Forenote: Harry's POV; 233-word drabble, quite pointless and written only because I wanted to upload something.

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For Laughing

I used to do it to her, I guess, some years ago. It could sound foolish, and – believe me – I am ashamed, but you can't blame me.

For laughing, that is.

Her earrings are radishes, sometimes; the necklace she wears around her lace is always there, too, and on some occasions turned upside down. She likes to study with a wand in tucked behind her right ear, a long birch thing stuck in that imperfectly blonde mass she says is hair; and she keeps frilly pink tissues tucked in her left sleeve.

Once, I caught her reading the Quibbler from right to left. That knocked a laugh out of the rest of them, and I was not exempt. I mean, it was harmless back then, wasn't it? All of it was harmless. We never jinxed her; we only laughed, and she never said a thing.

She could hear us laugh, though. She turned once and caught us, and the look in her eyes was hazy; for a moment, it wasn't dreamy at all. It was uncertain, and her brow furrowed as if the sight of ridiculing friends was a little weird, but something in her gaze would solidify and it would yield to an expression that actually looked tragic.

You might as well laugh at an angel, I thought then.

Then she would turn back around, as if she had already forgiven us.

-fin.