Reflections

What does love mean?

It's a question as old as the stars, the sun, the moon, every celestial body that twinkles in the velvet of the sky at night. It plagues humankind, who tries to explain it, and while sometimes their theories might come close, you know they'll never know the answer like you do.

It means the heaven in your arms right now, the ivory skin so smooth and pale, the rivers of midnight hair that's draped across your arms, that shimmers every so slightly as she moves in her sleep. You glance down at her, drink the image in like you'll never see it again, close your eyes and implant it as deeply as possible into your memory, because you know it won't be long before the perfection vanishes.

Yes, it will end. She will wake, wake and see you watching over her as if she was glancing into a mirror. Even though you look the same, she'll know it's you she's seeing, because only you would let her sleep in your arms, and probably tomorrow, you'll drift into dreams while arranged in her embrace.

You can count the things that people would say were wrong. Your hand gently trails across her cheek as these thoughts cross your mind, and you don't let them stop you. You were born together to live together. You will die together. You want and need and feel with each other, and then sometimes you are with each other in more ways than mortals should know. When her body is against yours, her hands tangled in your own ebony locks, her lips warm and sensual and everywhere at once on you, she's in your mind. Her thoughts mix with yours, like paint running together in brilliant rainbows, all the emotions and ideas and memories and everything that makes up you, you find suddenly you're sharing it with her, and it's like this connection that follows you both way down past the outward appearance, the blood in your veins, the DNA. It goes right to your heart.

It's so right.

That's what love means, you know it. All it takes for you to answer the eternal inquiry is to be you, and to be her, to be with her and a part of her, as much as she's a part of you. Yes, you're different, but only minimally. Sometimes when she kisses you the passion is more aggressive, the eager desperation to join you in body and soul once again will leave you with long fingernail marks down your back, red and bright and vibrant, and you shiver when you see them in the mirror.

But isn't that what it's all about?

Oh, so long you've been alive, but it's taken you until a few years ago to realise that a certain tiny part of you was dead. Dead, because both she and you just couldn't see that you had to be together to bring it to life. You always knew that as twins, you had a special bond; even those family and friends around you could see it, hear it, the way you finished each other's sentences, and of course the fact that your pale skin and dark hair are one and the same. Even your features are close: the pointed nose and chin, and the honey-brown eyes you see every morning in the mirror above the sink while you slick on eyeliner are the ones you gaze at every night, the ones that look at you with desire and actually see you for who you are, because the two of you are so together, inside and out.

And you share interests: you have the same favourite music preferences, read such similar literature, indulge in the same arts. But for some reason, the magic only happens when you're making love, making it real and physical and total and complete, gaining fulfilment from one another in ways neither of you knew were possible.

But why. Something nags at you, something omnipresent as she is, that's somehow as intriguing as it is depressing.

You're in different Houses.

She is brave, you know. She doesn't ever worry about what others will think of your relationship; she handles you without fear of you breaking. She is Gryffindor right down to her scarlet and gold nail polish. Many of these qualities you possess, except not in such copious amounts.

You, on the other hand, are mainly intelligent and intellectual, logical, theoretical and you love a good puzzle. She gets good grades, and though they're near your level, they are slightly lower. You think back to her style of loving, marginally different from yours, and you smile as you recognise that that's actually what it must come down to: the two of you think in ways that aren't alike.

Of course, you are both in love. You think she's beautiful, and she's told you the same many times before. But you think she's beautiful because you see yourself in her, enhanced by an impeccable fashion taste. She calls you gorgeous because she can detect her personality in you, and it's even brighter and sharper than her own.

It's the little things.

While it's thoroughly fascinating to pore over these wonderful little discoveries about the fine line between yourself and your lover, the fact that your dormitories are at opposite ends of the school has proven a challenge for when you want to be intimate. It's not easy. Of course, this doesn't slow you down one bit; after all, you are in Ravenclaw. The hurdle is small, but ever present. Your sister sees it as a slight annoyance but ignores it, because it's hardly anything worth stopping her, quite inconsequential. Maybe this is why the Hat separated you, you think. To show you that you do have your differing traits, and that they enhance each of you on your own, and to give you a task to look forward to figuring out every time you want to see each other. The distance gives Parvati something to complain about.

And absence makes the heart grow fonder.

You know this better than anyone as her eyes flutter open, her lashes as fine as ebony silk, to stare up at you from the crook of your elbow.

"Feel better?" you ask her.

"Yes, actually, a nap with you was just what I needed."

"Ah. That's good. What plans have you got, now that you're awake?"

The young woman in your lap smiles slyly, dark red lips curving up at the corners. "Well, now that I'm not so sleepy anymore..."

You knew what she was implying even before she did. Even if you hadn't known her as well as you do, she's predictable.

She sits up and drapes her arms around your neck, pulling you closer so that your face is scant inches from hers. When she speaks, you can detect the faint scent of green tea on her breath, soft and sweet.

"I know I don't need to say it, but I want to anyway."

"Okay. I like it when you do."

"I love you, and you know how much."

She finally closes the between your lips, kissing you slowly, and you savour the moment. One of her hands is tracing small circles at the base of your neck, and the other is gently tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. This is a tender gesture, you know. A loving one. A sisterly one.