I hate him. Hate everything about him. His group of friends, the natural talent that I've been left without, that stupid scar on his forehead. It looks so out of place there. A white blotch on a tanned face. It's wrong, and I can't help but wish He'd never put it there.

I hate his friends. Bloody Gryffindors; up their own asses, the lot of them. Hermione Granger, the most infuriating know-it-all in history, I'm sure. Father once said that knowledge is a virtue that we should all aspire to; I would never contradict him, not to his face, but I'd rather live in ignorance than transform into Granger. How he puts up with her, I have no idea. She looks down on him, on both of them. Thinks that because they don't constantly have their noses in a book that she's better than them. I hate her for that. She has no right, no right at all to look down on him after all he's done.

I hate that Weasley makes him laugh. Makes him smile when I can't. That they share that bond that only best friends can, when the only feeling that he can spare for me is a half-hearted dislike. They share secrets, experiences, holidays, a bedroom, a connection that I could never even hope to forge with him. And I hate Weasley for that. It's not because of his family, or his shabby robes, or second-hand books. It's because he gave Ron Weasley his friendship when he refused to even shake my hand.

I hate that he saves everybody. Everybody but me. I'm drowning without him, but he won't even cast me a spare glance. I'm nothing to him. Not good enough to be a true friend. Not bad enough to be a true enemy. Nothing. A meaningless distraction. And it hurts. It shouldn't. I know it shouldn't; he'd supposed to be the one that's beneath me. Not the other way around.

I hate that I don't understand him. He's a mystery. I don't know how he can still force himself to keep on going after everything that the world's thrown at him. I wish he wouldn't. I wish he'd admit that it's too much, and just give in. But he won't. He won't because that's not who he is, and because the whole of the goddamn wizarding world's depending on him. He has to keep going. And he will.

I hate that they won't let him be. That everyone's so obsessed with him. They'll kill him, one day. The pressure. The expectations. He'll collapse under it, and they'll call him a martyr. They'll never admit that they pushed him. Pushed him to the edge of his abilities, until he couldn't hold them up anymore. Couldn't keep them save.

I hate that I watch him. That I can't take my eyes off of him when we're in the same room. He's enchanting. Everything about him. The way his walks, speaks, thinks. It's amazing, and I can't allow myself to think too hard about what he's been through. What everyone else has forced him to go through, because if I think about it I'll get too angry, and something bad will happen to them.

I hate the look that's trapped in his eyes. It's been there since Black died, last year. Someone should help him wipe it away, but his friends are too pig-headed to even notice the pain he's in, and he won't let me close to him. It's my fault, really. If I hadn't been playing up to the Slytherin stereotypes and my father's expectations when we first met, I could have helped him already. I could have saved him, the way I long for him to save me.

I hate that I have to trade insults with him.

I hate that he doesn't think about me.

I hate that he's not in love with me.

I hate that I'm in love with him.