Epiphany
by Silvia
There is still that point where Harry can look back and say, "There, right there, that's when I knew things."
It's like a fairytale, with crisp white gauze shrouding the fair maidens' faces and lush undergrowth in the forests, and knights with steel lances.
It's sort of like a dream, and then he woke up.
He jumbles with his jig-saw puzzle brain, guessing like breathing, and says, "Oliver," and Oliver looks up. "Do you ever think, do you ever feel like you're some human sized chess piece, always one move behind?"
"Never really thought about it," Oliver says, and he really hasn't. Harry can see it in his eyes.
He can see it every morning, as the sun glints off the glossy sides of their brooms and Oliver turns towards it in pleasant surprise, as if it's the best gift in all the world that it rose for them again. Oliver is so certain it's for him, because the world has always given when he asked for it.
It's as good a reason as any, Harry thinks, to have maybe fallen in love with him.
It'll have to do, he supposes.