and that's when I stopped believing in gravity
Strawberry is what I think of when someone mentions love.
Love can be perceived in many ways. I love my parents and my siblings and my whole crazy family. I love my friends and my professors. And I love her.
Daddy used to call me Strawberry. My sister, he nicknamed Pumpkin for how plump and cheerful she was. He gave me my nickname because of how sweet and refreshing I was.
And we used to pick strawberries from Mum's bushes at the bottom of the garden. With red-stained fingers we'd cram them into our mouths and I remember counting our hoards over and over and sharing everything equally.
When I first met Jenny, on the train, she told me how she loved strawberries. We shared a packet of strawberry bonbons and forged a strong friendship.
My favourite professor always had a box of strawberry cream chocolate on her desk, just for us.
And we were lying on our backs, her strawberry-scented hair draped across my face, when I had my first kiss.
Lucy Weasley was a ray of sunshine, blasting light and warmth wherever she went. She came from a disciplined home that had affected her rigid, cold sister Molly far more than it had affected her. You just couldn't tame her, like a tiger. She was free and shining for us all.
And I knew that she'd never look twice at me. I faded into the background. No one really cared about Violet Finnegan, that little dark-haired Hufflepuff who hung around Jenny Longbottom. And I was a girl, miles down the list compared to any of the boys who hung around her like bees around a honey pot.
But, for some inexplicable reason, she did look at me. She asked me to help her with Charms work. She befriended me. She stood up boys and refused offers of dates to spend time with me.
Our favourite haunt is by the Dragon Claw Willow, down at the lake. Leaning against its trunk, we talk about anything and everything under the sun until the sun goes down and stars awake. We play endless games of noughts and crosses and hangman on spare pieces of parchment and, in winter, toast marshmallows over one of her blue jam-jar fires.
And I know things about her that I'd never tell of. The ticklish spot in the small of her back, the one that barely needs a ghost of a touch before she's writhing and screaming with laughter. The way she rearranges her plates so every food has its own section, none of the groups touching, and how she eats each group so that she has a green layer of cabbage followed by a red layer of tomatoes in her stomach. The way she licks her lips and blinks rapidly when she's nervous and brushes aside her hair every few seconds. I know that, ever the artist, she draws pictures on the roof of her mouth with her tongue when she gets bored in classes. And I even know that she steps on cracks in pavements and wishes for happiness and sunshine and a new paint set.
And I love so many things about her. I love the freckles, resembling drops of pale chocolate, that are scattered across her face and up and down her arms and legs. I love her beautiful spring-green eyes that show every tiny fluctuation in her emotions. I love the sweet curve of her mouth when she smiles and the way her lower lip sticks out slightly when she sips her favourite drinks through a straw. I love the way she shines through every obstacle and how her smile can make my day that much brighter. I love how she creates beauty with colours and a canvas and a dream. Once upon a time, I thought I knew all there was to know, but I was very wrong.
We lie under the beaming sun on a beautiful summer's day, side by side, her fingers brushing mine and sending electric charges through my body. The grass moves slightly in the pleasantly cool breeze, tickling the backs of my hands and my bare legs. Our robes are hanging on a bush somewhere, forgotten. Life's too short to worry about such trivialities.
She leans up on one elbow to speak to me and I try to concentrate on her words and not the curve of her breast under her shirt or the feel of her blonde hair sliding across my nose and filling me up with the intoxicating scent of her strawberry shampoo.
"Don't you think it's beautiful?" she asks, excited. "I wish I could capture it on canvas, but I wouldn't know how to truly transfer such beauty to paper. It's something that can't be captured and imprisoned on canvas. It's just free as a bird."
"You could capture it, if you tried," I whisper. "Exceptionally talented people can make art from anything."
"I'm not exceptionally talented," she says bashfully. "I just paint every now and again. It's a hobby."
"One you're very good at," I insist. "You can paint beautifully, you're a true artist. Please believe me."
"Thank you, but I don't believe you," she murmurs, rolling onto her back and watching wispy clouds drift lazily across the blue. "Don't you think that one looks like an arrow?" She points, shading her eyes from the sun, and I wonder if it's physically possible to love someone so much. How is it that she can do no wrong and she's completely perfect? If this isn't love, I don't know what is.
She moves closer to me, her hair draped across my face. Blue eyes meet mine and I wonder vaguely if she can see my thoughts. But nothing matters when she's this close to me and sliding her delicate little fingers into mine and our bare feet are brushing against each other and every cliché is suddenly true. Electric charges, butterflies, weak knees, fireworks, name it and I have it. I can hear her breath in my ears and smell, above her shampoo, her breath mints and the subtle hints of jasmine in her perfume.
She snuggles right up against me, her breath on the sensitive skin of my neck and her eyelashes fluttering against my cheek. It's such a wonderful sensation I want to roll her over, pin her down and kiss her until we both run out of breath, but I don't, because I'm little Shrinking Violet and that's not the way I do things. I roll onto my side and she nestles into my back, sliding her leg through mind and linking our hands. We're touching in every way, two spoons side-by-side in the cutlery drawer and I can barely believe that this might just be my dream coming true.
"I think it might be Cupid's arrow," she murmurs, her breath on my skin making me shiver and nearly lose control, right in front of everyone. "And it's headed straight for my heart."
"W-what are you saying?" I ask, cursing myself for the silly stammer, but I can't help it. She's so close and we're touching in so many different places and I don't think I can cope with it. I know that soon the sadness will come and she will leave. My dream is never going to come true because she's straight and I'm gay and I'm madly in love with a girl who would probably be disgusted if she ever found out.
"I'm saying that Cupid's wound is the sweetest pain I've ever felt," she whispers, her lips almost unbearably close to my neck now. Every inch of my body is coming up in goosebumps and I'm breaking out in a sweat. I can't take her raising my hopes like that just to dash them later.
"P-please just tell me!" I say in a voice near to a scream. People look over but, thankfully, no eyes linger.
"Cupid shot me, right in the heart," Lucy murmurs. "And the colour of the blood running from the wound is violet. He's telling me exactly what to do. Wee Cupid says that I love you." She sits up and I am pulled up along with her, turning my head to look at her face, her softened expression and the apparent glow coming from within. She holds my gaze for a moment, her eyes betraying nothing. "And I agree with him."
Time slows down entirely. I take in the vibrant butterfly that hovers above us, the sweetness of birdsong, the shrieks and splashes from the lake, the Giant Squid waving her tentacles in the air and occasionally lifting a squealing teen into the air. And then I look at Lucy. She looks at me. She comes closer. I almost back away. I don't think I'm ready for this.
But then we touch and I realise the one thing I never knew about Lucy: the way her lips feel on mine.
And how I thought I loved her before? That was nothing compared to the torrent of emotion that cascades through me when her lips meld with mine.
And I never knew how gentle her hands would be and how much love a single touch could hold as she introduced me to the language of love.
And that's when I stop believing in gravity.
Because if Lucy is here, and the touch of her hands and the feel of her lips make me feel like I could fly without anything to keep me grounded, how could such a force as gravity exist?
It made no sense, but then, neither did love. What most certainly didn't make sense was why Lucy Weasley, ray of sunshine, flitting from one boy to the next, was kissing me.
But my brain was incapable of logical or even coherent thought with her being so close. Sitting on the grass, with my hands running through her gold curls and her softly caressing the bare skin of my back where my shirt's rising with every breath, I doubt I've ever been happier.
We part only when I become dizzy from lack of oxygen as well as her proximity and I have to pull away, gasping for air. She smiles at me and keeps us touching, her fingers dancing over my skin, igniting trails of flames in their wake. She leans forward and brushes her lips lightly against my skin, at the point where my neck become my shoulders. Fire shoots from that point to my very core and I groan involuntarily. She looks up at me, her innocent eyes belying the wicked things she can do with her hands and lips.
"Like that?" she asks, her tone sweet as to make the innuendo sound far dirtier. In answer, a gasp escapes my lips, a gasp that becomes a groan as she kisses me there again.
"How do you know these things?" I manage to ask as her fingers climb higher, under the white cotton of my shirt and she trails kisses up and down my neck.
"Fantasising and extensive reading of trashy adult literature," she murmurs, creating a buzz against my skin that causes me to arch my back and groan.
"Why me?" I ask. "Why choose me to act out your fantasies?" Her lips leave my skin for a moment as she ponders this.
"You're all I've dreamt about for three years," she answers. "Every word of a trashy sex scene, I imagined you and I acting it out. I think we're doing well so far." She smiled wickedly and my breath seizes in my throat as her lips touch the skin above the last button of my shirt.
"Aren't we a little young for all that?" I ask, immediately kicking myself for it. Lucy moves away and a sob escapes me as her fingers and lips leave my skin.
"We're legally adults," she ponders. "We're old enough to make our own decisions. If you decide to go ahead with this, then no one can stop us."
"I want verbal incentive to go ahead with it all," I say adamantly. She looks shocked and moves even further away, taking her smell and warmth and sunshine with her. Damn, damn, damn! What sort of idiot am I for letting her slip through my fingers?
"I love you," she whispers suddenly. "I've loved you for three years and I promise to love you far into the future." Tears spring to my eyes as she smiles at me. Her eyes caress my face, lingering on every eyelash, so tender I can't contain the tears that spill, hot, wet and salty, down my cheek. She places a kiss to my cheek, her tongue darting out to take the tear away.
"I love you, too," I murmur, cupping her face with my hands. "I love everything about you."
"Then, it's settled," she says. "The decision is made for us to be together." She takes my hand and we get to our feet. We walk through the ground until shrieks and shouts from those swimming in the lake fade and our creeper comes into view. We climb up, helping each other like we always have. We creep along the stone passageway until we find ourselves facing a blank wall.
"Visualise exactly how you want the room to be," I tell her and walk back and forth three times. A door appears and she wrenches it open.
We find ourselves in a lovers' paradise. The sun shines in through a huge window and a breeze plays through the room, ruffling neat bed covers and our hair. The bed is huge, taking up half the room, and there's also sofas and armchairs covered in cushions and a pool. Lucy's wicked grin as she looks around makes me blush.
"Here we go," she murmurs, taking my hand and pulling me to the bed.
Clothes are scattered across the floor, crumpled, forgotten. Her eyes go straight to the long scar under my left breast. She doesn't need to speak for me to know the question she's asking.
"I was learning to ride a bike when I hit a wall," I explain. "I landed on broken glass. It wasn't pretty." She looks at me for a long moment. Our lips meet and our clothes remain forgotten.
I awake to find her standing at the window, a knitted blue blanket wrapped around her hips. I'm curled up in the armchair where we sat, entwined, last night. Her hair is still wet from our session in the pool. She turns to me and her eyes and cheeks are wet.
"You can forget any of that happened," she says quickly. "We were intoxicated by summer and closeness and not thinking straight."
"Why would I want to forget?" I ask. "That was the most amazing night of my life." I stand up and walk quickly to her, not caring in the slightest that I have no cover. "I love you." An incredulous smile spreads across her face.
"You really meant it when you said it yesterday?" she asks. "Oh, I love you, Violet." Our lips meet and her blanket falls silently to the floor. I kick it aside and increase the heat of the kiss. There are no forces to hold us down. We're flying and Lucy is the sun, shining bright for me.
Gravity doesn't exist. I'm sure of it.
This one-shot is brought to you by Elton John's Your Song, which I had on repeat the entire time I wrote this. My second-ever femslash and it's nextgen ;)
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