Author's Note: I wrote this back in January 2012, more as an exercise in freewriting than anything. I'm not entirely certain why I had Hermione on the brain at the time, but I always enjoyed this little snippet. I ran across it in one of my notebooks, so I decided to type it up and post it. As of the date of posting I have no plans to extend or expand on this vignette; it just exists in its own little plotless bubble, as a mini character study. Please do enjoy.
Disclaimer: Really? You think I actually own anything from the Potterverse? If I did, would I be posting on FFN?
Everyone believed that Hermione Granger enjoyed libraries because that's where she could find the answers to all of life's questions. And yes, that was true. Hermione valued the information in the books, loved that between each set of covers was an entirely new world to explore, devour, and absorb.
But the knowledge alone wasn't what drew Hermione to the library specifically. If it were only information and facts she was after, she could open a book any old place and be perfectly happy. It wasn't the books, for Hermione; it was the library itself.
Everyone knew that Hermione loved libraries, but no one knew why. They assumed it was an escape mechanism; most people avoided the library, and so it was a good place to hide. And yes, that was true, but again, not for the reasons people thought. If a quiet place was all she wanted, she could simply go on a walk or wander the halls; hell, even a broom closet would suffice. It wasn't the quiet she wanted, it was the library.
The library, for Hermione, was a feast of the senses, a symphony of sensation.
First came the visual. Rows of bookshelves marching silently on for what seemed like forever. Sunlight pouring through the stained-glass windows and gilding everything a warm gold.
Next came touch. The still air warmed by sunshine. The worn floorboards shifting underfoot. Ridges of cracked spines, and the feel of the pages – some thin, smooth and sleek, others thick, textured, indented from the pressure of quill or printing press.
Then came smell; the complex smells that meant library, dust and still air and decaying paper and ink and wood polish. Then the metaphorical smell; catching the scent of a new title or author as one hunted one's prey down.
After smell came sound. The muted shuffle of feet, the occasional creak of the floorboards. The soft drag as a book was removed from the shelf, then returned. The muted hush in the air, laying thick and heavy over everything. The crackle of a long-neglected book being opened, the crinkling of its pages being turned.
Libraries even catered to Hermione's taste buds; the taste of library air, the flavor of peace and quiet and stillness and order.
This was what Hermione truly loved about the library. Not the ability to learn whatever she wished, not the metaphoric comfort of everything being categorized and orderly, and certainly not the escape mechanism. It was the sheer beauty of having the freedom to simply experience her surroundings without the need to intellectualize and analyze it all. In a temple of knowledge, an altar to the mind, Hermione was able to bypass her brain and simply feel.
And that was worth everything.
