Cupid Hermione

'Harry Potter' and all associated characters and locations are copyright J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Warner Bros. Pictures, and all associated companies. All rights remain theirs, and I make no claim to any, so that lawyer can just turn back into a Boggart and get back in the cupboard now... please?

You know, everyone says someone like me should hate Valentine's Day. They say I should be annoyed at it, or upset, or jealous of all the other girls.

I'm not going to lie. Sometimes I have been jealous. But I truly love the idea of a day where it's not only socially acceptable but in fact highly encouraged that you should say "I love you" to your significant other. And, no matter how depressed I may have been that there was no special guy doing that for me YET (note emphasis) I refused to let that sour me on the whole idea.

So that's why I was 'borrowing' Harry's Invisibility Cloak (don't worry, I put it back when I was done) to secretly deliver love notes from the girls to the boys, by putting them on their beds. In their dormitories.

Um.

Right.

As I did it, I kept reminding myself that I was doing this for love. And warm fuzzies. And five galleons. They owed me for this. I so did not need to know about Seamus' smiley-face boxers. Still, I was doing this for love and romance and I forget how the rest of it goes.

Just call me Cupid Hermione.

"Hey, 'Mione," Harry said at breakfast the next day, "you know anything about this 'secret admirer'?"

"Which one?" I asked, stalling. I don't lie to Harry, my best friend, ever, but... but a secret admirer is a secret admirer. In other words, she shouldn't have to worry about having her identity inadvertently revealed.

"There's more than one?"

I shrugged. "I seriously doubt the same girl is chasing you and Ron and Dean and Neville and Seamus. Therefore, there must be more than one."

"True," Harry said thoughtfully. "I wonder why we're all getting these notes...."

"Valentine's Day," I told him shortly. I hate it when people are unnecessarily dense.

"Huh?"

I sighed. "It's Valentine's Day in four days," I said wearily. "The day when you're supposed to have a romantic interlude with the one you care about. I'd say your secret admirer wants to reveal herself to you around then and hopefully have a date with you on Valentine's Night."

He grinned slowly. "Cool," he said enthusiastically, as he ate the last of his toast.

I made an agreeing noise as I finished my own breakfast, and privately wondered if he'd be so happy when he discovered it was Ginny Weasley sending him his notes.

All through History of Magic, I thought about how the whole thing started.

The Sunday evening before, Parvati and Lavender had been discussing boys. Lavender had been reticent about the name of her crush, but enthused about 'speaking eyes' and 'dead sexy legs'. Parvati had been more forthcoming, admitting she liked Seamus Finnegan (yes, he of the smiley boxers). She spent several minutes enthusing about Irish accents and Irish green eyes.

I did not join in. After half an hour of exchanging descriptions of beings that did not in any way resemble any boys I knew, or any boys at Hogwarts for that matter, they turned to me.

"So, Hermione, now that you've broken up with Viktor Krum, who do you like?"

Now, if there's one thing I hate, it's being reminded of Viktor Krum. Viktor was a very nice young man who was three years older than I, who came to stay at Hogwarts during our fourth year. He was a Bulgarian who attended Durmstrang Academy. He had asked me to the Yule Ball that year and had also invited me to stay with his family in Bulgaria in the summer holidays. In the end... I don't really know what happened. I wasn't really serious about him - he was a nice boy who paid attention to me, the first (and so far only) one who did. I was flattered, but when my parents had said 'no, you can't go, you're only fourteen,' it wasn't a great disappointment to me. So when I said 'goodbye' to him when he and his fellow classmates went back to Durmstrang, that was it. I don't know how seriously he felt about me. After we said goodbye, he never wrote. Of course, neither did I.

"I don't like anybody," I said stiffly.

"Oh, come on," Lavender had coaxed. "You spend all your time with Harry and Ron. You must like one of them."

"No, I don't," I repeated icily.

"Then, do you like any of the other boys?" Parvati wondered. "Blaize Zambini is cute."

"I am just friends with the boys in our year," I tell them, and then I was hit by my oh-so-wonderful (ha!) idea. "Look, I'll prove it. Write the boys you like a letter telling him you like him, and I'll deliver it. I wouldn't do that if I liked one of them."

Lavender and Parvati looked at each other, and then nodded.

"Okay," Lavender said. "For the record, we don't believe you, but we'll say we do. And you'll deliver the letters?"

"On my honour as a Gryffindor."

"All right."

On Monday, at lunch, I got cornered by a group of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff girls.

Mandy Brocklehurst, who seemed to have been elected spokesperson, stepped forward. "Um, Hermione?"

I quite like Mandy - she's one of the more sensible girls in our year. "Hello, everyone," I said cheerfully. "What's up?"

Mandy looked down and blushed. "Um, Hermione, we heard, that is -" she stopped and took a deep breath. "We heard that you'll deliver love letters for people," she said quickly.

I breathed in, breathed out, and made a split-second decision. "That's right. For ten sickles each."

"Ten sickles?!" a voice from the back piped up, sounding shocked.

"The price includes anonymity," I pointed out. "I can arrange it that the boy you like doesn't know who you are or where the letter came from, if you feel really shy. Otherwise, I hand him the letter and tell him it's a love letter from you."

Mandy blinked, and nodded. "Sounds fair to me. When should we get the letters and money to you?"

"Letters... dinner tonight," I decided. "Money... well, I'm not heartless. If you don't have the money now, I'm prepared to wait."

Lisa Turpin, one of Mandy's housemates, smiled. "Thanks, Hermione."

"No problem," I replied, as the knot of girls around me started to break up. "Um, Lisa?"

She turned back. "Yes, Hermione?"

"How did you find out I was doing this?"

She shrugged. "Parvati told Padma, and Padma told us."

The Patil twins. I should have known. "Thanks, Lisa."

That night at dinner, the six girls who had cornered me at lunch all drifted up to the Gryffindor table, to the section where we three fifth-year girls were sitting. During all our conversations, they each slipped me ten sickles and a letter, with a boy's name written boldly on the front of the envelope. I unobtrusively hid the letters in the sleeve of my robe, where, ever since learning that space-expansion spell and quick-retrieval cantrip, I stored my books, writing materials and a cheese sandwich. (A girl gets hungry, studying all the time.)

Eventually, when it became clear I would have no more visitors that dinner, I stood and excused myself. I had just left the Great Hall, when a voice I'd learnt to dread spoke behind me.

"Granger."

I turned. Pansy Parkinson stood there, behind me. Millicent Bulstrode stood behind her. They both were watching me intently.

"Parkinson," I returned, without expression.

"We've heard," Parkinson said, "that for ten sickles each, you will anonymously deliver love letters to any boy in the castle."

"Yes, that's correct," I said flatly.

She held out her hands. In one was a galleon and three sickles, and in the other was two sealed parchment envelopes. "Two letters, and the fee," she said, expressionlessly.

I nodded, and took the letters and the money. I felt a sudden flash of sympathy for her. How much pride had she had to swallow, to approach me to do this? "The letters will be delivered before midnight tonight," I told her.

She nodded, and moved past me into the Great Hall. Millicent Bulstrode looked at me for a long moment, and then followed her without speaking. I realized that one of the two letters must be hers. I didn't like Bulstrode, but in that moment I felt as if I was carrying her, rather than a slip of parchment.

I walked slowly to Gryffindor Tower, to find a deserted common room. I began to cross it, only to discover I was mistaken - there was someone else there. Ginny Wealey's head popped up over one of the couches.

"Um, Hermione?" she said in an uncertain voice. "Can I, um, talk to you a minute?"

She bit her lip, and I had felt oddly protective of her. "Sure, Ginny," I said immediately. "What can I do?"

She looked up at me, her brown eyes turning golden through her copper eyelashes. "I heard Mandy Brocklehurst talking to you earlier," she said. "I was wondering... will you deliver a letter for me? I don't have ten sickles, but -"

Impulsively, I hugged the girl who I privately thought of as a younger sister. "Oh, you don't need any money," I told her. "That was to make sure the other girls don't think I'm a permanent service. *You* I'll do it for any time. Of course I'll deliver your letter."

She pulled it out from her pocket and laid it in my hand. I looked at it. 'Harry Potter' was written on the front, in Ginny's neat handwriting. I bit my lip.

"Do you want me to cast a Confundus Charm on it, so he won't recognise your handwriting?" I asked her as calmly as I could. I didn't know why the idea of delivering this letter was unsettling me.

Ginny blinked. "Oh, would you? Please?"

I swallowed. "Of course."

Later that evening, before I started, I sorted the letters into four piles, one for each house. That surprised me; I hadn't thought that any of the non-Slytherin girls would go for Slytherin boys. What surprised me more was that neither Pansy Parkinson's nor Millicent Bulstrode's letter was directed to Slytherin boys.

All five of the Gryffindor boys got letters - which wasn't that surprising, really, as I was a Gryffindor. There was Ginny's letter to Harry. Susan Bones, a very bubbly Hufflepuff, had written her letter to Ron, Parvati's letter was directed to Seamus (surprised?), a Ravenclaw girl called Sallyanne Perks had written to Dean, and Neville too got a love letter - from Millicent Bulstrode.

That one definitely did surprise me. The girl who put me in a headlock during that abortive Duelling Club meeting had a crush on sweet, bumbling Neville? Well, mine was not to reason why, mine was but to be the messenger. But somehow I did not think her feelings would be returned.

There were two letters for Ravenclaws - Pansy Parkinson's letter was addressed to Terry Boot, one of the Ravenclaw prefects. The second was addressed to Padma Patil - and it was from Lavender.

I had the oddest feeling as I held that letter in my hand. I felt as if it should matter, but the only thought I had was, Now I know why she wouldn't name her crush. Finally I shrugged and put the letter on top of the 'Ravenclaw' pile. Lavender was Lavender was Lavender, and if she was gay... okay. It wasn't like she was hitting on me.

There was only one Hufflepuff letter - Mandy Brocklehurst had written her letter to Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Which left two Slytherin letters. One was directed to Blaize Zambini, a boy with dark eyes, olive skin and curly black hair, who exuded pure Latin lounge lizard sexiness and revelled in an unsavoury reputation, from Hannah Abbott, one of the sweetest, most gentle girls in Hufflepuff, which is saying something. I guess this was proof that good girls do fall for bad boys. Lisa Turpin, bright and quickwitted even for a Ravenclaw, had written her letter to Draco Malfoy.

I wasn't even going to think about that one.

Which explained why I had been in the boy's dormitories of Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw the night before, under an invisibility cloak, distributing love notes. I'd slipped up to Gryffindor's during dinner, distributing theirs and carefully abstracting Harry's Invisibility Cloak from his chest of drawers. Then I'd hidden under the Cloak and skulked outside each House's door until it was opened by a House member, slipping in with them, and laying the notes.

Then I quietly re-entered Gryffindor Tower (not under the Cloak, of course) and, while all the boys were doing their homework, returned the Cloak to Harry's drawer. The notes were gone, I noticed. When I went down to do my homework, the boys weren't terribly focussed on their work either.

I get a real kick out of watching other people trying to solve a mystery I know the answer to. I think I understand, now, why Professor Dumbledore lets us try to stop Voldemort by ourselves each year. Watching people working out the clues for themselves warms my heart.

Of course, the frustration they feel has its own entertainment value, too.

The rest of the day was... interesting. Watching the boys stare at the girls, and seeing them visibly assess them as possible Secret Admirers, and in most cases getting it dead wrong, was absolutely hysterical. I know I went through the day with a wide grin on my face.

I don't and never did have a poker face. It's just that nobody looks at Hermione the Brain. So many of the pranks and tricks that Ron, Harry and I have pulled off over the years would have been scotched right at the beginning, if only someone looked at me. But nobody ever does. I don't know how many times I've gotten away with absolutely anything just because of that simple fact.

Actually, no, I tell a lie. Someone does look at me, it's just that Harry is usually in on the joke. He asked me again at lunch.

"So, Hermione, who is she?"

I'd just swallowed a piece of chicken and was reading over my Charms essay, so, for practically the first time that day, I wasn't thinking about the romantic web I'd helped to weave over the Fifth Year. Harry was behind and not beside me, which helped. "Who is whom?" I asked absently.

"The secret admirer."

"'She' is a 'they'," I said absently, before I realized what I was saying. I sat up straight in reaction, and swung around to glance guiltily at Harry.

He was standing in front of a whole bank of boys - every one whom had received one of the notes.

"So, you do know," Blaize Zambini stated, falling into a seat beside me. I inched away; cute as he was, something about Blaize just made me itch.

"Know what?" I asked, in a final, futile grasp for innocence.

"All right," Terry Boot said, sitting down in the chair on my other side. "Who are our secret admirers, then?"

I frowned at them. "Some people," I said haughtily to no-one in particular, "would do well to remember to use the words 'please' and 'thank you' when asking other people for favours."

Justin Finch-Fletchley nodded reluctantly. "Quite right," he said to his fellow interrogators, and then he turned to me. "Miss Granger," he said politely, "could you please tell me who wrote me a letter yesterday evening?"

My lips twitched. "I'm afraid I can't, Mr. Finch-Fletchley," I told him gravely. "I promised her when I undertook to deliver it that nobody would learn her identity."

"You delivered it?!" Draco Malfoy burst out, staring at me.

I glanced down demurely, so that the boys wouldn't see the grin I couldn't suppress.

"I'm going to talk to you later," Harry hissed.

Okay, this was going far enough. "You know, if you'd care to write replies, I can... ensure they get to the right people," I offered. "That is, if you're interested."

"We're interested," Blaize assured me.

"Well, then," I said briskly. "Write your reply, give it to me and I'll deliver it. If you really want to meet your admirer, I suggest you set up a time and a place in your letter."

"Yeah, but, who is it?" Dean demanded.

I gave him my best 'I am smarter/tougher/quicker than you, don't mess with me' glare, and watched him wilt. "I suggest you ask her," I informed him icily, and turned back to my meal. The boys dispersed from behind me, and I took another bite of the roast chicken. What had been succulent was cardboard in my mouth, and rough to swallow.

Someone sat down beside me. Parvati. "Wow, Hermione, that was cool."

I glanced sideways at her. "You guys owe me," I hissed. "Malfoy and Zambini are bad enemies."

"Malfoy already hated you," she pointed out. "And who says they hate you, anyway?"

"Yes, but before, I was always just Potter's mudblood sidekick. Do you know how they got their letters?" I asked her rhetorically. "I sneaked into Slytherin House and put them in their dorm."

Parvati's mouth fell open. "You got into Slytherin House?"

I nodded. "Even if I'm not Slytherin Enemy Number One now, I will be when they realize that I have gotten in and gotten out without them noticing."

Parvati was silent for a moment, and then said, "D'you think you could do it again, with a camera?"

"PARVATI!" I hissed, and then saw her laughing.

"Oh, lighten up, Hermione," she said.

I'd felt really upset during that confrontation, and even though I'd blamed it on the Slyths, it really wasn't about them.

It was about the way Harry had looked at me.

During Charms, I thought about it. (Professor Flitwick was rather short with me when I didn't answer him immediately with the correct answer when he called on me. Well, I'm allowed to be imperfect every once in a while, aren't I?) But it wasn't until the end of the lesson, when Harry stood up to demonstrate his mastery of the Colouring Charm to the Professor, that it really hit me - why I'd been so reluctant to deliver Ginny's letter, and why Harry's reaction had upset me.

Oh no, I love Harry!

Harry grabbed my elbow as we left Care of Magical Creatures that afternoon, and steered me firmly to the library. "I need to talk to you," was the only thing he said.

He led me to one of the study nooks that the library was furnished with, and sat down roughly in one of the two chairs there. I rather more gently took the other. "I'm sorry I borrowed your Invisibility Cloak without asking," I offered. "I put it back afterwards."

"I know. I checked."

He was staring out the window at the Quidditch field. He must be wishing he was out there, I thought, apropos of nothing. He didn't say anything, and neither did I, but I could feel the hurt seeping out of him. Thinking hard, I could see no cause for it, so I decided to say something utterly banal and get it out in the open. "You're upset. Why? Did your secret admirer say something hurtful?"

He looked up at me. "You don't know?"

I lifted an eyebrow at him. "Of course I don't. I don't read other people's mail."

He looked out at the sunny field again, and muttered, almost too softly for me to hear, "I thought we were friends."

Reaching over, I took his hand in my own. It curled around mine, our fingers interweaving, as they always did. I felt a mild pang that our fingers did that which our hearts never would. "Of course we are. Why would you be worried about that?"

"You didn't write a letter," he said, almost sadly, out of nowhere.

"No," I replied. "I'm not brave enough."

"Brave enough?" he asked, sounding puzzled.

I shrugged, aware I was wearing a rueful smile. "Even if you don't put your name on it, declaring to someone that you love them, when they might say, 'Sorry, I don't feel the same,' is really scary. If I said that to - the boy I like - and he didn't like me back - and he doesn't - then I'd be really hurt. So it's easier for me not to declare at all, because that way I can still be - friendly with him." I'd almost said 'you', but I couldn't. Not to Harry. Besides, he was Ginny's, if he was anyone's.

The unwritten law of female solidarity: Thou shalt not steal another girl's boy. Ever. Even if he's the only one you want.

Harry looked over at me and lifted an eyebrow of his own. "Who is it, 'Mione?" he asked. His face and voice were carefully blank, the way they are when he's trying not to react to something.

"I just said that... he doesn't feel the same, Harry," I said, with a sigh. "There's no point in telling him, because, well, if he doesn't like me like that, then he doesn't." I smiled at him, and if the smile was a trifle forced, he was kind enough not to comment. "Besides, there's other boys out there, right? And I don't have to have a boyfriend to be happy."

We had neither of us released the other's hand. He glanced down at our interlaced fingers and then glanced up at me. For the first time in our friendship, I found his emerald eyes unreadable. They weren't empty, but I could not recognize the emotion there. Then he smiled, and the mystery in his eyes cleared to reveal resolve.

"'Mione," he smiled, "thanks."

"For what?" I asked, puzzled.

"Being my friend."

I blinked. "I'll always be your friend, Harry. No matter what." Even as it breaks my heart to watch you with Ginny. But as long as you're happy....

"I know," he said. And left the library.

While I was there, I decided to get started on our homework. (I say 'our' because I knew Ron and Harry would be desperately asking to look at mine later, the way they always did.) It wasn't until an hour later that it occurred to me....

I had told Harry I would always be his friend - but he had not told me the same.

I was again inundated with visitors at the dinner table that evening. All five of the Gryffindor boys handed me their replies as the meal started. Blaize Zambini strolled over casually to the Gryffindor table, silently handed me two letters, and left without a word. Terry Boot wandered over, ostensibly to chat to Harry and Dean, but he also handed me a note. Padma Patil was gossiping with her sister so much that I almost missed the note she slipped under my water goblet. That one I palmed over to Lavender when I passed her the bread rolls, and watched her slip it into her sleeve. She looked up at me, and I smiled at her. She smiled at me in return, and it was as if the sun was coming up in her face. And, finally, Justin Finch-Fletchley came up to me openly and handed me his letter as dinner was ending.

Now, if I knew my best friends - and after five years, I flattered myself that I could predict Harry and Ron to some extent - I was going to be followed, to see who I was going to deliver the letters to. So I openly walked up to the school Owlery.

I quickly inserted each letter into a blank envelope, wrote the girl's name on the front, and added "- from now on, it's probably best to use owls. Bill it to me - HG". Selecting eight otherwise unremarkable birds, I gave them the letters, which they firmly clamped in their beaks, slipped a few Knuts into each owl's moneypouch, and told them to deliver the letters to each girl's dormitory. I spoke as softly as I could (which was practically under my breath, as owls have very good hearing) and launched each bird off. Then I turned and grinned at my audience, who turned out to be Harry, Ron, Dean and Draco.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," I said politely, and went down to the Gryffindor common room.

It wasn't as restful as I had hoped. After ten minutes of Neville and Seamus' 'tactful' questioning ("Oh, come on, Hermione! Tell us!"), I had a splitting headache and I was more than ready for bed. I went upstairs and was halfway through getting ready for bed when I saw the plain envelope lying on my bed.

I sat down and opened the letter.

Dearest Hermione,

I'm not sure why I'm writing this rather than facing you - except, perhaps that I don't dare face you if you aren't happy with me for this. My courage fails me when facing you, the warrior queen who accepts every challenge.

But that's not all that you are. I've seen you weep with grief and pain, and smile with joy. I've heard your laugh as it ripples through the air like the peal of a golden bell. Your wisdom and your faith have brought your allies triumph against evil, and your beauty has brought you accolades from everyone.

You are honourable, faithful, beautiful, wise, kind and courageous, a queen in everything but name. I would give anything to openly be your sworn knight and for you to smile upon me, and for everyone to know that those smiles are not born from the kindness you show to everyone, but from love.

I love you, and I wish I had the courage to tell you that to your face. But for now, I simply stand back, watch, and remain

Your secret admirer.

I didn't sleep for quite some time after reading that.

The next morning, I know I had a dreamy smile on my face. Valentine's Day was on Saturday, and this was Thursday. That meant I had two days to work out who had written that letter.

I hadn't shown it to Parvati or Lavender. They would both collapse in sighs and analyze it to pieces. It wasn't too hard to hide it from them - Parvati was already penning her reply to Seamus' letter, and Lavender had a hope-filled smile on her face as she kept glancing at the trinket-box on her bedside table.

I have to admit I was noticing Lavender a lot more, since she had revealed her preferences. I think I was looking for evidence. Why hadn't I had any idea? But Lavender was as she had always been. She was a girl, who acted like a girl, who liked the things girls liked - but who also liked other girls. I shook my head. Lesbians had been saying this for years. Why did it take the knowledge that I was living with one to drive it into my head?

Harry and Ron were already at the table when I arrived for breakfast. Ron, as usual, immediately began begging me for a look at my Potions homework. Harry was hurriedly reading a textbook. He glanced up to say "Good morning," and I got a look at the title.

"'The Idylls of the King'?" I asked.

"We're reading it for Muggle Studies," Harry said.

"Oh," I said, intelligently. So, my secret admirer most likely did Muggle Studies. That immediately ruled out the Slyths - I mentally breathed a sigh of relief - and most of the Muggle-born students. Turning to Ron, I added, "No, Ron! How many times have we done this? Show me your work and I'll go over it for you!"

"Uhh...."

"He hasn't done it yet," Harry informed us from the depths of the adventure of Sir Cote de la Male Taille.

"Oh, Ron."

"Thanks, mate," Ron said sarcastically.

"You should know better than to try it with 'Mione," was Harry's response. "I never do."

"Yeah, but you -"

Harry slammed the book shut, cutting off Ron's words. "We'd better hurry, we'll be late. Ron, you can copy off my work - you know Snape never picks on you if he can pick on me."

I blinked at both of them, as Harry dragged Ron out of the Great Hall. Then I blinked harder. Harry and Ron, the human vacuum cleaners, had left half a sausage and a piece of toast, respectively, on their plates.

That afternoon, after classes, I went up to my dorm to get some books for homework, and saw Lavender sitting on her bed, looking at Padma's note. She was biting her lip and looking worried.

"What's wrong, Ven?" I asked quietly, sitting down beside her.

She glanced up. "Oh, hi, 'Mione," she replied. "I was just reading the note I got. I'm not sure what to say in reply...."

"Does Padma want to meet you?" I asked.

Her eyes looked frightened as she glanced up at me.

I smiled. "I do pay attention, you know. It's okay. Padma's not my type, but that just means we're not going to be jealous of each other, doesn't it?"

My joking tone worked, and she smiled shakily. "Sure? Ginny Weasley's cute...."

"Only if you're prepared to face Big Brothers George, Fred and Ron!"

We laughed, and Ven's mood lifted.

"But seriously," I finally said, "I think that you should. It would be cool if you two got together. Not to mention easier for those of us who like boys."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Easier?"

"Of course! If two of the prettiest girls at Hogwarts take themselves out of the competition, it automatically becomes easier for the rest of us."

She hit me with a pillow.

Later that evening, when I came up to get ready for bed, there was another letter on my bed. It was addressed in the same handwriting as my secret admirer's. Naturally, I tore it open immediately.

Dearest Hermione,

I ne'er was struck before that hour
    With love so sudden and so sweet.
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
    And stole my heart away complete.

My face turned pale, a deadly pale.
    My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked what could I ail
    My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face
    And took my eyesight quite away.
The trees and bushes round the place
    Seemed midnight at noonday.

I could not see a single thing,
    Words from my eyes did start.
They spoke as chords do from the string,
    And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter's choice
    Is love's bed always snow
She seemed to hear my silent voice
    Not love appeals to know.

I never saw so sweet a face
    As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling place
    And can return no more.

Will you meet me? If you will, wear a red ribbon in your hair tomorrow, and I will know to write to you again.

Your secret admirer.

I recognised the poem, of course - by a nineteenth century poet named John Clare. It was one of my favourites, mainly because of the 'Not love appears to know' line. The idea that true love, when it came upon me, would be entirely beyond my knowledge, was intriguing. And apparently right, when I thought of Harry....

Enough of that, I told myself. Harry is not and won't be yours. Here is someone who may very well be, if you give him a chance. Just because he's not Harry Potter doesn't mean you can't be happy with him.

Digging in my drawer, it took me a few minutes to find my one hair ribbon. I didn't usually wear ribbons, tying my hair back with hair elastics and bobby-pins instead. It was a bright crimson silk that Harry had given to me for my birthday six months before. I had worn it for a week afterwards, then washed it and had never bothered to start wearing it again. Six months of sitting in my drawer hadn't dirtied it, but it was sadly crushed. I put it between two of my heaviest texts in an effort to flatten out some of the creases before the next morning, and went to bed.

In the morning, it lay on my bedside table, neatly ironed. Obviously a house-elf had spotted it and taken it upon themselves to iron it for me.

I have a difficult relationship with house-elves. On the one hand, they are clearly an oppressed minority, bound to serve humans, without receiving anything beyond food and board for their devoted service, without any rights. On the other, they like it, and they greet efforts to encourage them to earn money for themselves, or freedom, or any kind of rights, with bewilderment at best and hostility at worst.

I maintain, as I always have, that the keeping of slaves is morally wrong and that we shouldn't do this to the house-elves... but when the kitchens and laundries here are run by house-elves, what can I do? I certainly won't be having a house-elf when I leave, that's for sure... not without paying her proper wages and giving her a day off a week, at least, anyway.

'Justice for all' is a mockery unless we apply it evenly, to ourselves and to house-elves and to giants too. Ron doesn't see that but I think Harry might be starting to. I hope, anyway.

I tied the ribbon in my hair and went down to breakfast.

It was the afternoon before Valentine's Day, and the Griffindor common room was all but deserted. I think everyone was in the library, doing their homework, in what must have been a first for a Friday afternoon. Nobody wanted to be stuck doing an assignment on Valentine's Day. I myself was doing my Arithmancy work - but that's not unusual for me. I always do my extra-credit work on Saturdays.

I was the only fifth-year sitting in the common room. The other seven were all off... elsewhere. Meeting up with secret admirers, I hoped.

I still hadn't made any progress with mine. Apart from a few comments on how well the ribbon suited me (from Ron and Harry - I'd finally managed to din into their boy-brains that 'girls like compliments'), I hadn't seen any of the boys taking Muggle Studies looking at me.

That was the point at which Ginny Weasley came barrelling into the common room, on the verge of tears. A quick glance around confirmed that there was nobody else from her year there, so I would have to be the one to help. I stood up, put an arm around her shoulders, and guided her to the fourth-years room.

Sitting her down on her bed, I pulled the curtains closed even though we were the only ones in the room. "Now, Ginny, tell me -" I started, but then she flung herself into my arms in a barrage of tears.

There's nothing that points out how absolutely useless you are quite like patting somebody on the back, muttering "'sokay, 'sokay," while they soak your blouse and you have absolutely no freaking idea what just happened.

Finally, Ginny sat up and wiped her eyes. She took a deep breath, and blurted out, "He - he likes someone else!" before dissolving again.

"Oh," I said, intelligently, and then, "oh, Ginny, I'm sorry." I couldn't think of anything else to say. Platitudes mean nothing. Didn't I know that, all too well?

"You're not going to say something like, 'there's plenty more fish in the sea'?" a muffled voice asked from my midriff.

Brushing a hand over her long copper braid, I replied, "Who cares about all the other fish when the sea bass you wanted just slipped out of your net?"

A pair of red-rimmed brown eyes turned to look up at me. I looked down, and I knew she could see that I, too, had watched that one particular fish swim away from me. "Does it get easier?" she asked.

"I hope so," I said honestly.

I'll admit I was hoping a note from my secret admirer had arrived when I entered the fifth-year girls' dorm. Ginny had cried more, partly for me, and I'd cried a bit, mostly for her. She'd jumped off the cliff and crashed and burned. Still, she'd had the courage to jump, which I did not. And Harry had his eye on someone else.

What I didn't expect was the sound of soft weeping.

Ven was lying on her bed, crying. It wasn't happy-crying, or hurt-crying, but deep, bone-jarring my-heart-is-broken sobs.

Oh, dear. Ven had been planning to meet Padma this afternoon, so if she was up here crying now, that meant... oh, dear.

I sat down beside her, and because this had seemed to work on Ginny, began to stroke Lavender's soft, dark-blonde hair. She looked up at me, and I bent over to hug her. "Oh, Ven," I said softly. "It didn't go well, did it?"

She shook her head, and we stayed in that pose for a few minutes. Then my back started to seriously protest, and I released her to sit up straight again. "Did she say... anything?" I asked cautiously. If there's one thing being a Muggleborn teaches you, it's that the Wizarding world can be just as if not more blindly prejudiced than the Muggle world.

"Just - just that - that she was sorry, she liked boys, and - and - that she'd expected a - a boy...." The amount of venom she put into the word 'boy' was quite startling.

I patted her again. "Well, most of us do," I pointed out reasonably. "Just because you're special doesn't mean the rest of us are." I was quite proud of that one. Platitudes may mean nothing, but a gentle truth sometimes helps.

This was apparently not one of those times, because Ven's face screwed up into another sob, flinging herself down as she started to cry again. I began patting her shoulder.

I really don't handle emotions too well. Ginny had cried herself out, but I had a secret suspicion she had handled Harry's rejection so well because she hadn't really believed she'd had a chance in the first place. But Padma had never really shown interest in boys before, so Ven had had every reason to believe she might have a chance.

"Go away, 'Mione," Lavender's muffled voice came from the pillow. "Just go away."

I stood up, stepped back, and pulled the curtains around Ven's bed closed. I stood looking at them for a while, and Parvati came in.

"Hey, 'Mion- what's up?"

"Ven went to meet her crush this afternoon, and they told her they were expecting someone else, so...."

Parvati's face, bright with her own happiness, paled with sorrow for her best friend. "Oh, no, poor Ven...."

"I don't know what to do," I confessed. "She's just crying.... I don't know what to say, or how to help."

Parvati smiled at me. "'Sokay, 'Mione," she said soothingly, patting my shoulder. "Sometimes you can't."

I frowned. "I don't accept that," I said flatly. "I can't accept that there's no way to help someone who's hurting."

She shrugged. "I guess you wouldn't be you if you could," she commented, pushed aside the curtains, and slipped into Ven's sanctum.

I guess Parvati was better with emotions than I was, because she didn't get thrown out. I stood there and let myself be jealous for about a minute, and then shrugged. I would have to try to learn how to do this sort of thing myself.

After all these storms of emotion, it was a bit of an anticlimax to see that yes, my secret admirer had sent me a third note. I pulled the curtains around my own bed, because somehow I didn't think it would be a good idea for Parvati or Ven to poke their heads out and see me.

Dearest Hermione,

My beloved's eyes are nothing like the sun;
    Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
    If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
    But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
    Than in the breath that from my beloved reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
    That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
    My beloved, when she walks, treads on the ground.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
    As any she belied with false compare.

If you will, meet me at the rock on the shore of the lake at 7pm tomorrow night, after dinner. And I hope that there, if you choose, I will cease to be your secret admirer, and become simply

Yours.

I sat there for a good five minutes, simply feeling happily gooshy. My secret admirer certainly knew how to choose his words. Not the poem - that was a sonnet by William Shakespeare. I'd always liked it, for it enumerated his mistress' failings, and then declared that he loved her anyway. My admirer had changed 'mistress' to 'beloved', but it was still that poem. I felt much better about him, after reading it. I am not perfect, after all, and I just wouldn't be comfortable with someone who thought I was.

No, it was that last sentence that turned me to semisolid mush. 'And I hope that there, if you choose, I will cease to be your secret admirer, and become simply Yours.'

The idea that there was someone out there who wanted to be mine was quite breathtaking. He was taller than me, of course, all the boys in our year were, but he wouldn't be too tall, and he'd have a roguish, little-boy smile, and messy dark hair, and....

Okay, stop right there, I told myself. I read over the letter again, picturing Draco Malfoy as I did. Was I as closed to the idea of my secret admirer being someone other than my secret crush as Padma Patil had been?

Apparently I was, for the idea of Draco penning these delicate, romantic words left me quite cold. And kind of shivery with it. Not the good shivers, either.

I went down to dinner after a while. Ven and Parvati had headed down a little ahead of me; I saw them both already seated when I entered the Great Hall.

I could see almost immediately that matters had moved apace in the romance department since lunch, or even the end of class.

As I already knew, Harry had met Ginny, and Lavender had met Padma, neither pair ending in success. However, I could see that they weren't the only pairs to attempt a speedy outcome - Pansy Parkinson and Terry Boot were sitting together at one end of the Ravenclaw table. I already knew Parvati and Seamus had been a successful pairing, so, so far Cupid Hermione was doing fifty-fifty. No matter how much I was trying to avoid thinking about one of the couples.

However, my success rate took a sharp nosedive when Neville came up to the table. He looked positively scared, and I had a fairly good idea why. He glanced over at me, and I immediately piled some chicken and mashed potatoes on a plate and handed it to him.

That's my automatic reaction when dealing with boys, I think. When they're upset, feed them. Hey, don't knock what works.

"She wasn't who you were expecting, was she," I said, when he had taken a few bites and calmed down a bit. I didn't make it a question, so he wouldn't feel the need to answer.

Neville looked up at me. "You knew! Why did you give me the message, if you knew?"

I bit my lip as I thought about my answer. "Because I could have been wrong. You might have liked her. And because you're cute and nice and it's not really surprising a girl could have a crush on you." I looked around at the ring of shocked Gryffindor faces around us. "What? He is," I said defensively.

"Do you like Neville, 'Mione?" Ron asked into the hush.

I glared at him. "No, I don't have a crush on Neville," I replied haughtily, "but he's our friend and I hope that I'm not blind."

Standing up, I spoke softly, so only Ron and Harry, on either side of me, would hear. "I'm going back to the common room, all right?" Without waiting for an answer, I stood and left the Great Hall.

Walking past a classroom that should have been empty, I heard a soft moan. I've always been far more curious than was good for me, so I peeped in the door, and regretted it.

Crabbe and Goyle had definitely changed over the years. When we were twelve, they had been tall and bulky and inclined to chubbiness. Now we were fifteen, their muscles had caught up to their frames, and if they'd been muggles, any soccer or football coach worth his salt would have been fighting tooth and nail to get them on his team. The training regimen of Quidditch (they were the Slytherin reserve beaters) had definitely been very good for them. I'd never date them, but I had no doubts some girls would, if the boys were interested... which it now appeared they weren't.

Crabbe gasped again, as Goyle kissed the side of his neck, and I very quickly withdrew and ran back to Gryffindor Tower.

There really are some things it is better not to see.

The next morning was Valentine's Day, and it showed. We had couples pairing up all over the Great Hall. The first and second years weren't pairing up quite so much, but third and fourth years were exchanging looks and smiles, while fifth, sixth and seventh years were practically nothing but pairs - except, of course, for the pool of unattached souls who had set their hearts on someone unattainable, someone already paired up, or whose hearts remained untouched. The latter group was the largest, or so it claimed. I'm fairly sure it was made up more of those who, like me, were in the first or second group but for their pride's sake claimed the third. Letting them was the kindest thing to do.

Of course, that circle didn't include Lisa Turpin, Hannah Abbot or Mandy Brocklehurst. I saw that each had managed to successfully woo her target. Draco Malfoy was having a lively conversation with Lisa, who was clearly giving as good as she got, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Mandy were sappily staring at each other over a stack of pancakes, and Hannah had blushed charmingly as Blaize Zambini had collected her from the Hufflepuff table and borne her off to parts unknown, undoubtedly for a heavy snogging session. What else is Valentine's Day for?

Susan Bones didn't come down to breakfast that morning. Ron did, and his face was a thundercloud. I looked over at Harry.

"He met his secret admirer last night," Harry explained. "He came back like that."

"Oh," I said. "I guess he doesn't like Susan."

Harry shrugged. "I think he still has a crush on Padma Patil," he said thoughtfully. "He was sure the letter was from her. So it was from someone else?"

"Yes," I sighed, looking over at his strong profile. Who was it who said, 'Life is a game of broken hearts'? It looked like they were more right than they knew.

My feet crunched on the gravel of the path as I walked to the big rock on the lakeshore that my admirer had chosen as our rendezvous point. I was early, but I felt the need to think.

Dinner had been harder than breakfast - the day had gone on as it had begun, which was hardly a surprise, and I had kept almost tripping over courting couples all day. My funk had not been lightened by the discovery, just before dinner, of one such couple made up of Sallyanne Perks and Dean Thomas. The last of my Griffindor yearmates had sorted out his love life, more or less successfully. I was too busy thinking about the decision I was about to make.

There's so many things that poets and songwriters have said about love over the years. They've said that it's great, and they've said it sucks big time. They say it's easy and they say it's hard. One thing, however, everybody appears to agree on: it makes utterly no sense whatsoever.

It made utterly no sense that Crabbe and Goyle were sitting in that deserted classroom, cheerfully making googly eyes at each other, while Padma and Lavender were never to be. There was no logical reason for the fact that while Ron didn't like Susan, Terry Boot and Pansy Parkinson, of all people, were wandering around hand in hand.

And it was utterly illogical that I was sitting here on a hard, cold rock, watching the silver confetti rain down onto the snow surrounding it.

Confetti?

I held out a hand and caught some of the silver paper shapes. They wriggled on my palm, the silver squiggles reshaping themselves into letters which arranged themselves into words.

'Will you be my lady?'

I bit my lip. Was I prepared for this?

No. But I won't ever be.

Does it matter that he isn't Harry?

And finally I let that dream go.  No.

"Yes."

"Then won't you turn around, my lady, and smile at me?"

I dropped the confetti as I felt my eyes widen and my mouth fall open. I knew that voice. Turning around, I saw the one person behind me that I'd never expected. "... Harry?"

He was blushing, but his deep emerald eyes were glowing, and that roguish, little-boy smile was tugging at the corners of his lips. "Mmhmm," he nodded. "It's me.... You're not smiling, my lady Hermione."

I let my startled happiness begin to bubble up, and my lips curve in the smile I could no longer repress. Slipping down off the cold chunk of basalt, I walked over to him, slowly and deliberately, and equally slowly, giving him ample time to evade me, started to wrap him in a hug. I didn't get to finish, because no sooner had I moved into arms' reach than he pulled me into a tight embrace.

We stood there, arms pulling the other's body in almost too close to breathe. I don't know who initiated the kiss - I tilted my face up as he tilted his down, and suddenly our lips were brushing, and I couldn't stop because this was all I wanted. Harry's lips were warm and slightly salty against my own, and I could have fed off him forever.

Oxygen? When Harry's around?

But eventually air did become an issue (darnit) and we released each other's lips. I sighed and rested my head against his chest. The snow had begun to fall again, but I barely noticed. What hold had cold over me, in Harry's arms?

"I never thought this would happen, you know," I said, conversationally. "I never thought you felt like this about me too."

He chuckled. "And here I thought I was being painfully obvious," he said.

"I have learnt," I said dryly, "that in matters of the heart, I am not nearly as wise as I could be." I tilted my head up at him, at that wildly, wonderfully messy hair, those beautiful clear green eyes, those sweet lips. "In fact, I think I need a study partner, if you're interested...."

"I'm interested," he grinned. "I'd love to assist you in your studies." And then he bent to kiss me again.

"I warn you," I said, as we came up for air, "I'm practically a complete dunce. I'm going to need a lot of tutoring."

His only response was a laugh, and another soul-burning kiss... and another....

Everyone says someone like me should hate Valentine's Day. They say I should be annoyed at it, or upset, or jealous of all the other girls.

Well, everyone's got it upside-down. Because Valentine's Day is the day I was caught by Harry Potter.