There's a moment when you stand there and it hits you. You have seen him a thousand times before and you've walked down the road like this. You've talked about each other's lives. You've stayed up until three talking and maybe gotten a few odd looks from people. But not him. Not like that. No, just friends. It's nothing like that. And if it was going to happen, you'd think it'd be while he was doing some huge heroic feat. But no. Not him. Not like that. He's digging in the dirt and it looks like it's going to rain. It's a hot summer day and the sweat is pouring down his face. He's probably angry and he's covered in dirt. He reaches up to wipe the sweat way and streaks a long trail of muck across his forehead. He silently cusses and then looks up at you, hoping you didn't hear. He can be a git. He can be a real git. He can get on your nerves and he can be far too moody and sullen. He never talks enough but remains in his own little world and won't tell you when something is wrong. By the time he reaches the small pouch of money hidden in the earth, he's shaking. Maybe from exhaustion. Maybe from anger. He doesn't meet your eyes when he holds it up and gives it a shake, allowing the coins to snap happily against one another. And he should be doing something heroic. But he's not. He's digging money out of the ground that he's hidden. Hidden for a day like this when he's going to need it. He's still not meeting your eyes when he attempts to cover the hole up again with loose dirt. You can smell the rain when the thought hits you.
Oh my god. You think. Oh my god. He's wonderful. He is absolutely wonderful.
You feel stupid because you haven't been doing anything so you fall to your knees and try to help him work the earth even though there's nothing much left to do. Of course your hand brushes against his and you jump and he looks at you, worried. He's worried he's hurt you. And you're thinking, "You brushed my hand. How could you have hurt me, you stupid git? Stop being so stupid!"
Of course it didn't hurt. But for the first time touching him felt like electricity.
You want to say something. Anything. Anything that might be witty or thought provoking but you're torn between being angry with him and getting over the spark from his touch. You're not sure whether to yell or to reach out and take hold of his hand again.
Electricity.
He stands and wipes his hands off on his torn robes. He still does not meet your eyes but he says, "Well, that's that. We should get going. To Diagon Alley," he walks a ways and then turns to finally look at you, "Coming, Tonks?"
"Right…" you manage to say. You put your mind back on the task at hand. You think about the assignment you're on. You think about potions ingredients and new quills and maybe rock candy if they have any. You try to be normal and think about things you would have thought about this morning.
Before it hit you. Before the storm came.