Written for the Happy Birthday, Harry Potter! challenge set by KeepCalmAndWriteSomething.
Sometimes, if he thought assiduously, he could almost imagine she was there with him. Before he even knew what his mother looked like, Harry had built a picture of her in his mind. She'd have the most prepossessing eyes he'd ever envisaged, and she'd have amiable smile ever seen in a person.
When Harry has finally found out what she really looked like, she was everything he wanted and more. Her red hair flowing down her back like a mythical water fall, her skin was almost a match to his and her eye brows were almost always raised in a stern but joking way.
Although he couldn't remember the benevolent and maternal hugs they would have undoubtedly shared, he wondered how it would feel like to embrace his mother. Would she stiffen at the touch of her only son? Would she chuckle and surround him in her welcoming arms? Would she kiss him on the forehead and whisper comforting and caring things? Harry supposed he would never know...
Implacable coldness filled him when Harry thought about how he couldn't remember any nice things about her. Sure, he'd heard tales of her good willed nature and her sweet as honey laugh but he didn't remember anything except that fateful night. His cold laughter, his shouts, his curse. His mother's screams... Voldemort had ruined everything. Having a mother was Harry's birth right, having a child to love and cherish was his mother's birth right. Voldemort has shattered that.
He thought it wasn't possible for his heart to heart as much as it did now. It felt as if it had been ripped out of his rib cage, torn apart and inadequately stitched back together again. There was a hole in his heart, a mother shaped hole that could never be filled again, not even by the kind hearted Mrs Weasley.
So as he laid uncomfortably on his bed, watching the single candle flicker feebly in the darkness that surrounded them, he thought about his mother-like every year-wishing that she was here next to him, sharing the slightly moody cupcake that he'd probably be forced to eat.
"Love you, mum." He said, as he exhaled a large breath.
The weak flame extinguished and Harry was left, once again, alone.
This was how he spent his birthday. Wishing that he had a mother. The worst kind of celebration.