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Hermione Granger was nervous.
No, that can't be right. Hermione Granger is never nervous, she is always calm and collected and stoic and ... I think I'm gonna be sick.
It was the last day of the last exam of her last year of Hogwarts. Now was not the time to begin doubting yourself. And of course the last practical exam had to be Potions.
I can do this. I have to. I like Potions, I can do Potions, I am Potions … I'm gonna fail.
The pressure of the last exam was beating down on her harder than the summer sun outside. But she was here, in the cold and clammy dungeon classroom with two strange Potions masters ready to judge her every move.
Her breakfast was threatening to rebel in her stomach, her intestines twisting and turning to form a noose she could hang herself with afterwards. Cold sweat gathered at her temples.
Come on now, 'Mione, you can do this. Let's see. The Beastialis Animus Potion. I remember this one; it turned Ron into - ehh, something. Never mind. I can do this.
With shaking, pale hands she poured Armadillo bile into her cauldron and brought it to the boil. Her body and mind acted together, but it felt like she herself stood outside her body, looking at the tall, young woman with the bushy hair while she went through the motions.
Come on, get yourself together, Hermione.
Her fingers grasping the spoon were white with strain.
This isn't even that complicated; why am I acting like this?
Because it's the last exam. Last. In two days, we leave Hogwarts forever. At least I am. And nothing will ever be the same again.
Her eyes grew shiny and she bit her lower lip to hold back the tears which would surely ruin the potion.
No. There are other times to grieve for what is lost and what will be lost. Now is not that time.
Automatically, she added the two pinches of Fluxweed and hummed the third chorus of "Rule Britannia" as she knew the recipe specified. Her observers both quilled down notes on their parchments.
Wonder if they are complimenting my excellent singing voice, she thought almost hysterically and had to rub the escalating tension from her neck. It was freezing, even in June and yet she was sweating profusely, toes curling in her sensible shoes.
Stop it, this isn't me, it isn't, it really isn't!
Lovage in. So far, so good. Then frog brains and waiting, waiting for it to simmer while the questions hailed down over her and she answered with a monotone, meek voice which wasn't her own.
She didn't get confused. The part of her which could get confused was already trembling at the bottom of her abdomen, issuing the odd, mad giggle. She answered and replied and elaborated because she could, all the while something rising within. Not sick, no, definitely not that, but maybe a sob, maybe a loud mad laughter turned weeping.
Maybe then they'll send me straight to St. Mungo's and I'll fail, I'll fail, I'll fail!
Eyes shut tight. Deep breaths, Hermione, deep breaths.
The froth yielded to the ladle, point of no return. It has to be the right texture, the right colour...
She blanched, blinking dumbly.
It's the wrong colour.
In her cauldron was a stinking light purple mess, only just refraining from making the pot explode. She didn't believe her eyes.
That's not right. It should have been lilac, not light purple! Did I use too much Graphorn Horn? Did I wait three seconds too long before adding the leeches? That's it. I'm a dunce, I'm done. I'm lost.
With still shaking hands betraying her outwardly calm countenance, she spooned the potion into a small crystal vial and brought it to the front of the class. She would keep her pride intact. She would not break down. She wouldn't rave and scream and cry.
The hand not holding the vial was curled up in her pocket, nails digging into her flesh in small crescent moons, a little blood trickling unheeded and being absorbed by the fabric.
Hermione fought to smile as she reluctantly handed over the potion for inspection. One of the two took it with a benevolent smile and she had to fight her instinct to snatch back the sample and delay the inevitable.
They smelled, tested, picked and prodded at the vial and its content, not even noticing her dying in front of them, withering from the inside while keeping up appearances.
Breathe, Hermione, breathe.
Small black dots flittered across her vision where they had no right to be.
Why is he still smiling?!
“Well, Miss Granger. Your reputation precedes you, and I must say you live up to it. Another 'Outstanding' for your collection, I'm sure."
What?
Darkness.
And thus it came to pass that Hermione Granger, currently the happiest and indeed cleverest witch at Hogwarts, fainted dead on the stone floor, smiling beatifically.