Written: August 5th, 2004
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I never have. I never will.
Pairing(s): None
Summary: Hermione has friends. Doesn't she?
Don't. Don't.
Hermione wills the spoiled Slytherin to insult her, but he doesn't.
No. Stop. Turn around.
And Hermione almost cries. He doesn't even notice her anymore.
Stupid bushy know-it-all.
She follows Ron and Harry because she knows that if she doesn't then
they won't invite her and they'd probably lose her in a crowd.
She follows them closely, examining the backs of their robes as they chatter on about quidditch.
That talk may have comforted her a year ago, but she recognizes it now
for what it is: exclusion. They never ask about her new book.
She goes to their games - even though she hates them. She read a book on quidditch this summer - and tried to understand it.
Hermione counts the patches on Ron's robe. Seven. Maybe she'll buy him some new ones for Christmas.
At the end of the dungeons they pass by Snape's classroom. "Greasy
git," Ron says, interrupting his lecture on the Wilkshire Wombat's
player Gerald Pananiz's use of the Wronski Feint in the Quidditch Cup
of '72.
Hermione smiles. Snape's given them a seven meter essay on the history of lavender in cheering potions.
They'll notice her.
Seven meters.
They'll notice.
Two hours until dinner. Three hours of chess and quidditch talk after dinner. An hour and half for dinner.
Five and a half hours until they notice her again.