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The Resistance by Voldys_Moldy
Chapter 1 : It Could Be Wrong
Rating: 15+Chapter Reviews: 3

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A/N: this story is sort of inspired by the Resistance, by Muse. Great song and great band, if you want to check it out.



I’m Hogwart’s resident Cupid. I heal broken hearts, I set up relationships that last for record-breaking months, even years, and I always help people. I don’t help myself. I just help everyone else.

I’m not complaining, though.

I don’t need help.


People don’t know who I am, not really. They know my last name is Grace. They know I have long dark and piercing light eyes. They know that I can fix anything.

At least, that’s what they think.

I mean, really, nobody can fix anything. The only thing I can fix is a “broken heart”.

That’s what they tell me. Who knows if it’s true? I sure as hell don’t.


Cupid’s have rules. I do, at least. And hey, everyone calls me the Cupid, so why don’t you just go ahead and say I am one?

(I don’t like it, but it’s about as true as you can get. You want to put a label on me, it’s the Cupid.)

Rule Number One: No one knows that Miss Grace is actually the Cupid. Then no one would leave me alone.

Rule Number Two: I don’t set anyone up unless they ask me to.

Rule Number Three: Nobody comes to me. I go to them.

Rule Number Four: I don’t get personal. I don’t make friends. I just observe and step in when I’m needed.

Rule Number Five: I don’t fall in love.

The Fifth Rule? That’s the most important.

I broke it.


And when it rains

Will you always find an escape?

Just running away

From all of the ones who love you

From everything


Paramore. I have an obsession with a Muggle rock band who sings about depressing things like love. Fitting, isn’t it, considering what I do every day?

A Little Secret: I hate being The Cupid.

“Did you see her? She was, like, sobbing! I mean, come on! Like she didn’t know that he was cheating on her…”

“Finally! Now I can go after her. She’s hot, after all…”

“Ohh! Now her ‘boyfriend’ is free! I can’t wait to get some of him…”

The voices clutter the Great Hall, all of them, speaking, wasting their time saying things that they don’t mean, that they’ll just forget, that nobody cares about.

Another couple is done. He was cheating. She found out. Enough said.

I’m going to be working again tonight. She’ll need comforting. He won’t care.

The boys hardly ever care. It just doesn’t matter to them, not like it matters to the girls.

Sometimes I wish it didn’t matter to anyone, but I know that humanity would be a horrible thing if that were true, so I stop wishing silly things like that.

Silly things like wanting love.

I sit alone, invisible. My hair is always in front of my face; my clothes are always too big and always dark. I don’t speak, not in classes, not in my dorm, not in the Great Hall, not anywhere except when another heartbroken victim of love needs me.

Isn’t it ironic, how love is always portrayed as so good and nice in the movies and books and stories, but in real life it hurts so many people?

I think so. I’ve seen enough of the backlash.

All those victims, they always say that they won’t ever let their heart belong to someone else ever again, but then, before you know it, they’re back in someone else’s arms, their heart no longer theirs.

On my good days, these thoughts, which are constantly circling my head, repeating themselves again and again, becoming my mantra, these thoughts make me smile. Today, they just make my eyes grow sadder and my mouth drop more.

It’s a miracle I’m the Cupid, isn’t it? You would think that I would avoid love, and anything to do with love, like the plague.

But no.

I just have to involve myself with it more than is healthy for anyone, especially someone as unstable as me.


Yes, that’s a good term for me. A good word, another one to go with Cupid.

The Unstable Cupid. That’s me.

I sigh and stand up, my food untouched. I usually eat plenty, but sometimes I have no appetite and I just can’t bring myself to do much of anything.

Unfortunately, this is one of those times.

I move away, quickly, quietly, just another ghost who is still alive, another something that shouldn’t exist.

I go to find the girl. She needs someone right now, and it won’t be one of her supposed “friends”. No, that would be too much to ask of Hogwart’s brutal social hierarchy.

I walk through hallways, not really knowing where I’m going, just knowing that I’ll find her.

Sure enough, I hear crying as I round a corner.

She is crumpled up on the ground, underneath a window, the Black Lake and the grounds stretching in front of her tear-stained eyes.

I cross the hall to her and gently touch her shoulder. She turns around, surprised. They usually are.

“You’re the Cupid, aren’t you?” she manages to get out around her tears.

“Yes”, I say, softly. “He wasn’t right for you, you know. You might have felt like you were meant to be, but that’s a lie. He might have hurt you, but you’ll get over it, I know you will. If you want to know who you belong with, ask.” I sit down beside her and look into her red eyes, eyes spilling over with tears.

“How do you know?” she asks, her voice strong despite her state of despair.

“I know because I know.” I say, shrugging, palms up. “It’s who I am. There’s no changing that.”

“You’re not happy with this, are you? You hate being the Cupid, don’t you?”

I stare, surprised. I’ve never talked to this girl before. How could she know that from a few sentences?

“It doesn’t matter. I just wanted you to know that, that it would have ended eventually. Yes, it could’ve ended in nicer ways. That is unfortunate, but I’m sure you’ll be happy soon enough.”

“Yeah. Whatever. I don’t care, not really. I know you’re right, and I know I should be really upset right now, but I feel like the only reason I’m crying is because… crap, I don’t even know why.” She looks at me, hopeless and lost, unsure and trying to see if I know what to do.

I don’t.

I smile, sadly, and stand up and walk away. I can’t do much. I never can. I can only give them the words, the hope. They have to make something of it.


Later, who knows how much later, I lie in bed and stare up at the canopy above me. It’s blue, dark blue, just like it’s been every day for the past seven years.

I’m listening to music, letting myself get lost in voices and words and guitar rifts.

I love music. It is my escape, these people who know how I feel, who know what to do.

It’s late. Very late. But I can’t sleep. Insomniac, they say. Who knows? It’s just another word, another label that they put on me and try to contain me in.

It doesn’t work.

Nothing like that ever works.

I sigh. Turn off the music. Roll out of bed. I walk down stairs, into the circular common room. I walk out the door and down more stairs.

I find myself standing on the top of a tower, winds whipping around me, my hair stinging my face, hugging myself and watching the night.

I see somebody out by the lake. Tall figure. I stare at them, and then, when they turn, I recognize them.

James Potter.

Collecting his jar of hearts.

Breaking girls’ hopes.

He’s the reason why I can never spend more than three days without needing to comfort someone else. He’s the reason why I even bother to help those silly girls, all thinking they’re the one.

I can’t understand him. For most people, I can read them like books. They’re open, easy to understand. I don’t need to struggle with them.

James Potter.

I can’t read him.

He’s a mystery. One I want to figure out.

But that is stupid. I can figure him out about as much as I can figure love out.

Love is cruel. It’s ugly. And yet, somehow, it’s nice and beautiful and honored and respected.


Who knows.

I watch James Potter cross the grounds. I watch him go to the doors. And then I watch him look up and see me, standing there, watching him.

And I watch him smirk and go into the castle.

James Potter. What a mystery.


Weeks, maybe months, later, I am sitting alone in a room, sitting on a piano bench, sitting and playing piano.

Music. It’s my escape, remember?

I play everything, from classical pieces to modern songs. I play it all.

The white and black keys stretch in front of me, my pale, long fingers moving across them and creating beautiful music that pulls me from reality and to my own private world, where I’m not the Cupid, where everyone is happy.

Needless to say, it’s quite different from reality.

I play and play and play. I don’t know what time it is. I only know that it’s break and there aren’t any classes, which is good, because now I can play for as long as I like.

And then…disaster.

“Do you always do this?” the voice comes, dark and foreboding, male and low and rough.

I freeze.

“My, you’re a quiet one, aren’t you?”

Go away, please, I silently pray.

 “I mean, you’re the Cupid. You’d think you’d be a little more…outspoken.”

No. Nonononono. He knows who I am.

 “Say something.”

“Go away.” I say softly, my hands leaving the keyboard and finding their way to my hair, which is in a plait.

If it’s down, he might not be able to recognize me.

“Oh no you don’t. I’ve spent enough time trying to find you. You’re not getting away now.” Big hands on top of mine, stopping me from letting my hair down.





“Well, you aren’t too bad to look at, are you? You should be Aphrodite, not Cupid.” James Potter. The mystery found me first.

“Please, go away.” I whisper, voice catching.

“No, I don’t think I will.” He says, sitting down next to me on the piano bench, too close. Much too close.

“Please. Just leave.”

“No. You’re a mystery. I want to figure you out.” His voice is a whisper, like mine, except his is rough, almost seductive.

His hand comes up and he cups my cheek, making me face him.

My eyes are wide, scared.

I am vulnerable.


“I can’t read you. Other people, I can read them. I know what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling. But you…you’re a mystery, like I said. I’ve been trying to find the Cupid for a long time, too. It seems like the elusive Miss Della Grace and the Cupid are one and the same. How convenient.” James Potter’s voice wraps around me, trying to pry my secrets from there hidden spot deep within me.

Unfortunately for him, it’s going to take more than that to make me tell all.

“I have nothing to tell you. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not the Cupid.” Denial. Works ninety-five percent of the time.

“Sure. And I’m a saint. Tell me why.” His eyes burn into mine and his hand presses harder against my face.

I take a deep breath, maybe my last true breath as the invisible girl, the anonymous Cupid.

“Why what?” my voice is shaky, crumbling.

I can’t fool anyone, not anymore.

My mask is breaking.

“Why would you do that? Why would you bother with love, with comforting people? I can see in your eyes that you don’t care about that, like me. So why?”

He makes sense.

“Because I can. Because I can comfort people, because I can understand love a little more than most. Because I wanted to help someone instead of hurt them.”

The truth feels good. Talking to someone other than a heartbroken sixteen-year-old girl sobbing their eyes out feels good.

“How…nice of you. But why shut off? You could help more people if you weren’t as unsociable as you are.”

“Why shut off? Because I don’t belong. If I’m the Cupid, I can’t try and be normal. It just doesn’t work like that. I don’t work like that. My whole life, I’ve been trying to label myself. I’ve been trying to understand myself, and it helps if I have a word for myself. Right now, that word is ‘Cupid’. I’d like to stay that way, thank you.” I sound brittle and fragile, ready to break. Unstable.

The Unstable Cupid.

A label. A label I can put on myself, another label that won’t fit.

“That’s where you went wrong. I might be messed up, but I know this much. You don’t have to understand yourself. You don’t have to have a label. All that you need is a little love.”

He sounds kinder now, like he’s talking to a small child, or maybe someone who’s been hurt one too many times.

Maybe that’s me.

“A little love?” I repeat. “How can I find a little love in such a harsh world?”

“You’re not looking in the right places. You only see the bad things. There are good things too, you just need to look for them. And you haven’t been. You just need to see some warmth, some happiness, some real love, and then you’ll be able to understand, and then you might be able to be a little happier yourself.”

His eyes and words hold wisdom, wisdom that I’m not familiar with. Wisdom that is strange, but true.

I look at him, right into that truth. And then I ask, “How? How can I see the good?”

“You have to find it yourself. If you want, I can help you. And maybe you can help me, too. We can fill in the gaps of our knowledge for each other.”

A mutual understanding passes between us. I can feel, almost like a little sliver of warmth, like the warmth he was talking about.

Maybe this isn’t a catastrophe.

Maybe this is good.

“Okay.” I say.

Two syllables. One word.

It changed my life.


Now I have a label. One that fits. One that I like.

I’ve felt that happiness. That love. I have it now.

We filled in the gaps of our knowledge, just like I said. Just like he said.

That label?

Mrs. Della Potter, James Potter II wife.

It’s nice, in my opinion.

I’ve found warmth in friendship, and then love, marriage.

I guess you could say I found my happily ever after.

I just like to say I got lucky.

And, who knows? Maybe you will too.

All it takes is a little trusting, a little belief.

If you can find that, you can do anything.


Love is our resistance

-The Resistance, Muse




A/N: so, please review and tell me what you think. Make you feel depressed or happy?

Whatever you want to say.

First set of lyrics go to When It Rains by Paramore.



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