She walks in beauty, like the night.
I read that once, in a book of Muggle poetry that Dad has in the garage. By some bloke named Byron. Huh. By Ron.
Maybe that's why I remember the line. The rest of the poem struck me as sort of sappy, but I always liked that line.
She walks in beauty, like the night.
Y'know, I have no idea when I read that, but it's been coming back to me a lot lately. Dunno why, really. It just has.
Really.
Okay, okay. So I do know why it's been bugging me lately. Tugging at the back of my brain, insistent and
persistent. . . a teeny little fly that you can't see, but you can hear it buzzing around above your head.
But this is hard to accept. Let alone, explain to anyone. I mean, she's my best friend. You can't think of your best friend
like that. Even if she is amazing. Really amazing.
I don't really know when I started thinking about her as anything other than Plain Hermione. It wasn't just BAM, there she
was. It was more like she kept pushing her way into my brain. I'd think about something, and think "Oh, Hermione would like that."
Or I would see something really wicked, and I would think "I have to tell Hermione!" Bit annoying, really. I mean, it's not like I
could have stopped it. If I wanted to.
I think I really, REALLY noticed in fourth year. No, not during that bloody row we had after the Yule Ball. Then I thought
she was just a git. After that. Towards the end of the year, when we were waiting for Harry to come out of that maze.
We were waiting together, in the stands, holding hands and practically jumping up and down in panic, waiting for him to come back
out. Boy, was that a nightmare. She was squeezing my hand for dear life, eyes closed, quietly whispering "please let him be okay, please let
him be okay" over and over again. And I realized I was glad that it was Harry down there, and not her.
How much of a git am I for thinking that? I felt horrible for days after that, but I couldn't change it. It's not that I don't care
about Harry. He's one of the family. . . especially if Mum has anything to say about it. But still.
When I look at her, I don't see Plain Hermione any more. She's a lot more than that. She's. . . she's bloody brilliant is what she is.
I feel like the biggest prat in the world, saying all this. It's not something I like to think about really. It's much easier to ignore
the little voice in my head saying "You really like this girl. You could even love this girl."
Bloody voice.
Not that I have any idea what to do about it. You can't just go up to her and say "Hermione, I love you!" and have her fall into your arms.
I don't think it works like that. I don't think she even feels the same way.
But she still does, y'know. She walks in beauty. Like the night.
I read that once, in a book of Muggle poetry that Dad has in the garage. By some bloke named Byron. Huh. By Ron.
Maybe that's why I remember the line. The rest of the poem struck me as sort of sappy, but I always liked that line.
She walks in beauty, like the night.
Y'know, I have no idea when I read that, but it's been coming back to me a lot lately. Dunno why, really. It just has.
Really.
Okay, okay. So I do know why it's been bugging me lately. Tugging at the back of my brain, insistent and
persistent. . . a teeny little fly that you can't see, but you can hear it buzzing around above your head.
But this is hard to accept. Let alone, explain to anyone. I mean, she's my best friend. You can't think of your best friend
like that. Even if she is amazing. Really amazing.
I don't really know when I started thinking about her as anything other than Plain Hermione. It wasn't just BAM, there she
was. It was more like she kept pushing her way into my brain. I'd think about something, and think "Oh, Hermione would like that."
Or I would see something really wicked, and I would think "I have to tell Hermione!" Bit annoying, really. I mean, it's not like I
could have stopped it. If I wanted to.
I think I really, REALLY noticed in fourth year. No, not during that bloody row we had after the Yule Ball. Then I thought
she was just a git. After that. Towards the end of the year, when we were waiting for Harry to come out of that maze.
We were waiting together, in the stands, holding hands and practically jumping up and down in panic, waiting for him to come back
out. Boy, was that a nightmare. She was squeezing my hand for dear life, eyes closed, quietly whispering "please let him be okay, please let
him be okay" over and over again. And I realized I was glad that it was Harry down there, and not her.
How much of a git am I for thinking that? I felt horrible for days after that, but I couldn't change it. It's not that I don't care
about Harry. He's one of the family. . . especially if Mum has anything to say about it. But still.
When I look at her, I don't see Plain Hermione any more. She's a lot more than that. She's. . . she's bloody brilliant is what she is.
I feel like the biggest prat in the world, saying all this. It's not something I like to think about really. It's much easier to ignore
the little voice in my head saying "You really like this girl. You could even love this girl."
Bloody voice.
Not that I have any idea what to do about it. You can't just go up to her and say "Hermione, I love you!" and have her fall into your arms.
I don't think it works like that. I don't think she even feels the same way.
But she still does, y'know. She walks in beauty. Like the night.