There She Goes
By chic_geek
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own nothing. I'm just an oppressed proletariat.
Author's Note: I'm finally back from my self-imposed exile! Lol. Anyway, it took me quite some time to finally get back to my bearings and start writing again. And this is the result. So as usual, please read and review (constructively!) because I need those to keep me going. I lose motivation so easily so you better review! tee hee. Other than that, enjoy everyone, and have a nice day!
Chapter 1
There she goes. There she goes again. Exactly like that song. Clichéd and grossly overused, but that's the best way to describe her. She starts chattering about a million different things, half of which is unknown to the average mind, but she says it like it's the most common thing in the world. And then she stops. She gives the softest of all sighs. She starts to smile and then she shakes her head. She has the guilty look on her face. Like she's ashamed because she's such a chatterbox. And you can't help but smile. You can't help but get infected. You can't help but get affected. There she goes. There she goes again.
She starts to say something again. But the cherry from her sundae rolls off. She gives a little laugh. "Woops," she says as she picks it by the stem and inspects it. She squints her eyes a little as if checking for tiny specks of bacteria. A second later she forgets about it, and she's dangling it like a pendulum with two fingers. She's quirky and you adore it. She's clever and the smartest thing ever. And she's pretty too.
She's a package. You're not immune to that. You can't be immune to that. But she's your best friend. You just don't cross that boundary. But she's all that. She's exactly that. Precisely that. And you feel the world around you slowly crashing down. Because when she starts to chew on that dirty cherry, you come undone. She does it in the most non-sexual way but you're in ecstasy. But you can't do anything. She's your best friend. But that doesn't mean you can't love her. Because you do.
You love her. And you won't risk losing her. And you'll just have to get over it. But you know you can't. You know you won't. Because you love her.
So you just do the things you do. You silently pine after her. You constantly think about her. And every night you dream about her. But you keep that poker face. Because that poker face is your saving grace. As long as you look innocent, then everything will remain innocent. Even if it's killing you.
Like that big bastard in front of you is killing you.
As is the case with all the bastards, he starts with that well used opening line: "I think you're spectacular. Bloody spectacular. That book just blew me away. I'm (name of bastard here) by the way. Would you like to go out sometime?"
Bloody bastards. Bloody idiots. Bloody wankers that don't have the capacity to remember the title of her book: The Problem With Potions (Or How They Distort Perception And Cause A Mind Revolution).
But she's smart. She knows how to handle them, unlike you: because while you're trying to control your anger, she's expertly playing coquette. The innocent coquette. Like she's flattered and she finds him greatly interesting but she's just very busy right now. So the bastard just smiles and nods his head towards you as a sign of respect (because you are the bloody Harry Potter). Then you smile. A genuine smile, a smile that says `sorry buddy, but she's just not into you'.
Thus you are triumphant.
But not for long. Because some bloody wanker is bound to appear again. And you'll be caught in that cycle once again, praying to Merlin, Christ, and Buddha to please let her say `no'. Let her say no and you'll castrate yourself and become a devoted monk. You conveniently forget about your promise soon after. But it won't matter. Because once she says no, it's all sunshine and daisies for you.
So the bastard stalks off. Hermione Granger gives him the big brush off and his ego's busted. But he'll come around after a pint. Unlike you. Hermione Granger gives you the big brush off and you're off to Hogwart's. You're off to the astronomy tower where you'll jump off to your death. That's why you don't risk it. You'd rather watch the bloody bastards.
Putting the bloody bastards aside however, you're happy for her fame. You're mighty proud that they know she's smart and she's beautiful. You're heart is beaming with delight when you read the now unbiased Daily Prophet's glowing review of her work. You're radiating when you see her in the cover of Witch's Weekly naming her this year's most beautiful person in the world. She finds it annoying but you know she likes it too.
But in spite of all that she remains the way she is. Not a hint of superiority or arrogance. But she does get bossy at times. Especially when you miss work. Or when you don't do your laundry. Or when you bum around, literally bum around, the flat. But that's just her. And you're so used to it that you actually find it charming. Hell, even Ron finds it bloody charming (at times) so you're not completely off your rocker because of your undying, but alas, all too secret love for her.
Her. With her green knitted sweater that makes her brown eyes sparkle and shine even more. Her. With her curly brown hair haphazardly sticking out in all directions. Her. With her faint smell of cinnamon and apples lingering in the air between you. Her. With her quiet little smile that just melts you.
And she notices this. She notices that you just can't stop staring and she becomes so self-conscious. Her cheeks turn pink. Her lips quiver a little. And she's looking at you with a puzzled expression. You feel like kissing her on the spot but the astronomy tower creeps into your mind and you stop yourself.
So you shrug your shoulders. And take a last sip of your beer. She scrunches up her nose. And you scrunch up your nose. She asks you,
"You ready, Harry?"
And you say,
"Yes."
And you both stand up. She gets her coin purse. You reach for your pockets. She rushes to the waitress. You win the race.
She tells you,
"I swear, I'm paying next time,"
You just pat her on the head and say,
"Don't worry, daddy's here."
She gives a little chuckle, and you ask,
"What?"
She gives another chuckle as she slips her arm through yours and says,
"That sounds mildly disturbing."
You give out a snort, and you tell her,
"Kinky, eh?"
And she playfully squeezes your nose and you both erupt in laughter.
When everything turns quiet, as you slowly make your way home, you tell yourself why you can never tell her the truth. Because you'll lose this-and when you lose this, you lose a great part of your life.
So while the wind gently blows behind you, and the snow starts to fall, while she clings hard to you for warmth, and you hold her even tighter, you tell yourself to be content.
You tell yourself to be content because you have her, no matter what.
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