Collective
A/N: I wrote this chapter freehand, in a notebook purchased on a complete whim at a drugstore across the street from a shopping mall my mother and sister had been vacating since the early morning we'd been there. Who knows where this is going to go? I don't. Stick with me if you like it. I might just continue with something better than this.
Love is a feeling not meant to be put on paper. It's a clandestine reality, to remain unique and hidden. Love is a pretension i've grown to despise.
My name is Hermione Granger, and I am a writer. When I was little, my response to the question was "to feel and to write. To report." But I did the exact opposite. I imagined and created a beautiful piece of art; A painting, thought up and produced. Writing is not like painting.
Painting can be a production of your feelings, it can. But most of the time, it's the imagination making the brush move.
I took cliche's and made them better. I was satisfied, without realizing that they were, nonetheless,
still someone else's stories. Not mine.
So I grew up and vowed to never write what I read, never to write what I thought, but only to recount the tales that I knew.
I have no idea what it feels like to love someone.
So this is not going to be a love story. Unless I actually do bumb into Him in the middle of a busy street, only to be trapped within the pools of color that would be His eyes...I promise that this won't be that unless that actually happens.
Since that never happens anyway,
lets establish
that
this
is not a love story.
-Hermione Granger.