Authors Note: I don't own any of the characters or the concept of the Harry
Potter world. I am just borrowing them from JK Rowling, who is kind enough
to let us use them.
This is my first story in the HP world and any thoughts or comments would be greatly appreciated. Thanks.
Loving Him
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I never believed in love when I was younger. While other girls were out playing house and getting "married" in the play yard, I was playing dentist with whoever I had bullied into patient-hood that day. I never had baby dolls, instead preferring that my parents buy me books to spend time with. I didn't dream of being a princess or a ballerina with hundreds of suitors mad for my love. I dreamed of being Prime Minister or of becoming a rocket scientist.
It didn't go away as I got older. As the boys and girls of Hogwarts discovered each other and the many joys of raging hormones, I studied. I worked harder, longer, and more passionately then anyone else so that I could accomplish my goals and make a name for myself, and I thought that girls like Lavender and Parvati who go mad every time they see a boy were the most ignorant, superficial people I knew.
That all changed during my fifth year.
I took the O.W.Ls, I dealt with death and grief for the first time, and I learned that there was a great chance that one day my best friend would be killed by the most evil and almost-most powerful wizard alive. I fell in love with my best friend.
I hadn't planned on it, naturally. How does one plan on doing something they didn't believe in? I'm not sure I can pin-point when I realized it, but I can say with certainty when it happened: Ron and I were walking back to the common room on the last day of term, talking about something inconsequential to keep our minds from all the heaviness weighing on our shoulders. Dumbledore's announcement had set a pall over the school, and it was our last night of duty as Prefects for the year. I suppose he must have been chattering on about Quidditch-when doesn't he, really?-and I was listening politely, like I always do. Just before we were in sight of the Fat Lady, he stopped and turned to me, his eyes soft, his voice low with an emotion I couldn't identify. Years of ignoring passion and romance had left me painfully ignorant.
"You know, Mione, I'm here for you if you need me."
Then he reached out and touched my hand gently, caressingly rubbing his thumb against the smooth skin of the back of my hand, the calluses on his fingers in sharp contrast to myself. I thought for a breath-stopping moment he had more to say, but instead he leaned forward and brushed his lips tenderly against my forehead, a gesture that could be called brotherly if not for the look in his eyes.
I felt my heart plummet then rise again, beating faster and faster until I was sure I would wake the whole castle with my heartbeat. My whole body was infused with a wave of pleasure, which tingled from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I felt dizzy and disoriented, like I had never felt before, and through it all I stood there calmly, nodding automatically as his hand slipped from mine and we resumed our walk back to the common room.
A day, maybe two days later I realized-or rather, admitted to myself-what it all meant. Nothing could make me feel like that, so wildly terrified and yet fiercely sure of myself then the only emotion that I had denied existence for so long. I loved him, painfully, awkwardly, but truly, and I was absolutely terrified. I had read almost every book in the library of Hogwarts (no small feat), and received top marks on every exam I've ever taken, but knew absolutely nothing about how I was supposed to behave now.
So I stayed quiet, observant. I watched the way the sunlight flickered against his hair, turning the ginger to a warm russet, the color of autumn leaves at the peak of their beauty. I watched the way his deep blue eyes lit up when he became excited, arguing with Harry over a Quidditch strategy. I followed the motions of his hands with my eyes when he demonstrated something to me, their deft quickness belying years of practices in his back yard with his brothers, his hands as reflexive and swift as hummingbirds. And I listened, letting his voice wash over me with its deep warmth, filling my ears to the brim with his words and laughter, drinking him in, knowing I would never have my fill of him. I would never want to, to be honest.
I can feel the other Hermione, the one who is useless and obsolete now but still lay buried inside me along with other old memories, mocking me from time to time, calling me foolish for thinking that love was real and for falling into the same trap every other teenager falls into. She teases me for being helpless to emotion, but I ignore her. Let her go play dentist and never feel. Myself, I could sit here for the rest of my life and just watch him talk about broomsticks and never, not for a single fleeting moment, feel an ounce of regret.
This is my first story in the HP world and any thoughts or comments would be greatly appreciated. Thanks.
Loving Him
************************************************************************
I never believed in love when I was younger. While other girls were out playing house and getting "married" in the play yard, I was playing dentist with whoever I had bullied into patient-hood that day. I never had baby dolls, instead preferring that my parents buy me books to spend time with. I didn't dream of being a princess or a ballerina with hundreds of suitors mad for my love. I dreamed of being Prime Minister or of becoming a rocket scientist.
It didn't go away as I got older. As the boys and girls of Hogwarts discovered each other and the many joys of raging hormones, I studied. I worked harder, longer, and more passionately then anyone else so that I could accomplish my goals and make a name for myself, and I thought that girls like Lavender and Parvati who go mad every time they see a boy were the most ignorant, superficial people I knew.
That all changed during my fifth year.
I took the O.W.Ls, I dealt with death and grief for the first time, and I learned that there was a great chance that one day my best friend would be killed by the most evil and almost-most powerful wizard alive. I fell in love with my best friend.
I hadn't planned on it, naturally. How does one plan on doing something they didn't believe in? I'm not sure I can pin-point when I realized it, but I can say with certainty when it happened: Ron and I were walking back to the common room on the last day of term, talking about something inconsequential to keep our minds from all the heaviness weighing on our shoulders. Dumbledore's announcement had set a pall over the school, and it was our last night of duty as Prefects for the year. I suppose he must have been chattering on about Quidditch-when doesn't he, really?-and I was listening politely, like I always do. Just before we were in sight of the Fat Lady, he stopped and turned to me, his eyes soft, his voice low with an emotion I couldn't identify. Years of ignoring passion and romance had left me painfully ignorant.
"You know, Mione, I'm here for you if you need me."
Then he reached out and touched my hand gently, caressingly rubbing his thumb against the smooth skin of the back of my hand, the calluses on his fingers in sharp contrast to myself. I thought for a breath-stopping moment he had more to say, but instead he leaned forward and brushed his lips tenderly against my forehead, a gesture that could be called brotherly if not for the look in his eyes.
I felt my heart plummet then rise again, beating faster and faster until I was sure I would wake the whole castle with my heartbeat. My whole body was infused with a wave of pleasure, which tingled from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I felt dizzy and disoriented, like I had never felt before, and through it all I stood there calmly, nodding automatically as his hand slipped from mine and we resumed our walk back to the common room.
A day, maybe two days later I realized-or rather, admitted to myself-what it all meant. Nothing could make me feel like that, so wildly terrified and yet fiercely sure of myself then the only emotion that I had denied existence for so long. I loved him, painfully, awkwardly, but truly, and I was absolutely terrified. I had read almost every book in the library of Hogwarts (no small feat), and received top marks on every exam I've ever taken, but knew absolutely nothing about how I was supposed to behave now.
So I stayed quiet, observant. I watched the way the sunlight flickered against his hair, turning the ginger to a warm russet, the color of autumn leaves at the peak of their beauty. I watched the way his deep blue eyes lit up when he became excited, arguing with Harry over a Quidditch strategy. I followed the motions of his hands with my eyes when he demonstrated something to me, their deft quickness belying years of practices in his back yard with his brothers, his hands as reflexive and swift as hummingbirds. And I listened, letting his voice wash over me with its deep warmth, filling my ears to the brim with his words and laughter, drinking him in, knowing I would never have my fill of him. I would never want to, to be honest.
I can feel the other Hermione, the one who is useless and obsolete now but still lay buried inside me along with other old memories, mocking me from time to time, calling me foolish for thinking that love was real and for falling into the same trap every other teenager falls into. She teases me for being helpless to emotion, but I ignore her. Let her go play dentist and never feel. Myself, I could sit here for the rest of my life and just watch him talk about broomsticks and never, not for a single fleeting moment, feel an ounce of regret.