A/N: So, I suppose introductions are in order. This can't quite be considered my first piece of fiction, but it is most definitely my first foray into fanfiction, and my first EVER post on this site. I know it's very short, but any constructive criticism would be welcomed and appreciated. Here goes nothing!
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not one bit. All characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
Familiarity
She is walking quickly ahead of him, her bag full to spilling over; a quill perched precariously near the opening, bits of parchment hanging precariously over the sides. Her hair is swept up off her neck, long crimson ringlets swaying with her steps. He is mesmerized by the back-and-forth motion and is only distracted when Sirius elbows him to the gut. He looks down quickly, clears his throat, and turns to his best mate.
It's seventh year, just before the Christmas holidays, and just like any other day his chest aches with the sight of her, and his inability to tell her how he really feels. There are other days though, the types where he is angry, furious at her for denying him, them, for not seeing how good they could be together. And then, there are days, which had become more prominent than he'd like to admit, that he cannot find it within himself to care, not anymore.
He watches her lovely form turn and walk out of sight toward the library.
"Prongs!"
He looks around, startled, and finds Sirius staring at him, his striking features dulled by annoyance.
"Oh, erm, sorry, mate. I'm a bit out of it today."
"Right, because Evans' arse has the ability to make every bloke in a ten foot radius drool. Oh wait…no, mate, that's just you." Sirius' eyes flash, the humor he would have found at his best friend's expense long dead. The joke had lost its power over time, mainly due to the fact that James had never gotten past his obsession.
"Honestly, I don't even know what you see in her anymore. I mean, sure, sixth year she filled out nicely, and she can be charming when she wants to be, but I don't see what all the fuss is about."
James shrugged, refusing for the umpteenth time to explain to his brother just what exactly it was that drew him to the elusive redhead. He wasn't sure he could pinpoint it himself, other than the fact that it was so familiar; he couldn't remember not being infatuated with her.
