A lesson Learned 4 A/N: Ah, the joys of writing in the car. I hope I can read my own handwriting. Only one part, but I think I know what's going to happen now. (This is the first short story I've written in three years, and plot has never been my strong point.)

By the way, are there any a capella singers/fans reading this? I was away all weekend at the NCCA regionals in Colorado Springs, and it was fantastic. Although we had to drive eighteen hours each way (from Houston) to perform a 15 minute set. Ah, college.

Okay, okay! The story. And these aren't my characters, don't sue me.

PS: Been doing a lot of crossword puzzles, and I'm enjoying playing with words.
A Lesson Learned -- Part 4

The only times in the past few months that Harry and Ron had deigned to notice their erstwhile friend (and our heroine) were during cases of writers' block brought on by too many "sloshy, disgustingly sentimental sappy, ill-written, repetitive ... " Okay, Hermione, cut it out! We already know your feelings on the matter.

As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, (ahem ...) the only time Harry and On paid attention to Hermione was when they asked her to proofread their love letters. (Of all the insulting, presumptuous, insensitive tricks ... Stop it, Hermione! Do you want me to quit writing this and leave you in grumpy isolation ad infinitum?) Naturally, (being an innately caring person as well as one who couldn't stand grammatical errors,) our heroine obliged them. And (as should be obvious to any of my audience who who has ever been ignored by a friend in favor of some ditzy blonde "significant other,) she was absolutely furious about it.

This increasingly explosive situation finally, well, exploded one rainy Sunday in late November. (The author would like to state that she has no idea what British weather is actually like. She is merely relying on her years of experience with North Carolina Novembers. Not her favorite time of year.) Hermione was curled up in her favorite armchair by the fire with her fuzzy gray blanket and her Transfiguration notes when her quiet studying was interrupted by a certain redhead with a particular pleading look in his eye.

"Umm ... Hermione? Are you busy right now? Cause I've been working on this poem, and I'm sort of stuck ..."

Our heroine looked up from her beautifully ordered notes on the theory of animal transformations to give the unfortunate Weasley her patented freeze-a-fool-at-forty-paces glare. "Of course I'm busy! I'm always busy, even when I take time off to help you lovesick idiots with their spelling. Not that you would know, since you never bother to talk to me anymore. Unless, of course, you need my help to compose more if your romantic drivel! Well, you can bloody well get someone else to help you, because I'm busy!"

Hermione punctuated her declaration by picking up a piece of parchment written, blotted, and re-written in Ron's sprawling hand and stuffing into the flabbergasted author's mouth (which was hanging open at the time.) Then she scooped up her books, turned on her heel, and marched up the stairs to the girls dorms, leaving behind a very bewildered Ron and a ruined copy of an abysmal love poem.


Things only got worse after Hermione's understandable but not entirely tactful outburst. instead of treating Hermione like a combination writing coach and spell check, Ron and Harry now acted as if she was a bomb about to explode. In all fairness, our heroine was spending almost all of her non-study time brooding, and her temper rivaled Ron's. (And as all men know, a moody female in one's vicinity is not a good idea for those interested in either peace and quiet or self-preservation.)


That's all, folks. Reviewers would be treated to some of my much-lauded oatmeal raisin cookies, if this weren't over the web (and if there were any left.) You'll just have to be satisfied with hugs and kisses. More chapters when I get my plot determined, or when inspiration strikes. (Whichever comes first.) -- KA, queen of sarcasm