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Harry has never understood the concept of a crush. He’s never even experienced seeing someone cute enough to make them catch his eye. He blames this largely on his lack of socialization, because no one Dudley hung around was any more attractive than a toad. Plus, he’s only eleven, and he otherwise blames it on the fact that he hasn’t hit puberty.
Now he’s a little convinced it’s because he was waiting to see this boy . Harry wouldn’t usually describe a boy as beautiful, but this boy is definitely beautiful. His pointed face makes him look a little older, but based on the robes he’s fitting he must be a first year too. His pale skin and the light coming through the window behind him makes him look almost like an angel.
What a cheesy thing to think, Harry.
Madam Malkin ushers Harry onto the stool right beside the boy, and Harry feels like he might spontaneously combust on the spot. That would be particularly embarrassing.
“Hello,” The boy speaks, snapping Harry out of his thoughts, “Hogwarts, too?”
Harry wills his head to move, to nod, his best attempt at casualty, but it’s like he’s frozen in place. The boy is speaking to him. Eventually, after far too long of a pause (the boy probably thinks he’s crazy), Harry manages a meek “Yes”. Luckily, the boy doesn’t seem fazed.
“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street looking at wands,” the boy continues. His voice is unhurried and drawling, as if he knows Harry will hang onto each word anyway. “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully Father into getting me one and smuggle it in somehow.”
It’s the kind of thing Dudley would say, but Harry realizes he doesn’t mind it so much coming out of this boy’s mouth. It’s like he’s been hypnotized, he can’t help but agree with the boy mindlessly.
“Have you got your own broom?” The boy continues, seemingly unbothered by the continuous lack of reply.
“No,” Harry says. He wants to ask the boy to tell him all about brooms, just to hear him talk more.
“Play Quidditch at all?” The boy tries. Maybe he’s a bit bothered by the lack of reply, but Harry can’t seem to formulate a sentence.
“No,” he says again. What is Quidditch? He wants to ask. The words get stuck in his throat.
“I do—-Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you’ll be in yet?”
He talks like an adult. Harry is feeling more and more stupid by the minute, “No.”
“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been—imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” The boy sounds a bit smug when he says it. Harry has no idea what he’s talking about. He just nods anyway.
“Mmm,” Harry hums in agreement, he wishes he had something—-anything—-more interesting to say. He’s almost tempted to use his new found fame to start a conversation. Anything to make this boy actually remember him. Maybe they’ll end up in classes together. He wants to be memorable. But the conversation abruptly ends before Harry can think of anything to say.
“I suppose I may see you at Hogwarts,” the boy says, stepping down from his stool and looking all together quite bored.
Harry nods, and then at the last minute he manages to force out a shy little, “Yeah. Hopefully.”
The boy gives him a quizzical look, nods, and leaves. Harry feels like the biggest idiot alive, and even more still when he realizes he never asked for the boy's name.
In a month's time, they’ll be at each other's throats, and Harry will never admit to it then, but for now Harry is certain that he knows what it’s like to have a crush on someone.