AN: This is it! My first ever fanfic, so please be gentle. All reviews are wonderful and shiny, even flames. Constructive criticism would be loved above all!

Disclaimer: I am not and never will be J.K.Rowling. However, I will be eternally grateful to her for the creation of my favorite characters.

Of all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these:

"It might have been."

The chink of knives and forks on the golden plates was driving you crazy. So was the medium roar of voices in the Great Hall, especially at your own table. You really need to find less hysterical people to eat with. No…no you don't. You don't need anything except to be right here, sitting next to her.

God, she is beautiful. Especially when she laughs; the way her whole body shakes as she throws her head back and claps her hands, so happy and perfect and beautiful. You love making her laugh. You enjoy making everyone laugh; it's your specialty. They all say how funny you are, how you make everything ironic and nothing too serious. Between zany remarks and wild impersonations, you can lighten any situation.

She is laughing now, but not because of you. Clutching the arm of the man next to her, her boyfriend of several years, she leans across the table. She loves this cluster of people because they all make her laugh, just like you do. Your chest constricts as you watch her, aching with all your desire to be the man whose arm she holds. But you know better. Your friendship with her is purely innocent. She is in love, and for all anyone knows, you see her as just another girl. How could she know the way she makes you feel? How could she imagine what her laugh does to you? Her smile, her eyes, her touch…

Her touch agonizes you; especially the way she hugs you. She will clutch you close, wrapping her arms around your chest, squeezing hard as though you are unbreakable. She will tell you what a great friend you are, pat your arm, and walk away. Other times, the two of you would talk, both animatedly with your hands, and her hand would linger on your knee for a moment. Whenever she pulls away, your skin burns with the memory of her. You can feel the scorch marks on every inch of you.

Tonight, your body is seared. Already smoldering from the hug she used to greet you, you winced when she sat in the chair on your left, bumping her leg against yours as she did so. And maybe you were imagining it – you must be – but she seemed to be knocking elbows with you more than usual tonight, even though the table isn't that crowded. Once or twice, her hand would brush against yours, and you would fight the urge not to jump. Her touches are generating incredible tension tonight, creating such a wall of electricity between you that you could power a metropolis. You dare not cross that wall. Despite her slight caresses you know you will never be able to reach for her.

If you ever were tempted, you need only to look to her left, where the other man in love with her sits. He is the fortunate man, the man who is allowed to hold her. He is the man who is able to kiss her goodnight, and confess his dreams of her every morning. That is the man she follows. But as you watch them together, longing to be that man, you notice that he is longing for her as well. Despite her arm looped in his, there is no wall of electricity between them.

And then her hand is brushing yours, and the wall sparks again. You are reminded of the faint powder scent of her skin and the flowery perfume of her hair. You watch her hand brush a strand of curls behind her ear, while a dimple forms in her right cheek. She really is so beautiful. She turns and looks at you, and before she can realize you were staring at her, you cover with a joke. You quickly cross your eyes and stick out your tongue, earning an appreciative laugh from the table. The conversation resumes, along with the chinks and the clatter.

Then, suddenly, plates are being cleared and people are standing and the crowded table is nearly vacant. You hate this moment. Often, you try to prolong it as much as possible with your jokes and comments, forcing the group into another entertaining conversation. But no matter how many crazy remarks you have, no matter how many laughs you evoke, eventually the time will come when she will leave your side. You fight to suppress that sad smile before it can cross your mouth, but your hand betrays you. You cannot stop yourself from reaching for her as she rises. Your palm rest gently on her fingers, and for a moment you feel all the power, all the heat, all the aching of your love for her.

The moment is brief, but it seems to stretch on and on into eternity while her eyes lock on to yours. Even as she is pulling away, you see it: the sadness in her smile that she can't hide. You realize at that moment every wonder, every doubt, every question you ever had about your love for her was wasted. Her sad smile tells you, as words never could, that she has felt it too. She has asked, and wondered, and doubted, and she has fought in her own way to turn away from you. She knows, as you do, that you can never be together. The sadness fades, and she is back to being the cheerful, wonderful person that you love so much.

As she walks away, you feel the sadness and the longing curl through your body, like a black smoke that fills your organs and settles heavily in your heart. You know at this moment why her smile is so sad. You can never have her.