal, you do not think juvenile humor serves as an unending source of laughs. You do not act like a maid—you do not cook and clean for everyone in exchange for little more than a few, one second thank you's.
You thought you could tolerate them, keep them at arm's length by living in a flat near the Ministry. But Molly insists that you stop by for dinner constantly, and Ron's stomach acquiesces to her demands more often than not, and of course most of the others stop by, too, so then you're One Big Happy Weasley Family.
Every witch's dream, right?
Once Ron leaves your room, you finish your drink, pour a shot—you've gotten damn good at measuring, even without shot glasses—and down it.
You want the Mirror of Erised. Sure, you don't know what your heart's greatest desire is, but you need tangible proof that this life doesn't fucking qualify as it.