He was always such a ladies' man, breaker of hearts, keeper of dreams. A bit like myself, but he was different, in that he couldn't give his heart to just one person. But we all knew he'd fall eventually. One day, there would be someone who could keep up with him, who could challenge him where no one had before. And we all knew that when he fell, he'd fall hard.

And he did.

She was a tomboy of sorts, who flaunted the rules and yet still managed to be the apple of the teachers' eyes. An anything you can do, I can do better sort of girl. Lovely thing, though she didn't know it. And he fell for her, head over heels, after six years of looking at her but not seeing her.

Why did he have to fall for my girlfriend?

I loved her, I really did. And she loved me too, but not as much, I think. Or at least not as much as she loved him.

It took her a while to notice his attention. I, of course, noticed it right away, and warned him off. He was my best friend after all, and she was off limits to him. Completely, totally, absolutely off limits. Did that deter him? No.

I knew the precise I lost her to him. She was no longer comfortable in my embrace, slightly stiffened as I kissed her goodnight. A slight hesitation as she hugged me, as if we no longer fit together. But I held on, hoping I was wrong.

I wasn't. Within the week she broke up with me. On friendly terms of course, but her reason for the separation was vague. She said that we weren't working, that we didn't have as much fun as we used to. I knew the real reason though. It was that she loved him more than me.

About a month later, they finally announced themselves as a couple. My heart tore that day, but not all the way. It was repairable, but not easily. And yet, I couldn't find it within myself to be mad at them. They were perfect for each other, they really were. It was just misfortune to love her.

I was his best man when they got married. I couldn't look either of them in the eye at the reception without feeling that it should have been my wedding, that I was the one who was supposed to be getting married.

But I wasn't.

The names on the gravestone burn into my eyes like a brand that glows red hot. James and Lily Potter. Potter. It should have been Black! Black, not Potter. Harry was supposed to be my son, not James'. Mine.

And yet, I can't begrudge them of their love. He was my best friend, and she was the only thing I ever wanted and couldn't have. And they belonged together.