Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Jane Eyre, so all rights to JK. Rowling and Charlotte Brontë, those brilliant people.
There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. Rain fell in streaks to the ground and Hermione watched from her window as it went down over the Gryffindor tower. In such sombre conditions she found comfort in her favourite place in the school: the library.
It was an extensive room - Ron had named it a "maze of boredom" - but to her it was a labyrinth with a wealth of information and imagination. Hermione went straight to her favourite spot. Deep within the restricted section where it seemed only her footsteps ever unsettled the dust. Weave round the bookcases and you come to a little corner by a tall thin window. "Incendio," she whispered, lighting the fireplace beside her. She was thankful of her magic - although striking a match provided novel joy, actually getting a fire to light was an arduous task she had never enjoyed at home. Now she could settle down into the azure cushions of the armchair with 'Bewick's History of Birds'.
It was here she returned to the girl of London who would wait at the dentists, book in hand, for her parents to finish work. Frizzy hair battled down by an alice band but providing little restraint. The discovery of hair products 8 years later was a welcome revelation, and one she had thanked Lavender for greatly.
As she read Hermione became immersed in the pictures. When she was younger she would tap them and watch as trees rustled and listen for a bird faintly tweeting. Her parents didn't believe her stories of 'the images that come to life' until they heard a ferocious roar come from Hermione's book when she read 'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe'. She had been perched on the sofa in the living room, The Weakest Link mumbling in the background, though Hermione was focused on the voice of CS Lewis rather than Anne Robinson. She engaged with the image of Aslan and her parents both turned and stared at the girl glowing with pride sat beside them, blatantly confused as to where the noise had come from. Within months they realised the supernatural was not a myth, and their daughter was even more magical than they already considered her.
All of this reminded her of home. At boarding school, home was sometimes a very personal thing. Whilst Ron was understandably open about his family, Hermione and Harry were far more reluctant in discussion. She was glad for the mutual appreciation of how private a muggle background is kept at Hogwarts. Hogwarts was a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry after all, and it felt wrong to be anything but. Introducing a topic of "Did you watch Black Adder over the Summer?" excluded Ron who would gaze cluelessly between them, so they generally avoided muggle subjects. However, if she ever felt homesick, the book she now read acted as a gentle reassurance that her parents were out there still, that she would see them soon.
Time slipped by and when she glanced at her watch Hermione realised how soon tea would be. On the way to the Great Hall she quickly popped to the bathroom, yet when trying to leave found the door jammed. "Alohamora" had no impact. She tried again with little avail.
"Hello?" she called, banging on the door. A giggle sounded from the corner of the room and Moaning Myrtle revealed herself.
"Oh dear," she mocked, gliding over.
"Who did this; Peeves?" Hermione questioned sternly. It was more of a rhetorical question though (of course it was Peeves.)
"Trapped in a red room are we?" wailed Myrtle with a smile, glancing at the burgundy walls and then to the blocked toilets with tissue paper and blood from younger years still struggling in dealing with their periods. Hermione provided a deadpan expression before returning her efforts to opening the door. As she tried a deep rumble sounded as a thunderstorm began, soon followed by a flash of light. It made Hermione jump and her heart rate picked up - thunderstorms scared her, and being trapped in a bathroom did not ease that fear.
"Please- just- open-" she grumbled, now shoving it with her side.
"Only a little bit of thunder" Myrtle mewed, floating down to Hermione's level.
She responded "I'm just-" but then let out a squeak as thunder and lightening returned in another round. She turned around and slammed backwards into the door. The whole room seemed to go even darker, mirroring the slate colour clouds blocking up the sky. Rain continued to patter against the windows, and each round of thunder and lightening further panicked Hermione. She needed to think of a way out.
"Oh what a dreadful noise!" complained Myrtle, glaring at Hermione as she continued to call out for help and try to open the door with different pronounciations of 'Alohomora'.
"I'm sorry," cried Hermione, pulse racing with fear yet beginning to subside in exasperation, allowing her thoughts to settle. "I just want to get out. And I don't want to destroy the door - it's school property, and very old - it's like an artefact even." she murmured. In a moment of peace she started running her fingers over the intricate patterns. Thunder suddenly crashed again, and she slammed her hand flat and pressed up against the ageing wood.
"Oh there's no hope! Why won't 'alohamora' work? I can't stay here, I can't." Hermione frantically tried to think of a spell that would cause minimal damage to the door. She stepped back from it and, eyes fixed on the look, spoke "Portaberto." The metal handle seemed to splinter away from the door, leaving a smoking hole in its place, and the door drifted open.
"I don't know," murmured Myrtle "...that spell."
"Before the unlocking charm, it was the most popular spell for opening locked doors. Bit messy, though there's no major damage to the door." Hermione commented, before leaving the bathroom as quickly as she could.