Beneath the Surface

This chapter focuses solely on Hermione, and her general perception of the world. There will be other characters and more interaction between them in the chapters to follow. This is an introduction to Hermione\'s character. Here we go:


Beneath the Surface

‘The Girl Who Strives\'


The harsh, yellow glare of the early morning sun seeped through the cracks and creases in the draperies of the windows above each bed, conveniently finding and resting upon each sleepiead.ead. Morning had come, and it was time to get up, and get ready for the long day ahead.

Some of the children moaned and tried to shield their eyes from the bright intrusion that sought to take them from their dreams, while others accepted its light as a cheery reminder that the day had begun. There was only one for whom yesterday hadn\'t yet ended.

This one was now sitting up in bed, k ben bent nearly to chest, her small body hunched over a thick tome that had been propped up on slim thighs. Despite the hour, her eyes were alert and hungry as they flitted swiftly from left to right, her mind voraciously devouring each passage, each phrase, each word that her eyes took in.

She had refused to acknowledge the need to rest for many a night now, and the gentle pull of slumber had increasingly desisted each time that she ignored it. So engrossed was she in this latest fascination (the subject of her current book was Animagi and how to discover your animal identity) that she failed to notice the sleepy grumblings and groggy shuffling of the other girls that occupied her dorm as they set about getting ready for classes, as well as the occasional rolled eyes and whispered taunts thrown her way as they passed her bed. Either because she was so caught up in her reading or that she was simply used to being insulted, one could not say.

In any case, her notoriously singular concentration had just been rather rudely disturbed by a dull, painful thud coming from the left of her bed. She jumped with a start, the book falling from her lap. She rubbed her eyes before looking to see what had happened, as she was accustomed to her sight being blurry after a night of reading.

As the room swam into focus, she saw that about four girls had gathered around one gangly blonde one who was laying on the floor just in front of the bed, her legs sprawled clumsily on some textbooks that had been haphazardly resting there.

\"Ouch!! Bloody ‘ell, who left these here?!\" the annoyed girl on the floor shouted, rubbing her elbow as she struggled to rise. The others helped her up as she dusted off her pyjamas. \"They\'re yours, aren\'t they?\"

\"I–well–\"

\"Of course they\'re hers!\" another girl with a pointed chin and dark hair said to the ‘injured\' one. \"She leaves them just lying around like that every morning, not even caring if other people trip on them.\" This second girl now directed her attention to the one who had been so engrossed in her reading mere seconds ago.

\"Honestly, can\'t you sleep for just one night like the rest of us?! Just because you want to be better than the rest of us at everything doesn\'t mean that you can neglect our health as well as your own.\"

This comment angered her. Used to insults as she was, she was most sensitive about the ones directed at her intelligence, rather than the common shots at her appearance. She wasn\'t an unattractive person, but she was not what one would call a ‘classic beauty\'. Indeed, she was rather pleasant to look at; her beauty was otherworldly rather than commonplace, and it would take one with tastes that differ from the ordinary to appreciate her fully.

She had always been shorter than the other girls her age by at least a couple of inches, and her tiny, delicate bones only made her seem more diminutive. In comparison to the others in her year, she appeared fragile, almost breakable. She had always been slim, but her demanding study habits and tendency to only pick at her food–when she found the desire to eat at all–had rendered her underweight by at least ten pounds, which is a lot for a growing child.

Her bushy hair–not curly nor wavy but, seemingly indecisive on whether to be both or either, was rather frizzy–all but accentuated her small stature. She had dark brown, gravely straightforward eyes that told of her serious demeanor, and with her unusually quick wit and mental prowess, she gave one the impression of an adult mind locked up in an child\'s body.

Needless to say, this mature quality did nothing to endear her to her peers. She was no stranger to ostracism, and so had developed a sort of resistance to it. But nothing could quell her well-hid fury at the common human than when those who did not understand her dedication to knowledge maligned her for it.

She regarded her current attacker with an air of superiority, the slight sneer that rose on one side of her nose the only betrayer of her deep-seated anger at the same old method of combat being used against her once again.

\"Even if I\'m the only one in this House who actually works tt ust us points?\" she smirked at the other girls\' muted gasps of outrage. Indeed, she had hit them where it hurt. \"Why, if it weren\'t for me and my ‘unhealthy habits\', I\'d bet that we would barely have ten points to our name\", she finished contemptuously, tossing her bushy hair at them as she turned to scoot off her bed and get ready for class.

She ignored their venomous glares and snorts of disbelief as she made her way past them to the girls\' bathroom. Only when she was safely locked away in one of the toilets did she finally release a sigh of frustration at her forever unchanging lot in life. But she did not shed any tears over it.

No, she never shed tears. It was her belief that breaking down and crying was giving up. If she analyzed these thoughts more closely, she would have realized that, to her, crying symbolized giving in and accepting whatever circumstance had created such an emotion in her. And she feared that loss of her control more than anything.

She was solitary by nature, and by choice she would rather study than play their silly games or waste hours on inane chatter, but every once in a while the acute sting of their rejection would seep under her skin and into her mind.

This last incident with her books being one of those times, she sighed once more, ran her hands through her disheveled hair and stood herself up proud and tall before exiting the stall. As she closed the door behind her, so, too did she leave the anger and frustration she had been battling with in the stall.

She made a mental note never to use that stall again (the third from the left), for it was now associated with feelings of loneliness and aggravation, even if it were the only one available five minutes before class was to begin. She hated being late, but she hated having to dwell on anything that had upset her much more.

Truly, the only battles she ever conceded to were the ones fought within her own mind.

She was one of only three people still in the bathroom, which suited her fine, as she liked her privacy when getting ready. She went over to an ornate, yet tastefully designed rose marble and gold sink that had enough room for matching shelving.
Above the sink rested a moderately large oval mirror. Each inhabitant of the dorm was entitled to their very own, personal sink, and she had chosen the one furthest from the door and closest to the high and large window at the end of the bathroom.

She was too short to see more than the top of her frizzy head in the mirror, but that was just as well. She didn\'t give much thought to her appearance; no, all of her concentration was devoted to study and learning. As long as she looked merely presentable, she was satisfied.

So she picked up the simple wooden brush from the shelf and steeled herself before wringing it through her hair. Taking a second to wonder why her scalp wasn\'t numb after years of daily abuse, she squeezed her eyes shut and brought the brush to the top of her head.

It was still there several moments later, tangled hopelessly in her tresses as she fought with both hands to free it. Realizing that she would never be able to untangle this mess naturally–and thanking the powers that be that she was born a witch–she went back to the dorm, got her wand from a drawer in her nightstand and returned to the bathroom with it.

She scanned her mind for the proper de-tangling charm in the encyclopedia-like wealth of knowledge she possessed, and smiled in satisfaction as she came across the best one. Nodding once in satisfaction, she lifted her wand and performed a small series of flicks and swishes around her hair while intoning the proper words; a rosy color shimmered around her head for a moment, and then the brush fell to the floor easily. Her hair was also free of tangles and snarls as well (although, of course, it was still rather frizzy). She smiled at her results, running a hand through her now softer hair.

‘I don\'t care what anyone says, it definitely does pay to study in advance over the summer.\'

With an impish smile still clinging to her lips, she quickly brushed her teeth and washed her face. Glancing at her watch (a thin, red band with a simple silver watch-face that she never took off; she took great pride in her unfailing punctuality), she absently noted that she had missed breakfast again. Knowing that class was to start in less than fifteen minutes, she hurried back to her room to don her school robes, which hung in a large, cherry-wood wardrobe that was used by the entire dorm.

She pulled a pair of red-and-yellow striped knee socks (which she found rather silly, but everyone in Gryffindor had been issued several pairs of them) out of the top drawer of her bureau, fastened on her black mary-janes, and stood before the full-length mirror at the back of the room to fix her tie (it was always lop-sided, as she had never learned to tie one before starting school at Hogwarts) and check her overall appearance.

A bit rumpled, but decent enough for her. She got together the books that she would need for the day, tied them into a book strap and then hauled them to the door.

‘Blasted heavy things, but all necessary.\'

She went down the spiral staircase to the common room (very elegantly done in red and gold), and then proceeded to the portrait of the Fat Lady. She smiled and nodded a greeting to her--which was politely returned--and then the Fat Lady shifted her portrait aside so the girl was able to pass through.

Knowing that she was pressed for time, she flung her books out of the portal and then shuffled through it herself, jumping out and landing as gracefully as she could, then straightened her robes. She glanced quickly at her watch, doing a double take when she realized that she had little more than five minutes to get to class.

‘Oh, no! I\'ve never been late before. I CAN\'T be late!!\'

Panic began to overtake her, and she walked as fast as she could through hallways, down shifting staircases, and past corridors with the burden of the heavy textbooks banging against her leg with every step.

‘Calm down, you\'re almost there\', she tried to soothe herself as her breathing became increasingly labored, due more to panic than to the long speed-walk she had undertaken.

Just as she was sure she would cry from fear of getting a detention for being tardy (something as frightening as it was foreign to her), she heard a voice call her name. The clumsy, rapid thumping of children\'s feet could be heard echoing softly down the darkened corridor.

\"Hermione!\" It was the voice of a young boy, and he sounded exasperated but not angry. \"Hermione, wait up! It\'s us!\"

The girl smiled in relief, letting out a sigh as she turned around to face her pursuers. If she was to be late to class, she wouldn\'t be late alone.

It was her (only) two friends, Harry and Ron, racing to catch up with her. Harry was smiling good-naturedly at her, while Ron was stuffing a napoleon from breakfast into his mouth.

\"Hermione, where have you been? You weren\'t at breakfast\", Harry asked her.
\"Again\", Ron chided through his mouthful of pastry.

\"Sorry, guys. Guess I overslept again\", she said apologetically, her eyes darting around nervously from the white lie. But, although she was most certainly not a good liar, Harry and Ron accepted her excuse with rolled eyes and an absent nod.

She wondered then--as she often did--if they would even care if she had told them the truth. They were good friends and fun to be with, but every once in a while she suspected that they just kept her along with them because she was such an advantage intelligence-wise. They often asked her for help with homework and the like and consulted her for the more difficult aspects of plotting and executing their schemes (magically or otherwise), but never did they engage in a real, friendly conversation with her.

She noticed that whenever she interjected her opinion in one of their debates or tried to tell them about her own life and personal feelings and problems, they would either trail off or look the other way, seemingly bored with what she had to say, and this hurt her more than she would ever admit to even herself.

Perhaps she was just being touchy (as she was wont to be, what with her volatile temper) and imagining things, or maybe this was the way friends behaved with one another. She was not an authority on friendship (one of the few subjects she knew near to nothing of), having had very little experience with it.

But it was the guilt for even having these suspicions about Harry and Ron that made her keep her mouth shut about it. They were good to befriend her in the first place, and they did have some great times and laughs together. She told herself she was lucky that they even included her in their playful banter, and she didn\'t have the right to jeopardize their friendship with her silly accusations and wounded pride.

The three were standing for a moment to catch their breath when Hermione again checked her watch. Her eyes widened.

\"Blast!! Come on, we have to go!\" She resettled her books over her shoulder and hurried down the corridor.

The two boys were several steps behind her. She threw her head over her shoulder and fixed them with a panicked glare. \"Get moving, you two. We\'re going to be late!!\"

\"It\'s alright, Hermione\", Ron said confidently, although he and Harry hurried to catch up with her. \"It\'s only Charms. Flitwick doesn\'t care if we\'re a little late, you know that.\"

The three stopped dead in their tracks for a second, Harry and Hermione staring at Ron in confusion.

\"W-what?\" he asked unsurely. \"It is Wednesday, right?\"

Harry slapped a hand to his forehead in exasperation, conveniently covering his scar. \"You idiot! That\'s tomorrow. Today\'s Tuesday!\"

\"That\'s what I thought\", she said in annoyance, mostly at the prospect of actually being mistaken about scheduling. In her haze of panic, she\'d forgotten what class they did have, though she was going the right to reach it out of sheer habit. Autopilot.

Being halfway down the transfiguration wing with her programmed journey broken, she was now unsure of where they should be heading. \"Then what do we have?\" she mumbled thoughtfully.

Her eyes widened, as did those of the two boys, as the three simultaneously realized what, indeed, their first class of the day was.

\"Oh, no...\", Harry uttered ominously.

\"Potions\", Ron groaned, putting a hand across his face dramatically.

\"He gets especially angry when people are late, especially Gryffindors\", she said softly, her voice quavering with fear. She didn\'t even need to say just who \'he\' was; they all knew.

The Potions Master of Hogwarts\' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was probably, for anyone who\'d had the uniquely disturbing pleasure of making his acquaintance, the second most feared person in the wizarding world. There was no need to say who the first was; they all knew his name, too.

Hermione was not one who gave in to fear easily, but she did find it quite difficult to keep her composure when faced with the Potions Master\'s towering, fearful presence. She gulped in trepidation of having to face him but, steeling her nerves, she bravely continued onward, with Harry and Ron in tow.

Still several corridors and another (non-mobile, thank the gods) staircase away from the Dungeons where Potions class was held, they knew they would all get a ludicrous amount of points taken off Gryffindor and detention for their tardiness.
If that was all, they were lucky. Realizing this, they all looked at each other, fright etched over their featu

\"SHIT!!!!\" they shouted in unison, tearing down the hall faster than they had ever run before. If any staff member saw them, nothing came of it, for they probably knew just where they were running to and were more than familiar with the dangers that awaited them there, should they be late. Or so the children would later deduce.

‘Four months in a new school, and a detention already?! You\'d better make up for this tonight, Granger. No lunch, dinner, OR breakfast for you!!\'