To Whom It May Concern

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

Hermione was depressed, plain and simple. There was no easy way to explain it, really. There just seemed to be this ominous dark cloud hovering over her head that followed her wherever she would go, and it would not lift. It just followed her like some kind of shadow, not touching her, but a part of her nonetheless.

She thought it had been the typical teenage bout of despair at first; just another routine 'pity me' phase. But that had been two months ago, and Hermione was still depressed.

As she sat on her four-poster bed in her room, Hermione tried to discover the cause of her depression. She had two great best friends that she cared deeply for, she was Head Girl and top of all her classes- which was no easy feat, and she was fine with both of her parents even though they divorced shortly after her fourth year. What did she have to be depressed about?

Hermione frowned as she felt her head beginning to ache. Gently massaging her temples, her confusion only mounted. Can someone be depressed for no apparent reason? Can a person be sad that their life was going pretty well? Hermione gave a little snort; apparently they could...

She sighed and fell gently to her back as Crooshanks hopped onto the bed, settling next to her and purring like a lawn mower. Hermione unconsciously stretched out her hand to scratch the cat's head. It was a very familiar scene to her over the past two months. She'd lie on her bed, trying to find the source of her melancholy while Crooshanks would lay beside her, trying to comfort her with a lulling purr. But it never worked, and this time was no different.

Tightly squeezing her eyes shut as if to block out her misery, Hermione heard a voice echo in her head. No wonder why you hang out with Potty and the Weasel, Mudblood. If no one loved me, I'd follow the only two people stupid enough to let me hang out with them, as well.

Hermione sat up quickly, startling Crooshanks. Angrily, she willed her headache to disappear, but it only seemed to increase.

Stupid Malfoy, she growled to herself. He doesn't know what he's on about. She'd slapped him for that remark, and then kicked him in the shin for good measure. Why his stupid, snide little insult suddenly popped into her head was beyond her. He'd said that to her almost two months ago, why was she dwelling on it?

It wasn't true, she knew. Plenty of people loved her; she was sure of it. But even as she told herself this, her brilliant mind struggled to name one person that truly and freely loved her.

Her mother was too busy trying to be her best friend to see that Hermione didn't need a friend, she needed a mum. She'd listen to the new music, wear the new clothes and drive around in her fast, cherry red car, and all of Hermione's Muggle friends would sigh and envy Hermione for having 'the most wicked mum.' Her mum was too busy being cool to even notice what Hermione would say to her. Sure, Hermione loved her and had fun with her, but she missed her real mum; the one that never let any sugar in her house and forced Hermione to floss her teeth after every meal because 'a great smile can get you anywhere in life.'

She loved her mum dearly, but she didn't like who she'd become. The relationship felt impersonal now, as if they'd grown apart. And Ms. Hallock (her mother had switched back to her maiden name) was too cool to have a seventeen year old daughter.

There was her father, Hermione consoled herself. Her father wasn't too cool for her. Quite the opposite, in fact, Hermione frowned. Her mother wasn't the only one who had changed after the divorce. Where Hermione's mum became the very essence of coolness, Mr. Granger did quite the opposite. He became old-fashioned, and stuffy. He always walked around as if he had a big stick up his arse, and he constantly commented on Hermione's posture, her eating habits, even the way she read.

It seemed nothing she did could ever be good enough in his eyes. She'd once told him that she, along with Harry and Ron, of course, had defeated the most evil dark wizard in the history of the Wizarding World- only to have him point out that she couldn't do it on her own and had needed the help of two men. No, Hermione realized now, her father didn't really love her; he resented her.

Hermione was beginning to feel a little panicked as her mind cast about for another name. And then it clicked. Ron. Ron loved her. Good old Ron Weasley. He was like the brother she never had. He defended her; in fact, he'd gotten three whole weeks worth of detention after he'd beaten Malfoy to a bloody pulp for what he had said to her those two months ago. Hermione began to smile, only to stop before it could fully stretch out across her face.

If she thought of Ron as a big brother, then that meant he thought of her as a little sister. An annoying, little sister that he felt obligated to defend because if he didn't then his mummy would have his arse. Doubt began to fill Hermione as she thought of all the times they had argued, and suddenly all of the harsh, mean things he had said to her in those heated arguments filled her head. No, Ron didn't really love her; he already had a little sister, why would he want another?

Alarm began to spread out through Hermione as she frantically racked her brain for someone, anyone that loved her. And then it slammed into her. Harry. Harry loved her. Harry Potter, the famous Harry Potter loved Hermione Granger. But even as she concluded this, that snide little voice in the back of her head that sounded suspiciously like Draco Malfoy smirked: Does he really?

Of course he does, why wouldn't he? Why would he be one of my best friends for seven years if he didn't love me? Hermione retorted.

Maybe he found the fact that you were a know-it-all pretty convenient, rejoined the voice.

That's ridiculous, she began, Harry's not like that. He's sweet, loyal, kind- caring, smart, and handsome, too...

Listen to yourself. You're in love with the boy and you don't even know it, the voice sneered in what sounded like disgust.

Hermione's mind came to a screeching halt. Her? In love with Harry? That was ludicrous. It wasn't only ridiculous, but it wasn't true. Of course she loved Harry, but she wasn't in love with him. That was quite impossible.

But nothing's impossible, the little voice suggestively whispered in the back of her mind.

Hermione furrowed her brow, trying to think about it logically. She hadn't even thought of Harry in that kind of way, so how could she be in love with him? Just because she had always wanted to find a guy just like Harry did not mean she was in love with the real Harry.

Ah, the annoying voice began in a hint of triumph, why settle for someone like Harry when you can have Harry himself.

At this, Hermione was thoroughly stumped. Every guy she had ever considered for dating had fallen short in one way or another. She'd compare them to Harry and find that they could never measure up. No one was as great as Harry Potter; they were all lacking in one way or another. Hell, Harry Potter was bloody Christ resurrected to her.

But the more Hermione thought about her being in love with Harry, the more it made sense. In fact, the more she thought about the idea, the more it appealed to her, and all at once a tidal wave of emotions crashed down on her; emotions she didn't even knew she could ever possess for another. It was as if she had subconsciously built up this dam to block out everything she felt for him and it had just come toppling down into a useless pile of rubble. All at once she was grinning like an idiot, feeling warm and mushy inside as she thought of him. It was as if the cloud that had hovered over her for so long had parted to let a ray of sunlight cast down on her.

So this is love, Hermione thought with a mental sigh. This isn't so bad. Why have I never realized it before? Why was I repressing this great feeling? She wondered.

Mayhap because he doesn't feel the same way, the voice was back, sounding very professional and matter-of-fact.

Hermione stopped grinning. He doesn't love me? She questioned.

No, maybe as a friend, or at the very least in the way Ron loves you, the voice said nonchalantly.

But, Hermione began sadly, Ron doesn't love me.

Hm-m, well, that certainly makes you wonder about Harry then, doesn't it? The nasty little voice countered in seeming innocence.

The sun was back behind the cloud again. If Harry loved her in the way she thought Ron had, then that meant Harry didn't love her. At all. Not as a friend, not as a sister, and not, Hermione swallowed around the lump forming in her throat, as a woman.

That was it. She had run out of people and had turned up empty handed. No one loved her, maybe they cared about her, but no one loved her. After all, love and care were two very different things. But what made the matter even worse was that Malfoy had been right.

All at once Hermione grew cold and numb, no longer feeling the sharp pain of her headache; no longer feeling anything at all.

Crooshanks, seemingly sensing Hermione's new feeling (or lack thereof) tilted his head to one side and meowed. Hermione didn't even bat a lash to the cat. Did she have anything to live for, she pondered. Sure, she had the grades to really take her places in the Wizarding World, but was a loveless life worth living?

A cold wave of nothingness settled in Hermione's heart that would have scared her half to death if she felt any emotion at all. She knew the answer to that question, and it was not a positive one.

Steeling herself in her resolve, Hermione purposefully rose off of her soft, comfortable bed and went to her writing desk. In an uncharacteristically untidy scrawl Hermione wrote a quick, terse note.

To Whom It May Concern:

I just wanted to say goodbye, in case you cared.

Sincerely,

Hermione Jessica Granger

Unceremoniously placing a crystal paperweight (that had been a Christmas gift from Harry, she faintly acknowledged) on the single sheet of parchment, Hermione grabbed her shaving razor and went into her bathroom. Being Head Girl she had her own.

Nobody likes me, everybody hates me; guess I'll eat some worms... the little voice in her mind casually sang as Hermione offhandedly turned the nozzles on her bathtub and watched indifferently as the freezing cold water began to slowly fill up the tub.

~*~

"Ron, I'm worried about Hermione," Harry stated, studying the chessboard that lied between himself and his best friend.

Ron called out his move, putting Harry in check, before asking, "Why so, Harry?"

Harry furrowed his brow in concentration. "Haven't you noticed she's been really distant as of late?" he asked, moving his knight to safely get out of check.

Ron gave a sigh. "You've noticed, too?" was his response.

Harry rolled his eyes even though his friend wasn't watching him. "Of course I've noticed," he replied, as if Ron should have known the answer to his own question.

For the first time during their conversation, Ron lifted his eyes from the game to momentarily catch Harry's. Smiling a bit to himself, Ron looked back down to the board and moved his pawn before admitting, "That was a stupid question."

Harry gave a snort at Ron's capability for pointing out the obvious and frowned as his best friend's pawn proceeded to thrust his sword into his knight. "Do you think she knows?" he asked suddenly, taking Ron's own pawn with his other knight.

Ron grinned at the board and teased, "It'd be hard for her not to," and then brought out his queen for the first time in the game.

Pausing for a moment, Harry cautiously moved his knight back a move. "Am I that obvious?"

Ron gave a laugh, setting his queen two squares opposite of Harry's bishop. "Nah, mate. To everyone but her it would seem," he assured.

Harry haphazardly placed his pawn to a square, not noticing his bishop was in danger. "What do you think is wrong with her?" he wondered.

Ron gave an evil grin before moving his queen to Harry's bishop, then he tilted his head to one side, contemplating the question. "Who knows? Maybe it's that time of the month."

Harry smiled despite the fact he just lost his only bishop left. "Hermione would take offense to that remark if she were here," he half-heartedly informed him, waiting a moment before bringing out his queen to have a confrontation with Ron's.

Ron's eyes gleamed suspiciously as he watched Harry's queen abandon her king. "Well, she's not here, so sod off," he proclaimed, gleefully watching as his knight trampled on Harry's queen.

Harry was saved from retorting when a sudden yowl came from his left. Temporarily forgetting he had just lost his queen, Harry and Ron both simultaneously turned to see Crooshanks looking intently at them.

"What's Hermione's cat doing down here?" Harry asked.

Ron shrugged, dismissing the ball of fur and turning back to the game. "Maybe she left her door open and he slipped out," he suggested, positioning his queen and almost ready for the kill.

Harry frowned, the answer not quite appeasing him. "Perhaps," he allowed, turning to the game to faintly move one of his pieces, he didn't even notice which.

Ron grinned victoriously, moving his queen two squares to the left and announcing, "That's checkmate, Harry. Another game?" he offered.

Harry sighed, watching as Ron's red pieces began doing a victory dance. "Sure, I'll just take Crooshanks back upstairs to Hermione first," he accepted, standing and picking up the fat cat that he distractedly noted was still meowing.

"Alright then," Ron said.

Harry made his way up the stairs, fighting to hold Hermione's cat in his arms.

"Hold still you little snot, we're almost there," Harry hissed to the big blob of fur.

Having reached the Head Girl's dorm, Harry noticed that the door was left ajar.

He softly knocked on it. "Hermione, you in here," he asked, slowly walking into the room and dropping the cat to the floor.

The room was empty, though. Harry stood there, frowning for no apparent reason. Something didn't seem right. Tuning out that God awful yowl of Hermione's beloved ball of fluff, Harry scanned the room for any sign of where Hermione could be.

That was when his eyes caught the paperweight he had given her last Christmas, or, more specifically, the sheet of parchment underneath the paperweight. A strong sense of foreboding came over him as he uneasily made his way to the note.

Adjusting his glasses in a gesture of nervousness, Harry read what was written, and then promptly dropped the paper as if he had been burned.

Crooshanks's meowing came to his ears again, making him jump and snap his head down to the cat. He looked pleadingly up at him, and then ran to the bathroom door, scratching at the bottom. Harry could suddenly hear the sound of running water. Heart pounding and fear coursing throughout his entire being, Harry quickly moved to the door and went in. And then he screamed; the image of Hermione Granger fully dressed in a tub overflowing with water tinted by her own red blood burned into his retinas.

Ron, who had been busy resetting up the board, jumped when he heard the scream, scattering the chess pieces. Fear filled him, for he knew that voice, and he, unfortunately, knew that scream.

"Harry," he muttered to himself, his voice sounding awfully loud in the silent Common Room.

Without a second thought Ron leapt from his chair, going into auto-pilot. "Neville, Ginny, go get help. Get Dumbledore, get Pomfrey, get anybody!" Ron frantically ordered, making his way up the stairs two at a time and not even bothering to see if his words were heeded.

Ron ran into Hermione's room, turned to the bathroom, and he too, screamed.

There, lying in tainted red water and as pale as death itself, was one of his best friends. Snapping out of the horror, Ron made his way to help Harry lift her out of the water. She was cold, and the water soaked into her robes made her heavier than what she normally would have been.

Harry turned off the water with a trembling hand and then held Hermione along with Ron. God, she was so cold; she felt so cold that she burned. Her beautiful lips were ice blue and on her silky, soft skin there were two angry cuts, one on each wrist, the razor still clutched in her hand.

Frantically, Harry tore the razor away from her, throwing it across the room. He was crying and on the verge of hyperventilating, he knew, but he didn't care. All he cared about was that Hermione committed suicide.

There was a faint sound of feet stomping hurriedly up the stairs and concerned, raised voices. Before he could even blink, McGonagall, Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey, and Professor Snape were all standing before him. At any other time Harry would have wondered why Snape of all people was there, but he didn't really seem to care at the moment.

"S-sh-she com-committed su-sui-suicide," Harry choked out, looking completely lost.

McGonagall looked as if she would faint, Dumbledore lost that grandfatherly twinkle in his eye, and Snape just stood there, shocked speechless. Madam Pomfrey quickly stepped forward, attempting to pull Harry away from Hermione, but he would not have it.

"Mr. Potter, please," she began gently, but firmly, "I must see if she's still alive."

Still alive? Harry wondered, suddenly going limp and allowing himself to be pulled away by Ron. He hadn't even thought that she could still be alive. How could someone so cold have life in them?

Madam Pomfrey said an incantation, waving her wand over Hermione. "She has a pulse, but it's weak, too weak. She's lost much blood, if we don't heal the wound and give her a transfusion quickly she'll die," even as she said this she began healing the livid gashes at Hermione's wrists.

Harry sat there dumbly. She's alive, she's alive, was the only thought running through his mind. Holding that thought he rocked back and forward, chocking on his own sobs.

"What's her blood type?" this from Professor McGonagall.

Another incantation and Madam Pomfrey answered, "O negative, very rare."

And then, a dim, but apparent twinkle came back to Dumbledore's eye. "Severus?" he turned to the man expectantly.

Snape looked at the Headmaster, and sighed, rolling up his sleeve. "I knew there was a reason you brought me here," he muttered, although the usual sneer was suspiciously missing from both his voice and face.

"Stop your grumbling, old man, and save this child," Albus fairly ordered.

Professor Severus Snape did not need to be told twice. It was a fairly easy process, and was done within a matter of seconds.

"We have to get her breathing again," Madam Pomfrey announced. Apparently they weren't out of the woods yet.

Hitting Hermione with a few respiratory spells, Madam Pomfrey frowned. "They aren't working."

"What do you mean they aren't working? If they aren't working then that means she's-" Ron cut himself off, wide-eyed in horror.

Madam Pomfrey checked for a pulse. Lowering her head slightly, she slowly moved her hand away from Hermione's neck. "She's dead," she whispered, finally allowing herself to feel emotion.

"No!" Harry finally snapped out of his daze. He scurried over to Hermione's side, refusing to believe it. "Sh-she just needs C.P.R. It needs to be done the Muggle way," he said firmly.

And Harry, who had been forced to get a job as a lifeguard at the local fitness club by the Dursleys so he could begin paying them rent, began to perform it. Seconds ticked by, but nothing happened.

"Harry, s-stop it. Sh-she's gone," Ron stuttered.

But Harry was stubborn, and something inside him wouldn't stop, which was a very good thing because a few more seconds later Hermione heaved in a rattling breath. Her eyes were still shut, and her pulse wasn't too strong, but she was alive and breathing.

Harry finally stopped. "Thank God," he muttered in evident relief and emotion.

Dumbledore had a faint smile on his lips as he watched the young man cry and clutch the limp body of his best friend. "Let's take her to the Hospital Wing; the house elves will clean up here," he stated kindly.

Harry glared at Madam Pomfrey, who tried once again to remove him from Hermione's side in order to levitate her to the Hospital Wing. Instead, Harry stubbornly lifted her up in his arms, glaring at anyone who tried to go near her, and carried her all the way to the Infirmary.

Once there, Harry gentle settled Hermione onto the softest bed, tucking her in with infinite care. Then he pulled up a chair to the left of her bed, plopping down on it and taking a deep, relaxing breath. He stared at the unconscious form of his best friend, the young woman he loved with every part of his being, the tears still coming as he wondered why Hermione Granger tried to kill herself.

~*~

The first thing Hermione noticed even before she opened her eyes was that she was alive.

Oh, well spotted, she sneered sardonically to herself.

Opening her eyes, Hermione furiously closed them again to block out the wave of dim light that assaulted her. From what she did see, however, she knew that she was in the Infirmary. Great, she thought cynically. Not only did she fail at killing herself, but she got caught doing it; she had screwed it up.

Inwardly, Hermione cursed herself. Slowly cracking open her eyes, she steeled herself for the onslaught of light. But it never came.

Instead, her eyes focused on the last person she ever wanted to see again.

"Hey Granger," Draco Malfoy greeted as if they were chatting over a cup of tea.

Hermione frowned; swallowing away the dryness in her throat she croaked, "What in the bloody hell are you doing here?" in a dry, strained voice.

Malfoy blinked, noting the weakness in her. "Well, I uh, well, I guess I just wanted to know why, like everyone else..." he trailed off, slightly losing his nerve.

She furrowed her brow in concentration, carefully propping herself up against a pillow. "People actually want to know why?" she asked doubtfully.

This caused Malfoy to do a double take and snap characteristically, "Stupidity does not become you, Granger. Of course people well care why, you prat. The whole bloody Wizarding World is practically flipped inside out trying to figure why Hogwarts's Head Girl tried to kill herself."

Hermione remained unconvinced. "I didn't think anyone would care," she muttered, more to herself than to him.

Draco snorted, rolling his eyes. "Bloody hell, you're serious, aren't you? You really didn't expect you trying to kill yourself to be any big deal?" His incredulity was evident in his voice.

This angered Hermione to no end. Here he was, the reason for all of her problems; hell, the reason she had tried to murder herself, and he was virtually calling her stupid for doing it.

"Why would anyone miss me, Malfoy? After all, I'm just a stupid Mudblood, aren't I? I'm just a lowly Mudblood that no one loves and just follows Potty and the Weasel around because no one else is stupid enough to have her, eh?"

It was as if Hermione had physically slapped him. He swallowed several times before regaining his cool composure. "Th-that's not true," he gulped down his pride to choke out.

Hermione viciously pushed on. "It's not?" she began in mock astonishment. "Then why ever did you tell me so? You did so quite frequently, in fact; probably so I wouldn't forget, bless your little heart."

Finally, Draco lifted his eyes to catch hers, and Hermione could see every microscopic thing he was feeling at that moment in time. She'd remember what she saw there for the rest of her life. There was sympathy, pity, and sorrow, but what it all really boiled down to was guilt. He felt guilty about what she had done, and knowing so made Hermione feel an odd sense of justice.

Good, she thought smugly. He should feel guilty. It was all his fault anyway, wasn't it? But then she realized that, no, it wasn't really his fault. She was responsible for her own actions. If anything she should thank him for finally making her see the truth.

"Take your guilt and shove it up your arse, Malfoy. It's not your fault that no one loves me," she snapped, angry at him for taking away that sense of justice and righteousness.

An incredulous look came from Draco. "Hermione, people love you," he said with meaning, breaking their gaze to stare pointedly to the left of Hermione's bed.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Hermione carefully twisted in her bed to see what Malfoy was looking at. It wasn't a what, but a whom, she found out. Sleeping in what had to be the most painful position in the world and in what had to be the most uncomfortable chair in the Infirmary, was Harry Potter.

Her heart began to race at the mere sight of him, breathing softly with his head lolling down in front of him with his chin resting against his chest. He'd have a sore neck when he woke, she thought with a loving concern. And his muscles would no doubt be cramped up, as well. How long had he been sitting there? she wondered.

"He hasn't left that chair since he carried you here," Malfoy whispered matter-of-factly, seemingly reading her mind.

Her eyes never left Harry even as she addressed him. "Harry doesn't love me," she informed him, a suspicious lump rising in her throat.

Malfoy made a valiant effort to keep his sneer out of his voice. "You must be blind then, Granger, not to see it. Everyone else does," he imparted.

She gave a small wistful sigh. "Maybe he cares about me, but he'll never love me. At least, not in the way that I love him," she said sadly, tearing her eyes away from Harry's innocent form to stare at her hands that were fisted in the bed coverings.

Realization dawned on him then. "Oh, so that's the way it flows, eh?" he asked lightly.

Hermione felt a strange and sudden urge to laugh. "Yeah, it is."

Suddenly, he became serious again. "Granger, you must either be entirely naïve or utterly dimwitted to not see that Harry Potter, super hero, do-gooder extraordinaire, is helplessly in love with you," he stated wryly.

"I wish it were so, Malfoy, more than anything in the world, but it's not" she easily dismissed his words.

Draco stared intently at her. "It's funny in a way," he began suddenly, adopting a pensive air, "Not funny- 'ha ha' funny, mind you- but an ironic funny."

"What is?" she inquired, meeting his steel grey eyes that did not hold friendship, or kindness, but merely reflected a twisted type of insight.

"That I, the one person probably most responsible for making you believe that no one loved you, am here trying to convince you that the Boy Wonder over there would gladly give you his heart in a doggy bag if you asked for it," he proclaimed, a dubious emotion hat felt suspiciously like compassion tugging insistently at his lips.

Hermione snorted her concurrence. "Who'd have thought?" she agreed. She looked up at him, a small smile crossing her lips as she announced, "You know, you're really not as bad ass as you'd like everyone to believe."

Draco's eyes widened in mock horror. "For the love of God, Granger, don't let anyone hear you say that! I have a reputation to upkeep," he huffed, making sure to take a look around as if to see if she had been overheard.

She gave a half-hearted laugh.

Draco deigned to give her a very rare smile. "And you know, you are most definitely not as unloved as you think you are," he proclaimed.

He stood there a moment longer, patiently waiting for the silence to stretch from comfortable to uneasy.

"Don't be so stupid as to believe everything that comes out of my mouth, Granger. Even I can occasionally be wrong," he stated, the underlying meaning of his words clearly registering in her brilliant mind.

"Thank you, Draco," she simply responded.

He gave her a curt nod. "Just don't get used to it, Granger. I don't like playing your knight in shining armor; it's bad for my image."

And then he left, leaving no trace that he had actually been there at all.

Hermione sighed comfortably, resting against her pillows.

Who'd have thought that Draco Malfoy actually cared about what could have happened to me, Hermione wondered. And the fact that he made it abundantly clear that they most definitely were not friends made everything he had just said all the more believable. If someone she had thought to not give a bloody damn about her suddenly showed that he did, then maybe she was wrong about all of the people that she knew cared about her not loving her. Maybe she was loved and had just been blinded by doubt.

And who knew, she pondered, her eyes coming to a rest on Harry's slightly snoring form. If he was right about everything else he said, then maybe Malfoy was also right about what he had said about Harry. A small, but genuine smile adorned her face. She'd find out sooner or later, perhaps she'd have a little chat with him once he woke up...

Her smile grew into a grin and for the first time in the past two months, Hermione felt blissfully happy. There were no more clouds hovering around her; indeed, it was clear skies as far as the I can see.

It really was ironic, she confessed to herself as her grin only grew. The one person that had caused her to attempt suicide had just intentionally talked her out of ever doing it again.