Disclaimer: no, Harry Potter and his friends aren't mine. They are creations of the almighty J.K. Rowling. Hail!

Special thanks to tamar-shaki who inspired me to translate this fic from Dutch to English.

I apologise for the mistakes I have made while writing this story, my English isn't that good.

Illusions

Slowly it dawned. De golden sunrays shone carefully over the horizon at first, but a few minutes later the land sparkled in a golden light, too bright to look in, but enthrallingly beautiful nonetheless. For some, at least.

Others, still in bed, woke up unwillingly, cursing the sun. The sun, not caring, shone merciless over England, the cities, the countryside with its little villages and meadows, and over something perhaps isolated but sometimes busier than London on a saturday afternoon: Hogwarts, high school of witchcraft and wizardry.

Most Hogwarts' pupils were the kind of lie-abed people who cursed the sun: just like Hermione did. As the first sunrays shone through the chinks in the curtains round her bed, she sighed and opened her eyes, tired. Nearly sleepwalking she got up, dressed, grabbed her stuff, like she has done every single morning since she came here, now four years ago.

It wasn't until she saw her reflection in the little pocket mirror she used to comb her hair that she really woke up. The face staring back at her was hers, but it could have been anyone else's, just a random fifteen-year-old girl's face. Did she really have this despairingly curly brown hair? A tip-tilted nose, uneven skin, too big ears? Every other person looking at her would notice she had white teeth and had a good figure.

But not Hermione. She only saw what she never had and probably never would have.

And if she would never have all that, she would never be more than a weird bookworm, somebody nice to have as a friend when you hadn't studied for your test, and never, never ever only a little bit more. Only few people looked at her as an attractive girl, and she knew it. Even though she always pretended she did not care, she would have given all her knowledge for a little bit of beauty.

Belinda, pulling her arm, pulled her vigorously out her thoughts. She stood, grabbed her bag and walked down to the great hall, determined to leave her thoughts today for what they were. But some way or another she didn't succeed: she kept seeing her reflection in her glass of pumpkin juice, and no matter much she tried to concentrate on her cornflakes, out of the corner of her eye she could see him, and even if she closed her eyes his image burned on her retina.

He had black hair, which somehow wouldn't stay flat, and his glasses had slipped to the edge of his nose. Emerald green eyes looked at her investigating, and, shaking herself out of this trance, she bent again over her breakfast. It wasn't even necessary to look at him. She had done that so often she could call every single pore of his face to mind, something she did only too often. In fact, for four years, since she had met him on the train he hadn't disappeared from her dreams and thoughts.

And of course she had tried to make him notice her, she had used all her seduction tricks, and those weren't that many. It was no use. He saw her as a friend, a good one; it's true, but no more than that. Like he didn't realise she paid attention in class, worked hard for high grades, to impress HIM, and like he didn't knew every time he called her "friend" or talked about Cho Chang he sent a stung through her heart.

Yes, she loved Harry Potter, and yes, he didn't love her.

She sat in the History of Magic classroom, at her favourite chair, in the left at the window. Not only she could see the leaves falling from there, something her fellow students seemed to think very interesting, she could also, thanks to the reflecting of the glass see Harry sit, right behind her. Most of the times she paid attention, but when by Binns' drooling on and on the rest of the class laid in a deep coma her thoughts wandered too, now and then. And often to the one subject she didn't want to think about, because she had assured herself it was an illusion, and nothing more.

Behind her Harry moved his foot. Hermione startled and began to write notes down mechanically on the piece of empty parchment in front of her. But no matter how much she tried to concentrate at whatever Binns was reading along, she noticed, much to her annoyance, she was doodling little hearts at her parchment. Hearts!

She stopped quickly. She had always laughed at those weirdoes who drew little hearts everywhere and longed and humiliated themselves for some stupid boy, and now she was doing it herself. She flew into an enormous temper. What did the stupid git think she was, an IQ-less mouse running after him like that, dreaming about him?

No, from now on she had had it with love and everything dealing with it.

Determined she turned her attention back to Binns. A little piece of paper flew through the air and landed next to her arm.

"Hermione, can I copy your notes?

I can't do it without you. Harry."

She smiled. Even if he wasn't in love with her, he needed her. But she still wrote "no!" at the back and threw it back. He would have to do something himself one day, and she wouldn't humiliate herself anymore. The piece of paper landed at her table one more time. Irritated Hermione read it.

"Dear Hermione, please?"

Dear? Since when did he call her so? She nodded slightly and put the battered piece of paper in her bag. When she looked out of the window again, she noticed the sun shone through the clouds and put a golden light over her head.

What did Cho Chang have she didn't, except for beauty, a charming appearance and talent on the quidditch pitch? Did Harry think she had not seen him, staying close to her like that when the DA (HER idea) practiced? Did he think nobody noticed that no matter how much she messed up, Harry always thought her charms good? While she was much better at everything he didn't seem to notice her. O, to be like Cho!

The last few days she had been thinking about giving Harry a love potion. One time she had been on the verge of grabbing the book she needed from the shelf, but her love for obeying the rules took over.

It was no use. She would have to let him go. That was why she sat writing a letter to Krum, even though he wasn't by far as nice as Harry and she only was glad with the attention he gave her. But it seemed she had to be content with every little crumb of love that was offered to her.

She startled when Harry came in. There was something about him; she could see it in his slightly flushed cheeks and his eyes, shining even brighter that normal. After 4,5 year she knew all his moods, but she hadn't seen this one before. Then it struck her: Cho. Of course. Bitter she bent herself over her paper. 'What's up, Harry?' she asked and she was surprised at the sharpness of her voice. Surely, after 4,5 years she must have learned to control her emotions? Harry remained silent. 'Is it Cho?' Now he coloured and stared at the ground. Your own fault, she thought angrily. 'Did you kiss?' Her voice sounded good, indifferent, and even a little chilly. Harry looked up and nodded shortly. Even though she had already known it, she felt like someone had thrown a brick in her stomach. She breathed heavily. Don't let anything show now, I've still got my pride.

Ron asked whom she was writing. 'Victor'. She said. 'Didn't you know? We write each other often.' So. Let him feel I've got someone who cares about me as well, let him feel I'm not a pathetic girl who can't get a boyfriend.

She sat with the boys for a while, listening to their banal talk, but as soon as she got the chance she escaped and went upstairs, to her dormitory she shared with four others. Nobody was there; she sat on her bed and cried.

Images of Harry and Cho together hovered before her eyes. Close to each other, lips pressed together, tongues circling around each other trying to get as closest to each other as possible. Harry's hands touching her hear, her breasts, her hips...

All this time she had been in love with him, she had hoped against hope at every little sign of affection. No her daydream splintered like the mirror she broke in agony; in the end it proved to be nothing more than she had always told herself: an illusion.

To the persons who read this (did anybody read this at all?): I hope you enjoyed reading my story as much as I did writing it (and I enjoyed that a lot) and I hope you didn't fell asleep halfway. Reviews would be nice, but you can't have everything in life. Or perhaps you can.