Summary: For years, Harry Potter has been Hermione Granger's tether to the magical world. In her sixth year, over a bloody potions book, she messes up in the worst way imaginable. But from the lowest of lows, the only way is up. And with sage advice from her dorm mates, Hermione climbs right to the very top. HHr, slightly (very slight) Angry!Hermione.
For her entire life, Hermione Granger had always been the one moving forward. The one that progressed, the one that improved, the one constantly in the flux of getting ahead in life. That was as much a part of Hermione as her bushy hair, slender frame, and paler-than-a-shaven-tree skin.
When she was a child, her foremost priority in life was attaining entry into Oxford University, just like her mother had done. When she'd told her father this intention, on a wintery day where the snow that fell created a dream-like escape from the sun, he chuckled and wished her the very best in every endeavour of life.
A kiss on the forehead was all the response her mother gave, but that encouragement was enough. And Hermione, from that young age of seven years old, devoted herself to studying and little more than studying. Her bedroom would be filled with books, tomes spanning hundreds of years of literature, spines thicker than her hands could hold, all collated and carefully placed beside each other like brothers and sisters in arms.
Every kind of fact she could glean from the world around her made its way into her mind, a sort of encyclopaedia of information from which she could draw inspiration. Hermione prided herself on academics, where she excelled, for there was little else to be proud of.
Those around her resented this ability of hers to store information and regurgitate it out in exams for the best results. She recalled the first incident of this, in year four, with a girl named Hetty. Hetty was trying to get the best in Maths, had been trying for the previous month or so, but Hermione just managed to beat her by a few marks. Hermione ran to Hetty the day later, excitement in her bones, smile as wide as the distance between the sun and the moon (roughly one-hundred and fifty million kilometres).
But Hetty brushed her off in that derelict hallway, claiming that she didn't appreciate those that showed off like Hermione. And Hermione just stood there, alone in the midst of a corridor fast filling with the rushing bodies of other students, and she wondered where she'd gone wrong.
She wondered what was so evil about trying to do well in her studies that caused those around her to steer clear like she held the plague. Throughout her childhood, Hermione couldn't wrap her head around her incessant loneliness, like an illness that just wouldn't budge no matter how hard she tried.
It wasn't just mental, either. Hermione's chest would bulge with a physical ache, as though her heart wished for another to call friend besides Uncle Alfie, and even her uncle had died early in her life. Her parents were lovely to her, the best parents she could have asked for, but the rejection from her peers cut scars into her heart that she'd never thought would heal.
In the school playgrounds, Hermione would sidle up to the other kids, try to enter their conversations and mix with them, try to connect with their hobbies and interests like her mother advised her to do.
But none of it worked—an abject and complete failure, a dagger to the heart of a girl whose worth in life was derived from her willingness to succeed. Those children at school would give her a wry smile and move onto something else. Others would hurl insults at her, words far worse than sticks and stones—more like hammers and bones.
They all left her, at the end of the day, so Hermione had viewed them the same.
Hermione felt the outcast, felt like a freak, felt like the bogey-woman to everyone in her life other than her parents. The ache in her heart grew ever worse, transforming to a pulsing pain with every beat. An alienation that drove her further into studying, and further away from her peers.
And then she'd gotten her Hogwarts letter, a true confirmation of her different nature, and her heart soared higher than those falcons in the sky above Crawley. In the year she had to wait for Hogwarts' first year to begin, Hermione felt invincible. Felt as if nothing in the world could skim her, let alone affect her mentally or emotionally.
It was as though the reality of her magic caused a shield spell to erect around her, deflecting all the jibes and harsh words and whispers of 'bookworm' and 'buck teeth' and 'no wonder no one likes her, she's a nightmare'. Those insults were candy floss trying to take down a fortified castle. Utterly, utterly useless, if Hermione did say so herself.
Boarding the Hogwarts Express from the fascinatingly hidden platform at King's Cross, her excitement only grew tenfold. In the summer leading up to her first year, she took her parents to Diagon Alley to purchase the necessities for that school year.
And a lot more books than she knew what to do with. Luckily, a bag charmed to carry far more than its size permitted, and charmed to be lighter than a wintery feather, allowed Hermione to hold everything in one place on the way home.
To say her father had been surprised would be an understatement. If there had ever been a time her parents doubted magic, it was all dispelled with that one bag. Oh, and probably when Professor McGonagall transfigured Hermione's favourite teacup into a sunflower, and then back again. That may have played a part.
But it seemed, for all Hermione's excitement and passion for the magical world, the world where she belonged with other wizards and witches like her, she still couldn't be accepted by her peers. After being sorted into Gryffindor, the house of those with bravery and courage, Hermione settled onto the fabulously decorated tables with hovering candles (hovering!).
But, despite the early conversations with Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, as well as other housemates like Dean Thomas, she was soon swept by the tidal waves of friendship onto abandoned shores where none existed but her.
She was, well and truly, once again, alone.
Though she had made acquaintances with a few Ravenclaws from her classes, particularly those with a fascination for books and knowledge, Hermione hadn't made a true friend yet. Outside of classes, she stuck by herself, spent her time alone, burrowed so far into books as if the outside world was fiction, and books were reality.
Not only had her dream of Oxford University been dashed once Hogwarts and magic entered the picture, but her new dream of being accepted as a witch groaned to a screeching halt too.
It was as if Hermione, for whatever reason, couldn't possibly belong with others her age. As if a barrier had been placed between her and them, and she was the only one on the wrong side.
And then the insults had started, in the same manner as before. Those jibes about her front teeth being far too large, those narrowed eyes and pursed lips and glares shot like double barrel shotguns. All directed at her, the bogey-woman who didn't belong in this new world despite her earnest attempts.
Hermione didn't mean to let the words—after all, they were only words—get to her. Truly, in her old life at primary school, that singular dream of Oxford Uni, ever present at the back of her mind, halted the tears when they pricked her eyes. But here, the dream was to be accepted by a new world, and so when Ron Weasley hurled those hateful words at her—that she was a nightmare and know-it-all with no friends—Hermione couldn't stop the torrential tears from tearing her apart.
She'd run to the girl's toilets, locked herself inside with only herself for company. And truly, away from her parents, who else would come to her aide? Who else would stick up for her when the push came to shove?
Whether in Hogwarts or her old primary school, Hermione Granger was always alone and lonely.
Hermione had always stuck up for herself, attempting to stand on her own two feet. But in that moment, shuddering with hurt in the middle of a grimy old bathroom, it was as if the balance had been ripped up from beneath her, and she tumbled down the spiral of tears and sorrow.
Whilst in the bathroom, she'd vowed to leave the magical world, despite its allure and grandeur. She'd vowed to herself a return to her parents, a reignition of the Oxford dream, and the magical world could stuff it for all she cared.
And nothing would deter her from doing that. From shunning the magical world that had shunned her first.
Nothing except, of course, the appearance of Harry Potter. And from the day he heroically saved her from the clutches of the troll, Hermione found her tether to the magical side of her life, a best friend with which she could battle the woes of the world.
Her first friend. Perhaps her only true best friend, themselves welded together through their journey to recover the Philosopher's Stone, discovering the true essence of the castle's petrification, saving Sirius Black from a fate worse than death, overcoming the insurmountable Triwizard Tournament, battling death eaters in the Department of Mysteries.
Their friendship was branded in the gauntlet of tribulation.
And then, in her sixth year, Hermione had gone and cocked it all up.
Hermione had paced around the common room, in the middle of their sixth year, with a storm raging in her mind. When she looked back, she realised that the storm was of her own doing, for some emotions were warranted, borne from truth and purity, whilst others were veneers one put up as a protection against something they didn't wish to face.
Hermione's was of the second type, she just hadn't known it at the time. Hadn't known how deep her true feelings reached, and how she was placing a barrier between herself and what she wished for.
And so she paced. Back and forth, in the common room, mind doing whirlwinds around what she wanted to say to the object of all her frustrations and anger—Harry Potter. The chosen one, the one Hermione had chosen to unleash her fury upon.
And so she paced, more and more, until her toes felt like they'd callous into stones, and her arms had swung so many times she felt they'd fall off. The common room stifled her, squeezing her anger as if getting it to explode, the air supercharged with the scent of her thoughts, as though an aura of heat radiated off her body.
And still, the idiotic boy wouldn't come down the boy's staircase to speak with her. Outside, through an errant window lingering behind one of the common room sofas, Hermione spotted the full moon glinting at her. As if it was taunting her, sending jibes her way, mocking her anger.
Mocking her in a way that Hermione had always been mocked, ever since primary school, and even during that brief stint of first year before Halloween. Those words of hurt that still, even then, cut into her heart and sliced open her mind with flashing memories she wished to bury in a place she wouldn't find them.
Hermione bunched her hands into fists, crunched her knuckles until she thought they'd turn a permanent shade of white, and breathed in the charged air. Let it fill her lungs. Then exhaled again, only to suck in another sharp breath. And her entire body tingled from the sensation, her skin now brimming with a potential energy waiting to hurl itself at Harry as soon as he stepped down the stairs.
But he hadn't arrived.
And so she paced some more.
Her knees knobbled with each step, an ache settling into her calves, time ticking past with such a slow descent she wished for a spell to speed the world up. Perhaps the time turner, if McGonagall still possessed it in her office, would hasten Harry's arrival to the common room.
Indeed, it felt like a time turner was the only thing that would save Harry from the wrath Hermione would send his way.
She paused for a second, near one of the cushioned and comfortable armchairs that glowed a blood red in the moonlight, and then—
A click alerted Hermione to a door closing. And her breath hitched. Her head snapped to the staircase, lungs bated, mind stopping her raging thoughts for the briefest moment. Every part of her was focussed at the top of the stairs, staring with wide eyes, her heartbeat in her ears, at that spot where a foot then appeared.
And she let out a breath, the common room's warmth rising to a scorch. She swept to the base of the staircase, robes billowing around her like she was Professor Snape, air bashing her face, and shot Harry a venomous glare.
Venomous, because she wished to infect him with the anger she'd harboured since the beginning of the year. Ever since he got that book—
No, she couldn't think about it. She had to release her volley of words, shove her fury onto him, and force him to realise just exactly what he was doing to her.
And more importantly, what he was doing to himself.
She glanced up at his face, at his harrowed eyes, at the emerald green that, rather than sparkling, was dimmed like the colour had been washed out. His glasses were askew, dangling on the edges of his ears, and she had half the mind to flick a quick oculus reparo his way. His robes hung off him, too, far too shabby, shielding most of his pale, almost sickly skin from her view.
Instead, her words were laced with only a little of the fury bubbling through the cauldron of her emotions. "Sit down," she ordered. "Sit down."
His eyes widened, that scar jagged as he touched a hand to it absentmindedly. Then his hand lowered again. Dropped to his side, and he stopped on the last step, as if afraid of what Hermione would do if he descended to the floor.
Hermione turned, pointed with a sharp finger towards the sofa, clad in Gryffindor colours that seemed greyer than ever before, like ghoulish clouds on a rain-lashed day. "I told you to sit down. Now, Harry."
For a second, as she turned back to him, his eyes flashed with something she didn't want to decipher. His mouth opened. "What's the matter—"
"I'll bloody tell you what's the matter, if you just sit the hell down."
Hermione froze at her own words, shock splitting her conscience in two. She'd never, in her entire life, spoken to Harry that way. He was her tether to the magical world, the person that had never left her side since first year Halloween, and she'd never abandoned him either.
And now she was…shouting at him.
Yes. Yes, you are, the morbid side of her mind said, and she let that side win. A cowardly victory, she would later admit to herself, but in the moment, her mind could do nothing else.
Harry didn't say a word, head lowered and gaze burrowing into the all-of-a-sudden interesting carpet. He slinked over to the sofa, turned, faced Hermione's flashing eyes once more, and dropped backwards into the fabric.
He sank a little into the sofa, cushions sighing as if they were comforted by his presence after being scared by Hermione's flaring anger.
Hermione rounded on him once again, her rage not letting up for even a second. But Harry beat her to speaking, perhaps sensing the oncoming invasion.
"What's the matter, Hermione?" Harry said, voice tight, taut with frustration, about to snap. "Look, I haven't got the time—"
"Does it look like I care?" Hermione said, and to her dread, prickles of tears tingled her eyes. She blinked them away, and strengthened her voice, speaking with the force of a cannon whose spark was lit. "Does it really, Harry, look like I care?"
Harry's gaze fell to the floor, and his hands clasped themselves together, as if seeking comfort from each other. "You really don't care?" he asked, voice smaller than Hermione had ever heard.
Hermione's mind stilled. His words smacking her. She jittered, then stilled again. Then her clenched fists tightened. And her body flared hotter than the surface of the sun, cheeks growing red from rage and anger all bubbling up and out of control.
For Harry, after all he had done for her, and all she had done for him, actually believed, the idiot, that Hermione didn't care. That she, for some God forsaken reason, wouldn't see how he'd been eating himself alive with that stupid potions book and ruining his own stupid grin and stupid sparkling, beautiful eyes and stupid—
"No," she howled, words erupting from a place far deeper within her heart than she'd ever explored. "No, I don't bloody care. Now, you sit there and listen to me." She paused for a second, pinched her brow, before dropping her hand to the side once more. The anger she wished to quell—it just didn't want to subside. "That blasted Potions book you've been reading all the time—it needs to go."
Harry's gaze penetrated her eyes. Sharper than she'd ever seen before, like gouging knives. "Unhappy that I beat you in the last test?"
Yes I am, that morbid side of her mind said. The side that was wrong most of the time, and yet she continued to lean into what it said as though it spread the gospel of truth.
"No, it's not about a bloody test," Hermione managed to say. She'd cursed more in the last five minutes than she had in her entire life, but the words were rolling out now. Rolling like lava-filled rocks on a volcano's base after an eruption, far too violent and hot to stop. "It's much more than a bloody test."
"Then what is it, Hermione?" Harry said, finally standing up. His cheeks were red, like flames were scorching them both nearby, tinting them with its anger. "You've been—been on my case this entire year for a book that I'm reading—and for what? Because I'm starting to beat you in Potions." Harry flipped a hand out, as if flicking the notion out of the way, out of relevance. "Come on, that's just petty and you know it is."
"I already told you, Harry James Potter, that it has nothing to do with grades in class. You're just too stupid—or perhaps too idiotic—to see that fact for what it is."
Harry gave a grin that, at the time, seemed evil. But now Hermione realised its playful tilt, its intention to defuse the tension and stop the ultimate eruption from occurring.
The grin hadn't worked, of course.
Rather, Harry's grin was like a dagger almost, sharp and glinting. "Stupid and idiotic mean the same thing, Hermione. You should know—"
Hermione snapped at him. "You've lost your bloody self, haven't you? Replaced your friends with that stupid book." Hermione glared at him, shot him with the sharpest bullet her eyes could muster. "Replaced me with that blasted Potions book. All for this little Half-Blood Prince that means nothing anyway, and you know it. How much has he helped you this year? Taught you any evil spells to use on the other students in the castle? And about Malfoy—" Hermione resisted the urge to kick the armchair beside her, and instead pushed it roughly to one side, until it crashed to the ground with a resounding thump— "the boy you can't seem to stay away from. You told me you would be out of trouble this year, Harry. You promised it to me in no uncertain terms. But you're the one finding it now, not the other way around."
Harry didn't say a word. Didn't say a single thing. Not even a noise. He wordlessly nodded, as though her words had entered his mind and festered there for thought and mulling over.
His interpretation of the words, however—that was what mattered the most.
In that moment, Hermione's heart had been raging at overdrive, as though running on a metronome that time itself would struggle to keep up with. And she didn't bother trying to calm herself down, didn't bother clamping down on the fury yanking at her mind for a way out, for a release.
But she didn't need to say another word anyway. For Harry had walked up to her. Stared her right in the eyes, his grin replaced by a steely look. A stone faced look, as though she was gazing at a different man than her best friend of six years.
"I don't know what's changed in you," Harry muttered, as though unbelieving in the words himself, as though shocked that the statement had exited his mouth.
Hermione had been shocked too, mouth agape, eyes wide, heart stopping and starting almost a hundred times a second as Harry's footsteps thudded the stairs. Before, a few seconds later, the door to his dormitory clicked shut, though it resembled more of a slam.
A loud slam that signalled the end, perhaps, of the only thing Hermione held truly dear within these castle halls.
And Hermione was left alone in the common room, late at night with the moon's gleam smirking in from the window, whilst she wondered where it had all gone wrong. For she'd wanted to get Harry downstairs and explain her points to him in a rational way, the way Hermione had always done during classes and homework and the rest of it. She'd wanted to help him—the man she loved, as she'd realised long ago—the way she'd helped him all those times across their friendship.
But for the first time she could remember, Harry had rejected her so emphatically, and her heart couldn't keep up with her swelling emotions. So tears welled in her eyes, wetness flooding her brown as if attempting to turn it stormy blue, and her anger dissipated all at once. Vanished with not as much as a poof. Replaced by an intense sorrow for something she yearned for but didn't know she had.
She leaned down and picked up the armchair once more. Set it on its rickety legs, the cushion more crimson than comforting red. The Gryffindor colours muted yet far too sharp and detailed all at once. She dumped herself into the rough, scratchy fabric, her bushy hair crowding around her face as if wishing to antagonise her further.
And then she cried into her hands, tears wetting her palms, wishing she could truly get a time turner from McGonagall again, if only to erase the last fifteen minutes from every dimension in which her life existed.
She could hear their voices, high-pitched and girly, in her dormitory through the curtains around her bed. The curtains were, of course, a shield from the outside world, though they were as blood red as the rest of the common room. Beyond Harry Potter, Hermione's outside magical world held nothing worthy of her time right now. And so now that he had rejected her friendship in favour of that blasted Potions book—a rejection borne from her anger directed at him—Hermione truly hadn't a reason to leave her dormitory considering she was already half a year ahead of class content, and so didn't need to attend.
The voices continued swirling. Around her. Like a tornado of opinions and judgement and—
She nearly growled from hearing it all. So what if she hadn't come out of her dorm for a week? What if she was ill? What if she had a fever so bad and contagious it was a risk to the health of the Hogwarts populus? Was dragon pox not a worthy excuse for them to afford her?
Didn't they think of any plausible reason other than Harry bloody Potter?
Honestly, the Hogwarts rumour mill was about as shoddy about accuracy as a toddler attempting to tie their own shoe laces. A toddler with three fingers on each hand, and palms the size of a pea.
Strange and weird analogies aside, Hermione Granger was in an absolute mess. She'd barely showered over the last seven days—only sneaking out to do so when she was sure her gossiping dorm mates were in their classes and not spying on her. And when they were in the dorm, gossiping as they usually did about the classes of the day and which boys they found hot (honestly, Lavender lusting over Ron was beginning to grow a bit tiring now), Hermione shacked up in bed and drew the curtains around herself. She spelled them too, to ensure they couldn't be opened.
Of course, the others could undo her spells pretty easily, but they wouldn't dare. Hermione had cultivated an aura of being unapproachable and a little standoffish, though not by choice. It did mean, however, that other students were wary before attracting her ire.
But it seemed these other students, Parvati in particular, didn't seem to care for what Hermione thought of their chattering away. Because her voice droned on and on, like Ron did sometimes when it came to complaining about Snape's workload or some other nonsense that boy had latched his frustrations onto.
Which reminded Hermione that the next week she would be forced to show her face. The Monday after the weekend signalled the deadline for her transfiguration homework in animagi. She'd never failed Professor McGonagall before, and she wouldn't now. That was a rule Hermione had abided by, ever since meeting the eagle-eyed professor.
Even if Hermione was hiding in her dorm, isolated from society, not attending classes because of a mixture of emotions she hadn't really processed yet.
"So that's why Harry looks so upset," Parvati was saying.
In addition to McGonagall's homework, Snape's three foot essay on the uses of shrivelling twimps was due on the Wednes—
Wait, what had she just heard?
Studies expelled from her mind, Hermione focussed on what the girls outside the curtains were yapping about, heart hammering if she'd heard what she thought she'd heard.
Talking about Harry.
"He's so miserable now," Lavender was saying, sounding genuinely upset at the fact. Though, the girl cycled through more emotions than a washing machine did clothes, so that was to be expected. "Maybe he just needs someone to cheer him up. Someone who's close to him and really cares about him."
"You going in for the kill, Lav?" one of the other girls, Mandy, asked. Her voice was like a chicken's scratch. "Don't know if Ron would appreciate that. Ain't he like your proper boyfriend now?"
"Oh, of course he is, and he definitely won't appreciate it," Lavender said in an airy voice. "Ron's hot enough for me. Though I think Parvati might have reservations about Harry. In a broom closet of all places, probably." She let out a giggle reminiscent of a hyena's mating call. "So Parvati, what d'you say to that?"
"Well, Harry is hot this year," Parvati replied. "And…he does owe me a proper date after the shambles of the Yule Ball back in that tournament. The boy barely spoke to me at all the entire night. But now…well, he's fit, and funny from what I'm hearing."
"And now that Granger's out of the picture…"
If Hermione concentrated properly, she would've realised Lavender's tone rise a notch. But she focussed only on the words, and the implication they left, and she couldn't ignore her feelings, or the girls gossiping in her dorm, any longer.
Undoing her spells with a quick wave of her wand, she tore open the curtain with almost a feral slash of her fingers. The other girls turned to her, three in total—Mandy, Lavender, and Parvati. All staring at her with wide, confused eyes.
"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked, voice rushing out far too quickly. "What's wrong with Harry?"
Hermione didn't get the response she expected.
"Well, wouldn't you want to know," Parvati said, flicking a finger at Hermione. "You're the one supposed to be his friend, after all. You shouldn't be hearing it from us. You should be hearing it from him."
A pang of guilt struck Hermione's heart. And Lavender only made it worsen.
"You know he's stopped eating right," she said. "Stopped doing anything. Heck I even caught him up outside the windows one day flying. Probably trying to get your attention."
So that was the fluttering outside the window a few days before. Harry trying to get her attention, and she'd ignored him entirely in favour of wallowing in her bed, alone, crying half the time.
Harry can't stop eating, Hermione thought, catching Lavender's first words. He's already so thin as it is. If he eats even less, he'll—
"And he looks like he hasn't slept much, either," Mandy said, snatching Hermione's mind back to the present. "And if anyone asks him why, he doesn't say a thing. Oh poor Harry. He just needs a friend. And Ron's too lapped up with Lavender all the—"
"Hey leave my boyfriend out of this," Lavender said, though she did laugh slightly. She glanced over at Hermione, whilst Hermione remained wordless. So Lavender continued, "Well, I guess if no one's going to cheer him up, Parvati will just have to use her charms—"
"I'll go," Hermione said immediately, blurted it out as if her heart pushed the words through before her brain could process them.
"Of course you will," Parvati muttered with a roll of her eyes. "But how do we know you won't just mess him up again?"
Hermione sputtered for a second. Truly speechless for perhaps the first time ever in front of her dorm mates.
How do they…know?
"Who said I did anything to him?" she asked, with narrowed eyes. Then her tone softened, almost involuntarily. "Did he…did he say anything?"
"No, he didn't," Lavender said. "But it's pretty obvious, isn't it, luv?"
"What are you on about?" Hermione asked. Her patience was beginning to wear thin, as if it wasn't ragged already. And now Lavender and Parvati and their cryptic Divination style speak wasn't helping things.
"Hermione, that boy's been attached to your hip since first year," Mandy said. "Think about it. He's fallen out with Ron loads of times, but it's never got him this bad. Maybe a day or two, but he's still okay with it in the end. He only has two close friends, so that leaves only one other option."
"That he's fallen out with you," Parvati finished off, smacking her lips at each syllable as though they were verbal train stations to stop at. "Which means, our esteemed dorm mate, that you are the one that has to go and fix him. It's written in the stars, after all. Might've even seen it in Trelawney's class earlier today."
"I think I saw it too," Lavender squealed.
Hermione's eyebrows furrowed. "Wait, so you're not going to—how did you put it?—use your charms on him."
"Oh please," Parvati said, waving off the notion with her hand. "He might be fit, but one day was enough for me to know he's just not fit for me."
"Harry's a great person," Hermione argued.
"I never said he wasn't. Just not my type. Although I will note how you jumped to his defence rather quickly there, Hermione."
Now Hermione was even more confused, cheeks heating up from Parvati's other comment. "So all this time you were speaking about him like…like he's some piece of meat to be chewed…"
"It was just to get you out of your little cocoon," Lavender said, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. "And luv, I'd say it worked pretty well since you're here and all. But you can't go out to meet Harry now."
"What do you mean?" Hermione said, already moving to grab her robes from her trunk. If Harry was in trouble, and it was because of her, then she had to go and help him. Just like he'd done all those years ago in the girl's bathroom.
"Honey, you look a mess," Mandy said. "In the nicest way possible, of course. A shower and fixing your hair should do. Perhaps a little make up for a finishing touch." She lowered her gaze with a shy giggle. "You wouldn't want to meet someone that fit without at least brushing up now, wouldn't you?"
Hermione blushed like a fire truck with the sirens blaring, and stared at her three dorm mates, sensing they wished to propose something to her. Something she might very well regret.
But…this was the first conversation with her dorm mates in what felt like forever. And Hermione had never done any of the girly things so many others her age were accustomed to.
Perhaps it was time to, in a sense, let her hair down, even if for a minute.
And then—then she'd find Harry, and…she'd figure it out when they talked to each other. Talk out whatever it was that drove the wedge between them, whether the Potions book or otherwise.
She didn't know how it would all turn out. She hadn't a clue in all the worlds, both muggle and magical.
For the first time it seemed, Hermione Granger was stumped for answers.
It turned out that Lavender's idea of 'brushing up' included doing Hermione's hair to an extraordinary extent. Of course, Hermione could never control her bushy mane that was more akin to a lion's than anything else, but Parvati showed her a few spells to get the straying strands under control. Now, as Hermione touched the bouncing curls on the way out of the dorm room…now they seemed all right.
They'd quickly ironed her robes for her too, making the fabric sleek and shiny like metal instead of polyester, and her face was accentuated with the slightest hint of makeup. A little eyeshadow, blush to her cheeks making them "red as a bride on her wedding night" according to Lavender.
No lipstick, though. Hermione wouldn't accept that, no matter how much Mandy insisted it would make her sparkle in a sea of diamonds.
Honestly, Mandy was the loveliest person ever, Hermione was realising. But sometimes a little…pushy, for lack of a better term. Very set on helping others even if they didn't particularly want nor need the assistance.
Hermione walked down the common room staircase, eyes glancing around for Harry in case he milled about the crowds gathered during most evenings. She ignored the other eyes on her, staring since the bogey-woman who hadn't left her room in a week was finally emerging from her cave.
Well, they could all go stuff it. Hermione was only interested in one person now, and it was for that reason she left the warmth of the common room for the chill of the Hogwarts corridors.
For the life of her, why hadn't the magical world sorted out central heating already? Or perhaps some heating charms that adapted based on a mean temperature they wanted to set?
It would certainly help with the raging Scottish winters that were far more unforgiving than those back in Crawley. She'd talk about it with Professor Flitwick the next lesson when she found the chance to bring it up.
But for now, she had far more pressing concerns.
Hermione pushed all thoughts unrelated to Harry out of her mind. The boy, according to Lavender, had headed out after Divination class, but hadn't bothered to go inside. Circling the castle at this time of winter was deadly without a thick cloak at the very least.
Just what on earth was Harry doing to himself?
But what if he came in before that and never told anyone?
A fair point, but perhaps Hermione was overthinking things. She needed someone who'd know for sure—
Ron would know where he is, wouldn't he?
Hermione checked the time, and found that dinner would start in around ten minutes. Ron, the lover of all things edible, and Lavender's tongue which sadly for him wasn't, would certainly be there right from the beginning to shovel the best pieces of chicken into his gob.
Well, at least today he'd be useful for something aside from eating and flunking homework.
She descended the castle staircases that shifted as though a representation of her frazzled mind. Thoughts of Harry and Ron and classes all whizzing around like buzzing snitches that she couldn't catch.
But Harry could. He could always catch the errant strands of her mind and lay them back in order.
But now he was the one in trouble, and the guilt bubbling Hermione's chest alerted her to the truth of Parvati's words.
Hermione Granger herself had been the one to cause Harry's state. That much was as undeniable as magic being real, despite how unrealistic it had seemed to an eleven year old Hermione.
Emerging into the Great Hall, Hermione was greeted with a cacophony of noise. Voices swirling around, a shout raging over from the Slytherin table, and even the odd cat call which she hadn't expected.
Directed at…her?
She resisted the urge to glance behind and see if Parvati or one of the other girls was the true source of their attention. She might've had curls and a little make up, but that didn't render her with knockout power like Cho, or the other girls in her year that attracted boyfriends like moths to a light.
And Ron, ever the moth, was already seated next to Dean Thomas, eating with a gusto Hermione had sadly grown accustomed to. Hermione slipped into the seat beside him, grabbed a croissant, and began nibbling the outer roll. The nerves in her stomach didn't allow any more than that, so she placed it on a plate, and Ron's sharp turn almost knocked Hermione off the table.
He stared at her for a few seconds, wide eyed, as though the sight of her after hibernation was a monumental event to be recorded in Hogwarts: A History. He gulped the lump in his throat, as though nervous at her presence all of a sudden.
"Where's Harry?" Hermione asked.
Ron let out a scoff, then chuckled a little. "You don't come in here looking like that, and then ask a bloke about another bloke."
"Oh shut it," Hermione shot back, though she let out a small smile too. Despite her frustrations with Ron, she did miss their antics sometimes. Yes, she'd been jealous of his relationship, but not because she liked him.
But because she wanted the same with another boy—and that boy wasn't making a move, or even giving a shred of a hint, or even looking at her.
Well, that's because you locked yourself up in a dorm room for a week eating overdue Christmas treats from Mum and Dad.
"You have a girlfriend already," Hermione said, remembering what Ron had said. "Can't be talking to other girls like that. What if Lavender finds out?"
"Lavender probably did the hair for you, if I know anything about her. Heck, if I knew you'd come in here like that, I'd have asked her to do my hair a bit." To illustrate his point, Ron ruffled his hair, almost getting some of it onto the platters of food.
"Well, be careful will you, Ronald," Hermione said, resisting the urge to swat his hand away. She looked over his shoulder, watching as some of the other guys in their year stared at her, and a blush crept up her neck and onto her cheeks.
Red as a tomato she was, and she rued ever allowing Parvati and the others to do her hair and makeup. Yes, she'd wanted to present herself best for Harry, especially after being cooped up for so long like an animal hibernating over winter.
But the rest of the attention felt…alien, foreign to her, and the appraising glances resembled daggers prickling her skin.
"So, about Harry,'' Hermione said to Ron, focussing on him instead of the rest of the boys sending furtive looks her way. "Any idea where he is?"
"Any idea why he's so glum all the time?" Ron countered, a slight glare on his face. "Tried to play chess with him, but he just went upstairs and straight to sleep. My mate's changed, Hermione, and it bloody has something to do with you. What happened?"
"I'll tell you soon," Hermione said, frustrated with Ron as much as with herself. When I've made up with Harry, she added internally. Then we'll tell you together, no doubt, hopefully not at each other's throats. "Just…let me know where he is first. So I can get him to eat something for once."
Ron let out a laugh. "You two always had something about you, you know," he said. "Like this little bubble that only the two of you could enter. Heck, you've been hiding for a week it looks like, and you still know the bloke hasn't got enough food in him." He grabbed a couple more croissants, chucked them to Hermione, who managed to catch them before they made contact with her robes..
It wasn't exactly ceremonious, but she'd never felt prouder of herself at keeping Harry's couple of croissants safe. She grabbed a second plate and placed the croissants on top. Like peas in a pod.
"He's in the library," Ron said. "In the favourite spot."
"By the east fireplace?" Hermione asked, the section where they usually hung out to discuss death-defying exploits and dangerous plots and things that, should they be heard, would land them in serious trouble.
"No, your favourite spot. Not that he'll tell me what it is."
Hermione's heart thudded her chest, suddenly louder than the noise around her. Her favourite spot was…hidden, tucked into a forgotten corner of the library and then hidden away some more.
So how had Harry of all people, averse to the library on the best of days, found it?
"Thanks," Hermione said, grabbing the plate of croissants and hoping Hogwarts didn't have some charm to stop her from taking it outside the Great Hall. She slipped out of her seat as easily as she'd slipped in, carrying the plate as she crossed the Great Hall, much to the confusion of the rest of the Gryffindor table.
"But you never told me what happened this entire week?" Ron shouted after her.
"Oh, just ask Lavender, honestly," Hermione scoffed. But when she turned to face the main door, a little smile crept onto her face. At least she'd gotten something back from her old life, even if it was bickering with Ronald bloody Weasley.
Now, her job was to get the second person back.
The most important person.
And, despite her peace offerings of two croissants, Hermione didn't know if she'd be able to succeed.
Hermione Granger, naturally, spent a lot of time studying. In her quest to get into Oxford University as a young girl, and later her quest to top the Hogwarts rankings as a certified witch, Hermione knew studying was the key to unlocking the treasures of the wizarding world. For education was a power that only few could wield, like magic was to humans, and Hermione wished to be from among its masters.
To that end, the library held a special place in her heart. For the past six years, evenings well into the night were spent cooped up in an armchair with a book in hand, away from the hubbub of the students, away from the chatter and gossip and, at least in her first year, insults of the Hogwarts populus.
Whilst sitting in the library one day, Hermione noticed a small alcove jut out from the rear of the library. Right at the back, past the towering shelves and smell of fresh books, where even the most daring students didn't dare venture to.
Here, the tables were dusty and dishevelled, laden with grime under the wooden surfaces, and more mice scurried about than one knew how to count. It seemed that, despite Filch's ubiquity over the rest of the castle, he neglected this one particular corner of the library as though it was infected with dragon pox.
And, in her first year, that corner (after a few cleaning spells and finishing touches) was where Hermione found solace. Where none would find her, where none would ask after her, where none could insult her further and further. This was all, of course, before Harry had saved her from the troll.
Until one day, that alcove popped out before her, as though magic had conjured it up. She'd stared at the curve in the stone, at the little green outline around the sides of the alcove, with a creamy texture to its middle as though a rather sumptuous pudding.
Intrigue ran through her at the alcove's sudden appearance, curiosity brimming as it always did, and Hermione moved with her book (she forgot its name a long time ago, perhaps something about goblin wars) to the alcove. The smell of old books faded as the scent of fresh stone, perfumed with something sweet, met her nose.
Not knowing what else to do, Hermione sat inside the alcove. Waited a few seconds whilst seemingly nothing happened, a coldness seeping into her skin. And then, as though a mechanism within the alcove had switched on, the entire stone face shifted to reveal a second room, hidden on the other side.
Hermione had gasped, eyes drinking in the sight.
And oh, was it perfect!
Candle lights, beaming through majestic chandeliers that beat those in the Great Hall, hung from the tall ceiling. The effect was almost like a spotlight in a theatre, the illumination cascading down to a singular table in the room's centre. A table that shone as though diamonds were encrusted beneath the preserved oak wood.
Hermione would never forget the smell that met her. Of fresh books on shelves spanning the walls, brand-new books, whose leathery scent was unlike anything else. A natural drug, if Hermione had ever sensed one. The smell didn't hit her, nor did it linger in her periphery. Rather, it caressed her nose, as though wishing to comfort the one who smelled it.
And from that day onwards, when deep into her studies, Hermione would sneak off to the library and hole herself in that majestic room, hidden away from the rest of the world, where she could apply herself to her Hogwarts dream with a tunnel vision of academic prowess.
That was Hermione's favourite spot in the library. She'd only ever hinted at it to Harry and Ron, though she'd never told them where it was, nor given them clues as to its whereabouts. It was her secret, and hers alone.
So how on earth had Harry of all people, Hermione's best friend in the world, found her favourite place to study?
She thought that now as she stumbled through the library with the plate of two croissants in hand. Madam Pince gave her a serious side-eye from behind her glasses, like Crookshanks sometimes did when Hermione handed her only one treat instead of two, but allowed the croissants through.
Hermione suspected it was her prim and proper demeanour that didn't alert the librarian to the fact that two croissants usually indicated an accomplice to receive the second.
Or…perhaps, because she hadn't seen Hermione for a week, Madam Pince allowed whatever Hermione wished to bring, if only not to deter her from another bout of absence.
The second scenario seemed far more likely, at least in Hermione's mind. Optimistic deduction of the sort would, naturally, bring about the conclusion that Madam Pince liked Hermione, as opposed to Hermione tricking Madam Pince into believing the croissants were only for herself.
Hermione wasn't a rule-breaker. Unless it involved Harry, of course. Their escapades over the years would've gotten a normal student thirty expulsions and a dreaded letter home (Hermione's worst fear in all the worlds).
Fortunately for her, this escapade did involve Harry, so Hermione had an excuse to bring food into the library.
In either case, Hermione was through, and that mattered the most of anything. Glancing around the general reading area, ensuring none could see her, Hermione slinked through the library shelves and to the rear of the second floor corridor. Here, amongst the dusty tomes that lingered a rather distasteful smell not unlike Ron's breath after eating dinner, Hermione found that alcove once again.
Tucked right into the corner of the hallway, in the last hallway of the row. Where none but Hermione was supposed to find it.
Well, none but her and Harry, it seemed.
Hermione climbed into the alcove again, braced herself against the chill that seeped into her robes, a chill that seemed to spill to her plate of croissants also.
And then she realised what the hell she was doing. What the hell she was about to do.
Harry was in the other room. The Harry she'd caused to go through hell and back over a bloody potions book. She couldn't just go and see him out of the blue. She had to prepare what to say, think of the right words, make sure everything in her mind was laid out and orderly before speaking her thoughts.
Hermione had always been someone who planned, meticulously, ensuring everything in her life was set in place. But relationships couldn't be planned, and love enflamed its own story that blazed across the pages of life.
Sometimes love lit those pages. Other times, the pages burned away.
Hermione, for the life of her, would never think of what to say. So she'd messed everything up by stuffing herself into the alcove without thinking, as thought this was another ordinary study session.
It was anything, anything but.
And then the alcove shifted as it always did, stone grinding as though she was being churned through a mill. Emotions frothing and fears bubbling.
And then her favourite study place met her. The lights above slamming down with a force Hermione hadn't felt before, as if wishing to blind her for what she'd done. The table in the centre seemed more rickety than anything else, like an old park bench where a murder had taken place. The chair she typically sat on looked ready to snap, as though the twigs of autumn resembling knobbly chair legs had been stuck under the seat.
And the alcove, once warm despite being made of stone, now seeped a chill into her skin. A chill that she couldn't, for the life of her, shake off no matter what she did.
What was seated on that chair, however, was the worst part.
On that chair was the husk of someone she'd once known as Harry Potter, who now looked as though the same emotional mill Hermione was trapped in also grinded him to a mental pulp. Her gaze immediately lowered, but not after seeing the shock on his gaunt face, the fullness of his cheeks vanishing for a complexion that matched Professor Snape more than anyone else.
"H—Hi," Hermione blurted out, not knowing what else to say. She stood up from the alcove, and almost collapsed to the ground from the pressure on her feet. The plate holding the croissants nearly fell from her hand. She tucked her legs together, prim and proper, even though she didn't need to be so in front of her best friend.
Was she even his best friend anymore? Did he even consider her a friend after what she'd caused him?
She shook those thoughts from her mind and steeled her body. Steeled her nerves, which whizzed about her mind like buzzing flies. She caught each thought in turn, tucked them into little mental boxes she created, before taking a deep breath and raising her gaze again.
It met Harry's head on.
And he let out a smile, a wide smile with dazzling teeth that told Hermione that, no matter what they said or did, the air between them would always be clear. Would always be free of the tension other relationships, whether friendships or otherwise, seemed wrought with.
Whatever had transpired would be kept in the past. After today's conversation, Hermione knew a new era would embark.
The only question in her mind was: What would that era be?
"Hi," Harry replied, before waving his wand around. The table now fielded two chairs, instead of the typical one, and Harry patted the seat of the conjured second. "Fancy a sit-down?"
A sit-down? Hermione placed the croissants on the table, then sat down in her seat. Then she said, "You mean like, in the Mafia? That kind of sit-down?"
Harry chuckled a little and shook his head. "No, not that kind of sit-down. You're far too well-read if you know about Mafia terms. Just a little sit-down on these chairs so we can have a chat." He seemed far too casual for Hermione's liking. Far too nonchalant, as though hiding something beneath the surface. And the way his eyes lingered on her face—he'd definitely noticed the makeup. "Oh, and Hermione—I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at myself."
"For what?" Hermione said, that forceful side to her flaring all of a sudden. And she clamped down on the grimace overtaking her own face. It had been such forcefulness that wrecked the space between them for the last week—she didn't want to revert to it as soon as Harry gave the green light that things would be back to normal.
"Well, you locked yourself in your dorm room, right," Harry said. "I'm knocking myself over it every day. It's my fault after all."
"No need," Hermione said, raising a hand to stop him from falling into a deluge of apologies. Harry was always the apologetic one—whether handing out apologies or accepting them. And Hermione wouldn't let him slip into that part of himself so easily.
She needed to explain her sins, without him cutting in every few seconds to apologise for something that wasn't his fault to begin with.
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, eyebrows furrowing in that oh-so-adorable way. "It's obviously my fau—"
"No, it's not," Hermione said, controlling the tone of her voice so Harry wasn't alarmed. And so she didn't throw him away like she had the last time by being too demanding. "It's not your fault at all. I was the one that dragged you down from your dorm room and had a go at you for ten minutes. What did you do to deserve that? Nothing. I should've had a calm chat, but I let my anger grow…grow too much." She sighed, rubbed her hands against her robes. "Tell me, Harry, were you the one that shouted, were you the one that dragged someone from their dorm room just to yell at them?"
Harry shook his head, but opened his mouth to continue on how everything in this world and the next was a result of his misdeeds.
Hermione didn't let him fall into that trap this time.
"I shouted at you Harry," Hermione said. "I was so…so blinded by my hatred of that stupid Potions book that I threw away the only good thing in my life. And I hate myself for it."
And to Hermione's horror, tears sprang to her eyes. So violent, forceful as if a liquid manifestation of her persona, and she fought to rub them away before they fell. But one did fall, across her right cheek, slipping as if her chin was the edge of a cliff, and as if on impulse, Harry leaned over with his Gryffindor scarf.
Wiped the tear away. So it didn't fall off.
And then leaned back in his seat as though nothing had happened.
And Hermione's heart rate jumped ten notches, as high as the ceiling of this room, far above the floating chandeliers.
"What's the real reason you hate the Potions book?" Harry asked, sitting forward in his seat. "I've read loads of books before, textbooks, even though I'm not a reader—surely it's not because I stopped asking you for help?"
Previously, back when Hermione was in the rages of her anger, she would've lashed out at Harry for saying such things. Would've vehemently denied, called him the worst names under the sun, and then stormed off in a fit of fury.
But seeing the genuine care glistening in his eyes—that told her the truth. That Harry wanted what was best for her, and had always done so throughout the years.
The exact same way she'd always wanted the best for him. And had done so throughout the years.
"It's not because of that," Hermione said, and the real reason phased through her mind. And the redness of her cheeks flushed a darker shade, and she wished she could gather Harry's scarf and cover her entire face with it so he wouldn't notice the tinges to her skin. "It's because of something else," she muttered.
"What is it?" Harry asked. The scarf slid off his shoulder as he leaned even further forward, and slinked around his back. "Because…the last week has been horrible without you, I swear. And I don't want to repeat the same mistake again."
"I told you already Harry," Hermione said suddenly. She berated herself mentally for it, but continued anyway, albeit in a softer tone. "It's not your fault. It's mine, completely, and sorry for snapping." She sighed, let the air out of her lungs, and breathed confidence into herself. "It's because…it's because of my old Uncle Alfie."
Harry's eyebrows furrowed. "Who now? Alfie?"
"He was the best uncle ever," Hermione said, a vision of her uncle's smiling face flashing to mind. He'd bought her sweets for the first time, since her mum and dad were dentists and totally against the notion of their daughter consuming anything sugary.
But he did so much more than that.
In the midst of her studies at school, Alfie would pop around with her aunt and entertain Hermione for hours. When she'd had no friends, and long before she'd ever met Harry, Uncle Alfie was the one she spent time with. Building forts together, reading together and discussing the novels, watching TV when Mum and Dad were too busy with work.
And then…then Uncle Alfie had gotten ensnared by drugs. The worst kind of drugs, street-dealer heroin, though Hermione was too young to understand it then.
As she told this all to Harry, in an effort for him to understand, he stayed silent. Nodded at all the right spots, as perfect a friend now as he'd been back in first year.
Alfie's life had been ruined by the heroin, and Hermione was too young to reach out and help him. The allure of the high, the allure of something new—it was too strong for him, and Uncle Alfie didn't know how to resist.
It had ended in his demise.
"And I see you going down the same path," Hermione told Harry, to which the wizard's eyes widened. "I see that book pulling you away too, the same way it did my uncle. And—and I don't want to see someone else I love get taken away, please."
The last words she'd muffled into her hand, as though the notion of pleading horrified Hermione. A headstrong girl, later a fierce woman, always in control and always striving to achieve her destiny.
But love was a strange thing, a potion which couldn't be contained, whose effects couldn't be captured in mere liquid. It was touches, words, emotions of a level Hermione had never felt before.
For the first time in her life, she lacked control of herself. And that was what scared her most of all. That was the notion which sparked Hermione's anger right at the start.
The notion that Harry was being taken away from her. And for all the control Hermione held over everything else in her life—she couldn't control that.
And every tear falling down her face now and messing her makeup laced itself with the complexity of her brewing heart.
Harry engulfed her in a hug, used his Gryffindor scarf to wipe away her tears, transferred a warmth even the sun couldn't match, before leaning back once more.
"That won't happen, I swear," Harry said.
Hermione opened her mouth, but Harry beat her to it this time.
"Listen…you're right, I was being too dangerous with the book. But there's a lot of benefit in there, and you'll never lose me, understand?"
When Hermione nodded, mute, speechless for perhaps the first time in the witch's life, Harry continued.
"We'll go through the book together," Harry said. He gestured to the expanse of shelves around them, then the desk and two chairs, then stared right into Hermione's eyes, then said, "Right here in this room, we'll have our little study sessions. And we can work through the book together, okay, when Ron's too busy playing Exploding Snap after class."
Hermione nodded, let out a sigh of relief, and the pent-up tension in her muscles dissipated so suddenly she almost collapsed to the ground. She sat up, cheeks finally dry, and smiled at Harry.
"How did you know this was my space?" Hermione asked. "From what I remember—and my memory's rather good at that—I've never told anyone before."
"I've known for years," Harry said. "Ever since second year, when Dobby was chasing me around—he told me your favourite spot was in the library, second floor, right at the end. All you needed was to sit in the alcove."
That makes complete sense, Hermione thought. "And he told you because Harry Potter's friends must be kept safe, I assume?"
"Ten points to Gryffindor," Harry chuckled in a rather strangely accurate portrayal of Professor McGonagall.
"But if you've known since second year—"
"Because it's yours, Hermione," Harry said. "It's your space, and though we're best friends and share everything with each other…I'm not about to take away what's yours in the process."
"And I won't do the same to you," Hermione said, referencing the Potions book and hoping Harry got the message.
"I hope not," Harry said, glancing around the room, gaze rising to the chandeliers. "It is a neat little room, though. Lots of light, even at night when the library looks like a ghost town. Lots of books too, which makes sense since it's your special place. That's why I came here after all. If I couldn't get the real you, I might as well try the place most like your essence. Wouldn't be Hermione's favourite place without at least one shelf of old books."
"Hey, I like a lot more things than just books you know."
"Oh really?" Harry said, smile in his eyes as well as on his lips. Gosh, the charm that wafted around him like an aura was truly hard to ignore, especially when Hermione was already emotionally charged. "Like what?"
Hermione couldn't think of a thing that quick, other than, "Croissants," but Harry thankfully changed the subject after a chuckle.
Changed it to something Hermione didn't want to address now. And not ever if she had the choice.
"Just one more thing," he said. "Your story about your uncle—you said you don't want to lose someone else you love. And I think you were talking about me, right."
It was a statement phrased as a question.
It was also the truth.
Hermione's heart hammered her ribs, trying to break each bone in turn. And, as if a rib was stuck in her throat, she sputtered out, "Did I say that? With that word, specifically?"
"You definitely used that word," Harry said, with an annoying yet adorable smirk. An air of confidence filled him, an air of charm that had developed by fighting Voldemort in first year, killing the basilisk thereafter, saving Sirius, surviving the Triwizard tournament, battling in the Department of Mysteries—and many more moments, some small and some large, that all culminated in the brilliant man that was Harry Potter.
And now, though they had convened to speak about a Potions textbook, Harry's charms were on full blast.
"Just for the record, you look beautiful even without makeup," Harry said, scooting closer with that ever-present smile in place. "And I love you, you know that?"
And though Hermione had dreamed of Oxford University, and thereafter of topping the Hogwarts student rankings—
Nothing could beat the feeling of hearing Harry say those words.
Nothing in all the world. Not even croissants.
And Hermione, within the space of a shared heartbeat, repeated the words back.
A/N: Lovely little one-shot, in my opinion (and I'm definitely not biased, right, haha). Quite long for me, since my other one-shots were 5, 7, and 3k respectively. But I liked the way this turned out, and definitely enjoyed writing a different side to Hermione than we're used to seeing. Someone who's always in control, but lets it slip sometimes. And someone who realises that getting help, and not always being in control, can be a good thing sometimes.
Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.
Would love to hear your thoughts on the story, what you liked, didn't like, or what you held an utter, utter indifference about. Readers are the true life of a story, and I firmly believe that, whether in my fanfic or original work.
I'm working on a special type of story next. Don't want to give too much away, but if all goes to plan, it'll be a longfic over 100k words that I'll post as I write, meaning you won't have to wait a few months for me to finish the entire thing.
Swings & Memories is still ongoing, so there's something to look forward to every Saturday at the very least.
Until next time, wishing you all the best!