I.

"Tell me something," she says. You look up from the mug of tea she's just handed you, surprised by the suddenness and directness.

"What?" you ask, always a step behind. She smiles encouragingly. That wonderful smile that warms you more than the fires she creates in the jam jars.

"Tell me something about yourself. Something I don't know," she says, bringing the tea closer to her face, tilting her head and looking at you, and for a moment you've lost all words.

"Y-you know everything," you say, still shaken by this girl in front of you.

She laughs. "I don't know everything. It's impossible to know everything."

Yes, you think to yourself. Clearly, she can't know everything. She doesn't know what goes through your mind when you look at her, she doesn't know that you want to kiss her right now. She doesn't know that what you want more than anything in the world is to keep her safe.

"Okay," you say slowly, wondering what you should let bubble to the surface. You're scared that if you tell her one thing, the rest won't be able to stay hidden and pretty soon you'll be telling her everything you've ever thought about her. And then you'll ruin everything and scare her away because you won't be able to keep anything in. She has that affect on you.

She looks at you expectantly, her large brown eyes focused on nothing but you, and you marvel at the perfection of this moment.

"My first memory is sitting in the shed with my dad," you say, looking down at the tea in your hands instead of looking into her face. "He was trying to fix a radio; it took him all summer because he didn't really understand how they worked. He tried to get us all to help him fix it, spend time with us, I don't know. No one wanted to do it because the shed was hot and it was summer and it was more fun to be outside playing Quidditch than stuck in the old shed listening to dad rattle on about mad Muggle inventions," you say. You're rambling, but you know she'll understand.

"But you stayed with him?" she asks softly.

You nod, still not meeting her eyes. "I sat on the worktable while he worked on the radio, and for the whole summer, all of his attention went to me. It was like there wasn't anyone else, it was just us, fixing that broken old radio," you say, smiling. You look up, and she has tears in her eyes.

"Did you fix it? Did you fix the radio?" she asks, staring unblinkingly at you, so deep you feel raw and open because you know she's seeing something else.

You glance at the radio on the kitchen table, which emits static and the odd word or phrase. It doesn't work properly, but in a sense it does. It brings hope, it brings something that they all need to find in their dark little tent.

You smile. "Yes," you say. "It works perfectly."