Love at First Sight (Harry Potter)

The Whomping Willow

|ALEXANDRIA WEASLEY'S P.O.V|

The end of the summer arrived at what I considered to be pristine timing. I was overjoyed to be returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, having missed much of the luxuries throughout the vacation — such as the feel of the Gryffindor common room with its roaring fireplace, my best mate (Hermione Granger) sleeping every night in the bed beside mine, and the overall ability to use magic whenever I pleased.

And, although I would miss my parents, I was very excited for my younger sister's first year: What House would she be placed in? Who would she become friends with? What class would she enjoy the most?

I tried to speak with her, Ginny, in hopes of possibly formulating at least a guess as to the answers of my questions, but she always seemed to be distracted — what with her crush, the infamous Harry Potter, being in the very same house as her.

At the time, I could not understand what she saw in him.

"Everyone knows his name," Ginny would say, but where is the attraction in that? She enjoyed his looks, "His hair matches so perfectly with the colour of his eyes and skin — oh his eyes! Don't even get me started, they are so green — like a beautiful emerald, oh I love emeralds —"

I suppose that I couldn't argue with that — Harry does have nice eyes and they do resemble emeralds, but I didn't feel faint every-time they looked in my direction. Perhaps it was simply his personality that turned me in a different direction than my sister, or perhaps it was the overwhelming feeling of frustration that I felt whenever I was around him but still could not seem to figure out.

Never mind that — after a bit of thought, I managed to shake the mere idea from my mind and convince myself that Harry Potter was not attractive.

You know who was attractive? Oliver Wood, that is who. Perhaps Harry Potter was my sister's Oliver Wood — we each knew nothing of our crushes' true personalities, and were simply content with fancying what was presented to us on the outside.

I was twelve — and that was the little you could expect from a twelve-year-old's mind in an aspect of boys.

On our last evening at the Burrow, my mother made a very large meal for everyone that consisted of various different foods. It ended with the only thing that Potter and I seemed to have in common: our love for treacle pudding.

"Give me the spoon," I had commanded the Potter, who had just finished scooping a large helping of the pudding into his plate.

"What's the magic word?"

My eyebrows had furrowed in confusion upon hearing his question, and I stared at him from my place across the table for a moment before finally saying, "There is no exact "magic" word, but rather many words that are used in a specific order to create a spell."

"I — never mind."

Without an explanation as to what he had meant, the handle of the silver spoon was passed to my hands with an air of defeat. I scooped a very generous amount of the treacle pudding into my own plate, and was quick in dipping my fork into the deliciousness.

A moan of delight left my lips as the flavour seeped into my tongue; I was too fixated on the dessert to notice that the sound had mixed with that of Potter, who soon joined me in saying, "This is so good."