Summary:
In which Hermione Granger is much less Muggleborn than first believed, and does indeed devour books. Quite literally. [creature!hermione] [drabble-series]
Disclaimer:
I don't own Harry Potter, or the cover picture.
She can feel the sluggish beating of her uncomfortable small heart, and the scales and claws and teeth and words straining to burst out of her overall uncomfortably small shell of fragile humanity, wordswordswordsohscribethewords.
She can feel them, every millisecond of every second of every minute of every half-hour of every hour of every half-day of every day of every weeklunary-cyclemonthhalf-yearyearsolar-cyclelife.
It's... aggravating, then irritating, then ticklish and itchy by annoyingly undecided turns, like a group of squabbling hatchlings trying to invent a game without knowing how to play it.
It ebbs and fades and spikes without warning or her consent, which only makes her even more aggravated.
But Hermione isn't a hatchling.
She knows restraint, and knows whenwherehowwhy to exercise it.
Besides, her heart beats faster and the things prickling like crawlers under her skin move slower when she reads, when she eats, and Hermione has never said no to a good piece of literature.
Admittedly, she's never said no to a bad piece of literature, neither, but it's not like she has much of a choice picking what she eats when she can eat by an accidental glance or overheard conversation.
Anyway, if burying herself in the library, which is the primary lure for her attendance at Hogwarts in the first place, will help her not break out (breakdown) and snap (snarl) at the closest example of the species she's wearing, then that's more than alright.
Hermione gets enough 'socialization' in with that amusingly persistent glasses-boy and that amusingly prejudiced chess-boy, anyway.
(Extra downside of mingling with the natives: just hearing their foul and grammatically incorrect remarks are enough to put her in a near-constant foul mood as well, which, coupled with the strain of keeping her shell intact, makes her less than patient company in crowds, defined as 'three-minus-her.'
She can keep the veneer of cordiality on for far longer, of course, but politeness is far different from patience or pleasantness, as anyone who has ever spent more than an hour within the fortress of Slytherin can attest to.)
.
.
.
So long as they don't bring along that Seer.
Because she's sure the Seer may have a very nice personality and very nice intentions, but...
Seers and her kind have never gotten along, not when their words of gibberish are nauseating to the taste, either dizzying with their self-creation, or causing drunkenness on their Truth.
If Hermione wants to be near Luna, she'll go to the library and check out a book on Latin nature poems.
Until then, she'll just prod the glasses-boy in that direction, and savor the taste of awkward but heartfelt sweetness.
Since naturally Hermione reads over and advises all literary pieces crafted by her associates, even clumsy unsure stammering drafts of red-faced confessions tucked into journals.
It's good knowing glasses-boy and chess-boy have followed her suggestions of daily journals, however, though she doubts that they know she reads all of them.
Silly associates.
Hermione knows all about those she claims as associates.
.
.
.