For Harry, on His 16th Birthday

Or: A Different Sort of Love Letter


My Dearest Harry,

I love you. I love your little nose, and your little mouth, and your little fingers that clutch at my hair while I'm trying to feed you and you just won't cooperate. I love the little tuft of hair sprouting, like a clump of pitch black grass, from the middle of your head. I love your toes, and how every so often you'll wiggle them, then laugh quietly to yourself at the profound discovery.

I love the way you coo when your father comes home, and when he picks you up and swings you above his head so he can look in your eyes and remember exactly what it is that we're trying to save. I love the way you can always bring a smile to his face, even on the worst days. Even though he's never said it, he loves you too, more than anything.

I love how calm and docile you are when there's company. (I would love you, by the way, even if you weren't.) I love how, when Sirius comes over, all he wants to do is lie down and hold you, the sweet, sleeping baby, to his chest. I love you for not complaining… most would. I love the way you laugh when Remus tickles you under the chin, and the way you grab at Peter's hand when he pats you clumsily on the head. It means so much to them, Harry.

I love that you were born in the summer, those deep, throaty, lazy days that end July. I can't wait until your first birthday. (Maybe the war will be over, and we can have a party with everyone here, under the old elm in the yard.) At the same time, Harry, I don't want you to grow up, ever. I love your innocence. You don't know bad, you don't know evil. You just know love.

I love your future, Harry. I love the dreams I have for you. You're going to be great someday, I can feel it. We're in dark times, I know. We live in constant fear… no, it's more than fear. We know, we know, that every day could be our last, every breath could be our final. We know that there is nothing anybody can do to change this fate, so we have found a way to live uncomfortably beside it. You are our hope, Harry. You are what we have to hold on to.

I love you Harry. I love you more than anything in this world, more than anything else I can hold in my arms. I love you until the sky falls, until the earth shatters, until my soul is flung away and it is impossible for me to love anymore, but I will love you still, because love, this love, will stand the test of time. I will love you forever.

Happy sixteenth birthday, Harry.

Love,

Mum


A/N: I have NO idea where that came from. It sprouted somewhere between Chem homework and my French culture essay, so I really don't get it. It just grabbed me and wouldn't let go until I'd written it.

Honestly, I think someone needs to poke a hole in me and let the sap out. ;)

Pickle