Harry James potter smuts

Paticila feelings

Your legs crossed as you pushed your back against the train's seat, huffing a breath and allowing it to fog the window.

"I take it you don't want to see your parents then?" 

Your head barely raised, giving the boy a tired grin as prickling heat crept up your neck, "It's not really that, believe me, I can't wait to be home, it's just that Dad's been hovering."

Harry's face contorted in confusion until you carried on briskly, casually trying to skip over the words as though you hadn't said them.

Two embarrassing words.

"Boy troubles."

You had sworn his eyes had glanced at the floor of the compartment in disappointment, but only for a moment, before his head raised, and he grinned.

It also seemed that his smirk was polluted with sadness and twisted with sorrow, but that was probably wishful thinking.

Of course it would be wishful thinking, because Harry just couldn't like you. Though you did want him to, did yearn for him to think of you in the same way that you thought of him.

Your father, Sirius, had been flitting over you the last time he had seen you, and he was convinced that Harry and you were meant for one another. Seeing you together as you walked off the train would probably only fuel his ideas.

"Just like Lils, right, Moons?"
You expected your dad to disagree, but instead his eyes only blinked lazily as a smirk crept up onto his face.
"No, no, no, Dad. No."
"Yes, I believe they do share many of the same stubborn and oblivious characteristics when it comes to love."
"Oh, indeed they do, Rem..." And his tangent began as you slumped in your seat, absentmindedly thinking about what Harry would say.
You often thought about what Harry would say in many situations. 
"So?"
All Sirius got in return for his apparent question was a raised eyebrow as you remained slouched in your chair.
"Who are you thinking about, hmm?"
Your eyes drew closed, squeezing shut, as your lips twisted into a thin line and your heart twisted too.
How couldn't it, when Harry Potter was the subject matter?
"Stop acting like a butterfly aiming for a glass window. It's not going to happen! You may think you see a spark, but I assure you it's all just the light capturing the panes."
Capturing.

It seemed like a good word to describe Harry's vice-like grasp on your heart.

The Potter could wrench it out of your chest and dissect it to the smallest pieces he could, and yet every section would contain your love for him.

It was infuriating.

He held power over you, a crushing, heavy sort of weight that could drag you to your ruin and your grave. Hadn't it happened with his parents? Lily had been enticed and they both ended up paying the price.

In some way, so did you. Now you could only suppress hordes of butterflies and hope they didn't become moths that would carve out your insides, or lower your heart rate and hope it wouldn't make your very veins protest against you.

Even sitting across from him on a train resulted in a casualty. You. No matter how much you cursed your unrequited... something, the alarming flutters still plagued both your stomach and mind.

It was almost like you were being infected, and there was no cure. Not one in your foreseeable future, anyway. For he was what you truly needed to survive, what would stop the torrent of fiery feeling and ignite it all at once.

He wasn't helping, either.

Harry consistently lent forward to hear your words, as though they were his very lifeblood, elbows rested on his knees and head cradled in his hands, his strands of hair flopping over his brow every now and then, and slightly displacing the air around you.