Title: Rosaline

Characters: Hannah Abbott, Neville Longbottom and Victoire Weasley.

Summary: You are Juliet Capulet, sitting on your throne of gems and lies, and when he waltzes in, with his sword of ruby and heart of stone, who are you to say, "No?" Freeverse.

Notes: Ah. Shakespeare. I'm so surprised that I haven't done anything like this yet; I adore Shakespeare, and yet I've never really worked much Romeo&Juliet action into my fanfiction. Blasphemy, I say! VictoireNeville is a M&MWP (Mew & Mor's Weird Pairing), and definitely one of my favourites, so all credit goes to them for the pairing!

Without further ado - about nothing - I really, really hope you enjoy!

"Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this." - Romeo, Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.

Romeo, Romeo, where for art thou, Romeo?

Look around, Juliet;

your garden is empty.

The flowers have wilted; the fountain turned to ice.

The marble has cracked.

Your garden is dead.

But still, you wait on your balcony

for a prince who won't come.

What kind of damsel are you?

- maybe you're not one after all -


and conflicts -

maybe even love at first sight

(first, second, forty-fifth) -

but what good is that if your fairytale doesn't have a happy ending?

Romeo has left you, sweet,

alone in your garden of the dead.

There's no sadder sight

than a princess dancing alone.


So, baby doll,

rein in those tears and hike up your dress -

just to show the combat boots beneath -

and go out!

into that big wide world;

create your own fairytale.

You are not a measly princess;

you are a queen,

and you are not perfect,

because perfect is ordinary,

and ordinary people are just so boring.

Juliet, don't you know that you're a schemer?

A seducer.

A scientist.

A so-much-more-than-just-a-damsel.

You are Juliet Capulet,

sitting on your throne of gems and lies,

and when he waltzes in, with his sword of ruby and heart of stone,

who are you to say,



So you look into that mirror,

and you plead,

"Mirror, mirror, make me beautiful."

You choose a dress;

a shade of grey that matches your eyes,

and a neckline

that is low enough to be less than proper,

and you add mascara,

and eyeliner;

blusher and foundation, concealer and lipgloss,

until you become a doll,

(you become beautiful)

and you're on your way to being a queen.

And though your eyes don't meet across the ballroom,

he maybe possibly just about falls for you first,

and it's a pretty perfect night.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

who's the fairest of them all?"

You are.


He is forbidden fruit, darling,

and you just can't resist just a little of that flavour.

Your Creator told you,

"NO, Juliet,

don't touch the fruit;

the fruit will leave you, and kill you,

and it's not worth it for just

an itty bitty taste."

But you aren't Eve; he isn't Adam.

You weren't born into the Garden of Eden,

but you sure as hell won't leave it.

You are the serpent,

my sweet

- serpentsortia! -

and he's the lion with a thorn in his paw.

The lion, the witch,

and everything but that fairytale ending.



the first time their eyes meet across that ballroom,

you are on his arm,

and he is looking for another;

she is a kid.

Complete with pretty blonde curls

and shining blue eyes,

she is just the child of his best friend's brother's wife.

(She's forbidden, too).

Still, though, she may be the princess,

but you;

you are the queen, love.

So, yes, you bake her cookies,

and let her have her first sip of Butterbeer,

but soon your crown

is slipping,

and her hands are wide and reaching.

She isn't just a princess anymore,

and that throne

isn't yours.


You are your own sodding queen, dear;

you are regal and elegant,

but you aren't perfect.

And perfect people never admit that.

Your subjects are willing,

and your servants are kind,

but your king is missing,

and you can't rule your kingdom alone.

You miss him.

So your subjects comfort you,

and your servants fetch you tea,

and you wait to see that little girl with blonde curls and blue eyes;

she makes you happy,

the both of you,

like the daughter you never had.

(And the royal family is plagued with incest, love).

She doesn't come.

And you begin to wonder

as your kingdom falls.



Romeo left you dear,

for his other golden Montagues

(forgoing you and your black-hearted Capulets).

He left you for that

blonde haired, blue eyed princess,

like they do in every, good old-fashioned fairytale.

But - but - but -

You're not a true Capulet, dear;

you're not good and pure and whole.

Maybe you're more like a Montague,

just like him;

sad and beautiful and broken.

Second class to the girl you counted as one of your own.

You suppose even the queen's reign

must end.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

who's the fairest of them all?"

Not you, dear;

it turns out that she was Juliet all along,

and you're just Rosaline.