A/N: Thanks, Sims2Lover. You're the best. :) This one's for you.

Hermione smiled at herself in the mirror. She had never thought about the way she smiled until she'd had to start faking it. She tried one with teeth, then decided against it. It made her look like a gargoyle. She smiled with her mouth closed instead, so her cheeks bunched up and her eyes crinkled. She toned it down a bit, lowering her eyelashes for a more sultry effect. Still no good.

She sighed and dropped the smile, leaning over the sink to examine her face in the mirror. Her skin was pale and drawn, with sickly, bruise-like shadows under the eyes. She splashed her face with water and scrubbed it clean on her robes, thinking of what her mother would say if she saw her looking so awful. She would place a cool hand on her forehead and smooth her hair away. Are you feeling alright, dear?

No. Goddammit, no.

Hermione felt the tears start to come, making her eyes hot and wet. She brushed them away angrily. You're sixteen, Hermione. Stop crying for your parents like you're five. All she had done the past two months since their funeral was cry. She was sick of it, but couldn't seem to stop. She knew that people all grieved in different ways and figured hers must be to cry buckets until she couldn't anymore.

Don't cry.

Hermione dipped her hand into her pocket, gasping and pulling it away when a thorn pricked her finger. She sucked at the spot, wincing, then examined the small red dot on her pointer finger. A bead of blood pooled and ran. She washed it under the tap then took out the rose more carefully, cupping the flower in her hands so the stem was pointing towards the floor.

The outside petals were starting to brown and fall away, but the middle was a deep, rich red and the petals soft as velvet as she brushed them against her cheek. Its smell was not as sweet as perfume but more natural and heady, and so strong it made her head spin. She put the rose on the edge of the sink and untied the piece of parchment. Don't cry winked at her in metallic silver letters and a warm feeling blossomed in her chest.

She found Harry and Ron in the common room by the fire, school things a forgotten heap by their feet as they discussed a Quidditch team.

"Why weren't you at dinner?" asked Harry when Hermione sat down next to Ron.

"Never mind that, mate," Ron waved it away. Hermione was glad she didn't have to make up an excise. "Listen Hermione, do you think I could see your essay for professor Flitwick's class? I kinda fell asleep in class today…"

Hermione looked at him blankly. "Essay?"

"I don't want to copy it, exactly, just look at it, y'know, get ideas,"

"What essay?"

Ron and Harry glanced at each other, startled.

"C'mon Hermione," said Ron. "I saw you taking notes. I promise I won't copy,"

"The essay on Godric Griffindor," Harry prompted gently, when Hermione didn't say anything. "Professor Flitwick assigned it at the end of the lesson today,"

Oops. That must've been around the time she'd found the flower. She hadn't heard any of the lecture after that. "I didn't hear him say anything about an essay,"

Ron gaped at her. "Come off it Hermione! You'd either have to be deaf or as stupid as Crabbe and Goyle not to know about it. I mean, if you don't want to let me see it you can just say so-ow!"

"Don't worry about it Hermione. Ron will do it himself." Harry dropped a book into Ron's lap and gave him a hard look. "Won't you Ron?"

Ron rubbed his knee, scowling.

"I don't see why you had to hit me,"

Harry thumbed through a book, his voice forcedly casual.

"You know why, Ron,"

"No I don't! I'm sorry I can't read your mind-" Harry gave him a look full of meaning and he trailed off awkwardly. "Oh yeah," He had the decency to look down, shamefaced. He rubbed the back of his neck, two spots of color high on his cheeks. "I'll do it myself, Hermione. It's okay,"

"We can talk to Professor Flitwick for you if you want," added Harry. "I'm sure he'll understand if you've been having a hard time concentrating during lessons lately,"

They looked at her, their faces twin studies in pity. Hermione found herself annoyed.

"I'll write the essay," she said, sounding more abrasive than she meant to. "Don't make such a big deal out of it,"

"Do you…need anything, then?" Ron's voice was unnaturally high. "We never talked, about the thing with your parents, I mean. And well, we're here for you, if you need us,"

"I don't," Hermione said flatly. She stood, not looking at either of them, and left without saying goodnight. The good feeling was gone, leaving behind the old emptiness and exhaustion. She dropped into bed and closed her eyes, praying that sleep would come, though she wasn't fool enough to think that it would. She had hardly slept for two months. Why should tonight be any different?

Hermione laid the rose on the nightstand. She had forgotten to ask Ron and Harry which one had given it to her. She'd do that tomorrow. She sighed and kicked off her trainers, then crawled under her bed sheets. She scrunched them up around herself so she was cocooned in a warm shell of blankets. It didn't help. She wished she was anywhere but there, doing anything besides facing an endless, sleepless night. Attacking dragons would be great; an army of angry trolls even better. Anything, anything to distract her from the aching sadness that wouldn't let her sleep.