The girl sits down. She has a flower in her hair, and it stands out with stark contrast to her vibrant tresses that fall around her pale face in long strands. As she sits down she lets out a long breath, one that makes the atmosphere of the room she is in change dramatically - from a light carelessness to a heavy-hearted shadow. The desk she is sitting at seems to sag with an added weight when she comes closer to it, almost as though it can sense the burden she is carrying.

She reaches into a bag she has brought with her and draws a piece of parchment from it, and after setting it on the desk it is joined by a long pheasant-feathered quill and an ink pot. She pauses and regards the scene before her with diligent eyes and a troubled mind. Another sigh escapes her lips as her thin fingers reach for the quill.

She dips it and gives it an expert flick, watching as a large drop of ink clings to the bottom of the quill for a moment and then drops back into the pot, disappearing into the blackness. Her hand hovers, shaking slightly as she brings it to the paper.

She goes to press, and then stops. Another sigh.

A murmur of doubts.

Doubts that she has had for far too long; so long that they have stopped becoming what if’s, and have transformed into a monstrous knowing that the doubt is really nothing more than the reality she would much rather avoid facing. She only attaches the false identity to it in order to calm herself. Inside, she knows it is a lie.

The ink has dried on her quill now, and she sets it down while wondering if she should do anything at all, say anything in the first place. The corner of her mind she has been trying desperately to fight tells her no. He wouldn’t care, it tells her. You’re nothing but a little girl; a little girl with a flower in her hair - one with no courage in the slightest. You’re too scared to even write words on a piece of paper.

Frustrated, she tears the flower from her hair. It falls, and when it lands a few petals part from the sunny middle they had been clinging to for so long, left alone on the floor.

A drop of moisture splashes onto the desk.

Then the other side of her mind retaliates against the first, like it always does. But it isn’t strong anymore. It is nothing more than a wounded dog, fighting back against its enemy only because of the instinct to survive. You’re not just a little girl, it whines as the first dog snaps at its heels. You could write the words if you really wanted to.

If you really wanted to? Since when has doing what you wanted gotten you anywhere? Don’t bother saying what’s on your mind. He’ll only reject you. How could he ever want you?

Don’t say that!

It’s true.

She rests her face in her hands and rubs at her temples. Then, suddenly, something snaps, and she reaches desperately for the quill that is lying discarded on the desk, bringing it to the paper before she can stop herself. She writes one word and then stops.

Harry.

It shines brilliantly on the parchment, replaying a million dreams - countless moments of flickering hope as his eyes brushed over her face and she wondered how it would feel if his hands touched her, and not just his gaze. Hope wells deep inside of her, somewhere in the middle of her being, and she lifts the corners of her mouth ever so slightly while thinking of his hair, and his boyish hands, and the way his voice sounds when he’s tired. Another sigh, but this time it reflects something more than just despair. This time, a note of joy can be heard soaring above the disheartened flock of doubts. So strange, she thinks, that one name could do so much to one person.

But she has gotten this far before. At least three times she has gathered the courage to at least write his name. The next words are the hardest, and she is always too afraid to actually write them. Somehow, writing things down makes them go from a thought to a reality. Words are far too dangerous to play with, she thinks, all the while wondering if she’s playing with them at all, or if they are true. She re-dips her pen.

Flick.

It is even harder now, to bring her hand to the paper. Her lip trembles and she shuts her eyes tightly, hoping that if she squeezes them hard enough the stress will climax into a courageous scribble of cursive writing. Her fingers push on the quill tightly, making the tips go white and sore. Bright eyes open hurriedly as her hand makes a frantic movement and suddenly the words are there, so hauntingly beautiful it almost hurts to look at them; though when she tries to look away it hurts just as much. They look so small and delicate, sitting on the paper, and she is positive that if a wind were to trail in from the window they would float away and be lost forever.

I love you.

She wonders briefly what to do next, if she should write more, if the words that are already there are enough. And then she realizes that it doesn’t matter, because half of the worry was admitting to herself that she could say what she needed to say, not that she had to tell him. And without second-guessing herself, she folds the parchment in four, making sure that nothing will ever blow those letters off that page, and walks to the window.

It opens with ease.