Maybe

Incredibly short chapter to begin with, before I think of how to continue into the next chapter… this story will only be short, I guarantee you.

I think that maybe I always knew. Maybe I always knew that it would all come down to this. To a situation I feel bound to, to something that I can't ignore… to something that's been haunting the back of my mind for months. Perhaps even years. Perhaps from the very first time I walked on to the Hogwarts express 6 years ago…

I guess it all started when I saw him for the first time. I know we weren't friends to start with, but now I think that maybe that didn't adversely affect the development in our relationship at all. Maybe it strengthened it. Maybe it made us realise that time is truly well spent when it's spent together. Maybe this, maybe that… It all started when I saw him. When I opened that door and laid eyes upon those two, scrawny boys sitting across from each other as the countryside rolled past behind them through the window, I knew at once. Or, at least, the thought entered my mind. It probably shrunk itself back to the depths of my mind, where I wasn't to find it until it had grown so much, like a cancer, that the tumour of that thought was too hard to ignore.

That thought… the one that has been plaguing me ever since Professor Dumbledore announced the Deatheater attacks and the need for retaliation. Ever since before then, when I was told about the prophecy.

To kill or to be killed…

What was I mean to think about that? The boy, no, man, who has been a part of my life for almost half of it, has to be murdered, or to become a murderer. He must slaughter, or be slaughtered. Commit a crime… or be on the receiving end of one.

However it goes… Harry Potter will always be a victim. A victim of pain, suffering, loss, change, evil… he will always be a victim of his own demise. I just wish… that it couldn't happen. Why, you ask? Not only is this man my best friend - over Ron, over anyone else, over the books I immerse myself in, in the hope of finding some better, more true, place - but he is the man I love.

The man I've loved since I was eleven years old.

I couldn't help it. The moment I saw him, I knew there was something about him. Since that moment, we've spent almost seven years living in close quarters, laughing, joking and playing with each other, forming relationships, being educated, helping and supporting each other, being there for one another. I can't imagine a time when I've not been there for Harry; a time when my heart isn't praying that he is safe. I can't imagine not being at his side, not being able to lean in to his warm embrace, physically or emotionally, or not being able to see those eyes change with his amazing tirade of emotions.

I think that Harry's eyes were my undoing. I know, now, that I've had these feelings for him for years, but last year they came to the surface, wrapped around me and stung me like the Portuguese Man O'war did when I was on holiday in Australia when I was ten. I was sitting in the common room; it was just me and him, sitting quietly. He was staring absent-mindedly in to the fire and I was curled up on a plump armchair, losing myself to the world Jane Austen had presented to me. I'm not all non-fiction, you know. He looked over at me and smiled - a half smile, a smile that said “I'll have to enjoy this while I can”. I knew he was thinking about the challenge that would soon confront him, about Sirius, about what Dumbledore had said, about losing the people he loved.

So I replaced my bookmark in my book, lifted myself off my chair and almost crept to his side on the settee. I laid my hand over his and he turned to look at me, and at that time - it hit me. The mix of emerald, forest hue, grass, and burning copper sulphate - it all swirled in his eyes, betraying his hidden feelings, and my own heart. It hit me so hard that I couldn't move. For fear, for change, for desperation. I almost cried - not because the idea of loving Harry repulsed me, but because I hadn't realised it sooner.

Harry saw the tears in my eyes. “Hermione” he had whispered, ever so softly, lifting a thumb to brush a stray tear from my cheek.

And all I could do was stare at him. Why? Why do I love him? I can't give one concise reason… he means everything to me. At that moment, I felt vulnerable. Vulnerable to myself, more than to him. But when his tears started to form, I realised they weren't for me. They never would be. They were for his mother, his father, for Sirius and for Remus, for Dumbledore and for Hogwarts, for the weight of the entire world burdened on his shoulders, for him to carry by himself. He couldn't lose any more of those close to him, that would cause him to self-destruct. The boy who lived had become the boy who pretended to live. This wasn't living, this was… existing. I knew that Harry wouldn't ever be happy until the evil had gone. Until he had changed… something.

And, now, a year after my realisation, Harry still doesn't know how I feel. In two days time he is going to meet Voldemort, to defeat him - and I say defeat instead of try to defeat, because I have enough faith in Harry that he will leave someone dear to him victorious - and he doesn't know how I feel. I need to let him know… but what if he doesn't reciprocate my feelings? That would cause more heartache to me than having him not know. So, on the eve of the day before, I am at a loss. Tomorrow Harry doesn't have to do anything… Dumbledore has been talking to him, training him - whatever they do while locked in that office of his all day - for the past two weeks, but tomorrow he is free. Possibly for one last day… but I don't want to think about that. I don't know what to think. What if he doesn't come back?

I think he needs to know how I feel about him. About our friendship. Because it's stretched beyond a friendship now… I'm emotionally dependent on him being safe, on him being happy.

I'm in love with Harry Potter.

Tomorrow, he'll know.

To be continued…. Soon? Tell me.