A/N: I don't own Harry Potter

This is for the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

January Fortnightly -New Year, New Fics - Write a style you've written before (second person, journal fic, etc) - I did stream of consciousness

Writing Club January

Lyric Alley: 15- I want a perfect soul (Bonus)

Disney Challenge: Louis: Write about an impossible dream.

Trope of the Month: 3 - AU: Soulmates

Amber's Attic: 5 - Cerridwen: Write about someone showing proficiency at Potions.

Word Count: 657

He was talking again, his voice echoing in my ears. I heard this voice every night in my dreams, my most secret darkest desires. From his voice comes his hands, his long fingers, fingers I wish would trace over my skin.

I can see him holding stirring rod, a clear crystal rod, it clinks the side of the cauldron as he works. The air fills with color depending on the potion, colors that obscure his face from my view. I can still it though, in my heart, in my head, where he's forever living now.

One day, one day without him, with someone else teaching that subject and my mind loses its cohesion, and I fail. One day without his dark eyes staring at me, meeting mine, pretending he doesn't care about me, care about the thump of my heartbeat. Classes with him are too short, the clock keeps ticking and tocking, tick, tock, tick, tock, too soon it ends, put our things away and step out into a dreary corridor of stone and mortar.

Click, click shoes on the stone, click his rod against the cauldron, bringing a rush back to my mind, bringing me back to the fantasy I can't escape and the dreams I always remember upon waking. Soon, soon he will realize he is mine, soon, he will realize I am more than he knows, I am his soul, he is my soul and together we are magical.

Next class starts and I look at my notes instead of paying attention. Why should I? I know this already, I'm three steps ahead on every subject but his, his is a mystery to me, the book says one thing, but his beautiful scrawling handwriting says another, scritch, scritch, his long fingers holding the chalk, the words appearing on the board like magic, it is magic the way he stares through me, the way our hearts will beat as one eventually when I reach the correct age.

Age is stupid, it's a number, a bunch of times the planet has moved from one place to the other, round and round it goes, in a circle. What is age? Why should it matter, why should some arbitrary number stand in the way of me and my love? Why do people allow themselves to fall victim to these human created constructs of age, of time, of the morals of man?

Without them, without them I could be with him now, I could put my hands on his his, his fingers so much longer than mine. I could kiss the scowl from those thin lips, meet his black eyes with mine, strands of our hair intertwined as we fall together in the sheets.

No, no, I have to wait, have to be of age. And I wait, and wait, and wait knowing it is killing me, that all waiting does it make my heart ache, make me want him more and more, want to feel his skin against him, to feel him inside me, to feel him giving me his all as I give him mine.

Waiting, waiting, so many days, so many gone by already, lost days where I am not with him, and he is not mine. Lost days where we pretend we don't care, where he ignores me and I, in turn, pretend he is not the mate of my soul, the dark to my light, the all to my world, and we wait as the Earth makes another go around the flaming ball that gives us all life, soon, though, soon the days will have all been counted and I will have reached the magical age, the age that allows me to confess my feelings and finally we will be as one, one heart, one soul, merged forever and always, and I will be his, and he will be mine, and we will be eternity, and it will be beautiful him and me, always.