Disclaimer: I don't own anything except Hairything. Sorry to disappoint.

Hermione rolled over and hit the floor with a muttered swear. She hated Saturday mornings. There was more often than not

a hangover from the night before, and now she had a cut over her left eye that she couldn't explain. Rubbing her aching head, she stumbled

into the bathroom. After showering, brushing a vile taste from her mouth, tripping over Crookshanks, and dressing in jeans with a tanktop

and a hoodie, she glowered her way down to the common room. It was the week after Holiday Break, and already things were going badly.

She'd missed six questions on a test for Flitwick, fell asleep in History of Magic, and almost pushed Harry off the Astronomy Tower for

assuming her bad mood had something to do with cramps. Subsequently, when she hadn't paid attention in Transfiguration and missed what

she was supposed to be doing, she turned the glass jar on her desk into a miniature Harry that cried like a little girl when she died his hair

pink and then sat down and sulked when she gave him a Mohawk. It was very amusing until the professor took ten points from Gryffindor

and confiscated the, uh, Harry-thing. Hah! Hairy-thing! It was now the Hairything. Hermione laughed at this thought, making a few first

years giving her funny looks decide to do their homework somewhere else. She was lost in a contemplation of how horrible her week had

been when she nearly ran into the boys that had stood to greet her. "Oi! Bloody hell, Hermione, I only have two feet; I'd like to keep them

both." She glared at Ron. What an idiot. But of course, she would never say that to him. Well, not in those precise words, anyway. "Ron.

Ron, Ron, Ron. Ron, has anyone ever told you how completely," Ron's little mind worked furiously at this. Why had she said his name five

times? It didn't seem like a good thing to him though. "and utterly STUPID you are? I mean, seriously, I've been out ALL NIGHT, doing

something a sober person might have remembered, and I come back expecting you to at the VERY least leave me in peace, but NOOO!

YOU had to make some STUPID remark, and make my head hurt worse from your utter STUPIDITY!" Ron was afraid. Hermione had yelled

before, but before she hadn't foamed at the mouth. Luckily, Harry stepped in. "Hermione, let's just stop yelling, peace out, and meditate on

this. Was that a very groovy thing to say to Ronnie?" There was just something about his tone that sounded a bit, off, to Hermione. But

Harry wasn't done yet. Putting an arm around both Ron and Hermione, he said, "We're all friends here. Let us spread the love and joy that

comes from making peace. Now hug and say sorry." Hermione looked at him, completely confused. Then she saw the far away look in his

dilated pupils. Harry, the Chosen One, the Golden Boy, the Boy-Who-Lived, was now Completely Stoned. Hermione hung her head, and

laughed her hung-over arse off. The first years in on the other side of the common room got up and left, muttering darkly and shooting her

death glares. The earsplitting shriek was even worse for Ron. He was standing about three inches in front of her, and couldn't move because

of his stoned friend's arm. Oh yes. Ron hated Saturday mornings.