Here’s the thing about love. It sucks. No one bothers to tell you that when you’re little. No, see, they don’t want to ruin whatever childhood fantasies you’re going to concoct up in that ‘pretty little head of yours.’ No, no, see, they’re all much more sadistic than that. They would rather you find out later that all the dreaming you did was for nothing. Then that way you can be just like them and suffer.

I assume that’s why no one told me not to get my hopes up about one Harry James Potter. Hell, my family even encouraged it. My mother practically planed the wedding when I was twelve. My brothers, especially Ron, kept dropping hints about how wonderful he was. Ronald didn’t particularly appreciate it the one time I suggested he date Harry.

So I did what any young, impressionable girl does. I developed an unholy crush that bordered on stalking. Alright, fine, I did follow him, once…or twice. I even let myself pretend to be weaker than I really am, so Harry could fulfill his annoying need to overprotect people. Look how far that got me.

On the other hand, I am now a very special person. I am the only girl who can call her self the ex-fiancé of the Boy Who Lived. Impressive title, yeah? It is kind of cool to know I’m the only one. But just because I am now, doesn’t mean I’ll be the only one forever. Who knows, someday I may have to give up my title. But at least I can be the first one. I’m pretty sure that entitles me to set up the support group for all the poor disillusioned girls he’ll inevitably ask to marry him. I can be their leader! I might even get to keep the added bonus of being the only one left at the alter. At least now, others can lean from my hideous mistakes.

There’s something odd though. I thought I would be devastated when he called off the wedding, you know, at the wedding. When the officiating wizard asked if anyone objected to our marriage, I didn’t really expect it to be Harry who raised his hand slowly. I should have been crushed, crying and such, but I wasn’t. Mum probably could have done without me laughing, but she’ll get over it, eventually. I was happy, happy to actually be free to live. I didn’t feel like I had any obligations after that. I didn’t have to pretend to be some delicate little girl afraid being broken. I mean come on, I couldn’t believe even my family had accepted that as the real me. Haven’t they seen me in a Quidditch match? And more than one of my brothers has been on the receiving end of one of my punches.

So after I walked out, I sat around in my two-hundred Galleon dress, (which Harry had insisted on paying for) all day eating wedding cake. The very next day, I went to sell my ring back. I actually got twice what it was worth because the famous Harry Potter had used the ring to propose to his Hogwarts’ sweetheart! I broke my mum’s heart again when I used the money as a down payment on a flat closer to London. I wasn’t looking for much, just a job where I could be me, maybe a cat and a few friends to have drinks with. And, of course, that is exactly when trouble found me.

Aside from being grievously misinformed about love as a child, I thought my family had taught me pretty well. Little did I know I had not been properly educated on the very nature of trouble. Somehow they all neglected to inform that trouble had a name: Draco Malfoy.

On second thought, my family didn’t fail me completely. I think they may have mentioned that one a few times, every other week or so. But they did neglect to tell me how good a kisser Trouble could be. And for that, I hold them responsible, or at least maintain that they cannot hold me responsible.

And that’s how this all started. I was discovering my new-found freedom in a Muggle bar when I stumbled across Trouble in all his blond haired, smirking, glory. He smiled at me as if he had just found out Christmas was going to be moving up a month. I was just about to tell him to piss off, but then he did something strange. He kissed me. Funny that, really. One kiss and I was a goner. I found out that day that Harry, God bless him, was a bloody terrible kisser. I had been able to ignore that fact before, back when I was still trying to convince myself I loved him. The icing on Draco Malfoy’s proverbial cake, however, was when he pulled back, stared deeply into my eyes, and whispered, “I had always wondered what Potter saw in you. Now I know.”

I smacked him after that, which felt good -really, really, good- but some boys just don’t take a hint. Apparently, Draco Malfoy is a masochist. Not only did he buy me a drink that night (alright fine, he bought me more than one) but he asked to take me to dinner the following night.

I have no idea what his excuse was, nor what the hell he was doing in a Muggle bar, but none of that seemed odd to me at the time. For some stupid reason, even the proposition of a date didn’t sound as out of place as it should have falling from his lips. I blame it on the alcohol that I even agreed. But I did, and the next night I was in some pretty little black dress sitting across from a tiny table in a restaurant whose name I couldn’t even pronounce. Nor could I read the menu. When I told him that, he laughed, and asked me what types of food I liked. His laughter had caught me off guard. He actually sounded happy, and the strange thing was, I didn’t feel like he was laughing at me. I was surprised with what he had ordered for me too, surprised, because it was absolutely amazing. After that, he started taking me out to dinner once a week, with the occasional lunch thrown in.

It’s been going on like this for a while now, almost three years really, and I think I may have come to a conclusion. Maybe it wasn’t love that sucked after all. Maybe it was just Harry.