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I hate him. Look at him. He's the golden boy, even though I'm the blond one. He's everyone's hero, even though he had nothing to do with defeating the dark lord. He's everyone's favorite, even though he isn't really that good at his studies. It's not fair. I'm good-looking, rich, have everything I could want. I hate him. So why do I want him so?

Once in a while I wish I could start over, as if none of the unpleasantness had ever happened, and I could step out of this character I created, the character that isn't the real me. I created it for my father, so he would be proud of his carbon-copy son. I keep it up for Crabbe and Goyle, who would be lost without my direction. Wouldn't they all be disgusted with me if they knew what I really was like? That I like boys? Specifically, that I like the Boy that Lived?

And not just like. I dream of him. I dream of touching him, of kissing him. I dream of doing more as I touch myself. Not that I've done anything at all, it's just my imagination. And this book that I found in an old bookstore, that I keep under my mattress. It had these pictures, of boys... doing things... if I squint I can pretend they look like me and Harry. I've never even kissed anyone. I've never done more than touch myself. And when I do, all I see is him. After, I'm disgusted with myself, swear I'll never do it again, but then I'll see him. See that unruly hair, those intense eyes, that sweet smile-never at me, of course, he reserves his glares for me, but I'm so pathetic I even find those arousing.

And so I stand in the shower, all alone, thinking of him, biting my lip to keep from crying his name, as I stroke faster and faster. I brace myself against the wall, spreading my legs so I can imagine he is behind me, gripping my hips as he drives his cock into me over and over, like the pictures. The pictures don't arouse me any more; not unless I imagine them to be Harry and myself. Only when I have a clear picture in my mind, of Harry taking his clothes off for me, or kissing me, or sliding his hand into my opened trousers can I find my release. And I climax, shuddering, pulsing out my unrequited lust only to watch it drain away as if it never was. As my love for Harry Potter will always have to be; unrequited, unmentioned, impossible. Not in this world, not ever. I have to be cruel to him, to goad him, to taunt him. It's my role, as he has his. We are doomed to play out our parts.

I know I can have any number of girls or even boys; but I don't want them. I want him. I need him. I hate him.