As she stuck another pin in the loose chignon at her neck, she resigned herself to the fact that her curls were just going to do what they wanted. Currently, they were springing out from the vessels that attempted to tame them, mold them to something they weren’t. The irony did not escape Hermione, and she chuckled while slipping into her sensible pumps again. People had been trying to tame the witch she was her whole life, trying to force her into a box that she just couldn’t fit in. The thought made her look at the scar that rested on her arm. 