You were never the brightest boy, but that was okay because neither was Vincent. Even when you found some semblance of a friendship with Malfoy, the two of you were still misfits, little more than Draco's big, stupid bodyguards. But that was okay. Vincent was there.

Vincent understood you. He loved you and called you perfect when everyone else said you were a troll. Maybe you didn't like to show emotion, but his words touched you, gave you hope, and you swore one day you'd tell him so. But you never did.

And now he's gone, and you've grown old and grey. You've married a nice pureblood witch and made your family happy. But, fifty years later, your face wrinkled with time, you're still alone. Even if you have her, she isn't Vincent. She doesn't call you perfect. She doesn't understand.