Disclaimer-I don't own HP. Duh
Because You're You
Story by StormDancer
It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake.
She wasn't beautiful. He may not have been sure of why he was so attracted to her, but it wasn't her looks. She could look pretty, as he had seen at the Yule Ball, but by general consensus she was not a raving beauty. Too bushy hair she never could completely tame, skin flawed with irregular freckles, brown eyes that saw too deep to be labeled beautiful. No, it wasn't her beauty that attracted him.
It wasn't her grace, either. The little amount she had was hidden beneath bulky robes and heavy schoolbooks. He had seen her trip down and up stairs, cliffs, and who knew what else. She moved with a slight shuffle he had tried for years to break her of, convinced it showed her lack of self-confidence. Except when she was mad, which caused her stride to lengthen and firm. And even then she was often blinded to her surroundings by her rage.
Her intelligence just bothered him. It made him feel stupid, inadequate. She had an answer for things he didn't want or need an answer for. She over analyzed everything, from a movement to a new development in the war. He couldn't say anything without her correcting his grammar, even when it didn't matter. Her smarts were irritating, not attractive.
And it definitely wasn't her temper. He had never met a female more likely to lash out at him for what he saw as no reason, and that included his mother and sister. She would never forgive him, either. One misspoken word, and they weren't talking. In fact, they probably weren't speaking more than they were. He knew it annoyed their friends, and it bloody well annoyed him too, but he couldn't help it. They fought, it was what they did. But sometimes he wished she would forgive him sooner, that her temper was sweeter. So it certainly wasn't that.
It might be her courage, he supposed, but quickly dismissed that idea. If she was less courageous, she wouldn't get hurt so much, and he wouldn't have to worry so much. Her damn independence wouldn't let him step in and help her, which left him standing on the sidelines, fretting. A more cowardly girl would have let him take over for her, be the one to be hurt instead of her. If it wasn't for her bloody courage, he could save her from so much pain. No, it wasn't her courage that kept him enthralled.
It wasn't her humour, for she had none. She had often chided him for making a joke at inappropriate times, not realizing the jokes were necessary to break the tension. And she never laughed at his jokes, even when they were funny and well timed.
It wasn't her kindness. She wasn't patient, or nice. If something was stupid, she said so. She didn't pull punches. What she said could hurt, and he was the usual victim, as he generally didn't mind. Sometimes, though, he got fed up. If only she could wait, and explain something to him patiently, it would all be so much simpler. It wasn't her peculiar brand of kindness he cared for so much.
The reason wasn't one of her sundry other qualities. To each and every one he could come up with something he disliked about that same quality. So why was he with her?
The girl sleeping beside him stirred slightly, than opened her eyes. She quickly noted his pensive expression, focused somewhere other than the potions essay he was supposed to be working on.
"You okay?" she asked gently.
"What?" she was drawn abruptly out of his musings, "Oh, yeah, I'm fine."
"Then why haven't you finished your essay? Get to work!" she commanded. He looked pleadingly at her. She grinned, relenting. "Well, fine, you can come with me for a late night snack."
She rose and shuffled to the portrait hole.
"Coming, Ron?" she asked with a slight smirk. Ron rose. Now he remembered what it was. She was Hermione, and that was why he loved her.