Hermione Granger was not the kind of girl one might call "impulsive." As Gryffindor's female prefect, she prided herself on upholding a rigid code of conduct. This code included many things, among them her attention to detail, her perseverance, and her quest for perfection. But the first tenet of Hermione's code was self-control, and it was this, her most-valued principle, that Hermione was violating now.
This thought had crossed her mind exactly once since her footsteps had re-directed themselves towards the seventh floor. Outside the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy they'd slowed as Hermione had pivoted on the spot and begun to pace. As she'd shut her eyes and asked for a quiet spot to do something she wasn't supposed to do, she'd felt a brief pang of remorse. But as she turned for the third time and the Room of Requirement creaked into existence, she dismissed the thought. Slipping her hand into the pocket of her robes and fingering her second-favorite razor blade, she squared her shoulders and walked through the door.
The brightest witch of her age, reduced to this - pressed against the rough stone floor of the castle, one hand over her eyes and one gripping the blade. She'd already removed her school robes and yanked down her jeans, knowing as she did that marks on her thighs would be much easier to hide. Not the brightest witch of her age for nothing, then, she thought bitterly, clenching her fist in anger.
The bite of the razor blade into her palm elicited a sharp gasp of pain, and Hermione dropped her gaze and watched the viscous red liquid curl down her fingers and unfurl onto the floor.
As she watched her blood decorate the uneven stones beneath her, Hermione felt herself beginning to relax for the first time since she'd boarded the Hogwarts Express after her O.W.L.s. And although it was her first night back and she needed to be at the Welcoming Feast, at that moment Hermione was powerless. Trapped in the spell of her own blood, hearing only her heartbeat, Hermione caressed the blade lovingly and dipped towards her skin.
One perfect parallel line became two, and without conscious thought Hermione added a third, a fourth, a fifth, more, until the top of her left thigh was a constellation, the angry slashes dotted through with bright pinpricks of blood. Still holding the blade poised against her skin, Hermione grazed her fingertips over her handiwork, eyes shut and mouth parted, like a blind girl reading the Braille of her triumphs and mistakes.
So drunk with her own power was she, so lost in the fog of her own creation, that Hermione might not have noticed had her half-giant friend Hagrid lumbered into the room. Merlin, she probably wouldn't even have looked up had it been one of the gamekeeper's pets – with the state she was in, Hermione might've absently patted Fluffy on one of his noses before shooing him away. All things considered, the slight man before her was really almost too easy to overlook. But then –
"My, my, my, Miss Granger. Up to something, are we?"
The dry, sibilant tone of the Potions Master echoed across the room.
