We know about the ten years of uncelebrated birthdays, of hangers and passed down socks, of dirt floor birthday cakes. But don’t forget there was another boy-who-lived: who spent ten years of being compared to parents who would never know him. Another boy-who-lived, spending birthdays in st. mungos closed wards and getting Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum wrappers from a mum who doesn’t even know its her boy, let alone her boy’s birthday. Another boy-who-lived, who at each birthday had family gather and take bets to see whether or not this was going to be the year he’d prove to be a wizard or a squib. Of the boy, who’s happiest birthday was the one that came with a letter telling him he was a wizard, and it was going to get better.
Adults always warn us about being intimate with someone and how that makes us attached and vulnerable. But no, its not just the touch of his skin on me that makes me emotionally invested. Its the feeling I get when I see his smile as I make him laugh. Its the good morning texts, the late night talks and time we spend together. It is the way he bits his lip when hes nervous and gets embarrassed about it. How sometimes, when im lucky he strokes my hair out of my face and hugs me tightly when he has missed me. Its the love letters he has written to me and the way he gets along with my parents. Its him. Its just how he is and how I have fallen so hard for him.