A/N: Err this is not a happy fic. At all. Well, the end is happy, but
you'll have to read through all the other crap to get to the wuzzy part. My
writing gets really wierd in this one. It's wierd normally, but here in
particular. Some parts of it i don't precisely understand, but oh well. Raw
thought is never really understandable. Rowling owns all.
*****
My mother used to tell me I was beautiful.
I've never really had the chance to talk to other girls about it, but I'm guessing it's the sort of thing all mothers tell their daughters. One of those things that they only say to make you feel better but usually has no truth to it whatsoever, right up there with "it's just a phase you'll grow out of", "real beauty is on the inside" and "true love is unconditional". Do other daughters believe this bull? If so, at what point do they think to themselves "screw honesty" and pass the useless lies along to their daughters?
I spend hours thinking things like this over. Hours I should spend sleeping, actually.
It all started this past summer. Maybe it was a dream I forgot as soon as I woke up, maybe it was my seemingly ever-present thoughts about whether or not we were safe with Voldemort gaining power. Whatever the reason, every morning, I awoke at exactly 3:08. I'd stay awake for about a half hour, bathing in my own thoughts until I could manage sleep again. And it seemed that every night, my thoughts got a little more depressing, and I stayed awake a little longer, until I was unable to get back to sleep once I woke up. So I started getting up and actually doing things-- studying, mostly. Being constructive was the only thing that could keep me from being destructive.
But I think the real problem began one night about a month after school started. The 3:08 insomnia hadn't improved. I was still waking up every morning at the same time-- always unable to go back to sleep, always heading to the common room to study. I'd started waking up earlier until, on this particular night, I hadn't even bothered to try and go to sleep in the first place. Some wonderfully intelligent person had the brilliant idea to put a mirror above the desk I was working at. A fucking mirror.
I think it was probably the lighting. It sounds like a really stupid excuse now that I've already said it, but it's true. I was reading and taking notes by candle light. I went to dip my quill into the ink well when my eye caught the mirror. I did a double-take, and stared.
Was that me? It couldn't be. Her skin was too sallow, face too gaunt and sunken. I remember Ron telling me I wasn't looking well, but surely I didn't look like THAT. Frizzy hair in every direction. Far-set, hollow eyes, with deep indigo lines under them. Was she tired? Why hadn't she been sleeping? I felt concerned for her for a moment, but then I saw the thin lips, bushy eyebrows, bony nose. She was absolutely repulsive. How could she let herself look that way?
I could vaguely feel myself making a face, and there, I saw her, making the same face back at me. She actually had the nerve to mock me! She didn't know me. How could she do something like that? I could feel fingernails digging into my palms-- mine or hers?-- while my eyes narrowed. Hers narrowed back. And then, just when my rage was hitting its peak, I realized... It's a mirror. A mirror.
Reflection.
The rage flared, sending up smokey despair that made me choke and sob as I brought up my fist, then heaved it forward. Pain-- sharp, awakening pain-- shot through my hand and arm. I crumpled onto the floor, trying not to avoid the shards of glass that glinted up at me in the moonlight. The candle had blown out.
Footsteps. Quick, stumbling footsteps, tapping on icy stone, and I saw him. Tall, gangly, his firey red hair turned a dim gold.
"Hermione?"
I couldn't say anything. Didn't have to. He could see the white reflections of light that scattered the ceiling, the dark liquid that dripped slowly and deafeningly loud onto the floor. Footsteps, again. Running. He was running. I could feel hands, on mine, warm and damp while they carefully, shakily, pulled out shiny pieces of my reflection.
"What happened?" I didn't know. Strong back and arms lift me to the sofa on the other side of the room. Why had he carried me all the way over here? He should have left me there.
"Did you do this on purpose...?" All I could think about was the mirror, the goddamn mirror above the desk, glaring and mocking me from her hanger on the wall.
"Yes."
"Hermione.... Why?"
I looked up at him. To be rid of myself, I wanted to say. To be rid of the ugly, silly little girl who stupidly fell, hard, for her best friend. Who found freckles to be irrisistable, and who went out with famous Quidditch players to make adorably goofy redheads jealous. Who doesn't deserve to even be your friend, let alone anything more, but dreams and cries over it anyhow.
But I suppose he didn't want an answer, or maybe didn't need one, because he reached up with bloody fingers and touched my face, pushing back my hair. And his mouth was on mine, soft and warm and reassuring and so certain of what he was doing. So far unlike my reflection.
I'd kept my eyes open, not knowing what to do except that I couldn't stop, never. I looked up at the clock on the mantel.
3:08
*****
A/N: Whoo, that was dramatic, eh? I've been in an angsty, artsy mood lately, though nothing particularly angsty or artistic has happened lately. I was, however, pretty pissed when i discovered that stupid Craft Village had no Colerase pencils or Prismacolour markers, and that Chicago isn't yet playing in any of the theatres in this stupid town. I really wanna see that movie! Review, please, it makes me happy and puts me in a writey mood.
*****
My mother used to tell me I was beautiful.
I've never really had the chance to talk to other girls about it, but I'm guessing it's the sort of thing all mothers tell their daughters. One of those things that they only say to make you feel better but usually has no truth to it whatsoever, right up there with "it's just a phase you'll grow out of", "real beauty is on the inside" and "true love is unconditional". Do other daughters believe this bull? If so, at what point do they think to themselves "screw honesty" and pass the useless lies along to their daughters?
I spend hours thinking things like this over. Hours I should spend sleeping, actually.
It all started this past summer. Maybe it was a dream I forgot as soon as I woke up, maybe it was my seemingly ever-present thoughts about whether or not we were safe with Voldemort gaining power. Whatever the reason, every morning, I awoke at exactly 3:08. I'd stay awake for about a half hour, bathing in my own thoughts until I could manage sleep again. And it seemed that every night, my thoughts got a little more depressing, and I stayed awake a little longer, until I was unable to get back to sleep once I woke up. So I started getting up and actually doing things-- studying, mostly. Being constructive was the only thing that could keep me from being destructive.
But I think the real problem began one night about a month after school started. The 3:08 insomnia hadn't improved. I was still waking up every morning at the same time-- always unable to go back to sleep, always heading to the common room to study. I'd started waking up earlier until, on this particular night, I hadn't even bothered to try and go to sleep in the first place. Some wonderfully intelligent person had the brilliant idea to put a mirror above the desk I was working at. A fucking mirror.
I think it was probably the lighting. It sounds like a really stupid excuse now that I've already said it, but it's true. I was reading and taking notes by candle light. I went to dip my quill into the ink well when my eye caught the mirror. I did a double-take, and stared.
Was that me? It couldn't be. Her skin was too sallow, face too gaunt and sunken. I remember Ron telling me I wasn't looking well, but surely I didn't look like THAT. Frizzy hair in every direction. Far-set, hollow eyes, with deep indigo lines under them. Was she tired? Why hadn't she been sleeping? I felt concerned for her for a moment, but then I saw the thin lips, bushy eyebrows, bony nose. She was absolutely repulsive. How could she let herself look that way?
I could vaguely feel myself making a face, and there, I saw her, making the same face back at me. She actually had the nerve to mock me! She didn't know me. How could she do something like that? I could feel fingernails digging into my palms-- mine or hers?-- while my eyes narrowed. Hers narrowed back. And then, just when my rage was hitting its peak, I realized... It's a mirror. A mirror.
Reflection.
The rage flared, sending up smokey despair that made me choke and sob as I brought up my fist, then heaved it forward. Pain-- sharp, awakening pain-- shot through my hand and arm. I crumpled onto the floor, trying not to avoid the shards of glass that glinted up at me in the moonlight. The candle had blown out.
Footsteps. Quick, stumbling footsteps, tapping on icy stone, and I saw him. Tall, gangly, his firey red hair turned a dim gold.
"Hermione?"
I couldn't say anything. Didn't have to. He could see the white reflections of light that scattered the ceiling, the dark liquid that dripped slowly and deafeningly loud onto the floor. Footsteps, again. Running. He was running. I could feel hands, on mine, warm and damp while they carefully, shakily, pulled out shiny pieces of my reflection.
"What happened?" I didn't know. Strong back and arms lift me to the sofa on the other side of the room. Why had he carried me all the way over here? He should have left me there.
"Did you do this on purpose...?" All I could think about was the mirror, the goddamn mirror above the desk, glaring and mocking me from her hanger on the wall.
"Yes."
"Hermione.... Why?"
I looked up at him. To be rid of myself, I wanted to say. To be rid of the ugly, silly little girl who stupidly fell, hard, for her best friend. Who found freckles to be irrisistable, and who went out with famous Quidditch players to make adorably goofy redheads jealous. Who doesn't deserve to even be your friend, let alone anything more, but dreams and cries over it anyhow.
But I suppose he didn't want an answer, or maybe didn't need one, because he reached up with bloody fingers and touched my face, pushing back my hair. And his mouth was on mine, soft and warm and reassuring and so certain of what he was doing. So far unlike my reflection.
I'd kept my eyes open, not knowing what to do except that I couldn't stop, never. I looked up at the clock on the mantel.
3:08
*****
A/N: Whoo, that was dramatic, eh? I've been in an angsty, artsy mood lately, though nothing particularly angsty or artistic has happened lately. I was, however, pretty pissed when i discovered that stupid Craft Village had no Colerase pencils or Prismacolour markers, and that Chicago isn't yet playing in any of the theatres in this stupid town. I really wanna see that movie! Review, please, it makes me happy and puts me in a writey mood.