He can't help it, not really.
He supposes it's her fault, not that she means it of course. But she's there, in the dim lighting of the underground classroom, with her scrunched nose and frizzed hair.
He KNOWS he shouldn't feel this way, shouldn't be reacting to the mundaneness of it. But the potion's fumes add to her hair's fullness and he feels it stirring in his gut. She looks up, and he gulps at the question in her eyes. Before he has a chance to make up something, a lie waiting at his lips. The professor speaks and she looks forward.
He's suddenly reminded that he has toadstool waiting to be crushed and a class to finish. So he shifts in his seat, adjusting himself in a way that's becoming way too familiar.
She has toothpaste on her lip, and dammit it's attractive. His body screams at him to act. His mind aiding in the assault, bringing flashes of what he COULD do to his brain.
He doesn't know how to react, the tiny spot on the corner of her mouth more erotic than it ever should be, so he doesn't. She talks and he watches her mouth form words.
He's disappointed when she picks up her goblet, brings it to her lips, and washes it away. So he sits there, mourning the loss of something inconsequential, until she picks up her bag and makes to leave. He follows her and is suddenly grateful for the cover of his school robes.
She's helping his mother. A large pile of laundry between them and laughter in the air. Her hair is pulled up high and the mark on her neck on display. He stops himself at the doorway of the scullery, his reason for being there forgotten.
The sunlight streams in from the window, highlighting her face as she folds. She's beautiful and he can't explain it, but his jeans suddenly feel a bit too tight. His mind once again recalls images of her in the throes of passion, some more than imagined, and he leaves.
His walk to the bathroom is thankfully uninterrupted and he waves his wand as he locks himself in.
He's reading at the table, and she's putting away a finished book. Her feet tiptoeing to reach the uncluttered top shelf. As she stretches upward, his eyes are drawn to her tattered sweats. She's a sight with her hair in it's Sunday morning mess, slightly yellowed tube socks covering her feet, and a shirt that long ago stopped being his hanging from her petite frame.
He lets the sight wash over him, a familiar and welcome feeling rushing into his gut. He moves to help her, his height an advantage. And she's turning into him, wrapping her arms around his torso, her body molding to his. His lips descend upon hers and his fingers dip under her shirt to trace her ribs.
She doesn't do it on purpose, and heaven knows he can't help it.
He honestly wouldn't have it any other way.