Author's little note: Yeah. Twisted, I know. But I needed to write it. Jumped into my head one day and wouldn't leave me alone. Oh yeah, this is femslash and I don't own them. Thanks. Please review.

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No, I can't – it's not allowed – she's how much older than me? and she's Married . . . .

Say it, Hermione, scream it so you believe it, and I hear myself crying, "No, I don't, I won't!"

No, no, no, I can't – it's so wrong – she's my teacher, and she's –

And she's –

female, and I'm female too, and I may be gay but I know she's straight, and it's so wrong, but she drives me mad, and . . . .

I'm screaming at myself, saying, "No, I WON'T! No, I don't have a crush on her, no, this is mad, this is wrong, I just can't . . . ."

No, I can't. Can't even think it. Can't even. Can't have my pulse racing the way it does when she walks by, can't feel giddy like I'm walking among the clouds, can't be so damn happy about it.

Denial. The state of refusing to believe something that is most definitely true. I'm in denial. The Nile? No, denial, and denial's not in Egypt.

I have a— no, I can't.

I have a--- no . . . .

I have a crush on my teacher. My female, married, way-older-than-I-am teacher.

NO! I CAN'T!

. . . . but yes, I do . . . no!

Dinner is ruthless, class is too, she's there and she's so damn gorgeous, and I can't help but watch her. I do my work as perfectly as I can make it, and for the top of the class that's not hard, really – because I want her to look over and say, oh, there's Hermione Granger, what a bright witch . . . .

I'd kind of like it if she thought I was pretty, too, and I spend a little more time on my hair now, and Lavender noticed and gave me some tips, and they all think I'm trying to impress some boy, some other sixth-year boy, one of those slobbish boys . . . . and Ron thinks I'm trying to impress who knows who and Harry thinks I'm trying to impress Ron, but I'm not, I'm not trying to impress either of them because – because –

I'm trying to impress –

No, I'm not trying to impress anyone. Repeat after me, Hermione, you-are- not-trying-to-impress-anyone.

I'm such a terrible liar –

No, I can't. Can't do this, can't think this, can't feel this. Can't have a crush on her.

I've tried to rationalize it; she's everything I'd love to grow up to be, so naturally I admire her, respect her. Not dream about her. Not think she's attractive – she's really quite hot – (no!). Not watch her without really hearing what she says. That's not supposed to happen. Rationalize that, Hermione, rationalize that.

When I fall, I fall hard. Oh, I've had crushes before, yes. And they last. And last. And I remember them fondly even now (except for maybe Gilderoy Lockheart) and sometimes they're around for over a year. Like Ginny being so fond of Harry.

And now I've fallen. Harder than I can ever remember. I've never been giddy like this before.

No, I'm not giddy, remember? I can't be . . . please let me not be, this isn't right . . . .

I feel drunk. I've never been drunk, but I feel drunk. Her bright eyes and –

oh, no –

no—

please, I can't, I can't really I can't, it's not right, the heroine in the books always gets over it, but she's always straight and I'm not, and she's always perfect and I'm not, and not even in the wizarding novels does anyone have a crush –

on her Transfigurations professor.