Yeah, like I own anything remotely having to do with Harry Potter. Geez, gimme a break.
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(So it's four in the morning and I have nothing better to do on New Years 2006 than write this mini-fic. Such is life.
A bit pessimistic, a bit crude, but everyone else in the world is drunk off their asses right now except for me, because that's baaaaad so I figure it doesn't really matter. You can probably see that I've totally disregarded the events of book 6. Again, see above. Enjoy.
I know! No quote! It's amazing! I'm having withdrawl.
Oh yeah, anyone notice the movie reference? Hint: Johnny Depp is a fox.)
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About when Seamus spikes the punch with firewhiskey and Pansy and Ron skive off to a dark corridor somewhere to do whatever it was teenagers jumped-up on hormones do, Hermione decides she really, really hates New Years.
Cue internal dialogue:
Okay, someone kill me now, because the boy I'm supposed to like just skipped this lame-ass party to go slobber all over the Slytherin pug-faced COW.
Yeah, she really hates New Years.
What she loathes most of all is the uncertainty, because they're in the middle of the mother-load of all wars
(And still these people are having a party. Good call, Dumbledore. Real good call.)
and not a single person in this room knows what's going to happen. Voldie could come in any second and blow them all to bits while savior-golden-boy-oh-god-save-us-all-because-you're-so-bloody-fantastic-that-I-have-to-throw-my-knickers-at-your-face-right-now Harry Potter has his head jammed in the punch bowl like he could breath the stuff and Parvati and Lavender are taking turns smacking his ass with a balloon.
They're just kids, after all, and right now the war is outside.
Anyone can see that what Hermione Granger hates the most is the uncertainty. That's how it goes, for her, and if everyone else were thinking clearly
(Cue internal dialogue:
Damn you, Finnegan)
they'd hate it too, if they know what's good for them.
She also hates that everyone else gets to forget the dark, scary people hiding in the corners and she's stuck in her stupid nice cloths on the stupid wall like some stupid loser with a glass of punch that doesn't even have stupid firewhiskey in it because she's had it in her hand for so long it's not even cold anymore and she got it before Seamus thought to poison the whole population.
Stupid party. Stupid school. Stupid kids.
Stupid goddamn fucking WAR.
She doesn't think it's fair that everyone else gets to forget the scary people and they're stuck in her mind like a fucking disease.
Oh yeah, It's totally not fair.
But then she thinks that maybe they haven't forgotten about those really terrifying things because she looks at Dean and sees that his eyes aren't really cheerful. She sees Ron and Pansy cling to each other like one of those dark, scary people is going to come and pry them apart. She sees Harry's face.
Poor, poor Harry. Being the golden boy isn't as fun as it looks, people.
But it's probably still not fair that they can at least pretend to forget about what goes on outside but she's the worst kind of shit-head worrywart and can't do the things they can.
And just then, Neville pukes out punch-colored slime and passes out on the floor of the Great Hall.
Cue internal dialogue:
Oh, that is so gross. He's out.
Oh yeah, the things they can do.
(Can she go out, too?)
The teachers don't seem to notice. Or care? Doesn't really matter, anyway. Everyone here'll probably be dead or MIA by next New Years.
(Except maybe Harry Potter, if he's lucky, just because that's who he is. Welcome to the lonely life, fucker)
Oh yeah, baby, that's how it goes.
If Hermione has learned one thing in this fucking no good year, it's that wars suck like a Bangkok whore supporting a family of eight.
-
For some reason everyone's parents got it in their stupid, ignorant heads that Hogwarts is a safer place to be than outside over the holidays for their kids. The sad part is, they're probably right.
Cue internal dialogue:
Oh god. I hope Mum and Dad are okay. I hope our house isn't burned to the shitty ground with the dark mark blazing overhead. I hope that tomorrow's Prophet is clean.
And that's why Dumbledore set up this party. Bye-bye 1997, hello 1998. Fresh start, and everyone's here to fucking see it.
The thing is, the GOOD side hasn't been doing so hot, lately. The BAD side is one big badass motherfucker, and the GOOD side's gonna have to step up their game if they want to have a fighting chance.
You can see it in the fucking numbers, man.
Hermione remembers that this month
(No one knows this yet, but in the textbooks a hundred years from now they'll call it the Green December. Two guesses why it's green. Two…
Goddamn it. The flash of green before you die, stupid.)
they lost enough to weaken the ranks like nothing else. Half the Weasleys. Amelia Bones. Lupin. Shacklebolt. Moody. Flitwick. Figg. Hagrid.
Ah, fuck it. She knows there are more, but she just can't remember all the names.
So Hermione knows that this is the reason why Dumbledore is throwing a party at Hogwarts for the students. Think of the numbers, and stepping up the game.
A fighting chance, damn it.
-
"Hermione, you're such a bore sometimes." This from Ron, who sidles up to her sometime later after he disentangles himself from Pansy.
Cue internal dialogue:
Shut up, Ron. I'm trying. And just… ew. "Disentangles." Ew.
"Yeah! Juschh have shome fun, damn it," slurs Harry. Then he trips over one of the tables and lands hard on his face, and Hermione almost laughs because Harry is now officially one of those pathetic drunk girls at parties that no one really wants to look at because it's a little sad. Except that no one really seems to care that Harry is pissed like a Yank on St. Patrick's Day. And he isn't a girl.
And secretly she's a little glad for him, because that look on his face is gone for now.
Hey, no one ever said she wasn't a good friend.
"If this is your idea of fun, I'll pass. Thanks," she replies smartly as she and Ron haul him up off the floor and set him on the table he tripped over. Ron's not quite as smashed as Harry, but she's sure he'll manage to remedy that pretty quick.
"I'll get you a drink?" Ron asks with that cute little way he has of tilting his head and raising his eyebrows. Mmm.
She waves a hand vaguely in his direction, a bit preoccupied with keeping Harry upright. "No. Someone has to be on the alert. You remember what McGonagall said—"
"Schhuddup, 'Mione. Donwanna think 'bout that now," interjected Harry loudly, shaking his head like the fucking child that each one of them is and tipping precariously to the left. Hermione gives up and lets him sleep, curled up on the table with the most peaceful expression she's seen on his face since before she can remember.
Ron just shrugs and wanders off to the punch, and Hermione's left alone again.
Cue internal dialogue:
You stupid, pathetic little girl.
-
"Ten…nine…eight…"Someone starts counting like a fucktard loser and Hermione jerks out of her self-induced coma and tries to smack Harry awake. No luck there.
Well, shit.
She looks around the room but Ron is holding on to Pansy because if he didn't he'd probably fall flat on his cute idiotic face like Harry fuckin' Potter, and Dean and Seamus are absorbed in… each other
(Cue internal dialogue:
Well shit me gold and fuck me backwards. They finally figured it out! I take it back: thank god for firewhiskey)
and everyone else has somebody.
"Seven…six…five…"And then (oh god oh no stop it) she feels everything come hurtling back towards her and smack her in her ugly fat face and it hurts. She remembers how Ron bawled his eyes out on her shoulder when he found out Percy was gone. She remembers Harry's eyes every time he hears about some new martyr (because he thinks it's all his fault, doncha know). And the little bubble she created just for this night, right after her two best friends in the world told her to quit being such a boring bitch, POPS right in her face and the fucking soap gets in her eyes.
That's why she's crying. That's the reason.
Oh yeah, baby, that's how it fuckin' goes.
"Four…three…two…"Oh, everyone's in to it now. It's like a collective, shitty breath before everyone screams,
"ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!"Cue internal dialogue:
Oh. Shit. Happy New Year, Hermione, because no one else is going to say it to you.
And of course, because it's just the right amount of cliché and this is the night to do that kind of thing, everyone starts kissing. Ron kisses Pansy. Seamus kisses Dean. Neville kisses Ginny, 'cause Harry's still passed out and otherwise he'd do it. Lavender kisses some fifth year who looks like he's about to shit his pants he's so happy. Kiss kiss kiss.
Hermione feels the stupid tears run down her stupid face because no one's around to kiss her and she hates this war so much it hurts.
And so she walks out into the crowd and waits, because everyone's probably so drunk that she'll get caught up in the mix somewhere and someone's lips will go smack on hers and then she'll be happy.
Or so she thinks. Wishful thinking, bitch.
Cue internal dialogue:
Okay, this is sooo pathetic.
And because she's had enough of being sad and pissed off, she says, "Fuck it. Someone KISS me!" and it comes out a lot louder than she thought it would.
Even that doesn't work and then she really starts to wail. Sobbing like a fucking two year old with snot and tears running down her face and shaky knees and all that embarrassing shit. People are dancing and kissing and laughing around her but no one seems to notice the poor not-drunk girl sniveling and crying like a retarded person.
Oh baby, I don't gotta tell you that's how it goes 'cause by now you know, right?
"Aw, fuck. Someone shut her up, will you?" Says a voice that's waaaay too familiar, and before she can think someone's hauling her up off her ass on the middle of the floor and kissing her hard enough to bruise.
Mmmm…
Yeah, then she opens her eyes.
Cue internal dialogue:
Oh SHIT! Oh gross gross gross. I'm gonna puke on him, I really am. SICK.
And then, because she's a good girl, you know, she draws back and smacks Draco Malfoy across the face like a motherfucker, only its not that hard because she's still shaky and crying all crazy person-like.
He doesn't seem fazed, and that pisses her off. In fact, he looks pretty good (what are you kidding Hermione? He looks fuckin' HOT).
The thing is, Draco Malfoy turned out to be one of the GOOD guys. Big fucking surprise, that was.
(Another thing: she's noticed him, and he's noticed her, but neither of them will admit that.)
"You were asking for it, sugarbutt," he says, grinning and not smirking like a bigoted freak because she's pretty sure he's drunk off his ass but handling it better than Harry fuckin' Potter.
Cue internal dialogue:
Sugarbutt?"Not from you, dickface," she shoots back, and turns and stalks off, properly over-dramatic and affronted, but she feels better.
Yeah, better.
That was New Years, 1998. The breath before the plunge, everyone will say when they look back on it, because by next week ten of them will be dead.
And then the shit really hits the fan.
Hermione doesn't know this yet, but on January 25, 1998, Draco Malfoy will get taken out (that flash of green, remember?) by his fucktard father on the battlefield. And when she hears that, she's gonna get this pain, sharp right below her left breast, and she'll close her eyes and shed maybe two tears. And then she'll straighten up and get back to business as usual because by then she'll be used to that kind of thing.
And years from now, after Harry fuckin' Potter (the boy who killed, they'll say then) whacks Voldie and she and him and just a couple other people are left she'll remember this night as the last night of innocence and something pure before everything got fucked up.
Yeah, baby, that's how it'll go.
But so far she doesn't know any of that, so don't tell her and spoil anything yet.
And still it'll go and go and go.