Frustration. That's what it was. Well, no, not simply frustration. It wasn't that simple. It was more intense, a somewhat pulsing anger…

And, honestly, what more could anyone expect from him under the circumstances? Having just released his seventh year Potions class
(on account of the budding migraine behind his eyes), he was, put most politely, rather…cranky.

Mostly, it was Longbottom's fault. The boy simply made him want to pull his hair out and whip him with it. Quite honestly, Longbottom had thus far broken the record of busted-up cauldrons, the previous record having been set by a Hufflepuff quite a few years previous. Today's damaged goods had been rather impressive—four shattered flasks, a pound of soiled tenderized beetle eyes, while still managing to swathe a majority of the class in his foul-smelling orange goop of a potion.

And, of course to add to his increasing ferocity at the time, Potter, the Boy Who Insisted on Living, had felt the need to put in his two cents, claiming Longbottom was simply clumsy.

Merlin spare us. Clumsy? Clumsy is the occasional slip in the mud, the sporadic trip down the stairs. Longbottom was a careless, lazy, accident prone wreck—a never ending stream of fumbling hands and inept musings. Clumsy. Snape nearly chuckled. That was an understatement if he ever heard one.

Reflecting, he realized there was barely a student in that bloody class who didn't force him to ask himself why he was a teacher. He could recall one, though.

An image of Hermione Granger, age eleven, an overly enthusiastic, thoroughly energetic, down right curious pint of a girl characterized by her bushy mane, buck teeth, and perpetually raised hand popped into his mind. Oh, how much she had changed. Maturity, experience, both did wonders for a person, Snape relented. They certainly did for Miss Granger. Another image flitted into his mind, forcefully pushing the preceding one out. A calm, strikingly intelligent young woman, with a long, slender form, light honey curls cascading around her shoulders, framing her big, long-lashed, toffee eyes…

That was, indeed, the newly matured Hermione Granger. A few years previous, had you told Snape that the previously annoying know-it-all of a student would have matured into a beautiful, reserved lady, he'd have recommended you for the St. Mungo's psych ward.

Apparently, one can only face near-death, mortal enemies, and the fatalities of friends so much in one life time before they give way to change. Somewhere along the line, she'd learned to give others a chance to answer a question, to not flaunt her intelligence but to instead use it discreetly. Maturity became her.

If only he could say the same for the rest of the soon-would-be graduates. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shifted heavily to his feet in search of any remaining headache remedy in his private stores.

Mornings. Horrid, slow, dreary mornings. Oh, how she hated the mornings. To even suggest rising early, one must be, in Hermione's blatant opinion, the spawn of evil itself. The uses of early awakenings were lost on her. She could not understand for the life of her why the school day could not start at, say, nine o'clock in the morning and end at four in the afternoon. Everyone would win.

Sighing, vehemently cursing early risers everywhere, Hermione swung her legs over the side of the bed and ground the last traces of sleep from her eyes. Blindly grabbing at the innards of her wardrobe, she tugged various garments onto her, not caring in the slightest whether they matched or not. Shrugging into her school robes, she nearly stumbled down the curving staircase into the common room to meet the boys for breakfast, both of whom were there to greet her when she made her entrance.

Ron, only slightly more tolerable of mornings than Hermione, wore a completely blank expression, one that would cling to his face until they got both food and coffee into him. Harry, exceedingly more awake than either of them, adorned himself with a smile this morning. Their walk to the Great Hall was filled with his cheerful remarks and blithe observations, to Hermione's increasing irritation and Harry's obvious amusement.

Hermione was a great deal more agreeable when at last she sat clutching a steaming cup of dark coffee tightly within her hands. A tawny owl chose that moment to swoop down, carelessly drop the Daily Prophet in front of Hermione, and nibble off a corner of her toast before once again taking flight.

Hermione glanced at the headlines:

Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimegeor Turns Fifty-Two

Dementor Attacks in Northern London

Lola Sweeney's Homemade Treacle Tart Recipe

Support Potter! Harry Potter Merchandise is Now For Sale: Hats, Mugs, T-shirts…

"Any one we know die?" Ron asked casually.

"Not today. Though apparently Harry now has an entire line of collectors' items. I don't know, I might even sport a "Go, Harry Potter, Go" t-shirt to the next Quidditch match. What do you think, Ron? Join me with a nice "Harry Potter Admirer" cap?" Hermione asked with a straight face, reaching for a banana.

"Agreed. We'll even match them."

Harry snatched the paper from Hermione, determinedly ignoring his two giggly mates, and scanned it to confirm the news for himself. He wasn't surprised at the lack of scandals he found. The paper had been rather redundant lately. Not much changed from day to day. Though, he wasn't complaining. No news is good news, right?

Quickly the three finished eating and gathered their books. Grudgingly, reluctantly, the three slowly made their way down to the dungeons for early-morning Potions.