Disclaimer: Sure, I’m J.K. Rowling.  I’m richer than the Queen, I’m about to build a pool worth £500,000, and I write fiction for hopeful, wishful-thinking kids and adults who are glued to their screens by their noses.  (By the way, that was sarcasm.  I’m really not JKR.)

And After That

A/N: I’m back!  Some people wanted a sequel to After the Boys of Summer, and I’d planned to give them one… “planned” being the key word here.  After procrastinating for nearly 5 months, I finally decided to start writing.  But being me, I still never did.  Then one day, out of sheer boredom, I opened AtBoS, and my fingers took over.  The result was this flop of a chapter.  Don’t worry, they get longer---and more worthwhile (they come to be about something more than just hair)!  Just stick with me here… -.-;  [By the way, if you hadn’t gotten the hint by now, I highly recommend you read After the Boys of Summer before this. But it’s not mandatory.]  Also, thanks a bunch to my beta reader, Elanor Gamgee.

A/N 2: Don’t let me bore you.  Please keep reading.  Please.

Chapter 1: The Hair

He was coming to her house.  He was going to eat her food and sleep in her beds.  Never, in her wildest and most imaginative dreams---not that she dreamed about him, of course, she hardly ever dreamed about him---had she expected Ron Weasley to come to her house.

Well, why didn’t I? Hermione thought to herself while smoothing out the wrinkles on her bedspread.  That was rather dim of me.  I go to his house all the time, so it shouldn’t be a surprise when he comes to mine…

“Oh, he’s coming to my house!” she groaned.  She shook her head to clear it, causing all bushy brown mania to release, and headed to the door.

Beside the many-times-painted door sat her wardrobe.  Catching sight of herself, she frowned, as she always did.  Hermione had definitely changed over the years, like her figure, of course.  The short, slightly chubby body from before was now the slender, curvy figure of a young woman, currently in Capris and a tank top.  The few amber freckles that had sprinkled across her nose had now faded and almost blended in with her skin, tanned due to all the traveling she and her parents had done.  But the cursed brown hair stayed the same.  It was bound to.  Even her mother’s was still frizzy, though not as frizzy as hers.

Hermione glanced down and picked up the bottle of mousse her mother had gotten her.  “It won’t do as much as magic may be able to,” her mum had warned, “but it might help.”  After reading the instructions, Hermione shook the bottle and pressed the nozzle, somewhat surprised when a bubbly foam appeared.  Being Hermione, she reread the directions, and then did as told.  She rubbed her hands together and began patting her bushy mane with the stuff.

She saw a slight difference immediately; the “canopy” of her hair, as the bottle called it, was now quite less frizzy.  She used more mousse to reach all around her head, scrunching upwards as the instructions said.  When Hermione realised the bottle felt a lot lighter in her hand, she stopped to look at the outcome.

Amazingly, much of the bushiness was gone, and in its place were nearly frizzless tendrils.  Of course, there was the occasional patch of fuzz, but there was definitely a remarkable difference.  Her hair now reached down to her elbows, which made Hermione reckon that all the frizziness of her hair seemed to make her hair look shorter.

“Well,” Hermione said to her smiling reflection.  “Mum was wrong.  This stuff is magic.”

A/N 3: And…we’re done!  Now, if you’re still alive and not being held hostage by 40-something terrorists, REVIEW!  Everybody sing it, “Review, review, review, -view, -view, -view, view.”  One more time!  “Review, review, review, -view, -view, -view, vieeeeew!”  [Insert jazzy electric guitar playing here]  Now, if you don’t want me to sing it again, REVIEW!