Fifth year; she's growing up. Still not old enough, but growing closer every year. I see her watching me. Hoping for a chance. Waiting. She has not yet disappointed me.

She knows it's frowned upon.

She's a prefect; nearly perfect. For me, anyway, besides the age gap. I blush to imagine anyone should discover her secret, or worse, mine.

No one questions her admiration; it's only natural for an overachiever to watch and defend her favorite teacher. But for me, it would be unnatural. So I wait. I hide it better than she does.

Someday, love, prefect of my heart.