"I love you," she says, as we're lying in the grass outside the Burrow in the noisy night-heat of summer. She smells like grass clippings (Fred threw some in her hair earlier, rubbed the green into her skin). She reaches her hand across to me, tentatively twining her fingers with mine.
The stars are very bright tonight, no clouds. I block her from my senses as I count the sisters in the Pleiades. I can never seem to find the elusive seventh though. Sometimes I doubt she exists.
"I love you," she repeats anxiously.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. She sighs.