Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.

september, 1993

...

'greengrass. have you known her long?' she asks, head tilted to the side, strawberry strands of hair mimicking her movement. he takes moment to think about. to bring together what it all means to him. all the memories and little moments they have shared through the years.

'yeah,' it's shaky, more like a breath than a word. 'i've known her all my life.'

'all your life? how much is that, five, ten, fifteen years?'

'all my life. our parents were business partners and friends, we happened to be born just a few weeks apart from each other,' and he pauses, makes sure to take breath. 'they took me in, when my parents died. we grew up together.'

there's barely a period of his life without her in it. memories with no black hair in sight, with no background music or dancing figure in sight are rare to come by.

the girl besides him hums and looks down below, at the carefully arranged red bricks, and yet still completely mundane despite what went on inside the castle walls, that constitute the roads they walk on every day. there's a spark of amusement in her eyes, it's mischievous in nature and, no matter how briefly, it's not green he sees but an almost pitch-black blue. there's a question behind them, something she'll soon voice.

he has a vague idea of what she might ask next.

'and just how long have you been in love with her?'

and it's not something he's found an answer for yet.

he remembers that night clearly, from last year. he remembers waking up in the middle of the night, silencing charm barely holding anymore. remembers feeling it, settling in, coming and coming and not ending; all he wanted to do was to laugh. understanding, not understanding and not wanting to understand.

there had been panic before. many a times before. but not quite like that. there had never been panic nesting inside him as soon as he'd woken up; there before he's even realized what's eating at him, making it hard to breathe, to connect thoughts. to forget.

he closes his eyes and the same images he experienced in his dreams come back, playing themselves one after another, with a clarity as if he was still dreaming.

dark eyes peering at him from above, misty and clouded and everything in between, and something else too—something he doesn't dare acknowledge. someone's breath on his face, shaky, labored. a telling.

if he said it had only been a year, he'd probably get away with it. but he knows that it would be a lie, even if the girl might not be able to spot it. she'd be satisfied with an answer. whether he said a day or a decade.

'not the most idea,' he tells the truth instead. and he laughs as he says, 'probably for a long time, i'd say. spent a long time trying not to—'

he chokes, at the end.

'—realize. acknowledge them.'

'no. yes. that, too.'

'then?'

'feel. i've been spending a lot time trying not to feel. some part of me knew, i reckon. some part of me knew that if i—if i started feeling i wouldn't be able to stop, not anymore. not after that. after her,' he wants to choke, now, words coming out easily like never before. some part of himself wanted to say this out loud, probably scream it atop the astronomy tower. 'and then, when it was too late, that same part of me wanted me to not realize, so it buried all these feelings deep down. it buried and buried until there was not space left to bury them in.

'and last year—last year all of this starts to come out, like a dam finding itself without its walls, and starts trying to crush me down. and it's me, feeling and realizing and trying not to acknowledge these feelings all at once, telling myself it's all a lie, one horribly hot october night. and gods. i have been trying but trying is not enough. i cannot do this. i look at her—i look at her and all i can think about is how beautiful she is, how much i want to kiss her. hold her in my arms. listen to her voice talk and talk about until the world ends. and this makes it so much harder: she embraces me from behind and drags me by the hand, to whatever's caught her attention now. she's kissing my cheek, out of nowhere, and the feeling of her lips remain and i wonder what they taste like. parchment and ink only remind me of her and i cannot concentrate during class. and she smiles—her smile is like the sun, bright light but unburning, unblinding.'