by She's a Star
Disclaimer:
Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. Well, duh. I don't even own the nargles.Author's Note:
Bah. Am still going through writer's block and composing utterly strange things. This here's an odd G/H vignette in which Harry is overly mushy. Enjoy? Ah well. Something like that. (At least I managed to capitalize this time.)"You," she announced, "are entirely ridiculous."
And he felt inclined to agree with her. Of course, it wasn't his fault, really - he wasn't always ridiculous. It was something that stirred in him only when he was with her. He didn't know quite what it was about this girl that made him forget the darkness, but he liked it, and didn't fixate on it too much, because it was one of the only nice things he had left and he didn't want it to change.
There was something very . . . distracting about her. The other day, she'd walked into the Great Hall during breakfast and he'd found himself staring at her so avidly that he'd dropped his toast. Ron had given him another one of those glances that he'd grown to detest; Hermione hadn't noticed. (Apparently, Numerology and Grammatica was positively enthralling even on the twelfth read.)
There was an ache inside of him, something that had surfaced from the second Sirius had fallen through the veil, and he found himself somehow doubting that it would ever go away.
But he forgot about it, with her.
They would talk sometimes, briefly, before classes, and get wrapped up in conversations about silly things like socks and eyeglasses and Quidditch positions, and then she'd check her watch and look back at him with chocolate eyes and say, "Damn, Harry, I'm late for History of Magic. I'm really sorry."
He'd stare after her without realizing he was doing it, and Ron would chuckle under his breath until Hermione silenced him with sharp reprimands.
Maybe he was falling in love with her. Love? Was that stupid of him? He didn't want to love her, at any rate; he knew it would only hurt her, knew it was likely her life would pay the price. But when he was with her, he didn't quite remember the consequences, and instead was able to focus quite nicely on what a lovely shade her hair was.
"Harry?" she'd ask him sometimes, when he drifted off into reveries that starred her, of course, but also distracted him from what she was saying. "Are you even listening to me?"
And he knew that he was just supposed to reply yes, even if he hadn't been, but he had a new habit of saying unintentionally stupid things around her, so he'd respond, "No. I was thinking about your hair."
And she'd blush, and say, "Oh" in a shy sort of way that reminded him of the Ginny that had used to stick her elbows into butterdishes and be rendered speechless at the sight of him.
But it would pass quickly, and she'd continue rambling on about such and such, pausing at regular intervals to inquire if he was listening. Her eyes always danced when she did this.
When Christmas came 'round, they got caught under mistletoe, and had a rather in-depth conversation about the dangers of nargles, whatever they were. She rambled on, as she tended to, skillfully adapting Luna's dreamy tone, until he realized that he was willing to risk the nargles if it meant he could kiss her, so he did. His stomach did not lurch, her eyelashes weren't dotted with tears, and he decided that maybe second kisses were much better than first ones.
It seemed like they were always talking, at least one of them. Sometimes she would, and he'd just listen silently; sometimes it was the other way around. He felt a strange comfort with her when he talked about Voldemort that he didn't with anyone else. And then they had their silly conversations, and in-jokes that no one else found even remotely funny, and lamentations over Potions class.
Slowly, he came to need her, and it scared him when they were apart.
When they were together, he didn't mind so very much.
Yes, he was ridiculous - she made him that way - and he wouldn't change it for the world.
He told her this, and she smiled.