She's sitting next to you, so damn close, like she knows how much you're aching for her, her mouth almost brushing the back of your head, her voice ringing out from behind your neck (you have your back half-turned to her) and dropping into your soul like stones drop into a pond. They leave little ripples of water, don't they? It's the same with your soul, and you tremble inwardly. Oh, fuck it, she's crossing her leg – she does, and her loose, wriggling foot brushes against your staid, prim leg and everything within you cries out with a beast-in-a-cage roar of lust. Your eyes move to her childish thighs, nothing like your own womanly, grown up legs at all, are they? Your calves are thick, pale and short, while hers are whippet-thin and brown, with only the tiniest, invisible brushing of golden, feathery down upon them. She's so young, she's so young, she's so goddamn young, she's only a child, only a girl, probably never had a period yet, probably still plays Quidditch with her brothers each night at home, probably never felt lipstick stain her lips, probably still wears cotton vests and soft shoes, never used a razor upon her skin because she's just a little girl, just a girl, like you…
(You hate her and you love her. You hate her because Hogwarts' society and general rules today dictate you from taking too active an interest in one person, never mind a girl (they call you lezzer) and she doesn't seem to mind. That she doesn't seem to notice that frightened pause and quick glance you give her when you accidentally brush hands. Thinking, maybe she's consenting, maybe she's flirting, maybe she feels the way you do for her... but no. She continues scribbling in her book and pulling silly faces and being herself. You hate her because she favours her likeminded, funny, vivacious friends over you. (slow and steady wins the race in the end in the end in the end) You hate her because she's using you.
But you love her more. You know you do, and you gave up pretending to yourself ages ago, though you can't admit it to anyone or anything else, even the pillow you cry into and wring in frustration each night. No-one else knows, about it, do they? You carry it around with you like a heavy weight, just like pressure on your ribs, pushing on your heart until you just want to burst with the pain of it and confess everything. Because it's a crime to you. It's wrong, it's wrong, it's wrong… you always told yourself it was fine for some, (for some not you) but not you, but now this little bitch has come into your life and it's either her or you, Herm, because there's only one parachute and this airplane's diving…
She knows. She knows. She knows. She knows because her breath's hot on your neck. She knows because her elbow is resting on the back of your chair. Because she's bright and brighter and loud and louder than everything else in this room. She's glowing, and glowing and glowing so bright so loud you can't see anything. You're blinded. You're deafened. You're numb.
(slow and steady wins the race in the end in the end in the end)