Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
When I was a little girl, I was in love with the Boy Who Lived.
I would crawl into my mother's lap at bedtime and beg her to tell the story one more time, just once more. I remember the countless daydreams that always managed to include me pulling a dangerous stunt, but the savior of the wizarding world saving me just in time. They always ended the same way – my hero would gaze into my eyes and I into his, and it would be love. Needless to say, we lived happily every after.
I'm not a little girl anymore. I'm older and wiser and I know that real people don't get happily-ever-afters. They get what life gives them, and usually it's not much. I know that to know a person isn't the same as knowing them – that friendship is not only just similar interests between people. It's love and loyalty and honesty and faith. Friendship is family.
Once upon a time, I was in love with the Boy Who Lived. I've grown up. I'm no longer in love with the savior. I'm in love with a kind, gentle man who means the world to me. His name is Harry Potter.
People look at him and see the hero. They see the Chosen One, the protector. That's why Harry fell in love with me. When I look at him, I don't see the hero. When I look at him, I only see Harry.
And that's all he's ever wanted.
Author's Notes: Really bad, I know. But I've been playing around with this idea for ages and I wanted to get it out of my system. Hopefully my really-bad-story streak is over and I can get back to writing halfway decent stuff. rambles Anyway, please review!