4th Movement

Sitting at breakfast, Hermione Granger was, surprise, reading a book. Every few minutes she nibbled at her toast of took a sip of juice. At the sound of a loud belch, she set down her heavy tome to sigh exasperatedly at the red haired young man seating on her left.

"Honestly, Ronald, did you never use that gift certificate I gave you for Christmas last year?"

Ron thought for a moment.

"You mean the one for etiquette classes at Madame Puddifoots? Of course not," he scoffed. "Why would I need etiquette classes?" He paused. "Coincidentally, what is etiquette?"

Hermione snorted. Some things never changed.

And some things did, she noted, as Ron raised a hand to flatted and smooth the hair on the side of his head; the hair strategically placed to cover the tattered remains of his right ear.

This was why, almost unconsciously, Hermione always sat to his right. She always remembered to speak loudly and clearly enough for him to hear, while shielding him from curious eyes.

Yes, the wars had left scars on them all. Neville would walk with a cane the rest of his life; Dumbledore now wore a patch over his left eye. Then there were those who hadn't survived. Hagrid's hut remained empty; Mrs. Weasley could never send another jumper for Christmas; Parvati Patil was no longer a twin.

And Harry…

"Is it just me, or does Snape not have his usual scowl in place this morning?" Ron asked.

"Professor Snape, Ron," Hermione corrected absently, while glancing up at the table. Hermione could see it was true. The usually surly Potions Master was not scowling. His features were uncharacteristically blank. If anything, it seemed to her that he looked thoughtful, gazing out into space, his food untouched.

"Maybe he finally got laid," posed Ginny, plopping herself down on Hermione's other side. "I passed him in the hall this morning. I could have sworn he was humming."

Ron snorted into his scrambled eggs. "Professor Snape? Humming?"

"Quite nicely, actually," Ginny shrugged. "He must have had a good shag. I wonder who she was? Or he?" She grinned impishly.

Ron began to laugh and promptly started to choke.

Seamus, on his other side, thumped him on the back until he could speak again.

"Merlin, Ginny! The evil dungeon bat shagging anyone, male or female, is even less likely than him humming."

"What was he humming?" Hermione asked suddenly, the first time she had spoken in several minutes.

"How should I know?" Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "You know bloody well that I am completely tone deaf. Could've been 'Weasley is our King' for all I know."

Ron sniggered again. "Yeah, we've all heard you try to sing. Never have I heard such a terrible performance of 'Jingle Bell Rock.' Not that Harry much minded…"

Everyone within earshot suddenly went deathly quiet. Ron paled and Ginny looked close to tears.

Hermione was still buried in her book; the only indication that she had heard any of the conversation traded over her head was the whitening of her knuckles where her small but strong pale hands held her book in a death grip.

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Potions was Hermione's first class. Ron had a free period and was headed for the quidditch pitch.

Hermione enjoyed potion making. She loved the rhythms of chopping, slicing, stirring; loved the absolute, all-consuming concentration it required. She liked the heat on her face, the glow of the firelight, the soft bubbling sounds of her mixtures as they turned the exact color she wanted.

Dropping her bag on the floor next to her work table, Hermione frowned slightly to herself as Snape billowed through the door. The room immediately went silent.

Oh yes, Hermione enjoyed making potions…particularly when a certain Potions Master was absent.