And Fate Be Damned

How did it come to this?

Apparently, Fate have decreed that I am damned to walk the corridors alone from here on in. The corridors of life, that is. How very philosophical of me.

But then again, that's what everyone expects of me, isn't it? I am clever, I am witty, I am intelligent, and I am deep.

And I am alone. Fifteen, almost sixteen years of my life have transformed me. I am still smart, and sharp.

Only now, I'm bitter as well.

People don't watch over me. I am expected to take care of myself. Then again, wasn't I always?

As a child, I was left to my own devices. My parents both worked, and the neighbour who watched me, though kind, had the attention span of a turnip. A long deceased one. Thus, I was left to entertain myself. But what does a precocious child of four do, when there is nothing in a town for her?

She reads, of course. My neighbour had a veritable library in her drawing room, and I went through all those books after school.

Not that anyone cares. No one stops to consider for a moment why I'm so dependant on those books of mine, why I have so many. But for eleven years, books were my only friend. Books and notebooks some old pens. I always understood, I think, better than everyone else, why Ginny loved that diary so much. Even though my journals never wrote back to me, something of my life was preserved. Something remembered me. Even if it was only a tattered manilla portfolio, full of the inane writings of a child, they were always there to listen to me.

And they never made fun of me. They will be with me as I silently make my way through the halls.

I suppose that's the way it's supposed to be. If Fate gives you a gift, it must take another one away. Fate gave me brains, and then took away my once long, smooth hair. Fate gave me cleverness, and then took away my ability to socalise properly. That's right; I may be brilliant, but when it comes down to the line, I'm socially retarded. I'm no good at making friends.

Once upon a time, that hurt me. Now, sometimes I wonder what the point of having friends is.

My first friend I ever made was not Harry or Ron. It was Neville. And I think in some ways, he is my truest friend. People wonder why I stick by him so much, why I try to help him.

I have faith in him. Neville is not the sharpest, not the brightest, not the funniest nor the most athletic. But he is kind, and he never ceases his struggle against all that would hold him back. And he thanks me endlessly. There is no sweeter thing to hear than, "Thank you so much."

My best friends rarely say it.

So yes, I am bitter.

I don't know what power decreed that those who intelligent, who are shy, who are struggling, must be alone. It's cumbersome, sometimes, to be so different. Harry understands on some level, but on others, he doesn't. He forget the glory that comes with being the Boy Who Lived, the possibilities, the advantages. He has a support system like no other. People praise him, and cling to him.

Do I want that? No.

A simple "I'm glad you're my friend" would suffice.

So it comes to this.

I am different. I do not prattle, I do not gossip, I do not twirl my hair and flutter my lashes. Clothing is meant to cover my nakedness, not flaunt my body. I am not covered in cosmetics, nor do I read the silly rags that the girls in my dorm read. I seek knowledge, and truth.

And freedom. Love, I left behind a long time ago.

I want permission to be myself. I want to walk down the halls of my school, of my world, without hearing the half-whispered remarks about me. I want to sit with my friends, and know that they appreciate my company, and not the fact that I can revise their homework.

I want to live.

I walk in the shadows, often. Public attention is not what I crave. I simply want to be myself, without sarcastic remarks from my friends. When I go to bed at night, I want to sleep, not hide from a world, from two worlds, that will never quite understand.

In the Muggle world, my parents, although they love me unconditionally, are still uncertain about my life. This is natural, and I quite understand. We're a very logical family, though. But it hurts that I can never tell my family who I truly am. I am a witch, and a great one at that. I am powerful, and shrewd. I have already dissected the political system of both Worlds.

In the Wizarding life, the purebloods I know can't grasp what it means to be from the Muggle world. Or rather, they simply can't be bothered to. with the exception of Mr. Weasley, of course. But whenever I point out that some Muggle things, like stitches or tellies, work rather well, they simply brush it off, as if it's somehow not good enough for them.

It makes me want to scream. I come from there, thank you, and I'm doing just fine and dandy. Stitches managed to sew me up more than once. Just because it's different, doesn't make it bad. And sometimes, I just want to throw away my wand and beat them with some good, old fashioned Muggle frying pan, non-enchanted, until they realise that Muggles are just as good as Wizards. After all, at least we managed to harness electricity. Fate gave me two worlds, and then tore me apart from both.

Something has to give. But this time, it's not going to be me. I'm tired of caving.

Ron and Harry will always be dear to my heart. They're unshakable, and in some strange way, I love them. They have protected me, and maybe one day, they'll appreciate me. Although my money is on Harry appreciating me first. I think that perhaps internally, unconsioucly, they do, but until it shows, I'm going to have to go on with my life.

I think I'll start today by flouting Fate's decree a little. I don't want to walk alone, and I think I know someone else who doesn't want to, either.

I know Ron and Harry are sitting downstairs. Ron is probably still attempting to string together a coherent sentence, and Harry is probably sulking. So I make my way down the stairs, hair swept up in a haphazard bun and clothes slightly rumpled. Normally, I wear my robes all the time, even on the weekends, but it's Saturday, and I think I'll wear my plain blue shirt and pyjama bottoms. And the first person who makes a smart remark gets a smack in the head, Muggle style. Even I watch old Bruce Lee movies.

As I suspected, Ron and Harry are both there, unaware of my presence. Funny how I can sense them from a block away. That's just me though. My compassion, in a sense. I like my compassion, though. Perhaps others think of it as a weakness, but it's my greatest strength. I have survived with it this long.

Now, perhaps, I will live through it. It will not make me weak; it will make me that much more stronger.

I sweep by them without saying a word, just a slight nod. They still sit, waiting for Ginny. I smile internally; I knew they would. I make my way to Neville, who is sitting alone by the door, staring off into some other world. Most people don't know it, but Neville, when he's calm, makes an excellent conversationalist.

And he doesn't always prattle on about Quidditch. A definite bonus.

"Sit with me at breakfast?" I ask softly. He looks up at me, and he smiles. I smile right back.

"Of course, Hermione," he whispers right back. He understands. He gets up, and then in a flagrant show of chivalry, offers his arm. I swear I can hear the jaws of the Gryffindor Common Room collectively drop.

"Shall we?" I ask? Ron and Harry ask me where I'm going. I tell them, to breakfast, of course. Why with Neville, they ask.

I simply turn my head back towards them, smile a little more, and say, "Because I don't want to walk alone."

And Fate be damned.

Fin.