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Christmas

You don't remember ever liking Christmas. When you were young it was hard to understand the resentment you felt towards the usually joyous holiday, the pain deep within your heart. You didn't understand why you cried at the sight of a Christmas tree or wished to slam your front door on the various carolers that would come by. You've always hated Christmas and it took you years to figure out why.

Your Grandmother is always so reluctant to talk about anything having to do with your mother and father. You were always such a curious person and you were always asking questions about the people who gave you life, the people, who despite not knowing them, you love. When you were seven she took you out to the park and told you a story about a boy who loved Christmas and the girl he loved just as much. She told you the story of your parents.

You liked to hear about the dance at school and the mistletoe they were caught under. You like to hear how in love they were and how when you were a baby you would play with various ornaments as your mother would decorate the tree. There was no love that could ever rival their own, even Lily and James' passionate love seemed dim compared to their own.

Your body stiffens and you take out your wand to magically float the twinkle lights up on the sides of your house. You've spent this holiday with them every year since you were born. You've talked with them, read to them, kept them updated on your life. And you love them. You love to imagine the way they were at school when they were young and happy. You picture them dancing in your mind, your father holding your mother tightly slowly swaying to the music playing in the background. You imagine them in Hogsmeade sharing a butterbeer or even their blissful faces on their wedding day. It's hard for you to believe really, that these people were once so full of life and love. It's hard to believe they were ever alive at all.

You shake your head. They aren't dead though. You feel guilty sometimes. You sometimes wonder if you would be happier if they did die, if you didn't have to go and see them every holiday imaging them as they used to be. You sometimes wonder if you would be happier if you'd never stepped foot inside St. Mungos and asked the nurse to kindly lead you to the Longbottoms' room. If you never met them, seen them with your own eyes, then you would have never known what you've been missing out on for over fifteen years. You would have been ignorant, maybe even happy.

You have so much to live up to and you know you're the biggest disappointment to your Grandmother. Your father was a brilliant man, your mother as well, and nobody stops talking about their kindness and skill. You hear from old friends about what wonderful aurors they were, what amazing people they were. Your parents were freaking saints and who are you to compare to that. Your pureblood, but besides that you have nothing going for you and sometimes you feel you would have been better suited for life as a muggle, better suited for life without parents who don't even know who you are.

You're pathetic. You have no qualms about that though. You drown yourself in pity thinking about everything in your life that has fallen apart around you. He's the lucky one, you think, he lost his parents and the world loves him because of that. No one loves you, you think, not your friends, not Ginny, not even your harsh, old Grandma who stares at you with sadness in her eyes. You remind her of him. You have her son's nose and his eyes and she says you have your mother's sense of humor. You're too like them for her to love you, too pathetic for anybody to love you. It's something you have come to terms with though, not everybody is lucky enough to be happy.

End

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