Reflections on the Impossible

Sometimes I just get a feeling, you know? Like the kind that just kind of swoops down on you and before you know it you're noticing things you normally don't notice. The curve of black eyelashes on his cheek when he's fallen asleep yet again in the common room, or the way he always sleeps in the same position, no matter where he's decided to plant himself. Arm one, thrown over forehead, bringing glasses to precarious position on end of nose. Arm two, thrown over stomach, concealing steady rise and fall of breathing. And how is it that he's always the last to leave the common room at night, and the first there in the morning?

Well, as is usually the case, I have an answer to my own question. Harry has nightmares. Not your typical run of the mill nightmares, like OWLs or NEWTs or any of that bosh. No I mean, blood curdling, death filled, I never wish to sleep again nightmares. The kind that make him get that little-boy-lost look…the kind that make you want to crush you to him and never let him go. To tell him that you'll make it all better…to kiss away his fears and… But wait. See, therein lies the problem.

I've never been one to burden others with my problems. Truthfully, most of my problems are solvable with a good trip to the library. But to this day, I've never, EVER been able to find a book on how to stop loving your best friend. I know…I've just shocked you. I shocked myself truthfully the day I found out…or rather, the day I took my nose out of a book long enough to notice. You see, Harry and Ron were banging on about, what else, Quidditch, and I, as always, kept finding pauses in their conversation to nag them about studying. (Yes I know I nag them, but they'd never get anything done if I didn't.) They were, of course, arguing about nothing important as best friends are wont to do when you spend practically every waking hour together.

Harry was practically trying to force Ron to understand that it would be better, in a setting where the snitch had been spotted low to the ground, to perform a Parkin's Pince maneuver. Ron was arguing just as admirably that it would be much better to make a Reverse Pass, and make it result in a Plumpton Pass, in which the seeker catches the snitch up his sleeve. Harry of course rebutted with the fact that Patrick Plumpton, who'd made that move famous in the first place, had done it by complete mistake, and Ron replied that that wasn't true, and that Patrick was of course, just that brilliant. (Why I remember this conversation has completely to do with the fact that it led me to my feelings for Harry, and absolutely nothing else, you understand.)

So there I was, thinking of only when I might yet again interject the need for them to crack open the books, when Harry did the most amazing thing. He let Ron win.

You see, even though I don't much care for Quidditch, I have, by all accounts read up on it. (I know, I know. But I like to know things. Ron says I'm obsessed with knowledge. But how can you be obsessed with knowledge? I ask you...)

Anyhow, I knew that Harry was right. And by the slight wink and nod he gave me moments later when Ron wasn't looking (which by the way sent me into fits of hyperventilating), I knew that Harry knew it too. But that's just Harry. He loves his friends more than being right, and he'd also conceeded to me on more than one occasion that sometimes, he just wanted Ron to feel important. To feel like he made a contribution to something...to feel like he was smart, and he mattered. In that instant, I knew that this was one of those times.

Now you may be saying to yourself, but that's so insignificant! Surely he's done something like that before! How is it that you've just noticed?

Well, ok. In my own defense, and at the same time, in my own stupidity, I, Hermione Granger, sometimes miss things. Oh not the sort of knowledge that comes from books. Academically I'm top of our class and fully expect to make Head Girl next year. No, I mean in matters of the heart. While I, certainly have loads of book knowledge, and from what others tell me, a lot of common sense, even where other's feelings are concerned, I guess I rarely take the same amount of time studying my own.

And here's the part where I'm going to stop sounding so analytical about it all, and fall completely apart. I hope you're prepared.

So now, I'm noticing everything about him. Oh, I don't just mean his selflessness, or his hero complex, or the way he constantly looks out for Ron and I.

I mean the way his eyes reflect a mixture of orange and gold, mixed with the forest green when he's sitting on the common room couch with Ron and I. The way when he truly smiles, I can see a slight dimple in his left cheek. The way, no matter how hard he tries his hair will always look unkempt and messy. (Which, by the way, I find so bloody appealing and sexy that I sometimes have to restrain myself from crawling over Ron to tackle him to the couch and snog him lifeless. Shocking, I know.)

The way he chews on the left side of his bottom lip when he's concentrating on something, (which makes that damn distracting dimple stand out). The way his face looks eerily dangerous when he faces Voldemort, the times I've seen him cry, and pour out his heart to me, holding nothing back. The way he smells and feels when we dance together, his chin resting on the top of my head just to prove that he's taller than me now...(by Merlin how did I ever not notice all of that?)

And by far, the most distracting thing of all, the way he looks after a Quidditch game. I know, that seems so silly, but everything about him when he's been on that broom somehow intensifies. He's all happiness and light, and smells like he's just ridden the back of the horizon and torn the wind in half and taken charge of the clouds and beaten life at it's own game and by Merlin didn't he deserve it? As far as I'm concerned he deserves all the happiness that life can squeeze out of itself and fall on him like rain.

And therein lies my biggest problem. Because now, I want to be the one life uses to give all of it to him.

Now, perfect Hermione Granger, the girl who's interminably organized, the girl who has everything planned out, the girl who can figure out anything...Is a complete mess.

One look and I feel my knees beginning to shake and my heart pounding out of my chest and my whole being melting into sloppy goo, and by Merlin how long has he been that tall and filled out? Believe me, I'm not the first, or the last to notice either. While Ron, I must admit has had his fair share of girl admirers, and frequently goes through them like pairs of underwear, all I seem to see is Harry. He's not one to go on conquests like Ron, but he's certainly not blind to the effect he's had on the female population at Hogwarts. I mean by Merlin, even Madame Pince, our resident librarian Nazi, has been seen on more than one occasion granting Harry permission to use the restricted section faster than you can say getalifehe'sonlysixteenandDOstopdrooling.

Ok to be fair to myself, I haven't been exactly dateless either, but I know those evil looks Harry gives every one of my dates are just the brotherly complex he has for me. I mean, I know in his eyes, I'm no different than Ginny. Ron says Harry never has the same reaction when someone shows up to take Ginny out, but I know he's just trying to be sweet.

Anyway, I've written all of this out, dear diary, because I could never, in a million years tell Harry how I feel. It would ruin everything, especially since I know he doesn't feel the same way, and I couldn't ever tell him and risk losing what we have.

Diary, he's my best friend, my biggest confidant, handsome, brave, smart, a goof, somewhat clumsy at times, a troublemaker...and I love him with all my heart. So what can I do but suffer in silence? I love him too much to ever make things awkward between us.

He's lovely, inside and out.

He's beautiful.

And he's not mine.

Love, Hermione