DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and
owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to
Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros.,
Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is
intended.
She had always believed in fairy tales. It was hard not to, when she watched her brothers, every year, whisk away to a magical castle where unknown but surely wondrous things happened daily. Staying home, she dreamed of their adventures, she dreamed of their world, and she dreamed of her future in that world. It was not practical magic, like her mother's excellent "accio" that she dreamed of, but the ancient magic told in old tales. Back when she ran barefoot 'round the house instead of learning in class, she begged her mom every night for the famous tales of fair muggle women and their handsome princes. When she was old enough, her most prized possession was the old and yellow-paged Grimm's Fairy Tales. The intoxicating pages enchanted her nightly until she could memorize the words she loved so. Even at Hogwarts, the book had followed, comforting her at night and enchanting her still.
Reading so often, she had always believed in fairy-tale-love. It was a delicate vase of glass, shaped carefully and beautifully. It was a bird's melody at dawn, clear and simple. It was an orchid, fair and perfect and proud. It was the gentle first kiss, the prince and princess riding into the sunset on a faithful steed. Her prince should have been a hero, he should have been strong and handsome and brave. It made sense that she was smitten with Harry Potter, the knight to her damsel.
But then she realized the world is not a fairy tale, even in the magic castle. Things were not as they seemed, and she was lost in the whirlwind of deception and lies and confusion. She waited for her knight to save her, but he was not like knights in her famous stories. Harry Potter saved her from the evil, yes, but he was not suave, but cursed with the worries of the entire world on his skinny shoulders. He could not be her knight, for there were no knights in this disappointment of a world.
She was strong and determined, though, and she adapted to reality. No longer would she be a damsel, but a woman of independence and confidence. She learned from her own mistakes, she learned from others' mistakes, she learned to live for herself and thrive in the world. She came out on top, bringing who she wished on the way and crushing who she had to.
Still, she longed occasionally for a fairy tale. The old stories she enjoyed as a child remained locked in her memory, as were her dreams. They were packed neatly, no longer alive and growing, but they were still there. It was, perhaps, her most guilty secret that a witch as proud and independent as herself still hoped to find a knight in shining armor to carry her into the sunset. She pushed her dream back, though, because of the incredible shock of her first year at Hogwarts. Her will to survive drove her through classes; the youngest Weasley, the only girl, was successful and beautiful and proud.
It was her pride, in fact, that pushed her to find love at last. Serving late-at-night-detention for standing up to the mouse of a man that was Filch, she tossed her brilliant hair and clenched her jaw at the utter annoyance that was Malfoy. All at once, then, she found his usually so sharp tongue coaxing her jaw open, but this time, tantalizing and demanding. She felt firm arms grab her own, suddenly not tired from endless scrubbing. His warm breath in a gentle trail of heat on her neck, his hands supporting her, drawing her near, and a wild rush of emotions and sensations, like millions of drops of water crashing on the sand on the coast. It was not the gentle rose petal of a kiss from fairy-tale-love, sweet and tender. Instead, the kiss was intoxicating and sensual and timeless.
She still recalls that night of detention with a smile tugging at her lips. And Draco, of course, never misses a chance to then capture her lips, much like the night years ago. Still, she is whisked away to a spinning world of sensations, wiping all other thoughts away from her mind. But when her beloved is holding her, she can think again. She once thought love was like that in a fairy tale. Finding love, her opinion changed, and love to her was indescribable, except in the word "Draco." But once again, the idea of love changed. Her love, her life, was still a fairy tale. He was her suave knight, saving her from the dreary life without emotion. She returned the favor, saving him from the dreadful life without good and harmony. Her love for him was more beautiful than any vase could be, more clear and melodious to her than any bird's song, and any orchid would be ashamed when compared with the tapestry of emotions between the lovers. Her love for him, her life, it was more magical than any fairy tale.
She had always believed in fairy tales. It was hard not to, when she watched her brothers, every year, whisk away to a magical castle where unknown but surely wondrous things happened daily. Staying home, she dreamed of their adventures, she dreamed of their world, and she dreamed of her future in that world. It was not practical magic, like her mother's excellent "accio" that she dreamed of, but the ancient magic told in old tales. Back when she ran barefoot 'round the house instead of learning in class, she begged her mom every night for the famous tales of fair muggle women and their handsome princes. When she was old enough, her most prized possession was the old and yellow-paged Grimm's Fairy Tales. The intoxicating pages enchanted her nightly until she could memorize the words she loved so. Even at Hogwarts, the book had followed, comforting her at night and enchanting her still.
Reading so often, she had always believed in fairy-tale-love. It was a delicate vase of glass, shaped carefully and beautifully. It was a bird's melody at dawn, clear and simple. It was an orchid, fair and perfect and proud. It was the gentle first kiss, the prince and princess riding into the sunset on a faithful steed. Her prince should have been a hero, he should have been strong and handsome and brave. It made sense that she was smitten with Harry Potter, the knight to her damsel.
But then she realized the world is not a fairy tale, even in the magic castle. Things were not as they seemed, and she was lost in the whirlwind of deception and lies and confusion. She waited for her knight to save her, but he was not like knights in her famous stories. Harry Potter saved her from the evil, yes, but he was not suave, but cursed with the worries of the entire world on his skinny shoulders. He could not be her knight, for there were no knights in this disappointment of a world.
She was strong and determined, though, and she adapted to reality. No longer would she be a damsel, but a woman of independence and confidence. She learned from her own mistakes, she learned from others' mistakes, she learned to live for herself and thrive in the world. She came out on top, bringing who she wished on the way and crushing who she had to.
Still, she longed occasionally for a fairy tale. The old stories she enjoyed as a child remained locked in her memory, as were her dreams. They were packed neatly, no longer alive and growing, but they were still there. It was, perhaps, her most guilty secret that a witch as proud and independent as herself still hoped to find a knight in shining armor to carry her into the sunset. She pushed her dream back, though, because of the incredible shock of her first year at Hogwarts. Her will to survive drove her through classes; the youngest Weasley, the only girl, was successful and beautiful and proud.
It was her pride, in fact, that pushed her to find love at last. Serving late-at-night-detention for standing up to the mouse of a man that was Filch, she tossed her brilliant hair and clenched her jaw at the utter annoyance that was Malfoy. All at once, then, she found his usually so sharp tongue coaxing her jaw open, but this time, tantalizing and demanding. She felt firm arms grab her own, suddenly not tired from endless scrubbing. His warm breath in a gentle trail of heat on her neck, his hands supporting her, drawing her near, and a wild rush of emotions and sensations, like millions of drops of water crashing on the sand on the coast. It was not the gentle rose petal of a kiss from fairy-tale-love, sweet and tender. Instead, the kiss was intoxicating and sensual and timeless.
She still recalls that night of detention with a smile tugging at her lips. And Draco, of course, never misses a chance to then capture her lips, much like the night years ago. Still, she is whisked away to a spinning world of sensations, wiping all other thoughts away from her mind. But when her beloved is holding her, she can think again. She once thought love was like that in a fairy tale. Finding love, her opinion changed, and love to her was indescribable, except in the word "Draco." But once again, the idea of love changed. Her love, her life, was still a fairy tale. He was her suave knight, saving her from the dreary life without emotion. She returned the favor, saving him from the dreadful life without good and harmony. Her love for him was more beautiful than any vase could be, more clear and melodious to her than any bird's song, and any orchid would be ashamed when compared with the tapestry of emotions between the lovers. Her love for him, her life, it was more magical than any fairy tale.