A/N: This is
sort of set in fifth year. And Ron likes Luna because I say so.
Disclaimer:
He-ello? Unless I’m finally going mad, this is fanfiction . net and not random
house publishers.
The
L-Word
He thought
he didn’t need her. She thought she didn’t need him. Two opposites in life who
shared a single credo.
He couldn’t
see what was so great about the L-word. He didn’t understand. Pansy said she
would die if Blaise didn’t **** her. Which was ridiculous, of course. People
died because of wounds, and illnesses, and the Avada Kedavra. They didn’t die of ****. Hell, he had been living
for seventeen years now, and he hadn’t L’ed anyone, and no one had L’ed him
back. He was still alive. Didn’t that prove something?
She didn’t
understand Ron, or Harry either. She hated the way Ron stared so mushily at
Luna, or how Harry went gaga over Cho Chang. It was sickening, and she couldn’t
stand it. Ron’s declarations of his undying love for the dreamy Ravenclaw only
made her sicker, and when even sensible—well, most of the time—Harry said that
if Cho died he would too, she fled to her sanctuary, the Library. You didn’t
need someone to die. Yes, she would be very upset if Harry died, or if Ron was
suddenly killed, but she wouldn’t die. You didn’t need any one person to live.
She didn’t need any one person to live. She had made sure of that.
It was the
one thing that scared him, really. The L-word. It frightened him because he had
never felt it. Because it was new. Because he had seen enough to know that if
you L-ed someone, you gave that person more power over you than he had ever let
anyone have over him. He had seen what his father did to his mother, and how
she had hid the tears and endured the pain, all because of the L-word. So no,
he wasn’t planning on L’ing anyone soon. It was just plain stupid to let anyone
make or break your heart.
It scared
her too, because it was the one thing she couldn’t find about in books, not
really. You didn’t know how to be a good kisser by reading smut. You couldn’t
touch it, you couldn’t see it, you couldn’t research it. She couldn’t learn
about it except first-hand. She had never liked first-hand learning. You never
knew anything about it beforehand. And she didn’t need to know about it if she
didn’t know enough about it first. Because she always knew everything. She had
made sure of that.
You didn’t
need love to live. He had said if before, he was living proof of that. But
Pansy just looked at him sympathetically and said that he wasn’t really living,
that he had no idea what he was missing. Ha, as though she knew what she was
talking about it. It wasn’t necessary. You could live a perfectly good life
without love. He didn’t need it, platonic or otherwise. His father had taught
him that long ago. Love makes you weak, and the weak die. Love was for fools
like Gryffindors who needed friends and lovers. He didn’t need either of them.
He took followers.
She tried
not to think about Luna’s dreamy advice that she should learn to love. Ha. That
was idiotic. The girl was crazy, everyone knew that. She didn’t need anyone to
love. She had her books. Her books were better than any boyfriend. She had seen
Cho sobbing because Harry had accidentally hurt her. Sure, he had apologized
later, but what of it? The pain had been suffered. She had seen Ginny crying
because Harry didn’t love her. Why would she let anyone hurt her that way? Her
books wouldn’t cheat on her, would never leave her for another. They never hurt
her, or insulted her, or did any harm to her. They did nothing but help her,
and were always there for her if she took care of them. She had had enough of
being hurt during their fourth year. After the stupid escapade when she had
realized that Ron didn’t love her after all, she had known she was better off
sticking with her books.
It still
hurt like yesterday, everytime he heard the L-word; the sting still fresh and
new. He had thought she had loved him, had been honestly sure. After all, she
was his mother. How could she not love him? If she had brushed him off a bit,
been a little distant, well, that was only to be expected. They were of
different generations. He couldn’t expect her to be interested in the same
things as he was. Then he had come to Hogwarts and seen how the students there interacted
with their parents, and he had come home vaguely uneasy. But he had passed it
off, since his mother had never been very demonstrative. And then there had
been second year, when his mother had never bothered to tell him about Father’s
diary, though he had asked her. Third year, when he had been attacked by the
Hippogriff and she had never asked about his health, not a word, though she
knew he had leukemia, she knew any loss of blood could be fatal for him. And
then fourth year, when she scoffed at him for letting Potter beat him. He had
told her then, mustered up all his courage and said the L-word. The first and
last time in his life. She had looked away, and his unspoken question had been
answered. After that, he knew he was better off with Crabbe and Goyle.
They were so
different—Gryffindor, Slytherin; Muggle-born, Pureblood; warm, cold; fire, ice;
Harry Potter’s best friend, Harry Potter’s worst enemy; teacher’s pet, standard
loner; even, girl, boy. And yet they were so similar. Both were afraid without
exactly acknowledging how, or why, or even what. Both were like newborn
fillies, shying from the faintest touch, longing for the forbidden fruit and
daring not to touch it. Both hid behind masks of their own making—the one
behind books and happiness and knowledge, the other behind sneers and insults
and cold disdain. And underneath it all, beneath the masks and the facades, at
the end of the day, there was nothing left but pure vulnerability. And because
of it they were scared. Two scared little children—the insecure Muggle-born
that first day who had to know everything and the little spoiled brat who was
turned down by Harry Potter.
Loosen up ‘Mione…you need to get a
life…insufferable know-it-all…teacher’s pet…learn how to love…let yourself go… the words ringing in her head as she
tried desperately to climb to the surface as the black waters engulfed her—
Selfish spoiled git…arrogant
prick…think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks…twitchy little
ferret…disgrace to the Malfoy name…echoing as he tries to forget the look on his mother’s face
when she looked away, when his father beat him, as he sinks underneath the
weight of all the memories
And he sinks
She’s
kicking
Lashing out
at the darkness
But there’s
no light to help her here
No books
No teachers
Just dark
And he
fights
They
struggle
No
followers, no ice cold mask, no Snape to hide behind
No Malfoy
pride to take refuge in
Just
himself.
Her and
himself
Together,
naked in their mind’s eye
Masks
Gone.
Two
children, lost and alone, hiding from the one thing they know they need. One
girl, sobbing in the girl’s bathroom while Moaning Myrtle whooshes away. One
boy, coming to the refuge that would be desecrated for him in 6th
year but he doesn’t know that yet, does he?
Names are
gone now. So is blood, learning, pride, loftiness, reputation—all is stripped
away and they come, just a boy and girl needing one thing they find in each
other.
A boy, close
to the point of tears himself, bursting in on a girl who sits crying.
Tears
escaping the dam he spent so many years to make.
Huddling
together in their longing for comfort, their raw need drawing them to each
other as the tears mingle and flow down their cheeks.
One girl.
One boy.
It could
never be. They were too different, too apart. Too impossible for it to ever
work out. Tomorrow they would go back to hating each other, and insulting each
other, and ignoring each other. Tomorrow he would go back to being the son of a
Death Eater and she would go back to being the friend of the Boy-Who-Lived.
But today
Now
There was no
one and nothing but themselves
And their
need for
Love.
