I sit at the foot of my bed and fiddle with the strings at the end of my scarf. I play back everything in my head, her laugh, her smile, that moment when we accidentally brushed hands, I am not a romantic, and I am not a good person. I don't have the slightest idea why a girl like Hermione would want to be friends with someone like me, if our house colors weren't reason enough, our differences were. I still remember our first few years here, all the times I called her names and put her down, all the times she brushed it off like it was nothing and just sent me a warm smile. Pure kindness. She's unlike any other. She doesn't mind the stares we get in Hogsmeade, she actually wants to spend time with me, whether it be in the library or walking through the forest. She listens to me, I find myself actually wanting to talk, wanting to tell her all these personal things that I don't ever say out loud, and I want to hear what she has to say, even if they are things I know nothing about, like books, or that band she likes. I find myself hanging on to every word she says…and there are these moments, where I just want to lean in and kiss her, but I'm not sure how she'd react, she's too important to me, I don't want to ruin what we have. I can't believe this is our last year, time is making fools of us again. She will go off and do great things, probably marry Weasley. But me…I have no idea what I'm going to do. I am no longer a death eater, and nobody is prouder of me than Hermione, but in a weird, sick, twisted way I miss it. I miss the sense of purpose. What purpose will I have in a month? Where will I go? What will I do? Who will I be?
If I could just be with her, that would be my purpose. Making her happy. I would try my damn best every day for her. I would give her anything she wanted, help her however I could. I owe her that, but does she want it? That's the question, and I don't think I'll be able to live with myself If I don't get the answer.
