a.n.
first VicNev, credits to mew-tsubaki for this couple, I dedicate this to her and Aiiimy.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
show me you're willing to fight,
that i'm still the love of your life.
-Sanctus Real.
She's the flustered blonde mess that spins round and round, spinning and twirling and Merlin knows she's the happiest of them all. Falling into crispycrunchy fall leaves, long blue-red-green-rainbow colored ribbons caught, tangled in messy blonde pigtails. Rosy red cheeks, kisses full of sparks and fireworks and ohmy, she's got her happy ending, hasn't she?
She gets married to Neville, who she's always had a crush on, and it's him who she shares kisses with, and only him.
It starts out wonderful perfect happy amazing. Her life is some sort of fairy-tale romance, the (slightly clumsy) hero rescuing the princess (with pigtails) from the evil dragon (Voldemort).
Okay, so maybe it didn't happen like that. Maybe he isn't the prince and maybe he didn't actually save her from the evilohsoevil clutches of You-know-who.
She's inclined to believe it anyway. She's always been the nice one (too nice, perhaps). Never been in the spotlight, she's the one in the background that no one ever notices. She treads lightlycarefully on that backstage, not the Quidditch star like Ginny, no dirt under her fingernails, nor the brilliant one like Hermione, answering questions here and there but never everywhere.
Honey, she's not the one with the brightblue eyes (hers are dull and dim) or the goldenblonde hair (her hair's frizzy and bland and boring).
She's not talented or pretty or brave or strong, because Hannah's all she is. So she had no idea why Neville Longbottom, famousfamous hero, ended up with her.
But she wasn't complaining.
And, okay, maybe she wasn't the most perceptive, and maybe she didn't notice when Neville started distancing himself, and maybe she didn't notice his kisses weren't as fierypassionatescorching like they used to be.
The thing was she did.
And she still twirled and spun, happy-go-lucky girl, and she was still pigtail-wearing, rosy red-cheeked Hannah, and the ribbons were still in that hair, weaving and interlacing.
But she saw the pink-red lipstick stains on his shirt, she saw the ruffled, crumpled button-down shirts and wrinkly pants. She saw him eyeing Victoire Weasley at those family reunions, and she was beautiful. She had the blue eyes that shone brightsparkly, and the hair that was golden, and the bronze skin.
She felt herself crumble, crumble, crumble; there was no way she could compare herself to that goddamned 'goddess.' Victoire was the epitome of perfect, she was the princess in this fairytale. This was Victoire's fairytale, her time to shine, and Hannah, well, her time had passed.
So she let him go. She let him slipthrough her skinny alabaster fingers and let him fall into the bronze arms of perfect Victoire.
She still spun and twirled, but this time, it wasn't because she was utterly oblivious.
This time, it was because if she stopped, if the ribbons in her hair stopped twisting, if her pigtails stopped swinging, her world would be over.
And Victoire and Neville lived happily-ever-after.
a.n.
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