They met amongst wooden blocks and screaming children far less mature than they were. They locked eyes. Inhumanly electric blue eyes met brown doe eyes, and a smirk was returned with an endearingly awkward smile. They sat together for hours, piecing together houses with Legos and talking about their dead parents. In Harry's case it was only his mother. A mother whose death had been placed on his tiny shoulders by a father who had successfully missed three of his birthdays. In Peter's case it was both of his parents. Parents whose secrets he hadn't even begun to investigate or question. He was still coming to terms with the vast emptiness he felt on his birthdays when they were absent. The boys didn't compare their tragedies. They were far too mature for that.
They could only discuss lying in bed and faintly remembering one or both of their parents reading them a story or reassuring them about a problem that now seemed trivial. They talked about blowing out the candles and feeling numb. They talked about scraped knees and how they wished that it was their parents bandaging their wounds for them.
It was enough.