I don't own Harry Potter, nor its characters. I only take claim to this fluffly bit of drabble.
In the first year of Hogwarts, he gave her a flower.
He didn't have someone else get it for him, he didn't buy it, he didn't make it with magic.
He picked it himself, and he gave her a flower.
She kept in the back of her diary for years.
In second year, he made a heart-shaped chocolate for her.
He didn't buy it, he didn't use magic- not even to mix it- and he didn't tell someone else to make it for him. Because she once mentioned that she liked chocolates, he wanted to make it by himself.
She told him it didn't have enough sugar, too much milk, and that the left side was bigger than the right.
She loved it all the same, told him it was the best chocolate she'd ever tasted.
In third year, he gave her a bouquet that had every one of her favorite flowers in it.
With cuts and scrapes on his hands, plasters covering most of them, he didn't tell her that he'd done it himself, sheepishly lying between his teeth that he'd had someone else do it for him.
She thought they were beautiful anyway, keeping them so carefully in a vase, always tending to them before she slept, as if they were the most important thing to her.
When she punched him in the nose, he put bubblegum in her hair.
In fourth year, he finally got the nerve to kiss her cheek.
She'd blushed and told him that he was horribly awkward but his mouth was soft.
She kept that kiss in the back of her mind for the rest of the month, wishing he would gain that nerve again.
The next time he did, she was the one to kiss his cheek first and she'd never seen him blush more furiously.
In fifth year, he asked her to waltz with him.
She told him that he was horribly awkward at dancing, refusing to admit that she was the awkward one, that she didn't know how to waltz until before that evening.
In the hall of Slytherin House, in the empty, moonlit-hallway, they danced to a softly hummed tune.
She always wore the clothes she wore then when she wanted to remember that waltz, even if she could ask at any time to waltz again, it was always a first dance that was held special in her cinemas.
In sixth year, he sheepishly sang to her, playing on a guitar, his secret skill he kept because, if there was one thing muggles could ever get right, it was the guitar.
His songs were never the same, always improvised and on-the-spot, made just for her. And to her, no matter how his voice cracked or he made a false note, if he was on-tune or not, his serenades were perfect.
His voice was shy, quiet, unlike the arrogant bastard she'd hated as a front for the other two, and she was certainly more than the Jane Doe she was for the show-off of a pureblood. To be quite frank, if it made Daddy proud, he was a dog with everything up for grabs.
His songs were for her, and her alone, his heart for her, and her heart for him.
Because this was their delightfully sinful secret, so frowned upon in comparison to what he was and what she couldn't help but being.
In seventh year, he broke every picture of her and burned every gift.
And, bit-by-bit, he picked up the shards of glass with his bare hands and thrown it to the bin. And, bit-by-bit, he burned every picture with it. He burned the ashes again. And he got rid of them with ever goddamn curse he could think of.
Because she didn't love him like she said she had..
And for that, he was livid. He loved her and hated her with every ounce of passion he had.
Because she loved him. The damned ginger without a single likable trait he could name.
And for that, he would always be bitter.
A/N: Holy shit. This is weird, You have no idea.
I'm writing something for a straight pairing and Harry Potter.
I don't even ship this.
I wrote it for a friend in my Video Productions class I hope you like it hhhhhhhngh. It'sfluffy.