Right now it's the holidays, and I have pneumonia, so this was born out of pure boredom. The ending pissed me off beyond belief, but Scrubs is about to start, and I really can't be bothered to make it better. Review please. Thanks.

--sight--

The first time she saw him, her heart skipped a beat. He was so beautiful that she couldn't let her eyes leave him, even though she was in the stage where boys were strange, disgusting creatures. She had just arrived at the train station, ready for her first year away from home, and she decided that if all boys at Hogwarts looked like that, she was never leaving. Her bright blue eyes rested on his scruffy dark hair, chocolate eyes, hands and feet still too big for him and gangly limbs. He was like a beanpole, she decided. But a very pretty beanpole. He had smiled at something, a crooked, lazy half-smile, dazzling and warm, and she felt herself smiling as well, despite her nerves.

--sound--

The first time she heard his voice, she simply melted. The way his words simply rolled off his tongue like that… it was irresistible. She found herself making sure she sat near him at meal times, struggling to hear him talking to friends. For hours she practiced his accent in her dormitory, but she could never quite get it right. No one could duplicate his accent, or the warmth in his deep laugh. She knew another student from Scotland- James had the lilting voice and the musical tone, but he lacked the –what could she call it- Oliver-ness. His voice was the most beautiful voice she'd ever heard, every syllable a soothing lullaby.

--touch--

The first time she touched him, she felt sparks go up her arm, giving her goosebumps and shivers. She had been trying to find her way to Transfiguration and had gotten lost, a talent of hers. She had just given up and was crying in the middle of a completely unfamiliar hallway when he came up to her. He smiled, asked with that heavenly accent where she was meant to be, and held her hand the whole way there. When they reached the classroom, she struggled to make her small hand leave his much larger one. He simply smiled at her again, explained to McGonagall what happened, and helped her to her seat.

--smell--

The first time she smelt him, she couldn't help but breathe his scent in deeply. He smelt like a mixture of broomstick polish, papaya shampoo, air after it rains, and that mysterious scent of boy. She had been upset over a third-year Slytherin boy's taunts, and he had hugged her after telling the boy to go away in less polite terms. He handed her a handkerchief and she took it, holding it close to her nose after realizing it held his scent. Breathing deeply in both an effort to calm down and to inhale his smell more thoroughly, she had looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, resulting in another hug and a few choice words to describe the Slytherin boy. She didn't notice that at the Quidditch match the next week between Gryffindor and Slytherin, he ordered his beaters to pulverise the Slytherin third-year Chaser Marcus Flint.

--taste—

The first time she tasted him, she felt like she had slipped into a romance novel. He had fallen asleep in the common room, his hair mussed up, his oxford shirt riding up to expose a tanned and toned stomach, his shoes and socks still on, his mouth slightly open and issuing a light snore. She had seen his utter perfection and had been unable to resist, a small voice in her urging her on. She bent over him, taking in his wonderful scent, almost wishing he was awake so that she could see his beautiful liquid eyes. She kissed him on the cheek near the mouth, too shy to do anything else. She didn't notice his eyes flying open then closing and his half-smile, she was preoccupied with what his skin tasted like. It was almost bittersweet, a light dry sweat from a day of hard work and running around. She licked her lips, enjoying his vanilla taste mixed with the salty, warm taste of human skin. Then she had darted up to her dorm, ready to spend the next hour in a daze, intoxicated by his taste.

----

It was her first day again. She glanced up at the hospital and took three deep breaths, just as she done before every Quidditch match she ever played. No more Quidditch now, though. She was a sensible woman now, only 23 and already on a three-year contract at a leading hospital.

As she nervously walked through the hallway, she noticed a familiar face in the permanent ward. Shocked, she couldn't help but walk up to his bedside.

He seemed the same, but his eyes lacked the spark they held before. His voice was a monotone, dull and empty. When she touched him to check he was actually there and not a hallucination, his skin was cold under her touch and unresponsive. When she leaned in to speak to him, she could smell him, and all she could think of to describe his scent was sickness and the ultra-clean smell of hospital that burned her nose. As she kissed his cheek goodbye, she noticed he didn't have a taste. There was no sweat, his skin was not warm and salty, and he certainly didn't bother with his vanilla flavoured soap.

As she turned to go, she took in all of him with her senses, and found only a shadow of Oliver Wood.