A/N: I have edited this story and hopefully there are no longer any typos. If anyone finds one, please let me know and I will fix it.

I think I have one-shot fever. Every time I go to add to my existing fics, I find that I have yet another idea for a story or one-shot and I can't help myself. I'm beginning to think that it probably has to do with the fact that I'm not liking my writing as much as I want to and I need more practice and more input from others. Anyway, this time I decided to go with a different approach. Enjoy :)

The Words You Wrote

The sun had set so many hours ago that she couldn't remember it having ever been light out that day. This could also be due to the fact that, since returning home from Hogwarts, Hermione Granger had barely left her room, her mind over-taken by numbing thoughts of Dumbledore's death and the impending war. She and Ron had promised Harry they would be there, standing at his side throughout it all. Not that she would ever go back on such a promise, or that she hadn't really meant it, because she fully intended to follow through—what bothered her, what kept her from spending any sort of quality time with her family before they left (and of course she hadn't mentioned a word of this to her parents) was that tiny ball of light people carried around with them, even in the darkest of times.

Hermione had hope. Hope that the war wouldn't come, that Voldemort would simply disappear or leave everyone be, and hope that somehow this was all a fantastical dream. Sometimes she even found herself, shamefully, wishing she wasn't a witch at all and knew nothing of the dangers the world held for muggles and magical people alike. This was always followed by a good cry into her now-faded pillow and a heart-aching proclamation that she would follow her friends to the ends of the earth. How could she wish she didn't possess magic? Or hadn't gone to Hogwarts? Hadn't met Harry or Ron or Ginny? That was her world. They were her world. And as long as she still had the power, she was determined to protect it.

"Lumos," she muttered into the darkness, having grown weary of straining her eyes to see even inches in front of her. It was probably around three in the morning, but she wasn't tired. She hadn't been tired in such a long time, at least not in the same way. Sure she was tired of worrying, wondering, planning. But enough to actually fall asleep? She was far too alert and prepared for that. She could hardly remember what closing her eyes for more than a minute felt like.

What she needed to do was occupy her mind with something other than war-related thoughts. And for once her books were usual to help. No. In times like this there seemed to be only one thing to keep her safe.

She slid off her bed and crouched down to retrieve a good-sized hand-carved wooden box from underneath. It had been a gift years and years ago from her parents. Her mother had jokingly recommended that she hide love-letters inside so that some day she could look back on them and either have a good laugh, or reminisce her younger days. At the time Hermione had laughed it off, thinking it would most likely house her diaries, and later, after being accepted to Hogwarts, her most prized magical items. It's funny how things turn out, for her mother had been right. It was full, nearly over-flowing, with notes that could brighten her mood when nothing else could. There was only one problem.

She had no clue as to who had written all these wonderful things. It was definitely a wizard, and definitely the same one every time. The handwriting was infallibly boyish and never changed. That, and the wording. At first she'd thought it was a cruel joke from some of her girl classmates, back when even Harry and Ron had sniggered at her behind her back. Six years it had been, and her mysterious crush had never stopped, but he had also never given even the slightest hint as to who he was.

Climbing back onto her bed, she pulled the box close and took out the first and oldest letter. She had of course organized it according to dates, and always started with the first letter, a favorite, though there were others that stood a chance as well. She scrunched her legs to her chest, resting the parchment on her knees as she soaked in every jagged, melodramatic word, causing her to think that at eleven, this boy must have consulted a dictionary. Or maybe he was just that advanced. She prayed for the latter.

Hermione—

I didn't even know your name, but the minute I saw you I was angry. Something about you made my blood boil. I didn't realize it until a friend pointed it out—your presence bothered me because I felt something for you. He had been joking and laughed at me for weeks afterward, but his words stuck, the way you stick in my mind. It has been four months since we've been at Hogwarts, and here I sit, quill in hand, writing this ridiculous letter to you. It's only words, words I could and would never say in person, to anyone, but they're yours all the same. They're words I couldn't even write in a journal (if I ever had one), so I'm giving them to you to keep. Maybe someday I'll ask for them back, but for now I need you to be my contact outside of my life. I don't expect anything in return, but if you ever tire of my letters then simply don't accept them from the owl I send.

This is getting to be too much for me. I'm not the pour-my-heart-out type person, but for some reason this helps. No one in my life would hear me out, let alone acknowledge me. I'm a man now, as my father says, and as such I am supposed to act, well, the way he wants me to. And I do.

I will write you again when I can. Hopefully the owl returns empty-handed.

There were never any signatures, no good-byes. Only a promise to write again when possible and there the letters ended. At first she'd turned the parchment over, expecting the note to continue. It took the third one for her to realize that he was never going to sign them. And, in time, she grew to love this puzzling quality about him.

As the years progressed, his letters grew in number and length. It got to be that she anticipated one every two weeks, and when she didn't, she usually stayed up worrying about this boy whose name she didn't even know. Sometimes when she wrote letters to Viktor or her parents, she entertained the idea of sending him a return letter. But for the simple reason that he asked her not to, she never so much as imagined what she would say to him. What she did imagine, however, was what he looked like. Was he tall like Harry and Ron grew to be? Did his eyes take girls to another realm with either their color or intensity? His words and the passion with which he wrote them made her think his eyes would have to be intense, no matter the color. She could never picture a hair color for him; this always bothered her, because for some reason she felt it was very important that she know, or at least know in her own mind what she would want. Sometimes she would force herself to see him with brown or blonde, and on rare occasions black, hair, but this never lasted and he would end up wearing a hood, his eyes only pinpoints gleaming in the dark, their shade indistinguishable. She was almost certain that he was tall, at least two heads taller than her, and very strong. He was the type of guy that literally swept girls off their feet, holding them to their chest.

Hermione sighed and grabbed a letter at random. Every once in a while she read every single letter, in order, but tonight she wasn't in the mood. Besides, they got better with time.

As she started to read his hypnotic words, she realized this was the letter she would run back into a burning building to save.

Hermione—

I planned on going to the Yule Ball this holiday break to take a breather and enjoy myself. I expected that you would not be there, because I know you to be a familial person, wanting to go home for Christmas. Not that I didn't want to look on you, as I often do, but try my hardest not to. But all the same I didn't want you there, distracting me from my date. She was nothing special, I assure you, nothing like you, but you have this power over me that I find myself wanting to run from. Imagine my surprise when you waltzed into the Great Hall, arm-in-arm with Viktor Krum. I admire the man, especially his choice in women, but seeing you beside him made me want to hex him back to Bulgaria. Have you ever felt that? I can't imagine that you would, with the way you look. It's most certainly not a pleasant feeling, and the entire night I could hardly focus on my date long enough to get through a song.

I pride myself on my willpower and ability to make the most unlikely things happen for myself. Yet that night these qualities worked against themselves, because on the one hand I was too proud to approach you, holding myself back, yet at the same time you were the unlikely part of the equation that I wanted. Hermione, there are so many things I wish to tell you, about myself and about what's happened, what's happening, but none of it would be appropriate. Or possible, for that matter. There is one thing, however, I can say that would jeopardize nothing. My pride will stay intact because you have no idea who I am.

I love you, Hermione Granger, and I will write you again when I can.

She must have read that letter a million times over. Originally it had been out of pure shock, though now it was more for reassurance. The words I love you had literally stopped her breath and she had almost dropped the letter. How could he love her, or even believe that he loved her, when they had never spoken two words to each other? Not that she knew of, anyway. For all she knew she talked to him everyday and would never know because he gave away nothing personal. She highly doubted this though. Her unknown sender seemed shrouded in secrecy in all aspects of his life, only expressing his inner most thoughts to her, anonymously. Many of the letters articulated his loneliness and need for significance. He confessed time and again that he did things he later regretted, and by the time he stopped writing, a month before the end of sixth year, he sounded as if he were a prisoner.

Before she could put this letter back, she re-read it, as she always did, even though she had it memorized word for word. It had only been recently that she questioned whether or not she could have feelings for this person she only knew in word form. When the idea first pecked its head out, it was laughable and she dismissed it right away. But now, when she read his letters sometimes twice a week, her despair was so palpable, she actually gave her self-posed question some serious thought. Of course there was Ron, who she had long since had deep feelings for. So many times since she had known him there were hints, whispers that he might like her back. But nothing ever seemed to happen. Even now, after all they had been through, he was no closer to confessing his love for her. She almost anticipated it after all this time. But then there were always the letters, hidden from prying eyes, and safe in the recesses of her mind.

But how could she possibly have feelings for this shadow of a person that took solace in writing to her? She was happy to be that for him, because she knew he needed it. And in a way, she did too. It had only been seven weeks since his last letter came, but it felt like eons. What would her life be like without him? How could she never see his somewhat improved sharp-looking script again? For so long his woes had been hers. However, with the war just over the horizon, she had her own problems to think about. Namely survival and a chance to finish her education. So then why did it matter if he never wrote again?

"This is stupid," she mumbled to herself. He was barely real! Only that wasn't enough to stop her from wishing for more. More letters, more time, more life. And just a hint as to who he could be.

She had almost resigned herself to put the now-upsetting box away, when something caught her by the soul and tugged her back. She couldn't possibly stop now, after only reading two.

The earliest signs of dawn made themselves known before Hermione was the wiser. She was on what could have been her twentieth letter, or maybe thirtieth, when her body started to register how long she'd been without sleep.

"Just a couple more," she yawned. The next letter she chose was not particularly uplifting. In fact, it was one of her least favorite, in which he all but told her he wanted to die. It was only written that past year, the third to last one she would be given, and after receiving it, she made her first and last attempt at discovering her faceless Romeo. It had resulted in heart-breaking failure and the submission to the fact that she would never know.

Hermione—

Forgive my messier-than-usual writing, but I have little time. As it is, I hardly send you letters, and I am sorry, but it's not because I don't want to. In fact, I need to get these things out, otherwise I don't now what I would do. The other night I found myself standing in the owlry (I was actually picking out an owl to send you this letter) and before I knew it I was standing on the windowsill, over-looking the school grounds. I swear to you that I could have jumped. Spread out my arms and leapt. I shouldn't burden you with these thoughts and make them your own, but you're all I have. I've tried to speak to another, face to face, but that's over. It ended badly, so badly that I don't want to continue on this path. But, then again, I haven't for so long that I wonder why I haven't left this place yet.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live a different life? To have different parents, a different school to attend, different goals? For so much of my life I have done what is expected of me. I even believed that what I was doing was the right thing, the only thing. But if it was, then shouldn't I feel something other than hollow? Even this letter seems flat to me, and I almost don't want to finish it and cause you worry. That's even if these letters have meant anything at all to you. My only consolation is that you have yet to return one to me. If I could chance having you write me back, then perhaps I would have something to look forward to. But I would never risk it, not for myself, but for your well-being. Things like this can be traced, and the only reason my letters to you have not been is the amount of magic I enchant them with. Did you ever notice when you unroll the parchment it glistens in the right light? It's from the magic. There's so much of it that it is actually visible. I fear that much to have my owls intercepted.

I can't say, now more than ever, when I will write you again. My life is out of my hands. I'm afraid and every night I wish I didn't have to do what I have to do. But the price I would have to pay for insurrection is more than I can give.

I will write you again when I can. Until then, I'll miss you.

The second to last letter was pretty much the same, expressing his fears and wishes for a different life. And then there was the last, and shortest, and it always, always, made her cry.

Tentatively she lifted it, her muscles already beginning to tighten after only reading her name.

Hermione—

I know I have told you this countless times before, but I love you. You are the soul reason I endure this mock-life of mine. And I know this won't make a Knut's worth of sense to you, but I am so sorry. I cannot say for what, but know that I am. I'm sorry for so many different reasons, so many different things I have done, and regrettably will do. There isn't much time left in this school year, and I will not return after the summer. My family is leaving and I am to go with them. It makes me lament so much, but the top of the list is that I quite possibly will never see you again. With the approaching war, I fear my life and the lives of few others, people who have managed to find a place in my heart. Don't ask me how that happened; you've been reading my letters long enough to know I don't let many people in. And I don't have to tell you that I fear most of all for you. I hoped I would never have to write this, but if I do not survive the war to write you again, if I am to die, I've charmed my final letter to you, hidden where no one could ever discover it—the moment I am gone, it will find its way to you. Forgive its length, some fifty pages I have been writing for many months (and it's still not complete), but there is so much I wish you to know when it is safe for you to know. When I die, you will know who I am.

I will write you again when I can. And if I cannot, then I only ask that you remember how much you mean to me, how much you've helped me.

Hermione sopped the tears on her face with her shirt-sleeve, then carefully slipped the letter into its proper place. Now she'd had enough and roughly shoved the cedar box back under her bed.

The sun saturated her carpet when she finally couldn't take it anymore, and fell asleep.

Months later Hermione sat in a spell-sealed cave, her best friends snoring beside her. Their fire, not visible to anyone outside due to the curvature of the opening in the mountainside, was only embers now, but just enough light for her to see the few books she'd managed to bring along.

Per usual, she couldn't sleep and so did what came naturally—she studied her magic, preparing herself for the next time they encountered Death Eaters. Only three days before they had narrowly escaped with their lives.

After a few hours of cramming, Hermione's focus began to wane, and she found herself reaching into her knapsack for her favorite crumpled piece of parchment: the first letter he had written her, so full of hope, the beginning of an affair that last six years. Every time she read it, she told herself his last correspondence had not been the last, that it was only the war putting a hold on things. For less than a split second she had wanted to be given the letter he'd described to her, the one in which she would know who he was. But immediately she realized this would mean he was dead, and with him any chance of—well, she never let herself think that far. She would rather not know than find out and have him be gone forever.

"Hermione," Harry groaned from her right, sleep caking his voice.

"Yeah?" she whispered, not wanting to wake Ron as well.

"Go to sleep. We're leaving at dawn."

"You know I can't sleep anymore. I'll be fine, Harry. I always am."

After a few minutes she heard his light snoring again, and was free to be alone and at peace once more.

But the peace would not last. The next morning, just as light began to touch the tree boughs, the trio was ambushed by Death Eaters. But it was not the usual group of rag-tag lowlifes Voldemort usually sent. Among them were some of the elite, his prized soldiers: the LeStranges, the Malfoys, and a handful of others that had been at Voldemort's rebirth two years ago.

Without delay spells and curses were being fired. Hermione sent out the Order's distress call, and soon members were Apparating all over the place. What had started as a quiet, tranquil hike to the three former students' next campsite, quickly turned to an all-out battle. For the most part the members of the Order of the Phoenix were holding their own, only sustaining minor wounds. A few Death Eaters were knocked out, but up to this point no one had taken a life. Not that the dark side hadn't tried.

"Draco!" Lucius Malfoy's voice snarled somewhere nearby. "You have Potter in range! Stun him!" Because of course they couldn't kill him; that was a privilege for Voldemort alone.

Harry, though much closer to Draco than she, had not heard Lucius' words, being engaged in a duel with a snarling old Death Eater that couldn't keep himself from spewing insults at Harry when he fired curses. Hermione was the closest to him, and therefore the only one able to help.

Draco raised his wand in shaky hands, ready to cast a stunning spell, when Hermione beat him to it. She threw a disarming spell so fast that Draco yelled, his voice cracking, the words to his spell before he realized his wand was gone. As he dove for it in some underbrush, Hermione ran to Harry, disarming the Death Eater that attacked him as she went.

"Come on," she hissed, though more out of fear than anything else. "Malfoy had a clear shot at you and you had no idea!"

"I owe you one."

But he wouldn't be able to repay her this time, because not a moment later, Draco had his wand back and was ready to carry out his father's command. Hermione and Harry, unaware of this, jumped back into the fight. The Death Eater that had been attacking Harry the whole time intensified his curses, and Hermione now had her own mini-battle to deal with.

"Harry!" Ron cried out, and when Hermione turned her head to see what happened, her Death Eater was able to get a shot in. Both she and Harry crashed to the ground at the same time, only Hermione was the only one able to stand up again. Draco had successfully administered a stunning spell.

A rage like nothing she had ever known seized her with such strength that the next moments were a complete blur. Her legs carried her without command, charging at the cause of her distress. After all they'd fought for, after all Harry had done for her and for everyone he knew, she could not allow it to end. And especially not at the hands of someone like Draco Malfoy.

"Hi there, mudblood," he laughed, seeming to believe she didn't have to courage to actually harm him enough to count. But behind his eyes, she could see fear. And that's exactly what she'd wanted to see.

"I refuse to lose," she seethed through her teeth. "Not like this. Not to you."

"You can't kill me," but the quiver in his voice told her what he was really thinking. Any other time, any other situation, and Hermione could have talked herself out of doing something regrettable. But her emotions, her anger, controlled her now.

Without thought to consequence, she cried, and meant, two words she never thought she'd have to say:

"Avada Kedavra!"

Only after his body lay lifeless in the dirt, did his final words, spoken as the spell was fired, register in her head. In a whisper, holding none of the fear he'd displayed only seconds before, he asked, "How did I know it would be you?" And she could have sworn on her life that he was smiling.

Somehow the next thing Hermione remembered was sitting in a different cave, surrounded by Harry, Ron, and several of the Order members that had been at the fight. They assured her that none of their people were dead, the ones not present having left with other duties. When she asked how she got here, they slowly and carefully explained that after Draco was dead the remaining Death Eaters fled. Remus Lupin attempted to continue, when Hermione begged him to stop and asked, her eyes glazed with tears, for them to leave.

"How are you?" Harry asked when the others were gone.

"How do you think I am?" she snapped, then apologized. "How could I have done that, Harry?"

"You were protecting me," he assured her. "You had no choice. He would have done the same to you if he had the chance. You have nothing to be sorry about."

"I killed someone, and I can't take that back. Even if it was someone like him, I—Harry, I need to sleep."

"Alright." He kissed her forehead, then gave her a hug before he and Ron went to the farthest part of the cave they could get.

Very quickly Hermione realized she wasn't going to fall asleep. But she still wanted to be alone, and so she waited hours and hours until Harry and Ron were sleeping. She pulled her wand from her robes, always on her now, and lit the end as faintly as she could.

"Where is it?" she sighed, frustrated that she couldn't find her letter. She knew it wouldn't make things better, make her any less of a killer, but she needed it. Finally, after what felt like an hour, her fingers brushed the soft parchment. She lowered her wand tip into her bag, confirming it was the letter, folded over. But when she pulled it out, it wasn't the only thing of its kind in there. Tucked beside it was a rather fat envelope she'd never seen before. "What the—?"

Instinctively, she intensified the light at the end of her wand to get a better look at the envelope. Nothing was written on the outside, which was how the few letters from the Order always appeared. But this couldn't be from them. So what was it doing in her bag?

Flipping it over, she began to tear at the sealed lip. She didn't finish, however, because turning it the way she had to brought something odd, and unavoidable, to her attention. The ordinary-looking envelope seemed to sparkle in her wand-light, the same way—

"No," she gasped, lucky she didn't wake the boys. "No, it can't be."

She tore the letter open, fumbling with its pages, for it was too lengthy to remain in a roll as it should. This couldn't be what she thought it was, what she'd been dreading for so long.

Plucking up the courage, she forced herself to read the letter. Or at least until she found out who it was from, because there was no way it could be him.

Hermione—

Her fingers tightened on the parchment. That didn't mean anything. Lots of people started their letters the same way.

If you are reading this, then what I have feared as happened.

She burst into silent tears; Harry and Ron couldn't see her cry, not over this. They didn't know about her letters and they never would. This was a pain she would have to endure alone, hiding deep in a freezing cave, her muffled sobs her only company. How had she known it would end this way? She never allowed herself to think about it, but, somehow, she'd always known that she and her secret love could never be. The secrecy with which he'd written her was proof enough. But if she'd always known, then why did it hurt so bad? Why was her own death suddenly at the forefront of her thoughts?

"I love him," she whispered, only now recognizing that it was the truth. He had been with her for so long that she'd fallen in love with him and not known it.

It was this, and this alone, that gave her strength to finish the letter and finally learn his name.

It is in these pages, which I've edited so many times I lost count, that you will know everything about me. I have so much to confess, so much I hurt over day after day. Everything will become clear, but only after it becomes more confusing, because who I am will not only startle you, but may even cause you to stop reading. This is only a fear of mine, however, because I know in my soul that when you never returned a single one of my letters, that you would have to read every word I wrote.

I hesitate now to reveal myself (so if you'd like, skip ahead and find out before I gather the courage to just write my name). I have been nameless and faceless to you for so long that I wonder if it should remain that way. It would be much simpler, but then I promised you, and myself, that I would tell you if I died. I owe you that much after putting up with my babblings for so many years.

Do you have any idea how much of an impact you've made on my life? You make me want to be a better person, to leave everything behind and start over. Life, of course, isn't that easy. I'm bond to my fate, just as you are to yours. There is so much we can control with magic or sheer will. Then how is it that so much of the time we feel helpless? I hate to think it, but I know you have felt these things before. My entire existence consists of feeling helpless. What I write to you is all I have control over. That, and what I feel for you. Never did I think I could love someone. Even when I first wrote to you, eleven and completely naïve, I thought it was only a crush and it would fade in time. But the more I wrote, the further I fell, and one day I realized the only thing that could stop me from writing you was my own death.

Hermione, without you so many terrible things would have happened. Things I would have caused. The things asked of me are ghastly, inhuman. In the past I have messed up on purpose, but what lies in the future is so uncertain I don't know if I will be able to purposely fail and still live.

To kiss you, just once, would make everything worth it. I pray that I will see you again before I die. That's my only wish now, knowing where I'm headed. In writing you my aim was never to have you, the thought has never seriously crossed my mind, because I am wise enough to know what is and is not possible in this world. Just knowing you would eventually be reading my words was enough. You were always there for me, even if all you ever did was pick up the mail. I owe you everything for that.

Forgive me for dragging on like this. You deserve to know who I am, and my stalling doesn't help matters. You care for me, on some level, or you would have stopped accepting my letters long ago. I know that the only thing on your mind right now is to know my name, and I won't make you wait any longer.

This is how I sign my name, the way I would have signed my letters if I could:

Hermione let out such a loud gasp that this time she did wake Harry and Ron.

"Hermione?"

Ron came rushing over, Harry on his heals. But she couldn't be near them, couldn't let them know.

"Please," she whispered, her face stained so heavily with tears she vaguely wondered if they would stay there forever. "Just…go away."

Reluctantly they agreed, frowning, and went back to where they'd been sleeping. Whether they fell back asleep as she sat up, staring at his signature, was beyond her. Her world had been shattered, and worst of all: it was her fault.

It took her no less than a half an hour to regain the nerve to read on. For three hours she strained her tear-filled eyes to read every single word. In his beautifully rough script he emptied his soul to her. He explained everything he never told her, and why, and how everything he'd done made him feel; angry, happy, miserable, lonely. She knew she should have been upset by his confession, after all, what he was telling her were some of the most atrocious things someone could do to another. And yet she couldn't bring herself to feel more than indifferent. All she could feel now was an icy numbness, coating her soul.

And all she could think was, "How could this have happened?"

At dawn, when Harry and Ron awoke, keeping their distance, and began packing up their stuff, Hermione finally forced herself to put the letter back in her bag.

"Are you feeling better?" Ron inquired cautiously when they'd been walking for several miles.

Hermione smiled meekly, unconvincingly, and nodded.

"Yeah," she said, sighing. "I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. This is a war, isn't it? We do what we have to do."

"Malfoy doesn't deserve your guilt, anyway."

"No, he doesn't," she agreed. He deserves my heart.

I don't even know where this idea came from, but as I started writing things just fell into place. Originally, I wasn't going to have Draco die, I was going to have Hermione find out it was him somehow. But then I didn't want a happy-sappy ending, so I decided that he had to die. He was just going to be killed, either by someone in the Order or Voldemort himself for having failed, but as I continued on, I realized that Hermione had to be the one to kill him. And once the idea was in my head I couldn't get rid of it. When I write my stories there's always a point where the story begins to write itself and I don't have control anymore. That's how I came up with my ending.

I hope it wasn't too angsty or sad for anyone. For me personally, it's my favorite story of mine so far.

REVIEW because I have to know what you thought of this one:)

P.S. The rest of Draco's final letter just goes on to apologize for how cruel he was to her, and that he had to be, blah, blah, blah. Too much to write out. Anyway, he always ended his letters (for the most part) with "I will write you again when I can" and obviously he couldn't write this when he knew he was going to be dead. So at the end he wrote: "I would write you again if I could" and finished it with "Love, Draco Malfoy", being the first time he was able to sign a letter to her.