For the longest time he was the one you hated. The one you mocked, the one you fought. Every memory that makes you flush with anger and clench your fists until the nails cut through your skin contains him. Potter laughing, Potter flying. Potter saving the day for the sixty-seventh time.
He doesn't know it, but his marks are all over your body. A deep nick that never quite healed from the dueling club. A gash from a quidditch match when he blocked your dive and sent you out of control. Then there is the burn curling its way up your leg, commemorating the day he saved you from the flames.
You shake your head, because maybe if you make the world tremble hard enough it will right itself again, and you can simply hate that obnoxious, heroic twat. Like you should.
But the shaking stops and nothing has changed.
Your life, your mind is no longer yours.
It is his.