Harry Potter Realise

**Realise**

by mio(netwin)

It's when she's sitting by the window. She's scribbling down some notes so many that you think she's even taking down Flitwick's tics or his continuous sneezing. Maybe even Seamus shamelessly flirting with Lavender, Neville thoroughly sleeping or Harry intensively writing a letter to Lupin. Her hand flows in a confident manner over the parchment as the window panes throw squares of light over her body. Her sleeves are tucked up hastily and her black jumper is peeking from her bag, half jammed inside. Her hair is help up with various clips but three undefeated golden strands reflecting the sun are enough to fall over both her eyes and her feelings. She lifts her right hand to her nimble red cheek, skims it softly and lays her hand once again on the top of the parchment to straighten it. Her quill is grey and worn, the undecided streaking of the plume endearing and you know it's still the one you gave her, sometime in the middle of fourth year.

But it's when she whisks her head up and leans on the dim glass to scrutinize the class that you stare in even more awe. Her eyes roam around, eternally watching, patiently checking. Suddenly and unexpectedly her chocolate, piercing glance settles in your figure and you just can't look away.

It is the morning sun behind her that forms a halo around her hair but you can almost swear it has always been there. She looks ethereal. She is ethereal. Hurry burns her cheeks and intelligence glints deep in her eye. She has a smudge of ink on the side of her nose that matches her dainty figure just right. She bits her lip. Her lips are strawberry-like-red and probably taste like strawberry.

She smiles.

You can't do nothing but grin back. Without ever looking away, you realise.

It's when she's eating. Everyone is silent because your share of the Gryffindor table has gotten quieter since the Department. She's right in front of you and you know that her right foot is resting on the crook of her left ankle. You recognize the way she holds her goblet and the way she drums her glazy, short nails rhythmically on its silvery side three times. Her foot slips and you feel it, landing and immediately abandoning your shin with a swoon tingle and a murmured excuse. You smirk and recline nonchalantly before realising you're not in chair. You don't have a back to recline on. Fortunately, you notice it and stand up right again. Unfortunately, not fast enough to be able to ignore her sweet chuckling. Not long after that, silence subsides between you three and stillness takes care of the air. After tossing the food to every possible corner of his plate, Harry sighs and coughs as he does every time he is about to leave the table. You know what he'll do next: he'll will breathe in soundlessly and open his mouth once, twice. He'll mumble something vague no one in the wizarding world could ever comprehend and then he'll go. You know he'll put on his invisibility cloak and wander around in Hogsmeade, giving people an excuse to make up more stories about the Shrieking Shaak.

You close your eyes. No. Not today.

Harry lifts his numb body and his movement reminds you of a ghost, a very pained and old ghost. You push the thought away and firmly tug at his arm, turning him to face you. Realising you have no idea what the plan to make him stay is, you just give it a try. You grin faintly, shrug your shoulders the best way you can and pull him more softly this time to sit again. As he finally does, you heave out a sigh and you note her gazing at you. Your look shifts swiftly to your plate. Uncomfortable, you twist your head from side to side. You force a forkful of bangers and mash (your favourite!) down your throat. Apparently there's something wrong with your epiglottis, your pharynx maybe. It doesn't seem to functioning very well. The food isn't reaching the stomach, its proper place. Forgetting the healerish aspects, you gather all your courage and move your eyes up. She tilts her head intently and you bluntly ask "what?" Her eyes glitter for an instance before she glibly says "nothing" and smiles absolutely adorably.

Absent to this extraordinary moment, Harry blurts out, speaking about school and Dumbledore, Lupin and Hagrid. She smiles and you smile, joining in easily the conversation and laughing just as naturally. She runs her perfect hand through her perfect hair and she smirks perfectly.

You feel it. And you realise it.

It's when she's out on the pitch and you are too. Actually so is the whole Gryffindor Quidditch team. No one can call it a practice because nobody is really practicing. Harry is feeling a little generous today and has decided not to make anyone suffer, allowing everyone to experience a more funny practise – the first in your best mate captain's mandate. You wonder if it is because of your talk at lunch and your heart swells with pride when you realise it might just be. Smiling goofily, your gaze falls to the rows below your floating figure. She's on the seventh seat, counting from the left, in the third row. Before, most of the times she had watched your practices, she had brought her bag, filled to the top with books. You had asked her why she did that and she had answered you she couldn't afford to waste time with anything. You didn't speak to her for a week. Since that day on, she came only with her Omniculars and nothing else on her hands and you felt grateful for her respect.

As Harry is so noble today, Ginny offered to teach Hermione how to ride a broom. You see her quietly refusing your sister suggestion and thanking her with a small smile. You know she did it because she's already made a commitment with another summer teacher. She promised she'd let you teach her Quidditch at the end of the year, when she'd went to the Burrow in August. You only hope Ginny won't be _too_ offended by that.

You watch her carefully. The wind rushes freely through her tawny ringlets, forcing her to squint her chocolate eyes as she observes you up in the air. She sweeps away the ringlets that end up on her face, while a smile slowly curves her lips in the moment she notices you looking at her. You know she will always be there, rain or sunshine, snow or wind, crimson and golden, shouting your name with all the power and oxygen in her lungs. That enlarges your grin, but something crosses your eyes. You understand that because you were so deeply looking at her you now can hardly distinguish Harry as he flies in the middle of the poles you so heartily _should_ be protecting and as he brushes his robes through your face after the snitch. You try to compose yourself again and to concentrate. You hear Ginny laughing at Kirke as he tries to operate with the _Bludger Backbeat_. He fails and twirls around on his broom, nearly falling to the ground. But the Bludger he hit keeps coming forward in a straight line, in your direction. You're also supposed to defend that Quaffle Sloper is going to send in your away.

You think about how this was supposed to be a fun practice. In jest. Gryffindor are not going to have a game for six or eight weeks, in fact! Somehow, you're not so sure about the veracity of the lightness of this practice, not when you see the Bludger and the Quaffle coming in your direction, with a certain velocity.

Then, everything goes black in a swirl of mud, towers of every colours and yelling and she disappears. You still don't look away.

Your body feels heavy and unconsciously numb. Every limb and nail weighs a ton alone. It seems like you're quickly sinking into the bed you're in.

Bed. You're in a bed, you're not in the Quidditch Pitch. So something must have happened. But you don't remember what that something is. You remember doing homework in the Common Room. You remember the way Hermione swatted you lightly in the arm when she discovered you peeking over her shoulder at her long parchment and you remember getting this strangest notion, though, that she took more time to notice you behind her that then she normally does… You remember the smiles that shone on the faces of every member of the Quidditch team when they heard that Harry wasn't making them wallow in the mud. You remember the sigh you released and the hug Ginny gave Harry. Then the last thing you remember is her face far away slowly sliding into the darkness.

You want to know what happened. You must open your eyes. She's on the other side, you know it. She's just a step, a hand, an eye away. There's a black curtain, heavy and thick. You try to move, to wave your arms in distress. You try once, twice, three times with no success. A new effort, a different tactic.

You strive with success and finally cross the dark blanket. You quickly understand that what kept you from waking up were your own eye lids. You feel quite dumb so you hurry yourself to look around. You assume you're in the Hospital Wing, but you're not sure because it's rather dark. Suddenly, you hear a gasp followed by a silent sob. You glance at the end of your bed and she's there, crying over her crossed arms. You ask softly "what's the matter?", tilting your head to the side. She looks up. Her hair is a mess, resembling a birds' nest. You realise she had her hair in a pony tail but now the rubber band is hanging loosely at the end of one of her locks. Her eyes are bright in the dark of the room, surrounded by puffy, swollen skin. She still has that spot of black ink on the right side of her nose. After breathing in deeply, she whispers to you with a husky voice "now everything's alright".

And you believe it, as you realise it.

It's when she's sitting in the common room. She's in her usual place as always, legs evidently curled beneath her body, locks of golden hair falling between her eyes. Her nightgown is light blue like the sky fading into the lake, melting in the last possible lost glance and like the sun teeming on the horizon, stubbornly remaining above the water. Crookshanks is lavishly resting on her lap. Her hand caresses his brown fur as rhythmically as the clock ticks. The cat's dark eyes roam around the room, scrutinizing it exactly the same way you've seen her do. You've actually grown to like the cat a little bit more and that seems to have made her grown to like you a little bit more.

Harry's audible huff means he has already noticed you're a move away from checkmating. You do with your remaining capable arm. Not because the other hurts but because you want to subtly show your best friend you can still beat him without one of your main limbs functioning properly. Harry steps back from your grandfather chessboard as you murmur a quick _Reparo_ and the shattered pieces heap back together. Harry's queen recovers her rich, engraved head while all the pawns but one lucky bastard join theirs limbs, aligning quickly and two knights regain theirs swords and three horses their hooves. Harry says "'night", patting revengefully on the big bruise he knows you have on the left top of your arm near your shoulder and you grimace without a sound. You see her sympathetic smile across the rug before Harry leans and gives her a light kiss on the cheek. You just wish you had the courage to do the same thing every single night. You hear Harry climbing the staircase and whistling, habit of the day. When you stare at her, she looks back at you.

Her eyes are swirl of golden book inscriptions and maroon library dust, mingling emotion and certain logic, awaited knowledge and needed courage. The titles that take the sleep away from her system softly trim her iris, whirling around her black pupil as the light that crosses the window by the oldest shelf creates a glittery surface on her eyes. Those chocolate eyes, they feel and glint and share along with her heart. They see you in a way no one else is capable of. They don't need to search to see the deepest in your soul. They just look and see it, everything you are and don't like, everything you aren't and like, your faults, your worries, your loves… It doesn't feel wrong, sensing her knowing you like that. It seems like it's what is supposed to be, like it's been carved in stone since the sun rose for the first time and bloodily thrust the open sky. Because she looks plain to you as you look at her. She's out there for you to see. She's waiting for you to see and understand. It's difficult and it can take ages and she probably doesn't want to wait that much. Especially for you, you're poor and uncultured. You can not take part in her deep discussions. Anyone can ask you to explain the reason why the Chudley Cannons lost 60 to 220 to the Tutshill Tornados, in the desperate 11th of December of 1988 but no one can ask you to speak about the reasons of the fleeing of the dwarfs off the currently Italian territory in the fourteenth century! So different, you and her, you wonder how does she ever manage to have enough curiosity to question whether you had a good night sleep or not.

You sigh. You don't know if you should do it or not. Kiss her good night or stutter the usual "er… I guess-- hum… I'll-- see you tomorrow.". You don't know what to do with the numb look she sends you every night before you go up to the dormitory. Those eyes, just waiting for you to understand.

Tonight, she looks and you look and you find something else. That something else that's missing for so long makes you realise it.

But then again it might just be too late.


End file.
