Hermione Granger craves touch but can't stand it.
"Who am I?" The answers, like stale echoes, bounce back to me. I am human, tethered by the instinct for touch, yet afraid to cross the chasm of intimacy.
I am alone, chased by whispers in the air, "Who could love Hermione Granger? The world is not enough for her causes."
Once, I was brilliant at intimacy - at shagging - perfect in performance. Every show was well received. But inside me was emptiness; caresses left me sobbing.
How do you confess such a deficiency to your lover? You don't; you leave and let no man within reach.
It was Monday when he emerged, seated himself in a whirlwind of robes next to unapproachable Hermione Granger in the Ministry cafeteria, cracking jokes and leaving me breathless with laughter.
It became a routine. He'd find my table every lunch.
Five days later, he declared, "They, them," and pointed to himself.
"Who are you?" I thought, finding understanding slippery like soap, and decided, "Who you say you are."
The next day they asked me to dinner, and I shook my head no. They spoke of our rare connection.
"Why?" Their eyes were bright.
Ultimatums hung over me, unspoken, heavy. Frightened as a child, I blurted out my secret, "I don't want to be touched."
"Oh."
The shadow of our impossibility cast the room into darkness. Silence dragged. Panicked, sure they'd never make me laugh again, I invited them to my flat.
An unexpected, baffling "thank you" exploded from a broad smile, then, "You can trust me."
When they stepped across the threshold, I imagined roving hands finding me blubbing in the loo, and I pressed against the walls, but they never came too close. Instead, it was I who nestled into the safety of their warmth and fell asleep there.