AN: Sorry if this bores you to tears, but I thought that it would be nice to see some security from Hermione, since she always seems like such a competent character. And yes, I know that the ending's a bit flat.

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Hermione toppled onto her bed, thankful to have found the dormitory deserted. She needed solitude, needed to be with her own thoughts. This was quite funny, in fact, since there had been a time when solitude had been the one thing that she'd most despised and dreaded in the world, and when she'd been so alone with her thoughts that she'd felt that they were suffocating her, and that there was no one around to save her…

She took some deep, nasally breaths, punching the pillow underneath her head. Whether she was doing this to plump it up or to vent her exasperation remained unknown.

She was afraid that she was going mad, that she was coping so badly with recent events that she was losing her grip on reality. She was too weak to handle this alone, she should be braver… she'd always prided herself on her strength… she was a Gryffindor, she'd been made a Gryffindor…

Of course, there was a logical part of her that knew that she wasn't weak, that she was coping as well as she knew how and that she couldn't expect to allow her emotions to fester and keep her sanity at the same time. But Hermione Granger was not used to pressure. She'd always kept on top of her fears and emotions, always. In her eyes, stress was another form of failure.

There were several forms of failure in Hermione's harsh mind. Anger was a form of failure, because you shouldn't allow things to bite through your exterior and rile you. Pain and sadness were both forms of failure. Tears were anti-medals, the most damning proof of frailty that Hermione could think of. And so she ended each day with another personal disgrace, another reason to hate herself. Everybody gets irked from time to time (especially those who socialise with Ronald Weasley), everybody feels pain, everybody weeps. Even if you're a witch, you can't expect to defy human nature.

But Hermione did.

Her expectations of herself, not to mention of others, were impossibly high. She'd already ruled out the prospect of becoming a teacher upon leaving Hogwarts, because she couldn't bear the thought of enforcing her own expectations upon innocent children. She'd been an innocent once, anticipating nothing more from herself than to scrape the highest mark in Transfiguration class. She'd pressured herself more than most children her age, but it had been a realistic kind of pressure. Positive pressure.

Not like this.

She really hadn't meant to be so short with Ron. If he truly had attacked Malfoy purely for fun, then he was the sort of senseless troublemaker that she didn't want to waste her time with. But she doubted this; she was convinced that there was something more to it. She could have shown more patience, coaxed an answer out of him. Instead, she'd stalked off and kissed goodbye to any chances of finding out the truth.

She was aware that she was beating herself up again, but this time it was justified. She should have listened properly to Ron; she would have listened properly to Ron, if she'd been the old Hermione. The Hermione who'd laughed a real laugh, not a hollow one. The Hermione whom she missed so much.

She was sceptical as to whether Ron and Harry had detected her recent all-encompassing harassment. She'd done a creditable job of hiding her true feelings; anything less would have been a failure on her part, naturally. She'd coped so well after battling the Death-Eaters; it had been partly down to spending time with Ron, but partly down to what she'd later realised to be denial. She'd begun suffering delayed shock, and the shock had soon turned to bitter, bitter fury.

Why had she received so little sympathy? Why had everybody's pity been reserved for poor Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived? Ordinarily she was above such petty jealousy, but there were days when it felt like she'd played no role in defeating Voldemort's servants at all.

Ron was all right; he had a large family who understood just how terrible facing a Death-Eater would be. Hermione's parents were too preoccupied with their own problems to worry about such frivolous things as the near-death of their only daughter.

She didn't like to recall the arguments, but even less did she like to recall the silences. There'd been such hostility between her parents over the summer; sometimes it had felt as though they were trying to wound one another with looks of pure ambivalence. She'd been able to escape, often to spend time with Ron, and still be able to return home at the end of the day, reassured that her parents' marriage had survived another twenty-four hours. But then she'd been unceremoniously bundled on a train to Hogwarts, with scant communication with her family, left to dread the owl that she was terrified would arrive with the devastating news that her mother and father were no longer together…

Hermione had been presented with a situation that couldn't be righted by a charm or spell, or by her own wealth of knowledge. And it made her feel powerless, knowing that this, the one thing that she cared about most in the world, was something that she couldn't fix, not on her own…

This, coupled with the confusion and neglect that she was feeling over the aftermath of the events of June, was driving Hermione to certain insanity. Add to the concoction some unexpected chemical feelings for her best mate and you've got a valid excuse for a bed next to Lockhart's in St. Mungo's.

She really, really, really hadn't meant to fall for Ron. Really. It hadn't proved to be one of her more ingenious ideas. Yet the fact remained that the one person in he world that she felt was secure with was, well, Ron. She was never happier than when she was joking with Ron, or working with Ron, or idly arguing with Ron, or confiding in Ron. And sometimes - rarely, but sometimes - she saw him look at her as if yes, he had feelings for her that were a little deeper than those that teenage boys regularly feel when presented with any member of the female species. He looked at her as though he - fancied her? Respected her? Treasured her?

Regardless, it never failed to make Hermione's heart do a back flip - before sinking to somewhere below her knees. Because when she looked at it rationally, she knew that Ron saw her solely as a bossy, opinionated, bushy-haired friend of his who was nothing compared to Cho Chang or Marietta Edgecombe (pre-acne).

Hermione wasn't used to being so unbearably melancholy, so insecure. It was a strain, this constant depression; she wanted, just for a few dimly glistening moments, to feel safe and weightless again…

She rose unsteadily to her feet. She didn't normally do things unsteadily; she did them stubbornly, energetically, or pensive. She was becoming more unsteady a person, more fragile, by the day.

Opening the gold-edged doors of her wardrobe, she reached to pick up a small, drably-coloured biscuit tin that was tucked into the corner. Using the corner of her robe to wipe dust from its top, she removed the lid and began to she began to rifle through the hotchpotch of childish, useless trinkets that she kept in there. Things that reminded her of her life as a Muggle. A thimble that had belonged to her grandmother… a gleaming marble… a tiny straw hat that had belonged to her favourite doll...

Finally her fingers closed around a small, oval-shaped box. It felt pleasantly cold inside her clammy hands… she replaced the lid of the tin and shuffled back over to sit on her bed.

She examined the intricate decoration of the box. She'd never looked at It, never felt the need to look at it, for a long time. It wasn't much larger than a hen's egg. It was a pearly white, with pretty bronze shapes printed elegantly around the catch. Carefully, she unclasped it with her fingers and watched it open gradually. A miniature figure dressed in a tutu began to revolve slowly on a bronze plate. Faint, ambrosial music drifted from the box, so familiar to Hermione's ears…

Her mother had suggested that she take the music box with her when she first went to boarding school. It would soothe her homesickness, she'd claimed wisely.

Hermione had scoffed and assured her mother, quite condescendingly, that she would be fine at Hogwarts, and that she would be grateful for the independence. And sure enough, there had been few times when she'd felt so desperate for a connection to her childhood that she'd wanted to listen to the haunting tune of the music box.

But now the simple melody was enough to transport her back to a time of naivete, a time where words like 'Mudblood' and 'Death-Eater' were meaningless nonsense. The music box was comforting, quirky and familiar, and sounded adorably sweet.

Yet she didn't need it anymore.

She had Harry. She had Ginny. Most of all, she had Ron.

Ron was comforting. Ron was quirky - to say that was a grave understatement. Ron was familiar to her. And Ron was utterly, bizarrely sweet.

Ron could be her music box.

Hermione snapped the box shut and placed it atop her bedside cabinet. She got to her feet and slipped her shoes on. If she moved fast enough, she could catch Ron in the common room and ruthlessly probe him until he cracked.

"Right, Ron Weasley," she muttered determinedly under her breath, "I'm going to find out why you've become so suddenly jinx-happy. And don't expect to be able to fob me off by insulting me mercilessly, because I'm onto you…"

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AN: Okay, now - review. Please. I'm begging!