I see a light in your eyes.

It's as if you see things no one else can, not even those three who are supposed to be the heroes, the Golden Ones.

I know better. Oh, I know the Trio has abilities, and even a large portion of enthusiasm. But it's not my style; nor, I think, is it yours. We see things differently, although I doubt any light inside me is bright enough to shine like yours.

I have watched you. I began by watching them, jealous and angry that they seemed to get everything so easily. And I saw you, thinking you a part of them for a very long time.

This year is different. I'm not so jealous, and I'm angrier at my father and his Dark Lord than I am at the Trio. My mother and I almost lost everything because of my father's bungling, and it was all I could do not to go to Azkaban and strangle him myself.

And when I walked into the Great Hall for this year's Welcoming Feast, I wasn't so arrogant, so awful anymore, though no one knew that. They all thought I was the same. Except you. As I watched the Trio once again, I saw you sitting a little away from them, distancing yourself. Maybe it was the look on your face, maybe it was the ache in my heart, but as our eyes met, there was a simple but immediate understanding.

Your brother had just cracked what he though was a funny joke, but was really stupid instead; and while the rest of the Gryffs laughed their heads off, you just smirked and rolled your eyes. That was when you saw me. I raised my eyebrows in a question and you nodded. That was all we needed.

Since then, we've spoken volumes to one another, only with our eyes. Not one word has passed between us, although I imagine if we had a conversation, it would be full of wit, irony and sarcasm.

You see Pansy trying to get my attention, and smirk at how hard she's working. I see Colin flashing his camera next to you, and sneer with disdain at his still-strong devotion to The Boy Who Lived. And we both laugh silently at the copy of real life the students and teachers walk through each day.

You and I know real life. Perhaps the Trio and one or two of the professors do, too. But it's the reality of lost innocence that keeps us moving. You lost yours long ago, abruptly, in the Chamber. I lost mine more gradually, watching my father ruin my mother's life, then mine, in the service of a half-blood lunatic. Now, the reality is all we see, and our souls recognise each other across the crowded hall.

One day, I'll come to you, speak your name, touch your hand. Perhaps for a moment, your light will reach out to mine and make it a little stronger. Maybe we'll laugh, or cry, or make love, just so the reality we know will disappear beneath the reality we seek, if only for a moment.

Meanwhile, I am leaving, graduating. And you are staying. I wonder if I'll be able to cope each day without watching you. I'll carry the light from your eyes as long as I can, until it becomes inevitably lost in my real life.

I don't know if it means anything to you, that I see your light; only that if I hadn't discovered it, I would have never felt anything but darkness. And I don't know if you'll remember any of my light, dim as it is, reaching out toward you.

But I hope so. I hope so.