I Think I'm In Love
Hermione wouldn't believe it. It was too much. Hormones were the cause of this. She knew it. There was no rational reason to think that she, of all people, had a crush on Harry Potter. It was preposterous. How could Hermione have feelings for her best friend? She tried, pointlessly, to concentrate. Here she was, a thick, dusty volume in front of her for homework, and she was-gulp-thinking about Harry. Hermione loved her studies. I love Harry. The thought took Hermione by surprise. She choked in shock. Spluttering, she recollected herself. Had she just-could she-how did she-was it for real? Was her own precocious mind playing tricks on her? She highly doubted it. She didn't want to admit it, much less act upon it, but she loved Harry Potter. I'm insane! She figured. This was crazy. Stop! Hermione forced the thought that she loved Harry Potter away. She didn't need this, not now. A presence behind her startled her, and she jerked about to see who it was. Harry! In all his emerald-eyed, shaggy black-haired glory, was standing next to her, leaning down to peer in her book. "How can you read this?" He asked of her. Hermione shook her head, than nodded, than shook it again, highly confused. Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry. The word reverberated throughout her body. She stumbled, "I-I like to read." Harry snorted. "I gathered. How long do you think I've known you, Hermione Granger? Two minutes?" Harry's voice was playful and childish, joshing her. She blinked, eyes huge, staring so avidly at her classmate. She had to tell him! I love you, Harry. It was easy in her head. Ironically, and expectedly, the sentence, that meaningful sentence, died in her throat. No! She scolded herself. What had she been thinking? Loving Harry, it was ridiculous. She was glad of her mental reprimand, or else she may just have gone and done something deranged-like tell him. She exhaled deeply, perhaps hoping she could pour those unwanted feelings for him out with the carbon dioxide. "The Salem Witch Trials of the 1800's?" Harry read the title of the ancient moth-eaten book before her skeptically. Hermione found herself nodding vaguely. How was she supposed to think about her book when all she wanted to do was drown herself in those brilliant green eyes? She daren't look up into them, for fear she might fall so deeply in love with them she would suffocate. So she forced her miserable head down into the barely visible font on the page in front of her. Hermione gave up. "I'm going to bed." She said shortly, picking up her eight hundred-page book ("just for a bit of light reading," she had told Ron) and stalked unstable up to her dormitory. She collapsed onto her bed, forgetting the novel, closed her eyes, smiled dreamily and drifted off, not unlike a silly schoolgirl. Hermione dreamt that she was with Harry, in a large and flourishing meadow full of blooming flowers and lush trees, hand-in-hand, with not a care in the world. She laughed often, smiling more than she ever had. She easily sensed fulfillment at being in his presence, basking in his love like she would soak in the sun's heat. When she opened her eyes, she slapped herself. Hard, not a bitch slap, but still hard. Her cheek stung and hand tingled, and she felt much better. Dreaming about Harry had scared her, because she was always afraid of loving him. Her subconscious told her plainly how much she cared for him, not that she listened. Hormones on the rampage, she reasoned, when Harry took the seat next to her at breakfast, like always. It had never meant something before. Now it did. Hermione heard her heart thumping like a conga drum and wanted to put a hand over her chest to block the beating. At least that way she wouldn't be heard all through the Great Hall with a heart clanging like a jackrabbits'. Hermione excused herself after breakfast to pad into the bathroom and calm her racing heart. Oh, and her sweaty palms, her trembling, her eye twitching and foot tapping, not to mention her thumbs twiddling. She had it bad. All signs pointed that way. Would she admit it? Not on her life, she wanted to believe. Try as she might, and she did, she couldn't ease the symptoms of her crush. Hermione was disgusted with herself. Harry? The first guy you like is the first guy you see and that's Harry? Scowling, she picked up her bookbag, heavily laden with books, and threw it over her back. First class was Charms, one of her favorites, as Professor Flitwick was always rather lenient and easygoing. She should be able to push Harry out of her mind there; she certainly hoped so. Thoughts of Harry would ultimately add up to her telling him and she couldn't bear that. She shuddered to imagine his reaction. Anyway, she repeated, for maybe the thousandth time recently, hormones would make you pick him. I mean, he is your best friend, isn't he? They work that way. As untrue and futile this heartening was, she reminded herself of it-however painfully-often. Somewhere in that big, beautiful brain of hers the voice that told her hormones, again and again, spoke against logic, rationalism, and common sense. She was a cursed genius. As it turned out, and as fate would have it, Hermione didn't fare any better in Charms than she had at breakfast. She, Harry, and Ron shared the same small table, like any other day, yet this time was different. Each time Harry spoke to her she jumped unpleasantly. Once his hand brushed her arm and she blushed as red as Ron's hair. She was quite sure of the burning sensation it had left in her poor arm. However, the worst part of class had come last. Harry stopped her with one soft, olive hand and fixed her with that dangerous emerald stare. "Herm, we need to talk." Her breath had caught. She nodded-presumably-because Harry sat them down again at a now vacant table. He reached out and ran his fingers down the length of her wonderful cinnamon hair before speaking. "Herm-", he drew a deep breath, "I like you." He finished. Hermione gawked. She screamed inside herself, sure this couldn't be happening. She shook her head, backing away from him. She didn't even bother to push her chair back in as she ran away from him, away from the horrible truth, away from her own happiness. Later she told herself she had done the right thing, instead of staying and hurting his feelings because she didn't feel the same way-right? Yet she wasn't so positive. Part of her wanted to hit herself, hard, for losing her chance with him. The other half stayed strong. She couldn't let her foolish crush on him-if that was what it was-get in the way of their friendship. Harry would just have to realize that she didn't want a relationship from him that's all. She hoped. Hermione avoided Harry the next few days, not wanting to see him although her body shrieked in agony at voiding herself of his presence. Harry looked upset over this, troubled maybe, and Hermione couldn't help feeling guilty. The guilt subsided when she reminded herself of what might have happened when they were together. Time passed, a week, than two. Hermione became withdrawn. She hated herself for it, but she wanted to go back in time, rewind to when Harry had said her those things she wanted so much to hear, and press play so she could do it right. And every time she thought this, she kicked herself. She couldn't like Harry, she wasn't sure why, she just couldn't. Hermione was surprised by a knock on her door one afternoon while she had been sulking, scrolling the image past her mind's eye. "Herm?" The voice was small, hesitant. Hermione rolled over and opened the door reluctantly. As she had expected, Harry stood before her, a bouquet of roses in his hands. Hermione opened her eyes wide to it. Harry held it out, smiling. Hermione slammed the door shut, a hand over her mouth. Repulsed, she lay upon her bed. Harry knocked politely, though he didn't expect her to answer, and she didn't. He got the hint, thoroughly depressed. Hermione pressed her face into her pillow, magicked the curtains on her four-poster shut, and sobbed. Hair tangled, face dirty, Hermione eased her aching muscles into a sitting position. She may like Harry, but it was no reason to go into hysterics. She spoke quietly to herself, in a somehow soothing manner. "Liking Harry is just wrong. I don't even like him! What am I saying? First he says he likes me, and I run away, than he tries to give me flowers, roses at that, and I slam the door in his face! There's no way I can like him." The next couple of days blurred for Hermione. Harry was the only thing on her mind and she shoved him aside repeatedly. Finally she just snapped. Ron, Harry, and Hermione were walking towards History of Magic, with Ron in-between his spiting friends. Harry keep sending Hermione furtive glances, some loving, some mysterious, and some questioning. She became fed up. "Harry, whatever you have to say to me, say it now! I'm tired of this!" She snapped her mouth shut quick, shocked by her boldness. Harry stopped, and Hermione and Ron followed suit. "You want to talk?" He fumed. "Let's talk. I've liked you for as long as I can remember and you have just got mad at me every time I try and tell you. So stop playing with me." He stormed off. Ron, with a blank expression on his face, inquired, "Did I-miss something?" Hermione shook her head wisely and set off after Harry. Ron was left standing in a corridor with his two best friends chasing after each other in some twisted love triangle. He blinked several times and headed again off to History of Magic. Hermione caught up with Harry in the library, though she wasn't quite sure why he chose that place of all others. Panting, she whirled him around. "What-the-hell-Her-mio-ne." Harry gasped for breath. "I-have-something to say to you." Hermione had a lot of lung capacity. "Just because," she started, than steadied herself, "just because you like me doesn't me I can't like you." Harry grinned. "Does that mean you like me?" He asked devilishly. "No." Hermione replied, lips curved into a smile, as she kissed him. Harry walked out of the library with her, hand in hand, and she piped up. "Harry?" "Yes, Herm?" He said. "I still don't like you."