Chapter Text
Hannibal
Will is, that is, I think, he might be—
I am considering the possibility of friendship.
There. I said it. Written out it seems foolish, and yet not. I, as you know, had not thought this to be a possibility by any stretch of the imagination. Content as I am with who I am, with who everyone else is in comparison.
And yet.
I’ve found myself looking forward to our hours together, to a sudden ruffle of drooping plumage and an offer to watch the quidditch match, or to study, or to simply walk along the grounds. Sometimes Bev joins us, I admit, she too has grown on me, though I would not yet apply to her the label I am considering for Will. Even just thinking of both of them, pondering side by side, I see a clear differential in my affection. And it is more than my curiosity, I think I have to acknowledge this now, though it would be simpler if I did not. I remain entirely intrigued with the higher functioning of his magic and his mind, what it could do, how I might use it, do not mistake me. But it is simply; I do not know. I wish to see him, I am happier when I am with him than without. Even when he is messy or crass or silly, even then—and I have no explanation for it.
Dangerous, you say? I must agree. I know better than this. I have learned these lessons; investing, hurting, disappointment. But I am loathe to deny myself, this you know also, now that I have had a taste and found it largely more satisfying than being alone.
My friend Will, then, maybe.
It seems to roll off the finger. I imagine it would off the tongue as well. Perhaps someday.
H.L.