Beneath
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You watch her as she writes. Your eyes follow the graceful curves that her quill makes, her slender fingers, her thin wrist. She is innocent and perfect and beautiful and you know it. You have always known it, ever since that wondrous day on the train. But you never noticed that you knew, not until it was far too late.
That day will go down in history as The Day Ronald Weasley Died Just A Little. Because you did. And you could feel it, some little part of you – of your soul – withering away with every lost touch, every lost kiss, every lost love, and you die just a little bit more when you realize that she is innocent and perfect and beautiful and you know it.
You were too close, that's all.
If that's even a reason, although you think – no, you know – that it is.
You're really fast about some things.
She notices your eyes on her and looks up. You know she knows. Or maybe she doesn't. But perhaps she does. And that hurts more than a little, because she doesn't do anything about it. Your eyes lock with hers and everything disappears. Your damned knee injury – quidditch is a dangerous sport – doesn't even twinge. She is an antidote.
But sometimes she is a poison. Because she fills your very soul with closeness and fears and doubt. And that's something you can't just forgive, can you? Your head and heart is already filled with so much doubt – four successful older brothers does that to you – and who is she to make it all worse with her dark eye lashes and gentle tutting?
You look down. Your eyes start hurting. You blink.
She is still watching you and you know because you can feel it in your bones. Her eyes burn your skin and you wish she'd stop. But if she did, you know your heart would break just a little bit more.
Because everything is nothing but dying for you, Ronald Weasley. And she sees it. Or maybe she doesn't. But perhaps she does. That is all you can think about. Perhaps. That's not a word. It's a curse that hangs above you when you eat, when you sleep, when you laugh and when you are.
You love her but you hate her and you can't live without her.
Her hair is touching your hand on the table and it burns again. Everything is a burn and you don't pull your hand away because sometimes you enjoy pain.
Sometimes pain is all you have, isn't it?
You feel something hit your shin and look up. She is watching you with a most peculiar look on her innocent and perfect and beautiful face and you blush. You hate that you blush and you try to stop.
Her hands are upon yours. It hurts. You already knew that it would. But when you look at her you see that it doesn't hurt her. It makes her glow even more and it makes your heart burst and something is shining right in your face, isn't it?
Then her hands are gone and yours feel big and cold and clumsy. She has a way of doing that. Fixing your world and then taking it all away. And she knows it. Or maybe she doesn't. But perhaps she does.
And there it is again: perhaps. It's not even a word, it's a sound, and you don't like it one bit, not at all.
It's too late now and you are too close and nothing could tear it apart so why try to?
She picks up her beloved quill – the one your mother gave her on Christmas – and continues what will be an ace essay. Anything else would be beneath her.
Just like you are.
She knows it, or maybe she doesn't, but perhaps she does.
And you die just a little bit more.
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