*dodges the flying objects thrown at her* AHH! I know! I've like fallen off the freakin' edge of the earth! And I'm jumping into a new story when I have two others in the lurch! But you guys... the plot bunnies freakin attacked like nothing else. This story might be the fluffiest thing I've ever written... and I'm going to have so much fun with it.

I would like to point out that whoever said your senior year was a slack off year did NOT GO TO MY SCHOOL! I'M DYING OVER HERE! So... once I get into college and have finished writing my senior thesis, there should be a lot more updating going on.

Dedicated to my lovely beta (who was kind of... just... forced into the job by default), who puts up with me getting an idea in July and not doing anything about it until November. I LOVE YOU Cordelia Darcy! Go read her Thor fics. They're da bomb.

J.K. Rowling, I am very sorry for shamelessly desecrating your characters. I like them better this way :)

There are a lot of things I like about living with Hermione Granger. Like the fact that I have a walking encyclopedia at my fingertips when it comes to homework difficulties. And the part that she's a bloody fantastic cook. And that she smells good. And that she's gotten to the point where she no longer carries her clothes to the bathroom, but walks back to her room in only a towel. You'd never know it under those robes, but Granger's got a pair of legs to kill for.

I like that she sings as she makes dinner. And that I now know how to make her laugh. (And, Merlin, does she have a great laugh.)

So, yes, being Heads with Granger has a lot of upshots to it.

Her cleaning habits (or lack there-of) are not one of them.

One would think that someone like Granger, who has to be perfect at everything, all the time, who has never missed a single homework assignment, who hates it that houseelves clean up after wizards, would be pretty good at keeping her living area tidy.

Heh. You'd be wrong.

Our common room looks like a bloody tornado's gone through it. Books are scattered all across the floor, her favorite chair is absolutely covered in crumpled up parchment and quills, and that damned cat of hers has knocked over his food bowl, effectively sprinkling its contents all over the floor. Again.

I really hate that cat.

And I hate Granger when she does this, too.

She's made a habit out of this. She's gotten to the point where she frequently overworks herself until I can practically see the stress causing her hair to frizz. She piles up the hardest classes, the prefect responsibilities, applications for internships, letters to the Deathtrap Duo (currently training to be Aurors. I just thank Merlin they're not here) until she positively bursts. And guess who feels the result of this explosion of nerves?

Yep. Our room is the collateral damage.

And she's learned, she now knows (much to my chagrin) that I will clean up the mess. Without fail. I tried, once just leaving the room in its pitiful state for her to pick up herself.

Three days later, my left eye was permanently twitching.

So, I've resigned myself to my sentence. I am now Hermione Granger's maid.

Pitiful, I know.

So I start cleaning, and since I've got spare time, I do it the Muggle way (yet another result of living in close quarters with Granger.) The crumpled parchments go in the bin, the quills neatly arranged on the coffee table. The cat food gets put in the bowl, which in turn gets placed in the kitchenette. And the the crumpled parchments go in the bin, the quills neatly arranged on the coffee table. The cat food gets put in the bowl, which in turn gets placed in the kitchenette. And the blasted orange creature himself gets securely locked in his owner's room.

I start gathering her books into a neat pile on the coffee table when I notice something odd. Wedged between the pages of Advanced Arithmancy is a smaller, brown, leather-bound book, with no writing on the cover. Why would Granger put a book in another book?

Strange… almost as if she's trying to hide it…

I immediately grab the book and sit myself down on the couch, preparing for an interesting find. (Okay, so I may not be the evil bastard I was. Doesn't mean I'm a saint.)

The book isn't perfectly organized and sequential like I would expect from Granger. There are no dates, no perceivable system to the pages. Just page after page of writing. Some pages seem to be short stories of sorts, others seem to be letters to people without specifying who she's talking to. But one thing is very clear: the pages are all very emotional. From what I can ascertain, Granger has seemed to use this book to vent out her feelings in a sense.

I can tell she's had it for a couple of years due to the long sequence of pages of Lavender Brown-bashing (obviously written during her sixth year.) I sit reading Granger's entries for a good two hours, laughing at her angry rants on some pages, and it doesn't take me too long of sifting through the latest journals to figure out that Granger fancies someone (other than the Weasel, thank Merlin) quite a lot. The question though, is who?

I refuse to acknowledge that the sinking feeling in my stomach can be attributed to any form of jealousy. Nope. Not at all.

The voice in my head (which sounds suspiciously like Pansy) snickers at my denial.

But the last page is really what's most valuable to me.

It's odd really.

But then again, I'm odd, so I suppose that makes sense. (Heh. At least the girl's honest with herself.)

I don't think about the wedding, or the proposal, or the first kiss, or the first "I love you."

….Okay, well I do, but not as much as other things.

No, it's the little things I look forward to the most.

I look forward to the first time I'll get butterflies around him. I look forward to catching him staring at me for no reason at all. I look forward to him getting jealous over some man who wants my attention, and being so amused by it because he'll have no reason to be insecure about my feelings. I look forward to falling asleep on his shoulder while watching a movie. To feeling his thumb brush over my knuckles as he holds my hand. To waking up next to him. To looking in his eyes and just knowing that he loves me, without him actually having to say it. I look forward to dancing around our living room, to no music. Look forward to cracking up over idiotic things together because it's extremely late and we're both tired to the point of being delirious. I look forward to inside jokes. To finishing each other's sentences. To having arguments over television shows. To watching him playing with someone's children and being shell-shocked that I can picture him with mine, ours.

I look forward to the moments, the leading up to, to the process of falling in love together.

So while my friends imagine their wedding dresses, I… wait. Wait for the falling.

For the little things.

I read through the page again and again. My thoughts, at this point, are very simple.

This. Is. Golden. This is perfect. This is the best bloody thing that's ever happened to me. Better than when the earth was rid of Voldemort's disgusting presence.

This… this was better than pissing off the Weasel.

So, The Prologue was actually going to be longer than that, but I just really wanted to get SOMETHING up.

Hermione's journal entry was actually something I just wrote for me, then I read it and decided it was one of the best things I'd ever written, and I had to make a story out of it somehow.

Please let me know if anyone actually wants me to continue this? I think this could be really good, but if no one's interested, I shouldn't waste my time on it.

If you review, I will find some way to send you Tom Felton gift wrapped... maybe.

GoldenPheasant