Over the years, I've called you many things: Granger, know-it-all, filthy little mudblood... but just when was it that my mind had begun to call you my love? Was it a subconscious thought when I had first met you on that train; my compartment door opened to reveal you standing there, asking if I had seen Longbottom's toad? A polite smile graced your face even though I sneered out a "no" in response to you. Was it then? Or was it fourth year? What a beauty you were at the Yule Ball. The periwinkle dress complemented you so well; I was utterly in awe watching you walk down those steps; Pansy had to physically turn my chin to face her again. Had I fallen at the sight of your beauty? A tale as old as time, how cliché. The metaphorical beast to your beauty; that's undoubtedly what Witch Weekly would have called me - especially after the war.
No, that's when I first realized my infatuation with you. Fifth year was the year of acting. I had acted upon it: I sent you a bouquet of flowers - with an unsigned note. I had sent you letters - also unsigned. I had never planned to reveal myself to you, but writing it all down anonymously made me feel better. Your face always had such a pretty flush whenever I saw you reading them in the library. I always sat a couple of tables away, just far enough to be able to see you. I did the same sixth year; it made me feel better to see you. Such a horrid year that was, so much pressure I had felt ill. But you always managed to cheer me up by doing absolutely nothing but being in the same vicinity as me. But even then, I hadn't realized my love for you, just the infatuation.
Perhaps it was seventh year, the proper start of the war, and you hadn't returned. I missed your presence greatly; I'd never admit it to anyone, though. Little Miss Know-It-All was no longer there to catch my attention during class; I hadn't realized in the earlier years that you managed to do so, not because I found you unbearable, but because I had a horrid schoolyard crush. No, it wasn't then, either. No, I know exactly when it was. If only I had realized it sooner. Fate always loved playing games; no prank of Peeves could ever match up to the consummate cruelty of fate's plans. Wonder if Trelawney ever saw it coming? I always did hate divination, although you absolutely abhorred it. There you laid: screaming in my family's drawing room as my aunt carved the wretched word into your skin. My stomach had dropped the moment I had first seen you in my aunt's evil grasp, but nothing compared to what I felt watching that scene. I wanted to scream, sob, anything to get my aunt, no, Bellatrix, to stop. But your eyes had met with mine; I could see it then: "you'll only get hurt if you try to stop it." Always so selfless, even in such a horrible situation.
I knew it then, as I realized I would've switched places with you in a heartbeat had it been allowed. I knew it then, when silent tears had been streaming down my face, and I hastily had to wipe them away to avoid being given the Cruciatus later on. I knew it then when you had met my eyes and mouthed: "Draco, I always loved you too." My heart stopped. You had known it was me all along. And then it all happened so quickly. A scream tore through my last bit of self-control when the cursed dagger had been plunged through your chest. My arm ripped itself from my mother's grasp as she tried to pull me back. I ran forward before dropping next to your body. Accidental magic had flung Bellatrix backward during my outburst, but I didn't care. My love, my lover that never got to be, was gone. I sobbed. Distantly, I could hear my parents pleading for me to get up, to leave you. It was an out-of-body experience, yet at the same time, all too physically overwhelming for me to try and convince myself it wasn't real. My senses were overwhelmed: the coppery scent of your blood, the feel of your jacket's fabric where my hands had grasped, and the sight of red - red all over, were the only things I could focus on. Your blood, as red as mine, was all over my hands. I felt arms try to pull me back, and another burst of accidental magic had thrown the figure backward. None of it mattered anymore. You were dead. The Order, the future of the Wizarding World, Voldemort, sod it all. How could you have died? Why then? Why when I had finally realized that I was in love? It hurt. Almost as if I had been stabbed instead; how I wish it actually was me. I later realized I had never once called you by your first name in the previous years either, but at that moment, it hadn't even registered that I was sobbing it. Over and over: "Hermione, Hermione."
Now here I stand, at your grave, saying goodbye to a love that never got its happy ending. A boy and girl that never got their happy ending. I would never move on from you; a plain fact. Probably a pathetic one to outsiders looking in; I mean, you weren't even mine to love openly... never had the chance to make it official. But I knew, especially now, that I would never love another as much as I loved you. Even if my realization of it had come late, my love was long-standing. Years and years of loving you under the guise of hating you. It's true: there really is a thin line between loving and hating. So finally I say: "Goodbye, my almost lover."