smileyfaces on paper and fairytale romances
by mistsplash
.:.
She's never been a real fan of Divination or anything even mildly superstitious, and perhaps that's why she ignored all those tea-cup warnings of love and lust, of course, horrible tragedy (though she's pretty sure that last part was thrown in for dramatic effect). She has nothing against the concept of love; it's just that, really, she's the nice-best-friend-that-plays-matchmaker type—no more, no less. She's the one that fantasizes of her prince charming and has little, doodled pictures and smiley-faces around the margins of her parchment.
This is not where she had imagined herself to be. Just a few hours ago, she had been in her room, chatting animatedly with Angelina about everything and nothing. This had not been in the agenda, no, not at all, because she's simply not that kind of girl.
Yet she is. Was it not her who pulled his face to hers? But never mind that—the point is, she's full-out snogging someone in a way that shouldn't be considered legal, and the problem is: it feels much too good to stop.
It's not like she has a problem with the actual contact of his lips on hers, though. She just hadn't expected it to be like this with someone she doesn't even like.
Yeah, that's right.
She doesn't like Oliver Wood—nope, not at all.
Or at least, that's what she tells herself as she drags his body closer to hers, losing her innocent, angel-winged façade for just a moment—that same moment in which she decides that maybe, just maybe, there may be something more than lust in this.
.:.
So maybe she's pretty. That's it, isn't it? She's pretty little Katie Bell (with a cute, girlish name to top it) and she's nothing more than another Gryffindor girl who's probably a bit too shy and nice to be in this house.
Or so he thought. What had she been thinking, throwing herself at him like some desperate creature?
He wants to confront her, though some minute voice in the back of his head is screaming at him not to, but he's a Gryffindor and they have a real nasty reputation of wearing their hearts on their sleeves.
She's laughing with her friends—she has a beautiful bell laugh that quite goes along with her name, though he pays little attention to that. His mind is set on one thing and one thing only.
"What was that all about?" His voice is low, quick, almost urgent—not harsh, but he knows he's in desperate need of answers.
There's a long silence between the two. Finally, she says in that sweet way of hers, "I really don't know what you're talking about, Oliver—did I do something wrong?" Her voice is so innocent and genuine and Katie that he almost believes her—almost, except for the fact that he can see that hurt flashing in her eyes. (Sure, he's not the sharpest kid, but hell, she's an even worse actress.)
His mouth opens and closes like a fish's, and attempting not to sound too huffy about it, he turns around and marches back to his seat, trying in vain to keep his thoughts off of Katie Bell.
.:.
Ouch.
It shouldn't hurt—really it shouldn't, because he's not that important, right? He's just a little mistake on her part.
She winces, not used to thinking of people in that way.
It still hurts, though. His eyes were blazing with what she thinks was fury and ohgosh, she'll never be able to face him again. Besides, he probably hates her anyway.
The thought leaves her feeling sort of hollow. She's not used to being hated or disliked.
She wonders if what she did was really that bad. Then, her memory darting back to earlier that day, the look in his eyes fresh in her mind, she assumes that it was.
So she clutches her pillow to herself and she cries, unashamedly, because there's honestly no better alternative to this situation.
.:.
Sometimes, he thinks of going up to her an apologizing for whatever he did, because she had looked so disheartened it hurt.
But he doesn't, because they're not all that close, anyways, and he's sure she'll get over it (plus, he's not so sure of what she had been upset about).
That doesn't stop him from noticing her sometimes-well-concealed mournful looks, and that certainly doesn't prevent him from feeling horribly guilty about it later.
.:.
Roundabout a month after their first midnight rendezvous, they find each other once more.
There are no words exchanged, no hopeless apologies or sobbing. She looks at him, he looks back, and they're suddenly at square one again—because, honestly, she has absolutely no control when it comes to him.
Maybe he's no fairytale prince, she concedes while pressing her lips to his, and maybe those drawings I made weren't for him, but hell, this is good enough for me.
Silently, as he responds with much more vigor than she remembers, she hopes that he's thinking something nearly the same.
.:.
Maybe he hadn't been thinking of them like that. It's just another maybe in the mess, just another drop of water in the ocean. Maybe she was just a pastime to him.
She'll never know, because as soon as he left, he was gone, out into the real world, away from the magic and mischief of Hogwarts and more importantly, away from her, and he never wrote, never once visited, never gave any more recognition to her.
She's over it, though. She's a big girl now. At least, that's what she tells herself as her tears, unwarranted and stupid and utterly pointless, soak into the thin fabric of her sheets.
.:.
He's at her door, and how he found her address is beyond her, but he's there, back from all those years of disconnection, a bundle of roses in his hands and a puppy-like look of apology blatantly laid on his features.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly, pressing the roses into her stunned palms.
"I…"
"Don't, Katie." He takes this opportunity to smile gently at her and daringly cup her face with his hand. It was warm and calloused from hours of Quidditch practice, just as she had remembered it. "I'm not apologizing to get your forgiveness, the great cliché that this already is. I'm just saying sorry for that morning, all those years ago." The way he says that morning, bitter with an undertone of regret, is not lost on Katie, and she knows exactly what he's talking about.
He pulls his hand away as her grip around the flowers tightens. A simple, solitary word escapes her lips. "Why?"
He frowns a little bit, as if perplexed by the question. She doesn't see why—it's a rather straightforward interrogation.
"Because…I could see that you were hurt. I thought about apologizing, but…" He shrugs, looking half-sheepish and half-nonchalant.
She studies him for a moment, trying to figure out what's running through his mind. "Oliver…that's sweet, in a twisted sort of way."
He grins, eyebrows rising in a way that one could call cocky. "Oh, really? Thanks, Katie." She can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not, but she doesn't press the matter.
"So…friends?"
He nods the affirmative. "Yep. Friends."
She cocks her hip, eyes showing her obvious disbelief. "And you'll actually write this time?"
He shrugs. "I was busy, Katie."
She sighs, not wanting to get into an argument. "Of course." The words, awkward as they are, hang in the air.
"I'll see you around?" He almost sounds hopeful, and she has to stifle a laugh.
"Yeah, yeah. Oh, and Oliver?"
"Hm…what?"
She leans over and plants a delicate kiss on his lips, savoring the taste for a moment (it's an odd mix of spice and wind and Quidditch and boy)before pulling back.
Once more, they're back to square one.
.:.
Author's Notes:
More oldish stuff. Better oldish stuff - but oldish stuff nonetheless.