Ballad for the Lost Romantics

BALLAD FOR THE LOST ROMANTICS

CHAPTER 10

~*~

Ah, to the liking (horror) of many young witches and wizards alike, February has, at long last, descended upon us. Or, perhaps more importantly for some, the month which contains St. Valentine's Day.

Yes, the infamously quoted day of love which provides us ladies with many chances to thoroughly embarrass ourselves, reprimand ourselves for our lack of a significant other, and to feel horribly lonely while watching what seems like every witch and wizard find their soul mates- that is, every witch and wizard besides ourselves, right ladies?- is fast approaching...

To all of the young men who read my column (probably to impress a certain female who might just be a Lost Romantic) This Author understands that these new revelations about the supposed favorite day for every female may be a bit confusing. Well, by all means, allow a star-crossed lover to explain why these, accusations one could say, are very much the truth...

First of all Gents, realize that, contrary to what may be popular belief amongst you all, ladies are not always graced with such humble virtues such as grace, style, or tact. In fact, the arrival of St. Valentine's Day seems to drive each and every one of these virtues right on out of the nearest window, leading to the most horribly embarrassing situations for ourselves.

Second, it is from This Author's own past experience that you fellas can see that the lack of a boyfriend can be downright depressing, leading to the most unusual situations or ideas (such as starting a column of unrequited love for a school newspaper). The unfair reprimanding and ridiculous scolding of ourselves most certainly makes this holiday quite depressing.

And finally, gentlemen, whenever a girl does not have a boyfriend on the quoted day of love, all she can see are happy couples abound. This brings us back to points one and two (see above paragraphs).

So that's it, gents, the not-so-favorite holiday for witches. Surprised that the old fable has proven false? Or maybe you're just relieved?

Of course, a really good author must cover all bases, so it is important that I relate that the above assertions are completely void if a lady is spending St. Valentine's Day with a gentleman...

Thought you were home free this year, eh gents? Well, sorry (or is it not-so-sorry?) to burst your bubble, but I simply could not destroy the notorious belief that St. Valentine's Day is every witch's favorite holiday for once and for all...better luck next year, chaps.

Lady Rowena's Ballad for the Lost Romantics

~*~

There I was, cornered and trapped in my own personal Hell. Okay, that is a tad melodramatic, I admit (maybe Draco has rubbed off on me), but honestly, friends, I really felt as if I was in Hell.

Or if not Hell, then some sort of twisted Alternate Reality where everything was a conspiracy against me.

Or perhaps it was all some terrible nightmare that I was going to awaken from at any moment...

Or maybe I should stop stalling and really just admit that I was only out on the Quidditch Pitch with Oliver for my second flying lesson.

But, quite honestly, I found Hell to be preferable.

It wasn't really the flying that scared me (okay, part of it was the flying, but this is my story and I'd like to appear to have some Gryffindor bravery, thank you), but most of it was Oliver.

Oliver Wood, possibly the best and worst thing to have ever happened to me. We hadn't really talked much after his hasty exit after the Yule Ball; indeed, we really didn't have time to chat (exams were only a few months away and I had been neglecting my studies as of late). But now there I was (cornered and trapped, one might say) into another flying lesson.

Closing my eyes and biting my lip, I prayed for it all to just be some horrid nightmare born of my insecurities.

Wincing as I bit my lip a little too hard, I tried to appear as if I had been dutifully listening to Oliver's prep speech.

"Alright, Hermione?"

I snapped back into the real world (because deep down inside, I knew it wasn't an alternate one) and gave an affirmative nod.

Oliver frowned suspiciously. "Have you been listening to a word I've said?"

Oh no, caught in the act, my mind raced. "Of course I have, Professor," I assured him as if the very notion of me not listening was simply absurd.

"Alright then, let's see about getting you into the air today," he smirked, positively enjoying my torture.

"Oh joy," I muttered to myself, but I have the sneaking suspicion that he heard me.

"Okay, now stick your right hand over your broom and say 'up'." he commanded, doing so himself, his broom slamming into the palm of his hand with a loud thwack.

Five minutes passed before Oliver allowed me to just quickly bend over and pick up my bloody broom.

"Now, remember what I told you about mounting your broom. Swing your right foot over the broom, and grip the handle firmly, but not too tightly because we want to be able to maneuver easily," he lectured, demonstrating exactly what he was saying.

Hesitantly I managed to mount the broom.

"So far so good," Oliver encouraged, "alright, now gently kick up into the air, and hover lightly above the grass."

Squeezing my eyes shut, I kicked into the air.

"Hermione, if I'm going to show you how to turn and maneuver, you'll have to open your eyes," Oliver patiently informed me.

I did as told, and then gave a frightened little squeak, screwing up my eyes again and unconsciously tightening my grip on the broom until my knuckles turned white.

"Hermione, open your eyes," Oliver commanded.

I jerkily shook my head.

"Yes, Hermione, open your eyes," he repeated, more firmly.

I don't know exactly how to explain why I was so afraid. In all actuality, I can't really remember what it was that scared me so much, since it was so long ago, and I have since improved upon those fears. But what I can tell you I felt, though, is this bone-deep feeling of being absolutely certain that I was going to fall off my broom and break my neck...from the mind-shattering height of three and a half feet in the air.

Hardly rational on my part, I know, but that's why it's called an un-rational fear.

"Hermione, look at me," Oliver ordered.

"Get a mirror and look at yourself," I snapped angrily, giving a startled 'erp' when I felt the broom gently swing towards the left.

"Hermione, please look at me," he asked, a slight pleading tone in his usually carefree, charming Scottish voice.

Slowly, I managed to pry open one eye.

"That's it, Hermione, now let's try the other," he softly encouraged.

Again, with a measured slowness my other eye unscrewed itself. Eyes opened wide, I went to direct them down towards the grass, that seemed miles beyond miles away...

"No, no Hermione," Oliver urgently began, "don't look down. Look at me, Hermione. Look into my eyes."

My eyes darted to lock with his, something inside of me instantly responding to the desperation his voice held. And as my eyes fixed on his, I suddenly forgot the (very remote) possibility that I could lose my gripping and fall to my death. His eyes, that seemed to convey that he was worried, concerned, and yet in complete control of the situation all at once, were all I could focus on.

Gone were my fears, not forever, but just for that moment; that single moment where I knew without a shadow of a doubt that Oliver Wood was falling for me.

Because that's all it really takes, folks, just one little moment in time; one look from one person to another.

How I managed to safely land while still holding the intimate contact of our eyes is beyond me. How Oliver and I seemed to draw together, almost like magnetism, is probably irrelevant. Just how exactly my arms made their way around Oliver's neck, and how his snaked around my waist, I fear I'll never learn. And just who exactly initiated the kiss that followed is still a mystery that not even time can solve. (a/n: I was going to end it here, but, for the sanity of some of my beloved reviewers, I decided to plunge on...)

But, that is all neither here nor there at the moment. What matters truly was that I was being held in the arms of the man I had loved for so long, being kissed so thoroughly that it felt almost as if he feared he would simply die if he stopped.

But he did eventually stop for the pesky need to breathe (and I am quite happy to report that neither he nor I died from the loss of lip contact).

All I could do was stare at him. I had been too caught up in the kiss to actually realize what was happening, and what it would mean. And the unbelievable way he was looking at me only added to my bafflement.

"Hermione."

One word, my name, uttered with such reverence, awe, and astonishment that it made me want to break down and weep. It was a whispered offering, full of need. The way he said my name spoke more than any three words (i.e. 'I love you') ever could.

And then I saw it. 'The Look'- the one I had been yearning to see whenever he looked deeply into my eyes- and it was there at that moment, clear as day across his bewildered face. The longing, the need, and the slight shyness with which he looked at me were humbling.

And so I took the initiative. Carefully, so as to keep from breaking the spell that seems to have been cast around us, I stood up on my tip-toes and brought my lips to his in a fluttery kiss filled with every ounce of love, tenderness, and warmth that I had ever felt in my entire life.

And when we broke again, I knew I didn't have to say the words, because, really, I had already told Oliver that I was in love at the Yule Ball. And then that afternoon, I had, in my own way, shared with him the knowledge that I was in love with him. I didn't have to tell Oliver Wood that I was in love with him, because I had showed him.

But the words needed to be said. For years I had carried them with me, locked deep within my heart. They wanted out. I needed to say them, and perhaps, Oliver needed to hear them.

So, from buried within Oliver's strong, protective embrace, I muttered the words, "I love you," softly into his chest.

I had said them so softly that I almost doubted that he had heard me, but only a moment later did he put a finger under my chin and tilt my head back, his eyes reading my heart in mine as he simply responded in deep, male satisfaction, "Good," before sealing my lips with his once again.

And it was only later that night, when I was away from the distraction that Oliver's warm, pliable lips presented, that some distant part of me noted that Oliver had never said he loved me back.