⠀ ⠀ ⠀ on break til 07.05.22 * ⠀˚✧ ⋆｡˚
❝ 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘪 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘦 ❞
never, in all his ten years of living,
would have thought that a girl
named after a spring flower would
be the most magical thin...
The rest of their summer went by like a film roll. Close-up shots of laughter. Sweeping angles of suburban streets, two children running on pavement, a blur of lavender and black. Flowers blooming, sandwiches eaten, poetry spoken. Adventures into the forest, big and small. Frog-green eyes and mud-speckled glasses staring into brown eyes cracking the dried mud at its corners.
But, like all good films, it was coming to an end. The nights grew longer, the cold was creeping upon them, and leaves turned to autumn orange and brown. August was their month. A month of memories and friendship.
Soon, it was August 31st, the day before he had to leave for Hogwarts. Harry woke up at the crack of dawn while the rest of the house was still asleep. He didn't know why. but he had raced out of his house the moment he put on his coat and laced up his beat-up trainers. Down the street, past the playground, through the forest. At some point during the summer, the path had become muscle memory. If he didn't pay attention sometimes, he would find himself wandering to their meeting spot unconsciously. But today, it was deliberate.
There it was. That great willow tree that towered yards above the ground. His footsteps grew slower, and he was brought to a stop at the base of the trunk.
What was he thinking? There was no way that she would be up at this time—
"Harry?" He jumped, twisting around to look behind him.
"Yasi?"
They stared at each other, the both of them still wearing their pyjamas underneath their coats. Hyacinth was wearing the same lavender scarf she was wearing when they first met, flung around her neck and over her head like a veil, hiding away half of her face. A frizzy mess was hastily pulled back in a low ponytail, poking out of the pale purple fabric. He, on the other hand, had the worst bedhead in the world with his hair sticking up like horns and his glasses askew. At least, that's what Aunt Petunia usually said in the morning whenever she saw him.
He didn't know who started it. One of them let out a giggle, and one tried to keep a straight face, failing. Chuckle. Giggle. Bit lips to contain the laughter.
