Boy Meets Girl
A Harry Potter-verse Short Story that wanted to be written. All characters belong to the lovely Ms Rowling, and very rightly so. No infringements, profits, yadayadayada.
A faint patina of sweat shone on his forehead as he sat there, quill poised over the parchment. Writing this kind of stuff was hard bloody work, he mused. In the books, it was always so simple. Girl meets boy. Boy writes effortless love poetry. Girl is overcome with emotion. Boy gets his end away with girl. Girl and boy live Happily Ever After.
If only the books had got it right. Perhaps he should send them a sharp note insisting it be corrected. Girl meets boy and totally ignores him for most of their school career. Boy attempts to write love poetry. Girl remains happily oblivious to boy's efforts.
Still, it was the first chance in days he had had to sit down quietly, with the rest of the Marauders out of the way. He didn't want them to know what he was doing, they would all mock him so mercilessly. So he was sitting in a far corner of the library, trying to achieve the impossible.
He read back over what he had managed to produce so far. Earlier efforts had been balled up and discarded and he was, he reasoned, getting it right at last.
The starry night is filled with beauty
Your eyes reflect it absolutely
They shine from deep and light my heart
Which aches so much when we're apart…
Yes, he said, smiling faintly. This was GOOD stuff. See? He could write this sort of smush.
He racked his mind a little more, trying to pen down some more of the feelings he wanted to convey in words.
Your lips, a cupid's bow of passion
Your clothes, so at the height of fashion…no hang on, that was just stupid. He scribbled the last couple of lines out and sucked on the end of the quill thoughtfully.
Far down at the other end of the library, he heard laughter and girlish giggling. He lifted his eyes from his work for the briefest second and there she was. Lily Evans. Oh, her hair! So … red! Her eyes…so eye shaped and green!
He didn't have the heart of a poet – that was why the four lines he had managed had taken him all morning.
He gazed on Lily's distant form, hearts in his eyes and sighed theatrically. Almost mechanically, his hand continued writing.
If only I could make you listen
With pearls of wisdom that shine and glisten
Alas, my beauteous red-haired siren
I can't think of anything that rhymes with siren oh bugger.
Sighing heavily, he balled up the piece of paper. At least it was an improvement on the earlier poem that had contained the line about the flag and its decidedly dubious follow-on line.
The balled-up parchment joined its fellows on the floor.
Boy, he thought, dismally, attempts to write love poetry for girl, who is far cleverer than he is.
He sighed again and began picking up all the rubbish that had gathered around him. It wouldn't do for one of his friends to come bowling into the library, pick up some of the poems and mock him mercilessly. He knew them too well, sometimes.
One last try, he thought. I CAN get this out.
My Lily, he wrote. My love, my life.
Would you consent to be my wife?
I know that we're just seventeen
But I'm more sure than I've ever been
I want to be with you all time
And be so proud that you are mine
You'll be so glad I'm there for you
Please be Mrs Pettigrew.
Peter nodded to himself in satisfaction. Yes, that was it, he'd done it. And not before time – because he heard the unmistakable sound of an encroaching Sirius, James and Remus. He folded the paper up with delicate creases and put it inside his History of Magic text book.
Now to find the right moment to hand it to her.
How could she resist?
© S Watkins, 2005
