DISCLAIMER: still not mine :(
To tamar-shaki, Psychoangel and Hermione Rae: thanks for reviewing. You made my day!
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Slowly it dusked. Hermione didn't notice. She still lay in the same position as three hours ago, when she fell down on her bed, crying. Her eyes were closed, and her fists balled, like she could avert fate that way. Her hair had escaped from her hair-ribbon and hung in knots on her back. She breathed calmly now, even, not falteringly, as in the beginning. She floated in some kind of vacuum between being awake and sleeping, in which you feel yourself glide away, and you know that even if you'd want to, you couldn't move: still you do not sleep.
Hermione noticed the sheets against her body, and the icing cold of an unheated dormitory, but she didn't care.
In fact she was surprised she still was there. That she hadn't, like in those romantic stories, with titles as "in his arms" and "burning desire" just died, disappearing forever. That nobody wrote the last letter and said "this is a good end, let leave it like this". That she wouldn't wallow in sadness and hysterical outbursts of rage till eternity. Life goes on. Now matter how cliché, it was true. And in fact that was the worst.
In the beginning you feel intensely sad, furious, deeply unhappy, but you can allow your emotions to drag you away, like a warm wave of tears. But later, later when you lie on your bed and you're cold and you should turn on the heating or go downstairs and what will the others think? then you are truly alone. For all your feelings have forsaken you and what remains is a knot, in the bottom of your stomach, a suffocating feeling: you feel worthless. And though you want to lie there forever the rational part of you tells you to move on. And you don't want to.
Carefully she turned on her other side and put the blanket over her legs. The pinched off blood vessels in her legs started prickling. For years she had been in love with Harry, and even though she had never said anything about it and never done more than looking at him and hinting subtle, she had been happy. At least, she realised it now. Because she had been able to fool herself, tell herself he loved her too, and didn't dare say anything as well. Being in love with someone who (what a coincidence!) loved her too, had always seemed something magical too her. Something for princesses in fairytales and overly romantic girls willing to fall in love with anyone.
But she had done it herself too, worshipping somebody while staying in the shadows, and she had made the same stupid mistakes. Thinking of Cho sent cool fury through her body. Not the angry kind of fury, the one she had had a few hours ago, of wanting to cut her throat and more such things, but the cool fury of someone looking up powerless to a girl towering above her who has taken her most precious treasure.
Because love is selfish, and anyone saying something else lies. All the stories of doing everything for someone you love and wanting that person to be happy are based on an insatiable selfishness. Hermione didn't give a damn whether Harry was happier with Cho than with her, or if she was 'the one' for him, for it did not untie the knot in her stomach.
Nobody had come to see her. Nobody. Seemly, nobody cared if she wasn't there for three hours or not, not even Ron or Harry. Her mind told her Harry could think of nothing but Cho, and that they weren't allowed in the girls' dormitory anyway, but she didn't listen. No girl had come either. She was even more worthless than she had thought before. And suddenly, with a weird kind of logic, something struck her. Tell Harry how you feel. Tell him you were in love with him. Are. Of course this wasn't a smart move, the thinking part of her said sternly. Where did you get the idea? That boy has fallen head over heels for Cho, and you'll just have to accept it. You are not going to ruin his happiness with your selfish feelings. Do you hear me; you're not going to. But I want to.
She rose from her bed. Her energy returned. Her legs protested, but she ignored the flaming pain. She didn't care what he would think, or that her eyes were red because she cried so much or that she would probably lose courage when she would see him. She had to do this. Now.
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Thanks for reading this story. Ideas and constructive criticism are very welcome, hint, hint. Compliments too by the way.