Hermione sat in the Common Room of Gryffindor Tower, waiting for the person that was said to be her secret admirer. I A secret admirer, /i the 17-year-old, 7th year Gryffindor though as she sat on one of her favorite arm chairs, i how cliché! /i But the thought of it made her feel... well, good. Her admirer hadn't used any silly sort of magic to send her the note. She merely found it in her schoolbag, after Potions with the dreaded Slytherins. Whoever sent it to her could not have been merely someone who has watched her from afar. They knew her, or at least knew her enough to know that she was Muggle-born and does sometimes enjoy doing things the "old fashioned way", as some modern wizards would call it.
As Hermione sat in front of the dying fire, she dared another glance at the clock perched on the wall.
11:45
i He said he would be here at 11:00! /i she groaned mentally. Why was he doing this to her? Then it struck her: she had no secret admirer. This was all probably a cruel joke from one of the Slytherins! Draco Malfoy, no doubt. How could someone be so cold as to play such a trick on her? Draco Malfoy, of course. Who else could think up the sinister idea to make her stay up for hours, waiting for someone who said her smile was like 'the glow of the morning sun', to quote the note. Draco Malfoy- who else?
She closed her eyes and let a silent tear slide down her face. As her eyes were closed, her mind began to wander. She was sure that the note had been from Harry. She had fancied Harry very much, especially since the previous year at their school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She had dropped some hints, which she had thought that Harry picked up. But, apparently, they had gone undetected.
Why would Harry notice her, though? A bookworm who spends most of her days poring over schoolwork and homework. A Muggle-born. There were times when they were young, up to their fourth year, about, when Hermione was the best at magic inside of their little trio. She was the one teaching Harry things, the one telling Harry about his past. Up until their fourth year. But then in their fifth year, she made a mistake. How she regrets asking Harry to start the D.A., to teach everyone, including herself, Defense Against the Dark Arts in the Room of Requirement. That's when Hermione no longer was the only one with magical smarts in their trio. Harry had risen above them all in their fifth year, in so many different occasions. But the most memorable and life-changing one was in the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic. If Harry had only listened to her when she told him it was a trap, Harry wouldn't still be feeling guilty, and Sirius wouldn't be dead.
i But that's just the way things work out, /i Hermione thought as she wrinkled her nose. She knew that happily-ever-after fairytale endings were another horrible cliché. i But some people like clichés /i she half-argued with herself. She knew that this was one cliché that she wanted. One silly little thing that seemed so obvious and so worn-out. One thing that she wanted desperately to share with Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived.
But that wasn't going to happen. Because Harry hadn't sent her the secret love note. Nobody had. It was all a nasty joke, and she was the punch line. She was dreading Potions class the next day. Maybe she could send an owl to Fred and George and see if they had any Nosebleed Nougats left. They seemed to be flying off the shelves last time she visited. She opened her eyes to a small, dull, very blurry bit of fire that was still struggling for life in the fireplace. She wiped the tears of frustration from her eyes and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. She read the note over and over again, wishing someone who actually had feelings for her had sent it, and wondering how Draco Malfoy (or any of those thick-headed Slytherins, for that fact) could write something that seemed so full of affection.
She gave a tiny sniffle and then, as anger overwhelmed her, she tore the note up into tiny shreds and thrust them into the fire. Then she rested her head on the back of the armchair and covered her eyes. No tears were coming out, but she was crying on the inside.
"Was I really that late?" asked a voice from behind Hermione. She whipped her head around to see who was spying on her this late at night. Hard to see in the dark it may have been, but there, standing behind her, was the unmistakable figure of Ronald Weasley.
