Written for The Vocabulary Book Competition. A befuddled mix of poetry and prose and whatnot, my vocab word being censure.

Happy Birthday J.K. Rowling, I don't own your characters.


wet cement.

hermione granger.

"now the cement's hardened in my chest, a world of wax scraped into text."


She's all but put together, broken pieces of a girl who's been starving and skiving off denunciation for forever and a day. Puzzle pieces that have yet to be placed together in finality, because everybody's always breaking them apart.

And it's truth of tragedy, that it never really gets better. from days of elementary school when she didn't know that being different could be good, to now, when she's only got books and two boys who don't know how to comb their hair. Though it's better than before, because almost everything can be better than before.

(you can only play with your barbies alone for so long,

but not everybody wants to grow with that girl.)

Before, when being top of the class didn't make friends for you, and when being the only girl who had big, brown hair and a large set of front teeth didn't give you playground families. Other little girls called her things like 'bunny wabbit' and other little boys ripped up her school books, because she just didn't look right, and it was never any better out of the sandbox.

Top grades in class were never quite on top, and it pushed her a little further into the fire, circling and cycling around. Being born to two dentists that never earned themselves a B+ in their lives wasn't the longest walk in the park.

Now, she's in a school full of big kids and mature adults and paradoxes, and they all love to project failure on the interesting prospect of an 'insufferable know-it-all'.

Hermione really is smart, she's brilliant and lovely and not-quite-good-enough in the opinion of everyone around her, and how distressing it was when the room wouldn't stop spinning, pirouetting with criticism.

"I'm caving in," she wants to scream, loud loud loud so everyone can hear her, and leave her alone with success just for once, and just for once, she wants to scream it out and hear the quiet response of "I know.".

(but it's funny, because they don't.)

Away from all the deprecation and disapproval she's friends with two ridiculous boys with a ridiculous amount of free time, and she wonders why they ever befriended her. Though, the poison of it, is that when they're glad she's with them, she only hears one thing.

(you're a ridiculous waste of time, just like me.)

With her feet stuck in wet cement she's surrounded by an unfinished room of sleazy spiders creeping into different corners to make nests.

(her parents, her friends,

her everybody.)

The room is still spinning with condescending advice from a most foul being, the façade of guidance, a patronizing fashion – the veil of gentility and caring when really it's nothing like that.

("honey, you can do much better than this. are you sure you're applying yourself?)

((darling, this is dreadful. maybe you should consider taking a remedial course until you can handle the big girl stuff.))

She has dreams of porcelain girls with shiny curls of chocolate, perfectly straight teeth, and alphabetically monotone grades, and they call themselves 'perfection'.

But when she aims to shatter those Michelangelo echoes, she's only a little deeper in the still-liquid cement, stirred from the twisted combination of censure and bitter poison.


A/N: While brainstorming, I kinda thought, Hermione's pretty insecure. It's all in character development. Anyways, R&R. It'd make me feel good inside.