The first time he met gazes with her - directly, with no disturbances - was tasteless, to say the least.
Ofcourse he'd already known who the girl was when he saw her during his second year. She had been following excitedly along the crowd, her feet padding against the marble steps of the great hall.
She was hazel-eyed, with light freckles over her rosy cheeks and wearing a robe that seemed far too long for her body, looking more than eager to have her name called so she could get on the stool and have her sorting be gone over with. The loud burst of "Gryffindor!", that followed afterwards was more than expected.
A Weasley.
Treacherous blood-wrenching traitors.
Yet, yet, he couldn't tell why he had an undeniable attraction towards this certain girl; with her ginger hair floating just above her shoulders, and her gaze accidentally meeting his when she moved to take a seat at her respective table.
He swore, right then and there, that a small stab of pain shot through his chest.
But he won't dwell on it – atleast, not yet.