The second I thought that I had it all,
You were the first one to tell me I'm wrong.
xRegrets and Romance by From First to Last
It dawned on me today that I have loved you from the very beginning. I hated you, and I loved you, and I—I think I wanted to be you. You, who never wavered in your convictions, never sought to run away, never failed to recognize your mistakes and correct them. I wanted your eyes and their rose-colored view of the universe. I hated that I would never feel joy, or love, or hurt the way you did – none of those emotions would ever be real for me. I was an empty husk of breath and blood, while you were life, personified. Whenever I caught sight of you, I was assaulted with the nauseating suspicion that I was missing something that I never had to begin with.
I envied most of all that you were always surrounded by people who loved you, who laughed and cried and fought with you. There were days when I couldn't stand to look at you because your god-damned purity was shoving itself down my already-constricted throat, choking me until the distinctive burning in my stomach propelled me to find a way to set fire to your picture-perfect fairy tale. I would provoke you, call you tainted, dirty, and, by the gods, I was aching for every word to be true, even when I knew it was I who deserved my own derogatory insults. I was the filthy one. Weak, unloved, unwanted.
I was such a hypocritical fucking masochist, because I hated seeing them come to your rescue, poised to kill at your command, yet I stubbornly stayed in-character, proclaiming disgust while secretly wishing to be someone you would trust to protect you, to save you. I was delusional in my frantic desire not just to be near you but to be a part of you - for my life to tangle itself hopelessly with yours as theirs so obviously had. Pathetic, really. I wanted so badly to be your hero, but I didn't see it then, so I settled for the role of the cliched villain. I punched where it hurt, stabbed at every available weakness, seeking - but never quite succeeding - to break the chains that bound the Trio together.
Sometimes, I wonder how we could have drawn our ridiculous tug-of-war game out for so long. Seven years—Even now, I still wish I hadn't been such a coward. Maybe then we wouldn't be so anxious to cram a lifetime's worth of memories into these rushing weeks. I was so blinded by the idea of sticking to our predecessor's flawed, twisted ideals that I missed the chance to break the cycle. I take comfort in the thought that I was not alone in committing that unforgivable sin. Even your perfect sentinels were guilty of the same transgression. Potter and Weasley and I – we were all born to fight the battles of our respective parents. None of us broke the mold. We fell right into our pre-made destinies and did exactly what was expected of us. Fate, Granger. She's a difficult mistress to shake.
But you.. Gods, would that you had never received that letter so many years ago. You never should have boarded that train. You were safe in your innocence. They had no right to pull you into a world that, even then, was beginning to crumble. Sometimes, I close my eyes and imagine who you would be if you hadn't been indoctrinated into this secret existence. A doctor, perhaps. Not a dentist like your parents, no. A lawyer. A leader. A voice for the weak and for the oppressed. I walk with the imagined-you for miles and miles. I listen to her speeches and applaud her victories. And sometimes.. Sometimes, I think of introducing myself to that Hermione. We'd sit at a café – you'd drink from a plain, white mug, while I leave mine untouched – and I'd say something clever, just so I can watch you roll your eyes and hear your soft, amused chuckle. We'd have long conversations about things that mattered in your sphere – hunger, and justice, and beauty – and I'd eventually take you home. We'd stand at your front door, and the world from both within and without the thin, tearing veil would fade into insignificance.
And when I wake up from my self-imposed hallucinations, I almost always take a deep, painful breath. Then another, and another, until the urge to carve the frantic, racing piece of muscle from my chest and offer it to the Dark Lord had subsided. Perhaps he could rid it of the miserable desperation that has become its very reason for beating these days.
—-
Author's Note: More to come, I suspect. I have fallen into an old addiction. I love it, though I am slightly ashamed of how seemingly childish it appears. I really should stop caring what other people think of this side of me but, oh, it adds to the proverbial suffering, and what was it they say about an artist's sacrifices for her art?