Missive

Missive

'Next time there's a ball, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!'

With that Hermione turned on her heel and stormed up to the girls' dormitory, leaving Ron mouthing soundlessly like a goldfish out of water.

Hermione was quite alone; Lavender and Parvati had not returned from the ball as yet. Her anger quickly dissipating, she walked to her bed and sat down, lost in thought. Boys are such idiots sometimes, she said to herself. But, a voice said within her, they can also be sweet and charming and cute and . . .

Hermione sighed. I know he likes me! I know I'm not wrong! Why can't he see it!! But then the other voice came back. How can you be so sure? What if you're wrong? What if you're just another friend? And are you sure that you like him anyway? What if it's just a stupid crush? Look at Lockhart! If it is only a crush, is it worthwhile to lose his friendship?

Should I tell him? she wondered. I know I want to . . . but what if he doesn't . . .

So what to do?

Suddenly she knew. It always helps to write stuff down, right? So maybe I should write it all down, every feeling, every thought. Once I do that, then I'll know.

She quickly located her school bag and took out some of her new parchment and her new fountain-pen. (So much better than writing with a quill) She drew the curtains of the four-poster, then lay on her front on the bed, and using Travels with Trolls (by Gilderoy Lockhart) as a support, she started to write.

December 25, 1994

Dear Ron,

Someday perhaps you'll read this missive that I write to you today. On that day perhaps you shall know all my secrets. But I'm writing this in order to analyse my thoughts and my feelings, my hopes and dreams, and to find out whether you play a part in them, as I think you do.

For all these years. . .

Hermione finished the letter, read it, and then read it again. It described everything she had ever felt for him, since the very beginning of their friendship, the four years during which they had become almost inseparable. Her affection, her frustrations, her pride and her indulgence - everything was analysed and catalogued, defined and dissected. With surgical precision she had stripped her thoughts of all humanity and now inspected them with utter objectivity, attempting to decipher the truth.

But alas, if only it were that simple.

Try as she did, she could find nothing conclusive. After many failed attempts, she folded the parchment and reached for the small patterned box (a gift from her mother) that stood on her bedside. She placed the parchment inside the box and with her wand cast the strongest locking spell she knew (a must when sharing quarters with one Miss Lavender Brown)

---------------------

Five years later . . .

'I shall find him Albus, don't worry. I know where he is.'

'Harry, you need rest! Tell me where to find him, and I'll send someone - '

'I'm okay Albus. I need to do this myself. I'm sure you understand.'

Without another word Harry turned to the fireplace, took a pinch of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantelpiece and threw it into the fire. The flames turned a bright red. The fireplace in Albus' office could be used to travel to only a few secure locations. Harry's destination was the home of a top ranking Order member, the safest of safe-houses. He spoke the address clearly and stepped calmly into the fire.

He was claimed by the familiar queasy feeling of travelling by Floo; he would prefer a broomstick any day. He was delivered to a large room, lighted only by the now-bright red fire. An old armchair stood facing it; in it was a young man of 19, holding a glass of Firewhiskey, staring past him unseeingly.

'Hello Ron.'

He did not respond.

'Dumbledore is worried about you, you know,' said Harry, carefully measuring his words. 'The ministry has released the news, so now everybody knows. People are finally rejoicing.'

Ron looked up, but said nothing.

Harry drew a chair close to him and sat down, his elbows on his knees, face down. He took out his glasses and put them on. He stared at his hands for a while; they were covered with sweat, and blood, evidence of his final duel with Voldemort, only two hours ago. Lord Voldemort was finally dead, and the world was rid of his noxious presence. When Harry looked up, the fire was reflected in the lenses of his spectacles.

'It wasn't your fault.'

Hermione Granger, architect of many daring plans against the Dark Lord, Harry and Ron's best friend, was dead.

'I should have stopped it! I should have seen it!! I should have done . . . something!! Anything!'

As Harry met Ron's anguished eyes he knew that he could do nothing to ease his pain. All he could do, was to share it.

'I wish the same thing,' he said softly.

Ron looked around Hermione's living room, lined with her beloved books. He could even see the page-marks in some of them. The small table in front of him was strewn with parchment, covered with Hermione's distinctive minute handwriting. An ornamental box was serving dual role as a paperweight.

Replacing the box with his glass, Ron picked it up, running his fingers almost lovingly along the patterns. As he turned it, five pieces of parchment fell out onto his lap. His brow furrowed, he picked up the one that looked the oldest, unfolded it and began to read.

December 25, 1994

Dear Ron,

Someday perhaps you'll read this missive that I write to you today. On that day perhaps you shall know all my secrets. But I'm writing this in order to analyse my thoughts and my feelings, my hopes and dreams, and to find out whether you play a part in them, as I think you do.

For all these years that I have known you, you have been very very dear to me, as I'm sure you must know. Perhaps you thought that at times I was a bit condescending? Well, in all honesty, there were obviously many times at which you needed that! Would it have hurt you to do your assignments in time for a change? Or to read something, just for the sake of it? Or to pay some attention in class? I assure you I did not enjoy being the sole source of your History of Magic notes.

But, what you lacked in as a scholar, you made up for as a person, as a friend. I have forever admired your courage and your loyalty, your unwavering faith and your innate purity. But this last half year, something changed . . .

I don't know really what it was that made me look at you differently. That made me want to talk to you so much more, or rather you to talk to me more. I began to cherish our time alone. I suddenly realized that I was becoming jealous of very other girl that you talked to, even Lavender and Parvati, although I knew you didn't like them . . . But I would keep wondering whether perhaps you did. And a tiny part of me began to wonder whether it was because I wanted you to like me. Could that be the reason? But maybe I just value you as a friend . . . do I want to be the girl you're talking to, or just the person who you're talking to? I guess from now on I shall have to gauge my feelings when you talk to others and compare . . . Oh, I'm so frustrated when I don't know what to do! I so want you to be a part of my life, but what confuses me is that you already are a part of my life, so I really should not be so sad about this, because I seem to have what I want and . . .

And you haven't helped! I've noticed it. Of course I have. You've been paying more attention to me, you've been helping me so much more, you don't even complain so much about being in the library! But, is that just normal friend stuff, or is that more than just friends stuff? Aaaaargh!!! Someone should have written a book about this!! Maybe I should ask Madam Pince . . .

I think I'm beginning to sound like a silly teenaged girl. But, well, I'm teenaged, I'm a girl, and re-reading this parchment confirms that I'm silly, so . . .

Well, this was intended to help me sort out my feelings. At this moment, I feel as confused as I did before, or perhaps a bit more? Who knows, maybe things will make more sense when I read this again.

Yours,

Hermione

Ron stared at the parchment for a long time after he had finished reading it. It was Harry's concerned 'Ron, are you okay?' that brought him out of his reverie. Without looking up, he placed the parchment he had been holding back on the table and picked up the remaining four. He sorted them out by date and dimly noticing Harry picking up the other letter, began to read the oldest one.

August 31, 1996

Dear Ron,

It has been a most hellish 'holiday.' What with the rising death-toll and the constant debate between my parents about whether or not I should return to Hogwarts, it's a wonder that I haven't followed Harry's footsteps from his third year and run away from home. But then, you already know about all this, since I've written to you about them.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this letter. Maybe someday you'll get to read it, but I highly doubt that. (In all probability it will end up in that little box on my night-stand, just like the other letter I wrote to you once. Well, at least they'll be able to keep each other company.) I guess it's because I need to share my feelings with someone. My parents do not even constitute a valid option and I have no other close relatives. That would leave my friends. And that would be you and Harry. Nobody else qualifies. But I can't talk to you, for obvious reason, and Harry, well, he has problems of his own right now. What with battling an evil wizard bent on taking over the world, and being the chosen one destined to kill him, or die at his hand, the lovelorn blathering of a silly teenager might not be a top priority.

In case you do get to read this though, let me just tell you some more about my feelings for you; how they've developed over the past 18 months, since the last letter that I wrote to you (I didn't give it to you, so does it still qualify as a letter 'to' you? Not sure, really) and how I've come to regard you differently. In that letter I had been trying to decipher whether I cared for you as more than just a friend. But as I write this now, I have stopped wondering. For now I know for sure.

I am in love with you Ron.

I don't know how it started, and I don't know how it shall end, if it does. Most of all I don't know whether you care back. So many times I have tried to persuade myself to tell you, and every time, my courage has been found wanting. Ha, after all those adventures, the three of us, I fall at the final frontier. How to divulge your feelings to the man you love. The first subject I have ever failed in. Ironic, some would say.

Who knows, when I see you tomorrow, after the long 'vacation' maybe I'll finally be brave enough to say it. Perhaps. I hope so.

Yours

Hermione

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

August 31, 1997

Why do I love you Ron? Why can't I just be happy like the others are? I see you with your girlfriend and I tell myself and you and I can never be together, that I should simply let go, and live for once. Why can't I do that? God knows that I've tried, and I've tried pretty hard too, but even then no guy can measure up to you. Poor Viktor, he cared for me so much, but I could not bring myself to love him. He shall always be a close friend, the first boy to ever like me as a girl, but nothing more. I wish I could give him some happiness; he does deserve it, but how? How can I give him my heart, when it belongs to you?

The funny thing is, at the end of third year if anyone had told me that I would be behaving so irrationally, I would have laughed at them and referred them to Madam Pomfrey! How things change . . .

How I wish I could change myself! These feelings have no place in this war. I should be objective, and calm, and composed and logical . . . I need to be those things, for Harry, for you, for the entire wizarding world. I cannot let them down. I need to avenge the death of my family. They died because of me, and I know it. And I shall avenge them. Lucius will die, and at my hand. I promise you that, as I have promised myself.

Could you care for me someday? Just a little bit? A mere fraction of what I feel for you?

If only dreams came true . . .

Hermione

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

July 25, 1998

Hermione Granger, 18, newest member of the Order of the Phoenix, kills Lucius Malfoy, 44, feared Death Eater and the murderer of her family.

At least I kept that particular promise.

It's rather daring what I'm doing right now. You and I are in the very same room, and here I am writing about you. It's always nice to see you talk Quidditch. Not that I understand it, but you're always so passionate, so convinced, so right; it's like you forget about everything else. Nothing else matters any more, not the fighting, not the tension, not the casualties. I can see the boy I fell in love with, the boy that is hidden in the man I see before me everyday, the man who has saved Harry so many times, has faced so many tragedies and yet continues to be hopeful. The same man whose father died in his arms a week ago, who wiped away his tears when no one was looking, and was a pillar of strength for his family, who hid his own pain, so he may alleviate that of others.

I wanted to help you Ron, as a friend, and more. I wished that I could cradle your head in my arms and kiss away your tears, that I could share your grief and your sorrow. But once again I failed.

When I killed Lucius, I avenged not only the death of my parents, but also that of your father. Then why does it feel so hollow? So bleak? Should I not revel in the knowledge that he shall never torment anyone else?

This was needs to end, and soon. If it doesn't I don't know whether I can take it for much longer. How many more friends do we have to lose? Dean, Justin, Parvati . . .

God, please end this!

Hermione

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

March 11, 1999

Dear Ron,

Finally we know where he is! At long last, we can attack the very deepest lair of Lord Voldemort. I can feel it Ron, the war will end today.

Imagine Professor Trelawney's face if she ever heard that! Hermione Granger having a premonition . . .

But I know it; I know it to be true. The war will end today and we will be victorious. We will finally be allowed to live the lives we were destined to lead, no more deaths, no more fighting, only peace.

God, if you can hear me, please let me be right.

Ron, dear sweet amazing incredible Ron, I promise you, if we win the war today, if Voldemort falls, I shall tell you everything. I shall leave nothing out. Today, my courage shall not fail me.

Who know, you might even get to read this letter . . .

Yours,

Hermione

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~