I don't know what to think anymore. I don't know what to believe. I know you're dead. In my head, I know it. But I can't believe it. And… this is going to sound really stupid, so I'm glad no one else will ever know. I just get the feeling they're not telling me everything. Hermione and Mycroft. More Mycroft, actually. It's not anything he says, just… He's been checking up on me.

And I can't think why he'd bother.

So far as I know, I became useless to him as soon as you stepped off that bloody building.

Hermione still talks about you sometimes like she's going to see you again, and I guess that's normal enough. At first I thought she was just doing it because I couldn't move on to past-tense. She gave me a book about dealing with grief, and one of the things it says is to let people closest to the one who died dictate how they deal with things, letting them move on at their own pace. I thought she was waiting for me, but maybe she's still dealing with it herself. But it's odd. Aside from that, she's been coping better than I have by far.

Sometimes I wonder if she expected something like this, from you.

She knew you longer than I did. She had to know you better.

But I can't bring myself to ask.

The weird thing, though, and the thing I can't let go of, is the paranoid, suspicious thought that maybe… maybe she did expect something. Maybe she's doing it on purpose. Maybe… maybe she knows more than I do.

Well, I just re-read that, and it seems like a dumb thing to say. Of course she knows more than I do. But what I meant was, maybe you're not dead.

And I know I shouldn't believe it, and I know I should just give up hope, because it's just going to hurt more in the long run because you are dead.

It would just be easier to believe that if Mycroft wasn't still paying attention to me.

…

It's Halloween today, and I'm drunk.

I never drink.

But I was with Hermione and the Potters and Harry said he needed a drink, not my Harry, her Harry, because nothing good ever happened on Halloween.

They told me about their war. About their friend Ron, would've been Harry's brother in law. Ginny's brother. He died. One of their best friends. Years ago, now, and they talked about him like he died yesterday, with all the kids running around in the background, being witches and wizards for the day. It was kind of cute, they were so serious about it all.

But Harry and Ginny and Hermione, they were sad, but not…

Like it had been long enough for them to remember the bad things and the good and like they missed him but I dunno. They moved on, I guess.

And it hurt. God, it hurt so bad, hearing them talk about him. I – I really, really wanted to say I understood. I wanted to tell them how I felt about you leaving. How I knew what it was like, losing a part of your life like that. I just… couldn't.

God.

You'd think I'd never known anyone who died before.

But this guy, Ron, they grew up with him. He was closer to them than family.

That's how I feel about you. Felt. Feel.

Fuck this.

Fuck you, and fuck feeling like such a fucking sap all the bloody fucking time over a bloody moron who obviously didn't feel the same way.

If you did, you'd have said something, or I dunno, not killed your fucking stupid self.

I…

I just can't do this anymore.

Fuck.