Summary: She had no idea the power she had over him. He made her drop her things and forget her words. An impossible fic about James and Myrtle if they were at school during the same time and the basilisk was loose. JPMM. AU (obviously).

One word

He wouldn't stop watching her. No matter where she went, he was always there, always watching. She would feel herself go red at the intensity of his gaze, and the embarrassment would cause her to stumble or to drop things. She acquired the label of clumsy and stupid, simply because of him. Clumsy, she who had been the most graceful girl in the ballet academy as a child. Stupid, she who had once been the star of any classroom she entered. All of that was gone now. All because of him.

Yet she couldn't hate him for it. She couldn't wish that he would just go away, couldn't just wish that he would leave her alone. At least when he watched her she knew he cared. At least as his hazel eyed bored into her, she knew that he acknowledged her existence. It was all she could wish for, and she couldn't think of how to give it up.

They had never spoken, had never exchanged so much as a nod in the halls. She'd given up expecting him to even look straight into her eyes. Once, when she was much younger, she would cry into her pillow at night and pray that he would notice her enough to speak. He never had, and she had learned to be content with his gaze. It was enough. It had to be. It was all she had.

She wondered sometimes if he knew the power he had over her. A single glance would make her forget what she was saying, and a single laugh would make her drop what she was holding. The others laughed at her, and, as her face flamed, she knew that she deserved it. Why did he do this to her? Why did he torment her so; why did he go out of his way to make her look foolish? Yet she wouldn't give it up. Not even when she knew that he only watched her for the pleasure of seeing her stumble and make a fool of herself, not even when she knew that his laughter was all scorn and no genuine affection. Even knowing that, she would never give it up. It was too precious, too rare to be wasted. And even if he watched her simply to see her fall, even if he stayed near her merely to make fun of her, at least he was there. At least he cared enough to watch. With that she would have to be content.

She made her way down the corridor, her head spinning with thoughts of him, not looking where she was going. He had spoken to her at last! It was only one word, two single syllables, nothing more. But it had been a word, and it had been her name. She shivered to herself as she heard him say it yet again. She loved how he had said it, loved how his voice had caressed the syllables and had spat them out with the utmost delicacy. No one else spoke her name like that, no one else sent such shivers of agonizing bliss up her as they said it. She was used to hearing her name shouted in impatience or consternation, not treated as though it were something precious and worth taking time over. And yet he, he who had never spoken to her before, he who had always watched her, he for whom she had shed so many fruitless tears, he had said her name in that manner. He had spoken it as though it were a gift he were giving her, and she knew she would never look at the hated name in the same way.

So intent was she on her thoughts that she never noticed the sudden silence in the corridor. As she turned the last corner, she looked straight at her doom, her mind still running with thoughts of him. She saw his hazel eyes watching her as she stiffened and, at last, she reached out to him. Her hand closed on air as her head hit the ground, and her eyes closed on his form. One word. He had spoken one word to her. One word that changed her life. One word that ended it.

He couldn't stop watching her. He didn't know why, and it frightened him. Did she know she had such power over him? She didn't seem to, didn't seem to realize that she held him transfixed with her every move. Yet he couldn't tear his eyes away from her whenever she was in the room, couldn't keep his mind off her when she moved. What was wrong with him? There were countless others who were prettier than she, innumerable others who were cleverer. So why did she draw him like a starving bee to a spring flower?

None of the others understood. How could they? He didn't understand it himself. He had given up fighting it, had given up trying to understand. He simply accepted it for what it was and didn't try to find answers. Yet he couldn't help thinking about it. He couldn't help wondering, glancing at her from behind his books and watching as she read her own, just what it was about her that called to him. Was it the way she was outcast from the other girls, always alone and never letting on that she cared? Was it the way she blushed when he looked at her, the way she emitted a slight squeak every time he came up on her from behind? Was it the slight curve of her hips, barely visible under the robes she wore yet perfectly plain to him? Was it her long hair that swung behind her, always down, always slightly tangled and unkempt? Was it her blue eyes, so deep and compelling, the eyes that had never met his? He didn't know, and he'd learned not to ask.

He didn't know what had made him do it. He hadn't intended to, hadn't ever meant to break the barrier of silence that separated them. He was too conscious of what his friends would say if he spoke to her to attempt, and he hated it even as he accepted it. Yet, on that night, watching her fight back tears over the cruel comments of the other girls, he felt such compassion fill him that he couldn't keep silent any longer. As she made her way out of the room, he reached out slightly, not touching her, but enough to attract her attention. She paused and looked at him, her eyes meeting his for the first time. His breath caught as he looked into her gaze. Her blue eyes captivated him, drawing him out of himself and into her. He couldn't tear himself away, couldn't even think of looking away. The contact was only held for an instant, but, to him, it seemed to be for an eternity. He was lost in her, and nothing could get him out.

Moments later, she blinked and the spell lifted partially. She still hadn't moved, still stood there quivering like a deer caught in the headlights of a car, transfixed and paralyzed. And he spoke to her then, a single, simple word, but more than he ever had before. It was only her name, a halting pair of syllables that were wrenched out of him without his consent, but it was enough. He saw her face change, saw her eyes light up as she heard him. She said nothing in return, only hurried out of the room, her gait slightly lighter than it had been before, her head held fractionally higher. He watched her go, still unmoving, and knew that this was only the beginning.

He sat with the rest of the students in the garden, watching as they lowered her body into the Earth. Her hair had been combed out properly for the first time in his memory, the tear streaks washed off her face by the gentle hands of people who never cared about her when she'd been alive. He felt the pain and anger swell within him as he wept inwardly bitter tears. It was over before it had even had a chance to begin.

He cried out silently to the ones who had tended the body. Why had they done it? Why had they pretended to care even when he knew that they hated her? He should have been the one to do it, should have been the one to comb out her hair and wash her face, should have been the one standing with her now. But he hadn't been. No one had thought to ask him. No one knew what he himself had only discovered hours before. How could they? He had never said anything to her, had never publicly acknowledged her until that night. Until that single word had been forced out of him by forces beyond his control.

One word. They had exchanged one word, that was all. One word that had changed his life. One word that had ended hers. It would never be enough, yet it was all he had. He closed his eyes, holding that word close inside his heart. He saw her in his mind, saw her smile at him as she never had when she was alive, and knew that she knew. She knew that it was not enough, and he knew that she had thought the same. The thought calmed him, gave him the strength to face the world again. He opened his eyes once more, knowing that he would never be as truly at peace as he was now, watching them throw the warm brown earth over the corpse of the one girl he loved. The one with whom one word could change history. The one with whom one word was enough to guarantee both peace and pain. The one who had stolen his heart and soul and the one who, now, was returning them to him. He would move on, would find another. She would not have wanted him to grieve forever. And, next time, he would exchange far more than one single word, of that he was certain.

Disclaimer: Yes, I know that James and Myrtle went to school at different times, but my muse didn't really care. And, when one's muse speaks to one, one obeys one's muse without question for fear that one's muse will leave. And, after one has exited the trance-like state of creation and one realizes that one has written an impossible pairing based on the fact that one's two main characters were never alive at the same time, all one can do is write author's notes in third person impersonal and hope that one's readers understand.

Hoping that your muses are more rational than mine,

--Kyra