“beyond wandpoint” 016 by gingerbred

[beyondwandpoint]

“11 08c Saturday - Wardrobe (Mal-)Function”

...in which Hermione makes a discovery and thinks she's an arse, but doesn't know the meaning of the word.

Hermione, Poppy

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Originally Published: 2017-11-19 on AO3
Chapter: 016

Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con

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Hermione sets about getting dressed. Madam Pomfrey has provided her with new undergarments, socks and a clean top. She'll have to wear her jeans from yesterday, but discovers she doesn't mind. The fit will undoubtedly be better, she thinks, although when she gets around to putting on the top, she'll realise she really has no complaints about sizing. The bra, she notes with wry humour is in much better nick than hers was. That's probably not all that difficult.

The blouse, however, proves a real delight. It's a deep green, not a colour she would normally choose, but it suits her very well. It's fitted, also a nearly unique characteristic in her wardrobe, and it fits beautifully, a thing that honestly can't be said of most of her clothes. Hermione hates shopping, with a passion usually reserved for learning or the printed word, and prefers to buy things large enough that there is no risk of outgrowing anything; she'll wear things out before she does. The fact she's no longer growing out of her clothes doesn't seem to have registered sufficiently to change this habit of years.

It's the bit of eyelet lace around the neckline and wrists, however, that gives her something to think about. For one thing, she can tell now where the top comes from. As recently as this morning, it must have been one of the Matron's handkerchiefs. Hermione's seen that pattern of lace on the delicate bits of cloth pinned to the witch's apron in the past. Last night, even. She has obviously sat down and transfigured it into a blouse, taking great care for it to fit and for the trim details to marry up nicely, changing its colour and... It's a lovely bit of Transfiguration.

It's also something Hermione hasn't been doing much of outside of the classroom lately.

Her clothes are from the high street. Her denims are from Primark, her top Marks & Spencer - it's a pity to lose it; she'd liked it. But she hasn't created a stitch of it, she's purely a consumer. She looks now, deliberately, contemplatively at her bra. It's supposed to be 'Make Do and Mend', except she hasn't really mended, now has she? Looking at the shape the undergarment's in, taking in its worn condition, she wonders why she hadn't repaired it? She's been more than competent with a Reparo since before first year even started.

It had helped, of course, that virtually no one had been likely to see it. She winces, and promptly blocks that avenue of thought. And tries to stop creating a list of those who had seen it... The point is, she's a witch of no little talent, and she hadn't deigned to repair the article of clothing. She's not sure what to make of it.

Lavender, thinking of the roommate who had shopped her to Professor McGonagall, would have sorted it in a flash. Then she'd have embellished it beyond recognition; Lav's taste is questionable at best. But in retrospect, Hermione finds it a little embarrassing that Lav's seen her in the bra. Parvati, too, come to think of it. Fay and Georgina are both less likely to notice or care. Hermione knows she's not great with transfiguring clothes, but any and all of them could have easily shown her how to sort the bra, if she'd been unable to do it herself. They'd have relished the opportunity to do so, even, and been pleased to know something she didn't for once.

And that is probably the exact reason she doesn't ask for their help, and she doesn't perform those kinds of charms. She doesn't wish to be lumped in with them, to be seen as shallow or empty-headed, or to compete on such frivolous levels.

She wishes to be taken seriously.

Now she's wondering if running about in worn underclothes is the way to go about it.

Probably not.

She takes a seat on the bed to pull on her trainers and resolves to at least consider asking the Matron, when she returns, if she'd possibly mind showing her how she went about making the top. Maybe. If she doesn't seem too busy, that is.

She'll give it some thought.

She reaches for her wand, deciding to transfigure her trainers a dark green to match her new top, as a first step in that direction. As her hand closes on her wand, however, there's a swirl of magic at her chest, and the purple badge that identifies the Muggle-born stitches itself onto her new top.

Holy Cricket.

This is the first new article of clothing she's had since the Muggle-born Student Registration Act was passed, and she hadn't realised how it was done. At the time she'd registered, the blasted badge appeared on the clothes she was wearing, but that could just as easily have been linked to the simple act of registration. When she had returned to her room, it was on nearly every other article of clothing she owned, including her pyjamas and bathing suit, a source of no little annoyance. At least the underclothing had been spared. There's that. Although how it knew to distinguish between her bra and bikini top...

This would seem to prove that the application of the badge is linked to her wand, which confirms all of her worst suspicions about the registering they were forced to do with them in September. 'Harmless' her arse. Ron is an idiot.

She double checks the Infirmary gown in which she spent the night. No sign of it there. She thinks about whether she'd had her wand in her hand... She most certainly had, and she'd used it, too. So... Of course! The gown isn't hers.

Interesting.

There the damn badge sits, detracting quite ostentatiously from the beauty of the top to her way of thinking. In truth, it's not nearly as bad as she thinks, or there'd have been more opposition - the people behind it also understand something of human nature, but for Hermione it's a blight if only for the principle of the thing.

The sheeple had hardly fussed. Not in any real way. Well, just wait until the thing starts popping up on their formal robes and see how they like it then...

She's not wrong. There's no Yule Ball this year, and the Muggle-born and -raised factions have far fewer balls and formal functions at which they're welcomed than the pure-bloods do. It's no coincidence that the Act to register the adults as well doesn't pass until the new year and the danger of anyone having to wear dress robes for the holiday festivities has safely passed. It won't be until Valentine's, and its related events, when they start kicking off, and by then it will be rather too late to make a difference.

Sheeple indeed.

Hermione glares at the symbol. (It's unimpressed.) It manifests as a relatively small purple isosceles triangle with a thick underline extending a little to either side, representing sort of a stylised witch's hat. The Muggle-raised, like Harry, sport the same shape in orange.

There had been some complaint about the naff colours.

Obviously that was so much more offensive than the fact they were required to register in the first place, or were branded like livestock... Hermione has little patience for much of the idiocy around her. She suspects orange and purple were chosen as the two remaining secondary colours guaranteed to show up regardless of a student's House colours.

Given the absence of Muggle-borns in Slytherin, she can't help wondering that green hadn't been in the running after all. It wouldn't have had to show up on their clothes, and would have had the best contrast with the Gryffindor set. Well, unless you were colourblind... She considers fleetingly if wizards even can be colourblind, or if that's just another mundane affliction to which they're immune... But perhaps they didn't want to sully the House colour by association. She'd wonder if she's being unfair or become biased by the events of last night if it weren't for the fact that every instance of bigotry she's encountered happened to be from Slytherins.

Again a wave of guilt hits her as she stops her rant cold to remember a Slytherin, the Slytherin, had risked his wellbeing for hers last night. She can be a really horrible person sometimes. She means to rectify that immediately. As she's now dressed, there's no sign of Madam Pomfrey, and she's got nothing better to do here, she thinks she's managed to justify, at least to herself, going to check on just that Slytherin while she waits for breakfast.

A last look at her things, and her gaze alights again on her bra. In light of the unexpected windfall of the new clothing from the Matron, Hermione permits herself an extravagance. A Wingardium Leviosa has the bit of underclothing floating, and an Incendio reduces it to ash which she promptly Vanishes. It's cathartic, but possibly not nearly as feministic as it might sound. One should never underestimate the value of a good underwire.

Her blouse from last night, however, she leaves untouched. In some corner of her mind, it really does represent a testament to what the Professor had done for her. She'll never wear it again, not after what happened, but she also won't dispose of it. Never. If she manages to survive the war, it's likely to be with her for the next one hundred and twenty some years.

A Reducio and a V-shaped swish of her wand soon has it shrunk. She carefully wraps the miniaturised blouse in a bit of tissue before she places it like some kind of token in the safety of her jeans pocket. No one will accidentally dispose of it in her absence. Satisfied, she rises and heads once more to the room at the back.

When Madam Pomfrey arrives a little while later bearing porridge, she finds the young witch seated in the chair next to Severus' bedside.