Books Filled with Lies and Broken Dreams by Luvscharlie

If you love me, then love me. Not for the way I take care of you. And heavens knows Ron Weasley, you need a lot of taking care of, even in the small span of time in which I get your attention. And small it is. But love me for being me. Nothing more, nothing less than who I am. Isn't that the way it's supposed to work? I've always hoped so… and continually find myself disappointed; the idea of unconditional love is so much nicer than the reality.

Fictional men seem to have such a better grasp on this whole notion of unconditional love than the real ones. At least the ones in all those rubbish-like romance novels that Parvati and I read over and over again back during our school days did. In those books, the man, always handsome and heroic (of course) is inevitably swayed by the heroine's beauty, and always changes his ways for her. Perhaps I just haven't waited long enough. Or maybe I grew up thinking that's the way it worked, when it completely isn't. If the books were right, I only had to be good enough, completely attentive, and do the right things and Ron Weasley would fall head over heels for me. Let me just be the first one to enlighten you ladies. Men don't read these books—or maybe it's just Ron, I'm not sure—but he certainly did not know these rules. Still, I kept faith in my reading materials. I mean, if I love him enough, I can change him, right?

Well, that's what I thought. I'd like to find whoever wrote those books (or all of the writers who misled my young little heart, for that matter) and do some serious rearranging of their faces. I'm sure I can manage a spell that turns their nose upside down or something equally appalling.

I mean everyone always thought Hermione Granger was such a bookworm. The fact was Parvati and I read just as much as she did—we simply chose different subject matter… which sometimes had to be read late at night by wand light with the bed curtains closed. We were just more forward thinking and preferred more risqué materials… you know, the important stuff. Worldly women, that was Parvati and I. Yeah, that worked out for us, can't you tell? And that was sarcasm, you know, just in case you missed it.

Now grant it, life doesn't always play out like books (boy, am I the Queen of Understatements, huh?), but I guess I grew up hoping that I'd get at least some of that. Some of the excitement, some of the heat, some of the "oh, my god, isn't she the most wonderful person in the entire universe." You know, that stuff we have dreams of as teenagers, that for at least some us carry on well into our twenties. Not that I'm suggesting that this happened to anyone in particular—and you can stop looking at me now, okay? Sheesh, a few indiscretions and a girl's reputation is sullied for all time. I mean, the books said I should grope—maybe not in public so much, but there was that dratted staircase that insisted on dumping Ron down it, and his room always had just as much of an audience as the common room, and really does any of that matter now? The fact is I never did seem to learn anything that stuck… outside of those books, I mean.

Those printed words stuck. Lucky me. Now, ten years later, I'm still playing the fool for Ron Weasley. I mean I tell myself that he loves me, but I know that's not true. Apparently, my hair's not nearly frizzy enough, and my chest isn't nearly flat enough and…okay, yes, I am being petty, but can you blame me? It would seem to me, that given how easy I make things for Ron, never asking questions, being the person I so think Ron wants, I'd deserve at least a little bit of that all encompassing, fix everything, set the world to rights kind of love, right? Well, I think so. So who cares what you think anyway? Okay, I do.

There are those hard life truths. For me the biggest, hardest life truth is that all that perfect, dream-time kind of love—well, it's all a delusion. One which I suffer, and probably, at least to some extent, deserve to suffer. I allow this to happen, knowing that no good will ever come of allowing him into my heart when he only seeks to be in my bed--not as long as someone else wears his ring and has his last name as her own. Yet every time he comes calling, my heart races at my good fortune (I know, pathetic, right?) to be spared a few moments of his attention.

And each time he goes, and my heart breaks again and I swear this is the last time. I'll not allow him to hurt me again… and each time I know I am lying to myself. 'Cause I still hold out at least some small glimmer of hope that there was a grain of truth somewhere in those misguided books I spent so much time reading. Schoolgirl dreams come true sometimes, right? And that's rhetorical, 'cause Merlin knows the truth hurts far too much; I prefer my dreams.

A/N: This was originally written for the prompt of 'If you love me, then love me…' for the fandom_fridays community on Live Journal.