Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

What My Mother Doesn't Know

Summary: "I have a confession to make. I'm in love with my best friend…" Hermione's dark secrets are revealed in a diary, and we find out that perfection comes at a great price.

Chapter One

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Most people start diaries to keep their secrets, to get lost in pages and pages of their deepest, darkest secrets, to rid themselves of burdens far too ghastly and hideous for human eyes to see.

I, for one, hate diaries. My mother thought it would be a good idea to write down my feelings, and talk about everything, because she thinks that expressing your feelings is a good idea, and no one ever has to read them, and because she said I was under a lot of stress lately, which I guess is sort of true. In a weird way, that is. That's what she told me when she handed me this book. She was all smiles and sunshine, and I wanted to vomit.

Hello. My mum is a dentist, not a psychiatrist.

Anyway.

At first, I thought it was the dumbest and most pathetic idea I've ever heard of in my entire life, and that's saying something, considering I'm best friends with Ron Weasley, and he can be a major wart most of the time.

So for a few weeks, I simply put it in the bottom of my trunk, hoping beyond hope that I would never see it again. Although I don't know why I didn't just burn it-- probably because I didn't want to hurt my mother's feelings and all. She was trying to help.

But then, one morning when I was getting dressed, and searching for a pair of clean socks, I happened upon this diary, and my mind was reeling. Sure, diaries are stupid and maddening and totally UN-private, but I thought, hey! Why not just write a little something in it, just to say I did write in it, because my mother would have totally gone out of control if she found I hadn't written in it, not once, for almost an entire year.

But when I started to write, I couldn't stop. When I write, all my feelings come out, and it's like I can't stop them, and they just flow freely, which can be totally bothersome.

And so here I am write now, in the common room, writing my heart away as Harry and Ron play a game of Wizard's Chess, which, I'm sorry to say, is probably the only thing that Ron is particularly good at.

Sigh.

And, seeing as how this diary is supposed to be my haven, I have a confession to make:

I don't like Ron.

Everyone, including Mrs. Weasley, thinks that I do. I mean, I can sort of see how they would, but the idea is totally and completely revolting; Ron is oddly disturbing, and I pity the girl that marries him.

Sure, Ron can be funny, it's not like he's a total drag or whatever, but he's just… not what I'm looking for.

Hah. If he read that sentence he's start making his snide comments about Viktor Krum, otherwise, if told in Ron's point of view, know as 'Vicky'.

Viktor's sweet and all, but I could never actually see myself with him in ten years, or even three or four. I know he's totally crushing on me, and I'm flattered really, I just sort of feel bad, because I don't like him back.

Sure, I've made out Viktor at least a dozen times or more, and we might have fooled around just a teensy tiny bit, but it was all just because I was feeling really depressed over another matter that I really don't want to discuss right now, and he just happened to be there. I know, I know: it's a total pity thing, but just the look on his face when he asked me to the Yule Ball was just so…sweet, and I had to say yes.

It's not as if we're still 'together'. I had told him it was best we broke it off in a very long letter I had written to him back in fifth year.

Ron, of course, being his usual prattish self, had to go and bring up the sore subject of him, but I pretended like it was no big to me, because it wasn't.

And it still isn't.

So, anyway.

Harry just looked over at me, his brow creasing.

I rolled my eyes, letting a smirk trace the corners of my mouth.

Ron looked over, too, and then let out a snort.

"Doing more homework, Hermione? Or is it extra credit? Honestly, the day you stop doing homework is the day Harry beats me in Wizard's Chess."

I swear, I squeezed my quill so hard that I'm surprised it didn't break.

I glared at him.

"I don't think," I said tersely, sitting up straight in my chair, "that that's really any of your business. To me, you have about as much sensitivity as that chair over there."

His ears burned red, and Harry looked back and forth between us.

"What do you mean I'm not sensitive?" he asked angrily.

"Well, if you're counting the time when you totally blew up at Ginny for making out with Dean, when you obviously had never any experience with the matter at all, then yes, Ron. Yes, I am."

He said nothing for a moment, merely looked at me as if I were contaminated or something.

"That," he said, his voice shaking, "was last year. I'm fine with it now. I've snogged Lavender--"

I snorted a laugh.

"It looked more like you were trying to eat her face off if you asked me. I wouldn't classify that as snogging, Ronald. Maybe if you had a few rounds with your pillow you'd--"

"Oh, stop it! Ron, sit down," Harry cajoled, intervening, and I thought it was very good of him to do so. Ron had stood up, his chair had tipped over, he was breathing hard, and his face was as red as I'd ever seen it.

But Harry wasn't looking at Ron anymore, no. Instead, his fierce green eyes were focused on me. I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry.

Harry stood up.

"Listen. Both of you are always at each other's throats, and I for one am sick of it. You need to learn how to control yourselves. Either get along, or don't, because I'm not going to separate you two each and every--"

"Yeah," I said, not being able keep my words down, "but I don't think you should really be talking. You yourself need to learn how to control yourself."

There was silence. I tried not to look intimidated by the look of complete hatred in Harry's eyes; I didn't want to look weak and wimp-ish like Ron, but as I set my diary down, the portrait hole opened, and Ginny stepped through.

She looked windswept; her hair was loose and flowing, her face pink with cold. Her robes were unkempt and the collar was sliding off her shoulder.

She stood on her tip-toes and kissed Harry quickly, ignoring the dark look that flashed over Ron's face before grabbing a chair by the fire, blowing on her hands.

For now, Harry and I forgot about the argument; we'd talk about it later.

"Where've you been?" we both asked at the same time.

"Oh you know," she said rather breathlessly, "here and there."

I narrowed my eyes, knowing instantly that she was lying, but I bit my tongue to keep the accusation down.

Instead, I turned to look over at the chess board, where many of the chess pieces had left their places, and were talking in animated conversation. The bishop was chasing the queen around, who tripped, and tipped over on the board. That caused a great bout of laughter from the other pieces. I rolled my eyes.

Ron, apparently, was angry enough, and the fact that Ginny was now holding Harry's hand and whispering into his ear wasn't making him feel any better.

"Stop!" he shouted.

At first, I thought he had meant Harry and Ginny, but he was staring at the chess board, where the bishop lay in a thousand pieces and the queen was laughing manically at the mess in front of her.

Ron was seething. Breathing hard, he scooped up the pieces, and put them back into the box.

"Night," he grumbled, and swept past me.

I didn't bother to tell him goodnight; as far as I was concerned, we weren't speaking.

Harry looked over at me, and then let out a sigh.

"What?" I asked, trying not to meet his eyes.

He said nothing for a moment, just sat there, his eyes burning into me.

"Why do you always have to start with Ron?"

I sighed.

"Do we really need to talk about this?" I asked, rubbing my fingers over my eyes.

He said nothing.

I took that as a no.

Well. What do you think?