Something Deep Down
It was a cold day, by anyone's standards. But to Hermione, who more often enjoyed the warmth of her hearth and a good book, it was a cold day. She gingerly pulled her scarf tighter against her neck, and her jacket further across her chest, trying to hold in any of the remaining warmth she contained. Her whole body was wracked with shivers after a particularly strong gust, causing Hermione to wager that the was no longer any warmth within her. She tried her best to watch the field, frowning as she 'focused' on the players. Her father, despite being one of the smartest people she knew, was probably one of the most enthusiastic people she knew when it came to his favourite sport - football. At ten years old, Hermione could never understand the hype. She did not get the rules, she did not understand the chants, she absolutely did not understand the habit of putting ones shirt over their head when they scored a goal. When she was seven her father had signed her up for the local team; claiming she needed to get out and meet other kids, and that the sport would teach her a lot about life and herself. Hermione went to one lesson, just to support her father. After she finished, covered in mud and freezing to the bone, she did not speak to him for a whole day. When her mother came to talk to her in her room she found Hermione crying, still in her uniform, with her comforter wrapped around her shoulders.
"I hate it!" she screamed, shielding her face from her mother. Jean Granger was a patient and loving woman who always seemed to know what Hermione was thinking; this was probably the leading factor for her being the smartest person Hermione knew. Jean brushed Hermione's hair off her face, a small smile playing on her lips.
"Honey, if you don't want to keep playing you just have to tell your father that. He'll understand." Hermione looked up at her mother, snot dripping from her nose as she did. She flung her arms out wide, wrapping them around her, a new chorus of sobs leaving her.
Because she had quit the team, Hermione felt it was only fair that whenever her father's favourite team was playing, she would accompany him to the game. The wind was below freezing as it swept across her face. She sighed as she pulled her hair into a pony tail, but wincing at the sudden cold that assaulted her neck. She watched a particularly powerful gust carried a small orange leaf over the crowd. She felt something stirring in her stomach as the leaf twisted in the air, fluttering calmly down the field, and to Hermione's amazement, through the goals. She let a small smile cross her face, and for a moment forgot how cold she was. She looked around at her father, hoping to see her smile reflected on his face, but instead he was staring at the players at the other end of the field; his team, as they lost another goal to their opponents. He groaned, running his hands over his face with a sigh. He sat back, his fingers not leaving his chin as he paid no attention to anything else.
Hermione let out a huff, suddenly feeling an overwhelming spurt of annoyance at her father for making her come to the game in the first place. Her breath came out in bursts of white clouds as she breathed heavily in anger. When she was little, Hermione used to pretend that she was a dragon, and her breath was her fire. She used o run around her backyard blowing smoke at the trees and garden ornaments. She used to play games with her dolls, pretending to save them as the brave, wonderful dragon she was. As she tried to bring feeling back to her glove covered fingertips, coating them in the slightly warm air from her lungs, she wished deeply that she could breathe fire. She took in a deep breath, and with one last smile she let out her air. Her eyes widened in horror as the tip of her gloves were engulfed in flames. She quickly pulled them off her hands, throwing them to the ground in shock and covering the orange tips with her shoes, stomping out the fire. She stared at the gloves, her heart racing. Looking down at her fingers to make sure they were okay, she saw that no damage had been done what-so-ever. She chewed her lips silently, looking across to her father next to her - a bright grin smeared across her face. He was staring at the field, chanting something under his breath as he watched the men pass the ball around. Hermione sighed, looking down at the burnt gloves on the ground. Of course he didn't see, he never saw the magic she did. But with a sly grin she picked up the gloves and slipped them back onto her hands, keeping them as evidence that somewhere deep down, she could do something special.
The End
A/N: Words - 858
For Alice, Happy Birthday.