She's not perfect to everyone else.

To everyone else she's the third-wheel of the infamous Golden Trio, the geek, the mudblood. But she's not to me.

To me, she's perfect.

I love her hair, her eyes, her smile. I love how emotional she is, the hugs, the kisses on the cheek. I love every little thing about her. I love the way she "Oooh, Harry"'s me until I think I can't stand it anymore.

But I can't tell her. If I tell her, I'll lose her too. It's better to distance myself from everyone, to keep them safe. I can tell her after Voldemort's defeated, once it won't harm her.

Who am I fooling? By then, she'll be married to someone else, probably have kids. But it doesn't matter, as long as she's safe. Besides, why would she ever like me? She's perfect, and I'm just Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

He's perfect to everyone else.

To everyone else he's the Boy Who Lived, the savior, the conqueror. The only hope for worlds both wizard and Muggle. But he's not to me.

To me, he's just him.

I love his messy hair, his sparkling green eyes, his wonderful smile. I love the way that he always worries about me, even when I'm not in danger. I love how cool and collected he is, how he rarely ever breaks a sweat. I love everything about him.

So I need to tell him. But every time I try, it comes out as something else, or I'm interrupted. But I must keep trying. I'll tell him someday.

I need to, before he's married and has children and has forgotten all about me. But he'll say that he just likes me as a friend, and that he's terribly sorry. Why would he say otherwise? After all, he's him, and I'm just Hermione Granger, bookworm extraordinaire.