I can see him, his black hair splayed across a silver pillow, moonlight from the enchanted window falling across his pallid face, casting shadows off his long, hooked nose. He tosses and turns, fighting off the demons that no doubt haunt his dreams.

He is beautiful like this, different. I relish in the fact that no other student has seen him this way. I am the only one that can penetrate his wards.

He moans, furrowing his brow. Even in his slumber this man is never truly relaxed. He is always alert, at the ready. I am surprised he doesn't sleep with one eye open.

The slightest sound would wake him, and even as I approach, his hand twitches, as if ready to pounce on the wand that lies on his bedside table.

There are few, if not none, that would call him attractive, which, when thinking of us (or thinking about the possibility of there ever being an 'us') makes me feel more confident.

I never feel attractive. I am so self-conscious, and the idea that he may never have been propositioned before in his life, makes me feel so much better about myself, and my chances with him.

I think, 'How could someone such as himself ever refuse me, ever refuse anyone?' This is the only reason I ever dwell on my thoughts of him.

But I know exactly how he could refuse me. A 'man of the world', such as himself, must have seen some truly beautiful women in his life. Which means that he must have something to compare me with.

Even he can see I'm nothing special. True, I'm wise beyond my years. The smartest witch to ever enter Hogwarts, I'm told. But what good are brains, when my looks leave so much wanting? I am not pretty. I have seen too many girls who are to know that I am no where near it. I have filled out, over the years, but not much. I can't help looking at myself in the mirror and wishing I had more curves. And then, of course, there's my hair. Oh, god, my hair. The bane of my existence. How could any man be attracted to me? I am, let's face it, a walking, talking, giant frizz-ball.

He would send me away in an instant, with one of those sneers I hate to love, and a scathing remark that wounds me, deep within my soul.

So I withdraw the hand I'd extended, to brush across his cheek, and I take a step back. No, I will not disturb him. I am scared, so scared.

I turn to leave. My feet seem to glide across the floor, not making a sound.

I look back at him, just one more time. I stare at him with longing. I will never see him again, I know, because tomorrow I graduate. Tomorrow, I will walk these corridors, the same corridors that he sweeps along every day, for the last time.

I will leave this school, and never return.

But I will always remember. I will always look back and think of him. The man that could both reduce me to tears in an instant, and make me burn with passion and lust.

There will always be a hole in my heart that I wait, in vain, for him to fill.

I will never forget him: Hogwarts, my, Severus Snape.