"You don't have room to make hair jokes," he'd said, and yanked on one of her curls before springing out of bed and heading off into his own shower.  Neither stale croissants nor watery coffee had been able to dim his cheer, and they'd gotten here thirty minutes early because, as he'd pointed out several times, Potter couldn't get through the gates without him, and he didn't want to make the man wait because, while it was possible a peasant like Hermione didn't realize this, that would be rude.  She'd managed not to answer that and had even kept her mouth glued shut as he prattled on about Quidditch and strategy and basic feints as if she hadn't been best friends with two fiends for the sport over half her life.  She may not be a giant fan, but she knew a lot about Quidditch.