Format for a Romance

This isn't a love story. Not really. It could have been, but it's more like life than it is like a story, and life doesn't always have the boy liking the girl back, even though we wish he would as it makes for a better ending. A happier ending, anyway. Love stories make us happy because they're sweet and they help us forget about our own lives and immerse ourselves in another reality; we like this other reality because it is similar to ours, but better…

It starts like this, with the introverted girl who doesn't know how beautiful she is (she's always beautiful), and the handsome, arrogant boy who can have anyone but wants no one. These are archetypes that we recognize and accept.

But then it goes on, and somehow they meet anew, or one notices the other, and then come the secretive glances; he watches her during lunch, in the library, looks for her in the halls: we know these places. We know this story.

Slowly, some bond is forming, some awareness for one another; we see it, even if they don't at first. We've seen it before. Perhaps they become friends; he helps her with her homework, and she doesn't mind when he's sarcastic and impatient; it's a give and take, what they have. He tells her things sometimes, quietly talking about his family, about his anger and fear, the secrets he feels but can't see. He doesn't mind if she just listens calmly, watching him with curious brown eyes. They can accept each other like this.

But then things start to happen; now when he looks at her, she can feel the wanting in his gaze. It's confusing because she knows that he hated her, hated her family; he had always spoken in terms of labels and taint, so much talk about blood and purity and being a traitor, something intangible, something you couldn't even see. She had thought, blood is blood.

Now she remembers that he used to make fun of her hair, her freckled skin, and she wonders what has changed; talking in the library occasionally was one thing, but now there is this new feeling that is foreign and warm in her stomach.

He, too, is confused. Why her, why now? It didn't have to be her. We'd like to think that they were fated, these two, but what is fate? This could have happened a thousand different ways; it already has…but this time, in this reality, it is her. With her small teeth and soft mouth, pearly ears like shells, red waves of hair. He loves her hair. He has rejected something in himself by wanting her like this, craving her eyes, her attention. He thinks of the words his father always told him: filth, trash, poor. They are empty now. There is no application for such words in this reality. He is learning a new language, a different way of seeing things; being around her requires a new vocabulary.

And now we are falling into this trap, this sweetness. See how easy it is? They're already showing signs of affection, potential for intimacy. It's becoming what we wanted it to be, but swore it wouldn't.

The tension is building here, because of the thick air electric-charged around them, that sensation of hanging, of potential energy. There is darkness, too, in the papers, in hushed snatches of conversation. Everyone is on edge. Her brother senses something of their not-quite-relationship, as he always does; the whispered giggling of girls in the common room:

Did you hear? I saw them walking by the lake…how strange…Ginny going around with that kind of boy…his father is a death eater, you know.

His little sister and his enemy. And now there is this tension too, this turbulence to contend with. He hulks after her, watching to see where she goes, when she is with him.

There is pressure, she can feel it weighing down her head, mashing her eyes; the atmosphere is stagnant, their fractured speech crackling like dry leaves for tinder. One day he confronts her, his baby sister: What does she think she is doing? She can't see him anymore! Doesn't she know who he is, what he stands for?

This is the match, the fire to gunpowder. She isn't anxious anymore; now there is anger. Because: It's none of his business, he doesn't have the right to judge or to order her about, she is sixteen years old, not quite an adult but old enough, and how dare he presume to lecture her?

He slinks away, her brother, face red with suppressed anger and resentment, because, what has that bastard done to her…

And then she is diminished and empty, because, no. She doesn't know what he stands for. He has been distant lately; at first she thought he would take up her side, because of the way he talked about his family, his father, but he has withdrawn slightly from her since deaths and disappearances began appearing in the paper, the shadow of an impending war clouding his already grey eyes. She wants to ask him, but she doesn't know how, what to say; the words are stale in her mouth.

He is tired. He, too, feels the pressure, accusations hungrily stalking him in circles. He sees the questions in her face, in the way she bites her lip- still he hesitates. Always, there is the hesitation. Maybe it is fear; for safety, for his life, for hers. Maybe fear of commitment.

He ponders these concepts of love and sacrifice, and whether this girl is worth it, worth the fear and disownment, the possibility of death; this scrawny, pale little girl with her freckles and pink mouth and sad eyes, soft hair that is just so shiny…perhaps he is a coward. In any case, there is a decision to be made here.

ooooooooooooooo

We feel the tension, but we are unafraid. We know what he will choose in the end, because that's what he always chooses…well, almost always. The signs are there; his home life, his troubled demeanor, the longing for that which is forbidden. His deliberation.

This is a formula of sorts, you know. Remember the archetypes? Boy meets girl, boy inexplicably falls for girl, boy has a conflict of love involving blood ties and family loyalty, dark and light. This is the stuff of legend; these are the new fables.

So our anxiety on their behalves is mostly superficial. This is nothing uncommon. We watch detachedly as one evening, in the library, they both hear the mumbled passing insult: fucking death eater. Her eyes widen with surprise, so wide that the question finally falls out as she looks at him; it hangs there, suspended in this vacuum of time, this moment of eternity. She waits for him to speak. He lowers his gaze, in shame or secrecy, and here it is: this thing that she has feared.

He sits motionless after she has left. The muffled sob and quick footsteps echo in his thoughts, and he waits for the picture to fade a bit before he gets up, scanning his memory for a clue. Where?

ooooooooooooooo

And of course it is the tower. Here it is dark and cold and quiet, and she crawls up on the windowsill, clutching at her knees, breathing hard with the effort of thought and existence and all-of-this-is-real, why-does-it-hurt-so-much. She screams in frustration, contracting all of her muscles in a way that will release stress, this instinctive reflex leaving her loose and tearful.

She is subdued when he finds her, huddled against stone, subconsciously shivering from fatigue and the undoubtedly cold window pane. He watches, waiting for her attention. Finally he clears his throat; she turns, startled.

He stands in the archway. The dim light from the torch in the stairwell illuminates his shock of platinum hair and throws the contours of his face into shadow; he looks dark and surreal. The fallen angel, this is his title. We have stereotypes for a reason.

When he lifts his sleeve, she stares blankly for a moment at his forearm, not understanding; he has turned his body into the light, there is the mark, the ugly black tattoo. But what has happened to his skin? The red welts, the blistering are a stark contrast to his white inner arms, and her mind slowly awakens, comprehends: he tried. He tried to take it off. His eyes are pleading, willing her to accept.

"Does it hurt?"

He is speechless; then he shakes his head and laughs, brokenly, as she crosses to him. She lifts his arm to her face, gently kisses the marred skin. His heart swells.

Suddenly she is shy, as he pulls her towards him, into his chest. Her arms go out to encircle the slim hips, and they stand there together, like this, for the first time. These moments. These pauses in time are like snapshots, frames of a story.

And then they are moving, no longer a still life. Her face is dry and stiff from crying, and he tastes the salt as he kisses her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. And yes, her mouth is soft, and yes, her hair is soft, and girls are soft soft soft. She is silky and warm like dough, his hands kneading her stomach, her small love handles.

She kisses his jaw and smiles into his neck, tracing the muscles of his back. She is glowing, melting. Finally.

He reaches for her hand, pulling her slowly away, then down the steps.

Maybe they go to his room, or hers. Maybe they find the ever-convenient Room of Requirement. Maybe he walks her to her door and they kiss again, warmly, and say goodnight.

I'd like to think they don't do anything too serious; it's too soon. It would ruin things.

ooooooooooooooo

They are happy. The air is still thick and hazy with apprehension-with the darkness-but they feel fresh and cool together, like a breeze or a glass of water. This is clarity, what they have.

And, naturally, the rest of the year is a blur. What else can we say? Her brother senses the change, is confused but grudgingly silent.

They realize that soon, this will be over, this period of time; he won't be coming back next year.

Most times, the story would stop here, in this interlude of sweetness, this picturesque moment of happily ever after. This is the story we all know and love. It wouldn't go on to say how the boy goes to visit that other archetype, the wise man, the wizard; he made his choice, and now it is official. The wizard smiles at him knowingly, with his twinkling eyes. There is a bit of the omniscient in him, too.

ooooooooooooooo

When the war comes, they are there.

In every story you have this battle, of evil and good, dark versus light, human nature versus the divine; this is the issue, the heart of existence…sometimes, they will fight on opposite sides, sometimes for the darkness, but this time it is for the light.

If it were a sad story, he would die on the battlefield there, protecting her from his old schoolmates. She would mourn and her grief would be so beautiful and touching, and she would emerge from the war with her quiet strength, but never love again.

This is not a sad story. Not like that, anyway.

Of course he kills his father, that racist bastard; and isn't it so heart-wrenching, that even though he's so cold, he still loves him, because…hey, he's his dad, you know? It's just so terrible how war can tear families apart, how the idea of superiority and power can be ingrained so deeply in someone's consciousness that they would kill for it, would die for this paradigm of hate and fear.

We have heard this, too, although it might not be as common. About the loving, about family. It's important. They won, but there is still that small sadness, for him. For something lost.

They're getting married. Maybe they will have kids.

ooooooooooooooo

So I guess it turned out to be a love story after all. Despite all intentions to the contrary. Maybe it would have been more realistic to say that they grew apart, broke up, never got together in the first place. He could have married that snobby upper-class bitch; and maybe the hero-boy that she had idolized would have finally seen her, loved her and wanted her almost as much as her Draco. The hero-boy would have died in the war, and maybe she would have gone on to live alone and have lots of cats. Sure it's clichéd, but she likes cats, alright?

All of these things could have happened, have happened. You've heard this story before, a hundred times; this is nothing new. These are the worlds that we create, so like our own. They are sweet...they're comforting. We have these patterns for a reason.

a/n: Please review, I'd love to hear what you thought!

-->