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Thinking Of You

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He doesn't think of Charity Burbage.

He doesn't think of her preference for coffee over tea, the way she insisted on reading multiple Muggle newspapers every single day, or the way she always passed him the first scone out of the bunch during breakfast every morning. He doesn't think of the way she smiled when he asked why she bothered and she told him that he should start the day off on the right foot.

He doesn't think of how she was always the first one waiting in the staff room for meetings, even when he left early to get there first, solely so he could claim his preferred chair by the fireplace. He doesn't think of how she always saved that chair for him anyway.

He doesn't think of the way her eyes would light up when she got a new Muggle book or electronic or other inanely Muggle item, the way she'd go on about the science and the mechanics or the history and the importance to Muggle culture. He doesn't think about how pleased she'd be when she actually managed to interest him.

He doesn't think of her intelligence, her kindness, her warmth, but most of all, he doesn't think of her, not even when she's suspended in front of him, begging him to help her, reminding him of their friendship.

He stares, and he watches as the Dark Lord kills her, and he thinks of nothing.