|The flowers were riotously organic, bursting from between the volumes in a tumble of pink.
I attempted to parse the incongruity. (Carrel #11: Granger. Romantic holiday. No known admirers.)
Behind me, a startling thud. I turned to see my own face peering around the stacks.
(Another Hermione? Time turner... Very expressly forbidden!)
"Look, I know it's against the rules" (almost-my voice). I resisted backing up as she approached. "But I know what you really want for Valentine's Day."
One breath feathered against my lips, and then I was being kissed. Tasting the shimmer of time (forever turning me into her).
|I didn't conceive of wanting myself until I watched her find the bouquet. With memory as my Rosetta stone, I could translate every thought written across her forehead, cheekbones, jawline, spine.
(My consternation is beautiful.)
I had toppled the book by accident before I recalled the noise.
(My eyes wide and riveted: I know exactly how you feel.)
I did it because I had already done it. Because it's not a day to be alone. But as I took a step toward her desire bloomed under my sternum, hungry to read my experience on the surface (from the outside in).