A short 'un... but we all know where it's going...
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this twisted so-called "plot".
As someone who was self-aware enough to be reasonably well acquainted with her own insecurities, Hermione believed that she was rather adept at picking them out in others, too.
As a case in point, you could look at her accurate assessment of one Ronald Weasley: inconsistent friend and waning love interest.
The subject was temperamental in the extreme – easily aggravated, highly sensitive, thin-skinned, and known to hold grudges for inordinately long periods of time. As it happened (and armchair psychologists world over rejoiced) the floodgates could well and truly be opened by uttering the words 'so tell me about your mother'.
Ron, unfortunately, faded into near-irrelevance when put beside his dynamic group of siblings – the charismatic curse-breaker, the forceful dragon-tamer, the able bureaucrat, mad and clever inventor uno y dos, and finally, the beautiful and vivacious little sister who was basically her mother's dream come true.
"They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do."
Therefore, when Ron managed to win the enduring friendship of Harry Potter, it became his proudest accomplishment. It didn't matter that the rest of the Weasley clan was quick to adopt him, and vice-versa... Harry was Ron's friend. And Ron was Harry's friend. Ron mattered to Harry, the person he'd miss the most, as the Triwizard Tournament had revealed.
When Ginny invaded that equation, the balance was thrown off completely.
They were sitting out on the grounds, Hermione, Ron, Harry, and Ginny, during a brief and rare shared free period. They'd all ditched their robes, swaddled instead in the perfect warmth of May. Harry was leaning against a tree with Ginny's head on his lap, idly twirling a lock of her hair. He was also guffawing – with gusto – at Ginny's quite frankly mean imitation of Ron talking with a mouth full of food.
This was how they chose to bond: by taking the mickey out of Ron. The fact that it was probably because Ron was their most easily accessible commonality was neither here nor there – Hermione could foresee it becoming a thing. Inside jokes, a shared nudge-nudge-wink-giggle... Ron was not made to withstand such frequent blows to the ego; certainly not from Harry, his supposed safe haven.
...His frown was deepening by the second...
"Why don't we go for a walk, Ron?" she asked, her voice unnaturally high, "Give these two some time alone."
Harry and Ginny both shot her grateful looks, and Ron nodded in sour agreement. He arose, and surprised Hermione by offering her a hand to help her up. She couldn't fight the flush that spread across her cheeks as she accepted his overture.
They walked, for a long while, in uncomfortable silence that eventually got too tense for Hermione to deal with.
"Are you alright?"
"Dandy," he grunted. And then – "those two are a bit sickening, aren't they?"
Not in the least, actually. Sickening was what she'd use to describe what Ron and Lavender had been. Dear Prudence advised her against voicing that opinion.
"Ruddy potions homework is doing my head in," Ron continued.
Surprisingly, it didn't take much to tamper down the urge to offer to help him out with it.
"Let's go visit Hagrid," she said instead, "It's been a while since we've seen him. And it's been long enough since Aragog's passing... hopefully he'll only bring it up half a dozen times."
A reluctant, sort-of-smile twitched its way across Ron's face.
"Yeah, okay..." And he looked down at her in a curiously timid way, before hoarsely adding, "You, um, look really nice today."
Hermione self-consciously fiddled with a pleat of her skirt. "Thank you," she said softly, not elated, not indifferent, but on the shaky cusp between the two.
According to the most recent, highly distressed letter from her parents, three young women, students of the university of Gloucestershire, had been found in a... "state"... very close to her dad's favourite camping spot in the forest of Dean. Authorities suspected that they were victims of brutal torture, and the trauma had robbed them of all their mental faculties. They were like empty shells; dead on the inside.
The Daily Prophet spoke of dementor attacks occurring all across Britain; having your soul sucked out of you could definitely be considered "brutal torture"... if you wanted to play it down.
Hermione was wrestling with her hair while reading Neville's latest Herbology essay as it levitated in front of her. She'd stopped being surprised by his level of discernment by that point. There was a legitimate Herbology savant living inside that shambling young man...
She sighed in relief once she'd finally managed to pin up every last strand. But then a very disdainful voice spoke from behind her –
"No need to look so pleased. It still looks like shite."
And with that, Lavender marched out of their dormitory with a smug grin on her stupid face. Hermione rolled her eyes, bending to pick up her bag from the foot of her bed. It had been over a month since Ron and Lavender's breakup, and still, the stream of disparaging remarks didn't seem remotely close to stemming.
When she looked up, she saw Parvati lingering awkwardly by her bedpost.
"Listen, Hermione... I'm sorry about the way she's been –"
"You don't have to apologise for her," Hermione cut in as courteously as she could manage.
"I know. But still..." Parvati hedged, running a finger along the carved wood of the post, "She's being really nasty, but she can't help it, you know. She really loved Ron."
It was an honest to god struggle to not roll her eyes again. "I understand."
"Um... also... actually... I was wondering if you could do something for me..."
And there it was. The whole reason for that phony apology.
"What is it?" Hermione asked wearily.
"It's Padma. Ever since she split up with Anthony, she's been... well, really depressed, see? And I've never seen her like that before. I think there's something she's not telling me. Nobody else seems to know anything... believe me, I've asked around. But you're wicked smart; I'm sure you could find out..."
"No," said Hermione, shortly.
Padma-related guilt had been relegated to a fairly low position on Hermione's List Of Things To Angst About in the past couple of months, ever since she'd gotten involved with: A– Project Desecrate Mum and Dad's Memories But Don't Let It Tear You Down (DMDMBDLITYD), B– Project What The Fuck Is Draco Malfoy Up To (WTFDMUT, also known as, Harry's Sanity And Theo's Happiness Are Hereby Declared Protected Species), C– Project Holy Shit, We're Going To Have To Go Spelunking for Soulbits (HSWGTHTGSFS), and most recently, D– Project Exhume The Unholy Prince (ETUP).
"Why the hell not?" Parvati spluttered.
"Because it's none of my business."
"You're friends, though! And she's... she's my sister, Hermione. I'm worried."
"If you're so worried ask her yourself."
Hermione didn't want at all to be a part of that conversation for even a second longer.
"I've tried!" Parvati keened, "she won't say anything. It's killing me!"
"So that's what it's really about, isn't it?" Hermione snapped, "You're an incessant busybody who needs to know everything about everyone."
Instantly, Parvati's mouth twisted with offense. "Ugh, you really are a stuck up bitch, Hermione. I'm so sorry for bothering you."
She spun around and stalked away, her long black hair swinging like an indignant pendulum.
Breathing hard, Hermione sat heavily down on her bed, wondering why she just couldn't stop rubbing people the wrong way.
"...so really, western art owes so much to Manet. He's the one who punched the first hole in the wall that led to modern movement..."
Hermione was babbling. Next to her, Dean nodded absently... sullenly... and she knew he wasn't really paying attention to a word she was saying.
She'd watched him furtively over breakfast; he had been visibly fuming as Harry and Ginny engaged in incrementally flirtatious banter. In the climax, Ginny kissed a bit jam off the corner of Harry's mouth, and Dean threw down his toast and stormed out of the Great Hall. Feeling an irrepressible tug of compassion, Hermione had followed, and then proceeded to try and lure him into conversation over the next half hour.
Needless to say, it didn't go well.
"...the next great pathbreaker, would have to be Cezanne, I suppose –"
Hermione gasped as she was unceremoniously spun around, and her subsequent shriek was muted on account of her lips being smothered by another pair of lips.
Dean's fingers dug into her upper arms as he hauled her closer, continuing his assault on her mouth all the while. It took Hermione another moment to regain her bearings... and then she shoved him. Hard.
"What the fuck," she spat, wiping a furious hand across her mouth.
Dean stumbled back, panting, and he just gaped at her wordlessly.
"I said," Hermione shouted, "What. The. Fuck?!"
His expression morphed from staggered to horrified in slow motion – every detail of the transformation was documentable.
"Shit," he exhaled.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Hermione demanded wrathfully.
"I... I'm so sorry, Hermione! Oh fuck. Holy fuck. I'm so so so sorry!"
"You're sorry?! Tell me why I shouldn't hex you 'til you're nothing but a pile of ash on the floor!"
"Oh god, I don't know what I was thinking!"
"I'll tell you what you were thinking," she supplied spitefully, "Revenge."
Dean's eyes went round with dismay. "You're right. Shit... you right. I was just... I am a fucking mess. I'm so sorry, I –"
Hermione held up a hand to halt his useless faltering. "Just stop. I'm going to walk away now, and don't you dare come after me. In fact, don't say another word to me until I've decided I want to hear from you again."
She went straight to the library – the only place that she believed would keep her from bursting out with rage-induced, uncontrolled magic. There were more than an adequate number of precious books around to keep her in check.
In the fleeting interlude between potions and ancient runes, Theo handed her a towering pile of books.
"That's all of them," he said, "And... it stops now, okay?"
"How come?" she asked, deftly shrinking the lot and dropping them into her bag.
"He says he can't afford any more distractions right now."
Theo had a chillingly haunted look in his eyes when he said that. Hermione swallowed, and nodded.
"Okay."
On any other evening when twilight was just fading into night and the moon and stars had claimed their posts, Hermione would've been found either in the library or in her common room, deeply absorbed in some scholarly pursuit.
On this particular evening, however, she was perched on that well-secluded window ledge by the Astronomy tower, doing nothing – absolutely nothing – besides staring outside and sighing weakly. There was only one person she would've wanted with her then, and he was most likely ensconced in some sheltered corner of his own, enjoying a few blissful stolen moments with his girlfriend.
Not that she grudged him that... oh no. Theo deserved every second of peace and happiness that could come by. But it was a fine summer evening; the sky was sapphire blue, the moon was a slim, delicate, gorgeously curving crescent like a powder-white eyelash, and Hermione felt utterly, trenchantly alone.
Alone, desolate, and terrified. It was that time of the year again: they were just a day away from slipping into the final month of the school year, and that was generally when shit hit the fan. Terrible, awful things happened, and Harry came close to dying. Every bloody year, with no exceptions, ever since they'd enrolled in that mad school. Suddenly, the moon looked scythe-like; the grim glint at the edge of the reaper's lethal blade.
She wanted a welcoming set of arms to fold into. She wanted to be held against a warm body, to rest her head against a beating heart, to feel a gentle palm stroke her hair...
God, she felt so alone.
So desolate. So terrified.
The menacing calm before a storm was meant to last only for a short while, but Hermione felt like she had spent several lifetimes suspended that ominous stillness.
Her thoughts led her to pull The Razor's Edge out of her bag. Her cheeky post-it was still there... Oh! But her writing had been erased, and in its place, written in vaguely familiar cursive was:
Away, you three-inch fool!
In spite of herself... in spite of everything... Hermione leant her head against the cool window pane and laughed out loud.