Absolutely no sense of style, tact, grace, class. Mother would say lacks polish. Also: vulgar, tiresome, self-promoting, spotlight-hogging brat. In Father’s words, lacking in pedigree.
Birthday: September 19. Who cares? Should not have been born. Probably was born with hand raised and a cry of "I have three equally valid answers!" Babies are hideous.
Cat owner. Cat resembles Muggle implement known as a mop. Or perhaps a feather duster. Of course Granger couldn't possibly be troubled with a purebred cat that's pleasant to look at: a Persian, a Siamese, even a Russian Periwinkle. Instead: a half-Kneazle, medium-sized detonation of fluff with an inconvenient name. How autobiographical of her.
Dating, an unthinkable prospect. In addition to the blood barrier, Granger is loud. Unkempt. Unrefined. Unsuitable. Unembarrassed. Unabashed. Unlimited. Wants what she wants. Driven by her own…drive…to know things. Frankly, would rather be kissed by a Dementor, tongue and all, than go anywhere near Granger's flapping lips, which are ever so slightly heart-shaped.
Eyes, unspecial in the extreme. Big, long-lashed, chocolate brown, piercing, your standard nightmare. Granger should wear bag on head to conceal them.
France, family vacation destination from which she returned near-fluently speaking, reading, writing, and berating Potter and Weasley in French. Heard her explaining the meaning of Mal foi and almost hexed her to justify it.
Gryffindor, one thousand points from. She schemes. She sneaks. She steals. She aids and abets cheaters. The ends justify the means, always. A loss to Slytherin.
House-elves, brainless champion of. Hippogriffs, defender of. House Cup, perpetual winner of. Hair, negligent owner of. The letter H, ruiner of. Fucking hell.
Infuriating, did I mention that?
Jean, middle name. JEAN. What kind of curse is that? Not an elegant French Jean, just JEAN. Hermione Denim Granger. Did Greek nymphsgoddesses princesses wear coarse, ugly, metal-studded fabric pipes? What happened to a bit of gauze with celestial tits on display? Not that Granger could aspire to tits, of course. Probably has extra inkwells with little screw-on metal caps, left and right. Not thinking about Granger's ink, mind you, or about screwing anything.
Krum, possible screwdriver (another Muggle implement). Unconfirmed if Granger was screwing him (unlikely) but image soul-shredding enough to prompt my very first Patronus in response. A giant, overweight cat, as it turns out. The greater the fear, the stronger the Patronus grows. Thoughts of Granger’s dress robes at Yule Ball, floaty and periwinkle with little curls kissing the tops of her shoulders: Patronus Cat ears sharpen to little points. Krum dancing with her, massacring her name as Hermy-own-ninny or Herb-moo-enemy: Patronus Cat swells to Hippogriff size and cat claws pop out one by one. Krum leading her away, kissing her, working through Durmstrang's syllabus of Dark and Deranged Sexual Arts: Patronus Cat tail shoots out to seven feet, sometimes more. Thoughts of Krum in flagrante with Granger, eyebrows furrowed as she footnotes his erotic performance with factoids about inkwells: Patronus Cat meows.
LevioSA, wouldn't be caught dead saying. Someone should put it on her tombstone as a joke.
Muggles, child of. Granger's parents are dentists, a profession that cleans teeth manually, using strange, sadistic instruments that hold the mouth open. Perhaps explains why she never shuts up, in French, Latin, or otherwise.
Nimbus 2001, no appreciation for. Rather wanted her to appreciate — for aesthetic reasons, of course. Certainly never dreamed about taking her on a broom tour of Scotland, nor was she wearing periwinkle robes in said dream, nor was she wearing denim. Whatever she was not wearing or I was not wearing was immaterial because dream did not happen.
Ollivanders, first sighting. Heard her asking owner every question imaginable about wand composition, wand cores, the shop history, his personal history, the origins of magical paraphernalia...her voice wasn't as smug as usual, but full of wonder and delight as she turned a new page of knowledge. She was captivated, and so was anyone who eavesdropped listened in for enrichment. Didn't realize conversation had gone on so long until Mother said to stop dawdling, it was time for tea with the Greengrasses.
Pretty hideous. Wouldn’t look twice. Not looking. Never looked. Never will. Should reinforce message about concealing head with bag, or at the least with a Disguising Charm.
Quill usage, unorthodox, probably because she didn't grow up using one. Ink stains her fingers, sometimes her palms, sometimes her nose. The last thing I remember before she landed The Third-Year Punch is a faint ink smear under her right eye, which looked less unspecial than usual. Remembering now that Granger does have tits.
Ravenclaw, probably should have been. Less hateable if so? Face looks a bit like the Ravenclaw Statue's. Granger has brains, but there's an ingredient that takes it to the next level...a will to action...a loss to Slytherin, as noted above.
Swot, incorrigible, next.
Theo, looks at her too much, too long, especially after the Yule Ball. Claims it's impossible not to look at her trumpeting all her knowledge. The simple truth is that he's a depraved animal with pedigree but no polish. No wonder Mother hates when I bring him home.
Underwater during the Triwizard Tournament. Cause of intense worry whether dingbat Krum (or dungbrain Potter) would manage to rescue her in time. Nearly unraveled my entire Slytherin scarf in anxious frenzy. Almost sent Patronus Cat after her, then remembered that cats do not swim.
Virgo, her sun sign. Least favorite of the constellations. It means maiden, sounds like virgin, reminds me that I’m a virgin, reminds me that she might not be. But who’s keeping track?
Weasley, cause of tears to her, magnet for contempt from me. Laughably unworthy of the Brightest Witch of Her Age. Next.
Xerox, familiar with. Heard her explaining the other day to the Gryffindors about a Muggle implement that functions like the Doubling charm. It sounded useful. Listened to her go on about it for about half an hour, missed the beginning of a class. She was petting the orange monster Croquechanc (sp?) while pontificating and looked so beautiful blissful that I forgot to leave. A Time-Turner would have come in handy.
Years of loathing, revulsion and disinterest, mutual. Somehow grows more intense with each passing year. As Mother says, la vérité vaut bien qu’on passe quelques années sans la trouver. But when?
Zabini, Blaise, looked at her this morning and asked plainly, “Do you fancy her, Malfoy? She’s all you gripe about, every minute of every fucking day.” Zapped him promptly with Doubling Charm (or to use Granger’s dreadful term, a Xerox). Zabini now at infirmary with two noses, two mouths, four eyes, and presumably at least four balls. At least it shut him and everyone else up.
Theo is next.