You don't remember the exact moment you fell in love with Harry Potter, but you do remember the exact moment you realised it.

You were sitting in the common room, the clock ticking closer to midnight. You and Harry and Ron spent all your spare time studying for your N.E.W.T.s. Sometimes your housemates joined in - the boys liked to turn their studying into word games, which only annoyed you because you believed they weren't being as serious about it as they could be - but most nights it was just the three of you, seconded into a corner of the common room, huddled together like a humanoid version of Fluffy - a beast with three heads.

So, on this night that it finally dawned on you, it was just you and Harry. Ron had given up half an hour previously, throwing his hands up in the air in mock despair and declaring that he was never going to study again. You and Harry had exchanged glances and rolled your eyes at each other, because Ron said that every night. Same old, same old.

He'd trotted off to bed, not before planting a kiss on your forehead and slapping Harry on the back. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” he declared with a wiggle of his eyebrows. You'd merely tutted at him while Harry had laughed, and then he was gone.

And then you were alone with Harry.

This didn't bother you, of course. No reason it would. You and Harry have long been able to sit in companionable silence, occasionally sharing a find in a crumbly old textbook. Even though you didn't speak, you always felt more comfortable with Harry around. Of course, before tonight you'd always believed that was simply because he was your best friend; now you knew it was because you loved him. Being around him made you smile. Hearing his breathing made you feel safe. Somehow, being around him made you believe that nothing bad could ever happen, because he was right by your side.

So, the moment you knew. You shut your book quietly, rubbing your eyes and stifling a yawn, and was thinking to yourself how much your neck ached, hunched over books and parchment, when a hand shot out and started to rub your neck before you could do it yourself.

Closing your eyes, you concentrated on nothing other than the fact that Harry's fingers were working a kind of magic all of their own. The pressure was perfect, not too hard, not too soft. You murmured appreciative sighs, letting him know when he hit a sensitive spot, and you eventually slanted a glance his way… only to see he was still studying.

He hadn't even looked up at you. He didn't need to. Somehow, he'd just known it was what you wanted.

And that summed it up in a nutshell, folks. That was it, all wrapped up in a neat little package with a sparkly bow. You were so in tune with each other that all you had to do was think about something, and he knew.

And that's when it hit you.

So, you find yourself sitting in the common room at midnight, your best friend and newly found love rubbing your neck, your eyes aching from the strain of study, your fingers trembling from nervousness, when he finally stops what he's doing, puts down his quill, and looks over at you, his hand still on your neck.

“Took you long enough, didn't it?”

You open your mouth to ask him what the hell he's talking about, but you realise you already know.

He smiles, then. That smile, that lopsided grin that always makes your heart beat faster than the Snitch and makes time slow down and makes your body break out in goosebumps. God, how you love that smile.

How you love him.

You want to say the words. You try to clear your throat to talk, but no words come out. And as his hand stops rubbing and starts curving instead, as he pulls your face closer to his, you know you don't have to say the words; just like you, he already knows.

You can feel his warm breath on your face as he closes the gap between you, and you're helpless to do anything but close your eyes and give in, stop fighting it. When his lips gently brush over yours, you can't stop the small moan that rises from deep within your throat. Encouraged, he kisses you again, more firmly this time, and it's all you ever wanted and more. You would die a thousand deaths to be able to do nothing but this. You reach up an arm to place it around his neck, drawing him that little bit closer, and he grins against your mouth, then kisses you again, deep and long and oh-so-thorough.

Finally, he lets you go and you pull back a little, trying to catch your breath. “Wow,” you murmur, your eyes still half closed. “That was… ”

“Perfect,” he answers for you.

You can only nod in agreement. But then, as you open your eyes and look into the green ones firmly trained on you, you can't help but smile. “However, if it's perfect, then we'll never need to practice, will we?”

He pretends to ponder this new information, his brow creasing slightly as it does when he's thinking. “Well, I guess it could use a bit of work. Maybe we should try it again, then we can decide on how much work it might need. Personally, I think we'll have to practice a whole lot, at least until the end of the school year. Then we can reassess it.”

You say nothing. Because, as always, he's right. But somehow, you think that your kisses will never be entirely perfect; they'll always need a bit of practice. And you know you'll have the rest of your lives to work on it.