A Muggle Magazine
A Muggle Magazine
Hermione set the Muggle magazine down with disgust onto the table of her common room. The magazine beamed with good articles on what was going on in the world today and about the happiness and worry that ran through the lives around the entire planet.
It was a little magazine, coming out monthly on Muggle book stands. She had read this magazine before, and now that she purchased it over summer break before her seventh year, she couldn't help but look back into it. It wasn't the articles on the destruction and the evil in the world that made her cringe.
It wasn't the parade of silly additions like the oh- so-fake horoscopes and the senseless embarrassing stories that poked fun of other's misery. It was the way the girls in the magazine looked. Millions of girls around the Muggle world read this magazine and their self-image is shot, maimed, and slit to pieces.
Hermione's eyes trailed to a few of the pictures - girls in clothing that would get one kicked out of a church faster then a bullet, and each of these girls wore enough makeup, covering what nature gave them, to help paint the faces of rodeo clowns. And yet Muggle girls adored this look. What was there to admire? The stick-thin arms and the lanky legs for which the model girls most likely binged and purged for?
Hermione slowly closed the magazine, her heart exploding inside of her with anger. She was happy that she had Harry. Harry saw through her physical appearance. He not once made a comment about her looks, except for positive ones, and those he said with all his earnest heart could handle.
Yet, she wondered if he'd like her more if she became like those girls - thin, beautiful, and any boy's dream. She had heard the remarks boys made over such girls, and though it stung in every wound in crevice inside her, Hermione remained herself.
She didn't comb her hair so that she'd look like the lovable actresses and singers that studded the Hollywood red carpet. She didn't load makeup on herself to hide anything that was given to her naturally. Hermione turned from the magazine and faced the mirror on the wall. Over it she had put a picture of Harry, smiling gently. If there was one thing she enjoyed most around her mirror, it was an image of Harry.
Immediately, deep inside, she felt her stomach knot into balls. She knew that Harry was kind and gentle towards her, and a sensitive boy, always willing to share his opinion and in doing so being very thoughtful about it. Perhaps that was the reason why she cared for him as much as she did. Yet, she wondered if she could ever care for him the way he cared for her.
She knew he had chances with Lavender and Parvati, as well as Cho and anyone else that would come up to him and willingly ask him out. She suddenly grabbed the Muggle magazine and tossed it into the flickering flames of the fireplace and then in her fury dived into her four- poster bed, fully-dressed.
Soon the room filled with chattering girls and a bit later, their voices were droned out as sleep took over them. Hermione waited until they were all asleep, then suddenly realized she needed to take a walk to sort things out. Many things had crossed her mind, and she had wondered if Harry would ever truly care for her if she remained the way she was.
She knew Harry loved her, but as a best friend. And she wanted something else, something that would keep her warm and soft even in the coldest winter night at Hogwarts, when everyone else complained about how freezing it was. Would looking like the girls from the Muggle magazine make him change his mind? It was the looks that made him like Cho so much, after all. Yet, he didn't like Cho anymore and he hadn't even mentioned her in conversation for a very long time.
Perhaps a line of maturity had drawn from him in the end, or perhaps he was just like many other boys in Hogwarts. She hugged her soft, fleecy new cloak around her limbs, her chest heaving in deep breaths to keep from crying.
A feeling of painful regret for her given features made her feel so sad, but even worse was the thought that Harry might not like her because of them. She stumbled awkwardly in her cloak through the darkness of the hallways, then stopped in front of the heavy Hogwarts doors.
It drew a slow and wavering breath from her to see this massive doorway. It was tall and mighty and strong, yet made from an ugly dry wood that would have looked otherwise horrible on something of different proportion. But in the form of such big, warm, inviting doors, it seemed lovely. She didn't dig deep into the meaning of this and simply pushed them open.
A terrifying blizzard greeted her. Now she let her tears stream down freely as she pushed forwards into the blackness of the night, only the snow was being her guide.
Her mind filled with thoughts: ' Harry is not like that, though. Perhaps I have a chance with him. God knows I care for him, more then any boy I've ever met. He seems reserved though, good-natured and yet silent. Its hard to see how he truly feels, sometimes.'
She was standing before the forest. The dark shadowy trees (their stick-like appendages that branched from their limbs like arthritic fingers scratching at the sky) put a gloomy air to her thoughts. Hermione knew the way well now.
Soon the rushing sound of a lazy stream caught her ears. Before she could walk out onto the bridge over it, her favorite thinking spot, the end of her cloak snagged on a twig from one of the bushes. She pulled hard and the cloak ripped. " Damn." She whispered, tears stinging her eyes even stronger then before.
She tore through the rest of the bushes and then made her way onto the bridge. There, she looked down into the water. It was stiller then normal and she caught an image of herself in the water. Her eyes closed as she pushed a clump of snow off of the railing of the bridge and into the stream.
When her eyes reopened, the image of her in the water had distorted but she was too blinded with tears to see. She propped herself by her elbows and then pushed her palms into her eyes, trying to wipe the tears away.
Her heart cried out, in its silent beating, ancient tribal drums, mystical ruins to the temples of our souls: " Harry, Harry. . . I love you, but how can I tell you? Will you understand?" Her head bent down over the water and a single tear fell from the corner of her eye and grew lost in the stream, carried away to somewhere distant.
Just then, she heard rustling nearby. Someone was coming after her, the rescuer from her depression. She turned, and there he was. . . Harry.