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Hermione's point of view

Let us look at it from Hermione's point of view first. ( For after all, it should be Ladies First, in all situations.)

She was twenty-six years old...nearing her twenty-seventh birthday. She was no longer fashionably young, by societie's standards. This placed her in an awkward position. She had always been so much more mature than her peers, that intellectually she only felt the most comfortable in the environment of older, more mature people.

Unfortunately, people who were older and more mature, tended to see, and treat, younger people as, well,... younger people. Usually it was unintentional, but occasionally someone could sting her with a mention of her youth and inexperience. Thus, she was very self conscious about her age, and tended to strive harder to appear even more mature and sophisticated.

This tended to leave her very lonely. She spent many weekends alone in either her flat, or at Grimmauld place, researching new charms, writing letters to her parents, reading an ancient text on the many ways to employ the use of mandrake in rituals...but no matter how much you grew up, or how much you learned, you could never actually catch those people who were already ahead of you.

Perhaps her friends and schoolfellows were cavorting around, dancing away the nights and falling in and out of love. She never once wished she were with them. She never wished that they would sacrifice their own time and stay with her, either. An unwilling horse is no fun company. She desired the company of someone as willingly settled and scholarly as she herself.

Or maybe someone who was just kind. Surely there were plenty of kind men out there?

Of course there were! And it wasn't as though she hadn't looked at them. She had! Even Bill and Charlie Weasley had fallen under her close scrutiny. But Bill had a bad habit of rubbing his hands together, which she was afraidt would become tedious and annoying, over time. As for Charlie, he really led a bit of a bachelor's life, what with his dragons and travel. There would be no quiet evenings, discussing twelfth-century daemonology in that sort of relationship.

Of course she had told herself...often, that she did not need love. Not in the respect that she did not require the emotional joy of being touched and loved and having someone. Every human being needed something of that in their lives. It was just that she did not need love at the moment. It was a dark time. Life and fantasy did not always run parallel to each other. Now, if they were characters in a book, or perhaps in a film. . . then Hermione might confess to herself that she was already in love.

She might admit that she felt an odd sensation every time she was near a certain someone. . .

But she lived an intensely stressful life, even if she did not show it. She worked for the Ministry of Magic, which in itself was demanding enough. It was a full time job, with lots of research and transcription involved. Then there was her work with the Order, which had to be kept secret from everyday life. Then there was just her own private life, which was divided between her private life in the Wizarding World, and her private life in the Muggle world.

She looked out of her window sometimes, and wondered how people could pretend that there was nothing wrong in the world, when it seemed to her like times were growing ever darker. They were not characters in a book, therefore Voldemort had not yet been defeated; his cronies were still at large, and every year or so they would pop up and cause a lot of trouble.

Then she had to worry about everyone she knew and loved. Her family, who were ignorant of how to defend themselves, and her friends, who inevitably would try to make heroes of themselves. She was certain that one of them was going to get killed someday, and she hated having to worry about them. Worry about her parents. Worry about innocent people everywhere that might suffer if the Dark Lord triumphed. . .or even gained a little ground.

But the absolute worst fear in her heart was;

" What if I loved someone? What if I loved someone, romantically, and they were killed?"

Could she go on, knowing she had lost them forever? What if they really loved her. . .and she got killed? Then she would be responsible for someone else's misery.

The thought made her feel incredibly guilty, even though she had yet to do anything.

And that was the reason that, even though she knew it deep down in the very bottom of her soul and heart, Hermione could not admit to loving anyone.

Especially not him.

She had to work extra hard to keep from loving him, because anytime he was near, she felt the oddest sensations. Sometimes, when she heard his name mentioned, or saw him walking towards her, with his silvering head bent over the Daily Prophet,she felt like giving a huge yell, and dancing a jig. This was ridiculous thought; he would only think her insane. . .or a victim of one of the Weasley twin's good natured pranks. He might suggest she rest. Take a vacation to the Alps. Visit St. Mungos and have her head examined.

If she were going to admit something,it would be that her head was not the cause of her affliction. If she were not practical and logical, and so un-romantic,she could have pointed to the location of madness. It was just under her left breast...a warm pulsating glow that would not leave, no matter how hard she ignored it.

Strangely enough,Hermione; twenty-six, going on twenty-seven. . .and usually so observant of the world around her. . .never noticed that the people she was so familiar with seemed to twinkle a bit more. They snickered quite often. Sometimes it seemed as if Harry and Ron even had a Great Joke between them.

The people at the Ministry looked her up and down everyday,trying to determine if she bore any of the signs of someone who has 'Figured It Out.'

Maybe it was because sometimes she let her thoughts wander, not quite in a daydream. . ., but close. Sometimes, if she wasn't careful her eyes would find him, and just. . .settle there. So easy. She could just watch him for hours on end, and she tried to tell herself it was just because he was calm. It was like watching a metronome; simple, hypnotic, and soothing.

Of course. . .she always stopped herself just in time. Thankfully no one ever noticed her practically ogling him, that would have been awkward. Yes, anytime she embarrassed herself by drifting off in a trance while watching him eat, or read the paper, she could always re-assure herself that she caught herself just in time and no one had noticed.

Or had they?