Eakring (EE-kring), ptcpl. vb. Wondering what to do next when you've just stormed out of something.
"Fine!" Hermione shouted, leaping to her feet and shoving her book into her bag. "Fine! I give up! I'm leaving!" And she strode across the room, kicked the trapdoor open, and stomped down the ladder with such force that she nearly broke one or two of the weaker rungs.
When she reached the bottom, she stood breathing deeply for a few moments, as the full impact of what she'd just done sank in. She – she, Hermione Granger, Hogwarts's poster girl for academic diligence – had just walked out in the middle of a class.
On one level, she was horrified; on another, mildly impressed with herself. (So Edward Granger's little girl had it in herself all this time, and we never knew it.) Mostly, though, she just felt relieved. At last, she was free of that wretched tower and Professor Trelawney's insufferable maunderings about doom and despair; at last, she could take all the energy that she had been using just to get through Divination without murdering someone, and use it on important things. Cheering Charms, for instance: she could go right now to Professor Flitwick and…
She stopped in the act of turning towards the stairwell. No, she couldn't go to Professor Flitwick; he was in the middle of a class right now. Besides, she had already arranged with him that she would make up the missed class on Sunday.
Well, then, she could always go to the library and… but no, that wouldn't do either. Madam Pince knew every student's schedule by heart; she'd never let someone into the library who was supposed to be in Divination. And, by the time Hermione had managed to explain the situation to her, it would be time for Arithmancy.
The common room, then? Maybe – unless Percy was there (which he probably was). That would be even worse than trying to explain to Madam Pince.
Of course, she could always use the Time-Turner and just skip straight to three o'clock – only she couldn't, because Time-Turners only sent you backward in time, never forward; Professor McGonagall had told her that at the beginning of term.
Well, then, what was she supposed to do?
You're supposed to be in Divination, you little git, said a voice in her head. If you'd swallowed your pride and behaved yourself back there, you wouldn't have a problem. You've no-one but yourself to blame if you don't know what to do with yourself now.
Whether this was the genuine voice of conscience speaking, or merely an inevitable delayed reaction from her guilt centres, is difficult to say. What is certain is that it sent her into an emotional tailspin. Tiredness, shame, and leftover anger all combined to convince her that she was a lazy, worthless idiot, who had stormed out of Divination not out of disgust at Professor Trelawney's woolly-headed anti-science, but simply because she couldn't bear to finish a class that she knew she was going to flunk. Ron's accusation, back at the beginning of the year, echoed in her head: You just don't like being bad at something for a change!
Tears stung at her eyes, blurring her vision as she strode with a desperate attempt at purposefulness down the stairwell and through the seventh-floor corridor. She barely noticed this, however, until she inadvertently stepped in a bucket of lemon water that she hadn't noticed was there, tripped, and came crashing to the ground in a cascade of robes and suds.
An indistinct figure in slate-coloured robes leaped up and began berating her, and she realised with a sinking sensation that she had interrupted Argus Filch in one of his charing duties. "Here!" he snapped. "What's the idea, you little imp? Can't a fellow even clean an infestation of gnome lichen off the walls without one of you rushing up and knocking his pail over?"
"I'm sorry, Mr Filch," said Hermione, wiping the moisture from her eyes hastily. "Truly, I am."
Filch snorted. "Now I'll have to go down to the lake and fill it back up again," he muttered. "What are you doing in the corridors at this hour, anyway? Haven't you some sort of class you're supposed to be attending?"
Hermione tried to respond, but she knew as soon as she opened her mouth that it was hopeless. If she couldn't explain to Percy or Madam Pince, she certainly couldn't explain to Filch.
"Well?" said the caretaker.
Hermione took a deep breath, and forced herself to say something – anything. What came out of her mouth, however, was something she couldn't possibly have expected. "Would you like some help with that, Mr Filch?"
The caretaker seemed as surprised as she was. "Help?" he repeated, blinking.
"Yes," said Hermione firmly. She had no idea where the thought had come from, but, now that she had said it, she intended to see it through. "Would you like me to refill the bucket? It would have to be easier for me than for you, carrying it up all those flights of stairs." (She tactfully didn't mention why.) "And then I could help you finish scrubbing the wall, too, if I have time before Arithmancy."
Filch stared at her for a moment or two, his expression clearly saying that, as far as he was concerned, the Apocalypse would be an anticlimax after this; then, wordlessly, he thrust the bucket toward her. Hermione took it with a smile and headed for the stairwell, feeling a warm glow of vindication. Slacking? Why, this was the most productive Divination hour she'd ever spent.