The world hates me. The universe, in its entirety, has plotted in that cosmic way it has, plotted to make me miserable. I can never pray for happiness, because it will never come. The most I can hope for is contentment.

It has to be the truth; the world has to against me. Why else would Ron look at me that way, his eyes so soft and loving? Why else would Neville quickly and silently scan my body every time I made an appearance at breakfast? And why else, why else would I be this mutant that I am, this freak? The world is out to torture me, slowly and painfully.

Ron's smiling at me now, a nervous smile, a welcoming smile. I pretend not to see it, not to notice, but he doesn't stop. Harry laughs to himself, watching his best mate stumble over words, trying to banish that red creeping up his cheeks. Harry knows I hear Ron's words, he shoots me those looks, those meaningful looks. He wonders why I don't talk to Ron, why I feign oblivion.

Harry knows I'm not that stupid, he knows how aware I am of everything, always. He knows how much it pains me to have Ron acting like this, to have Ron fancy me. He just doesn't know why. I don't know why.

I hear the whispers of Lavender and Parvati at night. They giggle and move and talk and just act like two teenage girls. And always, always at night they play the same game.

"Seamus'll ask you out any day, I know he will, Lavender. And then you'll finish out the rest of your years at Hogwarts together, that's right. And on graduation, he'll propose in the sweetest way, on one knee like he's supposed to. And you'll grow old together, and have two little Irish children, one boy one girl."

"And tomorrow we'll go down to the common room, and there will be Dean. You'll glide down the stairs, Parvati, and before you reach the landing, Dean'll rush over and whisk you off your feet, leading you into the future where you'll spend many years together. He'll propose, years from now, in such a romantic way, roses will be surrounding you. We'll have a joint wedding, we will."

They whisper of love, of futures. They whisper of not just their own lives, but of others, but of mine.

"Hermione's meant to be with Ron. Or Harry. She probably already is."

"Of course, how could she not be? Hermione's going to grow up and marry one or the other."

"Sh, quiet, she'll hear you."

And they giggle. Over my life, my love. They don't know, they don't see.

Harry's talking to me now, that tentative smile on his face. Ron's gone, no where in sight. Harry knows me, knows whom I'm searching for. And he stops talking, pauses and when he starts again I hear him clearly.

"He's gone to the pitch, Herm. He's hurt."

I nod slowly. I know he's hurt, I know I hurt him. His fancying me causes him more pain than joy, which rips at my insides. If only it would stop.

"I've got to go down to the pitch, not long until the game. Will you be there?"

Oh course I'll be there, I love watching. I love the thrill I get just seeing the blurring figures on brooms. I haven't missed it yet, and I never will. Not for the world that hates me so. Harry's standing up, leaving the table. Just as his back turns, I stop him.

"I love him, Harry, I do. I love him so much. But I love you too. And that love, that love is the same."

Harry's nodding and then he turns away from me, and walks out of the Great Hall. I sit there clutching the letter in my hand, the letter from Mum. She fills these letters with questions, questions about Harry and Ron, questions about boys. Questions about the boyfriend I should have, that I don't have.

I rip the letter up. I'll say it got lost, the owl never delivered it. And then I'll head down to the pitch, to watch the game. Watch the flying figures, one in particular. And I'll sit next to Ron, cheering with him.

Next to Ron all the while watching another.