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I'd fantasise about the things I'd say to you. How I'd sweep you off your feet with the confidence of a man I know I'm not.
The man in my dreams will make you laugh, make you swoon and flutter your lashes prettily. He'll have the nerve to tell you he thinks you look beautiful today, though, in truth, you look beautiful every day.
He'll take you out somewhere perfect, because he'll know exactly what you'd want to do and won't hesitate to make the offer. He's exactly the man you need at your side, the perfect partner, the perfect man.
But I'm not that man.
I can't make witty remarks that make you giggle without thought. I can't tell you that everyday with you is a pure joy, or that I only look forward to waking up each day because I know you'll be there, eagre to bombard me with the latest things you've learned after another long night in some dusty old library.
I can't tell you that I find you at your most beautiful when your heads stuck in a book, head tilted slightly, nose scrunched up in a way you'll no doubt deny ever happens.
These things I can't do, either because I've spent my life lacking in most forms of affection even from those charged with raising me, or because I simply can't bring myself to believe any of it would actually work and won't leave me blushing in embarrassed rejection.
I was there when you were coming to terms with your feelings for my best friend. I held my own for you clenched tightly in the deepest part of me. I knew I could not be the right man for you, so I settled with being the shoulder to cry on when he said something or did something that hurt you, even when I wanted to throttle him and steel you away myself.
I was there when you and he shyly admitted to being together, as if seeking my approval. I wanted to tell you then and there that he wasn't right for you, that I could give you everything you could ever want or need and that I'd cherish you in ways they wrote stories about.
Instead, I smiled and told you both how happy I was and felt my heart break a little bit more every time I saw you holding hands or sharing a kiss.
It got easier after a while. I learnt to ignore the heartache and eventually I was able to see you together without wanting to tear something (or someone) apart.
And then the inevitable happened...
He broke your heart.
And yet again I was there, a pair of arms to hold you and an ear to listen as you told me about how you'd caught him with some Ravenclaw girl after a quiditch game.
Even days later after you'd ended things with him and seemed to hide yourself away from the world, I could not tell you that I loved you.
Everyone else seems to know but you, if the sympathetic glances and consoling looks are anything to go by.
We spend time exclusively in each others company from that point on, sitting in dark libraries until late at night, going for walks around the lake, sometimes we just sit in comfortable silence, just glad to be in the company of someone we trust.
Now I sit across from you some months later in the Great Hall, listening as you go on about some thing new you'd learnt.
I've been losing sleep these past few days, not that I've told you, constant worries about Voldemort and Sirius plaguing my thoughts and robbed me of any sleep. I blame this for what happens next, my lack of sleep seeming to bring about a mild case of cuckoo that has me reaching over and placing a finger awkwardly on your lips mid lecture.
"Gooutwithme?"
It comes out a jumbled mess and I'm sure you don't understand a word of it. But instead of retreating and laughing it off, the insanity enduced confidence seems to dig a little deeper and I clear my suddenly dry throat.
"This valentines I mean, go out with me?"
Your eyes widen in shock and I pull my hand back, feeling the confidence rush out of me and be replaced with a nauseating fear that I'd just messed everything up.
"Y-you, I mean -"
But then a wide smile breaks out across your face and your eyes light up in joy and I feel all the exhaustion blown away in its light.
"Of course I'll go out with you Harry"
And suddenly all the fears and anxieties I'd had over the years seemed to have been meaningless.
I didn't need to be the guy in my fantasies, I just needed to be me. Awkward, hopeless me.
And for you, apparently, that was good enough.
It was no declaration of love, but it was a start.
It was the first step... the hardest step.