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Bellatrix Black's mirror reflection was cowering away from her.
"I hate it," Bellatrix said mutinously. Her hair had more curl than Hermione's, and a thousand times more tangle. "Using all this hair product, it takes hours every morning. Andromeda isn't nearly as good at hair as Cissy. And Cissy’s not here."
Hermione took a slow breath in and counted to ten.
Six weeks. Six weeks she'd been stuck in a version of 1967 gone terribly awry, yet somehow the half hour in the guest girls' dormitory at Durmstrang seemed longer than that. "Have you considered... cutting it off?"
Bellatrix's elegant nose wrinkled. "You are funny, Hopkirk."
“You almost cut me in half,” Rita pointed out, without looking up from the spread of papers on her bed. The Quick-Quotes Quill was apparently a constant accessory of Rita's. "Your mother's Howler gave some very valuable education on acceptable hair for a pureblood witch... to the entire Slytherin common room."
Bellatrix rolled her eyes and went back to picking at the tangle in her hair. "Hermione, pet, you must learn when women are asking for advice and when they simply want to bitch."
"I'm not your pet."
In a brief moment of spite, Hermione wondered whether she could pass off cutting Bellatrix in half as a mishap in hair styling.