She sat there outside of the hospital waiting and waiting and waiting. She wasn't a nervous waiter, like Ginny. No, she didn't bite her nails or tap her foot, well not normally at least. But this time she found her hands itching for something to do, longing for the familiar sound of a quill scratching on parchment. And with out really realizing what she was doing she pulled out her bag. And she wrote.
Dear Ronald,
Well you've managed to get yourself into a fine scrape this time and on your birthday too. Congratulations. And you know what it's just pathetic the way you let your stomach control you. If you hadn't eaten those stupid chocolates you wouldn't be in this mess right now and I'd be off in the library avoiding you because we all know you never go there. But no, I'm sitting outside of the bloody hospital wing, worried bloody sick about you, and, you know what, it's all your bloody fault. It's your fault for being a rude, clueless, idiotic, slacker and then for making me like it. Do you think I like worrying about you? Well I don't.
And while we're talking about your selfishness, I want to know what gives you the right to traipse all over the place snogging Lavender Brown. You know I never had a problem with Lavender Brown until the Gryffindor celebration party. Yes, she was silly and giggly not really my friend, but she was my roommate. But guess what you had to go and kill that by nearly eating her face off, way to go.
So if you could just get over yourself, it might help me get over you. Even if I'm not completely sure I want to get over you. That's another thing, I'm confused. How dare you make me feel confused, is it not bad enough that you make me excited, depressed, and butterfly-filled all at one time.
Love. 1.) to feel tender affection for someone. Or. 2.) to like something very much. And well the second one describes my feelings about you. Even though you're infuriating I do like you, very much.
I just wrote this to yell at you while I'm waiting for Madam Pomfrey to let us in, I didn't plan on giving it you- still don't- and I certainly didn't plan on confessing. But I guess that's what love is unplanned. And I'm starting to think maybe unplanned isn't so bad.
Reluctantly or not so Reluctantly Yours,
Hermione.
She folded the letter, stood up and crossed the corridor. As it fell into the trash can she let out a small sigh. Before settling down to wait some more.