DISLCAIMER: I'm not J.K. Rowling. If I was, I'd have an actual sense of humor...
The room had grown dark long before, but a light still shone faintly from behind the curtains of Hermione Granger's bed. She was sitting, cross-legged, a notebook in front of her, and a quill in her hand.
Finally she was going to do it—she was going to write a letter to him. She'd probably never send it, but she knew she had to get out her feelings somehow. For years she'd felt this way; she couldn't deny it any longer—at least, not to herself. She figured writing them down would help her sort out her confusing thoughts and feelings, if nothing else.
So she lifted her quill and began.
Dear Ron,
I wanted to write and tell you how much yesterday meant to me. I've never had a friend so willing just to sit around and read with me; you're probably the only friend I have who will do that. I love how you laugh when I correct your pronunciation, or tease you for making strange mistakes with your words. How you still spend time with me even though I'm a bit strange, even though I'm always studying or worried about homework and even though we practically never talk about anything but books. I can be myself around you; in fact, I'm probably more myself around you than I am with anyone. I wanted to thank you...for everything.
Love,
Hermione
She knew she'd never send it. But she was glad she'd written it. She tucked the notebook under her pillow, put away her quill and ink, and fell asleep, a slight smile on her face.