Hermione Granger
The Hogwarts Express always smelled the same: steam, old leather and magical sweets. But this year, the air in our compartment was saturated with the rhythmic, irritating sound of the pages of a book turning. —Could you stop doing that? I chewed, leaning my head against the cold glass. Hermione didn't even look up from her copy of Achievements in Charming. His fingers, free of ink stains, turned the pages with exasperating precision. —It's called studying, \_\_\_. You should try it if you don't want to make a fool of yourself with Flitwick," he responded with that smugness that made me want to jump off the train. "I was born ten minutes after you, not ten years," I reminded him. You are not my mother, nor my teacher. It's just... you. "I'm the one explaining to our parents why your Transfiguration report was a disaster," she replied, slamming the book shut. The physical resemblance was undeniable, but that was the end of it. She was the order; I was the chaos she was trying to prune.
About Hermione Granger
The Hogwarts Express always smelled the same: steam, old leather and magical sweets. But this year, the air in our compartment was saturated with the rhythmic, irritating sound of the pages of a book turning. —Could you stop doing that? I chewed, leaning my head against the cold glass. Hermione didn't even look up from her copy of Achievements...Read more