Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
A/N: I thought this would be a kind of interesting place to be…the other side of Goyle. Who knows, to you all it might be silly and stupid, but I liked the idea. Sorry if it's a bit OOC. Tell me what you think, please.
Gregory Goyle was never considered smart. And with good reason. Nor was he ever considered romantic. He responded to love like any five-year-old would; he would wrinkle his nose and stick out his tongue in distaste. Girls were not creatures that evoked lustful feelings in Goyle; he had never known that they should.
And to add to all this, even if he did 'like' girls, that doesn't mean he'd get anything in return. Ask any female, and they will give you a rather routine answer. He was ugly, unfeeling, uncaring, unreasonable, and unthinking. The five Us.
And yet, in the cool autumn night, with the sun drowning in the lake, leaking a fiery red blood into the water, something went against all this preconceived logic. The blackness of night crept upon the unsuspecting, final rays of day; the grass dyed a shadowy blue hue; the wind caressed the castle, holding it close, stroking it in slow bursts of air. And through the halls, her nimble fingers prying into the business of scholars, disrupting a few gaggles of gossiping girls, and sweeping down through the courtyard where the silent Goyle sat. Amiably, the wind ran through his hair, exploring his robes, cooling his hot face. And then she was off, frolicking through the courtyard, a swagger to her movements, sashaying tunefully through the open space; causing a tintinnabulation as she danced through the wind chimes, hanging and balancing gracefully from a window. The cobblestones sensed her presence, feeling her feathery touch as she whispered her thoughts of the boy sitting on the bench.
He was certainly not a great looker, the wind told the stones; his emotions make him quite ugly. They cloud up and cover the naturally beautiful gray in his eyes, they turn his lips into a hollow sneer. But in the dappled moonlight, the piercing luminosity, he was not quite so hideous. His brow is drawn, that is true, his eyes troubled: dark depths of roiling gloom and pinpricks of flashing confusion, like gems in the murky black of his gaze. His shoulders hunch up, like two boulders perched atop his spine; they quiver slightly, in a fearfulness, a physical manifestation of his inward feelings. And yet, the unsightly mass that has come to be known as 'Goyle' can be forgotten when you look at his lips. They seem to smile in a sort of dazed way, but the bliss that is expressed in that simple curving of his mouth is unmatched. A blocky hand comes up to touch those lips, rub them, catch a trace of the sweetness that had been left there.
"Goyle." The gravelly voice of Crabbe drew his comrade's attention up. "Comin'?" he grunted the question.
"In a sec."
"What?" unintentionally, Crabbe cracked his knuckles. To his surprise, Goyle did not join in on the fun. "What's up?"
"She kissed me."
And Crabbe rolled his eyes, pretended to gag, he stalked away, looking back only once to show a last look of disgust at Goyle, before disappearing into the castle.