Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Sad, but true.
Dearest,
I cannot begin to express the way I feel when I am around you. After all, how can I put into words something that I myself do not understand? I wonder, is this love I feel? Or is it merely an infatuation, a passing fancy? Could it be that the stirrings inside of me when I think of you represent nothing more than lust?
I think not. Who would lust over someone so commonly called plain? Looking back on that sentence, I realize that it does not help my case in the slightest. I hope you will believe me when I say that I think you are the most beautiful thing I have ever set eyes upon. Your hair, the first thing people notice when they meet you, reflects your personality the way nothing else ever could. Like you, your hair has spirit, it won't be tied down by what others say it must do. Many say that because you are muggleborn, you cannot excel at Hogwarts the way purebloods can. Yet every day I am witness to the fact that blood means nothing when it comes to intelligence or magical ability. I am a pureblood, but your grades far exceed my own.
I know you do not boast about your grades any more than your friend Harry Potter boasts about his fame, so you must be wondering how I am so sure of this information. These are yet more things I admire about you. You are so humble, taking your thanks quietly whenever you are right—and you so often are. Also, you have a charmingly inquisitive nature, a thirst for knowledge that cannot be quenched. As I write this, knowing you will never read the words on this page, I can see the sparkle in your warm, honey brown eyes. This sparkle, I know, appears when you are learning something new, in the library, have just solved a difficult problem or received a particularly excellent mark in one of your classes, or are proud of something someone close to you has achieved. As a result, the sparkle almost never leaves your eyes, and for this I am thankful. Someone may be able to reproduce your unhindered chestnut hair—as free as you wish the house elves to be—or your manner of speech or dress, but the sparkle in your eyes belongs to you and you alone—nobody can come close to imitating it.
Sweet girl, you are never far from my mind. However, I am sure you pay me no mind whenever you see me, and I doubt you think of me when we are apart. I am not worth notice, and even less worth remembering. Unlike you, I am not a star shining in the darkness of this war. Instead, I am cast into shadow as my best friend is hailed by so many for joining the front line. But, where he leads, I follow, and I do so without complaint.
That last statement must make me sound like the most mindless goon imaginable. You must already think that, though. I know the rest of the school does. I hear the teachers talk—"Mr. Xxx (I cannot reveal my identity to you, even in a letter which will never be sent) has destroyed another cauldron…He failed yet another essay… He simply cannot get that charm right… The boy is hopeless."
Add to this the fact that most of the school, including you, I am sure, probably thinks that I cannot read. This is simply not true. Not only can I read, but I read quite often. I own my own copy of Hogwarts, A History and have the passage on apparition (or lack thereof) memorized. Not to sound stalkerish, but I read because you read. I have spent many hours at night poring over books that I know you find interesting. I do this in hope of someday carrying on an intelligent conversation with you.
Unfortunately, I know that this can never be. Whenever I am near you, my heart quickens and my mind goes blank. All of the carefully studied facts suddenly leave me. I trip over myself and jumble my words. When possible, I stuff my mouth with food to avoid blurting something out, an event which would surely lead to your embarrassment. I botch up potions, misfire spells, and cause any number of other accidents in classes. I am not naturally clumsy or stupid; it is simply that your presence flusters me so. Even the thought of your grace and intelligence is enough to make me an incompetent wizard.
Forgive me, I do not mean to sound as if I am laying blame at your feet. That is not my intention at all. Simply put, I believe I am in love with you. These letters, which I write every evening but never send, provide me an outlet for my feelings. Over time, I have come to realize that all of these things which I admire in you add up to love. I love you for your hair, your fight for house elf rights, your humility, kindness, courage, everything.
It saddens me to know that I can never tell you how I feel about you. I know you would not mock me for my feelings, you are too kind to do that. I also know that the rest of the school is not so scrupulous. They would laugh at me for daring to dream that someone as amazing as you could possibly love someone like me. And so this letter will follow all those that came before it. I only hope that you will remember that I am forever
Yours,
Ginny slowly lowered the parchment as she finished reading. She was perched on Hermione's bed, the older girl gazing expectantly at her.
"Well? What do you think?"
"If you don't want him, I'll have him!"
"Be serious, Ginny," Hermione was getting impatient. She wanted an answer, darn it!
"I'm not Sirius! Unlike you, I've never brewed Polyjuice Potion. And even if I were Sirius, boys can't get into girls' dorms, just in case you hadn't read Hogwarts, A History closely enough." At Hermione's glare, Ginny laughed. "Okay, I'll be serious now. I don't think it's a prank—not even Fred and George are that mean. He's obviously intelligent even if he doesn't get the best grades. He seems to be really sweet, not to mention he's crazy about you! I say we find out who he is and you ask him to Hogsmeade."
"Okay, so where do we start?" Hermione asked as she dug out a quill and some parchment.
"Well, by the sound of things, he's in your year, so let's start there."
"Alright, we're looking for a pureblood male whose grades are worse than mine."
"In other words, we're looking for a pureblood male," Ginny smirked.
"Very funny, Gin. Okay, in Gryffindor, Ron and Neville are purebloods—"
"Both likely candidates."
"In Slytherin," Hermione continued as if Ginny had not interrupted her, "there's, well, all of them."
"Yeah, but can you seriously imagine Malfoy calling you 'dearest' or 'sweet girl?'"
"No, I can't," Hermione admitted, "but we already know it's not him. The letter clearly states that he has terrible grades. Malfoy's second in our year, much as I hate to admit it, so he's obviously not 'Forever Mine.'"
"So we're ruling out the Slytherins because they'd never write something even remotely romantic. And we're ruling out the Ravenclaws because they're too smart, and the Hufflepuffs because, well, they're Hufflepuffs."
"That leaves us with…Neville, and…Ron," Hermione murmured as she crossed names off her list of purebloods.
"They both have atrocious grades, neither comes across as being even a little intelligent…"
"Neville stutters, but I don't know if that's just when I'm around or not," Hermione continued, "and Ron—"
"Stuffs his face at every meal!" Ginny shouted triumphantly. "Think about it 'Mione. It all fits. Harry's a hero, Ron has five older brothers—he never gets his time in the spotlight. Harry's a leader; you and Ron would jump off a cliff if he told you it'd stop Voldemort. Ron knows you're always quoting Hogwarts, A History because you're usually quoting it to him. He's a pureblood, has awful grades, and can't say two words without messing something up. 'Mione, Forever Yours even knows about SPEW! How many arguments have you had with Ron about SPEW?"
"Too many to count," Hermione sighed. "But, Gin, why wouldn't he just tell me?"
"Because he's a stupid git. No, really, he is. He probably thinks that if he says something and it doesn't work out, it'll mess up your friendship."
"Er, Ginny? Ron has the emotional range of a teaspoon—no way could he think that."
"Yeah, but we also thought he couldn't read. We have proof to the contrary on both of those points right here," the redhead stated as she waved the letter in the older girl's face.
"Let's pretend for a minute that you're right and that the letter is from Ron. What do I do?"
"We make a plan," Ginny stated confidently.
And with that, the girls set to plotting.
That evening, Harry and Ron sat in the Common Room playing chess before dinner. They were so absorbed in their game that they did not notice their two friends walking down the staircase from the girls' dorms.
"Good luck," Ginny whispered as she gave her friend a gentle push towards the boys.
"Ron," Hermione said quietly, "could I talk to you for a minute?" Ron shrugged and followed the girl of his dreams to a relatively secluded corner of the crowded Common Room. Unbeknownst to them, all activity ceased as their housemates eavesdropped on their conversation.
"So, er, what'd you want to talk about?" Ron mumbled.
"Well, you see, Ron, I was wondering if maybe you'd like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?"
"But Hermione, we always go to Hosmeade together. Why would now be any different?"
The other Gryffindors were determined to stay quiet, but upon seeing Hermione's dejected look and shining eyes, realized they'd have to help their clueless friend out.
"Oy, Weasley! She means as a date!" Seamus Finnegan shouted.
"What? Oh. Ohh! Well, then Hermione, this just isn't going to work. Gryffindor pride and all, you know," Ron said seriously. "Hermione, will you be my girlfriend?"
"Oh, Ron, you're so stupid!" Hermione cried, smiling through her tears.
"You know, Hermione, this is the part when you say 'yes!'" Lavender Brown called over from her perch on Seamus's lap.
"Yes, Ron, yes!" Hermione laughed as she threw her arms around Ron's neck. He let out a joyful whoop and their housemates crowded around them.
"It's about bloody time!"
"Kiss the girl!"
"Does this mean you'll stop fighting?"
And so, with much clapping and cheering, the Gryffindors made their way down to dinner. Once in the Great Hall, Ron and Hermione held hands while they ate, could not stop looking at each other, and never stopped grinning. Throughout the meal, students they knew from other houses expressed sentiments similar to those of the Gryffindors. A quick look up to the Head Table rewarded the new couple with a smile from McGonnagal, a twinkle from Dumbledore, and a thumbs-up form Hagrid. Snape scowled all the while, but they didn't care.
Later that night, somewhere in the castle, a quill was dipped in ink and put to parchment.
Dearest,
You were never supposed to receive my letter from last night. I can only imagine that a house-elf came across it and delivered it to you. Although that was a mistake, I know some good did come out of it.
I cannot make you happy, I know this. Every day, I cause you pain by my words and actions. Since I cannot give you happiness, I can only hope that you will be with someone who can. Ron Weasley seems to make you happy and I wish you much love and happiness in the future. But if anything ever happens, remember that I am forever
Yours,
The author of the letter put down his quill, capped his inkpot, and carefully folded the missive. Then Vincent Crabbe threw it in the fire and joined his friends, laughing dumbly at Draco's joke about the Mudblood and the Weasel.
A/N: Many, many thanks go to my most wonderful betas: kay156, oboefae, DefiGraviti, Luna Riven, and Lulu.
Cookies for anyone who can guess why I picked Crabbe! Heck, cookies for anyone who can come up with a valid reason for picking Crabbe! (My reasons are kind of…obscure.)
Reviews keep the Death Eaters in Azkaban. You don't want to let the Death Eaters out of Azkaban, do you?