He reminds me of summer, in a lot of ways. But maybe it's just because I love summer.
There are problems with summer, of course…problems like lack of school, lack of studying, and lack of learning new things. In summer, no one hands you an assignment and tells you when it has to be done and how long it as to be. You have to do the figuring out on your own. He is like this, I think, as we sit in his backyard this summer night, awkwardly holding hands, and I doubt that the moment could be sweeter. Because, in a sense, he is summer, radiant and spontaneous and moody and wonderful.
He speaks to me now as summer does—without words at all. I can feel his hand twitching nervously and his legs moving, restless, as we lay on the grass, looking up at the starry sky. There have been times when he tells me that he wants to relax one day, when this war that hasn't even started, that starts tomorrow, if we must give it a date, is over. He wants a house of his own and a family too, although he doesn't say that much. "Just something simple," he tells me on these occasions, as he smiles.
And when we depart the next morning, no longer holding hands, but following Harry loyally, I think once more that he is like summer, and not because of this mischievous glint in his eye or his lopsided grin, despite the fact that he is just as scared as me and presumably Harry.
No, he isn't like summer because of any of this. He is like summer because I love him.