Hermione was having a Day. One of Those days. The kind where Ron, having decided that Hermione wasn't looking quite devastated enough, had decided to wrap his long, freckled arms around Lavender Brown, whose blond curls never seemed to misbehave like Hermione's. That was, quite naturally, because they were fake. Hermione'd well remembered her first meeting with the daft witch, when her hair had been pin straight, just like Parvati's. Apparently a bit of curl was in right now.

Not that Hermione was ever going to be in. Not like she cared, or anything, but just once in a while she wished her friends would notice she was a girl, and give her a compliment. Maybe about her eyes. Yes, that would be nice.

Worse, Harry was acting mad again, and that never boded well. Apparently, he had some sort of man-crush on Draco Malfoy, and was determined to catch him and gobble him all up!

But seriously, Harry was convinced that Malfoy was plotting his next strike in the War Against Potter (and Gryffindor In General). And so Harry, rather than having a nice, interesting conversation about Charms, was glaring at Malfoy, looking like his entire supper had turned to acid in his belly.

Malfoy, of course, was looking back. That calm, nearly transcendental face - until he smirked. Hermione could hear Harry Potter's fork and knife deforming (they weren't made out of cold iron, so were easier to bend). "Harry..." she whispered urgently to him, "Did you do the homework for Transfiguration?"

Harry looked at her, blinked, shook his head mutely... "I'm sorry, I forgot..." And then he turned those gorgeous puppy-dog green eyes on her. "Can I borrow yours, I really do know it, I just didn't get a chance to finish writing it." Hermione passed over the notes, smothering a smile at how easy Harry was to distract, even from his eternal quest to subjugate, conquer, or otherwise destroy Draco Malfoy.

[a/n: Hermione in her own headspace makes fun of her best friend. She's nowhere near confident enough to say stuff like that aloud.

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