Do you know what's happening or do you care? It was different you know, different from when Ron does it (just because he knows that just because you're better than he is means that you're evil and you're not his brother anymore) it was different because I'd never even properly gotten a chance to know you and you already thought I was a stuck-up prat. And that hurt, Harry, because I hadn't even had a chance to give you a reason to hate me.
I could, you know. I once thought carefully on it and realized that, given the inclination, I knew exactly the things to say to make the only people that can stand me suddenly wish I were dead. I could plan it out so that I'd have no love left within a day. It scared me and I know I'd never do it, but it wouldn't be hard. I don't know why I keep that in mind. It scared me, Harry.
I once tried to tell you a secret, you know. I just started telling you why I have to say things out loud because inside my head everything's disorganized, and it can't be filed away in little places (and that scares me too but I tried not to let on) and then you just looked at me with that confused expression and I felt bad for saying what I felt, and I hate that because it's what always happens after I say something. But not even I can help it, Harry, everyone has to explain themselves to you because something in your face just asks for it. (Haven't your aunt and uncle told you not to look a gift horse in the mouth? You can't always get what you want, if you try sometimes. You can't get what you need. Can you teach me about your old world, Harry? We could trade. Your old world for mine, I don't want it anymore.)
Your face would make a lot more sense to me if it were labeled, but I have a feeling to do that I'd have to take you apart, and the thought of that scares me because I can actually think it. Faces are made up of so many layers though. There's the layer of skin, then muscle then bone with all the little squishy bits mixed in. Some people can read the shiftings of all those pieces easy as anything, and I never could. Even tea leaves have a science if you look hard enough, but people are unpredictable and so am I, and it would be so much easier just to tell you that I'm scared.
They call you a messiah, Harry, but to be a messiah you have to die and I happened to notice you're not dead yet. You're not a savior, just a boy who lived, a man said once, but the name kind of stuck in a different fashion. Is that what I see in you? Simply a boy that happened to not die just yet? Is that why I think about you so much? I know if anyone knew they wouldn't approve. I know I don't.
Why does everyone love you, I wonder. (Because they do, at the first sight of that lightning bolt, and in that way I'm certainly no better.) It's not physical attractiveness I think, I never really noticed the color of your eyes or the shape of your body until the third time I saw you and I loved you before then, so that can't be it. I think it's in your face and the fact of your survival. Survival is universal, isn't it? It's appreciated. I don't know exactly what I found in you, because I don't care for faces and not for survival either some days. (But don't worry, I ignore those days just like I ignore it when you and Ron laugh. I ignore it when you're mocking me too, most of the time, except when I ignore it so much I hear every word. I wonder how you manage to ignore me.)
It's not like I'm obsessed with you or anything, I know I'm not, because I like all the same things I used to and have all the same goals I've dreamed of and I still have them even though people spit on them and the only difference is that you're a part of my world now and you're one of the ones spitting. I tell myself that you don't know me so of course you don't know any better and then I find myself thinking that's exactly why you haven't got the right. Is this love? I know that you don't love me and I don't expect you to, but this strange thing I don't have a name for is still here. Is it love if I'm only hurt by you? Strange that you have all this power over people and are loved by so many and love so few, because of course you can't love them all and I'm one of them. Strange that I can think you're exactly what I need and exactly what would destroy me at the same time. You're a double edged sword (hanging from a thread over my head) aren't you Harry? I know all this and still can't understand anything about you. I want to…
I don't like thinking the things I do. I don't like how my brain can work without me telling it to. I don't like thinking I know I love you because I kill you in my head every day.
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Intended point of view is Percy's. Bastardized lyric-ing from the Rolling Stones. This was basically an experiment on my part, and I'm not sure I implied all I meant to imply, or made it make sense at all…. Please, let me know what you liked or didn't like, and what can be improved. Thanks for reading!