This Sunday morning has found me restless. The summer air carries an aberrant chill, giving the drizzling weather a strange purity. To attend church is out of the question; if my absence damns me to perdition, at least it will be warm there. I choose instead to wander the campus.

How dreary weather does intensify the world! When compared to this sky, even the grass holds its own splendor. Entranced by its overwhelming colour, my thoughts are immediately those of you, Potter, a young man in my physics class. Your eyes are that same fervent green even against brighter skies. I have only rarely heard you speak, when the professor has called upon you to answer a question. Your voice is clear, neither lingering nor commanding, sounding almost bored with the mundanity of whatever the professor has asked.

I do wonder how your voice would sound screaming my name in my bed.

It was rather wise of me to avoid church this morning, now that I think on it.

I continue walking mindlessly, reveling in how the world is presently quiet. Serene, almost. Dreamlike. I am entirely alone in the outdoors.

And then I hear voices.

I have come upon a group of young men playing an informal game of football. How idealised and timeless their bodies seem, kicking the ball about and fighting one another over it. I watch the game for a short time, until I notice another spectator far off to my left. As I walk closer, out of compelling curiousity, the figure's identity becomes apparent.

It is you, Potter.

You are stretched out on the grass, supported by your arms. Next to you is a book, tossed aside in favor of observing the game. A nostalgic sadness is suspended in your eyes.

You see me. Your eyes run frightened, lewd races over my body. And then they are back staring at the grass, in visual contact with their brethren.

I should speak to you. At least introduce myself and make polite conversation. Yet the moment, the apprehensive moment, lingers like a spectre and clasps my throat. Choking me even, until I am sweating on such a cool morning.

I wish Hermione were here. Were she here, she would cajole me into approaching you and speaking, call me ravishing until I would blush. She is convinced that you fancy me intensely; perhaps her intuition holds true. After all, she does have her love, Cho, to keep her company. We often joke of the sheer chance that we two sodomites would be such close friends with neither of us being prostitutes. Such would be the humour of God's mistakes, I suppose.

I realise now that the moment I speak to you will not be significant. It will be the moments that shall hopefully follow that will weigh heavier. And so I walk closer towards you, closer towards your orbit. You turn around to face me, still sitting on the grass, and I stand above you. Your hair and my hair, your clothes and my clothes, they are plastered to our skins from the rain. We must look like two small boys, lost and fumbling for our destinies. Our eyes meet, locking in a way that transcends all rain. And my mouth opens as though a rusty hinge newly oiled, and words trickle out.

"Good morning, there."