For round 3 of the QLFC, i'm keeper for the wasps and this round the prompt is to write about unrequited feelings feat. a line from the song 'Satisfied' from Hamilton.

The line from the song I used is "Peach fuzz, and he can't even grow it"

Full disclosure: I've never seen Hamilton and I have no interest in it, so please don't ask me about what songs/scenes/characters I like, I will have no real answer for you.

[1] Cho Chang's abysmal name is corrected to Qiū Zhāng here (as it is in the Chinese translations), because Joanne is terrible with names of color, as we all know, and I refuse to use the original name she gave her.

[2] Roger Davies is Qiū's first boyfriend.

content warning for referenced racism

The first time he sees her, she is flying.

He is an entire mess and a half the week leading up to his first match. A jittery flurry of nerves that makes him want to shake himself silly until it all pours out of him. Oliver tells him to walk the pitch to try and familiarize himself with the space beforehand, but the sight of the empty field and stands only makes the pit in his stomach worse.

And then he feels the wind shift.

It's a miracle he even sees her. She moves at such a speed that he thinks, at first, that he's looking at something inhuman. Rounding laps around the towers, chasing some invisible prey. Never stopping to rest. To breathe.

He doesn't realize he's staring until she returns to the ground and waves at him, making her approach.

It was difficult to make out her figure in the sky, but now that she's on the ground and stable, he sees she's petit. A sturdy little lady padded up in Quidditch gear with long black hair braided back out of her face. When she removes her goggles, he spots dabbles of freckles across the bridge of her nose and dark eyes under long eyelashes. He stares, it's obvious that he does, but she doesn't point this out.

She has a Scottish accent that lays on thickly, but he has little trouble understanding her. It's a melodic voice with a cheerful timbre that radiates friendliness. Her first words to him are an apology, because she didn't know someone had reserved the field. When he repeals this, he spills out the fact that he was lost in thought: admiring her practice from the ground. That her form was incredible.

Her sheepish laugh is silk. He could bottle up that laugh and listen to it forever.

"Thanks. It's going to be my first game in a few weeks. Against Hufflepuff. They're always nasty. " She shares, a shining smile on her face, as she takes off her gloves to hold out her hand to him, "Zhāng Qiū[1], Ravenclaw's reserve seeker."

He doesn't feel electricity when their skin connects, but he does feel flush. Thank goodness for his sienna skin, else it would be obvious, "I'm Harry." And he stops there because he doesn't want her to start treating him differently. Especially not her.

"Oh, Potter?" Oh, right. News of his drafting is everywhere. There's not many Harrys at Hogwarts, is there? "Happy to meet my competition so early." Nothing in her brilliant black eyes changes. No hero worship. No intimidation. Just a friendly warmth that envelopes him. "You want to fly some practice rounds? I'd like to see how that Nimbus of yours handles."

He jumps at the offer to fly with her. Any excuse to get on his broom.

If watching her was awesome, then flying alongside her is spectacular. The last thing he ever thought he'd be thinking is something as corny as his heart is racing alongside him, but it's the first thought that comes to mind. He can't help it. Qiū doesn't go easy on him or let him win (if anything, he's sure that she puts forth extra effort against him), and he loves it. His eyes struggle to follow her more than the practice snitch. The sunlight catches the snitch easily, but nothing catches Qiū.

It's an afternoon he replays in his head for weeks.

Harry can't help but pity all the viewers in the stands, because they'll never see her in flight up here. Even the other players, the other seekers, don't see what he does. It's a personal version of her that only he witnesses on the pitch. Something aggressive and honed. A bird of prey in flight (how fitting that she's an eagle, then.) It's so silly that people think her coy and demure. Passive and docile. Qiū isn't like that, in any capacity or sense of those words...Even if they don't share classes (even if they're not on a first name basis), he knows better. Because those assumptions are made of other students like Qiū. Wáng, Hua, Zhao, Yu. They're all somehow submissive and quiet. Domestic and cute. The same way the Patils, Bhattis, Gills, and Potters are all fiery. Passionate. Warriors. Romantic. It makes no sense the way they pull them this way and that without any logic. Without any reason.

When he stands next to Qiū, he doesn't feel that from her: that expectation that he be a certain way...He is only Harry. He is only the seeker for Gryffindor. Her direct rival in the match. And for that, he is thankful.

By the end of his first year, she holds his heart in her hands.

Of course she would catch it. How could she not? It probably fluttered right into her grasp, she didn't have to make chase.

Now he wonders if he'll ever hold hers.

He's a scrawny kid. That's not his fault. Hermione always tells him that. That the Dursleys need to feed him better. That he's not at the height he should be. Because of this, Qiū stands tall over him still, until his third year when he starts to grow more (when Mrs. Weasley's home cooking really starts to show in his mass). When he goes toe to toe with her small frame, he's visibly bigger than her. Just the slightest. Of course, he doesn't notice this until she comments on it and from then on, he's measuring every centimeter he gets up on her. Girls like taller boys, he hears that all the time. They like the tall, the dark, the handsome. Men.

Harry isn't a kid now. Not really. His voice and his face are sharper. If he squints in the mirror, he can spot the beginnings of facial hair (something Ron laughs and says he's delusional about—Peach fuzz, and he can't even grow it). When Qiū looks at him, does she see a boy she could like? Holds hands with? Go on dates to Hogsmeade with? Or does she only see that little, scared seeker on the pitch that she met only a few years ago?

These questions make comparing himself to Roger Davies[2] completely rational. It's not even intentional. Not at all. He finds himself doing it automatically when he spots the two of them kissing before a match. Making a note of all the things he and Roger have in common (dark hair, good at DADA, Quidditch player) and all the things they do not (white, bulky build, tall). It's completely unfair to him (his friends say so when they realize he's doing it), but he can't help it. Just like he can't help being young and scrappy. Looking like a stray cat in an alley. Would Qiū laugh if she knew how he felt? If she knew the amount of hours he put into looking at himself? Into looking at her?

The thought is unpleasant. But inescapable. It sinks into his head and lingers there, unwanted. It triggers physical reactions in him. Hurt. Discomfort. A spider in his ribcage. A tightening in his throat that makes him think he's going to cry. It burns. It's embarrassing, why does he feel so miserable? Like hiding himself away from the world and steeping in solitude? It's just a crush. A silly little schoolboy crush and it means nothing. Is nothing. And…

So what if it is? So what if he likes her? If being around her makes him feel good and she's the first girl (the first person) he's ever dreamt about kissing. Who wouldn't like her? She's wonderful. Beautiful. He lacks the flowery vocabulary to properly describe her, and he wishes he were more artistic. Poetic. That he could compare her hair to the night sky without it sounding absolutely cheesy and cringey. Or maybe an inkwell. A deep inkwell with pitch ink. Ink in a bottle could be anything: a drawing, a calculation, a letter...Qiū is like that. Filled to the brim with potential and ability. Mystery.

And…

Hermione said his assumptions of the Ravenclaw seeker is just that: assumptions. He's looking at her through rose colored glasses because he hardly knows her. Has only seen one side of her. But that's not true. Not at all. He knows her best of all. He sees her spirit out on the pitch and her fierce competitiveness that always manages to steal the breath from his lungs. The wisps of her hair that escape her braid in mid-flight, giving her a look of grace and elegance in the midst of her ferocity. The other seekers are blind to that, they…

He looks across the Great Hall, over the tables: Cedric, smiling beautifully, sits beside an equally beautiful Qiū. They're sharing a plate of food. Sharing stories. Sharing laughter. They do not notice his gaze.

No, Harry thinks, shoulders dropping, he sees it too.