The Hermione Diaries

The Hermione Diaries

Entry One:

I said 'no' to him today, watched his face smolder and burn.

"Is it Viktor?" he asked, waving his hands at me, telling me exactly what he thought of my love interest.

Love interest.

It would be so much easier if Viktor were. But he isn't, and I don't know why. I should be interested in him, in someone, anyone. Not my books.

My first love was a character from a book, some fantasy epic that I read because a teacher told me it was too difficult. That I was too young. That it was beyond me.

Well, it wasn't.

And I fell in love.

I tucked the book under my pillow every night, dreaming of that figure, clad in diamond-shining armor, fighting for justice and survival.

Thinking back now, it was like us. Like Harry. But different. Harry, you see, would have been some other character. Ron, too. I don't know who I would have been.

I dreamed in color every night, meeting my love, fighting, struggling, winning the war. And every day I read like my life depended on it, because it did. I thought I would die if. . . No. The book ended, and I began the next. An injury! If I were there I could have done something, I knew all about medicine (well, maybe not all), I could have helped.

And then it was over, and she married a prince. Or almost a prince. We're all expected to marry princes. I still think of her, more than I should. She isn't real, and I am, and there is nothing more to say than that. Except. . . except sometimes I whisper her name, "Eowyn."

Entry Two:

Ron's still mad at me. People say that he's like a volcano, blowing up and cooling down quickly. He's not, though. He's only like a volcano in intensity, never in actuality. He is more like a White Out. Snow flying so thick you can't see, can't hear, can't even breathe. And even after the storm has passed, the white covers everything, smothering life and struggling bodies under its blanket.

He says that I don't understand, but it's really he who walks in clouded daydreams. He is so oblivious. I should love him, or at least one of them. But I can't. I just. . . can't. And it hurts so very very much. They are my best friends. I would die for them; never marry them.

One is always out chasing snowflakes. He catches them in his palms, face glowing at the capture, and cradles his ice fairies. It always comes as a surprise to him when he opens his hands, empty. His fairies never leave him anything but tears.

The other dives into love like he's flying, not caring if everyone else in the world can see the message he's scrawled across the sky. He is honest, foolishly so. Flying never catches anything but clouds.

And I wait, sandwiched between them, overshadowed by my bookcases and smart comments, a being asexual, unsure, and waiting. I still don't know what I'm waiting for.

Entry Three:

My father is making breakfast in the kitchen. Something appropriate for Christmas Day, he says. It doesn't feel like Christmas without the others, but I had to escape from the storm. The snow was choking me, making me numb.

Mum and Dad joke, happily discuss the latest in oral surgery techniques, their conversation punctuated by snide comments about my 'new' teeth. Three years and they're still bitter, like badgers whose territory has been invaded. They quiet down now, silently respecting my homework. It's funny how my studying gets more respect than I do.

Dad is flipping pancakes now, a treat rarer than diamonds in this household. Mum is sprawled over the recliner, reading the very latest in Regency trash. It is her guilty, dirty secret that we all know about. Every so often she looks up at Dad and sighs, her forefinger pressed into the book like an accusation. She loves him, I know. I just wonder in what way.

Entry Four:

February is like a living death. The pure whiteness of December and January has descended into grey. The sky is a bluebird lurking behind clouds, the sun a masked face, and the earth a sleeping giant.

And I miss them. I miss me. How is it possible to miss your own self? Where did I go? Did I escape off to some emerald fantasy, abandoning this empty husk behind a dusty bookshelf? Or have I just bled into grey?

I want myself back. I want what he stole when he thundered on about love and shoulds and things that I was supposed to want. How could he know what I want when even I don't know?

Harry is just confused, so confused that he doesn't notice how he hurts me when he whispers his advice: "Just give him a chance, Hermione."

It's not about chances, it's about cans and cannots. Harry, of all people, should know that. But if he did, he wouldn't go off chasing snowflakes. I do know, so I make love to my books, sheltered in the embrace of their brittle pages.

Entry Five:

He is off chasing rainbows and Ravenclaws again, oblivious to her stares. He has no idea how much he hurts her. Ron knows, but does nothing. As much as she might ache, she is Ron's angel, his shining thing, and he would rather her broken than sullied.

Ron just doesn't understand that they are one and the same. If life is a jewel, what happens when it's shattered? And what if it was never a jewel to begin with? What if it was not a jewel, or an angel, or a shining thing, but a small, fragile human being? Compared to a person, a jewel is an easy thing, mended with shallow cuts and small effort. Is a person so easily fixed?

I wonder if anyone sees her. I wonder if I see her.

Entry Six:

They are flying, flinging balls around like pudding and chicken in a food fight. This year's team is good, better than good, and I almost wish that I, too, were up there. Flying.

I've never been good at flying. Flying is like riding a bicycle, and just as subtle. I could read all of the books in the world on flying and still be less graceful than a dying cow. Sometimes I wonder if that isn't the situation.

But they- they are all very skilled at flying. One more surprisingly than anyone else. I asked her once how she came to be so good at beating her wings. She told me that everyone in her family flew, even if it was on brooms that should have been consigned to firewood long ago. She flew every day, and in every position. She played long into the night, with faded lanterns lighting up the trees and fields. She played until she discovered that she was a girl, until she understood what that meant. Until she was told what it meant.

Gilded cages are not only for birds.

Entry Seven:

She looks at Harry as though he was her prince, and suddenly I know. I know who Ginny is.

She is my Eowyn- raised a boy but made a girl. In love with someone who will never love her, does not even see her. Wounded by evil and slowly dying day by day. But herself.

Uniquely Ginny.

Ginny of the trembling lips, cold chapped hands, and delicate ankles. Ginny, who struggles on with nothing special that she can call her own. Except for her sex, always her sex.

Ginny, who is special in every way. At least, in my eyes she is.

How do I tell her? That she doesn't have to marry the prince, fulfill her duty, stay in the cage? That she has her own uniqueness and her own story.

That I -

I'm scared.

Could a cage hurt as much as this?

Entry Eight:

I . . it just happened. She came to me, crying, holding the shattered pieces out and asking to be fixed. I wonder if we'll ever find the shards. It was a stupid thing, a selfish thing. I might as well have upended her hands and danced on the ashes. I wonder if she will go the way of her brother; I've never seen her like this before.

I kissed her.

Her lips were soft.

And salty.

And sweet.

And I kissed her. She sat there, on my bed, drowning me in her teary ocean, and I kissed her. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, like my limbs were caught up in string, like it was fated. It actually happened. She gasped - the sound beating against me like I was a drum or a criminal.

And then she ran.

Entry Nine:

She won't look at me. Neither of them will. He just sits there and looks on, confused as ever. I am reading a book, stoppering my tears with words. I was so stupid, so very stupid. I have alienated them both, one with my love and the other with my indifference-in-love. Maybe I should have chosen the prince, acquiesced to the cage. It wouldn't be much different than this. It certainly couldn't be worse than this.

Her throat is like a feather, soft and white, curving perfectly.

Her fingertips catch on the napkins, embarrassing her with their roughness.

Her mouth stretches as she chews her bread, crumbs scattered across her lips and chin.

And I watch like a mute Madonna.

Entry Ten:

Last night she came to me. Crying again, but not over him. She sank into me, saying that she didn't want to lose me. How could she? I am lost in her.

I held her, arms tight and weak, determined not to hurt her again.

Even when her tears marked my nightgown.

Even when she pressed up against me.

Even when I tasted her breath.

I promised her my friendship, consistency, and love. I kissed her once on the forehead, a small platonic thing. I gave her my heart, hoping that it would heal her. I still hope.

I did not hurt her. And for that I am happy.

You see, the only person disemboweled last night was me.

Entry Eleven:

My books are my fortress, stacked high around me. I have to study, don't ask me why. But no one will. They never do. The logic follows thusly: Hermione has to study, because she is Hermione. Not because of heartache, for Hermione would never experience heartache. Not because of depression, for Hermione would never become depressed over anything but school. And she's doing fine in that category, better than fine.

Look at how fine I am.

I. . .said yes to him.

He smiled, said he'd known all along. Known what? Known that I would crumple like tinfoil (never mind that he doesn't know about tinfoil)? Known that I could not survive with both of them dead to me, my heart a train wreck? Or just known because he never knows, never understands, just assumes. Like he always does. Like he'll continue to do.

She's staring at me.

Entry Twelve:

He kissed me. And it was a kiss. Shouldn't it have been something more? Shouldn't it have been special? Meaningful? Hot and passionate? Or have I just been sneaking too many peaks into Mum's collection? Did I imagine the other one, how it felt and tasted?

My first kiss I stole. My second was stolen from me.

Entry Thirteen:

She saw us. I thought that we had been so careful, so sure.

She saw the way he bent me over and broke me in half.

She saw my indifference.

She saw that I still love her.

Entry Fourteen:

She's ignoring me now, angry at me. Why is she angry? Oh, it's not as simple a question as it seems. Is she angry because I'm still in love with her? Is she angry at the way I am treating her beloved brother? Or is she angry at me for something else? Sometimes I think it's something else. But then I realize that I'm simply beating myself with hope, ripping away at my heart with a fistful of nettles. Even so I cannot stop hoping, stop exhaling my dreams onto Ron's lips.

The most evil thing released from Pandora's Box was Hope.

Entry Fifteen:

I broke up with him. Better to say, though, that I broke.

Why aren't I crying?

Why can't I cry?

I miss her.

Entry Sixteen:

Did I forget to eat again? I can't remember anymore. . . and I still have that Transfiguration extra credit project that's due in three months. I can ask Harry to bring me an apple from the kitchens.

Entry Seventeen:

My cheek is still raw where she hit me. My mouth is still tingling from her lips.

She said.

She said that she hated me for this, that it wasn't me.

She said that she hated me for hurting Ron, for leading him on.

She said that she hated Ron for hurting me.

She said that she hated herself, for doing this to me.

And.

She said that she loved me.

That she hated Ron for every time he touched me (she hid behind book stacks, watching us).

That she hated Ron for assuming (he bragged to her about his conquest).

That she hated Ron for the kiss (he put his tongue in my mouth).

How it should have been her touches.

Her assumptions.

Her kiss.

Her.

Then she kissed me.

And I kissed her back.

**finis**