He'd finally figured it out – that feeling he got whenever he was in Hestia's proximity, that unbridled jealousy he felt when she went off with some undeserving bloke, that stupid affinity he had for blue eyes and black hair and tanned skin and high cheekbones and beauty spots and wide hips and small feet and bony elbows.
He loved her.
He loved her, he loved her, he loved her, and it was all so confusing but clear and slightly scary but brilliant because he loved her.
…And then came the realization that there was little chance in hell she felt the same, and that his love was wasted (if only he knew).
But he had to tell her, didn't he? Isn't that what happens in all the good stories, the trashy romance garbage that Molly reads? The heroic, handsome leading male confesses his undying love for the stunning and saintly leading lady, and they ride off on the hero's valiant steed into the sunset?
But he wasn't the handsome leading male. He had curly ginger hair and freckles and boring brown eyes and wasn't good enough for her because he wasn't as smart or funny or as self assured as she was, and he wasn't as brave as his house made him out to be, and he didn't have a horse that would ride them off into the sunset and he didn't know a thing about love other than it was when you cared so strongly about another human being that you would bend (or break entirely) every rule for them, and that description seemed apt for his situation.
And she wasn't the stunning and saintly leading lady. She was cold and crass, rarely let anyone in and smoked far too much and studied for too long and didn't brush her hair enough because it made the black fibers grow static and made them stand on end. She was the girl that put on a false bravado of non-chalance and acted like nothing affected her and lived up to the stereotype of an unfeeling Ravenclaw, and she didn't know a thing about love either.
He had to face it – their life, however magical, was not a fairytale.