Even from across the hall, her posture was stiff. She was talking to no one, and no one was talking to her. Among the laughter, and voices, and scraping of cutlery against plates, her stillness drew the eye, a mean, lonely rock in a boisterous ocean. Of course, there were other sad, isolated islands, but none is as mean as one not long abandoned. For her, the seclusion wouldn't last, and that grace was a source of envy. The perpetually lonely with their faces buried in books and their hungry hearts on their sleeves had nothing to look forward to and no one who cared. There were no undiscovered friends who, one day, would put a hand on their shoulder and say, "maybe we're nothing alike, but I think we could be."
Perhaps they could be forgiven for thinking it was unconditional. Hermione would soon be giggling with her friends on the way to class, because, no matter what Potter and Weasley did, and no matter that she always got hurt, she forgave. She mended and put them back together, and as long as she did, no betrayal or public groping could keep them apart.
She'd leave that miserable place when she chose to. If collected grudges were poisoning her, you couldn't tell; she seemed content to dote on them and do their homework.
She got up from the table, keeping her elbows tucked in, her chin jutting out. Lonely, sad, hurt, but not defeated and certainly not lost. Ignoring her retreating back, Weasley was, it was agreed, yet again being repulsive with some long-haired Gryffindor. His hands were everywhere. It would have been impressive if it wasn't so embarrassing. Potter sat next to the couple, staring into his cup morosely.
Draco figured by the watery glance Hermione cast at the Gryffindor table; she would be spitting challenges at his sneers from behind the bulwark of friendship by the afternoon.
"It's disgusting," he caught up with her halfway to the library; he grinned maliciously, "a pureblood," then thoughtfully, "as pure as a blood traitor can be, that is - why would he lower himself to making out with filthy flesh flaps. Like worms." He delighted at his inventiveness. Hermione kept walking, back straighter than ever. "I suppose he must have had enough of mud and moved on to something," digging deep to keep the earthworm metaphor going, "less cold and slimy. Then again, his taste is terrible. I mean, he probably wouldn't even notice -" She stopped and jerked around, hands balled into fists, but he had his wand out already. Arms raised in front of his face to make sure it was visible, he cried, "Oh, Granger, please don't hurt me!" voice pitched high, like a scared girl's.
But she was looking past him, and at first, he thought it was a new tactic, ignoring him rather than dressing him down, but it was Crabbe and Goyle coming down the corridor, and she was assessing the situation.
Draco's eyes went wide as if he realised the possibilities, "my luck has changed," he drawled, "but of course, you could never have touched me," he put on his best derisive sneer, "even though you're so handy with those grimy little hands of yours. I suppose you keep washing and washing, but you can never wash the grime away because you are grime - "
He glanced at Crabbe, and his cronies laughed heartily. Making himself large, staring into her eyes, he stepped toward her with the two bigger boys flanking him. He was almost touching her when he leaned in and whispered, "What are you going to do now, mudblood?"
A sharp pain shot up his shin, and he pulled his leg away so hard he toppled onto his back. The draft of her robes brushed his face, and he heard her hurried footfalls receding down the hall. He sat up, "she broke my leg. I can't walk!" Crabbe's helpful hand was in his face; he swiped it away, got up and dusted himself off with extreme care. "You imbecile! She was right there; how could you let her get away! I will have her expelled. She's nothing, nothing but a dirty, disgusting mudblood; she will pay for this!" Draco wailed furiously, loud enough for her to hear.
It was just his luck that it was loud enough for McGonagall to hear as well, and before her cold, blue eyes, there was no mockery in his cowering.