The original idea of this fic was supposed to be a lovey-dovey fic with Ginny telling Harry about how much she loved him. However, I'm feeling a bit dark, and I'm in the mood for drabble. Just watched Beetlejuice, and I've decided to do this instead. Prompted by the Facebook 'like': "Let's face it girls, when you're in love, you watch your crush… from a distance" Make of it what you will.
Confessions of a Teenage Stalker
RVHP
It's amazing how vulnerable he looks when he sleeps. Just lying there, brow furrowed, facing the window so that his face is left half in shadow, and half in light. His eyes flutter slightly, and I know he's dreaming. I wonder what he's dreaming of, if it's me he's seeing. He pretends not to notice when I'm around, pretends not to care about what I do or what I say. I know on some level he must care, and I think he knows I know, but doesn't want to admit it, because now whenever he sees me coming he avoids me, moves the other way. It's gotten to the point where I have to sneak up into the 6th years boys dormitories in the dead of night just to catch a glimpse of his perfect face.
McGonagall complains my grade's aren't satisfactory, and that plenty of rest and studying is required if I am going to reach my target O.W.L grades, but who in their right minds could rest knowing that this was just a common room away? I do try with my studying, though. It is a well known fact that Harry is very much a fan of intellectual women. After all, he's never seemed to have any objections to that tagalong Granger, and Weasley and Chang, his only notable girlfriends, are supposedly rather intelligent, too. And athletic, unfortunately. Maybe Harry would like me more if I took up Quidditch? Or maybe even if I just went along to more matches, or practices? Harry sighs in his sleep, and I can't help but sigh, too. If only he could see that all he could ever want, ever need, was here, sitting at the foot of his bed.
I know it's wrong. I think of someone watching me sleep, and can't help but shudder. But I can't help myself. I need to see him, try to read how he's feeling, whisper sweet nothings into his ear until the wee hours of the morning when I have to creep back to my own bed and stifle my yawns and pretend for the next nine hours I've had the same 8-hour sleep as everyone else. Harry sighs again, shudders a little, and I realise there are goosebumps on his exposed arm. I slide off the bed, pull the blankets back up to his neck; plumping his pillows and tucking him in. I hope he can sense my presence, caring for him, loving him. I sit in silence for a while, stroking his thick, black hair whilst humming softly. Why did everything have to be so complicated? A loud snore from a neighbouring bed brings me back to reality, and I take in one last glimpse at his face, looking wan and angular in the moonlight. I lean over him, softly touching his hand, and whisper into his ear. "I love you."
Then I leave, trying not to wake him. Trying not to kid myself he love me back. Trying not to fantasise what it must be like to be Mrs Harry Potter.
V. short, and tres stupide. Review if you're feeling nice. xxx