Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of the lovely HP world, nor do I own any of Elliot Perlman's fantastic books. I love his books.

Chapter One

My Dearest Hermione,

How long has it been since we last looked into each other's eyes and thought, "This is it"?

No. Please scrap that and burn it in the fire.

How long has it been since we last saw each other?

Nine and a half years.

You don't really miss me that much, do you? Was it the money, was it the fact that I was "stultifying material, pressing down" on your face? But this is not the reason why I'm writing to you. If it was, I wouldn't have written at all. I would have stormed down three blocks, blasted your door and asked you, "Why, why, why?"

In fact, I would have done that… in the very first moment.

You can probably tell from this letter that I still haven't gotten over you yet. I don't think so.

Pansy said, some two or three days ago, that I should have gotten over you a long, long time ago. She said that, despite your intelligence and the fact you must have been worth it somehow, you don't deserve it anymore. At least, not in that over-stretched period of nine and a half years.

But then, that's just Pansy. Always jealous of what others have, not once stopping to think of what she has. No, that doesn't mean that I'm in love with her. It's Zabini. He worships the ground that she walks in, and the water that she oh-so-delicately dips her big toe in. It won't last. She likes to sample in different things, likes to roll around in objects that are less than fortnight old. But they've been together for two whole months, and she looks happy enough. He certainly is.

And I'm more or less happy for them.

Because although she's got the greasy skin and musk-scented latest clothing, and he's got the slanted eyes and adulterous mother (who really does care for him), they're… as close as you can get to a perfect couple. No couple is perfect. And you getting married to Weasley is the complete opposite of perfect.

What do you see in him, anyway?

Is it the fact that Potter died from internal injuries, and you figured it would be insulting to his memory if you and Weasley didn't hook up? Because, to be honest, he's been dead for nine and a half years, and I don't think, being dead for that long, these sorts of things would matter anymore.

He would have just wanted you to be happy. And you know Weasley won't (and can't) make you happy. Well, someone with the emotional range of a teaspoon wouldn't make anybody happy in my opinion.

I'd love to rant some more about who can (or is it could) make you happy and who can't, but I won't. Because these words are just here to cushion your shock, give you something to laugh at afterwards, when nothing else in the world can.

I'm dying.

I'm serious. I'm not writing this just to make you rush back into my life.

Doubtless, Weasley will be happy. He's hated me for this long and he's gotten this far.

I also know that you might have thrown this letter away already, that you might have stopped caring long ago. And then this letter will be a waste of ink, parchment and time. Time which I don't really have anymore.

I knew I should have written all this with soy sauce, on rice paper!

At least it will come to some use in the stomach of that big ball of ginger fluff (which you call a cat). I quite liked him, actually. He only ever clawed at me once, and that was because I accidentally zapped him with that… electic… no, electric plug. He always offered to share his mice and spiders with me.

What a nice fellow.

I'm dying from… please don't laugh. Measles.

Common muggle, infectious measles.

To add insult to injury, the healers told me I should have gotten it when I was five, if I ever did. And they can't cure me because it affects wizards more badly than it affects muggles.

That's why I'm going to die.

I'm going to spend the rest of my time with the people who actually give a crap about me. Even just a little bit. My parents and Pansy and Zabini. I should start calling him Blaise now, shouldn't I?

Ever yours, (unrequitedly)

Draco.

P.S. Blond is so much better than ginger.

P.P.S. I love you.

Dear Idiot,

Nice try Malfoy. You know, just as well as I do, that you are not dying. Because you've sent me ten letters during the period of my engagement telling me that you're about to die. Do go for another angle, as this one is getting old.

And stop blaming me for our breakup. You were the one who was kissing that girl, not me. And, it's been three years, not nine and a half. You've been reading 'Three Dollars' by Elliot Perlman, haven't you? Let's hope you remember my name is Hermione, and not Amanda. You wouldn't have had the muscles to blast down my door. It would have been your wand, but then, you wouldn't have had the nerve. Poor Malfoy, always relying on his wand. No sexual euphemism intended.

This is why we broke up.

You're such a juvenile, spoilt, idiotic, selfish, vindictive, manipulative, uncaring, moronic, prat! And Harry didn't even die! If you were trying to make me cry, it did not work.

We're not even "enemies", as you dubbed it in your third letter. We've been corresponding for two years, eight months and ten days. We had lunch two weeks ago.

Idiot.

Plus, that does not sound like Pansy. She would have said something like, 'Stop whining, Draco. If you really loved her, you would have did something three years ago!'

I guess you were too busy burying your face into the neck of some random female by passer, to be creative enough to try to imagine what Pansy would say.

Idiot.

Do your homework next time, because measles is treatable! Unless left for a long time. I doubt that even you would be stupid enough not to notice and outbreak of red spots on your face.

Crookshanks never liked you! He was always offering Pansy his mice and spiders. You only thought he was offering you some, because she always sat on your right. And for your information, he's allergic to soy sauce. If you really liked him, you would have known that. You should have anyway, since you were the one who fed him sushi.

Keep calling him Zabini. She broke up with him two days ago. Something about getting bored.

Never yours, (is "unrequitedly" even a word?)

Hermione.

P.S. Blond is not better than ginger. All, more or less, blond people are dumb rich socialites. You're feminine enough to be called a socialite.

P.P.S. You don't love me. You're the little boy in the sandbox who's crying, because someone else has something you don't have.

A/N: Probably three chapters overall, darlings... 'kay, ewww... three chapters overall, maybe four if I'm bored. Now review!