Perfect
By: Trixie009
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. Ron Weasley is, though! ;)
A/N: I was inspired for this as I was writing a review for a fic earlier, and the words I said in it, well, I realized it was Perfect. Please review and enjoy reading!
On with the story!
-----
He was young and she was younger. By six months. They were strangers, then friends, then best friends, and before they knew it, they were in love. They are still young at heart, but old in mind. Their souls are young; their souls still make snowmen at Christmas and swim in the summer. Their souls still think of today and only today, not tomorrow or yesterday. Their souls remember the long ago friendship they shared, and their souls miss it.
In his mind, she was Perfect. No one could be better than her. She had knotty brown hair that she rarely took the time to tame. She had her books. Her bedroom had pictures of her best friends on the walls and an organized bookshelf next to her bed. She had a dresser of clothes, some Muggle, some wizards' robes. Her bedspread was simple and warm, and underneath her bed was her trunk which she would never take back to Hogwarts.
In his mind, she was Perfect. She read books. She always read books. She had deep, dark, chocolate-brown eyes and dirty fingernails. She bit her lip when she was deep in thought or anxious. When she was working on an essay for school, she would suck on the end of the sugar quills he gave her. He always gave her sweets. He believes eating sweets is a part of what makes you young. But really, with sweets or not, she is young.
She was Perfect.
In her mind, he was Perfect. He had flaming red hair which he usually left messy, even though the black-haired boy would always have messier hair. His bedroom walls were bright orange, but you rarely saw them because of the Chudley Cannons posters he Spello-Taped on every inch of his bedroom, even over the bright orange ceiling. His bedspread was orange like his hair and the rest of his room, and it had two big C's on them. He had a picture frame on his bedside table, containing him and his two best friends. He was in the middle, his arm around her shoulders, and he was punching the arm of the black-haired boy. All were smiling, laughing, and young. He envied the time they were young. He glared at his picture, wanting to be young like his soul.
In her mind, he was Perfect. He ate candy, he played Quidditch. He always had a heart for Quidditch, just like he always had a heart for her, even when they yelled, even when they fought, even when they weren't young and they were forced to move on, to grow old, and to forget. Under his bed was his trunk, still full of school books, which he would not be taking back to Hogwarts when September 1st rolled around at the end of the hot summer.
He was Perfect.
He'll always love her; he'll always care for her. Because she was Perfect, and so was he. They were Perfect together like no one else could be. They loved when they were young, they played when they were young. They aren't young anymore, and never will be, but still, they both have a special part of their heart, just for the sake of being young.
He wouldn't study; he wouldn't use the homework diaries she continued to give him each Christmas. She wouldn't play Quidditch and she wouldn't stay up late to party after Gryffindor conquered Slytherin. Deep in his heart, he wished he would study, and deep inside hers, she really was happy when he won the Quiddtch games, but she was growing older and she was responsible, so she wouldn't.
"Congratulations, Ron," she would say, and he would smile.
"Thanks, Hermione. Oh, oh! Did you see that one? That one when I--I swerved way down low and caught the Quaffle and threw it to Ginny and she made a goal? Did you see it?" He would be excited, and she would pity him, but love him all the same.
"Yes, Ron, I saw it."
"Butterbeer?" he would ask, offering a bottle of her favorite drink. But she knew if she drank it she would stay up late with the rest of Gryffindor Tower and she needed to get to bed.
"No, thank you. We have a Charms exam tomorrow and I want to get a restful sleep."
"Whatever, Hermione," he would say, but smiling still.
"Whatever, Ron," and she wander up the stairs alone, growing up alone.
She always felt alone. Of course she would, it was two boys versus one girl. She and that redhead fought, and he would make it to the black-haired boy first, making her alone. She hated him, but loved him. She wanted to kill him, but she'd die without him. She cried noisy tears, unsure of what to do next.
She was Perfect.
He wouldn't know, he never did know. He never tried to know. He was too late, and he was mad. He was mad at himself for being late, for being second. He wanted to be the man of her dreams, and although he was, he didn't know, he wouldn't know, because he didn't try.
He was Perfect.
The nights spent alone up in the boys' dormitories with the other boys snoring or having nightmares, he would think, and he would think about her. He would think about their fights, and he would think about their childhood. He would love her, love her tangled hair and serious brown eyes, love how she bites her lip when she's thinking, love how she seems empty without her books, love her, every little bit about her.
She was Perfect
She thought she wasn't Perfect, and she thought she wouldn't have a chance at it. But she was Perfect. And he knew it. She was sometimes too Perfect, and he loved it. She was Perfect in her very own ways, her extraordinary ways, and he envied how Perfect she was. Just the same, he thought he wasn't Perfect, but he was, and she knew it. And she loved it.
She woujld be sitting in the stands during a Quidditch match, watching him fly high above her. She would sit there and think, think about him. She would love the way he flew, love that he had six brothers and sisters, love how short his marroon pajamas were, showing his pale ankles, love his freckles, his flaming red hair, his tall, lanky form, and she would love him, love every little bit about him.
He was Perfect.
Now they're grown and old with different lives and different worlds. They have jobs and flats, just enough to support themselves. Now they wish when they were young, they believed in Perfect, because now they see it. He wishes he studied, and wishes he tried to know. She wishes she celebrated the Quidditch wins and wishes she did know.
Some people will say it's too late, others will say they never even had the chance. But they believe differently, because they believe in Perfect. They know that it's never too late to do what you really want, what you really love. It's never really too late to be Perfect, because Perfect is all around you. You may not see it, but if you love someone, really love someone, with your whole heart, they are Perfect in your eyes, as is, you are Perfect in someone else's eyes. They know being Perfect is having flaws, sometimes too many flaws. And they love it. They know that their parents are Perfect in each other's eyes. And they love it. They know, oh, yes, they know what Perfect is. They know each other's flaws, each other's gains, each other's failures, each other's goals, each other's mind, and each other's soul, their young, playful souls.
Why?
It is simple, really.
Because they're Perfect.
-----
A/N: I hope you enjoyed it. I, personally, think it's my best work. Well, please review!
Quote of the Day: Don't frown, because you never know who's falling in love with your smile.
That is all.