A/N: I wrote this a long time ago and buried it but found it recently while going through my old stuff and yes I know it's messy and chaotic and run-on (like this author's note! haha) and defeats all grammatical principles probably but I remember it to be written with a lot of feeling—even if some of that feeling was total apathy and hostility towards the world (I wasn't feeling too great at the time, go figure)—but yes. It's about getting caught up in everything and being selfless and selfish and it's angsty Hermoine who's very tired of it all.
Disclaimer: nothing's mine
You know, for once I'd like to be the only girl to capture someone's heart. The only girl in someone's life, someone's one true love. And I would like to be all this without ever loving him back so I could sit and watch from afar and write about it in an odd but tangible love story.
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Maybe you'd meet those odd cynical people who didn't believe in love and if you'd ask them why, they tell you that they didn't believe in fairytales. If you asked her, she'd say that she couldn't tell you what true love was because she only believed in fairytales and nothing else but never told anyone about that belief. You could call her self-absorbed or you could cal her self-conscious. You'd probably call her both but neither was an absolutely accurate description.
"Let me tell you about love," she'd say, "it's something everyone wants to discuss and everyone tries to explain but no one really, truly appreciates it."
Not even me, remained unsaid. But doesn't it always?
At one point in life she'd realized she was antisocial. A friend had rolled those emerald eyes of his and told her that you are only what you think you are but she disagreed. A lot of people had called her beautiful and clever but she never agreed. She found herself obnoxious half the time, and many others didn't agree. So who were we to listen to? Them or ourselves? To make you happy, they'd all tell you to listen to yourself, but if you listened to yourself because they told you to, weren't you then listening to them? Whether you liked it or not, you really never had much of an identity of your own, and if you ever really got down to overanalysing it, you never really had much truth either. It really was something to think about. Truth. Life.
A tragic love story.
It always got everyone's attention. Why do you think Romeo and Juliet was such a hit? And still is? It was all because there was so much hate and even more love and to add to it all, both lovers died in the end.
Life was a tragic love story. We all loved and we all died. But life wasn't even nearly loved as much as the stories you once read or watched or heard. Fairytales. And it's not like they say it is—it never is—because love didn't last forever and it never changed a thing. What it all boiled down to was a fairytale. One that she had been half-living and half-running from for years and years and years. She could not believe that she once believed—that she ever believed—in fairytales.
It was all a story somehow. She had been a story, someone's love story, even if he hadn't been a big part of hers.
Once, he had told her that he missed her and had almost told her that he loved her but had bitten it back—this was very early in the day. Was she fourteen or fifteen? It was after the year of the Triwizard fiasco, after the deaths had started and all hell had broken loose. It was probably the first time he had visited her after coming home from Durmstrang. She had sighed and said she didn't have the time. To be missed, he wondered, or time for him? In truth, she just didn't have the energy to cope with it. At times, it was a little exasperating when the one who made you stop believing in love was the one who had professed it to you at last…and he had turned out to be the one who just wasn't the one for you at all.
No one was perfect universally and she understood that but someone had to at least be perfect for her and she knew that. And so she waited.
Maybe it was more of a tragedy that the one who wanted you was the one who never could. And perhaps the one who finally could manage to get through to you—win your heart when all was said and done—was the one who never would.
And then she'd think of the redhead. A blur of freckles, pumpkin juice, and memories. A blur of everything, so jumbled and confused, like the words of a book when your eyes could no longer focus and you desperately wanted to close them. Blurry and stinging. And what followed? Tears.
Because she had cried when she had kissed him that first and last time. Because even though he was the one and she could feel it in her insides, she just couldn't take it anymore, take love anymore. It had taken its toll on her and she was spent and burnt out and used up and worn, trying to be strong and still for everyone her whole life and trying to be the perfect witch, spotless and flawless. A fairytale. A lie.
Know-it-all...hard-to-get...full-of-it...who-does-he-think-he-is?
...herm-own-ninny...come-visit-me-in-Bulgaria...
bloody-brilliant-Quidditch-player ...what-a-prat...how-could-you?
...Oh Ronald!
It didn't make much sense to think of it after a while so she had just let it all go. Let herself go.
And by now, she was beyond caring what anyone thought of her and it was now time to care about herself. After all, it had been a while since that had last happened.
-fin-
A/N: so tell me…did anyone get a word of that or did that just totally capsize? Sorry, but I felt I really needed to post that…more for myself than anything. I haven't written something that…insane in a while. Better insane than nothing, I guess, and I fear that I won't be able to write much in the near future because of this dreadful block I'm in thanks to HBP (slowly recovering though…) Oh yes, and I'd love reviews, lol just tell me you understood a line even, and I'll stop feeling like an idiot :P