DISCLAIMER: Eh. No.
A/N: Random little tidbit that came to mind. Hope you enjoy! As always, comments and criticism are welcome!
~Ari
1. His eyes. Always his eyes. The way the deepest yet most transparent emerald swirled a funnel strait to his soul.
2. his hair. The way that it stuck up everywhere, drastically disheveled, as though he'd just gotten out of bed, or had a habit of running his fingers through it. The way the thick black locks on the nape of his neck folded over the neckline of his over-sized cotton tee shirt, making her wonder which was softer.
3. His smile. The way his unusually bright red lips tilted up, tinting the rest of his face with childish joy. Yes, joy. Not happiness...that would have to wait. Btu there was always joy.
4. His voice. The lilting British accent of his voice made the simplest of words sound so special, so lovely, when rolled deliberately off his tongue.
5. His demeanor. He seemed downtrodden, like he'd been pushed down so often it hurt to get up, yet he did, strait and proud. And now he'd been handed hope in the form of a green-inked letter and a train ticket.
6. His hands. They clenched around the handle of the trolley, his chapped knuckles turning white. They were calloused from what she would only later learn was years of work for his Aunt and Uncle. By then, they would be even more firm and rough from his grip on a broom handle, By then, she would know how they felt wrapped around her own hands, how they felt tangled in her hair, how they felt pressed gently against her lips. For now, she just watched.
7. His jaw. It was sharp and square, and he set it firmly in determination.
8. His laugh. It was soft and tentative, gentle, and full of hope, full of possibility, full of maybe.
9. His bruises. One barely - intelligible brushed his cheekbone in a faint yellowish hue, another in the shape of fingers pressed mercilessly against his wrist. The one on his cheek she noticed first. He blinked, and his inky-black lashes painted a crescent against it. Then his wrist. He winced and touched it lightly as he pushed the trolley towards the barrier between platforms 9 and 10, the barrier between his old life and the one he would soon claim.
10. The last thing Ginny Weasley noticed about Harry Potter was his scar, His eyes met hers, they smiled shyly at each other, and the angry red cut peeked out from beneath his fringe. Ginny chose to ignore it just then, because for the moment, she wanted to hold on to the boy with the strange eyes and beautiful voice and bruises. Because she knew that if she acknowledged it, it would seep into her consciousness, and the hero he was supposed to be would drown out the lost boy who'd asked for help in King's Cross Station.