Sy Parrish: Nobody takes a picture of something they want to forget.
~ A movie ;)
Authors Notice: Written in the 'you' style, don't you guys love that? It's not as happy as I imagined, really, but a lot of people will probably read it and go: "That's so sweet!" and totally miss the point. But anyway. Ron/Hermione but rather of the angst-y sort so you fluff-lovers may be sad. Poor things. Anyway, just read! I haven't written in ages.
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You grow up somewhere in, say, London, maybe. London's nice if you like feeling sort of lonely without ever feeling warm. It's a nice school you go too, not nice nice but prestigious and for children who will grow up and be doctors and lawyers. Not actresses and actors, you wonder how scary it would be to feel all those eyes on you....to feel so watched, so looked at. It would scare you, and it does.
You never were good with people. Good with words, maybe. People who grow up and make names for themselves aren't good with people they're good with work and life and things that go with the mind. And, well, if you know anything at all...you know it all goes back to the mind.
You see your parents together and they're really happy people. You can't imagine being like that, well, not really. Your Father sweeps your Mother off of her feet, which isn't difficult because it's all about her heart. And your Father, he's so logical...and it's so sane, that it scares you sometimes. You can't impress logical people. Emotional people are so simple; they are so faultless.
When you're of age, which really means eleven, you go off to a school. Big school it is. It's filled with smart girls and boys and silly girls and boys and nothing really in between.
You don't go looking for friends, you don't go around wanting friends, and you most certainly, almost always regret having them. But they're there.
You see them and they're boys and you're not even a bit nervous. Not because you know the three of you shall be "best friends forever" but because you know nothing of the sort will ever happen.
But it does.
They don't like you--why should they? You're bossy and rude and sort of strangely emotional every now and then. You like crisp parchment and jam on toast and you aren't the least bit interested in them. They're just like every other eleven-year-old set of boys. They're just like every other sort of set of anything.
So, you spend time being you. Which is really like being Mummy or a know-it-all. And you finally found people who can take it. Strong boys with their own problems and insecurities and baggage.
Baggage like having a thick scar on your face 'cause Voldemort killed your parents.
And baggage like never feeling good enough for everything while being the most arrogant person in all of London.
But you fall for them. Rather, you jump for them and fight for them and eat with them and that sort of thing. You don't love them, or care about them, they're just people you met. People who walk with you to classes and the sort. But, even if it's not friendship, it's something good that almost always ends up bad.
There were many times you thought that you couldn't possibly go on. You were supposed to face the Dark Lord? You were supposed to be the strength and the glue and the One? But you weren't, even if you came through. Black-haired boy was the One and redhead was the Strength and that was all there was to it.
You weren't quite sure where you fit in.
And then...at the height of your life, the pinnacle of success, the amazement of the world shone upon you--and, you were in love. And not only were you in love, you realized you had been in love forever and that what you wanted was what you had. But what about school and life and success...and lonely nights? What about living a logical life where a Prince came and left and you two were just fine without each other. Where you were independent and neat and good.
With no complications.
So you found someone--well, not that someone but someone either way. A young man with the name 'crum' or something in is last name. You met him in the library and found the interest he sparked rather dull but he didn't find you dull. He understood, sort of the need to get away from the fame--which for you was the boys and for him were the fans. You weren't good at quidditch, not into being thrown into the air and soaring--still didn't believe broomsticks could fly, either. Quidditch was his life, quidditch was what he lived for and died for.
And you wish you had that. But you did. You had the boys.
But...perhaps it wasn't quite the same.
He asked you to the Christmas dance, the one with the fancy name, and he said it in such an elaborate way you grew bored. But he still said it. You said yes and making the redhead jealous wasn't the deciding factor--but it was still a factor.
You were pretty that night but you were still the little girl inside. You hadn't the charm for all the looks and no set of dress robes could make up for that. You didn't feel much different, just like the little girl who made friends with the big boys. But you weren't. You were fourteen and you were rather old and even grown-up.
The redhead was jealous, just as planned, and you were unhappy, just as planned, and you realized, just as unplanned, that you were in love with the redhead and no Quidditch Star--no one, even--could change that.
That nothing was for sure...but this--this was certain.
Everything returned to normal and bitterness never faded and happiness did, and rather quickly at that. Your Father said: 'Your Mother and I worry about you every now and again.' And they shouldn't, you thought. And no one should, and maybe not even the boys.
You fought evil, as was expected and you were a fighter but you very much so weren't. You grew up, even more so than before, and you never did, which was expected because you led an odd life. You began thinking about University when everyone else was thinking about love.
And you were too a bit.
Redhead dated every now and then and whenever he did you thought he should be asking you and he should want to date you--and only you--and always only you and no one else until you died. And then, and then, he would be bitter and sad and live alone until he died. And that was just the way it should've worked.
You got out of Hogwarts, after seventh year, of course. Which was a confusing time for all that lived. A war was starting and people were burning and life sort of lost meaning.
And there you were. And you were still a little girl just made to grow up and be big and important. Because you wanted to be big and important without being famous, which was near impossible. And it was over.
And it was time to move on when all you wanted to do was go back.
So you said your good-byes, everyone did. The Dark Lord still existed and Evil would never go away and you hadn't been on a date since fourth year.
And as the carriage pulled away, as the whistle sounded, as the people grew weary, as the war raged on, as all you ever knew faded...
…You went away with it…
~*~