𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐋, a dramione short story

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭.

SOMETIMES IT IS easier to live in a life of dishonesty than it is to face the truth. This was the life that Hermione Granger condemned herself to. She did not love Ronald Weasley. But she lied to herself and to everyone every day and said she did.

"'Mione, I'm going over to help Harry and Ginny move their stuff into their new house," Ron said as he kissed her cheek. "I'll be back before dinner, love you!" He smiled at her and ruffled his shaggy red hair.

Hermione forced the edges of her lips up. She wanted what Harry and Ginny had—a true romance that wasn't one sided or built on inaccurate fabrications and twisted words. "Love you too," she replied, but internally she knew she didn't. Only like a brother did she love him. Instead she felt torn between shattering their relationship and liberating herself from a life she didn't want, or staying in the torturous house with Ron where she had to lie constantly.

Her mind was racked with unease as she considered what might happen if she stuck with the latter option. What would happen if he proposed? If they had children? But there were also the "what ifs" of leaving. Would she still be friends with Ron? She certainly didn't want to lose her childhood best friend forever. What about Ginny, would she despise Hermione for breaking Ron? It was a precarious predicament, with many hearts and delicate feelings at stake.

Outside the window, small, nival flowers had began pushing through the thick layer of snow that blanketed them and pinned them down onto the earth. They were resilient little buds, doing their best to flaunt their blue and purple hues in the dim rays of sunlight. Hermione supposed she was one of these blossoms that hadn't been able to fight through the coat of white and was trapped, concealed by the weight of its troubles.

With agonizing dejection, Hermione gazed at the various photographs displayed on the hearth. They reminded her of the framed pictures that she ripped herself out of in her family home. For a brief moment she wondered what it would be like to make Ron forget about her. She imagined meeting him again, this time only staying as friends. It was a foolish fantasy, but she couldn't help thinking about it when she looked at the photos. One of them kissing by a storefront—has she loved him then? Was the kiss something she wanted, or something she had felt obliged to do? Another, this time with Harry and Ginny, Ron's arm slung over her shoulder—did she think it was out of love of friendship? Hermione knew that her fire for Ron had been extinguished gradually, and now it was gone. Not a single spark was left over, they had flickered out ages ago.

This was not the life that Hermione had anticipated or desired. It wasn't that she disliked the house; any girl who loved Ron would be perfectly content here. She was simply haunted by the shadows that lurked in the corners reminding her that if she could not love Ron then she would never be enough. She would be alone, isolated in a world of solitude if she left.

With a meek sigh, Hermione grabbed her handbag and scrawled out a note in case Ron came home before her. "Be good, Crookshanks," she told her cat before closing and bolting the heavy door behind her. They lived quite close to muggle society on behalf of Hermione's request. Consequently this meant that she could travel to the library in the large city on foot.

She journeyed to the muggle library, one that was ancient and not exactly the most spacious. This perennial feeling was exactly why Hermione loved it, from the smell of worn pages to the look of old print. Selecting a novel with no particular specifications, she took a seat in a velvety red armchair and took to reading. It was the type of book intended to yank at the heartstrings, and it succeeded. Tears dripped down Hermione's cheeks as she indulged in the story, but anyone who knew what was happening inside her would know that the story was just an outlet. She was really crying over her immense guilt and fear of the future, sometime which she desperately wished to avoid.