Anon, I don’t know if this was supposed to be a prompt or if you just wanted to sing to me, but I love this band so much I dug my Doc Martens out of the garage and wrote you a story anyway.
Hermione has never been hungover in her
life but she imagines it would feel something like this. She’s achy,
exhausted, irritable. Everything seems too bright, too loud, too
harsh. At least with a hangover (she assumes), there is an enjoyable
intoxication component that could be fondly looked back on to help
make the morning more tolerable.
She has no such crutch. The Yule Ball
had started well enough. After years of not giving a toss about her
appearance, she’d worked very hard and been pleased with the results.
It was nice to feel special sometimes, and she’d never felt more like
a princess than when she had come into the Great Hall, her charming
prince on her arm, seeing all those stunned eyes on her.
Except it wasn’t quite the right
prince. And there definitely hadn’t been a happy ending.
She’d been conscious of Ron all night,
her eyes seeking him out despite her best efforts, and deep in her
heart there had been a giddy, unquenchable hope that he might react
to how she looked but it had been mercilessly dashed under his
coldness and ugly words. Stung, she’d fought back with angry words of
her own and what was meant to be a magical evening quickly
disintegrated into an all-out brawl.
Even the triumph of getting the last
word, which had seemed so very important last night, does little to
make her feel better today. In the harsh light of the morning after,
all she feels is sad.
There’s nothing she would rather do
than mope in bed for a few more hours, but there’s a Charms test in
two weeks and she’s fallen woefully behind on her prep. She’s already
missed breakfast hour but she heads to the Great Hall anyway, hoping
for some fruit or at least some tea, anything to try and ease the
sick feeling in her stomach before she heads to the library. The
Great Hall is nearly deserted, the only students remaining are a few
stragglers at the Hufflepuff table.
And one at the Gryffindor.
She debates turning to leave, she is
too weary to fight with him again, but Ron has already spotted her
and gotten to his feet. She approaches him with resignation.
“Hi, Hermione,” he says
tentatively. “I saved this for you.”
He points down in front of him to a
warm plate full of her favourites - poached eggs, grilled tomatoes,
toast, a mug of steaming tea. She looks between Ron and food, speechless and uncertain.
“You looked nice last night,”
he says and flees, shoulders hunched.
Still not quite a happy ending, but
undoubtedly a brighter day.