And so it went on day after day, month after month. She would try and be an efficient potion student and he would not give her, her glory. By the end of her first year there she had gathered that she did not like him one bit. Trust him she did, but when it came to liking him, she reciprocated the feelings he had of her. Which were of unexplained, unspoken dislike. Yet there was still the feeling of admiration, well from her part at least. As unlikable as he was, he was undeniably gifted with his art: potion making. She would hang on his every word, pay attention to his hand movements, take careful notes and study the potion while it was being prepared. He of course would notice the way she stared at him, his hands, his mouth as he spoke. It made him feel pressured, like a bug under a microscope, he didn't like the feeling at all.
Years passed and their awkward feelings only grew more pronounced as trouble would begin to brew. His motives and alliances were questioned numerous times. Even Hermione had trouble figuring out what side he was on. Still she always hung onto the smallest shred of hope of him being on the right side, the side of good.
She hated herself. How could she have been so dumb, so stupid, so naïve to believe him to be good. When all the evidence pointed else where. How could she have been so gullible, so incredibly oblivious. It was all his fault. He killed Dumbledore. He killed their greatest hope, there strongest wizard. It was all over and he was the only one to blame. How could she not have seen this happen, she could have helped in some way. She just knew it. And now there was nothing to do just sit in her dorm close the curtains to her four poster and cry. Cry for the unknown, cry for what happened but most of all cry for what would surely happen it the future.
