That Certain Red-Haired Vixen

Angst/Humor, depending on how you look at it.

"Your move, Harry."
"Right."
He bent his head in contemplation, but it certainly wasn't his next move he was thinking about. He was losing badly, and his opponent knew it. No, his thoughts were on a certian red-haired person. He couldn't sleep at night, his every thought came back to that person. He had a crush on them. It was unavoidable, and undeniable. But how to approach them? 'Hey, just wanted to tell you that I have a crush on you. Want to go to Hogsmeade this Saturday?' And even worse than this limbo was his fear of rejection.
What if they didn't like him? He'd waited too long, he knew. He had taken it for granted, that somehow everything would work out. And it only made the suffering worse. He was hesitant. He really didn't want to ask for help. He had been so busy these past years, worrying about the situation outside of school. These type of problems, love problems, everyone had them? Right? So why did he feel so out of place? He'd pretty much convinced himself that there was no one he could turn to for help. Sirius? No, it was too awkward. Hermione? She'd tell. He sighed.
"You okay, Harry?"
"Yeah, I'm just fine."
Fine was far from it. The end of his seventh year was drawing close, and the inevitable confrontation with Voldemort was too. He was so nervous. He knew that they regarded him as their savior. He didn't even know if he could do it. Sure, he'd been training for the past three years, but he truly knew what he was fighting against. Voldemort had cheated death. He, Harry, was painfully mortal. His stomach turned. Maybe love problems weren't so bad after all. Back to that person again. Their friendship, oh God. Talk about bittersweet. He loved to see them smile, laugh at his jokes, but the pain that they might never want to take that next step chafed him. Their friendship had grown since his fifth year. He truly deeply understood them, and he could call them his best friend. His confidant. Was he willing to take the step, and just ask? Would their friendship survive if they didn't?
He moved his rook forward. It was probably a bad move, but he really didn't care. He'd lost plenty of chess matches before.
Chess. The ability to play seemed to run in the family. Family. Another block. That person's siblings. Quite overprotective. IF that person did agree to have a relationship with him, (a mighty big 'if'), then said person's family surely would, flip out. It was doomed before the start. He looked into the chocolate brown eyes of his opponent, and felt his heart contract. Ah, unrequited love. It was about as angsty as teenage angst could get. Harry was sure there was some humor in his situation. He just was really, really bad at finding it.
How do you tell your best friend you're in love with them?
His best friend, his rock, and right now, his winning chess opponent.
They flashed a brilliant smile, and said, "Checkmate!"
Harry sighed. "I don't even know why I bother playing anymore. I *always* lose."
"Cheer up, Harry.", Ron said, clapping him on the back. "You've better than our first year."
THE END