Some Things
by Damien J. Frost
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, and all items associated with,are property of J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., et al. There is no profit being gained from the content of this story and it is to be used soley for private entertainment purposes. The plot is the intellectual property of the writer. No parts of this story are to be duplicated or posted elswhere without the expressed permission of the author.
This story is rated "K" or "G" by the guidelines of the fansite on which it is posted.
There were few moments of peace in his life.
Between prefect duties, schoolwork and his father's expectations, he had very little time for anything.
He always made time for her, though.
Perched in a tree out on the grounds, he watched as she waved goodbye to her two best friends and made her way to the large willow he resided in.
During autumn and spring, she liked to study outdoors, as many did, and he had learned last year that this was her favorite spot.
He came down here shortly after school started for no other reason than to bother her – even though he never got around to doing it.
Some things never change, he mused as he thought back.
She was there again, under the damn tree.
He didn't understand why he would come here, day after day.
All he knew was that she would always show up shortly afterwards and set up her books and parchment and quills and transfigure a twig into a small lap desk. Then, for hours, she would read and write.
And the whole time he would sit in the branches and watch.
He didn't try to analyze it. Not for fear of the consequences, but because it was peaceful.
Constant.
Then, one day, she showed up with her usual bag filled to the brim with books, set it down, leaned against the tree and began to cry.
For some reason, it bothered him.
It didn't bother him in the way it would other boys. Most boys would simply be bothered by a girl crying.
The mere act made most of the male species uncomfortable.
No, he was uncomfortable because it was her that was crying.
She was strong, determined.
Her iron will was as unquestioned as her intelligence.
So, he did what he did whenever he felt uncomfortable.
"What's wrong, Mudblood? Potter and Weasel ditch you for prettier fare?" he drawled from his branch.
Shaking her head, she looked up at him.
He was a little perturbed that she didn't seem surprised to see him.
"Why would you even ask a question that you don't care to know the answer to?" she spat, tears still rolling freely down her cheeks.
For some reason, he couldn't think of a response.
So, without a word, he leapt down, startling her as he landed right next to her.
"You know," he started as he settled next to her and leaned back against the same trunk. "I've been watching you for weeks now. Everyday the weather permits, I've come out here and sat in the branches and looked down upon you."
She snorted in wry amusement at the comment. "You've always looked down on me."
His lips twisted into an ironic smirk. "Yes, I suppose. But, I didn't mean it like that," he amended. "It was odd. I found myself looking at you and the things you had with you, the books you read, the way you sat.
"I could tell how your day went by how quickly you wrote. If Weasley had been a prat, you would almost poke through your parchment whenever you would dot your i's. A good day would mean you would add a little twirl to the end of your t's."
He looked over at her and saw the surprised look on her face. "Why is that you have to exist?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "Why did you have to make me doubt?"
Silently she shook her head, and he could see the tears well up again.
They sat there for a time, neither speaking, the silence almost too comfortable. Just when he closed his eyes, he heard her take in a deep breath.
"We all bleed red," she whispered before she collected her things and walked away.
Some things open your eyes.
"Are you going to come down from there?"
He smiled as her voice broke his daydream. Looking down, his smiled morphed into a smirk. "And lose the fantastic view? I think not."
She fisted top of her shirt as she scowled at him. "Get your pale butt down here," she snapped, trying to sound annoyed, but failing when the corner of her mouth quirked into a smile.
With feline grace, he leapt down, landing in front of her. "I'd refute you accusation that my arse is pale, but I'm not quite sure you're ready for me to prove it," he grinned, earning a laugh from her.
"You'd be correct," she said, moving past him and settling at the base of the tree and patting the ground beside her.
Accepting the invitation, he took the proffered spot with a satisfied sigh.
After a few moments, she leaned her head against his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around hers.
"I wish this would never end," she whispered.
He nodded, even as he felt the tattoo on his left forearm itch. "Me too."
Deciding to take a chance, he leaned down and captured her lips.
When they broke apart, he saw her flushed cheeks and sad smile.
She already knew.
With a nod, he stood and walked away.
Some things were worth too much to keep.
He knew that she was.
So he didn't look back, because he knew he'd stop moving forward.
After all, she wasn't just something – she was everything.
Author's Note
I don't know what's with me and the little one shots, but whatever.
Once again, Repercussions is still in the works, I'm just dealing with a severe case of writer's block when it comes to it.
Anyways, as always
Thank you for reading,
Damien J. Frost