It had been simple, the start of it. One moment they were kissing, the next she was crying, and then the moment after that she was crawling into your curtain-drawn bed, cold toes pressed up against your calves.

"Is this alright?" she had asked with a timid voice. And for the moment, you imagined that she had red hair and long legs and yes, it was okay. Her head on your shoulder, her hot breath on your neck, and icicle toes on your calves.

She was gone when you woke up.

The next night she came back to your curtain-drawn bed. Her bushy hair got in your mouth, nose, eyes, possibly even your ears when she shoved her head on your chest. This annoyed you. You consider saying something. But then she shifted and she might have sniffed and you knew that you wouldn't say anything. So you ran a hand through her bushy hair that was in your mouth, nose, eyes, and possibly your ears, and you wrapped your other arm around her shoulder.

She was gone when you woke up.

The third night she came you weren't ready to fall asleep yet. But she had that look in her eye that she got when she was about to cry and you didn't know how to deal with that. So you put your potions book on your night stand and wrapped yourself around her. She held your hand too tightly and her hair was in your face and those toes needed socks, but she fell asleep.

But it was okay, because if you closed your eyes her hair was smooth and red and she was Ginny. And you knew that when she closed her eyes that you were taller and more muscular with red hair and you were Ron.

When you opened your eyes your bed was empty, and she was gone.

It became a routine, with her busy hair and hot breath and cold toes. But you dealt with it because she dealt with you. And maybe if you couldn't have a Weasley you could have at least had each other.

You kissed her head one time. And one time she kissed your chest. You were always good at pretending.

And she was always gone when you woke up.

That summer your small bed at the Dursley's seemed far too large. But you didn't know that. You didn't know what was keeping you awake. Only that you stopped sleeping with socks because your feet were too hot.

And then your life flashed and Moody was dead and you were kissing Ginny for the first time at the Burrow and it was all wrong. And it shouldn't have been wrong. You didn't know what was wrong, only that her hair was too red and too smooth and that her legs were too long.

You blinked and you were on the run. The wizarding world had once again turned its back on you and you knew that you should have been angry about it. And you were angry. You were always angry. But it wasn't because of that. No, you were angry, always so angry, because you had that damned necklace and they were sleeping next to each other and you were alone.

And then you had snapped at her and her face crumpled like she wanted to cry, but you didn't care because you were angry. Then she took the necklace and you felt better. She had always made you feel better.

You could have kissed her when she figured out why Dumbledore left you the sword. But then she and Ron were fighting before you could process your thoughts and then he was gone. And she was crying.

That night she crawled into your bunk, her bushy hair in your face and her little hand in yours and those damned icicle toes on your calf. Sleep came much easier that night, because it had hit you like a ton of bricks that you had missed her. That you loved having a body to hold at night, even if said body had bushy hair and hot breath and cold toes because said body was Hermione. And that your kiss with Ginny was wrong because she had smooth red hair and long legs and, most likely, toes that didn't feel like icicles. And possibly the kiss was wrong because Ginny was just Ginny and not Hermione and you quite possibly with probable cause fancied Hermione.

She was still there when you woke up. And she always came back the next night. And she was always there when you woke up.

One night you danced with her. And she was so pretty and sad and you just wanted to make her smile. That night you kissed her. She had smiled softly and sighed a pretty little sigh, and then she kissed you back.

Her toes were extra cold that night but it was okay because she was Hermione and she was there when you woke up.

You had homicidal thoughts for the first time in your life the night Ron came back. Because he had destroyed the locket, which had been his worst nightmare and your best dream. He had destroyed the locket and came back with that speech about a goddamned ball of light and that dopey smile of his. And you could see the anger melt from her eyes and it made you angry.

That night she slept in the bunk next to Ron's, and you were alone.

She stayed away from your bunk for the remainder of the Horcrux hunt. Sometimes she caught your eye and shied away, as though she was embarrassed about what she had done. And you were angry so you pushed her away while you dreamt about a stone that could bring back the dead.

You blinked again and it was the Final Battle at Hogwarts. She had just destroyed the cup and you were exhausted. And you could have kissed her but Ron beat you to it. You were ready to fight again after that.

And then you watched the memories and saw Snape's love for your mother and you thought that the story sounded awfully familiar. And you found them holding hands after you left Dumbledore's office. You thought that maybe you were luckier than Snape because Ron was your friend, not your tormenter.

And you knew what you had to do. And she knew what you had to do. But when she hugged you because it was goodbye, not because she was yours, your task seemed a lot easier. Because she would never be yours.

So you walked away, knowing that life would be unbearable without the bushy hair in your face, the little hand in your hand, or those goddamn icicle toes of hers.

And when he looked you in the eye with a curse to end your life, you closed your eyes, imagined that soft smile, and embraced the flash of green with open arms.