FROM THE JOURNALS OF VIKTOR R. KRUM
Her name is Hermione.
I saw it written on the essay she was writing in the library. I wish I could hear someone say it. Hermione. Hermione. I could say it forever.
She is only fourteen. I thought certainly she was older than that. No matter. I of all people know that how young a person is does not dictate who they are. No, it is their skills, their choices, their thoughts and feelings that make a human being.
I wonder about her almost constantly, sitting alone on my bunk, having to duck my head so that it does not scrape the ribbed metal that is a ceiling. I lie on my back, staring up at the cracked ceiling, and I wonder whether she has seen me. Was she at the Quidditch World Cup? Perhaps.
I wish that I walked as well as I flew, and I pace the floors when I am alone, trying to perfect a walk. I can dance well, yes, and fly, but walking is for some reason an art I have never tried to perfect before. Why? Why was I so narrow-minded as to think that flying would be all I would need to do?
I know I will never dance with her. I will probably never even speak to her.
I look in the cracked oval mirror that hangs in the space under Ricor's lofted bed. Yes, I am ugly. Why do those Hogwarts girls follow me around? It is my fame. Yes, I tell myself. I am ugly. Why do they even look at me?
Fame is a burden. Harry must know that.
I wonder suddenly something I hadn't considered. Harry and Hermione. Are they. together? Or Hermione and the boy with red hair?
My heart is pounding suddenly. I take breaths to calm myself. It really is not my concern.
I think I'm in love. I've never felt like this before. there are girls at school, older than me, who I might look at for excessively long times, admiring them, but never loving them, never wanting anything but to admire their looks. Making up for my imperfect face. I am ugly, and I will always be.
I envy Harry Potter now, viciously and with great emotion attached. He is famous, and has much better looks than I - and he spends time around Hermione, something I can never even hope to do.
I watch her, in the library. I have only done so twice now, but I think it will become a routine. She is very studious. She is also a Gryffindor, and thusly must be brave. My heart feels like it may burst with all of this unfamiliar emotion.
I cannot stand this any longer. I am going to the library.
Her name is Hermione.
I saw it written on the essay she was writing in the library. I wish I could hear someone say it. Hermione. Hermione. I could say it forever.
She is only fourteen. I thought certainly she was older than that. No matter. I of all people know that how young a person is does not dictate who they are. No, it is their skills, their choices, their thoughts and feelings that make a human being.
I wonder about her almost constantly, sitting alone on my bunk, having to duck my head so that it does not scrape the ribbed metal that is a ceiling. I lie on my back, staring up at the cracked ceiling, and I wonder whether she has seen me. Was she at the Quidditch World Cup? Perhaps.
I wish that I walked as well as I flew, and I pace the floors when I am alone, trying to perfect a walk. I can dance well, yes, and fly, but walking is for some reason an art I have never tried to perfect before. Why? Why was I so narrow-minded as to think that flying would be all I would need to do?
I know I will never dance with her. I will probably never even speak to her.
I look in the cracked oval mirror that hangs in the space under Ricor's lofted bed. Yes, I am ugly. Why do those Hogwarts girls follow me around? It is my fame. Yes, I tell myself. I am ugly. Why do they even look at me?
Fame is a burden. Harry must know that.
I wonder suddenly something I hadn't considered. Harry and Hermione. Are they. together? Or Hermione and the boy with red hair?
My heart is pounding suddenly. I take breaths to calm myself. It really is not my concern.
I think I'm in love. I've never felt like this before. there are girls at school, older than me, who I might look at for excessively long times, admiring them, but never loving them, never wanting anything but to admire their looks. Making up for my imperfect face. I am ugly, and I will always be.
I envy Harry Potter now, viciously and with great emotion attached. He is famous, and has much better looks than I - and he spends time around Hermione, something I can never even hope to do.
I watch her, in the library. I have only done so twice now, but I think it will become a routine. She is very studious. She is also a Gryffindor, and thusly must be brave. My heart feels like it may burst with all of this unfamiliar emotion.
I cannot stand this any longer. I am going to the library.
