Author's Notes: I feel bad for writing short chapters, I really do. But Hermione can only write so much about one day, I figure, unless it's an extremely action-packed day, like one of the ones coming up which ended up being seventeen pages long on Word. o_0 Anywho, I'm updating all quick-like because I feel bad about the short chapters. Rejoice!

What is a fangirl, some of you ask. Well, I'm really not sure. Like I said, it started with two reviewers in Prisoner of A Cabana, and it all escalated from there. All you get for being a fangirl is the delightful responsibility of reviewing every chapter, a mention in the author's notes, and a warm, fuzzy feeling in your heart. That is what being a fangirl is all about. So, because they asked, these people get to have that warm, fuzzy feeling inside: hermione8meg and Voldemort's Girlie. And Cryptic Dreams gets special mention for a very sleep-deprived review. ^_^

Tuesday, 11 July

10:29 p.m.

Number of times I have been insulted today: 7

Number of witty come-backs I have come up with: 5

Number of times I've really missed Ron and Harry: 9

Number of deep, emotional conversations I've had with my mother: 1

Yes. This has been quite the eventful day.

I suppose I should start by mentioning that I've still had no other news from Ron. I got another letter from Harry, however, of the short-and-abrupt variety. It was basically, "Hi Hermione, how are you, have you heard anything from anyone yet?" I haven't written him back, just because I feel horrible that I haven't heard anything from anyone yet. Poor Harry, stuck with those dreadful relatives of his, devoid of any proper news. And he being the one who was there…who watched it happen…they should really keep him informed, honestly…

I don't know who I mean by 'they'. The powers at be, perhaps? I'm not sure; it's getting late, and I'm losing all feeling in my right foot because Crookshanks is currently asleep on it.

Back on-topic: Seeing as I was beginning to suffer from serious literature withdrawal, this afternoon I was forced to walk to the public library and get some Muggle reading material. Not that that's all that bad; I have to keep in touch with the Muggle literary world as well, after all. So I walked rather ungracefully home, sagging under the weight of twenty or so books. And just as I was coming up the walkway, I heard an all-too-familiar, unpleasant-sounding voice say, "Well, well, well. Look who's come out of her hole."

I sighed and turned to see Emma Crick, in all her badly-bleached hair and phoney tan glory, standing in the doorframe of the front door of her house.

"Hello, Emma," I said in a bored voice. She only smirked at me, heavily make-upped (this is possibly not a word – I'll have to check) eyes travelling to the mountain of books in my arms.

"Oh, and here I thought you had gone and got a life," she said pityingly, shaking her head.

"Hm. And here I thought that you had gone and got some dignity," I replied scathingly, glancing at her newly-acquired belly-button ring. I had heard Mrs. Crick telling Mum about it, but Mrs. Crick evidently thinks that the piercing is, "A healthy expression of teenage rebellion."

Let it be written here: If I ever so much as consider getting someone to stick a sharp, metallic object into my navel, I should like to be shot.

Emma raised an eyebrow at me, seemingly surprised at this bold and, if I may say so myself, rather quick and clever comeback. Four years of having to deal with Malfoy has taught me a thing or two, I believe. Hanging around Ron and Harry may have something to do with it as well.

"So little Miss Granger's finally found the courage to stand up for herself," said Emma mockingly, that smirk still on her face.

"Don't you have something better to do?" I asked lightly. "Dye your hair back to a less hideous colour, perhaps?"

I would have made Ron proud.

Emma's face darkened. She stepped out of her doorway and onto the front porch of her house, leaving the door open. "For your information, I am waiting for a car to arrive. I'm going on a date," she sneered. "You know, with a boy? Perhaps you've heard of them?"

"No, I don't believe I have," I said sarcastically.

"I wouldn't be surprised," Emma said loftily, looking me over.

"Have a good summer, Emma," I announced loudly, starting up the steps to my front porch.

"I mean, look at you," she continued, obviously enjoying herself. "You're such a freak that even your own parents wanted to send you away to a private school. You're an embarrassment to your own family, Granger."

Well, at least I don't have a bellybutton ring.

"Yes," sneered Emma, "what boy could possibly ever see something in you?"

SLAM!

Emma's front door violently slammed shut behind her. She gave a little shriek and jumped at the sound, and then stared in surprise at the door. Emma glanced around, as if expecting to see other doors and windows slamming shut in a sudden gust of wind. But there hasn't been so much of a breeze all summer.

"Very windy today, isn't it?" I said mildly. And feeling immensely satisfied with myself, I marched into my house.

Once I had gotten into the front parlour, though, and had put down all my books, I felt my satisfaction with myself slowly ebbing away. I knew that I had magically made Emma's door slam shut, though it had been completely accidental. Under the Statute of Secrecy, however, any magic performed by an under-age witch or wizard is punishable, even the accidental, emotional kind that requires no wand and no spell. Harry blowing up his aunt, for instance, should have landed him an expulsion, or at least a suspension, from Hogwarts in third year. I froze there in the parlour, wondering if a simple door slamming shut was big enough to be detected by the Ministry.

I think I stood there for at least twenty minutes, waiting for a letter announcing my expulsion to come soaring in through the window. But no owl came. I theorize this is because the Ministry is too busy making up horrible lies about Harry and Dumbledore to care about my neighbour's door slamming shut. Or that a door slamming shut is such a very non-magical, mundane thing that they didn't even check to see if magic was involved.

Why I got angry enough to magically slam the door shut is beyond me. I think Emma's just very good at getting under my skin. She's had since kindergarten to practice, after all. Emma Crick could give Malfoy a run for his money any day, and she doesn't even have two empty-headed goons following her around.

Eventually, I allowed myself to breathe a sigh of relief, and I shakily walked into the kitchen, where, to my delight, I found Mrs. Crick having a cup of tea with my mother. Not really wanting to deal with both Crick daughter and mother in one day, I tried to edge out of the kitchen unnoticed, but their topic of conversation made me stop.

" – not necessarily a bad thing, El, but she has always shown tomboyish tendencies, hasn't she?"

"Well now, I wouldn't say tomboyish – "

"For example," Mrs. Crick interrupted, "those friends of hers at school, her closest ones are boys, are they not?"

"Well, yes," Mum said wearily, "Harry and Ron. But – "

"She obviously does not identify with girls her own age," Mrs. Crick said knowingly. "It's a social thing, really, once again showing that lack of self-confidence. She's more comfortable around boys because they're not as socially demanding or emotionally complex as girls her own age. It's a defence mechanism, you see."

"That's not really fair, Viv," Mum countered, and I was surprised to hear a note of anger in her voice. "You don't even know Hermione's school friends, and she does have a few girlfriends – Ginny, Ron's sister, and the girls in her dormitory."

I should tell Parvarti and Lavender that they're now my girlfriends. They'll be thrilled.

"Well, has she shown any interest in boys?" Mrs. Crick asked, sipping at her tea. "I mean, does she have a boyfriend?"

"Well…there is one boy…he writes to her…"

"Ah," said Mrs. Crick darkly, "a long-distance relationship. Doomed to fail, statistically."

At this point I noticed that my fists were clenched and that there was a kind of ringing in my ears. Mum and Mrs. Crick still hadn't noticed me lurking in the entrance to the kitchen.

"She displays the classic signs many of my patients having problems with self-confidence do," said Mrs. Crick wisely. "Unsocial behaviour, tomboyish tendencies, lack of care for her appearance – "

It was at this point that I decided I had had quite enough. I stepped into the kitchen, seething. "If you're both quite done," I said loudly, feeling very satisfied at the way they both jumped guiltily at the sound of my voice, "analyzing my friends and defence mechanisms and behaviour – "

"My dear girl, I am simply doing what I was educated and trained to do," Mrs. Crick said, sounding offended.

"What, stick your nose into everyone else's business?" I demanded. "Well, if that's what you're educated and trained to do, Mrs. Crick, I must say that you're doing a bang-up job."

Mrs. Crick's mouth fell open. I spun on my heel and stomped up to my bedroom, where I dropped onto my bed and picked up some book that I had left lying there. Violently I flipped through the pages, seeing nothing on them.

I am not unsociable, I thought furiously, I do not display a lack of self-confidence, I do not need to care more for my appearance, and if being tomboyish means having two best friends who are fun and who care about me, boys or not, then bring on the tomboyish tendencies.

I heard my bedroom door open and quickly pretended to be fascinated by what I was reading as Mum sat down on my bed next to me.

"Mrs. Crick's gone home," she said. "I think you offended her."

I remained silent, still pretending to read. "That was quite rude, Hermione," Mum chastised. She suddenly smiled widely. "But I've been dying to say it myself for some time, I must admit."

"Why do you put up with that cow?" I burst out, lowering my book.

Mum looked half-surprised, half-amused at this outburst. "Because she is a patient of mine, Hermione, and yes – a friend." I looked skeptically at her. "Mrs. Crick doesn't mean any harm. She's really just trying to be helpful in her – er – own way."

"Real helpful," I muttered dryly. But what Mrs. Crick said had stuck, to my chagrin. About me being too tomboyish…and I think that's why I suddenly blurted out, "You think I'm not girly enough, don't you?"

"Whatever are you talking about?" Mum asked, raising one eyebrow.

"Do I have tomboyish tendencies and lack care for my appearance?" I demanded.

Mum sighed and rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Hermione – "

"But you do wish I was more girly," I said accusingly. "You wish I was into fashion and makeup and boys – "

"What I do wish is that you would stop taking everything Mrs. Crick says so seriously," Mum interrupted. "I know you'll never dutifully apply make-up every morning or read fashion magazines, but that really doesn't matter to me honey, you know that! You're a smart, beautiful girl, Hermione Granger, and don't you forget that," she said adamantly. "You have amazing gifts that Dad and I could never have dreamed of. You're the smartest sorceress in your class. And, thank heavens, you've never wanted to get your navel pierced," she said, smiling dryly.

"I am a witch, Mum, not a sorceress," I said in exasperation.

 Mum smiled and smoothed my hair with her hand, something she hasn't done since I was small. "Oh, same difference. What matters is that Dad and I are proud of you, darling. You've already grown into a very mature, intelligent young woman."

I was taken aback by this statement, and suddenly felt very warm inside. It was like one of those touching mother-daughter moments like in films. I smiled up at Mum and then sighed, feeling much better. "So d'you think Mrs. Crick will be back?" I asked wryly.

"Undoubtedly. But I predict she'll stay away for a day or two, at most. She was quite offended."

Now I felt much, much better.

A thought suddenly came to me, and I twisted to look Mum in the eye. "Mum?"

"Yes?"

"Does anyone else in our family have bushy hair?"

Mum snorted, something I've never heard her do before. "When I was your age, birds used my hair as a nest."

I gawked at her. This straight, shiny-haired creature had once had hair like mine?!

"A little hair product doesn't hurt, you know…" Mum advised.

I scowled, my heart sinking. "I can't be bothered with that stuff every day," I said, remembering the hours of careful work and potion that had gone into my hair at the Yule Ball last year.

"Well, I grew out of it, somewhat," Mum said, shrugging. "I'm sure you will, too."

With another smile and a loving pat on the back, Mum rose and left my bedroom, and I did a little silent dance for joy, scaring Crookshanks, who had been sleeping contentedly on my pillow. I managed to tell off Emma Crick and her mother, may grow out of bushy hair, am evidently an amazing sorceress, and my parents love me for who I am.

I really do have the best parents in the world. With Mr. and Mrs. Weasley coming in a close second, of course.

It's times like these when I feel very, very sorry for Harry…

I will not cry.