RP: Pending Further Consideration
Characters: Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley
Location: Residence -- > Library
Date: July 02 2000 morning
Status/Warning: Private/Awkwardness
Summary: Awkwardness with Ron
Completion: Complete
It had been another one of those mornings.
Wake up in an empty flat too early for a day off, boyfriend gone and the other side of the bed a lumpy mess of covers. Hermione was in no better condition than the weather, foggy and bitterly British. And it wasn't even that time of the month. Just Thursday.
A squeaking birdcage that tempted having a pillow lobbed in its general direction.
Burnt bread with too little butter.
Pawing at hair unusually difficult to manage.
Indeed. One of those mornings.
--
Around half-past nine, Hermione ran out of things to do. She was too bored to read, too disinterested to study, and found herself instead staring at three packed cardboard boxes sitting beneath a half-empty mahogany shelf. She'd already unpacked half the book collection she'd brought with her and left the rest patiently waiting, promising herself that they'd be a special project, for a day like this.
Problem was, when today came, Hermione sat locked in a staring contest.
Fiction
Non-Fiction
Serialized Novels
Respectively.
It could be easy. A~ swish aaand flick~! and all the books would be perfectly organized, no effort whatsoever. But that's too easy! protested the silly, quiet voice Hermione had come to recognize as her conscience. The whole point was in the organization, sizing and re-ordering for an almost feng-shui brand of nirvana. With an exaggerated sigh, Hermione began the hopeless effort. Too-exaggerated, because honestly, Crookshanks didn't care what sort of mood she was in, as long as he got his breakfast at the proper time.
Opening the second-largest box, Hermione was assaulted by a smell of parchment, ink, and leather -- as well as a cloud of dust gathered there over the past thirty-something days. Caught between a smile and a sneezing fit, she began placing books on the shelf, organizing first by author, then chronology, and finally size. It was actually calming, each book heavy and familiar in her hands, putting her in (dare she admit?) a decent temperment.
Until:
A copy of Billibub Baddings' To Charm Or Not to Charm (1996) fell open in her hands, it's cover slightly propped open due to some folded parchment rumpled among its pages.
To Hermione Granger, written in Ron Weasley's familiar scrawl.
Hermione blanched. Of course she remembered this now, unfolding each of the letters with the care of someone who didn't want to. A letter of concern, and then one of apology, and she'd responded to both in much the same way. How dare he worry about her? How dare he be a concerned friend? Hermione realized that, had Ron been in her position -- for example dating someone like Pansy, god forbid -- wouldn't she have been just as worried, if not more? She wouldn't have stopped her ruthless badgering until she got satisfactory answers. Ron had only been trying to help, and she'd snapped at him. Her best mate and she'd abandoned him...for what?
An enemy she thought she loved? With a family that showed her no warmth?
The sudden lump in her throat was a surprise and Hermione bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying. For goodness sake, she wasn't that sort of girl! The letters were carefully folded and tucked into her left pocket, a part of her horribly wishing she'd thrown them out when she had the chance.
--
Around noon, the fog lifted, but with the promise of rain still imminent. Hermione left the apartment complex in a hat (to hide the unusually bad hair day) and swinging a red umbrella, perhaps for a trip downtown for lunch. Categorizing books put her in a library-ish mood, which, surprisingly, was uncharacteristic. Hermione tended to prefer buying books to borrowing them, and had a smallish library collection of her own between the books back at the flat, the ones at her parents', and the ones she left behind at Grimmauld Place. It was for no reason other than she liked supporting the writers directly, feeling quite proud to actually have the book and be able to say "This is mine."
However, desperate times called for desperate measures, or so the saying went, and when you got down to it, Hermione read indiscriminately. "Flourish and Blotts" was out of stock on the new Alistair Crowley novel Thieves and Witches, and she'd been reduced to having it reserved at the temporary library downstairs.
Entering the library, it's walls still smelling freshly painted (or magicked to smell new), Hermione had the odd, shivery feeling that things might just get horrifically worse.
Location: Residence -- > Library
Date: July 02 2000 morning
Status/Warning: Private/Awkwardness
Summary: Awkwardness with Ron
Completion: Complete
It had been another one of those mornings.
Wake up in an empty flat too early for a day off, boyfriend gone and the other side of the bed a lumpy mess of covers. Hermione was in no better condition than the weather, foggy and bitterly British. And it wasn't even that time of the month. Just Thursday.
A squeaking birdcage that tempted having a pillow lobbed in its general direction.
Burnt bread with too little butter.
Pawing at hair unusually difficult to manage.
Indeed. One of those mornings.
--
Around half-past nine, Hermione ran out of things to do. She was too bored to read, too disinterested to study, and found herself instead staring at three packed cardboard boxes sitting beneath a half-empty mahogany shelf. She'd already unpacked half the book collection she'd brought with her and left the rest patiently waiting, promising herself that they'd be a special project, for a day like this.
Problem was, when today came, Hermione sat locked in a staring contest.
Fiction
Non-Fiction
Serialized Novels
Respectively.
It could be easy. A~ swish aaand flick~! and all the books would be perfectly organized, no effort whatsoever. But that's too easy! protested the silly, quiet voice Hermione had come to recognize as her conscience. The whole point was in the organization, sizing and re-ordering for an almost feng-shui brand of nirvana. With an exaggerated sigh, Hermione began the hopeless effort. Too-exaggerated, because honestly, Crookshanks didn't care what sort of mood she was in, as long as he got his breakfast at the proper time.
Opening the second-largest box, Hermione was assaulted by a smell of parchment, ink, and leather -- as well as a cloud of dust gathered there over the past thirty-something days. Caught between a smile and a sneezing fit, she began placing books on the shelf, organizing first by author, then chronology, and finally size. It was actually calming, each book heavy and familiar in her hands, putting her in (dare she admit?) a decent temperment.
Until:
A copy of Billibub Baddings' To Charm Or Not to Charm (1996) fell open in her hands, it's cover slightly propped open due to some folded parchment rumpled among its pages.
To Hermione Granger, written in Ron Weasley's familiar scrawl.
Hermione blanched. Of course she remembered this now, unfolding each of the letters with the care of someone who didn't want to. A letter of concern, and then one of apology, and she'd responded to both in much the same way. How dare he worry about her? How dare he be a concerned friend? Hermione realized that, had Ron been in her position -- for example dating someone like Pansy, god forbid -- wouldn't she have been just as worried, if not more? She wouldn't have stopped her ruthless badgering until she got satisfactory answers. Ron had only been trying to help, and she'd snapped at him. Her best mate and she'd abandoned him...for what?
An enemy she thought she loved? With a family that showed her no warmth?
The sudden lump in her throat was a surprise and Hermione bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying. For goodness sake, she wasn't that sort of girl! The letters were carefully folded and tucked into her left pocket, a part of her horribly wishing she'd thrown them out when she had the chance.
--
Around noon, the fog lifted, but with the promise of rain still imminent. Hermione left the apartment complex in a hat (to hide the unusually bad hair day) and swinging a red umbrella, perhaps for a trip downtown for lunch. Categorizing books put her in a library-ish mood, which, surprisingly, was uncharacteristic. Hermione tended to prefer buying books to borrowing them, and had a smallish library collection of her own between the books back at the flat, the ones at her parents', and the ones she left behind at Grimmauld Place. It was for no reason other than she liked supporting the writers directly, feeling quite proud to actually have the book and be able to say "This is mine."
However, desperate times called for desperate measures, or so the saying went, and when you got down to it, Hermione read indiscriminately. "Flourish and Blotts" was out of stock on the new Alistair Crowley novel Thieves and Witches, and she'd been reduced to having it reserved at the temporary library downstairs.
Entering the library, it's walls still smelling freshly painted (or magicked to smell new), Hermione had the odd, shivery feeling that things might just get horrifically worse.