Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me. The end.

Author's note: So it's an AU, Post Hogwarts and we know nothing about where they are or what has happened in their lives. A point? There has to be a point. There should be. If there is, I'm not really sure if I can point it out to you. It's about love, I guess and it's complexities, and it's subtleties. Anyway, this is what came upon me one night while listening to Rachael Yamagata and the LCD Soundsystem's “New York I love you, but you're bringing me down”. Hope you all enjoy it just the same, and if you please, let me know what you think.

******

Billy was an alley cat
Alone and so afraid
Along came tweety and there he stayed
Eating fish bones from the old fish tray

-Cat Power “Love to be silly”

****

“Do you know how much I love you?” He said, and she looked up from her notebook, mildly surprised to see him just leaning there; elbow perched on the kitchen counter, fingers and thumbs idly fingering a clementine.

She blinked and suppressed a smile. “I'd say a lot.”

He shook his head, fingers digging into the orange skin feeling underneath its rubbery surface. “I'd say more than a lot.”

“So tons?” she asked, her focus back onto the notebook in her lap.

He peeled away the layers and laid them on the counter. “Loads.”

“Loads is more than tons?”

“Naturally,” he said, and pushed a slice past his lips.

And here she allowed the smile to soften the edges and brighten the cheeks. “Is loads big enough for you to be a pal and pass an orange?”

He continued to stare at her in that unsettling way of his and said, “Loads is big enough to make me hand you a mountain of oranges if you asked for it.”

“What if I just want one orange?”

“Clementine.”

“Clementine?”

“Yeah, clementines are much smaller.” He finished his share and went on to peel himself another one.

“Are you going to hand me one or not?”

He smiled. “Did you want an orange or a clementine?”

She tossed her pen at him in answer and instead of catching it deftly like she had expected him to, he ducked.

“Now look what you made me do,” she said.

“You should have chosen the pillow.”

“But the pillow does less damage.”

“Not if you throw it properly.”

“And how many ways are there to throw a pillow?” He opened his mouth to answer and she shut her eyes against it saying, “No, don't answer that. I only wanted a clementine.” “You never asked nicely.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because the moment is gone.”

She looked down at her notebook, at the words scrawled hurriedly on the page, then back up at him; his frame now tilted against the counter. “At least get me something to write with,” she said.

He frowned and rummaged in his pockets with fingers sticky and stained. Then walking up to her, he took her hand in his and placed a small green pencil on her upturned palm. “What's this?” she said.

“It's something to write with,” he said.

“I can't use a pencil. I asked for a pen.”

“You asked for something to write with, so I gave you something.”

Her hand closed over the object and she looked up at him. “I thought you said you loved me.”

He nodded at her fist as if plaintively saying, `what's that then?'

“This isn't love.”

“It's all I've got.” He shrugged.

They fell silent and for a moment she stared at the page and the unfinished sentence. The faint grey would look garish paired with the blue. She was sure of it. Nonetheless, she took the pencil between her finger and thumb and pressed the tiny thing onto the page. It made a dull scratching sound on the paper that had a strange lulling effect on her senses. And so she finished the sentence.

And in the end, and without much protest, it slipped past his grasp like water.

She sighed and looked at the line, feeling as if something was missing. He was sitting beside her now. The strong scent of ripe citrus floated through her olfactory senses and enveloped her, much like an arm encircling her waist. He had pulled another clementine from his pocket and had begun tearing away at it in that fine delicate fashion of his.

She put a hand on his arm, fingers smudged with ink and lead. He paused in his work and looked at her steadily, as if waiting for the words to flow, very much like water.

“You love me,” she said in a sort of half question- half statement, and he nodded; his mouth working in an effort to describe how much. And she slipped her hand in his.

“Your fingers are sticky from the orange.”

“Clementine.”

She nodded and he pushed a slice past her lips.