QLFC Round 3 Submission
Keeper for the Chudley Cannons
Prompt: Satisfied: Write about unrequited feelings (romantic or platonic).
Song lyric from Satisfied: "like a dream you can't quite place"
Word Count: 1101
A/N: Title is from the song My Cell, by The Lumineers, in their latest album, III, which is amazing.
Hermione burst out from behind the Fat Lady's portrait, running down the corridor pretending there wasn't a lump in her throat and a burning behind her eyes.
She flung open the first door she came across, as the first tear slid down her cheek, and collapsed onto a bench in the empty Charms classroom. It was startlingly quiet compared to the raucous common room she'd just come from. She slid her wand from her sleeve, creating a little flock of too-cheerful canaries. She almost vanished them for their obnoxiously happy chirps, but it was too much effort.
Hermione had just realised she was seriously lacking in one specific area of knowledge, an area that she hadn't considered necessary until just then.
Boys.
She'd been best friends with two of them for six years, so she didn't even really understand why she struggled. But perhaps it was because she'd suddenly wished to interact with the other gender in a much different way than simply being friends, and since the object of her desired interaction was actually one of those previously mentioned best friends, the transition proved difficult, to say the least.
Most girls, she had gleaned from observation, got their eyes on a cute boy, flirted like mad until it was reciprocated, and then they went and found a secluded corridor together.
Hermione had always believed herself to be above such behavior. Besides, she hadn't even been sure how to go about flirting. She was pretty sure she'd just feel awkward the whole time.
Her uncertainty had been manageable a year or two ago, when fancying Ron had only come in the form of the occasional butterflies when he did something thoughtful, but now…
She wasn't even sure when she had started to like him as more than a friend; the beginnings were vague, like a dream she couldn't quite place, and now she was so far gone that every glance set her heart – set her every part – aflame.
The tricky part, of course, had been not knowing whether or not her feelings were reciprocated. It was obvious when other people fancied each other – like Harry and Ginny, that was clear as day – but when it had come to Ron, she had absolutely no idea. The last time she'd seen him interested in someone was in Fourth year, when he was all head-over-heels about Fleur; but she'd mostly blamed that behavior on Fleur being a Veela, because she'd never seen Ron act like that over anybody else.
She'd wondered (and worried) that having been his friend for so long, she might have missed the signs. Perhaps he had liked her back, but he'd realized it before her and what she'd taken as him being normal had been him showing interest.
She shook her head, stopping herself before she could think further along that path. It would only lead her mind around in endless circles.
None of that mattered now, anyway. It was all too late. Maybe, if she'd had a class on the subject, or even just read a book or two, she would've known that her casual attitude would be her undoing. She would have known that she needed to act on that growing fire before it was too late.
Before other girls started to notice how wonderful he was, too.
Before she walked into the Gryffindor common room after Ron's sweeping success on the Quidditch pitch.
Before she learned the hard way that her heart could shatter as easily as glass.
The tears began to run down her cheeks like rivers, down her neck and onto her hair, soaking her jumper. She couldn't have stopped them if she'd wanted to.
There was a noise behind her – the creak of the door – and she knew someone had come in, but she hardly cared. Soft, careful footsteps moved closer, and then she saw that it was Harry, pausing uncertainly at the end of the bench, before taking a seat next to her awkwardly.
Neither of them said a word, and they sat, silently, stiffly, with those stupid little birds obliviously giving musical orations above them.
The tears slowed, eventually, and her throat relaxed. She looked at Harry, acknowledging his presence at last.
"Is this how you feel?" she asked him, her voice rough. "Is this how you feel when you see Ginny with Dean?"
His head jerked around, wide green eyes meeting hers.
Hermione remembered when Ginny had come to talk to her, thinking that since she was older she must know what to do. Hermione regretted every word of that so-called advice, if this was how Harry had felt this whole time. Ginny had really only had a crush – nothing which would cause her the same sadness and hurt as Hermione could see reflecting back from Harry's eyes now.
She wanted to say something, although she knew very well that nothing could be said. Before she could open her mouth to put her foot in it, there was a loud giggle from the hall, and the two people she least wanted to see burst through the door.
It was obvious what they had been looking to do – this was the closest empty classroom to Gryffindor Tower – and they were so absorbed with each other that it took them several long, torturous seconds to notice that the room was already occupied.
Lavender left quickly, her smile dropping, and giggles tapering off.
Ron lingered, eyes looking everywhere but at her, shifting his feet hesitantly, and suddenly Hermione was sharply and inexplicably furious.
It wasn't really his fault. She knew that it was her own naïve lack of impetus that left her unsatisfied, but she took her wand out anyway, flicking it in a precise circle.
"Oppugno," she said, sending the birds dive-bombing, and watched with bitter gratification the betrayal that crossed his face as he dodged the birds and escaped the classroom.
She was trembling, Hermione realized, with a detached sort of feeling, as the door closed after Ron. She could feel Harry's concerned gaze on her, but she couldn't bring herself to meet it; instead, she collapsed onto him, hiding her face in his shoulder.
Her tears had dried up, and no more would come. The remains of her charmed birds lay in six yellow splotches on the door, leaving a crushing silence behind them. All Hermione could do was clench Harry's jumper tighter in her hands and hope to Merlin she had not just done something unforgivable – that she had not just driven Ron's warm eyes right out of her life.