No one sees you like I see you. They all look at you and see this big hero and I see a scared little boy who still has no idea what to do with his life. They see what they want to see and I see what's really there. I like what I see, as much as it would have once pained me to admit it. You grew up nice, Potter. You're still short, but you're long and lean and tan and fucking beautiful. But you still look so scared all the time. I see you at all these events, always alone, looking like a lost dear. It is so endearing. You invariably catch my eye from across the room and we raise our glasses in silent acknowledgement. I know and you know that no one else can know about this.

It doesn't bother me much. The media noses into your life and tears every little decision you make into a thousand pieces. You became an Auror to much applause, but ever since, the Prophet has been railing you about your lack of action in this instance and your overreaction in this one. They have no idea how difficult it is so attempt to catch a Dark wizard, let alone succeed. They have no idea how hard it is for me to watch you scream in your sleep. They don't know how badly it killed you inside to realize that the baby Weasel wasn't for you. They just talk about how you broke her heart and how you've since left a string of other women sobbing in your wake. They don't know that there haven't been any other women since her. It's just been me. They don't fucking know.

They don't know that your body shudders when your collarbone is bitten. They don't know that your eyes will flutter closed when a tongue is drawn slowly, slowly down your torso. They don't know that your back arches up when cool air is blown across the wet trails that tongue leaves across the smooth planes of your stomach. They don't know that nails raked sharply down your back will make you gasp and they don't know that you will come extremely hard when your hair is pulled. They don't know that you like to surprise your secret boyfriend with blow jobs in the shower. They don't know that you like to mark me, growling out the word 'mine' as your teeth worry my sink. They will never know.

They won't get to ever see you in your most glorious state, with the sunrise shooting your hair, your long, tan fingers twisting through my pale ones. They won't ever get to see you on your knees before them, hollow cheeks and bedroom eyes, pulling everything out and putting it all on display. They will never see you bent over and completely exposed, ready and waiting for me. They will never get to see your face when you come, your ankles on my shoulders, hands spread out, bunching in the sheets. They will never get to see you sigh and melt back into the mattress after I pull out of you. They will never see it.

They'll always see you as The Boy Who Lived. I'll always see you as so much more.