A/N: DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING BUT THIS SO-CALLED PLOT

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Hermione sat in her favourite corner of the Hogwarts library attempting to make sense of the day. It was late in the evening. The sun was just short of dipping below the horizon, and a tawny, pinkish light was filtering through the large window under which she was curled up in a fat and lumpy armchair, robes discarded, legs tucked under her bum, surrounded by open books that she just couldn't focus on.
"Professor" Slughorn was a buffoon. A pompous, ingratiating, frivolous fop who completely lacked the air of a convincing intellectuality.
He'd fawned over anyone he considered as having some social standing, much to the bitter dismay of Ron… and Draco Malfoy. Ha. Ron and Malfoy on the same side in any situation meant that the universe was truly bonkers. But then again… she'd never known two other people with such blatant chips on their shoulders…

She shook that thought off.
A disgruntled Ron always pissed the hell out of her, Amortentia revelations be damned. She was annoyed enough without thinking about his bull-headed petulance. No. Tonight she was going to be annoyed with Harry.

He'd always been a lazy scholar, and it had been alright when his marks reflected that. But now…
Now he had that damned annotated textbook, and with Slughorn… with Slughorn… Slughorn creaming his pants every time he was around… ugh.
It wasn't fair. She wasn't jealous, and she didn't begrudge him winning the Felix Felicis at all. If anyone needed luck, it was Harry. But she was angry. It was a principle thing.

Hermione sighed softly, and pulled her hair out of the sloppy bun at the back of her head. The thick and heavy mass tumbled down, and she massaged her scalp, before turning back to her books and parchment.
She worked peacefully for ten minutes.

"Well, don't you make a pretty picture."

Theodore Nott was leaning against the shelf in front of her, with a half-grin on his narrow face. It took Hermione an entire minute to reconcile the statement with the source of it. An entire minute after which she eloquently said, "huh?"

Nott flashed a full shit-eating grin at her.

"Good evening, Hermione."

He said it like a sharp but pleasant assertion. His voice was deep and Hermione winced as she thought of Hannibal Lector casually sitting in a cage.

"What do you want, Nott?"
"I just wanted to congratulate you. Last night was spectacular. It's so rare to see Draco at a loss for words, you know."

"And now you're speechless. This is really turning out to be a great term at old Hogwarts."
"Oh yes. Everything is just grand," Hermione intoned, dryly.
Nott laughed. "Well, you're a snarky little thing, aren't you?"
"What do you want, Nott?" she repeated firmly.
"I think we're past using last names, Hermione…"

She blinked at him.

"Are you mad?" she asked quite seriously.

Nott just laughed at her again, looking delighted.

"What are you working on?"
"….Er, ancient runes essay…" she mumbled uncertainly.
"Excellent!" he quipped, "Just what I needed to get started on," he said as he began pulling books out of his bag and placing them on the table next to her.
"What are you doing?"
"Ancient runes essay, Hermione! Didn't I just say?"

With that he sat on the armchair across from her, and began scribbling on a piece of parchment. Hermione watched him for a few seconds. God, why couldn't things make sense for a little while? Nott looked up at her and winked, before returning to his work.
Ah well. She thought, and turned back to her essay. Goo goo g'joob.

Homework assignments were more important than unraveling Gordian Notts.

Hermione had thought potions lessons could only get better after they didn't involve Snape. By the end of the week, Harry had been coronated by Slughorn. Hermione's bitterness was insuppressible. At least this time, Ron seemed to share her sentiments.
She was just beginning to work her way into a gloriously unhinged rant, when Harry said he was going for his first private lesson with Professor Dumbledore. And just like that, her anger evaporated.

It was exasperating really, how she found it impossible to stay angry with Harry.

She watched him leave the common room, her heart heavy, and then leaned her head against the back of the sofa, shutting her eyes.

"It doesn't matter, you know."

She frowned, her eyes still closed.

Ron continued: "I mean… Harry beating you. It's just marks and all. Doesn't mean shit. You know… that is to say… it's meaningless, yeah…?" he was fumbling, "What I mean is… you're still the most brilliant person in the world. Nothing can change that."

Hermione turned her head and looked at Ron. He was staring down at his hands, his face red. She felt warmed to the core of her soul. Her pulse stuttered. She couldn't seem to say a word. Instead she tenderly took his large hand in hers and squeezed it. When he looked at her, her smile was full and wide. She could feel her eyes welling up. It was almost too much.

And this was why she was so lost when it came to Ron Weasley. For all the grief he gave her, wrecking her blood pressure levels, he also made her feel elated in ways she never thought possible.
He was smiling back at her now. Her stomach twisted. She dropped her head on his shoulder, his hand still clasped in hers, and they sat looking into the common room fire.

Hermione felt that it had nothing on the smouldering embers inside of her.

Herbology with Hufflepuffs.
Helpful Hufflepuffs.
Herby Herbology with helpful Hufflepuffs.
Humble Hermione has herby Herbology with helpful Hufflepuffs.

She didn't realise she had been muttering out loud until Neville and Harry began sniggering on both sides of her.
She blushed and stared determinedly at the clump of verdure in front of her.

"Huffy Hermione's head hangs in humiliation," said Harry.
"Humiliated Hermione hisses hysterically at humorous Harry," said Neville.
"Harrowed Hermione hazardously hexes two humungous heedless halfwits," she countered.
"Oooooooh!" they chanted in unison.

Hermione swallowed her giggle and elbowed their ribs simultaneously.

Professor McGonagall swept into the greenhouse. She looked strained in a way Hermione hadn't seen in a long time. She walked over to Professor Sprout and said something into her ear that caused the latter to gasp in horror and drop her watering can.

Professor McGonagall looked exceedingly unimpressed at the exhibition. She turned around and called out, "Miss Abbott. Could you please pack up your things and come with me?"

Hannah looked confused, but complied. Her eyes darted to Professor Sprout, whose face was flushed and distraught, and her own expression morphed to fear.

"What... what's going on?"
"Just come along, Miss Abbott," Professor McGonagall said in an uncharacteristically gentle tone.

When the two had exited, Professor Sprout let out a sob.

"Professor...?" Ernie Macmillan asked, hesitantly.
"Oh Merlin. That poor girl," Professor Sprout wailed. Everybody looked about uncomfortably as she took a fortifying breath. "Her mother... she's been murdered."

Later that night, Hermione broke away from the common room, and went for a solitary walk. She had felt Harry's eyes on her all day, and they were full of pain and sympathy. She couldn't handle that anymore.
She walked up to the astronomy tower in a daze. All her worst nightmares, the bleak consequences of her life, choices, and situation were churning like a whirlpool in her head. Grasping the railing, looking out into the night, she took in a lungful of cold air.

Hannah's muggle mother had been murdered by Death Eaters, presumably for having the gall to sully the lineage of one of the sacred twenty-eight.
Did they dance around her broken body? Did they cackle with glee as they spilt her dirty, common blood? Hermione shuddered once, and never stopped.
If Hannah's mother was a target, her own mother was a prize. Filthy muggle mother of filthy mudblood Hermione Granger, best friend of the chosen one. They'd make a damn carnival out of it.

Fuck. Oh fuck.

She didn't know what to do. The terror and helplessness had paralysed her mind.

A gust of wind... Another shudder...

And Hermione hunched her shoulders and cried. Her head dipped until it was resting against her white knuckles gripping at the railing. She cried without restraint, the force of her dread was crushing her.

When her sobs subsided, she couldn't tell how long they had overwhelmed her for. Seconds? Hours? The night looked the same; the moon was still nestled poetically between two branches of the whomping willow.
Then she heard a soft rustle behind her. Startled, she spun around, and there was nothing there. Still she felt a bit uneasy, as her eyes scanned the length and breadth of the tower.

Nothing.

She backed out of the tower, eyes narrowed and darting from side to side.

Her eyes were swollen the next morning.

"Wow, Hermione, you look awful!"

It was too early for Lavender Brown to be a thing.

"Hmm," she said, twisting her hair into a knot at her nape.
"You should do something about that. You're around Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley all day; isn't that enough incentive to want to look your best, like, all the time?"

Hermione looked at Lavender then. She was well polished as always, smiling condescendingly at her.

"Well, I'll see you around!" she sang as she swept out of their dorm.

Hermione waited for her footsteps to recede before casting a soft glamour over her eyes.
There. That ought to appease Ronald Weasley.

She was scowling as she went down for breakfast.

Right. So she may have gushed over Harry's attributes a bit too much to get a rise out of Ron. She was pleased, and at the same time peeved by how easy it was to instigate his insecurities. She supposed she was being more than a little unfair, considering the quidditch trials were that morning, and Ron was overtly jittery.
Since she had endured that, AND Harry's determination to keep his ghastly potion's book, AND a debilitating perusal of the Daily Profit over breakfast, Hermione felt murderous when Lavender gave Ron a coquettish smile as they made their way out onto the quidditch pitch. The come-hither smile altered into a sly grin aimed directly at Hermione once Ron had looked away.

Hermione stomped off towards the stands without a word.

She watched impassively as the trials commenced. Quidditch was... alright, she supposed. She'd grown up pretending to take Tottenham Hotspur seriously, for her dad. Quidditch was a lot easier to get sucked into.

A large, blond bloke came and sat three seats away from her. He looked about as put off as she felt. Feeling her eyes on him, he glanced at her... looked away... and snapped his head right back. With a smarmy sort of smirk and without a preamble, he said, "Cormac McLaggen, keeper."
"Hello. I'm Hermione Gra-"
"Granger. Yeah, I know. Everybody knows who you are, doll."

They both turned to the pitch at the sound of Harry's frustrated yelling as he announced his final ("yes that's fucking final!") decision regarding the chasers.

"Ha. That Potter is such a pushover. I'd have hexed those little cunts. Ha ha ha. Oh and look... all his chasers are birds! Not bad lookin' ones too. Oho. That Ginny Weasley's a total slag, I hear. So your boy Potter's that sort, eh? Why didn't you try out, doll? You're well prettier than that lot," McLaggen grinned cockily at her.

She glared back furiously.

"Feisty! Tell you what, Granger... let me finish this trial shite – it's going to be a fucking breeze for me – and then I'll take you out this weekend, yeah? Show you a good time. Eh, doll?"
"No, thank you," she gritted out.
"Playing hard to get? Ha ha. Cute. Alright. Have it your way. I'll play along. Oh doll. Ha! Look at that skinny little wanker thinking he can whack a bludger – oh – ah. Got lucky, the fucking garden gnome. Ha ha..."

He wouldn't stop. Hermione thought the only person this persistently obnoxious was Draco Malfoy.
Oh, and Zacharias Smith.

By the time he finally left for his try-out, Hermione's temples were throbbing. Jesus fuck.

She watched the loathsome chauvinist save four goals in a row with acute displeasure, and something in her snapped. Before she fully registered what she had done, McLaggen was grimacing at his supposed mistake.

When Ron grinned at her after his triumph, his eyes were bluer than the Mediterranean Sea.

When Ron scowled at her after Slughorn invited her to his "little soiree", she couldn't care less about the colour of his stupid little eyes.
When they shifted to watch Lavender playing with locks of her silken hair, Hermione just didn't have it in her to feel dispirited.

Harry was passionately engaged in constructing his 'Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater' hypothesis.

She was actually looking forwarding to attending the party just to escape those two nutters.

Hermione decided that wine was one of mankind's greatest inventions.

She was on her third glass, feeling lighter than she had in a long time. McLaggen and Slughorn were wrapped up in a frivolous conversation about holiday destinations. Hermione had tuned out long ago.

Across from her Blaise Zabini was sullenly murdering his potatoes. Neville, having the misfortune of sitting next to him, was visible tense. Hermione caught his eye, and gave him a lazy smile.

"Neville is going to wet himself," Hermione whispered to Ginny, who was seated next to her, and on her fourth glass of wine.
Ginny chuckled breathlessly. "And then Zabini will have to look more disgusted than he already does, and that I really would love to see..."
"I don't know. He looks like he's already reached super-saturation point. I don't think it's possible to look more disgusted..."

Zabini looked up from his spud-massacre then. Right at them.

"Oh Merlin!" Ginny squealed, "That's it! THAT'S PEAK DISGUST."

Hermione bit down on her lip and dug her toes into the soles of her shoes to keep from laughing out loud.