Love sees not with the eyes, but the mind. Therefore, is winged Cupid painted blind.
Indescribably lissome is my lover, her soft lips pressed against mine, my hands deep in her auburn tresses.
My mind drifts to the distant past, reflecting over my "courtship"- if that is a congruous word for it.
Shy looks exchanged over her mother's dinner table, sometimes even a grin or two. The slight brush of her shoulders against mine when we met in tight hallways, the touch never slipping either of our notices.
Her hands caress my cheeks, gently cupping them, and I smile.
The past brings to memory a foggy image of the day we first felt the intense tension between our bodies, her fingers poised over mine as we pruned the Weasley garden at her mother's behest, the figures of her brother and his fiance preening barely a yard away from us. It quickly changes to the succinct picture of my lover in that yellow bridesmaid's dress she wore so well, the sunlight reflecting in her warm brown eyes as she glimpsed out of the window; marvelling at her eldest brother's matrimonial robes.
My conscience takes a leap to a time I cherish but recall so pathetically poorly- How my twelve-year old heart clenched when we both claimed the spot by the fire in the Gryfinndor common room that snowy evening; when we laughed over a glass of iced pumpkin juice.
She was a person I knew would always be there by my side.
Even when her family refused to accept our love; when her mother- the same woman who had once fed and sheltered me- accused me of polluting her child.
All I had done was love.
But we knew better. We were lovers, never sinners. All my life I had learned to resist, and now, I had found the one for whom I would continue doing so; unremorseful satisfaction in struggle.
Her body detaches itself from mine, and she looks into my eyes. I smile again, this time wider.
My insecurities vanish- After all, my love knows trust. Suddenly, I am sixteen once more, mesmerised by the sight of my infatuation in the air, a scarlet blur of finesse on a Quidditch pitch.
"Come on, my bride," She chuckles, setting my tiara to mirror hers. "We can hardly be late to our own wedding." Her cheeks flare a healthy pink.
The flame-haired beauty, her fingers laced in those of the brightest witch of the age. What a time to be alive it is!
Our rainbows fly higher than bigotry.