When He Comes

I can see him. Who can't, in the dimness of the common room? He stands out like snow in June. That's his hair's fault. It's so blonde it's almost white, and here he is, sitting in what must be the darkest common room at Hogwarts. Not to mention the fact that's it's late, so no sun is coming in through the very few windows.

He's sitting by the fire, alone, where he sits every night, and I watch him. I think he's writing something, or perhaps he's drawing. Nobody knows what he does when he's by himself like that. I wouldn't see him as one to keep a diary-it's not our way. What if someone found it? But I wouldn't bet he was drawing, either. He may know good art, but if he knows how to properly hold an artist's instrument that isn't a quill, I'll stick my head in the lake for the giant squid to snack on.

Every once and a while, he looks up, casting his eyes around for something. Inspiration for whatever he's doing, perhaps. I don't think it is homework. He's devoted to his work, as his father expects, but not so devoted as to spend three or four hours a night to work on a single piece. Besides, as I'm in all his classes, I know when he has homework and when he doesn't. Today we didn't have any at all, not even for Professor McGonagall, who has been a little over-loading with the homework lately.

I can feel eyes on me, all of a sudden. Three or four pairs at the very least. I wonder if he can feel my eyes, but I doubt it. Anyway, I know what the owners of those eyes are saying about me. 'She's obsessed with him, won't let him get away', or 'Can't she take a hint? He obviously doesn't like her.' On a good day, it runs more along the lines of 'Poor girl. No fashion sense, no real connections except for him, and it won't be long now before he stops wanting her.'

They're all wrong. I don't obsess over him-where would that get me? Certainly not in his bed, assuming I'd want to be there, which I don't. And they've never seen what happens after they're all gone up to their dormitories. He puts away whatever he's doing, and comes over to my little table where I sit alone, looking like a cat, wary of it's every step. I'd always thought that if he turned into a Animagus, he'd have to be a Siamese cat-beautiful, prideful, graceful, and a handful of other things. He sits, looking down at his hands, and he talks.

Sometimes I don't look up. He never has, in any case. He just sits and talks. And talks. And then he talks some more. Not worthless things like what he's going to wear tomorrow. He says things about his father and growing up in a world that everyone expects him to do things he's never even dreamed about doing. I find that if I don't look up, if I keep pretending to do my work, he'll talk longer and go deeper into his shell of a soul. I'm no idiot, though a ditzy reputation has its uses. "You're a great confidante," he told me once. "No one expects I'd tell you anything."

Some people say that I love him. I wonder about this sometimes. I love to talk to him, I love to see him abandon his private work and make his way cautiously to where I sit, as if he expects something to jump out at him and perform the Killing Curse before he makes it here. I love the way he stares at his hands, embarrassed to meet my gaze, I love how he tries to do things for me to say thank you for listening. Last year he took me to the Yule Ball. This year he's resorted to giving me little trinkets. It's nothing to complain about-they're beautiful, they're valuable, and they seem to just compliment me perfectly. I love each and every one of them.

But the question remains: do I love him? I watch as he suddenly pulls his head back down, the way the hair moves on his neck as he begins to furiously do whatever it is he does. No, I don't think I do. I love everything about him-but I don't love him. I don't think I even have a girlish crush on him. Why? It's easy. I know too much about him.

I've always thought that people who love each other love each because they can continually discover new things about each other. They help each other discover themselves as well. Maybe I'm dead wrong, but from the love- stricken, sickening couples that cram themselves into this school's halls, I wouldn't doubt it. I still think that love depends on discovering each other and yourself.

He and I could never do that. I know every last thing about him; he's divulged every last secret and sorrow in his soul. I know he has. I can tell by the way his hands tremble as he looks at them, running his fingers over each other so he thinks I can't tell, but I do.

He's run out of things to say, but he keeps coming to talk, and I don't know why. I've talked more to him in the past week than I've done in the past three years. Usually I just listen. Now I find myself commenting more and more to fill in the silence.

This strikes me as very unusual. He always has a reason for doing anything, but if he's out of things to say, he shouldn't keep coming. I've made up my mind-tonight, I tell him that he doesn't need to keep coming back.

I expect he'll be relieved. I know how tired he gets sometimes, and if he's up talking to me at two o'clock in the morning, how is that helping? I'll miss our talks, but I also expect he'll come back when he has something more to say.

Suddenly looking around, I can see that everyone except him and I are gone now. I'm surprised-I didn't think it was that late. I must have gotten caught up in thinking about him that the time passed. The paper I was working on sits below my quill, and I'm getting ready to start up again when a sudden movement catches my eye.

He gets up, placing very carefully his private work on the couch he just got off of, and slowly, cautiously, he makes his way over to me. I can see his eyes darting side to side, watching every shadow he passes. Anyone watching would have said he walked with defeat-and in a way, he does. He's paranoid. Not in a real bona fide sort of way, but at night, he's nervous that someone will hear what he says to me. Only at night. Only now, and I can see it in him.

Taking his seat, he stares down at his hands, which I can see are trembling slightly, no matter how fast he moves his fingers. I sigh, and try to hide it but fail.

"You don't have to keep coming back, you know."

He looks up suddenly, the first time he's ever stared me in the face at night, when he was supposed to be talking. I don't think he was expecting it.

"I-I know," he said, his voice trembling as much as his hands.

I reach out and touch his hand, crossing an unsaid taboo. I've never touched him before at night, ever. I've done it a few times during the day, but I've never, ever even thought about touching him at night.

"You're out of things to tell me," I say.

"I-I know." This is obviously not going anywhere, if all he can say is 'I know'.

"Then why do you keep coming back?"

"I-I don't know."

"Tell me. You do know, and I won't take that sentence for an answer anymore."

He sighs, looking at his hands again.

"I guess I just don't want to leave you sitting here by yourself."

"That's not it," I say, warning in my voice. My hand tightens on his.

He begins to talk, very quietly. I have to lean in closer to hear what he has to say.

"Because if I didn't talk to you every night, I'd have to talk to someone else. Because you're a really great confidante and friend, and I suppose I'm afraid of losing you. Because you don't ask questions or anything, you just sit there and listen and sometimes you look at me, but most of the time you don't. Because I need someone to talk to so that I can keep defying my father."

His voice dropped another few octaves in loudness, and I leaned in closer just in time to hear his whispered words. "Because I want to, and because you make me feel human as opposed to a metal form of my father."

I considered this, trying not to look like it touched me too much, though it did. It made me feel special, needed, wanted. A smile tugged on my lips, and I licked them to pull the edges back down.

"Oh," was all I could think of to say.

Silence passed between us, and his words imprinted themselves on the back of my head.

After a long while, I removed my hand, and picked my quill back up. As I began again on my Transfiguration work, he got up and walked away. Sighing, I thought that he was leaving; he was gone. But as I began to pack up, he was back again.

With him he held a sheaf of paper, bound together with string. The front was blank. He set it on the table, and opened it.

I'd been dreadfully wrong. He had been drawing, and he hadn't been using a quill, but a pencil, it looked like. He flipped through the pictures, and I caught glimpses of towers and turrets, the moon shining down on a cat, a meal placed in front of a starving man, a self-portrait, the clock that rested on the common room mantelpiece, and finally, he stopped.

It was a picture of me. More than me-it was me at my best. My shoulder- length dirty blonde hair fell across my face in an innocent way, my eyes twinkling with the reflection of stars, my hands elegant, holding a quill. My lips looked fuller and smoother than I thought them, my chin a little more defiant and strong than I'd ever seen it.

"This is how I see you," he told me. "And I hope that's all right."

I smiled at him, and his features softened from their guarded look. "Of course."

He smiled back, the first time he'd smiled at night, just for me. He got up then, and, leaving his papers of art, left. I hadn't really expected him to stay after revealing his pictures to me, and I watched until his flash of silver-blonde hair disappeared up the stairs to his dormitory, then pulled the papers towards me and began flipping through them.