Broken Traditions

Disclaimer: I still don't own any of the Harry Potter characters…only the plot. And thanks to whoever said this inspiration quote!

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"The opposite of love is not hate – it is indifference." Anonymous

Many believe that hate is the opposite of love, but I know better. To hate someone requires acknowledging his or her presence; a slight bit of passion, even. Hate requires recognition. Indifference is the true opposite of love.

That's how we started off: indifferent to the other. Sure, he pranked people with his friends, but I was too caught up in the magic of Hogwarts to notice. Many people think he pursued me and pranked me from the very beginning, but they would be wrong.

In our first year we weren't mortal enemies. He didn't prank me and I didn't yell at him. We weren't childhood best friends who slowly drifted apart then grew back together. We would barely even glance at the other if we walked past each other in the corridor, and we wouldn't say hello in the common room. In fact, the only time we noticed the other was during class, when a teacher congratulated him, myself, or one of his friends for getting top marks on an assignment.

We were the brightest in all of our classes, and it was a shame when he and his friends focused their minds on pranking. Of course, they still did extremely well in all our classes, managing to plan elaborate pranks while still staying at the top with me. That's when I started to notice him.

At first, and for a while afterwards, I was jealous of him. How did he manage all his pranks (big and small), attend all of his Quidditch practices, remain popular, and still keep up with all of his homework? He was a mystery to me.

I have to admit, I started to study him more closely during third year. If this was a façade, how much longer could he keep it up?

Quite long, it seemed. It was half way through our fourth year and I was as curious as ever. He had kept up this "act", which I wasn't so sure was an act anymore, and he had even managed to go on dates in Hogsmeade! It was as if he had a double, somewhere behind the scenes, doing all the boring things while he lived the fun life. Surely it was against some rule for him to clone himself and keep the clone in his dorm, doing his homework…

Then, at the end of our fourth year, we got paired together for a major Transfiguration project. We were to research the theory behind Animagi – how one would go about becoming an Animagus, the possible repercussions, getting registered with the Ministry, and the link between each Animagus and his or her animal form. We worked in the library almost every night. Although he was really focused and interested in the topic, there were times when I caught him staring at me. When I would look up he would smile and look back down at his book, tapping his chin lightly with his quill. Every time I could feel my cheeks redden slightly.

At the beginning, students always came up to him in the library and talked to him. He was polite, making conversation for a minute or two before excusing himself to work. He was serious about that project, and either people got that message or he told them not to come talk to him, and eventually it was just the two of us.

I didn't realize it at first, but when he talked (as seldom as that was) he was trying to sweet talk me as he did so many other girls, and I hated it. I was not some prize to be won, as was undoubtedly his frame of mind. Of all the girls he took to Hogsmeade, he only lasted one, maybe two dates. Three, maximum. I was not going to let him break my heart for a good snog (or so I'd heard when I visited the loo).

I don't know if he noticed whether I was trying to distance myself or not, but if he did he certainly wasn't letting on. He kept on as if nothing was wrong – maybe nothing was, to him.

It was like that for a few more weeks. The night before the project was due, we were touching up some final aspects when it happened. He told me he thought I was really pretty, that he'd really like it if I would accompany him to the last Hogsmeade trip, and that he was sorry – he would have asked sooner, but he was really nervous.

I just stood there, momentarily frozen. Sure, I thought he was trying to sweet talk me, but I never thought he would actually as me out. I thought of all the poor girls he had seduced into going to Hogsmeade with him, only to have him dump them less than a week later, and I did something I had never done before – I slapped him. It was right across his left cheek, and as I grabbed my bad and darted from the library, I saw a red handprint forming on his confused face. At the time, I thought he was confused because no girl had ever refused a date with him – he was smart, popular, and good-looking. I was proud of myself for not giving in just because he had a nice smile and warm, hazel eyes. However, as I look back, I realize he honestly had no idea what he did wrong.

As I reached my dorm, tears were pouring down my face. Friends asked me what was wrong, but I just shook my head and shut the curtains as I dove onto my bed. I lay awake that night, and I realized that I had wanted to say yes to that date. My curiosity had turned into genuine feelings. But after he asked me to Hogsmeade, like so many girls before me, I felt disgusted. He would have just dumped me after a week, anyways. By the time I fell asleep, I had lost all respect I had ever had for him.

The next day we did our presentation – no one noticed how awkward we were, except Professor McGonagall. Our write-up received top marks, and Professor McGonagall was extremely proud, no matter how stiff she was on the outside.

I was so relieved when the last day of term finally came, and my friends and I boarded the Hogwarts Express, finding an empty compartment.

My friends noticed how reserved I was on the trip home, and they tried to comfort me – they really did – but they didn't know the actual problem. They only knew that I thought he was lying scum, but there was something else I never told them – no matter how much I wished it, things could never go back to the way they were. I was so disgusted and mad at him – one might even go so far as to say I hated the boy – but even hate is a sign of affection. After that night, I could never go back to indifference.

Over the summer, I tried to forget all about him, but it didn't work. My hatred for him only multiplied exponentially. At times, I almost found myself wishing for September 1st to come so I could go back to school and remember exactly how much I hated him. It was much easier when I had a face right in from of me.

Finally, September 1st came 'round and I boarded the Hogwarts Express. I couldn't wait to catch a glimpse of his face, to feel the hatred run through my veins…

As the first few weeks of school went by, my friends noticed my constant talking about him, despite it being in an unflattering, and often vile, light. But I couldn't stop – I loved to hate him, and he wasn't making it difficult, either, cursing anyone he felt like. Hating him became so addicting; it was my drug. I was in too deep and I couldn't stop. I felt so good when I put him down, like I was getting revenge for every girl he had ever asked out and then promptly dumped, but I was just sinking to his level, and when I got off my high, I felt terrible.

We were both in a rut. Every day would be the same: he would ask me out, I would reject him, we would go to class and I would think about how much I hated him. On the way to lunch he would curse someone in front of me then have the audacity to ask me out again. This time I would hit him, go to lunch and rant to my friends. We would repeat the process after lunch, and if he felt bold enough he would ask me in the common room before bed.

For all of fifth year we continued this vicious circle. We even managed to fit it in during our O.W.L. exams, but it grew less and less impersonal as we went on. At the beginning it was more about hurting each other, but as the days, weeks, and months passed, it became out security blanket. It was our routine, and I think we both took comfort in it. When his parents were murdered in sixth year, his grades dropped and his pranks were less thought out, but still we continued our tradition. When my parents finally admitted my sister would not allow me at her wedding, I became more quiet and withdrawn, but I was relieved that he would always be there – around every corner – waiting to ask me out.

Our friends grew tired of it, but they didn't understand. They didn't understand the unspoken, mutual agreement that we both had to be there for the other. Most people would think that meant holding each other when the other was sad, or just talking when one of us was lonely, but for us it simply meant to never, ever, break tradition.

What I didn't understand at the time, though, was why I still caught him looking at me. He had other girlfriends, and yet he was reprimanded by the teachers for staring at me instead of paying attention to the lesson. And when he was caught, he spoke to the teachers calmly, as though he wasn't embarrassed in the slightest.

Sixth year came and went, and before we knew it we were boarding the Hogwarts Express for the last time – and as Head Boy and Girl, no less. We briefed the prefects, and I was surprised at how much he knew, having not previously been one. I had almost thought he had forgotten, but no sooner than we were alone, he started tradition. Though it was different this time – there was a pleading look, a longing look, in his eyes. I didn't understand it. I let him down gently and walked, confused, to the compartment my friends were sharing.

Over the next few weeks I got to know him better; we shared a dorm as Heads, patrolled the castle together, and co-hosted meetings with the prefects.

My admiration for him returned – he was excellent in his N.E.W.T classes, he managed the Quidditch team as Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, and he never missed a meeting or a patrol. However, the longing look was still in his eyes during tradition.

Was he genuinely interested in me, or was this just another prank? I pondered this question many sleepless nights, and came to the conclusion he was genuinely interested. How? After all, he used to be a serial heart breaker. I noticed that every time I refused his offer for a date, a little more sadness shone through the relief of still having tradition.

But he was not allowed to like me! It was part of the unspoken, unwritten rules. Just like we were not allowed to break tradition, no feelings were allowed. None. But I also couldn't deny the need that I felt to be closer to him. A need that was rising with every passing day, and I never thought I could do anything about it. I would be breaking the rule and tradition. And no one broke tradition.

Both of us kept up the act – myself better than him, because I could see the hurt in his eyes. I could feel both our patience and self-control waning as January faded into February faded into March. We both started revising for our N.E.W.T.s in mid-March; I drew up revision timetables for the both of us, and we would spend two hours a night reviewing – after all, we did take the same classes.

During those sessions (and during patrols), we really got to know each other. I learned that he had taken in his best friend and that he wasn't as calm as he always seemed. In fact, he admitted to being scared to graduate with a Dark Lord on the rise. He learned that my sister hated me and that I still slept with the first teddy bear I had ever gotten from my father, who had died when I was 5. We became comfortable around each other – friends, even. The attraction and need to be with the other was still there, but it was subdued now that we had each other's company.

By late April we were as inseparable as he was with his male friends. We patrolled, reviewed for exams, and held meetings together and so much more. We spent every waking moment together – minus showers and bathroom breaks, of course – yet for neither of us was our desire satiated. It only grew the more time we spent in each other's company. I could see it in the way he looked at me, and I'm sure he could see it in my eyes as well. However, spending time together during the day was not enough, as I soon found myself dreaming of him. Touching, kissing, moaning… No fantasy was ever enough to quench my thirst. I was dehydrated. I needed the real him, and the dreams only made me want him more.

One day, he did the unthinkable. We were studying on a couch in the Heads' common room. I looked up to answer a question and he kissed me. He tasted minty fresh. I wove my hands into his windswept, jet-black hair as I felt his hands snake around my back, pulling me closer.

He broke the kiss; we were panting, high off the mind-blowing kiss and dizzy from the adrenaline rush.

"You broke tradition," I had said.

"I know," he had said. "But it was worth it."

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Author's Note: This came to me while I was taking a shower… Weird, eh? The place you would look to least for inspiration. :p I finished it in two days, so I hope it isn't too raw. I wrote it while I was having writer's block for something else, so hopefully that'll be done relatively soon as well… Don't forget to review! ;)

Happy New Year :)