Nervous hands worked to carefully display the stack of DVDs over your bedside table, the case on top hollow, disc already loaded and ready, fantastical music trilling and transporting your dimly lit room into another world; carefully arranged atmosphere readied for the day you looked forward to every year just before Christmas: to dive into a secret space full of magical creatures, spells and potions, friends and laughter, love and triumph.
This was the first year you'd invited someone to share that with you.
This was the first year you'd imagined a certain set of lanky arms wrapped around your shoulders, warm thighs squished together, hair tangling as it nestled into a solid chest all before pushing play.
When you'd asked, anxious shoulders and sweaty palms hidden beneath folded arms and smashed against a cold locker in a poor attempt at being cool and casual, your stomach and mind had swarmed with the static of nargles and you'd nearly forgotten what you'd wanted to say.
But then he'd smiled at you with that patient smile of his and your lungs remembered who he was, what he meant, the deep, unguarded breath you finally pulled into the cage that held your fluttering heart smelling of sunshine, stars, and butter beer.
"Would that be OK?" Your body leaned into his, as it always did, as his always did with yours, "if we did that instead? I mean, I know Harry Potter isn't really your favorite, but I kind of - this is always - you know - "
"Sure, that sounds great," and his lips had found the tip of your nose before he'd walked off to class, sending you the spell of a smile from over his shoulder that instantly eased the rest of that unfounded worry and self-consciousness that had found its place in your abdomen.
Of course he would be OK with it. Of course he would understand.
Of course.
Peter.
Peter was good.
You should have known that he would go above and beyond for you, as he did in all things when it came to showing you.
You smiled shyly to yourself, thinking of kind eyes and a kind smile as you gave the pile of pillows you'd made on the floor one last look over, the sound of quiet knuckles drumming at wood in question filling your ears.
Glowing brown eyes and unkempt sandy waves greeted you as the door swung open; heart immediately swelling as Peter and all that he was pushed at your mind and swelled in your chest, glad that he was here; glad that you had him to share this with. Eyes following the path they always did, tracing the lines of his brow, funny hairs misplacing your heartbeats, brushing over his almost- straight nose and down past the freckles littering his neck, and as you really, finally, took in what he was wearing, you couldn't help the chuckle that escaped grinning lips, cheeks tight and ticklish as pink teased at giddy dimples.
He'd dressed up for you.
Of course he had.
"Peter, are you wearing a robe?"
"Naturally," and his voice was tinted with humor, his cheeks colored with the same warmth yours were, honey of his eyes shining as the colors twirled beneath dark eyelashes, rolling as he moved into your room, "on this day of wizardry, I am Harry James Parker, the boy who tried his best." Freckled fingers pulled a few errant curls aside to reveal a crudely drawn lightning bolt on a pale forehead, the other hand reaching into the pocket of his bath robe to pull out a pair of glasses, frames too small and lenses too scratched to really see out of.
Rosy cheeks pushed further at shining eyes, "OK, Harry Parker," your fingers reaching out to touch at soft waves, pads laden with reverence tickling at the mark of affection he wore above his brow, "do you have a wand? A wizard is only as good as his wand."
His eyes crinkled as he looked down at the colorful socks hiding your toes, avoiding your eyes, as almost-straight teeth lit up his face, and pink lips stretched in the effort to hold back the joke you knew he wanted to make. But then his fingers were reaching out to you as yours had to him, as they always did when you were together; skin whispering, asking to be touched; calligraphy of adoration; tenderness of the words he was spelling out over your wrist and scrolling onto your palm pulling at your chest in that way that made you feel like dancing, and swimming, and flying all at once.
"I don't need one," he said, voice soft, seriousness of his tone contrasting with the silliness of the moment and the costume he'd worn for you; the squeeze of those fingers around yours binding you, "I have all the magic I need right here."
