"And the prize I am offering? One small vial ofFelix Felicis. Enough for 12 hours. All that you attempt from nearly dawn to dusk, will work out in your favour." Professor Slughorn claimed, from atop the elevated dais before his newest class of sixth years. His weathered features made his grin look pained and pinched, making it seem more like a grimace as he watched the students shift from foot to foot in anticipation. "And to win this, you ask? You must brew an exemplary Draught of Living Death, the instructions for which can be found on page ten of your book. If someone in this class is able to brew it to myexactingstandards, they will receive the prize. I will point out however, only one other student has brewed a potion of sufficient enough quality to claim this prize. Nevertheless, good luck to you all."
The class period sped by in a flurry of hurried movements and group panic. Minutes passed far faster than they had in any Potion's class Hermione could recall. Though there had never been a reward on offer for brewing a perfect potion either.
Maybe that was the difference, because when Hermione looked to her right, Harry's cauldron simmered rather than smoked and its contents were smooth and viscous. And there was no other way that Harry could be doing better than her. He hadn't even known he would beinthe class until after breakfast.
Yet here they were with Harry's potion stabilising into the perfect pale shade of lilac that was characteristic of the midway point of the brew. While Hermione's settled into slightly congealed goop closer to the colour of black currant.
At the end of the half hour of brewing, a frazzled, frizzy, andfrustratedHermione could do little but look back and forth between her cauldron and Harry's, asking herselfhow the hell did Harry brew better than me? He didn't even follow the damned directions properly!
She could only stare in disbelief and near horror as Professor Slughorn assessed Harry's sample, proclaiming it the clear winner and gushing over Harry's inherited talent and brilliance.
Not that Hermione was jealous.
Not of Harry.
Her best friend whom she adored with her whole heart. No. Shecertainlywasnotjealous. That would be ridiculous. Harry was brilliant and talented, of course, but not likethis. Not once had Harry outperformed her in Potions Class, it just didn't happen. She usually had to stop him, Ron, and Neville from making a mistake and blowing up the classroom.
Briefly, Hermione experienced an odd out-of-body feeling and subconsciously moved her hands to tap against her waist to make sure she was fully clothed. Because truly, a dream where she embarrassed herself by being naked in class may just be better than this.
And yet only metres away, Professor Slughorn was now handing over a vial of an incredibly valuable potion that could easily be misused. And he was handing it toHarry, no less, theoneperson in their yearmost likelyto misuse it.
It was not jealousy she felt.
It wasconcern.
Concern that Harry would misuse the concoction and get not only himself but others into trouble. Concern because Harry, while wonderful, certainly wasn't the most responsible wizard to trust something like this too. Not to mention how many responsibilities already sat upon his scrawny, underfed shoulders. And those responsibilities were there merely because of who he was, not because of choices he had made, he hadn't asked for them. He didn't need more responsibilities to manage.
Yes, herconcernwas entirely justified and most certainly wasnot - in any way -related to jealousy.
That would be unreasonable.
As Hermione set about cleaning her station, her mind was practically in a fugue state where she hardly processed Harry's excited ramblings beside her.
"Can't believe it… potions no less… just needed a better teacher… after the train… I know Malfoy's up to something… will be a perfect way to catch him…" Harry mumbled both to himself and his two friends.
Hermione didn't realise that she was the last one in the classroom when she finally hefted her bag onto her shoulder and turned to exit.
She didn't realise that the corridors were half empty as she wandered slowly through them with no clear destination in her mind, as her thoughts ran rampant, jumbled circles through her head.
She didn't even realise that a door had appeared out of nowhere in the solid stone wall right in front of her.
She hardly registered walking through when the mysterious door swung open on its own volition.
After staring blankly ahead for an indeterminate amount of time, Hermione dropped her bag from her shoulder and finally looked around at her surroundings. A part of her mind had been aware while her feet led her to the Room of Requirement, but she didn't recall intending to go there nor seeking out any particular refuge.
As her eyes slowly took in the expansive, open space around her, she realised that it closely resembled the DA's training space, though slightly altered. A comfortable seating area was visible in the back corner of the chamber arranged around a small fireplace. Closer to her, were lines of duelling dummies, seemingly just waiting for her to take her frustration out on them.
Hermione walked to the sitting area to set her satchel down upon one of the plush sofas and shrugged off her robe, leaving it to drape over the back of the seat. She quickly twisted her hair into a loose braid, just enough to keep it from getting too in the way. Twirling her wand between her fingers she strolled towards the centre of the room.
Widening her stance and wiggling her shoulders to release some tension she closed her eyes, imagining it was several months earlier. In her mind, the dummies surrounding her in the room became menacing masked figures dressed in black. Figures who hated her and all she represented. She took several deep breaths as her mind brought her back to the panic of battle.
She opened her eyes and hissed out a quiet,"Protego!", as she rotated in place to see which dummy would advance first now that she had begun.
To her left, one figure advanced, firing a mild stinging hex, which she dodged before flourishing her wand and shooting a nonverbalExpelliarmus,leaving the dummy slumped over in defeat.
As the attacks sped up, Hermione's mind focused on dodging, casting, and assessing, so that little else could cloud her thoughts. After over thirty minutes, with all of the dummies disabled, a panting and exhausted Hermione moved from the centre of the room towards the sitting area. Huffing out a grateful sigh, she rested her hand against a towering stone pillar as she walked past it, "Thank you. I really needed that," she said to the empty room.
Picking out the comfiest looking spot - upon a well-stuffed, faded ochre, suede sofa - Hermione plopped down and poured herself a glass of cool water from the nearby pitcher while she focused on slowing her breathing. Absent-mindedly, she ran her fingers through her hair, releasing what was left of the braid to set her unruly locks free. Once hydrated and breathing normally again, she cast a quick cleansing charm and summoned her Ancient Runes textbook from her bag to study in the peaceful haven The Room had provided. She knew solving some complex equations was a guaranteed way to quiet her racing thoughts.
Hemione was well settled into her reading and note-taking, when quiet creaking from across the room signalled the heavy wooden door swinging open upon its underused hinges. She slipped from the seat and settled into a crouch, ducked down behind the sofa back and aimed her wand towards the now empty doorway, prepared to defend herself.
Several tense, silent moments passed where Hermione listened intently for the interloper but not even a rustle of fabric gave away their location. Peaking around the arm of the chair, with the clearest, most confident tone she could muster, Hermione demanded, "Who's there? I know I heard someone come in. Show yourself."