Hello, my lovely readers. I'm so, so sorry for my absence these last few months. Let's just say that I've got some mental health stuff going on that makes it hard for me to get the stuff I absolutely need to get done, much less the things that I want to get done. Those problems are what gave me the inspiration for this chapter. I think that everyone reaches that point where you just can't keep going anymore, and for Hermione, that is now. So please sit back, relax, and enjoy Popular.

Sorry that I'm not copying down the words verbatim. My personal experience is that when you are in a dark place, like Hermione is, that it's hard to focus on the little things in the present because you're too busy with the weight of both the big and little things of the past.

PS. I do not own Harry Potter or Wicked. The idea for this story came from Wings of Fancy's Musical Maladies.

She wasn't proud of it, but as soon as they were released from the curse, Hermione ran. For once, she allowed herself to forget about the people who needed her help, about Ron, the tortured look on his face. She couldn't take it anymore. She didn't understand, she didn't know how to help. She was powerless against the curse being levied at the school she loved so much.

Now, Hermione prided herself on being able to face her problems. She was a Gryffindor, after all. She hadn't backed down in first year with the sorcerer's stone, she hadn't balked at going to save Sirius, she soldiered on with finding the Horcruxes. But there comes a time when you are tired of being strong. There will always be a time when you've been fighting for so long that you can't remember a time when you weren't and it doesn't seem worth it to fight anymore, because whatever's coming can hardly be worse than what you've gone through trying to stop it. For Hermione Jean Granger, that day was today.

Without noticing it, her feet carried her to her—what could she even call it? Her room, her temporary asylum, her prison? Anyway, the temporary habitation that she shared with Pansy. Unfortunately, the aforementioned Slytherin was already there. Hermione wanted to berate her for leaving before people were helped, but she supposed that she was hardly one to throw stones.

She didn't have the energy or will to engage with Pansy, so she simply slumped to her bed and hoped that the other girl would stay silent.

The figure in the door startled Pansy. For one thing, she appeared too quickly to have stayed long enough to help anyone, which was a shock in itself. Secondly, she had this look in her eyes. It took a minute for her to recognize it, but she did. It was the same look that she had seen during the war in the eyes of her classmates as they heard about disaster after disaster. It was the look that she saw when she looked in the mirror on those days where she missed her parents.

Despair.

Pansy suddenly felt a surge of empathy for the girl. This time, she was sure that it came not from Galinda's reservoir of emotions, but her own. She wasn't sure whether that was more or less disturbing than the alternative.

She wanted to do something to help. But something else held her back. Memories of lessons that her parents danced through her head, warring with what she had started to learn about things like compassion and friendship.

The thought struck her like a lightning bolt, rendering her astonished. Did she just consider Hermione Granger, the muggleborn who she had spent years resenting and tearing down whenever possible, a friend? But, Pansy realized, somewhere between the fights, the forced cooperation, and the fearful moments, she had come to respect the other girl's relentless nature and constant curiosity. They weren't best friends by any stretch of the imagination, but Pansy wasn't heartless. As she watched the girl now curled up, virtually unresponsive, on her bed, Pansy wanted to do something to help her. But what could she do?

Hermione was tired. She was tired physically, mentally, and emotionally. So of course, the worst possible occurrence (other than Voldemort somehow returning in full power) had to happen. Pansy started singing.

She thought that maybe the girl doesn't even notice at first. She seems deep in thought about something. Normally she would have stored away this new information with the vigor that she did with all new knowledge, but this time, she couldn't bring herself to do more than dully notice.

"Whenever I see someone less fortunate than I. And let's face it, who isn't? Less fortunate than I. My tender heart tends to start to bleed."

Hermione was listening to the words pouring from Pansy's mouth. And while part of her wanted to scoff at the shallowness, self-centeredness, and condescension that she would normally hear in such a statement, another part of her felt longing to have someone who actually cared about her in the way that Glinda seemed to for Elphaba. Sure, she had Harry and Ron, but that wasn't quite the same as a girl to fuss around with her and make her feel pretty sometimes. She wasn't a prissy person, but it might have been nice sometimes.

Of course, Pansy didn't stop singing because Hermione was thinking, so the Gryffindor was taken very much by surprise when the other girl took her hands, pulling her to her feet. She swung Hermione around, finally depositing her next to her as though they were watching a beautiful sunrise together.

As she swung, Hermione tuned back in to Pansy's words.

"Follow my lead, and yes, indeed. You. Will. Be… Popular."

Wait, what? She didn't know what to say or to do. She had no energy left to keep up the charade, but luckily for her, she didn't feel the stirring that she had become familiar with: the little green feeling, as she thought of it. It seemed like Pansy was on her own for this one. Her job was simply to be there and act as a foil to her antics. And that was just fine with Hermione.

Well, thought Pansy wryly, that was one way to get her to react.

When she had thought to help Hermione, she had thought to maybe give her some space or pretend that she wasn't there, but instead she had ended up making her the center of her whirlwind. She supposed that was one of the many differences between bubbly Galinda and cautious Pansy.

Yet as she whirled around, singing, "You're gonna be popular. I'll teach you the proper poise when you talk to boys, little ways to flirt and flounce," she wondered whether Galinda's approach might not have been more effective. Hermione was certainly distracted now. She didn't look more happy by any means, but at least she didn't have that horrible empty look on her face.

Hermione was confused. Sure, she understood that Pansy didn't have any power over what she was singing, but why was she so enthusiastic about it? Didn't she see that it was useless to even try making the best of it when everything was falling apart around them?

She knew that firsthand. Over the years, she had been in more near death situations than she was able to count. Through it all, she had stuck by her friends, provided support, and probably saved their lives a million times over. Unfortunately, those experiences took their toll on her ability to see the good in situations. She knew that it was normal, but she still didn't like how when she entered a room, she immediately scanned for exits. She didn't like that she kept her bag in her sock or tied to her belt at all times, ready for a quick getaway. She didn't like that at night, the deranged laugh of Bellatrix Lestrange haunted her dreams.

She wished that she could have some of Glinda's naivete about the world and its inherent goodness. She seemed convinced that the world would just accept Elphaba. Well, both Hermione and Elphaba knew differently. Maybe they weren't as different as they appeared.

She watched with detached amusement as Pansy flitted around the room, singing about shoes and hair, and wishing, for the moment, that she could go back to a time when she believed that people would be able to see past the outside to what lay within.

As Pansy kept going, she noticed that Hermione wasn't quite into what she was saying. The Galinda in her decided to step it up a notch. She looked around the room and noticed her hairbrush, which was specially enchanted to remove frizz and make hair sleek. Picking it up, she approached Elphaba—no, Hermione—who looked stunned at what was happening. Suddenly nervous that she might take what she was doing the wrong way, Galinda sang, "Don't be offended by my frank analysis—think of it as personality dialysis."

Though Pansy was in no way in control of what she was saying, she agreed with the sentiment. Just because she happened to be a certain way, didn't mean that she had to give up. She was proof of that. The daughter of two blood purists, who was now saying to a Muggleborn, "Now that I've chosen to become a pal, a sister, an advisor, there's nobody wiser, not when it comes to popular. I know about popular."

And she did. She had always done her best to exude a practiced perfect air of what a pureblood should be. She had surrounded herself with a group of 'friends' who all followed her lead. But she sensed Galinda was talking about something else. She couldn't quite figure out what, and that bothered her. But music stops for no one.

"And with an assist from me to be who you'll be, instead of dreary who you were—well, are—there's nothing that can stop you from becoming populer—lar." She brushed Hermione's hair with the practice that came from years of trying to tame her own hair. Despite what she may try to exude, she did not wake up looking as perfect as she did now. She moved around a lot in the night, and when she woke up in the mornings, her hair always looked like she had walked through a heavy wind while having a rat build a nest in her hair. There was a reason she woke up three hours before she had to be in class every day.

"Pansy," her mother had often told her, "It isn't what you have in your head, but what people think of you. Perception will get your farther than brains ever could." She and her mother had spent days on end working on her image: how she would walk, talk, and dress. Everything she did was to get a higher standing and perception. Pansy enjoyed those sessions. For a moment, she felt almost like her mom really cared about her, instead of just the family image.

Pansy tried to communicate that in her singing, tried to reach the girl who always seemed so weighed down (No wonder, too. Her hair was so thick that it could drown the giant squid). "When I see depressing creatures, with unprepossessing features,"

She paused for a second, thinking about what she had just said, and realizing that it might not have sounded as encouraging as she hoped. She hurried on, "I remind them on their own behalf to think of celebrated heads of states, or especially great communicators. Did they have brains or knowledge? Don't make me laugh. They were popular! Please. It's all about popular. It's not about aptitude, it's the way you're viewed. So it's very shrewd to be very, very popular like me."

It was eerily similar to what she had just been thinking, but Granger was still unaffected.

Finally, she remembered what her mother would do at the end of every one of these sessions. She would kneel down and say to Pansy, "Just look at you. You are the very example of a pure-blood princess. Don't ever forget who you are, Pansy. You are royalty."

Galinda seemed to agree with that idea. "Miss Elphaba, look at you. You're beautiful." Pansy led Hermione over to the mirror, hoping that she would see that there was hope. Anything to get that awful despairing look off her face. Even though they weren't the best of friends, she wouldn't wish that despair on anyone.

But instead of looking comforted, tears streamed down the Gryffindor's face. Covering her face, she muttered, "I have to go." Then, she ran full tilt out of the room to who knows where. Pansy almost went after her, but she stopped herself. What was she doing? She was pure-blood royalty. She didn't run after upset mudbloods. But at the same time, she wondered what of that was really true. Looking at herself in the mirror, she didn't see royalty. She saw a little girl playing dress-up. There was no place for a princess in this reality.

Suddenly, Pansy was glad Hermione had left the room. That song had given her a lot to think about.

Once again, I am so sorry about the delay. And I'm sorry if the chapter is bad. Thank you so much for still reading. I love you all, and if you could review, that would be great. I could use some encouragement.