On the afternoons when she has nothing to do (nothing important to do, anyway, she always has something to do) Hermione likes to turn on the Wireless and listen to the soaring notes and harmonies of Bach and Tchaikovsky. Musical vignettes, she thinks to herself, (making a note to remember this clever little phrase) little stories narrated by cheerful flutes and impassioned cellos.

She grades her papers (it's ridiculous, really, how do these students expect to become aurors if they cannot seem to use apostrophes correctly? To say nothing of being able to grasp simple Magical Theory) by the window, squeezing her helpful (and slightly condescending) notes into each and every available blank space in the myriad of essays and papers. Each one is a little, red-inked dagger to the heart of the poor boys who adore her for being so commanding and actually wearing her self-knitted hats. Who try so hard to impress her with their metaphors and lengthy essays when all she really wants is a properly placed comma or two and a good explanation of when it is right to use a stunning spell.

On the afternoons when Hermione is too distracted or busy to take his radio hostage, Ron likes to tune in to whatever Quidditch match is being covered at the time. He paces restlessly around the Wireless (usually propped on the old ottoman) swearing, calling out advice to the players and (when Hermione is especially busy) jumping over (and sometimes on to) the furniture to keep from simply chucking the silly thing out the window when the Cannons lose again.

The starving artist in the flat below theirs (Ron isn't surprised he's starving. Who in their right mind expects people to buy paintings of flobberworms) has complained about the noise 9 times in the past month. He knows Hermione is annoyed by this kind of behavior, but Merlin, sometimes a bloke just needs to do these sorts of things. And the bloody couch is old anyway; it wouldn't be a tragedy if it did collapse.

On afternoons when neither of them has anything in particular to be doing and the radio has no real master, they turn it off and enjoy the silence for a spell. Hermione sets aside her books and quills and Ron supplies curry ( that she insists makes her hair curl even more—although she always takes seconds) and cold Butterbeer.

These are the nights when problems don't matter, and the couch doesn't seem quite so old, and Hermione can even ignore the leaky pipes in the bathroom despite the infernal, all-hours dripdripping sound. On these nights they're just two old friends again, as the starving artist slaves away downstairs.