Hedy LaRue: I have nothing to hide!
Rosemary: Yes you do, and you keep it hidden!
~ A movie
A/N: Written in the very fun 'you' style. Well, the word 'and' is used many times in this fic so I suppose you'll just have to get used to it. Tis a fun fic. Much more sappy than I would have liked, but hey. =) So enjoy you Ron/Hermione fiends! Wicked people you. Ha. This is like sugar!
Good Luck
&
&
&
Eleven.
You get to this off-school and it would be some unbecoming joke that didn't even make sense--but it does. Hogwarts they call it. And you wear pointed hats and long black cloaks and fire burns your hair. You're much too young to be thrown into this type of world, but you think that there's never a better time. You're young and vibrant and more assured than you've ever been.
And you want friends. People to communicate with and love and adore and cherish. You want people to joke with and fight with and share with. So you get that, and it's this big troll fiasco but it always works out fine. So it does. They're about your age, maybe a few months older and you're sure they don't like you for your looks. That knotty brown hair and thin wrists that bracelets just dangle off of. And there must be something good about you.
But it's not.
You're there and you're sort of smart when you want to be. So you're all jolly old friends and it's like you've known them since yesterday--because you have. You're young and happy and you dance in the sunlight and read more than is normal.
And life is going rather pleasant for the circumstances.
But there's always that boy. That boy who messes up your 'academics' and messes up your free time and your love affair with that quidditch boy. He's much older than you. But even you think the quidditch boy's much too famous for your liking--but it's not his place. It's never his place. And he's a nice boy, I mean, you know, not amazing but good. And you know he's good and sometimes you think he doesn't even know so. Always getting those detentions, always being wild during study time in the library.
He doesn't know anything.
But he knows you.
You don't know how, it's rather odd. You think he finds you quite the know-it-all, but then again--you are. You say you're not an open book but you really are. You wear your heart in your books the boys' always say. And when you're angry you read Hogwarts a History and when you're happy you read Magical Me by Gilderoy Lockhart for the millionth time.
It's eerie because he's not perceptive and he really isn't intelligent. But he knows you. So he must know something. Although you wish much more that he knew something useful like herbology. Just like herbology.
He says he'll kiss you someday because Viktor eats sauerkraut and his breath must've tasted awful when he kissed you and you say: "But we didn't kiss." And he laughs and mutters something about: "Tell it to the Minister of Magic." And you don't believe a word he says but say something illegal, you know. He's always teasing you. You think the redhead's breath probably tastes of chocolate and butterbeer, and you think, well, it could get a lot worse.
You could actually be in denial.
And you aren't.
Not really.
You worry about him when he and your other friend go off to fight the Dark Lord and Dark People and you can't worry a lot because you're by their side. And you want to be comforted and helped and hugged but you can't dare say so, so you're like a stone. You sigh and shrug and say: "Go on then." And they think you rather strong. And you wonder if you're the weakest person in all of London. Sometimes when he senses this he'll put his hand on your shoulder and sort of rub it a bit and it's not relaxing because you get nervous--and take deep breaths and say loudly: "Go see what Harry's up to." Harry needs him more than you do.
Maybe.
He has silly gaudy taste and his room is covered in orange paint that's peeling off of the tired wall. And it's rather disgusting, but you don't much mind. You sit upon the bed that Harry sleeps on and look around: "Nice place," you say, because you don't mean it. He looks awkward and offers you a white chocolate mint truffle and you freeze and you accept it and then you eat it, quietly and much until you can't munch anymore.
And he's going to kiss you now.
So he does and part of you wishes you were still 'pretending' to munch on that disgusting, melted truffle. But this--this is nice and different and you're glad to have him around. Kissing you. Kissing you like you're the only girl he's ever wanted in his fifteen years. Kissing you like you were meant to be kissed.
And that's what it's all about.
You wonder if you two will get married and think that you've never seen a wedding dress that you didn't like. And the invitations, in pristine cursive that practically drips from the cloudy paper.
But life goes on and if you know anything you know that. And times pass. And people change more than you'll ever understand. And one day he may not love you like he did that summer morning. And one day things may change and crumble and go on and prevail.
You wonder if he's the love of your life and then firmly decide that you never did believe that rot. But it's still rather a nice thought. Two people, one dream, one love. For all time.
And you two are still children, in his mind. But it's almost time for University and you're still so unsure. What is University without passion and what is knowledge without wisdom? And it makes absolutely all sense and it's so rushed. He says you're "already smart enough" and that's funny because you aren't. And graduation is nearing and he's still pulling your arm towards Hogsmeade so you two can "get thoroughly smashed" and he doesn't care if it's not your type of thing.
He'll make it your type of thing.
You're seventeen now and isn't that old? Don't people start settling down and figuring out what they want to do when they're seventeen? You think they do. It seems as though Hogwarts has gone so quickly and your life is slipping through your hands and you're scared and afraid and wonder if you'll make it out alive. He doesn't reassure you because he can't but he smiles and says caustically: "And we thought things were tough when we were eleven." You vaguely remember a potions test you "forgot" to study for and then the tears that came from your eyes.
And it's the last day of Hogwarts and you think your world's crashing in on you and there's this sensation. This rush. You have to pack your things--your trunk--his sweater--the broken quill--Honeydukes' acid pops--the photos--the pink slippers. And you have to hurry. It's a slow process though and you pack everything with care. He comes in and you remind him that no boys are allowed in girls' dorms and he really could careless.
And isn't that why you love him?
He sits upon your bed and says it's not 'squishy' and you say it's because it's only you who sleeps in it and he says it doesn't have to be that way. And you say it does. Then you two end up laughing, yours more forced.
As the sun goes down in the country you begin to make your way to the carriages and your parents will be awaiting your return. He's holding your hand tightly and you think that you might not be able to make it any longer. It's difficult being this strong and you bite your lip hard and watch your childhood go past. You squeeze his hand and he squeezes back. You've never felt so alive. The tears are about ready to fall--but they don't and they probably never will.
"Hermione," he says. "What shall you do with your life?"
And you laugh because he's never this mature and never this dignified and you throw your head back and toss him a smile.
"I s'pose I'll be with you," you say.
"Good answer," he grins.
You walk to the carriages and your hands are still tightly locked and you refuse to let him drag your trunk. So you drag it on the roadside. He says you look determined and when have you ever not? He hands you a white chocolate mint truffle and you accept it. Finally the man who runs the carriage sees you two and nods.
He helps you up onto the thin leather seats and then gets up himself.
You're going away from Hogwarts now...and you wonder if you believe in good luck...
*
End