"It's no wonder no one can stand her," Ron said to Harry as they pushed their way into the crowded corridor, "she's a nightmare, honestly."
Hermione was a few paces behind the pair but heard enough to know she was the topic of their conversation. She'd overheard more than a few complaints about her intellect.
Hermione tore her gaze from the paper she was reviewing. She had voluntarily written a brief—barely seven pages, as compared to her usual twelve—reflection on the often overlooked role of witches in the popularization of charms for Professor Flitwick. He had finally gotten it back to her and she was eager for his feedback. Why did those boys have to spoil such a productive day?
She felt her eyes begin to burn with the familiar feeling of tears. She needed to get out of there. Quickly.
She knocked into Harry as she hurried past him. She didn't want him to see her cry.
Hermione dashed down the hallway, stumbling along the ever-changing stairwells as tears blurred her vision. She couldn't escape to the Common Room, or even her own room; who would want to be friends with a girl who cried over having no friends?
Hermione was usually very good with directions, genuinely, but hearing Ron's comments had rattled her sense of security; could they all see what she had been feeling?
With nowhere else to go, Hermione eventually stumbled into the girls room, hoping it would provide a bit of privacy.
The stall door slammed shut as Hermione collapsed onto the toilet.
She reached for the toilet paper to blow her nose but found it empty.
"So this school has an unending buffet at every single meal but can't keep some tissue stocked?!"
"And you know what," Hermione yelled, "while on the topic of that unending buffet, has no one thought of the immense food waste it must create? And who's making so much food anyway? Are they getting paid? Do wizards even have a minimum wage?!"
While Hermione really did care about fair employment practices, she also knew that her anxiety in this moment was misplaced. Lately, she'd begun to wonder if she really belonged in this new world.
Hermione leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. The sound of the dripping faucet recalled what had once been such a promising memory...
It had been a particularly rainy day in July. The skies opened up with sheets of rain, the kind that scoffs at umbrellas. So Hermione stayed inside to read, rather than venture down to the park. But Hermione didn't mind the rain. At least inside, she was safe from the jeers of the local gang of boys from school. They didn't seem to care about school at all, which made Hermione the perfect target for their taunting.
Hermione's afternoon-residence inside meant she was poised to hear the unexpected tap of a single letter settling in her entryway. She went to investigate, and there it was, addressed to her: an invitation to a new world, a world that wanted her, that had recognized her for what had always seemed to set her apart.
All the odd things that she had never been able to explain...when she'd fall asleep reading and the book would end up back on the bookshelf, her reading spot marked...her tea remaining the perfect temperature, no matter how long it sat out...that awful time she'd forgotten her assignment at home but then it had materialized in her bookbag… Her parents had always said she must have the best luck but it had always been more than that, of course it had.
At the news, her parents, always so supportive, had matched her excitement, despite not having any previous understanding of this new world their daughter had been invited to join—was apparently destined to join.
Encouraged by her parents and excited by the possibilities of a new school—a whole new way of life, at that—Hermione fought off an encroaching feeling of doubt.
She knew she was smart. She knew she was a hard-worker. But would that be enough?
To cope with this seed of self-doubt, Hermione turned to her favorite, trusted hobby: research, coupled with ample studying. If she was going to be a witch, she would be the best witch Hogwarts had seen yet.
She immersed herself in all that she could about the wizarding world. Hermione was thrilled to find that there was an inter-library loan system between the magic and Muggle worlds. Her days were soon consumed with reading and compiling information about the potions, histories, and charms of the wizarding world.
She befriended the librarian, Fletcher, who had grown up in a wizarding family but had not demonstrated magical ability himself. The pair bonded over their status as the odd duck in their families, as well as their shared reverence for books. Familiar with the ways of Hermione's awaiting world, Fletcher introduced her to a recently established program at the Ministry of Magic. Apparently, Muggle-born witches and wizards were matched with a pen-pal who worked at the Ministry. Their new point of contact could answer questions and serve as a link to the magical world until the students finally arrived themselves.
Hermione counted down the days until her train would finally leave King's Cross. Fletcher even joined her parents at the station to wish her farewell. But the first few weeks at Hogwarts had not been what Hermione had imagined, what she had dreamed of for weeks. Of course, she'd read all she could find on the subject of witchcraft and wizardry but not even her reading—which was quite extensive, by the way—could truly prepare her for inhabiting the world itself. Everything was so new, it was honestly more than a bit overwhelming.
She thought things would improve once she found like-minded peers in Gryffindor. She thought the first day of classes would bring some friends, or someone to study with at the very least. Even some professors—Snape, in particular—deemed her an imposter, and punished her knowledgeable attempts at participation.
She wanted to be herself and be part of the school community. But what if those things couldn't co-exist? As each benchmark passed with none of her hopes realized, Hermione's fears only grew: what if she wasn't truly meant to be a witch? What if this was all one big mistake and at any moment Dumbledore would realize she was an imposter and order her to leave?
Hermione opened her eyes.
The walls around her had been marked up with phrases and letters.
L.B. SNOGS
L.M. + P.P. was encircled with a heart.
It seemed as though everyone but Hermione had formed relationships and found their places at school. Hermione didn't really care about the snogging. She just wanted some friends. People she could sit with in the library, or at a Quidditch match. Was that so much to ask? She felt her head sink a bit lower.
She thought she had come prepared so why wasn't everything falling into place?
She really needed to stand up. A toilet seat could only provide so much comfort for so long.
She walked over to the sink and took stock of herself in the mirror. Even if she didn't feel it right now, her reflection still showed the same capable, determined girl who her dentist-parents always joked was the real brains of the family.
An attempt at a grin revealed the teeth Margot Mansfield had once compared to a beaver's. They were rather large but they were also the teeth that let her enjoy her mum's Sunday roast. Her parents had even chosen her to star in a commercial for their dental practice.
And without those teeth, how could she answer questions in class? Or inform—and consequently save—Ron and Harry when they were about to act on their own terribly poor judgment? After all, the other night had been too close a call with whatever three-headed creature they had encountered after-hours. No, she decided the teeth were to her benefit. And besides, Margot Mansfield wouldn't know the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane if an aconite plant hit her in the face.
Then there was her cloud of hair. Referred to as "bushy" by those vain enough to take notice, Hermione had always thought it framed her face rather nicely. Her mum and dad agreed. Sure, her hair was not predictable, or particularly palatable, but neither was she. And perhaps she didn't aspire to be. Hermione did not want to be simply tolerated; she wanted to be appreciated, she wanted to be understood.
Too bad then, Ron and Harry. Too bad, Professor Snape. Hermione would no longer feel sorry for making others uncomfortable because she was obviously smarter than them. If people at Hogwarts could not appreciate her for her smarts and her determination, it was not up to Hermione to put them at ease. Being a smart girl was its own sort of magic and Hermione had the right to claim it. All she could do was continue to be herself.
Hermione glanced down at her watch and realized if she hurried, she could still make it to that never-ending buffet. It was Halloween, after all, and she hadn't yet gotten the chance to share the ghastly tales she'd read about in A History of Magic. It would be quite a shame if only she got to enjoy the gruesome retelling of Nearly Headless Nick's namesake event.
Just as Hermione resolved to rejoin the school in the Great Hall, she heard the bathroom door creak open.
"Hello?" Hermione called. "Peeves, is that you? You really shouldn't be in here…"
Hermione turned quickly back to the mirror to brush the last of her tears away.
"This is a very naughty Halloween trick Peeves! You wouldn't want McGonagall to hear about this, would you? Peeves…?"
But when she finally glanced up, instead of glancing through Peeves' transparent body, her eyes met the reflection of a very large, very sickly looking belly.
Her eyes trailed upward and there, mere feet from her, leered a Troll.
She started back, quickly bumping into the wall. Her wand was heavy in her hand.
Hermione scanned her brain for anything she might know about the creature. What was the best course of escape? Were you supposed to remain very still or run in a zig-zag pattern towards an exit? Or was that for centaurs? Oh, dear, was there a spell for this? She was not panicking, not panicking.
Hermione opened her mouth to call out a spell but all that echoed off the walls was a high, petrified scream.
She inched closer to the wall as the door burst open with a clang.