Quills
Many times she found herself wondering about the quirks of the magical world. She was born a Muggle, had learned the Muggle ways, and then found herself thrust into a world where Muggles were the lesser beings. Somehow it didn't make sense.
That isn't to say she didn't like it, though. She loved magic, loved it with her entire being. It made her feel different, and it made some of the pains of the Muggle world so much more bearable.
But she was still disoriented, even though it had been years since she first discovered her magic. All of these new things, all at once—she couldn't take it. So she resorted to the one thing she was best at: learning. At first this habit had kept her away from potential friends, but she thought it was worth it. If she learned more, she would be a witch, not just some Muggle. It made perfect sense to her. And so she studied, she studied hard, and eventually she surpassed the purebloods, the real wizards and witches, and then she thought that perhaps blood didn't matter.
But Hermione was made of Muggle blood, was she not? No matter how much silken enchantment was woven into her veins, she was still ninety-nine percent Muggle. She would always retain some odd Muggle quirks, and she would always be a simple girl at heart, able to get along without magic.
And this was what she thought as she stared at the quill—the quill that was lying simply on its side, nestled against the wood of her desk. She had never been good with quills, especially not at first, and she figured that if she used them at home as well as at Hogwarts she would be able to get used to them.
But now…her upper lip curled in distaste. She looked down at her ruined essay, filled with blobs of stray ink, and sighed.
Cautious of her Muggle roots, Hermione disregarded the quill and picked up a pen, a smile curving her lips as she was greeted with the childhood familiarity.
A/N: Well. I hope you enjoyed and review. The total for this was 341 words.