Unthinkable

The velvet-curtained window was the only witness to the succession of emotions on her expressive face as she read: fascination, outraged anger, wistful sadness, and an interest much deeper than curiosity. The table wobbled every time she leaned an elbow on it, its legs making an aggravating clanking sound against the wooden floor. It was the only sound in the room apart from the occasional turning of pages.

Maybe she was a little obsessed. Just a little. Any research project, school or self assigned, deserved nothing less than her best effort, but this project was special. And top secret. Ron had teased her horribly about Lockhart; this would be much worse. A million times worse.

She was Hermione Granger, best in the fifth year class at Hogwarts because she was determined to become the best witch it was possible to be. She had decided to absorb all the knowledge about the wizarding world she could get her hands on and to practice every spell and potion until she could do it perfectly (but she usually got it right on the first try). She would be the best witch, even if to some it would never be enough to prove she belonged in this world.

To some, she knew, it didn't matter how good she became at magic or how many times she showed her skill by getting better grades than her pure-blooded classmates. To some in this world she would always be unworthy of magic and even of life.

It only made her study harder. No amount of time or work was too much to prove them wrong about her, to prove to them that she could be just as much of a witch as any pure-blood.

She had become so focused on proving them wrong that she had been blindsided when her own emotions had mutated and snuck up on her like a stealthy, poisonous snake. Without her noticing, her motivation had changed from proving them wrong about her to proving herself to one of them, the most prejudiced of them all. It was, needless to say, a completely hopeless endeavour.

Why did she continue trying? She couldn't give up, even as she cried behind closed curtains in her dorm at night, almost hating her Muggle origins. It was so unfair to be judged by who her parents were when she wasn't even close to them; how could she be? She hardly ever saw them, and it was so awkward when she did... They lived in another world!

Every day she covered her doubts with a mask of haughty confidence and worked tirelessly on her spellcasting and theoretical knowledge. It was all she could do: to be the best and make sure everyone knew it. Gryffindors did not give up, no matter the odds -

She rubbed her stinging eyes.

Hearing the door open, she hastily closed the folder and tapped it three times with two fingers, reactivating her security spell. The contents of the folder would maintain the appearance of Arithmancy notes until unlocked with the password. She had taken the idea from the Marauders' Map and chosen a password no one would ever guess, even if she hated saying it. These were the lengths she had to go to hide her secret because of who her friends and her part-time roommate were. If one of them found out, all hell would break loose.

"Hermione?"

"Hi, Ginny." She cursed herself for the guilt leaking into her voice. Thank Merlin she hadn't been Sorted into Slytherin. She would've been eaten alive, and not only because she was Muggle-born.

Yes, hi, Ginny. I was just indulging in the urge to know everything about the worst enemy of your family, the wizard who almost got you and Harry killed. And me too, but that's the last thing I care about. By the way, I like him about as much as you used to like Harry.

She winced.

"Oh, are you studying? If I'm bothering you, I can -"

"No, it's all right," Hermione said, resigned. "This is your room too."

Seeing Ginny settle on her bed with schoolbooks and writing supplies, she suppressed a sigh, pulled a heavy leather-bound book out of her trunk, and settled down to read it.

The room was insufficiently lit, giving it an air that some would have described as gloomy or eerie. Hermione, however, didn't mind the tarnished chandelier glimmering weakly over her head and creating moving shadows on the walls, or the snake-shaped candelabra on the table which shed a flickering glow on her. As long as they provided enough light for her to decipher the writing on the dog-eared page, she was happy with them.

She wished there were more books in this house. Useful, edifying books, not like Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy, which only contained a few interesting sections. She had just been reading one of these sections, which she had torn out of the book and password-protected like the rest of that research project.

Pushing a coil of bushy hair away from her eye, she looked up from the book and glanced around the spacious room. She rather liked the old-fashioned, medieval style of this house, so different from what she was used to in the Muggle world. Instead of repelling her as they did Harry, the serpentine relics and dark atmosphere fascinated her with their mystery.

It was exciting to be in a typical example of an old wizarding house, the second one she had had the opportunity to stay at and the most intriguing by far. The Burrow wasn't full of arcane magic and mystery like this house.

She still had to share a room with Ginny, but at least in this room, there was enough space for both girls to do their own business without having to share the dressing table, the wardrobe and the couch. Ginny was a good friend, but sometimes she interrupted her concentration with incessant chatter, distracting her when she wanted to read in peace and silence.

This house is in a desolate condition, she thought sadly, her gaze lingering on the paint peeling from the walls. The windowpane was incrusted with grime and the shabby street behind it was not pleasant to look at. It was obvious that Grimmauld Place was located in one of the poorest, most neglected districts of London. As for the dusty forest-green curtains that refused to close fully, they could have looked fine if they weren't so visibly moth-eaten.

Harry didn't like the house; he said it felt hostile and creepy. But neither Hermione nor Ginny were complaining. It was much more spacious than the Burrow and the furniture was in a better state. For the first time, Ginny Weasley had enough space to store all her clothes and school things in the wardrobes and drawers.

Right now, Ginny was lying on her stomach on her bed doing homework, which was due the week after the winter holidays. How Ginny could write essays in such an uncomfortable position, Hermione couldn't fathom, but every time she suggested they share the desk, the redhead would retort that she liked it more this way.

Hermione, who had completed her all homework on the first days of the Christmas holidays, went back to her book. It was entitled Know Thine Enemy: Defending Oneself from Dark Forces. Not only did Umbridge teach nothing about practical defence, but even the theory learned in class was useless and quite rudimentary for their O.W.L. year.

This year's Defence textbook, Defensive Magical Theory by W. Slinkhard, was the most boring reading material Hermione had ever had the misfortune to look at. Oh, how she hated that foul, evil, twisted Umbridge woman and her horrid pack of Slytherin attack dogs! Nothing could be more reprehensible than what they were doing: trying to limit other people's access to knowledge.

But of course Hermione had taken it upon herself to read up on what the Ministry didn't want them to learn at Hogwarts. The D.A. was good for practice, but it was always useful to know more advanced spells. There was always more to learn. Especially in Defence Against the Dark Arts, the only subject in which she wasn't top of her class.

Harry had been consistently outscoring her in Defence since third year. Not being the best at something despite her diligent efforts was a hard pill to swallow. She had to work harder; she had to be the best. She was already at a disadvantage as a Muggle-born in a world controlled by pure-bloods. And Harry beat her without even trying! It simply wasn't right. Some of her classmates tried pretty hard to compete with her but none of them got past second place. Draco Malfoy was frequently in that spot, a fact Hermione had very conflicted feelings about.

She shut the book abruptly and pushed it away to the corner of the desk.

"Done with your reading, Hermione?" Ginny chirped from the other side of the room.

"I can't concentrate. Not with... forget it. Let's talk about something else, alright?" She brushed rebellious strands of hair out of her face and looked over at the redhead. "Ginny, are you sure you don't need any help with Transfiguration? I remember fourth year; the theory wasn't easy."

Ginny shook her head. "Thanks, but I'm doing all right."

"You know, Ron still whines about all the boys looking at you in a way he doesn't like." She winked at Ginny, whose face suddenly brightened.

"Did you know I went to Hogsmeade with Michael Corner just before the holidays?" Ginny said. "It was so romantic with the snow and the pretty lights... you know? We went to this lovely teashop..."

"Michael Corner?" repeated Hermione, furrowing her eyebrows. "But I thought you were with Dean Thomas."

"Not officially. Michael asked me first."

"He's a Ravenclaw, isn't he?"

Ginny grinned. "Yeah, fifth year. He's a nice boy. He's not Harry, but... he's fun. He bought me a pretty dress and flowers. Don't tell Ron! You know how he would react."

"Yeah, he would combust of paranoia."

Maybe Hermione was getting cynical, but she suspected this Ravenclaw boy was operating under the assumption that the way into Ginny Weasley's heart was through buying her things she wanted but couldn't afford. She would never admit it, but she was tempted to think like Ron on this: Michael Corner's intentions were probably not as innocent as Ginny thought.

But Hermione knew better than to try talking some sense into her friend. Her honest opinion would hurt and offend Ginny, and Hermione had too few friends to carelessly provoke fights with them when it wasn't absolutely necessary.

Was Ginny really her friend? Could she consider Ginny a real friend when she was sure the younger girl would want nothing to do with her if she knew her best-kept secret?

The sixteen-year-old prefect sighed. Ginny, who was younger than her by a little less than two years, could be really immature, especially when it came to clothes and boys.

To be completely honest, Hermione was jealous of Ginny and her ordinary, uncomplicated love life. Ginny was lucky.

Ginny had developed a crush on Harry when she had first seen him when she'd been ten years old, but she was finally getting over the whole thing and having fun dating other boys.

It wasn't so for Hermione, who had found herself slowly falling in love with a man she had met briefly before second year, and again before fourth, and whom she couldn't stop thinking about no matter how hard she tried. She hadn't noticed when her need to prove him wrong about her had gradually turned into something so much worse.

It was an uncontrollable infatuation. It horrified Hermione to no end, not because she hadn't felt such a thing before - she had felt something similar for Gilderoy Lockhart, though never so intensely - but because of who this man was.

And the reality of it was so terrible... It was worse than forbidden. It was unthinkable. She was probably the unluckiest girl on earth. Not only was there no chance he would ever pay any attention to her, no matter how hard she tried to impress him, but he would also gladly kill her just because she was a Muggle-born and a friend of Harry Potter.

The mere thought of how he treated house elves made her seethe with fury. People like him were the reason she had created S.P.E.W. She couldn't stand such callous cruelty toward those who couldn't defend themselves; she couldn't do nothing about it... And yet...

How could she have fallen in love with someone like him? How could she have been so stupid?

Had Ron been right about her in fourth year? Was she in fact a weak-minded, shallow girl who was attracted to good-looking men? Because no one could deny he was good-looking, even more so than Lockhart. He was the most handsome wizard she had ever met.

But no, she knew Ron had been wrong. She hadn't been attracted to Lockhart only or mainly because of his good looks, but rather because after reading his books, she had believed him to be a brilliant wizard, and when she had found out he was anything but, her feelings had fizzled out like a candle doused with cold water.

Lockhart had turned out to be an inept, narcissistic idiot. But he, despite his arrogance, had a truly brilliant mind. His plans were as clever as they were vile. Getting Ginny blamed for opening Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets and attacking Muggle-borns had been a horrible, cruel, but brilliant plan to discredit Mr Weasley and prevent his pro-Muggle law from passing. And somehow he had even convinced the Board of Governors to sack Dumbledore of all people!

As far as undetectable murder methods were concerned, Devil's Snare disguised as a get well present in the form of a bedside plant had been pure genius. It had been terrible but brilliant. It saddened Hermione to see so much cleverness misused for evil. What great things could he do for the wizarding world, had he chosen the right side?

The frightening idea of Harry, Ron or Ginny finding out her secret was always present in the back of Hermione's mind. She had no illusions about what would happen if they found out: her only friends would turn their backs on her.

She could never forget Ron's reaction to Viktor at the Yule Ball and his accusation of 'fraternising with the enemy'. Oh, if Ron found out about this...

The worst part was that while Harry and Ginny hadn't begrudged her going to the Yule Ball with Viktor, she was sure they would shun her for her feelings for someone each of them had personal reasons to hate.

She would be alone and friendless again, like she had been in Muggle school. She had never felt like she belonged in the Muggle world, but did she belong in this one? She desperately wanted to belong, but would she ever? Could she really belong in the magical world when wizards like him thought she was no more than a Muggle who could do magic because of some freakish accident of nature that shouldn't have happened? Oh yes, she had researched pure-blood supremacist ideology. She knew exactly what they thought of people like her.

Ginny chose the wrong moment to start a conversation on a topic she didn't know was a minefield. "So you and Viktor... How is it going?" she asked, her bright brown eyes twinkling mischievously. "When are you going to visit him?"

"How many times do I have to tell you Viktor and I are just friends?" Hermione snapped in annoyance. "Are you as thick as Ron?"

"Whoa, Hermione, no need to bite my head off!" exclaimed Ginny, waving her hands apologetically. "You went to the Yule Ball with him and you still write to him. People kind of assume you are a couple."

"Sorry. But I thought you knew why I accepted to go with Viktor," said Hermione hotly. "It's not like another boy had asked me before he did and I had no idea if anyone was going to ask me at all! If I refused, I risked having to go to the ball without a partner. Parvati and Lavender would have laughed their heads off, and Parkinson and her bully club would have absolutely loved it! As for our correspondence, it's mostly academic. Viktor knows so many things we don't learn at Hogwarts..."

Hermione envied the students of Durmstrang the opportunity to learn a whole branch of magic that not only wasn't taught at Hogwarts, but was entirely banned in Britain, making it hard to find unbiased books about it. From Viktor's letters, she had learned there was much more to the Dark Arts than the Unforgivables. Dark magic could do loads of things other types of magic couldn't, and a lot of it wasn't more harmful than the spells taught at Hogwarts. The jinx she had used on the D.A. member list for example...

"Couldn't you have asked someone to the ball yourself? You didn't have to go with Viktor if you didn't like him."

"Who? Neville?" Hermione shook her head. "He can't even dance. You went with him; wasn't much fun, was it? And even if Ron had decided to ask me earlier, I'm not sure I would have said yes. I mean, do you remember his dress robes? The hideous purple colour that clashed with his hair, and those lace cuffs - goodness, Parvati and Lavender would have laughed worse than if I'd gone alone."

She looked at Ginny, whose eyes were no longer twinkling. At least she wasn't laughing. More calmly, Hermione continued:

"And I've got to say... I was flattered when Viktor invited me. I mean, he had a whole club of girls following him everywhere, some of them very attractive, but he didn't ask one of them - no, he chose to ask me instead. Me, the plain bookish girl. The Muggle-born. I didn't even think about saying no, Ginny, because I told myself, that'll show them!

"It was my revenge on Pansy Parkinson and her crowd. Can you imagine what it was like to see them gaping at me? They couldn't believe the famous Viktor Krum would take someone like me to the Yule Ball." Then her grin faded. "Yes, I was very happy, but from that to actually fancying Viktor..."

Hermione didn't look at Ginny. She stared down at her hands as she spoke. "I've never liked him like that, Ginny. In fact, I... sort of... love someone else," she said quickly.

"Oh," Ginny perked up. "Who's the lucky guy?"

Every now and then, Hermione wished she could confide in someone. But she was so ashamed of her feelings that she would never be able to look Ginny in the eye if she knew. And Ginny would most likely never speak to her again. Ginny was one of the last people to whom she could confess this secret.

Ginny had never fully got over her first year. She never talked about it, but Hermione could see it in her bright eyes, how they flashed at the mention of the Chamber of Secrets incident... and the one responsible for it. From watching Ginny, Hermione had come to the conclusion that Ginny hated him.

"I'm sorry, but I'd rather not say."

"Don't worry, I won't tell my prat of a brother." Then Ginny's eyes widened. "Is it still Lockhart? Is that why you're embarrassed?"

"Merlin, no!" Hermione said. "I could never fancy someone so - so incompetent. Ginny, he could only cast one spell properly and it was the Memory Charm. If I'd known, I would've never..."

"I still can't believe you liked him, even if you didn't know he was a fraud. He was just so conceited! Mum fancied him too, you know. It was so embarrassing... But she never had him as a teacher so she didn't know what he was really like."

But conceit wasn't a turn-off for Hermione. It never had been. Lockhart's books had been more about him than about the deeds he had supposedly done, and this hadn't made Hermione think less of him. It made sense: quite a few people thought she was conceited. But no one could honestly say she was incompetent. Incompetence, for her, was a deal breaker.

"If it isn't Lockhart, then who is it? Come on, Hermione, curiosity is killing me."

"I can't tell you," Hermione said with finality.

"Oh, a secret?" Ginny said mischievously, knowing it was futile to argue when Hermione had made a decision. "All right, all right. But you can at least tell me how long you've liked him, whoever he is?"

Hermione hesitated. "Since the summer before last year, I think."

"You mean you met him at the World Cup?"

"Sort of."

"What do you mean, sort of?"

I shouldn't have said anything! Hermione berated herself.

"We had met before." The words rushed out before she could bite her tongue at the thought of what that encounter had resulted in for Ginny.

"Do I know him?" Ginny asked suddenly. Hermione was acting really strange. It was unlike her to give such short, reluctant answers. Normally, she was eager to tell everything there was to tell about a topic, but right now she sounded as though she was being interrogated at her trial for some sort of crime. "Have I met him?" Ginny insisted when Hermione still hadn't answered.

Hermione studiously avoided meeting Ginny's turned to examine the window, as though she found it painful to look at her. "I'm sorry, Ginny."

The words were mumbled in such a low voice that it took Ginny a few seconds to decipher them, and when she did, her confusion grew to new heights. "What do you have to apologise for?"

Hermione didn't turn and Ginny stared at the side of her face while she repeated, "I'm really sorry."

There was a minute of silence, with Hermione looking everywhere except at Ginny, while the redhead watched her curiously, wondering who it could be that Hermione had feelings for and why she felt so guilty about it. The older girl seemed embarrassed, so it was most likely someone Harry and Ron wouldn't approve of... Someone I wouldn't approve of?

Hermione broke the awkward silence she could no longer stand. "So, you are finally getting over your infatuation with Harry."

Ginny's freckled face flushed at the mention of her childhood crush, mostly out of embarrassment and anger with herself.

"Yeah, thank Merlin. Your advice really helped. I've been doing what you said, accepting that Harry doesn't feel the same way and acting like I've moved on. Dating other people. I think it's working. I think of him much less than I used to."

Hermione was well aware of how absurd it was for her to be giving relationship advice to anyone. But knowing personally the pain of unrequited love, she had wanted to help Ginny, so she had shared one of the tricks she had discovered for herself: distractions. It had almost worked for her, with Viktor. If only he didn't live so far away. If only she actually had time for a relationship.

She had recently noticed that Ron was funny and sort of cute when he wasn't absolutely infuriating, and unlike Viktor, he was right here; he could be the distraction she needed, maybe even a permanent distraction. But it wouldn't be fair to him. Ron deserved to be more than just a distraction. Could she learn to love him eventually, if she gave it a try?

But there was just no time! Her education would always come first. It had to. It was the best distraction. If she focused on the next assignment, the next test, the next spell to teach herself, she was too busy to think about why she felt such a need to be the best. She could forget what she was trying to prove, to whom, and why. Especially why.

"Ginny, you shouldn't be mean to Harry. He's got a lot on his plate this year, and it wasn't his fault that you had a crush on him. He didn't make it happen. It's not right to blame him for it."

"I'm not mean to him," Ginny said testily.

"You could've been gentler about reminding him about your possession by V-Voldemort. He almost died of Basilisk venom poisoning in the Chamber. You can't blame him for wanting to forget all about it."

"Forget? How can anyone forget what happened? Had you forgotten too?"

"I wish I could."

"But Hermione, you were petrified. The whole thing was meant to get you out of Hogwarts."

"To get Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts, and discredit your dad," Hermione corrected sharply. "All Muggle-borns. Not me in particular. "

"I think it was meant mainly against you," said Ginny.

Hermione stared at her. "What do you mean?" Her voice trembled.

"You're the best in your class, heck, the best of our generation. Malfoy's dad," Ginny said with loathing, "has got to be furious about that. A Muggle-born doing better than a Malfoy, his heir - got to be embarrassing for them. You're the only Muggle-born he really knows about."

Hermione blanched and looked as if she had been stricken, to Ginny's surprise and confusion. Scarily bright as she was, surely she had figured it out? But despite her brilliance, Hermione could be strangely clueless about some things, for example the reason Ron was such a gigantic prat to her some of the time. But even if it was news to her, why was she taking it so badly?

The only explanation Ginny managed to come up with was that Hermione had taken what she'd told her to mean everything that had happened that year was her fault, that she'd caused it by being so good in classes and pissing off the Malfoys. Oh, no!

"Hermione! It wasn't your fault. Don't you dare blame yourself for what happened to me or the people who were petrified." Ginny gave her a comforting hug learned from her mum. "It was a horrible year but it's over. Nobody died."

"Yeah." Negative attention was better than none, right?

"Anyway... I'm ashamed of myself when I remember how I used to act around Harry," Ginny confessed, obviously trying to distract Hermione. She ran her hands though her mane of red hair. "Can you imagine that I was afraid to speak when he was in the room because I didn't want him to think I was the loud-mouthed brat my brothers said I was?"

"You were lucky it was just Harry."

Ginny bristled visibly. "And what is that supposed to mean, just Harry?" she demanded.

"Well," Hermione offered with a wry smile, "it's not as though it was a Death Eater, was it?" she joked. "I mean, Harry's one of the nicest boys at Hogwarts."

Ginny let out a strangled laugh. "I suppose."

"You see? It could've been much worse. Unless you felt that way about the boy in the diary," Hermione suggested shrewdly. "Riddle."

"No effing way!" Ginny exclaimed, looking aghast. "Hermione, it's You-Know-Who we're talking about! Who would fancy him? Tom was good-looking, yeah, but he's a heartless madman, him and his followers..."

"It doesn't work like that," Hermione interrupted. "People don't choose whom they fall in love with. Unfortunately."

"Well, yeah," said Ginny, "that's true - I definitely didn't want to follow Harry around like a lovesick puppy! But I mean, really, who would love You-Know-Who or the Death Eaters? A girl would have to be completely nuts to be attracted to those evil bastards."

"I agree," Hermione said in a choked voice. "That's crazy."

Did I just admit I'm - how did she say it? - 'completely nuts'? But Ginny is right. It is crazy.

Before Hermione could come up with a way out of this uncomfortable turn of conversation, the door opened and Mrs Weasley peeked into the room. She wore an apron and a cheerful smile, but there were dark circles under her eyes. Hermione suspected the poor woman couldn't sleep from worry about her husband's snakebite.

"It's time to eat, girls!" Mrs Weasley announced.

"Oh - right, Mum," said Ginny. "Hermione, are you coming?"

"Go on," Hermione said. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Hurry up, dear. The food will get cold," Mrs Weasley told her. "You look a bit pale. A good warm meal is just what you need to fix that."

Why did the Weasleys believe food was the answer to all problems? No wonder Mrs Weasley was... not very slim. But Hermione would never say that out loud. It would be cruel. Mrs Weasley was a genuinely kind and generous woman. But she wasn't quite the kind of witch Hermione wanted to become. She couldn't imagine being a stay at home mother. She would go bonkers from the lack of intellectual stimulation.

"I won't be long," Hermione said with a smile.

"All right, dear. Ginny, come help me with the salad."

Ginny sullenly followed her mother out of the room. "But Mum, I hate cooking!" Hermione heard her complain.

She watched them leave, sighing deeply. Oh, Ginny, if only you knew, she thought sadly.

Hermione was in love with a man who would never even look at her. Actually, that technically wasn't true: at the World Cup, he had looked - openly stared, in fact - at her for what had felt like an interminable moment, making her blush deeply. But then he had turned away with an expression of disdain, not deigning to speak to her, as if she was too insignificant even to taunt. It would have hurt less if he had openly insulted her.

She had been stunned by how much it had hurt. There were many others in the wizarding world who scorned her for being a Muggle-born, and their opinion had never ruffled her. She scorned them right back for being prejudiced, narrow-minded bigots who couldn't see past a book's cover. What was different about him? Why did his contempt feel like a knife in her chest? Why did it make her feel as though she had failed at everything, as though the Boggart again stood before her in the shape of Professor McGonagall announcing her expulsion for failing every exam?

After that day, she had been forced to realise that she had feelings for him, not that she hadn't admired him before. She had regarded him with anger, yes, but also awe, envy, and a secret admiration, but all these things had gradually turned into another, stronger, emotion. She found it hard to admit even to herself. She was in love with...

A Death Eater. A Dark wizard who looked down on all who were not of pure blood.

He was married and older than her by over twenty years, not that age difference had ever mattered to her. Lockhart had been much older than her too, and a professor, yet these things hadn't stopped her from being crazy about him. Lockhart hadn't looked his age and neither did he. It was a wizard thing. Because of their longer lifespan, wizards aged more slowly than Muggles; she had seen pictures of Dumbledore in his seventies with his hair still fully auburn.

At least Lockhart had been no Dark wizard who enjoyed torturing Muggles.

She knew he would never care about her. To him, she would never be a true witch, because her parents were Muggles. She was the cleverest in her year, but this was beyond her intelligence. Nothing she did could possibly impress him. He would never see her as anything but a Mudblood. There was no way she could prove herself to him, and it was just as well, because if there had been a way, it would have meant betraying her friends.

It would have meant betraying Harry, and she could never do that. Not to Harry. Brave, passionate, generous Harry who never hesitated to risk his life to help others. How many times had he saved her life? In first year he had saved her from a horrible death by troll, and in third year, from having her soul sucked out by Dementors.

It didn't merit thinking about because no matter what she did, anyway, he would never look at her that way. If at least she hadn't been a Muggle-born...

It couldn't have been worse. Or maybe it could: it could have been You-Know-Who. Hermione had to wonder, despite what Ginny said, whether the redhead had really had feelings deeper than friendship towards Tom Riddle. Maybe she was just projecting what she thought could've happened if she had been in Ginny's shoes, but Ginny's denial rang false to her ears. Ginny had been an impressionable, insecure eleven year old girl. She had developed a huge crush on Harry from just one look at him...

Look who's talking, said a nasty little voice in Hermione's head. You weren't a child like Ginny. You were almost fifteen and you considered yourself more mature than other girls your age.

Ginny hadn't known Tom Riddle was evil when she first wrote to him. But I... I knew who I was looking at.

Yes, she had known, though she hadn't wanted to believe Harry's claims, not even when he had come back after his duel with Lord Voldemort in the graveyard and told her and Ron pieces of the story. She still hoped he was somehow mistaken or there were extenuating circumstances.

Hermione pressed her palm to her forehead and wondered for the hundredth time what she could have done to deserve this. To have such feelings for someone like him when...

"I'm just a Mudblood," she muttered bitterly.

"Damn right," answered the portrait on the wall, making Hermione jump. But when she looked at it, it was still the same empty frame it had always been.

She liked this house, really. But not everything about it. The house-elf heads mounted on the walls were horrifying and barbaric, as was the severed troll leg and the other body parts of sentient magical creatures used as furniture. Some Muggles adorned their houses with hunting trophies and it had always appalled her, but this was worse. These creatures were more like humans than like animals. And then there was the living tragedy that was Kreacher, brainwashed to worship his and his species' abusers...

However, the many intriguing mysteries of this house, such as portraits that could talk while empty (how?), were absolutely fascinating, and having to put up with being insulted by portraits and by poor Kreacher was a small price to pay for living in a place full of such interesting magic.

The insults didn't really bother her, honestly. Being called a Mudblood by Draco Malfoy hurt (but she would be damned if she ever let him see it) only because she was sure he was just parroting what he had been hearing at home his entire life.

All right, yes, she was obsessed.

Ginny and Mrs Weasley would have to wait a few more minutes for her. She wasn't hungry anyway.

Sighing, she placed her palm on the stack of parchment she had been studying before Ginny had walked in. She really hated the password she had chosen, but that was the point. No one would imagine a Muggle-born willingly uttering these words, for they were a declaration of pure-blood superiority. She wrinkled her nose. "Sanctimonia vincet semper," she murmured under her breath.

The Arithmancy equations flickered and dissolved into undecipherable swirls of ink, which rearranged themselves into a text on the history of the family whose motto she has just spoken.