Working Through the Rest

The Useless Part of Written Romance

On my fourth trip to the library, I stop running around the same three thoughts and actually try to be proactive. I close my textbook and stand up, walking towards the fiction section that was installed at some point last year. I pick up every book I've ever read that contains a romantic relationship – which is most of them – and then I sit back at the desk, now accompanied by several large piles of books.

In every single one of them, I remember that there was some defining moment in which character A 'fell' for character B. I am hoping that their fictional endeavours might offer me some sort of insight into whatever the hell is going on in my head.

I flick through each book to the vague part where I remember the moment, whereupon I mark the page and move onto the next book.

Around the sixth book, I begin to lose my patience with the entire idea. There are multiple themes that run through the books – you can see it coming from a mile away, it's always a man and a woman. And there's never actually a description of what love is supposed to feel like.

I mean, there's the occasional reference to someone being attractive, but Scorpius has always looked quite pretty. I don't know if that's me fancying him, or just being able to appreciate that he has nice facial features.

I am completely useless at this.

I don't want to assume that I have a crush on Scorpius, but given that the thoughts and feelings only seem to be getting more intense, it is becoming something that I am slightly happier to consider.

Now there's only the implications of that to deal with.

"Hey, Albus," Thomas Anderson pokes his head around the bookshelf. "Someone said you have the copy of," he breaks off. "Bloody hell, Albus. May I ask why you need all these – romance novels?"
"Research," I mutter.
"What?" Thomas frowns. "Research for what?"
"Trying to work something out."
"Can I take this?" Thomas walks over and picks up one of the books.
"Go ahead," I mutter. "It's about as useful as the rest of them."
"What are you trying to find out? If you don't mind me asking."
"What a crush feels like."
"In romance novels?"
"I thought they'd have descriptions. They don't."
"If you wait here," Thomas says gently, "I've got a book in my dormitory that I can go and get."
"If you're okay with that," I shrug. "I'll still be here."

He smiles, closes the book, and walks away. I watch him, trying to work out why he wants to help me. He's never actively disliked me, but we've never really interacted. And now he's offered to help me. Or he's making a fool of me and I'll find out pretty quickly.

I wait silently, closing each book around me. I pile them up, standing up to return them to the shelf, when Thomas appears again, holding another small book. He sits down and I do the same, trying not to tap the desk to relieve the nerves in the pit of my stomach.
"Here," Thomas slides the book over to me and I pick it up, looking at the cover.

It's brightly coloured and the title is incredibly cheesy, but it looks more promising than piles of non-descriptive romance novels.
"Thanks," I say. "Can I borrow this for a couple of days?"
"Take it as long as you need," Thomas smiles. "Honestly, you look like you need it."
"What?" I look up at him as he stands.

He stops again, opening his mouth to speak before pausing, his face suddenly a mask of concentration. I look back at the desk awkwardly, regretting having said anything.
"You're trying to work out whether you have a crush on Scorpius," Thomas murmurs.

It isn't a question. He knows. How bad am I at this for him to know.

"Don't panic," he says quickly. "No one else knows. I just thought it might be that because Scorpius isn't here and that's the only time you seem to start getting worked up."
"Please don't–"
"I won't tell anyone," he assures me. "Believe me, I get it."
"Is that why you're helping me?"
"You don't deserve to work this out on your own. I...it's fucking hard."
"Thanks."

I try to smile at him, surprised when I can muster a truly genuine expression. He smiles back, walking away, and I start to read.