Disclaimer: Hogwarts School Robes: 4 Galleons

Maple and Unicorn Hair Wand: 14 Sickles

Owning the Sexiest Thing Riding a Broom: More than I will see in my entire life

Nor do I own Demon Ororon, if you were wondering.

Chapter 1

You're so cute when you sit like that. You always hug one knee to your chest and stare into the fire, so close to the flames that I used to worry it would devour you, but I don't worry about that anymore. You've enough fire in your core to fight any amount of flame with its own weaponry.

Your eyes are an emerald looking glass, reflecting your every emotion, but now they reflect my face back at me. You are thinking, wearing the blank look that is number ten on the list of things that I love most in the world. You are so deep, so intense, that you can loose yourself completely in your own thoughts. I only wish that your thoughts were of me.

They are not. I know this from the smile that plays softly over your lips. You don't smile when you think of me—not absently like that. When you think of me, your eyebrows crease and vein in your temple pulses. Sometimes a slow flush of anger will grow over your pale cheeks, which makes you look feverish, and this is number nine.

You are like a cat; you feel my stare and turn your head slowly towards me. Your eyes are no longer glass, but now emerald pools so deep that I cannot tell what you are thinking. The air is still, and I cannot breathe, but it does not matter, because deep in these emerald pools there is nothing but you and I need nothing else.

Your eyes narrow and I wonder if you know that without lifting a finger you have pinned me. You have always had this talent, this ability, and I am hoping that you are ignorant of this, if nothing else. I am strong. I am a leader. I am a Marauder, and Marauders do not fall in love. If you know that I have broken this vow, you will see that I have a weakness. I do not want you to see my flaws. I want you only to see my strength.

I am a puppet and you have pulled the strings. You rise from the hearth in the common room we share with many others (though we are the only ones awake at this hour) and I am no longer slouching in an armchair, I am sitting up straight with my feet flat on the floor. I am a good boy, my expression reads. You don't believe me, and this is number seven: you are too smart for the good of either of us.

You are glaring, your face twisted into a look of outrage. You call me by my surname, and demand to know if I was staring at you. My heart plummets, because I know what is coming. You take a single, challenging step towards me, your hands on your hips to complete your fighting stance.

Of course I was, I tell you, smirking triumphantly. At least I am honest, but you aren't impressed. You never are. No matter how stupid I am, no matter how doggedly determined, I never seem to impress you. You tap your toe for a moment, and then you tear into me. Your words are sharp, and if I was not callused from the thousands which had once pierced my skin, I would bleed, but I don't.

You have made me tougher. This is number six.

I am cocky and careless in my reply. If you were anyone else, you would collapse into giggles. Even I, myself, who knew the words before they escaped my lips, even I am tickled and cannot hold in a little chuckle. But you remain impassive.

You glare and demand that I recite what you have told me. I am not to stare at you, not in private, and especially not when people are watching. They just might think I was telling the truth when I announced to the school that I loved you. I tell you that I have never lied, but this does not sway your decision. Number five on my list is the short leash you keep me on, though this is a number I shall never admit, even if I were being tortured by the Dark Lord himself. (Though to be truthful, I can't see that there's anything he'd want with me.)

You are closer to me now, though I do not remember seeing you move. I can see your chest rising and falling as you breathe. I can nearly hear your heart thumping in the silence of the room. Your robes brush against mine and I can feel all self control melting away from me.

"Don't come so close, Evans."

"Scared, Potter?"

You sneer a challenge fit for a Slytherin and I loathe it. I hate the way Slughorn is always telling you that you belong in his blasted house. You do not. You are courageous and beautiful and terribly self-centered. You do not belong in Hufflepuff, though you are kind, nor in Ravenclaw, though you are wise, and you especially do not belong in Slytherin, though your wit is sharper than any of theirs. You belong in Gryffindor, because that is where I am.

"Yes."

"Of what?"

"You."

You lean in and my heart races. You press your forehead against mine and from this distance I can see that the scowl in your eyes has melted into something else, something which melts not just my heart but my entire body. I am very aware, now, of how hot my cheeks are. I cannot breathe, and when I gasp there is only your scent. It is intoxicating. It is pulling me under.

"Me? The great Potter, afraid of a little school girl."

"No."

"What, then?"

You are enjoying this game. It is in your tone. You are the cat and I am the mouse, though I am the one longing to devour you. If I had the strength I would pull you down to my level and cover you with my kisses, taste every inch of your delicate flesh, but your gaze has sucked all the strength from me.

"Of what I might do."

You smile (number 4) and it encourages me.

"I might touch you."

You lift my hand and lace your fingers with it. (Your touch: Number 3)

"I might hold you."

I look down to discover that you have already crawled into my lap, though I did not feel it. I was too trapped in your gaze to even hear my own heart beat racing in my ears, but now it is loud. It drowns out my words.

"I might kiss you."

I don't know if you hear me, for now I can hear your heartbeat mixing with mine. Perhaps not, perhaps in this moment of closeness we have become as one, and you can hear my thoughts. Or maybe you were just thinking the same thing.

You kiss me, your round, full lips upon mine, barely brushing over them, and it gives me the strength to envelop you in my arms. I hold you close and brush your lips again. They are small kisses: as innocent as butterfly wings. (They are number 2 on my list.)

Your lips are so close to mine that they are barely separated, but I know they are, for my lips are starving to touch yours again, and the air in the room is cooler than your lips. It feels like ice against my heated flesh. Your scent has surrounded me, and now not even the common room exists. I don't exist. It is only you, and you are all I need. I need you.

"I love you."

You: the way everything I love and everything I hate have collided in a brilliant firework of emerald in your eyes, the way you touch me and set me aflame, the way your sharp words have left scars that linger forever, you are number one, the only one, the single existing thing that I love more than anything else, for in this moment you are all that exists.

"I love you. I love you. I love you."

"I love you, too."