Author's Note: I do not and never will own Harry Potter.

Written for the Occasion-a-Day Competition/Challenge. September 14 Prompt: Write something over 700 words.

"Have you ever kissed someone?"

You're not prepared for the question, and you stop, fingers tapping against your bottom lip, as you ponder how to answer. The word "no" has never seemed so reluctant to slip from your lips, and you resort to shaking your head. She stares at you for a moment, brown eyes dark with shadows you don't know how to chase away, before she shrugs, and a smile comes out like the sun freeing itself from the clouds.

"Me neither," she tells you, and her eyes slide away from you like she's lying, but you don't care. Everyone's entitled to their secrets.

She kisses you a month later, and her lips are soft and taste like chocolate and hot cider, and you don't know what to do with your tongue, but perhaps nobody does, their first kiss, and she doesn't seem to mind the accidental dribble of spit down her chin. Your radish earrings weigh down your ears as you tilt your head for a second kiss, and she laughs and calls you "Loony" in the most affectionate tone you've ever heard. You don't mind it from her.

The world expects nothing from you, but it expects everything from her. You watch her shoulders bow under the strain, her back crumple from the weight of it. She goes out with boys, because it is expected, and gains a reputation for being "easy," which isn't. It's not that it matters, she whispers, it's just the untruth that rankles. You ask her if she has Wrackspurts in her ears, and she hides her face in her hands, hiding her freckles, but her shoulders are shaking with laughter now, not tears, and you consider it a victory.

She's got a Lion on her tie and you've got an Eagle, but it doesn't matter, does it? House doesn't mean anything, especially in the war, where the only mark of dishonour is the skull writhing on your forearm. She's a Weasley, and she's marked by the flaming red hair, but you vow to protect her anyway, because it's what you're supposed to do, and you don't know anyway else to be. You long for the days where only your shoes went missing and wonder if you can find your broken thoughts flung into the rafters, too.

She tells you about first year one day, while you're both locked into the Room of Requirement. Lots of people are there, but you're tucked away into a windowsill, and you don't notice them anyway. Neither does she, writhing her fingers in her lap, her cheeks pale as milk. When she speaks of the chicken feathers between her fingers and the paint spilled down her front, her fingernails dig into her skin, and she doesn't notice until you gently unhook each one.

"Thank you," she whispers, but her voice is as colourless as the rest of her. You place a necklace of butterbeer caps around her neck and tell her that it's to symbolize your protection, and she strokes each cap like it's a precious talisman. Perhaps for her, it is. You don't know what it feels like to be possessed, to be hollowed out and filled back in with someone else, but you don't need to know how it feels to hug her or stroke her hair or conjure up a teddy bear and tuck it under her arm because who cares if someone's judging you, when it's all you have.

When you're rescued, she holds you for an hour straight, fingers so tight around your middle she could be glued there, and it takes nearly the whole hour to realise that you can't stop shaking. You try to thank her, but your voice won't work, and she tells you that you're never allowed to go home for Christmas again. She tries to apologise when she feels you shake even more, but you can't explain it's making you laugh, not cry.

After the Battle, you find her sitting on a heap of rubble, her wand still out, back trembling. She nearly hexes you before she realises it's you, and when she does, she crumples with tears.

"Fred," she hiccups, but you know, and tears trace down your own cheeks as you hold her, because there are too many people lost, and too many people dead, and the thought of being reunited with them isn't comforting anymore. It's not fair, but war is never fair. She asks you to go home with her, and you do, after you reassure your father that you aren't dead. You have scars inside and out, but you aren't dead.

"Have you ever kissed anyone?" you ask her halfway through the summer, and she laughs, the first genuine laugh you've heard in months.

"No, have you?" she asks, and your lips touch, as delicately as candyfloss, but it's real.

"I might love you," you tell her, your face going redder than her hair.

"The feeling might be mutual," she replies and kisses you again.