Authors Note: I was inspired last night and wrote a companion piece to my
first fic, "Loving Him" This is from Ron's point of view about Hermione.
Once again, I own nothing except my love for the series.
Watching
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She has the warmest, most brilliant eyes I have ever seen. When she looks at you, you feel like she is memorizing your soul, storing you up in that vast brain of hers for further analyzation. When she looks at me like that, penetrating, I find myself not minding that I feel stripped to the bone, that she hasn't missed a single nuance. I want her to keep looking at me, to have her analyze me forever. Anything so long as she'd be seeing me.
I was -am- just like every teenage boy. Girls make me go mad, their hair and their eyes and their smell. If you You-Know-Who was a pretty girl instead of a scary snake-man, the whole wizarding world would be doomed because Harry and I would be too busy trying to get her number then stop her from taking over the world. I'm no stranger to the way women make me feel, but she.she doesn't do it right.
Hermione would be livid if she knew she had finally failed at something. She simply could not cause the same reaction in me that Parvati's short skirts did. No, it went much deeper the silly lust.
When she looked at me, I found myself sitting taller, praying for a clean face and smooth hair. I wanted to pass her inspection, to win her admiration and approval.
God, I'm so full of it. Admiration and approval? That's what I want from the crowd at Quidditch matches. With Hermione, I wanted something much more valuable, much harder to get, much less fleeting: I want her to love me. Realistically, I knew this is impossible. She's the smartest girl at Hogwarts, possibly the smartest girl in England, and beautiful and kind and witty. She's too good for me -she should be with someone like (God forbid) Harry, who is equally perfect and gifted. I know there's no way a person of her caliber would ever lower herself for someone like me, an average looking, academically casual, moderately competent Quidditch player covered in a mass of ugly freckles and topped off with a mop of unruly hair second only to Harry's.
I know all this, but I still love her.
Despite my faults, despite her lack of faults, I still find myself watching her. I watch her calm face, her quietly expressive eyes while she listens to me blather and watches me gesticulate like a fool. I watch her read while Harry and I pursue trivial pursuits, her quiet brilliance putting our immature, childishness to shame. And every so often, when the timing's right and my courage is with me, I touch her. Gentle, seemingly inconsequential touches of her skin, her face, her hair. Touches I can, if interrogated, pass off for brotherly or platonic. I never risk too much with her, afraid she'll discover my game and I'll be doomed to spending the rest of my life begging after her for the merest glimpse.
Sometimes though, I slip up, allow myself to risk my fragile standing. Like that night in the hall, the final night of term after a hellish school year. I was overcome by feelings of finality, and she looked so vulnerable and frightened that all I wanted to do for the rest of my life was keep her from feeling sadness.
"You know, Mione, I'm here for you if you need me."
I whispered to her, a yard away from the common room and our grieving best friend, miles away from any hope of her ever needing me.
I took her hand briefly, watching her nod, and for a fleeting moment thought I would kiss her. I thought I might be brave enough, smooth enough to kiss her, but then my lips were on her forehead and we were back to where we always were: her blissfully unaware of my feelings, me too frustratingly aware to stand.
I know that she's above me. I know it's ridiculous of me to act like I have the right to steal surreptitious touches and snatches of her voice. I know that she could never see me the way I see her (flawless, loving.) I know I am living in futility with no hope of escape or redemption.
I know this, and still, everyday, I hope. I tug her hair gently to entangle my fingers in its wild curl. I act goofy and ridiculous so that I can here her silvery laughter. I watch her, and I love her. And I hope. Every day.
Watching
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She has the warmest, most brilliant eyes I have ever seen. When she looks at you, you feel like she is memorizing your soul, storing you up in that vast brain of hers for further analyzation. When she looks at me like that, penetrating, I find myself not minding that I feel stripped to the bone, that she hasn't missed a single nuance. I want her to keep looking at me, to have her analyze me forever. Anything so long as she'd be seeing me.
I was -am- just like every teenage boy. Girls make me go mad, their hair and their eyes and their smell. If you You-Know-Who was a pretty girl instead of a scary snake-man, the whole wizarding world would be doomed because Harry and I would be too busy trying to get her number then stop her from taking over the world. I'm no stranger to the way women make me feel, but she.she doesn't do it right.
Hermione would be livid if she knew she had finally failed at something. She simply could not cause the same reaction in me that Parvati's short skirts did. No, it went much deeper the silly lust.
When she looked at me, I found myself sitting taller, praying for a clean face and smooth hair. I wanted to pass her inspection, to win her admiration and approval.
God, I'm so full of it. Admiration and approval? That's what I want from the crowd at Quidditch matches. With Hermione, I wanted something much more valuable, much harder to get, much less fleeting: I want her to love me. Realistically, I knew this is impossible. She's the smartest girl at Hogwarts, possibly the smartest girl in England, and beautiful and kind and witty. She's too good for me -she should be with someone like (God forbid) Harry, who is equally perfect and gifted. I know there's no way a person of her caliber would ever lower herself for someone like me, an average looking, academically casual, moderately competent Quidditch player covered in a mass of ugly freckles and topped off with a mop of unruly hair second only to Harry's.
I know all this, but I still love her.
Despite my faults, despite her lack of faults, I still find myself watching her. I watch her calm face, her quietly expressive eyes while she listens to me blather and watches me gesticulate like a fool. I watch her read while Harry and I pursue trivial pursuits, her quiet brilliance putting our immature, childishness to shame. And every so often, when the timing's right and my courage is with me, I touch her. Gentle, seemingly inconsequential touches of her skin, her face, her hair. Touches I can, if interrogated, pass off for brotherly or platonic. I never risk too much with her, afraid she'll discover my game and I'll be doomed to spending the rest of my life begging after her for the merest glimpse.
Sometimes though, I slip up, allow myself to risk my fragile standing. Like that night in the hall, the final night of term after a hellish school year. I was overcome by feelings of finality, and she looked so vulnerable and frightened that all I wanted to do for the rest of my life was keep her from feeling sadness.
"You know, Mione, I'm here for you if you need me."
I whispered to her, a yard away from the common room and our grieving best friend, miles away from any hope of her ever needing me.
I took her hand briefly, watching her nod, and for a fleeting moment thought I would kiss her. I thought I might be brave enough, smooth enough to kiss her, but then my lips were on her forehead and we were back to where we always were: her blissfully unaware of my feelings, me too frustratingly aware to stand.
I know that she's above me. I know it's ridiculous of me to act like I have the right to steal surreptitious touches and snatches of her voice. I know that she could never see me the way I see her (flawless, loving.) I know I am living in futility with no hope of escape or redemption.
I know this, and still, everyday, I hope. I tug her hair gently to entangle my fingers in its wild curl. I act goofy and ridiculous so that I can here her silvery laughter. I watch her, and I love her. And I hope. Every day.