Summary: Hermione's reflecting on the things she's learned by loving a pureblood. It's not always easy, but in the end, it's always worth her time.

Rating: T

Other: This is all from Hermione's perspective (I'm sure that's pretty obvious) except for point #5. You'll understand once you get there.

AN: Hello everyone, Colette here. It's been a long, l-o-n-g time since I've uploaded anything, so when this idea finally started to form, I got excited. It's a Dramione - my OTP! I can't wait to share it with you.

Ten Honest Thoughts on Being Loved by a Pureblood

Based on the Poem "Ten Honest Thoughts on Being Loved by a Skinny Boy" by Rachel Wiley


I say, "But I am mudblood"

He says "No, you are beautiful."

I wonder why I can't be both.

He kisses me



My middle school theater director once told me

that despite my talent,

I would never be cast as a romantic lead.

We put on shows that involve flying children and singing animals,

but apparently no one

has enough willing suspension of disbelief

to buy anyone loving a know-it-all.


On the mornings I do not feel pretty,

while he is still asleep,

I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his robe for motive,

for a punchline,

for a bet,

for other girls' love letters.


Dear Witch Weekly: Fuck you.

I will not take your sex tips

on how to please a man

that you do not think my blood will ever be worthy of.


When we hold hands in public,

I wonder if she notices the stares,

like she is handling a crazed, escaped murderer on a crowded sidewalk.

I wonder if she notices how my hands are chained together.


He tells me he loves me

with the lights on.


I can feel him flinch when I touch his left forearm,

hear his breathing get strained when he sees me staring,

see him avert his eyes when he catches a glimpse of mine.

He does not believe me when I tell him he is brave.

Sometimes I fear the day he does is the day he leaves.


The cute hipster girl at the Hog's Head

assumes we are just friends

and flirts across the counter.

I spend the next two weeks

replacing my face with hers

in all of our photographs;

writing her name instead of mine

paired with Draco's.

When I finally admit this

we spend the whole night taking new pictures,

and burning up those pieces of parchment.

He will not let me delete or rewrite a single one.


The phrase, "Mudbloods need love too," can go die in a fiendfyre.

Fucking me does not require an asterisk.

Loving me is not some fetish.

Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.

I am not a novelty.


I say, "But I am a mudblood."

He says, "No. You are so much more,"

and kisses me