It's not that I love her.
Well, yes, it is – she's my sister! But I don't love her the way men and women are supposed to love each other. I wouldn't marry her for a million Galleons.
It's just that she's so perfect. Mummy's little angel, never a spot of dirt or a hair out of place. Unlike me. I know it strains her, and that makes me angry. So I cry and yank off her nightgown and make her hurt me instead of herself, biting my shoulder and pulling my hair.
But it's not really out of love.
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She loves me.
I know it's unusual. Usually only boys love girls. But she's so different from anyone that I think it makes sense.
I know she loves me, because she tells me so. She comes into my room at night, and she tells me how much she loves me, and I let her kiss me anywhere she likes. It's sort of a deal, only we never talked about it. It feels nice, being kissed. It does frighten me sometimes – sometimes it makes me yell and I can't help it. Only I'm not angry.
I think love feels nice.
