I'd been up too late last night playing the muggle's game Nintendo Wii. It's just too dang on addictive. Caroline is too good of a player. We were palyihng tennis until nearly six-thirty in the morning. So I could'nt go home. Well, I could have, but since I lived a couple of miles off and could barely stand, let alone walk, that would have meant me going through the whole I'm-a-wizard thing and I wasn't entirely certain that I wanted to go through that story yet. Instead I crashed on the couch while she rushed off to her early-morning class at university. I will never know how she manages that every other weekend without one potion or another. All Caroline ever needs is a cup of coffee and -bam!- insta-wake.

I don't wake until about three o'clock. I know Lina would be back from class and in bed until she has to leave for her four-thirty class, so I scrawl a note for her on the refridgerator and Disapparate. I arrive home one severe stomach drop and a split-second later. Walking in the door I see a mess of paper on my counter spilling onto the floor, either balled, shredded, or wrinkeled as if balled then flattened back out. I didn't have to look to know that you would be on the couch either asleep or crying. A look at your face tells me that you did indeed cry yourself to sleep and I didn't have to look at the papers to know that something happened with Draco.

Of course.

I told you all through Hogwarts to keep your mind off of him, to put Draco Malfoy behind you. I still tell you that. You can do so much better than him but you steadily pretend that he's the only one, the best one for you. But I have to disagree. Anyone you chose woyld be better than Draco Malfoy. Even a bum off the streets. He would he faithful, he would appreciate you. He would care for you. Malfoy doesn't. Draco Mayfoy only cares about himself. Period. Yet you refuse to see it. Or rather, you see it, you just pretend not to care. And when something happens, you end up here, with me who you call your best friend, your caretaker, your knight.

You have no idea how true I wish that was.

And I hate it. I hate when you call me your knight in shining armor in that joking manner and return to his arms. I hate when you cry into my t-shirt, yet pretend not to care when Malfoy's around. I hate that you ask me to keep you company when he's gone, yet you call him a million times until he returns. I hate that you need me, but want him.

Sometimes I hate you. But those moments are so fleeting, and I feel so ashamed afterwards that I can't even think of you without attacking myself like a house-elf. You make me so erratic sometimes, and I can't tell if I like it or not.

I love you, alright? I love you but I rather not face it because if I do, I'll want to rip that so-called boyfriend of yours to a million pieces, want to destory every cell and atom of his being for every tear that you shed over him, every tiny, insignificant hurt that he caused you. If I face it, I'll want to kidnap you and take you somewhere far a way until you realize that you do too, that you will too, if you only took the time to pay attention.

I love you. And I will give you a world of chances to prove it. But I'll only be here for so long. Because being second place is the worse in the world. I'm so close, yet I can't move past the one in first. I can't go foreward. And being in second place in a no-contest race...

I grab the blanket I keep in the coat closet specially for this occasion. It's your favorite. I remember you said that when we went shopping to furnish my place. It's black and spotted with stars, the five-pointed ones we draw and the ones in the sky that look as if someone got tired of actually trying and just splattered paint evey where. It feels itchy to my skin, but you curl up under it all cozy-like that I wonder why it doesn't feel as soft as sikl. And as I lay the blanket over your dejected pose, you somehow sense me and grab the hem of my shirt.

"Astoria," tumbles from your lips, a whisper and barely audible. "He... couch...Asori... ah..."

So that was his target this time. Two months ago it was Hannah Abott and you were in my yard blasing holes in the ground. I now have three shallow ponds from that bout. Eight months ago it was Millicent Bullstrode. You spent the weekend with me in London and broke out in tears whenever you heard "cent," or any form of the word, "walk." I still suspect that you were the reason she fell down that flight of stairs when we saw her at the library. I pat the back of your hand then smooth away your hair before taking up my usual spot on the floor right beside you.

Yeah, a world of chances.