It started when I was 15.
We were in the Room of Requirement, D.A. business as usual, and he'd partnered with me as we practiced Patronus charms. Naturally, he didn't need to practice. He'd had it down for years. But I was new to it. Since I'd happened upon a new kind of confidence at that point, I was able to produce a silvery wisp or two by the end of our first Patronus-based lesson. When Harry looked genuinely impressed and patted me on the shoulder, saying, "Brilliant, Nev," I experienced this warm and entirely unfamiliar feeling. I'd thought girls were pretty before, sure, but I'd never wanted to launch myself at them the way I did Harry at that moment. And pathetic as it is, the feeling never ended. It's plenty familiar now and increases whenever we cross paths—substantially more often now that he's gone from Auror to Defence professor at Hogwarts. Granted, I don't take many meals in the Great Hall, spending daylight hours in the greenhouses and evenings in my quarters with my lesson plans and Neil Gaiman novels. But when I do, he's always there, magnetic and appealing as ever, maybe even more so. The past decade has been kind to him. All that fieldwork as an Auror toned his muscles, and he doesn't seem so uncomfortable with that endearingly unruly mop of hair now. It's the thing that keeps him young, even as he's entered his mid-twenties. Like me. I'm there, too. And sometimes I think he's noticed.
It's the little things he does—a hand on my arm when he says hello, a kind word about how well his students seem to understand how herbological studies tie in to defending against the dark arts, even a laugh at a terribly unfunny joke I've come up with—that make me think, hey, maybe he's finally got it. Maybe all it would take would be me saying something for once in my life. And believe me, I think about it. I think about it every night when the other side of the bed stays cold and the only creature comfort I have comes from the cat at my feet. (Her name is Gilly.) I think about how badly he needs someone to tuck his hair behind his ears and kiss his brow when he gets frustrated with uninterested students and rub his shoulders when he plays Quidditch a bit too hard for someone his age. And I suppose that someone could be me. I just wish he'd suppose it, too.