A Sudden Realisation

Harry Potter is very, very ticklish.

He's my best friend. My best man friend, I suppose. We know each other about as well as I know the history and win-lose record of the Chudley Cannons, and let me tell you something: I know them very well.

So trust me when I say that the Boy Who Lived is very, very ticklish.

Sometimes I look at him, and I can't believe my best friend comes with a title like that. It's so... ridiculus. Waiting to be parodied. Not that it goes un-spoofed, of course, with Fred and George around.

Harry comes with other titles, too. You get Harry, and you get an all-around package. He's brilliant at Quidditch, friendly, popular, rich, smart, and blessed with good looks. According to my sister, Ginny, at least.

Yes.. Harry's a pretty good looking guy. Not as tall as I am, but not bad for a bloke. He's got rather messy black hair, in the kind of permanent hair style you see and think, "how long does he stand in front of a mirror to get his hair like that?" Except that Harry's not like that. He's not at the least conceited, even with his green eyes that are way, way too green. Pity he hides them behind glasses.

On second thought, I bet he keeps his hair like that to cover his scar. His scar is the reason why Harry Potter is who he is. His scar is the reason why He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named suddenly disappeared, and our wizarding community as we knew it then rejoiced and praised the one-year-old Harry Potter. He didn't know what he had done. And he didn't know what he was. The Boy Who Lived.

The boy who at this certain moment in our Gryffindor Commons Room was laughing, his glasses awkwardly tilted to the right, flailing his arms at me. To try and get me to stop.

Tickling him, that is.

I couldn't help it.

He was way too easy a target.

He held up his hands. "If you're going to start this again, at least be so kind as to let me get these off before we start a decent round of it."

I grinned as he gently placed his glasses on a sidetable, next to our other best friend, Hermione Granger, muggle-born, scholar extraordinare. She smiled slightly, shaking her head.

You see, Hermione has good reason to be amused by the fact that Harry and I are practically rolling around on the ground, both of us aiming for the other's weak spots, wanting to hear the other laugh and wriggle away.

She knows what I'm in this for.

I never meant for her to find out, honestly. I never meant for anyone to find out. I just wanted it to be just a phase, something that would pass eventually if only, if ONLY, I gave it enough time.

No one was supposed to know.

You see, I'm awfully jealous of my best friend, Harry Potter. Like I said, he's practically perfect. I wish I could be more like him. There. I said it. But he's a good bloke. I wouldn't be friends with him if he wasn't.

I just never thought that I might wake up one morning, look at Harry's sleeping figure in the bed next to mine, and think, "God, I want to shag him."

I mean, what in bloody hell was THAT about? But I thought it was just some random thought. Some leftover part of my subconcious after a bit too many shag-all-night dreams. Like I said, I didnt' expect it to last.

I didn't think I'd start acting like a little first-year with a crush, for God's sake!

Since when does Ronald Weasley stutter and look away, his face blushing crimson, when he makes eye contact with his best friend, Harry Potter?

Since when does Ronald Weasley make excuses to touch Harry Potter, anywhere, be it arm, leg, ear...?

Since when does Ronald Weasley's stomach turn over when Harry Potter smiles at him, especially in that cute little way he has when he wakes up and his hair is even more messy than usual and he looks over at me and gives me his usual, "G'mornin', Ron!"

The answer to all the above is: Since Ronald Weasley realised that he fancies his best friend, Harry Potter.

Hermione found out completely by accident, an accident on my part. One day, about 2 weeks after my complete and sudden realisation that I loved the Boy Who Lived, Harry was at Quidditch practice. Hermione and I were there with him - not flying, of course, but down in the stands, with a couple of our texts, parchment, quills, and ink. Hermione was attempting to engage me in the completely unecessary task of studying for our upcoming Transfiguration exam. I was a bit distracted by Harry flying about above me.

"Ron, Is there -"

"Fine, Hermione, fine! I fancy Harry! I admit it! Just stop questioning me about it! And don't you bloody dare tell him! It's just a phase. It'll be gone soon. I'll be back to fancying French girls from Beuxbatons. Are you happy? You've got it out of me! You can be satisfied now," I nearly screamed at her.

Hermione stared. Her quill dropped onto her parchment, leaving an ink mark.

"There, I'm sure you're proud of yourself. You're a smart girl." I suddenly felt extremely self conscious and looked down, studying my fingernails. They were getting a bit long; it looked ridiculous.

"I was only going to ask you if you had a spare bit of parchment," she said, still staring.

"Oh," I said in surprise. I felt my cheeks redden. Wasn't THIS clichéd? Someone finding out by me blurting it out in a ridiculous fashion, almost as though I was in a horrid novel geared towards teenagers. Ah, well. Don't suppose I could take it back, now. Hermione had at least managed to close her mouth.

"Well, I can't say I'm not surprised… this is quite a shock. Ginny and I always thought it would be Percy who was gay…"

"Hermione, I'm not gay."

She frowned slightly, her forehead wrinkling a bit. "Then how do you explain fancying Harry?"

Damn. I was caught.