You wonder why he loves you.
He's so breathtakingly wonderful (half of the school is part of a fan club about his looks, honestly) and you're just a simple girl (if someone told you that you were pretty, you would tell them to stop joking around).
He's got eyes like molten silver (you melt a little when you see them). You have eyes of watery navy blue that you inherited from your father (you don't really understand why he likes them).
He has a beautiful, silky mess of pale blonde hair that you would love to run your fingers through (and you do, whenever time allows). You possess the most wild, riotous curls that the planet has seen, and it's an eye-catching hue of bright, bright red (for some reason, people say they envy your hair texture and color), and the same color curses your eyelashes and your eyebrows so that whenever you don't feel like resembling a fire engine you have to wear makeup (he says he loves you without it, but you don't know if you believe him).
His lips are full and constantly pulled into a crooked smirk that he seems to have mastered (you find yourself staring at those enticing lips during class or in the library, which is awkward and humiliating, but you can't stop). Your lips are thin like your mother's, and they're always pursed in a vaguely McGonagall-esque line (why he enjoys kissing you, you have no clue).
He has a straight, Roman nose that's the perfect shape for his face (your mom's first comment when she met him was about how great his nose is, which is embarrassing but also embarrassingly true). You have a tiny, upturned, pert nose too small for your face (now you understand why people have plastic surgery).
His skin is clear and he's never had a single sunburn even with all of the time spent outside playing Quidditch (you tell him that not wearing sunscreen will catch up with him, that he'll develop some incurable carcinoma and die young in St. Mungo's), and it seems that he hasn't developed acne in any of his teenage years (you hate his amazing genes). Your skin is splashed with conspicuous freckles and you get dimples when you smile (you've never seen anyone in Witch Weekly with dimples), not to mention the overwhelmingly large amount of pimples on your face or that spending even an hour outdoors can lead to red, irritating sunburns that are not even preventable with extra-strength charms or the infallible Muggle sunscreen (and you don't even tan, which is another curse of being a fair skinned ginger).
He has a narrow face, a jawline that could cut diamond, and high and well-defined cheekbones (the groupies that follow him around practically worship that beautifully sharp face). You haven't lost any of that round baby face, the pudge, the chub, or the fat (it's even worse when you're cousins with part-Veela that oozes beauty and as a child was scouted for modeling); and you haven't gained the cheekbones or thinning face that are supposed to be a reward for undergoing puberty (really, it's just not fair).
He has a lean but muscular body, with broad shoulders and a washboard stomach and noticeable arms and legs (he looks like the Vitruvian man, or the three most attractive men in the world combined). You have virtually no extra muscle, a basically flat chest, a rounded stomach, hips too wide for your height, a large waist, thighs that flatten out to the size of London, and no collarbones to speak of (you're average at best, you suppose).
His hands are nimble, his fingers are long, and his nails are clean and trimmed to the perfect size at any given time (you realize, not for the first time, that he is surprisingly clean for a boy his age and that his hands look like a pianist's). Your fingers are short and your hand is small and creased, with popping knuckles and sideways pinkies (and your nails are too long from laziness or too short from being bitten).
He's got this perfect, low chuckle that makes you want to swoon constantly for reasons that would make even the most devious of your family members blush (seriously, that laugh of his does something to you and probably to every other person in the school). You have a donkey's laugh, a snort, an unattractive choking sound that makes people flinch and cringe and wince (but you prefer your laugh over some slag's superficial giggles, because they make your skin crawl).
His teeth are white and straight and just absolutely perfect, especially when the bite the skin by your ear or nibble at your lower lip (not that you'd tell anyone that, of course). Your teeth are naturally large, courtesy of your mother's notorious beaver teeth, and although they are clean, they are never gleaming and alabaster like his are (your maternal grandparents are still trying to convince your mom that you should wear Muggle metal torture devices for years, but you don't think you care enough about your teeth to do that).
He's really tall, tall enough to tower over most people (including you), and he has the best posture you've ever seen (maybe it's the pureblood upbringing). You're known as "petite" and "cute" but you know for a fact that you're just short, and when all of your cousins are tall and leggy and sexy, it's hard to be "cute" (they don't have Witch Weekly models that are below 1.8 meters, you've checked).
Again, you wonder why he loves you.
You ask him one day while you two are sitting by the lake, under a tree on a cool, cloudy afternoon. He looks at you with disbelief.
"You wonder why I love you?"
You nod your head. Yes, you wonder and wonder and wonder and it's been gnawing at you for months, no, not even months, but years. Long years of low self-esteem and crying at mirrors and wishing that you could be beautiful like Lily and Victoire and Roxanne and Dominique, and even like your mother and Aunt Ginny and Aunt Fleur and Aunt Angelina.
He still looks bewildered, but he turns towards you and you let out a breath that you didn't even realize you had been holding.
"I love you because you're beautiful. You have eyes that light up and glow when you're happy, and they remind me of the ocean because they're so blue. Your hair is fiery like your temper and wild like your personality. You have amazing, amazing lips that do amazing, amazing things. You have a nose that I find adorable, like when you scrunch it up when you're annoyed or when your nostrils flare because you're angry. I love that you have freckles that look like constellations, splashes of stars and nebulas on display like artwork, and I love that your skin is as pale as mine is. I love that your face is so perfectly shaped for me to hold, and that I can pinch your cheeks when you're being childish and I'm being incorrigible. You're curvy and skinny somehow at the same time, and when we cuddle you fit perfectly. Your hands can do things I never dreamed of, and they're always stained with a potions experiment gone awry or spilled ink or mud from Quidditch. Your laugh is contagious and it's music to my ears. Your teeth show how despite the fact that people mock you, you're still you and I respect you for that. And I love that I can tilt your chin up to kiss your forehead, that I can stand next to you and rest my elbow on you, that you have to look up to see me, that when I hug you, you can hear my heartbeat."
You say nothing. He pauses before continuing.
"You're not just physically beautiful, either. You're loyal and caring and kind. You're ambitious and devious and clever. You're intelligent and witty and hard-working. But you're a Gryffindor at heart, and you're so brave and selfless and determined, which is what makes me love you most."
He kisses you on the forehead and you are stunned by his words, by these proclamations. Part of you urges you to say that he's lying, you're ugly and worthless and you're not talented.
And then part of you understands.
You love him and he loves you. You aren't perfect because no one is, and your flaws make you more beautiful.