Disclaimer: Don't own HP. I have got to get myself some more clever puns for my disclaimers. They're getting entirely too boring.
The Letter She Finally Wrote
23-year-old Hermione Granger deftly took note of the clouds building overheard. A storm was coming. She should probably hurry. But that revelation only made her want to stay longer.
With slightly trembling hands, she unfolded the letter she had worked so hard on to reread it one final time.
Dear Harry,
Words have finally come to me, at three o'clock in the morning no less, but I'm not complaining. It's not like I was sleeping anyway.
We were best friends, everyone knew that. But something no one knew, I always thought of you as more than my best friend.
There were some times I was sure you thought of me as one of the boys, a second Ron. There were other times, however, when I'd catch you shooting somewhat- furtive glances at me during lessons or meals, and you'd smile shyly before turning away when I glanced back. Those times I wondered, if I told you how I felt, would you understand? Would you feel the same? Unfortunately, my cowardice always got the better of me, and I never did tell you how I felt... how I still feel to this very day. That remains most definitely the biggest regret of my life.
It was the end of our third year when I first truly discovered my feelings for you were not as plutonic as you or I thought.
Sirius ran off into the forest and we ran after him. We saw the hundreds of dementors surrounding him and I became more frightened then I had ever been in my life. What if you collapsed again like you had on the train or during the match against Hufflepuff? I looked over to you, because for the first time in my life, I hadn't a clue what to do next. But you did. You told me to think of something happy, and if I hadn't thought of how much I wanted to kiss you that very moment, I don't think I would've stayed conscious nearly as long as I did.
In fifth year, nothing had changed. In fact, my feelings for you had grown. We were in Umbridge's office, and she had her idiot squad of Slytherins holding us captive. She was screaming at you, demanding you to tell her who you had been trying to contact with Floo powder. She convinced herself it was Dumbledore, of course, and was screaming at you, 'Why? What was so important you needed to risk expulsion to contact him?' I could tell that your mind was drawing a blank. It was right then, at that very moment in my life, that I realized I loved you. More than you could ever hope to know. And I couldn't just let Umbridge ruin your life; you had already had too many awful things happen to you. So I came up with a story off the top of my head, it was brilliant, a reason to get Umbridge near the centaurs without her suspecting a thing on account of her own greed. I knew it was a huge risk, but I didn't care. For what was the first time in my life, I didn't give a damn about the risks or the repercussions; all I gave a damn about was you. And that remains true, even to this very day. Why else would I be writing this letter?
You, Harry Potter, are the only case in which I, Hermione Granger, am guilty of procrastinating. I knew I had to tell you how I felt, and I wanted to tell you how I felt. However, I always convinced myself that it was never the right time, but truthfully, it was again my own cowardice that stopped me. Whenever I'd muster up the courage to tell you how I truly felt, there was that miniscule voice whispering dreadfully in my ear, 'What if he doesn't feel the same way? Can you go on being friends like you have been if you tell him? Or will he avoid you and you'll lose the best friend you've ever had?' And that was my fatal mistake, my cowardice's fatal mistake. I had nothing to lose, because I didn't just want to be friends anymore, no matter what the cost, I knew I was just as miserable watching you swoon over Ginny and Cho Chang and who knows how many others while still being your friend, than being truthful and having to face your rejection. I'd boxed myself into a tiny corner in the far reaches of my mind, into a horrible lose-lose situation that in reality wasn't half as horrible as I'd made it out to be.
I should have told you how I felt a long time ago. Maybe you understand my predicament now, because even though I am finally writing this letter, you will never know how I feel about you, and that kills me inside.
If I had told you a year ago, a month ago, a week ago, maybe I would be able to live with myself. But I didn't... and I can't.
I know you wouldn't want to see me feeling sorry for myself like this, I know there's nothing you can't stand more than a person with a chip on their shoulder the size of the English Channel. And trust me, I don't want to see it any more than you do, but what am I supposed to do?
I love you, Harry. And I don't think I'll ever love anyone else in my lifetime, which is a truly frightening thought for a girl who used to daydream constantly about her perfect wedding with the perfect man when she was younger.
I'm beginning to think that words have left me now, because I'm suddenly finding myself at an utter loss for them. I guess I've said all that I need to say. I feel like I should end this letter with a final, clear-cut conclusion, but I can't. I don't want to either. I think it's because that would be like saying goodbye, and if I said goodbye to you, Harry, I would convince myself it really is goodbye, and I honestly don't believe in goodbyes, I've simply known you for too long. I'm not sure if that makes any sense, but I don't think it needs to. I think you'd know how I felt without even needing to read this letter, which is the thought that gives me hope that there may be uninterrupted nights of sleep for me in the future.
Love always,
Hermione
Hands still trembling, she folded up the letter once more and slid it back into its envelope. The rain began to fall, but that was a good thing. Her face became so wet that she could no longer tell the difference between raindrops and tears.
Before walking away, she laid her carefully written letter down beside her best friend's grave.