Disclaimer: I own nothing save for the idea that I couldn't shake and….yeah. I am simply a poor college student just trying to push the last 4 weeks until the end of the semester and I can take Summer semester off.

To them, he is the Savior, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-Who-Conquered. To me, he is none of those things. He is simply Mine.

I learned early on not to call him boy or pet. Both caused major negative reactions that would take a minimum of two days, but usually longer to negate. He hated everything to do with his relatives that were to raise him and I could not blame him. Especially not after everything I saw that he had gone through. Occlumency lessons were difficult at first, but they were excruciating after I found out. I had hurt him as well. Not in the same way as those animals, but I had still hurt him.

Yet he trusted me.

He trusted me not to hurt him physically which, at the time, was all he needed. There is a part of me that still feels guilty over when we got together. Not the how, never the how. He needed someone to take care of him, to put him first in all things, and I could be that person – I became that person. But he was only 15. Still a boy. A child. Toddler like in mentality in many ways who had never had a chance to grow up, yet mature and wizened in others that could not be ignored. It just felt right.

It has been a decade since we got together. I still can't call him anything but Mine or, on occasion, his name, but we have never been closer. He sees a side of me that I will never show to anyone else, a side that is caring, emotional, gentle, kind. I see a side of him that he cannot show anyone else.

The world sees him as the Auror, forced to retire early due to a bad run in with a dark artifact that scarred him for life. Someone strong and indestructible: forced into a desk job or a "safe" job because of the physical trauma inflicted on his body.

Yes, he did have a run in with an artifact. Yes, he was mentally scarred, but he could have returned to his job if he had chosen. He asked me, no, begged me, to allow him to stay at home. I would never have refused, especially after his tears. The nightmares he had from childhood and the war were bad enough, but his time as an Auror gave new fodder for his subconscious and there were many times I had considered asking him to turn in his resignation simply for that fact. But I never did, though looking back I should have. He does not struggle nearly to the same extent to just get through a day now that he did then. He relishes in taking care of our home, our meals, our financial dealings. I never would have asked that of him after what the Dursleys had put him through, but it is his chosen place and he thrives. On the days he is feeling claustrophobic, he comes to my apothecary and helps with preparation of ingredients for that days potions or he will assist the Weasley Twins in the backroom of their shop with ideas and experiments. I am grateful for these days, not just for the help, but because I know it is a good day. They are coming more often now, but not nearly as often as I would like them to be.

They see him as eternally in control of all aspects of his life.

I see the lost little boy who, at times, doesn't know where he is or even who he is. He forgets his name, his age, all knowledge of who he is. These times terrify me. I am grateful that he remembers my voice, my touch, no matter how far gone he is. Even when he is slow to recognize me, he does not flinch from me as he does others and I can eventually talk him around with him in my arms or on my lap. I see the man who would come home from the office at least once a week with tears in his eyes and bile in his throat at the things he had witnessed and been forced to do. The man who cares more for any living life than his own, down to the stray animals he takes in, nurses back to health, then finds homes for or keeps if none can be found (currently we have three large dogs, numerous cats and kneazles, a handful of snakes, and a veritable aviary of birds of all kinds that he has found and kept). I cannot begrudge him any sentient life. He is most alive in those moments and often has to be reminded that he needs to sleep and eat in order to take care of them properly. I cannot bear to take away this small bit of happiness, even if it means I must take the allergy potions daily instead of weekly due to my allergies to all furred and feathered creatures.

They see a consummate Gryffindor: bold, brash, loud, and arrogant.

I see a young man who is still trying to find his place in the world. He is shy. He despises crowds and people. He hates any touch by the majority of people. He is soft spoken, a fantastic listener, considerate of others. He is strong-willed and stubborn over many things, but he is willing to compromise and prefers to work with others rather than against them, regardless of their house affiliation (though, to be fair, he prefers to work alone or with one other in silence even more). He thinks before he acts. He takes so many things into consideration before he makes any potentially careless moves. He is paranoid, refusing to let his wand leave his side, even when he doesn't know what it is for during an episode, and checks our wards alarm system at least three times before we retire for the night. He is obsessive about cleanliness and nutrition, constantly worried he is going to turn out as large as his uncle or cousin or as uncouth as his former best friend or as messy as the boys from his dorm. When in his right mind, he exercised religiously, jogging around the perimeter of their rather large property every morning before breakfast (it doubled as time in which he checked to make sure the wards were secure and checked for any injured or sick animals that may have happened to cross into their grounds) and went through a weight routine every other morning after the jog and before his first shower of the day (there was always another just before dinner and, if they made love, one after that as well, no matter what time of day it was).

They see him as all brawn and no brain.

I see the piles of defense manuals and charms text books that he goes through each week. The scholarly journals and essays that he has read and annotated and taken note of. I see him practice and train and study and push himself to the limits, despite not needing to every chance he is able. I see the raven that can hold his own in nearly any discussion on theoretical or practical magic (and can put into practice the practical magic better than most everyone) yet chooses not to flaunt his intelligence, simply wanting to be part to soak up whatever knowledge he could and grow his own foundational base.

They see Harry Potter.

I see Mine. The 25-year-old boy lying asleep, peacefully tonight, in this double bed beside me, curled up in the fetal position, his back to my chest, bare beneath the sheets safe for a pair of soft wool socks on his perpetually cold feet. His hair is even more mussed than it is during the day from my own hand carding through it calmingly. His long, black eyelashes standing in stark contrast to his fair skin (despite his love of and copious amounts of time spent outdoors). I see the shattered and pieced emeralds that they frame, see the hurting and resilient soul that hides behind. I see him. The good, the bad, and everything in between. I see him – just Harry – Mine.