Hermione didn't want Harry to see her tears, even though she knew he understood, or at least - Harry thought he understood her; he thought she cried for Ron. She missed Ron already, that was true, but that wasn't the reason she cried all day long. When Ron was there, it felt like they could do it, that they could manage to finish this horrible task. Mainly because Ron gave her the attention that she wanted from somebody far, far away. When she sat next to Ron, she could imagine Draco sitting next to her. When she nursed Ron, she could imagine nursing Draco, and she could only imagine that because Ron was in love with her, like Draco was.
She knew she used Ron, and she didn't want to do that, but she started to notice that she cried more often, day after day, so she gave in to Ron advances. She didn't kiss him, but she paid him more attention than usual, as if she was in love with him too. She was using her best friend on purpose, but she did it anyway. Otherwise she would have gone mad. And now, with the horroble situation they were in, she needed to stay sane.
But now was Ron gone. He misunderstood things between Harry and her, and he left. And without that little bit of Draco she imagined every day, her world collapsed completely. At first, when Ron left, he gave her a new idea: she thought she could do the same with Harry, what she did to Ron, but that was false hope. It was umpossible. She couldn't imagine any of the sorts with Harry. Harry was in love with Ginny, Harry talked about Ginny. Harry was just Harry, where Ron was that bit of Draco that she needed. Neither Ron nor Draco would ever admit it, but she saw some similarities between the two men.
She ran outside, and sat down heavily on a huge rock, and pulled her notebook out of her sweater pockets. She clicked her ballpoint, and started to write down another letter to Draco, letters she had never sent to him and never will. It was too dangerous. Teardrops fell on the page and blurred the blue ink, so she tore out the page, made it vanish with a frustrated sweep of her wand and started to write again. She didn't want to show Draco her weakness when she could finally hand him the letters she wrote to him, She didn't want him to know about all the tears she shed for him. She wanted him to say that she had been strong through out this adventure, she didn't want him to ask why she cried. She didn't want to bring back the memories of her darkest hours. No, when she finally could see his face again, she wanted to hand the letters with pride, read them together with pride and she wanted him to kiss her with his pale lips with pride.
When she almost started crying all over again - when she was about to write 'Love, Hermione' at the end of the page - she heard Harry walking up to her. She wiped her tears quickly, turned to a blank page and quickly started drawing what she always drew: toucans. When Ginny asked her about the toucans once, she said they were her favourite animals. But they weren't - Draco's Patronus was a toucan. She never thought about the dangers the drawings could bring her, about how this could and probably would be seen as betrayal: she knew that Draco was on their side, and if there was ever a situation a Patronus was needed... Everyone who knew her would see that the toucans weren't just her favourite animal.
Harry sat down next to her - the rock was big enough for at least seven persons.
"Hey," he said softly, wrapping an arm around her. She could hear in his tone that he wanted to ask her how she was feeling - but he didn't ask. She smiled: she knew that Harry knew that if she wanted to talk, that she would, and that's why he never asked. But she would never talk about this - she was a terrible liar, and if she tried to confirm her 'feelings for Ron' to Harry, she knew he would notice she wasn't in love with Ron at all.
"Hey," she replied softly.
"I found some cocoa when I searched for something in my backpack - I made hot chocolate. Do you want some?" he asked her friendly.
"Yeah," she said. "I'm coming. Let me finish this." Harry nodded, and walked away, knowing that she wanted to be alone for another minute. She turned the page again, back to the letter, and she finished writing her name.
She doubted for a fraction of a second before she wrote down a postscript.
P.S.: I love you.