The first time he kisses you, you are sitting on your own. This is unusual; you spend your life in a whirlwind of laughter, life, vitality, but that day you had to Cruciate Ginny Weasley.
The fire stares back at you, and for a second you wonder what would happen if you put your hand into the centre of its waving flames, whether it would hurt as much as the look on Ginny's face.
(or the realisation that you can cause someone that much pain)
He knows exactly where you are, even though it is past midnight and everyone has gone to bed.
He sits beside you on the couch and, in a movement that makes you jump, slides his arm around your waist and pulls you onto his lap.
Your head fits perfectly under his chin, and he rests it on your brown curls, sighs quietly. It's not your fault, he tells you.
It is, you protest. It is. I could have said no, I could have-
You stop, horrified to find tears choking your throat and squeezing out of the corners of your eyes. You look at him for a second, and his face is sad and understanding in a way that almost makes you want to slap him. You don't.
His finger, long and brown and gentle, wipes a tear fron your cheek, and then he gently presses his lips to yours. There are no fireworks, no great rush of desire
(that would come later)
Only a feeling of rightness. You curl your fingers in his blond hair and he pulls you closer
(ah, there was the desire)
And you sigh, rest your forehead on his and smile into his blue eyes, and it's a picture perfect moment
(except for the flames the colour of Ginny Weasley's hair, and the residue of screams that echo in the silence)