I hate having to do this. But I suppose I have to. Ahem;

If you are a person who frowns upon same-sex relationships, I have one thing to say to you. Go away; come back when you've got an open mind.

Now that's done I can get on with my story . . .

Wrong

When did this begin?

Did it even begin? Maybe it's always been this way but I never realised.

But when did I begin to realise?

Which was the hug that first made my breath catch?

When was the first time I looked at her and couldn't look away?

What was it she did that held my eyes to her as if with chains?

Why did her smile make me feel like I was lying on the grass in the sunshine?

She pauses, brushing the silky end of her quill back and forth across her lips. Reading back over the poem she had just written she wonders why it's in past tense.

Her smile still makes her feel like she is lying on the grass in the sunshine.

She dips the quill in the ink and continues.

Why does it continue when I know it shouldn't?

I know this is wrong. Everything I have ever been taught tells me that this is not supposed to happen.

But when I see her . . .

All I can do is look at her.

I was brought up to believe that this attraction is sinful. But then again, I was also taught witchcraft is heresy.

And when I see her . . .

I want something that I know I can't have.

Hermione sits back against the wall, not moving enough to tip the inkpot over onto her bedspread.

Suddenly the door opens as Lavender and Pavarti bounce into the room.

"Still writing Mione?" Lavender asks, coming closer. "What is that, your life story?"

"It's a diary Lav," she replies, holding it against her so the others can't see.

"Oooh," Pavarti grins. "Are you writing about your boyfriend?"

"No." And it's true after all.

"Well, what's so private that we can't see it?"

"That's the whole principle of a diary. No one is meant to see it but the author."

"Fine, fine." They give up and begin chatting about who's hotter, Oliver Wood or Lee Jordan. Hermione tunes out.

I'm alone. I'm different. There's something wrong with me that makes me like this. There's some part of me missing that makes me not able to blend in with the others.

But still . . .

I can't help but feel that this isn't wrong. I can't help but think that this is right.

"So who do you think is better looking, Mione?"

"Hmm?"

"Oliver or Lee?"

"Neither."

"What?"

She focuses as the others look at her confused. "If I had to choose then . . . Lee. But I don't like either of them really."

"Why not?"

"I - I don't know them very well."

"You don't need to know them silly," Lavender rolls her eyes. "We're talking eye-candy here."

"Oh."

She dips her quill again.

When I'm with her I find myself over-analysing every look, every smile, every brush of contact.

And I hate that I do it.

I wish I could be at ease with her. I wish being her friend would be enough for me.

But it's not. It won't ever be.

Why not?

Hermione stops. She holds the end of her quill to her mouth and thinks. The other girls giggle over some boy in a magazine.

She dips the feather in the ink again.

I admit it. No more pretending about this. No more lying to myself in my own damn diary.

I'm in love.

I'm in love with Virginia Weasley.

With a sigh, she sets down the quill.

"Well, that's it then," she whispers.

"You say something Mione?"

"Nothing Lav. Nothing."

Hmm, not terrific but whatever. I'll probably rewrite this eventually but for now . . .