She'd been caught, though given the fact she had written home naming only two people as friends the deduction wasn't a hard one to make. She had tried so hard not to say his name during this only to blow it by saying Ron's. The last time she'd started to say the other out loud - well, in this context anyway - she'd jinxed the whole thing and it had been the most painfully awkward moment of her life! How were you supposed to say, "Sorry, Ron. Thanks for saying you like me too, but it wasn't you I was talking about, " and have it not be awkward for everyone?
Hermione took the quill and started to write. She briefly panicked and thought about starting over when 'Dear Harry' appeared at the top; she hadn't meant to let that slip out so soon. She calmed herself by thinking that he probably wouldn't think twice about it; it was the traditional way to start a letter after all.
As she caught him up on her summer so far, keeping the Chocolate Bar Rebellion a secret lest her mother have a chance to read it before she sent it off, Hermione found herself relaxing. She had even managed to make a joke. It helped by thinking of him simply as 'my friend Harry' rather than 'Harry, that cute boy I like.' Soon enough she found herself writing about things in the same way she's always been able to talk about things with her father, with no real barrier between them.
She had caught it when father had pointed out that that part had changed. It was like he knew there were simply things about the wizarding world she'd never be able to share with an old muggle dentist like him. It made her wonder if this was why he wanted her to do this. Even if things with Harry never went anywhere romantic and they only became really close friends, at least she'd have someone who'd be there for her in the way he always had been. For some reason that made the uncaring qualities of her mother loom even larger in her mind.
She pushed those thoughts away and concentrated on writing about the subject at hand: Harry, and what he meant to her. As she wrote it soon became blurred as what this letter really was. Was it really a letter to Harry, letting him know what she thought about him, or was it a letter from the hidden Granger part of her letting her know what she thought of Harry? She knew she liked him, she knew she admired him, but the way the words began appearing on the paper, almost without thought… She had never truly thought about how central Harry had become to her. It was almost scary when she thought about it. No wonder she didn't tell him herself, she'd probably come across as some star-struck fan girl.
'No,' she thought, 'Harry would never think of me like that. We're friends .'
Finally she got to the end and looked at what she wrote.
'Curse that inner Granger, ' she thought. It had admitted the one thing she hadn't even been willing to admit to herself: even if things between them never went the way she wanted, there was no way around it, she would always be his. Whether it is as best friends, significant others, or - she blushed - anything more, was entirely up to him now.
Hermione plucked up what Gryffindor courage she still had left and tied the letter to Errol's feet with trembling hands before she could change her mind. There was no way she was going to trust Imogen with this. As the owl flew away it felt like it was carrying off some piece of herself. She drew a calming breath and tried to relax. Everything was going to be alright. It was. It was . The troops momentarily heartened, she started planning what targets her Bon Bon Brigade would hit next.
...
The campaign was in chaos, the troops in shambles, and the commander grievously wounded and fled the field in full retreat. The enemy didn't even have to fire a shot; hers was a self-inflicted wound. Hermione lay in bed, curled around her faithful copy of Hogwarts, a History and wishing she were there now. Any normal day, even one with the threat of You-Know-Who barreling into the common room and murdering the lot of them, would be infinitely better than being where she was now.
How could she have been so stupid as to send that letter? Write it, read it, decide it was too personal to actually send, burn it, and then write a second letter less 'Oh-my-God,-Harry,-you've-got-to-marry-me-now-or-I'll-die .' Was that so hard? Was that too much to ask?
And what did she get from following her father's advice? Silence, more than two whole weeks of silence. It wasn't hard to figure out what had happened. Harry had read the letter and had rightfully freaked. Ron still denied hearing anything from Harry but if he had heard something he wasn't likely to tell her anyway. She was just the clingy want-to-be fan girl for "Harry Potter" after all, not the legitimate friend who only wanted-
She sighed. She didn't know what she wanted any more. If she was honest with herself, as she'd been raised to be, Hermione knew she did know. She wanted the whole thing reversed like it had never happened so everything could go back to the way they were before she had royally messed them up. How was she going to face them again? It was impossible Ron didn't know everything that had been in the letter by now. He was Harry's best friend, he could be trusted to keep his mouth shut, and he probably had Harry over at his place right now talking about how mad she was to even think Harry might like her back!
Hermione placed her pillow over her face and briefly considered smothering herself as the slightly scuffing sounds her father had been making all day in the attic made its way down to her. She finally had to concede this was getting her less than nowhere. It was exactly like her candy campaign. Aside from the first calculating look her mother had never reacted, and Harry never responded. The two things were completely separate issues, yet in her mind the success of the Chocolate Bar Rebellion had melted into the issue with Harry.
How could she hope to concentrate on showing how unPuckle she was when the huge issue of Harry was still unresolved? Send another letter begging her case again? That'd just make things worse. She had to face facts. Harry was a lost cause, just like the Chocolate Bar Rebellion. Her mother didn't care, and neither did Harry. Nobody cares about a Puckle.
If Hermione hadn't been sulking she never would have heard it, this quiet brushing sound, like paper slipping off a desk or - or something sliding under the door! She lifted the pillow and craned her head to see what it was. Reinforcements had arrived, reinforcements in the guise of the garish pink packaging of a Fry's Turkish Delight. On top was a note.
'He doesn't define you. ¡Viva la revolución!'
She tore open the door and hugged her father for all she was worth, and at the moment she felt worth quite a lot. She didn't even notice how much she had needed this until she felt a tear slide down her cheek. Hermione scrubbed her eyes dry. If neither one of them wanted her then they weren't worth crying over.
"Well," her father said once she let him breathe again. "That saves me from having to slide this under there too."
He held out a thick envelope with her name on it. She recognized the handwriting.
"It's from Professor McGonagall," she said, astounded. It had been ages since she had sent off asking for something to occupy her time and prepare for next year. She hadn't expected a response after so long.
"The owl must've thought 'window closed, curtains shut' meant no personal deliveries and I'd do in a pinch," her father said. "This one, though, is the really weird one, because it didn't get here by any owl."
He handed her a book. But it wasn't just any book; it was an old, beat-up copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2!
"But - Then how did-?" she stammered.
.....
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