Shift ☆ Louis Partridge

1 | Trouble

☆

[y/n]

—

I FELL IN LOVE IN SEPTEMBER.

It was in the Fall, September 23rd, when the leaves weren't fully gone from the trees, and the birds were still roaming the streets like they usually did. Harmony—if you could call it that—but it was normal at the very least. Well, until the moment my life went spiraling downwards without control.

I could barely remember anything, but I remembered crashing into my living room, desperate for a break. There was a click of a remote, the flash of a red letter on the telly, a rush of a bicycle, a speeding train, a girl who loved mysteries, a bag falling to the floor, and then there was him.

Louis Partridge.

Or, well, Tewksbury. He had bribed a porter to smuggle him onto the train, and as soon as he sawed himself out of the stuffy, ol' bag, I remember falling off my couch and hitting my head on the coffee table. He was pretty. The kind of pretty that shouldn't exist, because it makes absolutely no sense how someone could ever look so effortlessly beautiful in a world full of self-doubt and insecurities. But somehow, I fell in love with him.

Not real love, I don't think, but admirable love.

I don't know him personally, knew I'd never meet him, and yet I found myself scrolling through my phone with his name Googled into my device. I'm not sure what I was searching for, but I still haven't found it. I'm just as stuck on him as I had been that first day I saw him through the screen.

But no, I'd never meet him.

Though I could barely close my eyes without daydreaming of it.

"Just give it a try," Monica said, dragging a swipe of clear polish over her nails, "I shifted yesterday and snogged Harry Potter."

I looked up from my pile of homework, furrowing my brows in disbelief. I'd let myself start zoning out for what felt like the millionth time, but I had my excuses—my friend was terrible when it came to talking about things I found interesting, because her vocabulary was centered around 'boys' and 'cute boys' and 'the occasional girl, but still boys'—and I could barely hear about romantics without wanting to cringe.

It wasn't real, I was sure of it. I just had a simple crush on a celebrity now and then, but then I'd be back to my sideways, lonely, and #neverbeenkissed life. The usual.

I gave her a sideways glance of disbelief. "Did you really?"

Monica grinned. "He's a good kisser."

"Funny," I mumbled, "I distinctly remember him screwing up a kiss with Cho Chang in the Room of Requirements. Are you sure you snogged the same Harry?"

The girl, who was donned in various Slytherin apparel that she bought online, gasped horrifically. Her short black hair nearly fell into her eyes when she did so, but she shook it off to the side in spite. Never doubt Monica Bernstein, she'll go berserk.

"Don't make fun of me," she snapped, chucking her bottle of nail polish at my head, "I scripted him to be different."

"What's the point of having him if you change him anyways?" I shot back, ducking the blow.

"It's the thought that counts," she argued.

"And it's my thought that counts yours as ridiculous," I frowned, wincing when the nail polish crashed against my desk, "please stop bothering me about this, I'm trying to finish my project."