Author's Note: It's my first time writing this particular pairing. Please, be gentle.
Disclaimer: It's not really mine, it's Rowling's. (I mean, look at the liberties I've taken. Wizarding psychiatry? Really?)

Let me not mar that perfect dream
By an auroral stain,
But so adjust my daily night
That it will come again.

Emily Dickinson

She did not expect unrequited love to be this painless.

After all the books she had read, after all the words she had absorbed that spoke of pangs and aches and dizziness, she was puzzled by her lack of mental anguish or injury. The only marked difference in her disposition was an increase in her overall happiness. In fact, she might go so far as to say she felt better than she ever had before – and she did not understand how this could be so.

It started in her fifth year at Hogwarts.

It completely blindsided her.

When she had first discovered her illicit feelings for Professor Snape, she had been properly horrified. This was a man whose praise was, to her, as coveted as it was unattainable, a man whose single quirked eyebrow could frighten even the hardiest of seventh years. And yet, he was the man she secretly adored. To a girl like her, whose world was governed by logic, this situation seemed preposterous. How could she be infatuated with a man like him? He had no physically redeeming qualities, though she supposed his eyes could be considered "mysterious" if one was being particularly charitable. His behaviour was governed by maliciousness and malevolence, with no smidgen of empathy to temper it. He was unjust, blatantly prejudiced, and the utter personification of a childhood bully – a bully blessed with intellect, that is. And he wielded that intelligence with a sharpened tongue that left no student unscathed. She was at a loss to figure what about this man, exactly, drew her to him.

So she did what she did best: she researched. For weeks, she looked through books of psychiatry (although she had to admit that wizarding psychiatry was vastly outdated and completely obsolete) and analyzed every single thought about him that tended to pop into her head. She soon found out that nothing particularly made sense about the situation.

Soon, she became flustered around him, no longer in possession of that cool confidence she had wielded so instinctually in his class, and it got to the point where she was so terrified of him discovering the crush she harboured, that she had nearly withdrawn entirely from her friends due to the stress of bottling it up.

And then understanding came, a breath of relief that allowed her shoulders to lose their tension and her mind to finally clear.

She realized her emotions were of the purest intentions, and as such, did not come across as crass – a trait he was sure to pick up on and ridicule. No, because her feelings were so much more innocent, immature and – after much introspection – a lot less evident than she had once thought, he was likely to never pick up on them, because it was doubtful he could recognize pure juvenile affection, even if it hit him upside the head.

Most importantly, it was not a love of any sexual nature.

She did not lust after him – did not her logical assessment of his physique prove that? She did not ever imagine herself with him in the future, nor did she drown in illusions of eventual bliss. Her dreams, she was happy to discover, were empty of his hooked nose, or his ever-present sneer. She simply hoped to see him happy one day, and that desire soon turned into a romantic fixation, that she soon realized was a crush.

In her daydreams, she cast him in roles he could never fulfil: those of the romantic saviour, or the spurned lover questing for someone to love him anew, but never did she cast herself opposite him.

Hers, she figured, was a crush of authority, and admiration. She valued his knowledge, his wit, and his dedication to even the most minute occupation… or the most immature occupation, like unleashing his sharp tongue upon her fellow hapless Gryffindors.

She was in the library when she saw him one day, months after she had dissected and compartmentalized the crush she had on him. Upon viewing him, her heart sped up, and her fingers clenched the spine of the book she was holding. She did not realize she was holding her breath, not until she started coughing. Panicked, she hid behind a shelf, the book held tight to her body. She was sure her heart might beat straight out of her chest, so great was her exhilaration and fear.

He was here!

In her territory!

On his own initiative!

Quietly, she peeked around the bookshelf, her eyes half-hidden in her curls. A rustle of fabric sounded to her far right, and she nearly squeaked before once again pressing herself back against the strong wood. It seemed he had not left.

It was then that she realized no one would comment if she coincidently started going to the library at the same time everyday.

And she was right. No one did.

After a few weeks, as her feelings bloomed, she began to look at her situation more objectively. She had placed him on a pedestal, and doing anything that might give him the opportunity to take himself down from this pedestal – such as speaking to him outside of class and hearing his malicious opinions, or trying to get closer to him and being exposed to additional vitriol – would tarnish her image of him forever.

"Not that I would be able to "socialise" with him. The man is as curmudgeonly as they come," she mused to herself one day in potions class.

"Daydreaming, Miss Granger?" the man being mused upon snapped at her.

"No, sir," she replied hastily. And there ended that train of thought.

After a full month of infatuation, Hermione was tired. Not heartsick, but tired. She was tired of nearly jumping out of her skin whenever Snape passed by her in class – a reaction she was sure he noticed, but as it was probably normal to him by now, did not comment on. She was tired from the late nights she spent in contemplation of her morose professor, and the mental weariness that came with knowing he was likely all alone and that she was powerless to help him. And of course, she was simply tired of having a crush on her older, snarky professor; things like that did tend to put a crimp in one's love and social life.

So, whereas before she accepted this crush but still fought against its pull, she now would let it swamp her. She would let her feelings for him well up in her heart at night, let herself cry over his sure-to-be-miserable future, let herself fixate on him when all her juvenile, school-related stresses became too much to handle.

The whole experience, she soon learned, was deeply cathartic, and for that, she was more grateful to Professor Snape than he could ever – and would ever – know.

She grew up through it all. She wouldn't admit that to herself, of course; she would likely always think herself to be the same little girl she once was, eternally curious and questioning. But no one who saw her now thought her the same "silly little girl" she had been in previous years, not even the one who bestowed that infamous moniker upon her.

She could not attribute all of her growing maturity to the lessons she learned about love from the unwitting Professor Snape, but deep down she knew a large part of it came from them.

Now, she knew that the love she was searching for was not the love she held for Snape, in all its childish glory. She knew now that idealizing parts of Snape's character while despising others only led to a fake characterization of him, and that doing so was essentially a stalwart, immature refusal to understand his true self. Now, she knew that hoping for his felicity in love might make her happy initially, but that it was even more rewarding to experience that felicity for herself.

She was, she figured, in unrequited love. As it was, she loved him, and he did not return the sentiment.

But unlike all those novels and songs that bemoaned how empty and sad unrequited love made people, she couldn't help feeling perfectly fine with the whole concept.

In the coming months, a knowing smile was quite accustomed to being found on her face. It was the smile of someone who understood herself, and it puzzled all who knew her – including, ironically, the man that put it there – to no end.