Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, I own nothing.
Author's Notes: Once again, thanks for your reviews. I really appreciate it. So please continue with it as it helps me. If you have any suggestions, feel free to post it. :-)
Chapter 2
The situation goes like this: you open the door, and then you close it. When you close it, it's a different world altogether. It's suddenly intimate. Especially when it's just the two of you. Just the two of you. Like tonight. You're alone because Ron's not home. And you know this because there's no dishes left to clean. So you're once again in a state of utter bewilderment and confusion.
You like it but you don't.
It's a catch-22. You're alone with her and you like it because it's just you and her, a boy and a girl, alone, but you don't like it because it's just you and her, alone, and you're most likely going to screw up.
There are a million things that can happen and you're sure that you're going to end up doing the one thing you'll regret the most.
So you're confused. And what do you do when you're confused? Head for the toilet. Detoxify yourself. And make a show of it so that she'll steer clear from the bathroom while you collect your thoughts.
And now you're in the toilet. And you're just sitting there. The beer and the pasta and the brownie and the ice cream and the calamari and the Pepsi all flushed down. But you're still there. Like a nervous schoolboy before an exam, like a nervous young man before a first date, like a nervous virgin before the first night.
And you tell yourself you're pathetic. Because you are. You really are disgrace to the male population.
And all you can do is shake your head. Because you've saved the world and you've conquered it with your mesmerizing green eyes. But you can't face the one girl who knows you inside out.
So you just sit there. And shake your head. And you tell yourself you're probably succumbing to dementia.
But you know you're not. You know you're in love. And love can sometimes be mistaken for dementia. And your train of thought leads to her again. And when you first loved her. That way. 15 odd years in the making, 10 years in brewing, 4 years in realizing, a year in going ape-shit.
Not the best word to use, but ape-shit.
When you've hit that realization a year ago, your world just took a complete 360-degree turn.
Suddenly, you're no longer with Ginny. Or Alicia. Or Parvati. Or Lavander. Or Katie. Or the whole Gryffindor entourage.
Suddenly, you're no longer getting laid every other night. Or every night. Or twice a day.
Suddenly, you're all too aware of her. And her glowing peach skin. And her long fingers. And her habit of closing the door softly.
Suddenly, you're no longer just sharing a flat with them. Suddenly you're very conscious of the whole situation.
It's you. And her. And Ron. In one flat. It's you. And the one you love. And her ex. In one flat. And you ponder on the absurdity of the whole situation. But you're best friends and that makes sense.
But you know it's dysfunctional. And you tell yourself it has to be. You're Harry Potter anyway.
So from there you go ape-shit. You love her and there's only one wall dividing you. And so you go crazy. Because you love her but you can't tell her and she's in that room next to yours and you can easily touch her and hold her in your arms but you can't easily kiss her because it just doesn't happen.
And you can sit there forever and ponder and think and wonder and sink on this plethora of thoughts, but she knocks on the door, and she calls out from the other side,
"Harry, hurry up, the movie's starting!"
And you answer,
"Two minutes, pause it first,"
And she complies, but you can hear her give a little `huff' and you find yourself smiling and delaying your every move.
You tell yourself that not wanting to watch "Love, Actually" is a sign that you're still well attached to your masculinity. You may be a coward, but you're still a man.
You give a sigh of relief as you open the door.
And then you come undone. Again.
Because she's there, in the leather sofa, with her hair tied in a bun, showing the creamy stretch of skin from her nape to her shoulders to the upper half of her back. You're ten feet away but you can be an inch away; it doesn't matter, because the way your breath hitches is the same no matter what. And then she turns her head to you, and she gives you a smile, the one that crinkles the sides of her eyes, and you can't help but gape and smile back.
She presses play on the remote, and you slowly make your way. You wonder where you should sit. Too far away and she'll notice. Too close and she'll notice. But she decides for you. She pats on the space beside her and you plop down. There is an inch between the two of you.
"Did you wash your hands?" she asks, teasingly.
You pretend to think and she erupts into a fit of giggles. She giggles. And you feel your cheeks turn red. She doesn't giggle, or maybe she does, or maybe it just your overactive imagination, but she giggles. And you giggle too. And you're horrified, but you don't show it. You're a man, Potter, you're a man.
And then the show begins. She's talking the whole time. Like she usually does. And you feel queasy when you see just how mushy the whole thing is. But you don't show it. It's her guilty pleasure and she loves it. You wonder what those cold fish academics will say when they see their golden girl getting mushy with chick-flicks. You restrain a laugh.
The show progresses and suddenly you find yourself in it. Suddenly you're the best friend. The friend who falls in love with his best friend's new wife and makes stupid flashcards declaring his love for her. And you once again you start to feel queasy. Because that's your story, and it's ending is not one that's going to make you happy. The admission came to late. She's married. And you can just see it in your future. You'll tell her you love her. But she's taken.
And you feel bad. But suddenly she leans towards you and wraps her arms around you. She rests her head on your shoulder and all you can smell is her faint cinnamon aroma. Everything around you melts away. So you put your arms around her and you hold her tight.
"Makes you want to fall in love, doesn't it?" she asks, softly.
You feel your throat tighten. You just respond with a nod.
"Oh well, at least we've got each other, we can wallow over our loneliness together," she says with a laugh. But you detect a hint of bitterness there. Or maybe it's just you and your bitterness.
"Don't worry, I promise that I won't ever look at another woman as long as you're single," you finally reply. You make it sound like a joke, but you're not sure if you succeeded. But it looks like you did because she gives a smirk, and says accusingly,
"Hah, I have to see that!"
And you both laugh. And you both turn quiet. And you both turn back to the telly. But you're thinking. You're preoccupied. You wonder why she doesn't date. It's puzzling you. She's got her pick. And yet she decides to stay home.
You tell yourself that she's probably too busy. You tell yourself that she's probably just wary. With the current surge of attention, you have to be discerning. Maybe that's why. Or maybe not.
And maybe she's wondering the exact same thing about you.
But she doesn't say anything. Instead, all she says is,
"Promise me you'll take care of me when I'm old and all alone,"
Your heart just breaks. Because while it's never going to happen to her, you're sure as hell that it's going to happen to you.
And you don't want that. But you don't want to lose her either.
You reach for the remote, and you press pause. She slaps you lightly on your thigh and it slightly quivers.
"Why'd you do that?" she asks with mock anger.
"Because little girl, this movie turns you into a sourpuss. And believe me, that's not good," you manage to say, complete with a responsible adult tone and a teasing smile.
"Whatever!" she retorts as she grabs the remote back from you and presses play.
She settles back in the sofa, but this time you're not holding her. You're back to your original positions. And you suddenly feel cold. But once again you don't say anything.
So you resume watching. Watching the movie, watching her, discreetly, at the corner of your hands. She's staring at her toes. You stare at it too. She frowns a little. Suddenly, she gets up, and she mutters something about `getting nail polish'. And so you're alone, watching "Love Actually", pitying yourself. You suddenly wish that Ron goes home soon to relieve you from your pathetic inclinations. But at the same time you wish Ron spends the night at Luna's. Where he most probably is.
Finally, she's back. She's holding a bottle of nail polish in her hand. It's the same color as the chipped ones in her toes. She plops herself down on the sofa again, but this time she has her feet on the table. You make a look of mock disgust. She punches you slightly on the shoulder.
"You are well aware that Ron's going to kill you if you spill that on his beloved table, aren't you?" you ask her with an accusatory tone. She gives a little smirk and feigns an innocent look.
"Oh well, a little whip of the wand and it's gone. Or maybe I wouldn't do that. I terribly dislike this table," she mutters the last part guiltily.
She's not exactly wrong there. The table is hideous. Plain hideous. But then it's Ron's, and you both love him, so you all live with it. Not that you don't catch her trying to transfigure it once in awhile when you have visitors.
You start to watch again. But when two of the stars in the movie get into their `simulated act', you both burst out laughing. Unfortunately, you both find out that it's not a good idea to paint your nails while you watch two stars getting it on. The color smears all over her toes.
You give out a "tsk" and she rolls her eyes. She mutters a spell and her toes are clean again.
"Like you can do better than that!" she says in such a tone that you feel like you have to prove something. So you reply,
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do!"
She raises an eyebrow and you know that she's putting up a challenge. And you know that if you back out she'll never live it down. So you indulge her. You take up the challenge. You grab the bottle and you dip the brush. She turns to you and puts her feet on your lap. It's only then that you realize how dangerous the situation is. She's looking at you with a challenging expression. You look at her with intent. Deep inside, you're trying to muster all your self-control. But you find it terribly, terribly hard.
So you take a deep breath. And then you lean down. Your hand shakes but you're going to do it. You're going to do it for the sake of indulging her and you're going to do it because you find it just so sexy and dangerous and utterly seductive. And you won't deny yourself that. Though you feel guilty, you tell yourself that while it's just a challenge to her, it's harmless flirting on your part. And so you get on with it.
You brush the first stroke.
And then the second.
And you find that your positions are very uncomfortable.
So you push her back, a little harder than you expected, and you grab her ankles. You place one foot on your lap, and the other, the other you put in between your two legs. You realize just how provocative the situation is. But you don't stop. You don't stop because she doesn't put up any resistance.
So you brush another stroke.
You briefly glance at her and you notice that her eyes are darker than usual.
You smear some on the side of her toe. She chuckles, and says,
"Hah."
But you won't give her the satisfaction. You give a little smirk and you wipe it off with your pinky. You let your finger linger there a little longer.
You glance up at her and she narrows her eyes. But you can see her trying to restrain a smile. So you continue.
"How am I doing?" you finally ask. Your voice is huskier than usual. You're thinking that it's probably not a good idea to have her feet between your legs. So you move it a little.
"Good, but not perfect," she replies. You notice that her voice seems deeper than usual too. But then it's probably just your imagination.
"Oh really?" you manage to say. And she replies,
"Yes, really. You smear it quite a lot you know."
You look up at her. And you both stare at each other. After what seems like eternity, you finally say,
"I guess we'll have to do something about it then."
But before you can do what you want to do, the door opens, and someone screams from behind,
"Oy! What the hell are you guys doing?"
You both jump. You both turn to the door. Ron. With a bag of groceries in one hand, an envelope in another, and an expression of amusement on his face.
Suddenly, you're aware of your surroundings. Suddenly, you're back to reality. Suddenly, you're chiding yourself. You tell yourself that you've gone too far.
The whole time you avoid looking at her.
Ron looks at the both of you, one after another. Suddenly, however, an expression of disbelief creeps into his face.
"Oh bloody hell! You're paintings each other's toes on my table???" He asks, incredulously.
Finally, you turn to her and you look at each other sheepishly. And when you see that she's smiling and she's beaming at you like you're still her bestest friend in the world, you realize that maybe not all is lost.
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