Nothing Will Ever Change
Disclaimer: I own nothing. And I can’t find it within my Muse at the
moment to come up with a creative disclaimer, so I hope this satisfies you.
A/N: Many thanks to my fabulous beta-reader, Felina Black, and to my friends and my family, who read my
stories even if they aren’t all obsessive Harry Potter fans like the rest of us. I hope you enjoy this!
She runs into her dormitory with tears streaming down her
cheeks. They fight so much – so much – and sometimes she thinks she
truly hates him.
Then why does it hurt
He doesn’t realize it.
She tries to convince herself that he can’t see what he does to
her. She blames it all on herself, for
not being obvious enough. How could he know? How could she expect him to know something
that she would give everything trying to hide?
They tell her that he feels the same way. How many nights have
gone by where she has sat in the dormitory with Lavender and Parvati, listening
to them gossip? Her name always comes
up, whether they know she is listening or not.
She hears them whisper her name, followed by his, mentions of chemistry
and interest and possibly love that they see as so obvious on both sides. And sometimes, she really thinks she sees it
too. She sees it when his eyes flicker
with that fierce spark of protection – like he would die for her in a
heartbeat. This terrifies her, because
she is brainy and book smart, but she is not brave or strong or clever or sweet
and kind and generous quite like he is.
She wipes her eyes and leaves the dormitory, heading to the
Great Hall to attempt to choke down a meal.
Her thoughts crash in her head as she walks alone down the
hall. She contemplates just telling him. What would it hurt?
Everything, she argues against herself. Everything would be hurt. She would say something stupid and ruin
everything, because surely he did not feel the same. And then he would feel terribly awkward and
never look at her again – and she would know that the blame for the falling-out
would sit squarely on her own shoulders.
Her emotions fill her, overwhelm her, and she feels
ridiculous. She is supposed to be the
Know-It-All, not the whiny, moody teenager that she feels she has become. She sits alone at the Gryffindor table, afraid
to look at him. She knows that he will
only destroy her further, and though she thinks she deserves it, she can’t
stand to see it.
He glances up at her from where he sits, alone as well, and
the look on his face breaks her heart into hundreds of tiny pieces. Confusion is written in his gaze, and she
sees that he is angry and sad – perhaps even as sad as she is. She lets out a sob, leaps to her feet, and
runs from the Great Hall before she can do anything she regrets.
There is no point in staying anyway because he will never
smile at her in that crooked, mischievous style of his, the one that he always
saves for her, again, let alone will he be her friend – or fall in love with
her. How could he, after everything
“You know what, Ronald? You are selfish and rude and I never want to
speak to you ever again! I hate you!”
She wonders how she could have ever said anything so
horribly cruel, but he had made her
so angry. Didn’t he understand? She was afraid; she was afraid of the war and
of what might happen to the ones she loved most.
And that was why she didn’t want to play a game of
chess. When the whole thing blew over
into a full-blown fight about everything about him that had annoyed her over
the past month, she hadn’t been able to stop.
And neither had he.
It makes sense to her. She had completely exploded over something
extraordinarily trivial. She is
impatient and sharp with him – he deserves so much better.
When she reaches the Common Room, she collapses on a sofa
and weeps. She buries her face in her
hands. He’ll never care quite like she
does – he will never love her – and she has no chance.
Nothing will ever change.
He blows out an exhausted breath as he watches her run from
Bloody hell, this is
all my fault, he thinks, and curses himself because he knows that he has
ruined everything for good.
Sometimes he doesn’t even understand his own actions. He would do anything for her in a heartbeat,
whether it was leap off the astronomy tower or quit the Quidditch team.
So why did he make her cry so much?
No one else makes her cry the way that he does, and he hates
himself for this. And yet, when she
snaps at him about the trivial things that make her angry or mentions that
horrible, brainless git of a Bulgarian Quidditch star, he can’t contain
himself. Insults fall from his lips as
easily as rain falls from the enchanted ceiling on stormy nights. But he loves her; he loves her with all his
And he has to tell her.
This thought bursts into his mind so fast that he cannot
stop it. It sends his heart pounding and
his mind reeling. What would she
do? He can’t help but wonder – what
would she say?
She would probably
bloody cry, he thinks sadly. Either
that or never speak to him again.
This is what scares him the most. He is in love with his best friend – but she
isn’t only his best friend, she is an amazing person who deserves so much
He stands, deciding that he owes her an apology. She’ll think he’s a better person for it,
even though he’ll never be good enough. Never.
He will apologize, and then he will leave before he can say
anything stupid. Because she’ll never
care about him the way that he does about her, he has no chance.
Nothing will ever change.