Summary: Hermione is reflecting on her feelings about someone...
Disclaimer: Any Harry Potter story is not mine! Only the idea, but not any character (unless I did invent him/her), place (again, unless it's my invention), or...well, you get the idea. Everything belongs to JK Rowling and a number of publishing companies.
Author's Note: This was just a spur-of-the-moment idea as something to write to break in my Creative Writing class. Have fun! Please review, good or bad.
***
LATER
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She glanced across the table to where He was sitting. Although he was sitting up straight, she could tell he was fast asleep: his shoulders were slack; his head fell down until his chin scraped his chest as if it were too much of a burden to hold up; and long red bangs covered his eyes. She knew him well enough to know he was sleeping, anyway. As boring as the class was, most people would be asleep, or at least lulled into a deep trance.
She took notes, however. Studiously obsessive (at least about school) were two of the best words to describe her. So, at least one student listened to the droning of the professor. He - the professor - didn't even notice this. Death had by no means put a stopping to his teaching career; however, it certainly had removed most of his alertness. She actually found herself wishing that she had been a student when her professor was alive and at his best.
After jotting down a quick note about a miscellaneous revolution (although all the goblin revolutions seemed exactly the same; even her observant brain jumbled them up), she returned her gaze to Him. She liked him well enough. Had she decided to succumb to her feelings, she'd openly admit just how much she liked Him. She could never be certain if he liked her back, though. Why would he? Her only claim was her brains, and even those took over and she was simply Hermione, the frantic schoolgirl who only seemed to care about her grades and impressions on professors. After all, it wasn't as if she was pretty. She supposed there was one time ever that she had been pretty at all, but that had only been after she spent hours in preparation. He had noticed her then, and not just as a friend, but as a girl. Of course, he never said anything about, but to yell at her about why she had dressed up.
She'd keep silent yet. There was no point in telling him, if all she'd receive would be a rejection. But at times, he seemed to like her; he often got jealous if someone gave her the slightest bit of attention. He seemed almost oblivious to his actions, and simply mistook his jealousy for anger or resentment. After all, how many times could she be accused of that? Before she realized that she liked him, she was be angry at half the world. But the difference was, she knew how she felt. So maybe she'd have a chance. Maybe...
She'd tell him later. There was no point in risking her already established friendship on this. What if she had misread him? What if he merely saw her as a sister, that best friend that few guys had? Or...What if this was simply a crush, and even if he did like her, it wouldn't work out? Then she'd have neither a friend, nor Him. What if...? She dabbed angrily at her parchment; a dark blue inkblot began permeating in all directions on the paper.
For now...she'd give this time. She'd tell him later.
Disclaimer: Any Harry Potter story is not mine! Only the idea, but not any character (unless I did invent him/her), place (again, unless it's my invention), or...well, you get the idea. Everything belongs to JK Rowling and a number of publishing companies.
Author's Note: This was just a spur-of-the-moment idea as something to write to break in my Creative Writing class. Have fun! Please review, good or bad.
***
LATER
***
She glanced across the table to where He was sitting. Although he was sitting up straight, she could tell he was fast asleep: his shoulders were slack; his head fell down until his chin scraped his chest as if it were too much of a burden to hold up; and long red bangs covered his eyes. She knew him well enough to know he was sleeping, anyway. As boring as the class was, most people would be asleep, or at least lulled into a deep trance.
She took notes, however. Studiously obsessive (at least about school) were two of the best words to describe her. So, at least one student listened to the droning of the professor. He - the professor - didn't even notice this. Death had by no means put a stopping to his teaching career; however, it certainly had removed most of his alertness. She actually found herself wishing that she had been a student when her professor was alive and at his best.
After jotting down a quick note about a miscellaneous revolution (although all the goblin revolutions seemed exactly the same; even her observant brain jumbled them up), she returned her gaze to Him. She liked him well enough. Had she decided to succumb to her feelings, she'd openly admit just how much she liked Him. She could never be certain if he liked her back, though. Why would he? Her only claim was her brains, and even those took over and she was simply Hermione, the frantic schoolgirl who only seemed to care about her grades and impressions on professors. After all, it wasn't as if she was pretty. She supposed there was one time ever that she had been pretty at all, but that had only been after she spent hours in preparation. He had noticed her then, and not just as a friend, but as a girl. Of course, he never said anything about, but to yell at her about why she had dressed up.
She'd keep silent yet. There was no point in telling him, if all she'd receive would be a rejection. But at times, he seemed to like her; he often got jealous if someone gave her the slightest bit of attention. He seemed almost oblivious to his actions, and simply mistook his jealousy for anger or resentment. After all, how many times could she be accused of that? Before she realized that she liked him, she was be angry at half the world. But the difference was, she knew how she felt. So maybe she'd have a chance. Maybe...
She'd tell him later. There was no point in risking her already established friendship on this. What if she had misread him? What if he merely saw her as a sister, that best friend that few guys had? Or...What if this was simply a crush, and even if he did like her, it wouldn't work out? Then she'd have neither a friend, nor Him. What if...? She dabbed angrily at her parchment; a dark blue inkblot began permeating in all directions on the paper.
For now...she'd give this time. She'd tell him later.