Baby boy meets baby girl. Maybe they are even cradle mates.
They grow up together.
Boy hates girl.
Girl hates boy.
Time passes.
Suddenly, girl is beautiful and boy is in love.
Their relationship changes. It's tentative, delicate.
Boy screws it up. Girl forgives him.
They get married and have eight children.
What a pretty cliché that is. Too bad it's only a story.
First of all, we weren't babies, definitely not cradle mates. We didn't meet until he was eleven and I was almost twelve.
We grew up together, but in the sense of maturity, not years.
And I don't know if Ron ever actually hated me. If he did, it wasn't mutual. In fact, I really wanted him to like me.
We didn't just magically fall into love; it was gradual. There was the thing with the mountain troll and Fluffy in first year, and from there Ron's dislike tapered into something in between, which grew into friendship, and eventually, something a little bit deeper.
I didn't transform into some sort of Veela either. Aside from Madam Pomfrey fixing my teeth in fourth year, my appearance never changed. I was always just a studious, bushy haired girl.
As for the line about the boy screwing things up, you can just read that ten more times and you'll have the gist of our relationship until Ron wanted to save the house elves and I kissed him during the Battle for Hogwarts.
We did get married, that part is true enough, though we took our sweet time about it.
And I don't know about eight kids; for now two is enough.
Still, if you step away and look back, our lives were the sort of sweet, time-tested story that had played out countless time, across the pages of a teenage girl's diary, or the halls of a high school.
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