"Thank the Fae" by gingerbred Chapter 11
Christmas Eve of Adduction... Part 5
The owl catches up to Hermione, she throws a wobbly, vitriol is penned, and Hermione finds out something that shakes her greatly.
It's not all bad.
Originally Published: 2017-02-11 on AO3
Chapter: 11 / 13 of ?
Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape
Disclaimer:
JKR owns the lot. I own bugger all, and shan't profit in the least. Except for kudos and comments, both of which are appreciated. Have at it!
Previously:
Severus and Hermione ran into each other in the Forbidden Forest and returned to the castle together. They talked and laughed, and Hermione, swept up in the moment, even gave the stunned Potions Master a hug. He survived, only just.
She told him about her parents, still obliviated with no memory of her, and he guessed at her problems with the Ministry. He decided to dig a bit deeper.
Ron enjoyed his fame, Hermione did not. They split amicably, but the nit neglected to tell everyone that, so a lot of people aren't too keen on her. Sure, they're mostly in his family, but that's plenty of people right there for you.
Harry keeps trying to get Hermione to see where the Ministry is coming from respective her parents. She thinks he's taken one hex too many. Or too few, depending.
Both of them neglected to celebrate Hermione's Mastery completion or her new job as the Hogwarts Arithmancy Professor, she wasn't best pleased, and unsurprisingly they haven't owled since.
Christmas Eve of Adduction... Part 5
-~HG/SS~-
Hogwarts, Saturday 23rd December, Morning, Hermione
With Filius's tome cracked open on her desk before her, Hermione happily digs in for a morning of research prior to her shopping trip this afternoon. She's in her element, and should be cheerier, but is beginning to feel a slight drag from the lack of her usual morning coffee, a fact she finds both surprising and disturbing. Hermione accios an Invigoration Draught which she quaffs ('as one sensibly should under such circumstances') before returning to her reading. It's not long before she feels the effects and once again loses herself in research.
Which is precisely how she is occupied when she is startled by a frenetic tapping at her window. She's even more surprised when she realizes it's Pigwidgeon. Her first thought, although she can hardly believe it, is that Ron is reaching out to her for the holidays, and she feels somewhat relieved and almost a bit giddy for it. They may no longer be close, but the only significant relationship she has ever had was with him, and it hurts somehow to have lost touch. She can't help feeling a sense of failure, of something important lost. And of course it's telling that she misses the abstract concept more than the concrete form, or would be were she listening.
And here once again, the situation is not improved by her inability to meet new people. Or at least people she considers intriguing, and preferably not certifiable. ('Although sectioning is more of a Muggle concern, really. In the wizarding world, you are far more likely to be harangued by masked followers than treated.') She notes sanity seems to have become a "nice to have" and no longer a "must," at least when she's being quippy, so rarely is her "intriguing" criterion met, and sighs.
So it's with a definite degree of excitement that she takes the parchment from Pig's leg, eager to see what Ron has to say. Maybe they'll even invite her round for Christmas dinner. ('I couldn't stay longer than that, as I'm Neville's replacement, but I'm positive the school could spare me for a meal, couldn't they?' Minerva and Filius were free to go to the ball after all.) Maybe Molly had finally come around. Maybe Ron finally grew a... backbone and stood up to her. (She acknowledges that she is definitely still angry there. 'Hurt and angry.')
And the more her thoughts race, which they do because Hermione is nothing if not a fast thinker, as to what Ron or the Weasleys could want, the greater her disappointment when she discovers that the owl is from Harry. That it isn't an invitation of any kind. That it contains no greetings from anyone, Harry included for Circe's sake. That it illustrates, perfectly, everything that is wrong about her relationships with all of the damned lot. And right this moment, perhaps just a bit unreasonably, she wishes she'd never met any of them.
Hey 'Mione,
Arthur got an owl from Snape yesterday, and we're not sure you know what he's doing, or if it's in your best interests, so I guess this is a "heads up" or something.
Anyway, he contacted Arthur about the spells he (Arthur, not Snape) tried to get your parents' memories back, looking for more details?
I don't know if you even want Snape poking around in that, or if it's wise for Arthur to answer him.
I guess just let us know what you want us to do.
Cheers,
Harry
And she's stunned. And furious. And confused. And so over all of them. Except she's not, now is she? And therein lies the rub.
But beneath all of that ('Anger and hurt. I got it in one. Or two.') is a nascent thought - someone is actually trying to figure out what can be done for her parents. Not "someone," Severus. And she can feel her breath catch and grow ragged, and the blood rush to her ears for an almost dizzying moment, and she knows she should take a closer look at that response later, because that's quite a physical response indeed. She is woman enough and aware enough to admit it: the thought was literally breath taking. ('Goodness.')
Indeed.
And these idiots are obstructing him. That was their first, best plan. 'By no means should we endeavor to be helpful...' 'No, no! Never that!' 'However can we thwart him?' What complete and utter prats! Her feelings on snitches are, of course, well established, which is precisely what Harry's done. And granted, maybe they were wisely being cautious, but this is the first time anyone has tried to do something to solve this problem in years now, and these planks aren't certain it's "wise"?! What muppets! For the love of Merlin, what would it take?!?
She shivers. She shakes. She's silently seething, fighting back the tears, battling for her increasingly slipping control. She reaches for something, anything, to throw, to hurl at the wall, to create a noise and make a mess that reflects her inner turmoil, and then, completely true to her nature, she suddenly realizes she hasn't rewarded poor Pig for delivering this utter shite ('but it's not his fault, now is it?'), and she reaches for an owl treat instead. Pig takes it from her trembling hand with an excited flapping of wings, does a few flashy victory laps of the room before settling again, presumably tasked with getting a response.
She's livid; there's no way that won't show in her answer...
Dear Harry,
So good to hear from you! I'm just ducky, thanks so much for asking. ('Not that he had.') I sincerely hope you are ever so well, too. Instructing is quite different to the other side of the classroom, kind of you to ask ('Ha!'), but little else here has changed. I do hope the Aurors are treating you properly. ('Do I ever.')
I really haven't the words to convey just how much I appreciate your caution ('so very, very much indeed'), and of course Arthur's. "Constant vigilance!" How terribly clever of him to write you to ask how to handle this, especially given all the support you've provided me on the matter. Clearly the wisest move.
As I think you can perhaps imagine, I am very eager to see my parents' memories returned. Given that bugger all has been done to make that happen in the past couple of, oh my, it's actually been years now, hasn't it? Well, I find myself incredibly relieved that Professor Snape has taken an interest in my insignificant, little problem. Doubly so, as he is a wizard of no little skill, as you well know.
So, yes, yes it would in fact be rather helpful if people would get a wriggle on and provide him with any and all information he deems useful, as opposed to trying to find reasons not to do so. If that isn't asking too much? It's not like he requested anyone's collaboration, which I suspect is unlikely given the oh so conspicuous lack of success the rest of us have ever had in the matter.
Of course I realize there's no guarantee he'll be successful, naturally there can't be, but I remain confident that the probability of success is immeasurably higher when contrasted with the failure guaranteed by the course of inaction we've been pursuing of late. Don't you agree? *
Please do give my regards to everyone who said "Hi," the dears ('so: no one'), and of course I wish you the very happiest of holidays,
Hermione
* Should you be uncertain, as a qualified Arithmancer, since this past August in fact, I'd be happy to provide a reliable proof of that assertion, but it essentially boils down to division by nil. Undefined, by definition.
She looks at it, not entirely satisfied, and honestly unsure why she hasn't just written "Bugger Off" instead, because it would be shorter and more to the point, not that that's a particular concern. She considers that the sarcasm might be lost on Harry, but then gives him the benefit of the doubt that even he can't be that thick ('probably') and then wonders if this isn't a classic example of cutting off one's nose to spite one's face. And then she chuckles at the unbidden thought that that would leave her looking rather a lot like Voldemort. ('Only with bushy hair and locks...') But at least it's enough to get her to smile, if wryly. She decides to eliminate the risk of the malignant bottleneck and send Arthur an owl too, directly.
Except it takes her quite a while to calm down sufficiently to write something to Arthur more useful than counterproductive.
With the way she's feeling, she knows she's a wreck, she'd gladly take a calming draught had she not just consumed a stimulant. ('There are limits. As Hermione approaches...') Nothing for it, she'll have to muddle through. ('Chin up.') Crooks winds through her legs, butting her hand affectionately as she reaches down to pet him automatically, in a not unsuccessful attempt to bolster her spirits. She takes her seat at her desk, casts a fond glance at the list she had made of Mab's points, and with the beginnings of a smile and a soft sigh allows her eyes to rest on that final statement from Severus. ('I deserve better.') So steeled, she begins to write.
Saturday the 23rd,
Hogwarts
Arthur,
Harry informs me that you have received an owl yesterday from Professor Snape requesting information on the methods employed in the attempts to regain my parents' memories, but are unsure how to proceed.
Please be assured, I would greatly appreciate any assistance you can provide the Professor, just as I am exceedingly grateful that he is looking into this matter for me. It's been years since anyone else has bothered to examine this, and perhaps you can relate to how important it would be to me to regain the only family that I have.
Particularly during the holidays, it's hard not to feel that loss so keenly. It would be wonderful, indescribably so, to once again be able to celebrate with those who love me instead of all by myself.
Knowing that they remain lost to me perhaps only because I haven't exhausted all avenues of attack is an exceptionally bitter pill. Wouldn't you try to do the same for those you love?
If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me directly. Quite frankly, I'm afraid Harry hasn't been very supportive of my goals in this regard, which makes him a rather unfortunate choice as a go between.
Thanks in advance for any help you can provide.
Happy Christmas,
Hermione
She knows the use of "bothered" is inflammatory. It's pure polemic. And the guff about celebrating the holidays all by herself is possibly a touch too transparent an attempt to pull at his heartstrings, but true nevertheless. She very much hopes it doesn't read more as a desperate plea for an invitation, but the truth of the situation outweighs that concern of hers quickly from her perspective, even if it won't entirely from his. For the most part, it manages to be honest and not nearly as mean as she's currently feeling, so she considers it good enough. It will do.
But on reflection, she decides she won't send Harry's response just yet. She'll give herself a bit to reconsider it. "Blah blah in haste, repent at leisure..."
Exceedingly eager for a distraction and putting off the inevitable, she wonders a moment at the quotation. ('Well, it's an aphorism, really.') "Marry in haste..." which is less suited in the absence of, well, suitors. Was it Shakespeare, too? Thinking some more, she realizes that was arse backwards ('wherever else should an arse be?' A decidedly evil grin puts in an appearance as she answers her rhetorical question, 'Grimmauld Place? The Burrow?'), "Who woo'd in haste and means to wed at leisure." So: completely wrong.
And now it's really giving her no rest, and grabbing her "Bartlett's Familiar Quotations," she digs until she finds it. There. William Congreve. "Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure: Married in haste, we may repent at leisure." She likes that better, but then they both depend on their context, now don't they? And Congreve's quote may be correct, yet it's still no better suited really. Fine. Damn the quotations.
"Act in haste, repent at leisure." ('Sorted.')
All of which is lovely and serves nicely to kill some time to come to her senses, but, no, still no sign at all of her senses returning, and the lunch hour is rapidly approaching.
With her letter to Arthur in hand, she grabs her winter cloak and makes her way to the owlery on the roof. Mindful of the ice on the treacherous stairs, and wondering why they aren't charmed to prevent that, she transfigures her shoes to grow spikes.
Generally a fairly considerate person, she didn't mention Fred by name in her letter, for example, or even Harry's parents in his (which took quite an effort, as she was clearly fuming), Hermione is already thinking about which of the young owls she should use to send the parchment to Arthur, to decrease the chances of Molly recognizing it as coming from Hogwarts. ('None of the tawnies then.') That's the kind of person she usually is. She is considerate of other people and ('frequently') puts thought into how she can improve their situations, or at least not make them worse.
That makes the bit of vitriol she's penned ('Quilled?') for Harry all the more unusual. It's a complete departure from character and speaks to just how much she is hurting. That she never once considered sending a Howler, however, is typical of her fundamental good nature.
On the other hand, she's vaguely pleased with herself that she wrote it. She shouldn't settle for scraps all the time, and the longer she does, the less people seem inclined to give her. She's never had any desire to see herself as "the squeaky wheel," but there's no denying that her constant acquiescence is making her situation unbearable, as the neglected, and worse: increasingly naggy, wheel who invariably comes up short.
She's beginning to take a stand: "not like that, and certainly not with me." It's a start. It won't be easy going. People rarely welcome it when their doormat goes walkabout. (She wonders if that's too harsh, and maybe it is, but it isn't all that far off the mark either.)
She sends the young barn owl off towards the Burrow with her letter to Arthur, and still completely out of sorts makes her way to lunch.
Notes:
Next Chapter:
Lunch is eaten, or not, shopping happens, and someone tries their hand at a spot of B&E. Forsooth!
Quotes and such:
"Therein lies the rub" is actually the colloquial form, and considered a misquote, of Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1, Hamlet's soliloquy on suicide: "To die - to sleep. To sleep perchance to dream: Ay, there’s the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come" The term "rub" in this sense originates from the English game of bowls, in which a rub was a fault in the green's surface, which could divert a bowl from its intended direction. Bummer.
That's also from the famous "to be or not to be" speech, and shortly before the "nunnery" bit I like.
Shakespeare, "Taming of the Shrew" Act III, Scene 2, Katherina: "Who woo'd in haste and means to wed at leisure."
The William Congreve quote is from "The Old Batchelor" or "The Old Bachelor" (depending on print) from 1693. "Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure: Married in haste, we may repent at leisure."
The owl catches up to Hermione, she throws a wobbly, vitriol is penned, and Hermione finds out something that shakes her greatly.
It's not all bad.
Originally Published: 2017-02-11 on AO3
Chapter: 11 / 13 of ?
Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape
Disclaimer:
JKR owns the lot. I own bugger all, and shan't profit in the least. Except for kudos and comments, both of which are appreciated. Have at it!
Previously:
Severus and Hermione ran into each other in the Forbidden Forest and returned to the castle together. They talked and laughed, and Hermione, swept up in the moment, even gave the stunned Potions Master a hug. He survived, only just.
She told him about her parents, still obliviated with no memory of her, and he guessed at her problems with the Ministry. He decided to dig a bit deeper.
Ron enjoyed his fame, Hermione did not. They split amicably, but the nit neglected to tell everyone that, so a lot of people aren't too keen on her. Sure, they're mostly in his family, but that's plenty of people right there for you.
Harry keeps trying to get Hermione to see where the Ministry is coming from respective her parents. She thinks he's taken one hex too many. Or too few, depending.
Both of them neglected to celebrate Hermione's Mastery completion or her new job as the Hogwarts Arithmancy Professor, she wasn't best pleased, and unsurprisingly they haven't owled since.
Christmas Eve of Adduction... Part 5
-~HG/SS~-
Hogwarts, Saturday 23rd December, Morning, Hermione
With Filius's tome cracked open on her desk before her, Hermione happily digs in for a morning of research prior to her shopping trip this afternoon. She's in her element, and should be cheerier, but is beginning to feel a slight drag from the lack of her usual morning coffee, a fact she finds both surprising and disturbing. Hermione accios an Invigoration Draught which she quaffs ('as one sensibly should under such circumstances') before returning to her reading. It's not long before she feels the effects and once again loses herself in research.
Which is precisely how she is occupied when she is startled by a frenetic tapping at her window. She's even more surprised when she realizes it's Pigwidgeon. Her first thought, although she can hardly believe it, is that Ron is reaching out to her for the holidays, and she feels somewhat relieved and almost a bit giddy for it. They may no longer be close, but the only significant relationship she has ever had was with him, and it hurts somehow to have lost touch. She can't help feeling a sense of failure, of something important lost. And of course it's telling that she misses the abstract concept more than the concrete form, or would be were she listening.
And here once again, the situation is not improved by her inability to meet new people. Or at least people she considers intriguing, and preferably not certifiable. ('Although sectioning is more of a Muggle concern, really. In the wizarding world, you are far more likely to be harangued by masked followers than treated.') She notes sanity seems to have become a "nice to have" and no longer a "must," at least when she's being quippy, so rarely is her "intriguing" criterion met, and sighs.
So it's with a definite degree of excitement that she takes the parchment from Pig's leg, eager to see what Ron has to say. Maybe they'll even invite her round for Christmas dinner. ('I couldn't stay longer than that, as I'm Neville's replacement, but I'm positive the school could spare me for a meal, couldn't they?' Minerva and Filius were free to go to the ball after all.) Maybe Molly had finally come around. Maybe Ron finally grew a... backbone and stood up to her. (She acknowledges that she is definitely still angry there. 'Hurt and angry.')
And the more her thoughts race, which they do because Hermione is nothing if not a fast thinker, as to what Ron or the Weasleys could want, the greater her disappointment when she discovers that the owl is from Harry. That it isn't an invitation of any kind. That it contains no greetings from anyone, Harry included for Circe's sake. That it illustrates, perfectly, everything that is wrong about her relationships with all of the damned lot. And right this moment, perhaps just a bit unreasonably, she wishes she'd never met any of them.
Hey 'Mione,
Arthur got an owl from Snape yesterday, and we're not sure you know what he's doing, or if it's in your best interests, so I guess this is a "heads up" or something.
Anyway, he contacted Arthur about the spells he (Arthur, not Snape) tried to get your parents' memories back, looking for more details?
I don't know if you even want Snape poking around in that, or if it's wise for Arthur to answer him.
I guess just let us know what you want us to do.
Cheers,
Harry
And she's stunned. And furious. And confused. And so over all of them. Except she's not, now is she? And therein lies the rub.
But beneath all of that ('Anger and hurt. I got it in one. Or two.') is a nascent thought - someone is actually trying to figure out what can be done for her parents. Not "someone," Severus. And she can feel her breath catch and grow ragged, and the blood rush to her ears for an almost dizzying moment, and she knows she should take a closer look at that response later, because that's quite a physical response indeed. She is woman enough and aware enough to admit it: the thought was literally breath taking. ('Goodness.')
Indeed.
And these idiots are obstructing him. That was their first, best plan. 'By no means should we endeavor to be helpful...' 'No, no! Never that!' 'However can we thwart him?' What complete and utter prats! Her feelings on snitches are, of course, well established, which is precisely what Harry's done. And granted, maybe they were wisely being cautious, but this is the first time anyone has tried to do something to solve this problem in years now, and these planks aren't certain it's "wise"?! What muppets! For the love of Merlin, what would it take?!?
She shivers. She shakes. She's silently seething, fighting back the tears, battling for her increasingly slipping control. She reaches for something, anything, to throw, to hurl at the wall, to create a noise and make a mess that reflects her inner turmoil, and then, completely true to her nature, she suddenly realizes she hasn't rewarded poor Pig for delivering this utter shite ('but it's not his fault, now is it?'), and she reaches for an owl treat instead. Pig takes it from her trembling hand with an excited flapping of wings, does a few flashy victory laps of the room before settling again, presumably tasked with getting a response.
She's livid; there's no way that won't show in her answer...
Dear Harry,
So good to hear from you! I'm just ducky, thanks so much for asking. ('Not that he had.') I sincerely hope you are ever so well, too. Instructing is quite different to the other side of the classroom, kind of you to ask ('Ha!'), but little else here has changed. I do hope the Aurors are treating you properly. ('Do I ever.')
I really haven't the words to convey just how much I appreciate your caution ('so very, very much indeed'), and of course Arthur's. "Constant vigilance!" How terribly clever of him to write you to ask how to handle this, especially given all the support you've provided me on the matter. Clearly the wisest move.
As I think you can perhaps imagine, I am very eager to see my parents' memories returned. Given that bugger all has been done to make that happen in the past couple of, oh my, it's actually been years now, hasn't it? Well, I find myself incredibly relieved that Professor Snape has taken an interest in my insignificant, little problem. Doubly so, as he is a wizard of no little skill, as you well know.
So, yes, yes it would in fact be rather helpful if people would get a wriggle on and provide him with any and all information he deems useful, as opposed to trying to find reasons not to do so. If that isn't asking too much? It's not like he requested anyone's collaboration, which I suspect is unlikely given the oh so conspicuous lack of success the rest of us have ever had in the matter.
Of course I realize there's no guarantee he'll be successful, naturally there can't be, but I remain confident that the probability of success is immeasurably higher when contrasted with the failure guaranteed by the course of inaction we've been pursuing of late. Don't you agree? *
Please do give my regards to everyone who said "Hi," the dears ('so: no one'), and of course I wish you the very happiest of holidays,
Hermione
* Should you be uncertain, as a qualified Arithmancer, since this past August in fact, I'd be happy to provide a reliable proof of that assertion, but it essentially boils down to division by nil. Undefined, by definition.
She looks at it, not entirely satisfied, and honestly unsure why she hasn't just written "Bugger Off" instead, because it would be shorter and more to the point, not that that's a particular concern. She considers that the sarcasm might be lost on Harry, but then gives him the benefit of the doubt that even he can't be that thick ('probably') and then wonders if this isn't a classic example of cutting off one's nose to spite one's face. And then she chuckles at the unbidden thought that that would leave her looking rather a lot like Voldemort. ('Only with bushy hair and locks...') But at least it's enough to get her to smile, if wryly. She decides to eliminate the risk of the malignant bottleneck and send Arthur an owl too, directly.
Except it takes her quite a while to calm down sufficiently to write something to Arthur more useful than counterproductive.
With the way she's feeling, she knows she's a wreck, she'd gladly take a calming draught had she not just consumed a stimulant. ('There are limits. As Hermione approaches...') Nothing for it, she'll have to muddle through. ('Chin up.') Crooks winds through her legs, butting her hand affectionately as she reaches down to pet him automatically, in a not unsuccessful attempt to bolster her spirits. She takes her seat at her desk, casts a fond glance at the list she had made of Mab's points, and with the beginnings of a smile and a soft sigh allows her eyes to rest on that final statement from Severus. ('I deserve better.') So steeled, she begins to write.
Saturday the 23rd,
Hogwarts
Arthur,
Harry informs me that you have received an owl yesterday from Professor Snape requesting information on the methods employed in the attempts to regain my parents' memories, but are unsure how to proceed.
Please be assured, I would greatly appreciate any assistance you can provide the Professor, just as I am exceedingly grateful that he is looking into this matter for me. It's been years since anyone else has bothered to examine this, and perhaps you can relate to how important it would be to me to regain the only family that I have.
Particularly during the holidays, it's hard not to feel that loss so keenly. It would be wonderful, indescribably so, to once again be able to celebrate with those who love me instead of all by myself.
Knowing that they remain lost to me perhaps only because I haven't exhausted all avenues of attack is an exceptionally bitter pill. Wouldn't you try to do the same for those you love?
If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me directly. Quite frankly, I'm afraid Harry hasn't been very supportive of my goals in this regard, which makes him a rather unfortunate choice as a go between.
Thanks in advance for any help you can provide.
Happy Christmas,
Hermione
She knows the use of "bothered" is inflammatory. It's pure polemic. And the guff about celebrating the holidays all by herself is possibly a touch too transparent an attempt to pull at his heartstrings, but true nevertheless. She very much hopes it doesn't read more as a desperate plea for an invitation, but the truth of the situation outweighs that concern of hers quickly from her perspective, even if it won't entirely from his. For the most part, it manages to be honest and not nearly as mean as she's currently feeling, so she considers it good enough. It will do.
But on reflection, she decides she won't send Harry's response just yet. She'll give herself a bit to reconsider it. "Blah blah in haste, repent at leisure..."
Exceedingly eager for a distraction and putting off the inevitable, she wonders a moment at the quotation. ('Well, it's an aphorism, really.') "Marry in haste..." which is less suited in the absence of, well, suitors. Was it Shakespeare, too? Thinking some more, she realizes that was arse backwards ('wherever else should an arse be?' A decidedly evil grin puts in an appearance as she answers her rhetorical question, 'Grimmauld Place? The Burrow?'), "Who woo'd in haste and means to wed at leisure." So: completely wrong.
And now it's really giving her no rest, and grabbing her "Bartlett's Familiar Quotations," she digs until she finds it. There. William Congreve. "Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure: Married in haste, we may repent at leisure." She likes that better, but then they both depend on their context, now don't they? And Congreve's quote may be correct, yet it's still no better suited really. Fine. Damn the quotations.
"Act in haste, repent at leisure." ('Sorted.')
All of which is lovely and serves nicely to kill some time to come to her senses, but, no, still no sign at all of her senses returning, and the lunch hour is rapidly approaching.
With her letter to Arthur in hand, she grabs her winter cloak and makes her way to the owlery on the roof. Mindful of the ice on the treacherous stairs, and wondering why they aren't charmed to prevent that, she transfigures her shoes to grow spikes.
Generally a fairly considerate person, she didn't mention Fred by name in her letter, for example, or even Harry's parents in his (which took quite an effort, as she was clearly fuming), Hermione is already thinking about which of the young owls she should use to send the parchment to Arthur, to decrease the chances of Molly recognizing it as coming from Hogwarts. ('None of the tawnies then.') That's the kind of person she usually is. She is considerate of other people and ('frequently') puts thought into how she can improve their situations, or at least not make them worse.
That makes the bit of vitriol she's penned ('Quilled?') for Harry all the more unusual. It's a complete departure from character and speaks to just how much she is hurting. That she never once considered sending a Howler, however, is typical of her fundamental good nature.
On the other hand, she's vaguely pleased with herself that she wrote it. She shouldn't settle for scraps all the time, and the longer she does, the less people seem inclined to give her. She's never had any desire to see herself as "the squeaky wheel," but there's no denying that her constant acquiescence is making her situation unbearable, as the neglected, and worse: increasingly naggy, wheel who invariably comes up short.
She's beginning to take a stand: "not like that, and certainly not with me." It's a start. It won't be easy going. People rarely welcome it when their doormat goes walkabout. (She wonders if that's too harsh, and maybe it is, but it isn't all that far off the mark either.)
She sends the young barn owl off towards the Burrow with her letter to Arthur, and still completely out of sorts makes her way to lunch.
Notes:
Next Chapter:
Lunch is eaten, or not, shopping happens, and someone tries their hand at a spot of B&E. Forsooth!
Quotes and such:
"Therein lies the rub" is actually the colloquial form, and considered a misquote, of Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1, Hamlet's soliloquy on suicide: "To die - to sleep. To sleep perchance to dream: Ay, there’s the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come" The term "rub" in this sense originates from the English game of bowls, in which a rub was a fault in the green's surface, which could divert a bowl from its intended direction. Bummer.
That's also from the famous "to be or not to be" speech, and shortly before the "nunnery" bit I like.
Shakespeare, "Taming of the Shrew" Act III, Scene 2, Katherina: "Who woo'd in haste and means to wed at leisure."
The William Congreve quote is from "The Old Batchelor" or "The Old Bachelor" (depending on print) from 1693. "Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure: Married in haste, we may repent at leisure."