Send My Love to Hogwarts

I'm sitting at computer, and trying to write an update to my story, but I can't seem to write. The words aren't flowing, and I'm stuck.

Draco wakes up next to Harry, did he really do what he think he did? He looks over to Harry

Then what?

I wish this came easier to me, I wish I knew what it was like to give yourself up, to hand yourself over to someone you love.

But I don't, so that's where I'm stuck.

I hear the doorbell, it's Kyle. I'm not excited to see him, I really just want to be alone. My dad probably opened the door for him, I hear him walking up the steps. I save my writing, and close out of the window and wait.

He knocks on the door. My hands are folded in my lap and I'm staring at them.

"Come in," I say quietly.

He opens the door, he looks awkward and uncertain. I give a small smile, trying to make him more comfortable. He sits down on my bed, and looks around my room. He has a slight smile on his face, and I wonder if it's from seeing all the Harry Potter Movie Posters on my walls, or maybe the posters I got when I bought my book at midnight. Maybe it was the various band posters of wizard rock bands, such as the Whomping Willow's, The Harry Potter's, The Remus Lupin's, The Draco Malfoy's, and so on.

I admit, it must be pretty comical to see people dressed up like wizards on someone's walls.

"You like Harry Potter," He remarks.

I smile, "Yeah. It's amazing."

He shrugs, "It's okay."

I look at him with wide eyes, "Why do you say that?"

"Just, the way Rowling writes. It's a bit childish."

I swear my eyes get even wider, "Childish? You do know how many themes she used? Character development? Scenery? She's amazing!"

He smiles, and suddenly looks so much more comfortable, "She's not that amazing. Sure, she can develop a character, and she's great at making very intricate plot lines and such, but her writing is..." his eyes narrow, as if he was thinking of the right word to describe her writing, "Shallow."

"Shallow?" I ask.

"There's not much depth, but I'm not saying she's a bad writer, considering the depth of her characters, and the way she makes them seem so real, and her intricate plot lines make up for it." he explains.

"Well, what writer's do you like?" I ask.

"Edgar Allan Poe," he replies without a doubt.

I smile, "That's funny."

"What's funny?" he asks.

"That's exactly what I'd thought you would say," I confess.

He shrugs, "I'm not very hard to read."

I smile, "I can always read between the lines."

This is... interesting, I think. He's so easy to talk to. I was worried that it would be awkward, and that I'd have nothing to say, but it turns out, that's not the case, far from it actually. We talk about Edgar Allan Poe, I confess that I've only read one of his works, and that I can't remember the name. He forgives me, and recites some of his favorites. It's amazing how he can remember the whole poem, considering how long some of them are. I recognize the one that I've read as "The Raven." Kyle explains to me what it means, which helps, because I was totally lost when I read it.

He then recites to me "Annabel Lee," and I feel like I want to cry. It's so sad, and the way he recites it, it gives me chills. He smiles when he's done, and I laugh.

"How could you smile after that?" I ask.

"Because it's beautiful," he says simply.

What he says shocks me, I've never known a guy who'd flat-out call something beautiful. He's interesting, and despite what he said earlier, isn't easy to read. After a few minutes, and I think I know him, but it turns out, he's full of surprises.

I nod, "It is."

"It's my favorite of Poe's, and it's my favorite poem of all time. I can only dream of being as brilliant as him."

I look at him. He astounds me. He's deep, and unlike any guy I've known. I can relate to him, but at the same time, he seems so far away. I cannot grasp him, he's different. I stare at him, he's no Will, he's darker, and when he smiles...it's confusing. He has deep eyes that you can gaze into and expect to know all the answers afterwords. He's not "hot," nor is he "sexy," but I can't help but feel intimidated by him. He's not thin, and he's not fat. He's attractive, sure, but it's a different kind. He doesn't flaunt it, and it looks like he doesn't everything he can to play down his looks. He's real. And it confuses me.

I tell myself that he's not my type.

"We're supposed to be brainstorming about what we're going to write," he reminds me, and possibly himself.

I smile, "We kinda forgot, didn't we?"

He smiles back, "Well, let's start out with the main question; what are we going to write?"

There's a pause.

"I write stories," I say.

"I write poetry," he says.

We laugh.

"A story that's poetic? One that flows," I suggest.

"That sounds good to me," He smiles again. He has a nice smile, I decide.

"What's it going to be about?" I ask.

"Well," he says, "You liked "Annabel Lee," right? We could do something like that," he suggests.

"That's a good idea."

"We can do more depth, though, make it a story, with a plot and such," he says.

"It's settled then!"

"So I can leave now?" he says.

"What?" I ask.

"I'm kidding, but I do have to go soon," he says with a small smile.

"Oh," I say.

"You don't mind if I come tomorrow?" he asks.

"That'd be fine, we can make an outline, and figure out the plots and the characters and such," I say. He chuckles.

"What?" I ask.

"You said, "and such." I thought I was the only one who said that," he says.

"My friend Addie says it, but she has the best vocabulary of anyone I know, so it fits," I say, "I probably picked it up from her."

He nods.

We talk a while, then he leaves. Then I miss him.