The Passion According to H. G.

Hermione couldn’t sleep. It was a big day tomorrow. Potions test. She had read and reread the fifth year textbook, which she had by the way known by heart at least since her third year, as well as some related literature she had found in the library. Still she wasn’t confident enough to fall asleep and get the rest she needed. This time she had to get it right! There must be no mistakes in her answers, not a single one. But she knew it was useless. No matter how perfect her answers were, professor Snape always returned her tests with some sarcastic comments in the margins. If he could find nothing wrong with the content, he remarked upon her punctuation. Or even her longhand, which tended to get all shaky and irregular in potions class. He was so cruelly unfair to her, and yet she couldn’t just tell herself that’s the way it was, she still struggled to please him…
No use in wasting time when she was lying awake anyway! With a sigh, she reached for the book on top of the pile on her bedside table and used her wand as a flashlight to read under the blankets. The letters were crawling around like ants before her eyes. It might be one of the librarian’s jinxes on the books, but more likely she was just too tired to be able to focus properly. She closed her eyes and tried to recall some crucial passages from the books instead. Snippets of text mingled with each other maddeningly. Obviously, she was too tired to concentrate on that, too. With another sigh, she tossed the book aside and put out the light at the tip of her wand. She knew it would all come back to her as soon as she had the test before her. It always did. Even in potions, where a glance from professor Snape, be it an imagined one as she had her head bent over the desk, was enough to unsettle her.
She saw him before her, glaring darkly at her from across the classroom. It made her breathe raggedly, she was so anxious. Perhaps if she… Sometimes it helped to touch herself when she was dead tired but too tense to sleep. Ever since she had discovered that a couple of years ago she had often used it to unwind after long nights of study.
Her hand found its way inside the waistband of her pyjama pants. So, there. That felt better. She stroked herself, almost comfortingly at first, then more desperately. Would the relief ever come, or was she too tense even for that? Finally, after going completely rigid and biting into the pillow in order not to disturb her roommates, she felt the blessed relaxing warmth spread through her muscles. She fell asleep, her cheeks flushed partly from shame and partly from satisfaction.
The next day, she went to take the test in a trancelike state after too little sleep. She hadn’t dared repeating what she’d read in her head during breakfast, for fear she would discover she’d forgotten it all. She knew breakfast was important for your performance so she’d tried to eat heartily, but failed. Ron’s and Harry’s loud voices had disturbed her, joking and teasing and talking nonsense. They didn’t take the test seriously. It was just a test, not the final exam, even if it was for Snape.
Even if it was for Snape. She didn’t dare to look at him as she went into the potions classroom and took her seat. Nevertheless, she was painfully aware of the bat-like dark figure standing by the teacher’s desk. The shuffling of feet, scraping of chairs and whispered good luck wishes subsided around her.
“You may begin… now.” said that deep voice that sounded as though it belonged to a stage actor.
Hermione couldn’t help glancing up at the teacher as he elegantly flicked his wand to make the tests appear on the desks. Then she drew a ragged breath, grabbed her quill and set to work. It was easy! She knew the answer to every question by heart. Still, she hesitated… She wanted to get it absolutely right. To give professor Snape nothing to remark upon, though she knew her attempts would be in vain.
Snape was methodically pacing through the room between the rows of desks, his eyes somehow, impossibly, on everyone, all the time. If he noticed something suspicious, he was there with a speed and stealth betraying he was younger than he looked, and a spy. She could hear him approach her desk on his round, and her heart beat faster and faster for each step he took. When he stopped right behind her, she had to put down her quill and rub her sweaty palm dry against her skirt to be able to continue. But even then she couldn’t go on writing as long as he was standing there, observing her.
“At loss for words, Miss Granger?” he asked, and she could sense beneath the calm surface of his voice how he enjoyed tormenting her.
She put the quill to the paper, determined to write something just to prove him wrong. She wrote “the”. Her hand was trembling so that it came out almost illegible. At last, she heard him leave and let out a breath of relief.