2nd Movement
Hermione Granger brushed a few stray brown curls from her eyes, frowning at the childish script on the tattered parchment before her.
"Really, Ronald, you could demonstrate a little respect for your work," she muttered, trying to think of a charm to clean parchment of pumpkin juice.
A red head peeked around the stack of books forming a wall around his brainy friend, grinning cheekily.
"It's just a potions essay, Mione. I'm going to get a poor grade from Snape no matter what the parchment looks like, so why bother?"
Hermione huffed in consternation at her friend's apathy, but continued to correct his essay, hoping to garner him something more than a D.
She paused, leaning back in her chair and pinching the bridge of her nose.
"You about done there, Mione? It's getting awful late."
Sighing, Hermione bent over the parchment and scanned it one final time.
"I've done what I can," she said, shoving the paper in her friend's direction.
"Thanks, Mione, you're a doll." Ron rose, stuffed the paper in his bag and headed for the stair to the boys dorm without another look back.
Hermione also stood, wincing as her back popped repeatedly. She began packing her books, then, realizing the futility of it, abandoned her things for the comfort of a hot bath back in her dorm.
As head girl, Hermione received many privileges. But none delighted her as much as her private bath, even unlimited access to the restricted section of the library, though it would shock the entire school to hear it.
Her bathtub was more of a Jacuzzi, and as such, she made a point of soaking in it for a least half an hour every day.
She shared a common room with the head boy, Ravenclaw's own Terry Boot. The interacted very little outside of official meetings, each respecting the other's privacy. It was seldom that either of them brought friends into the dorm and never without prior consent from their fellow head.
The dorm was accessed by the portrait of a sphinx. Head tradition held that her name was Erinya, and she often was seen stalking the centaurs in a tapestry two floors down.
"Oedipus and Jocasta," Hermione mumbled to Erinya, who demonstrated a great catlike stretch before swinging forward.
Sloughing off her book bag and shrugging out of her robes, she left the entire mess on her personal table in the common room. Entering her bedroom, she sat for a minute to remove her shoes and sock before continuing on the bathroom, leaving various clothing items in her wake.
Finally she stood before the sink, rubbing her eyes. She splashed cold water on her face before lifting her eyes to her reflection.
Dark mahogany curls fell to the middle of her back, the sheer volume of it all seeming to frame her in a rich brown cloak. Chocolate eyes peeked out from under heavy lashes, sparkling with curiosity, and weighted with the dark knowledgeable look of someone who has seen too much evil for her years. Dark circles of exhaustion beneath her eyes made her cheeks look even paler than they were from lack of sleep or nourishment. Worry-lines already crinkled in her forehead though she was barely of legal age. Years of fretting over Harry, Ron, and her school work had taken their toll on the young witch. But lines were also gently creased at the corners of her eyes and lips from all of her happy days.
Absently, she traced a finger over her collar bone, feeling the bump where the bone had been broken; then down her right ribs, following the long scar left from a nasty slicing hex, courtesy of Bellatrix Lestrange. Neville Longbottom had killed her mere seconds later. The scar was thick and ropey and she hated it: hated the feeling of such thick, coarse tissue raised against the rest of her pale soft skin, flush against her ribcage.
But her hand was continually drawn to it, a nervous habit. She often found herself tracing the scar while studying, during meals or classes, or even sleeping. She would wake to find her hand at her side, the scar tissue raised under her palm. If she stopped to think about it she might find it disturbing. But she never really stopped to think anymore, not about herself; she just buried herself in her work, in the sensations of being in the world, never reflecting on the past.
And there were so many scars that her fingers could not reach.
Easing herself into the tub, Hermione waved a hand absently to activate the jets, then again to turn on her stereo. Of course, electronics would not work in Hogwarts, but she was not the cleverest witch of her age for nothing, and had researched until she found a charm to do the trick.
Hermione sighed deeply and sunk down farther into the hot water, letting the liquid and music flow over her. Tonight's selection was Tchaikovsky. Not her favorite, but soothing, nonetheless.
She would not go tonight. She really shouldn't. She was surprised no one had caught her, yet, though she had a suspicion that several professors, or at least Dumbledore, must know. She would not go back tonight. She must restrain herself. What was she doing, anyway? She was being ridiculous.
A half hour later, Hermione sat on her bed in a dressing robe, trying to convince herself to go to bed. She had more self-control that this, she silently scolded herself. There was no need for this nonsense.
Within two minutes she was out the portrait hole, treading softly but swiftly through the halls to a certain tapestry.
Brushing the phoenix tapestry aside, she entered, barely aware of her own motions, drawn to the large dark object at the far end of the room.