โœง*.๏ฝกโ€ข. ๐ˆ๐ˆ๐ˆ.

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. ใ€€ใ€‚ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€โ€ขใ€€ ใ€€๏พŸใ€€ใ€€ใ€‚
ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€
ใ€‚ใ€€ใ€€ ใ€‚ใ€€.
ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ ใ€‚ใ€€ เถž ใ€‚ใ€€ . โ€ข
โ€ข .ใ€€ ใ€‚ใ€€.
ใ€€ ใ€€ใ€€ใ€‚ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€๏พŸใ€€
ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€.
,ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ .ใ€€ใ€€ . ใ€‚

โ€”ยปย ๐Ÿ๐ฎ๐ง๐ง๐ฒ ๐ฐ๐จ๐ซ๐๐ฌ, ๐ฉ๐š๐ซ๐ž๐ง๐ญ๐ฌ, ๐š๐ง๐ ๐Ÿ๐ข๐ซ๐ž๐Ÿ๐ฅ๐ข๐ž๐ฌ ยป

. ใ€€ใ€‚ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€โ€ขใ€€ ใ€€๏พŸใ€€ใ€€ใ€‚
ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€
ใ€‚ใ€€ใ€€ ใ€‚ใ€€.
ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ ใ€‚ใ€€ เถž ใ€‚ใ€€ . โ€ข
โ€ข .ใ€€ ใ€‚ใ€€.
ใ€€ ใ€€ใ€€ใ€‚ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€๏พŸใ€€
ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€.
,ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ .ใ€€ใ€€ . ใ€‚

THERE'S SOMETHING FUNNYย about time. When you want it to fly by, it will slow itself down to a snail's pace. Every second feels like an hour, a minute feels like forever, and an hour is a torturous eternity. When you wish with your whole heart for it to freeze, suddenly everything's gone in a blink of an eye. It passes by in a blur of colour, sounds, and that type of laughter that fills a person's chest with warmth and contentment. Each second that ticks by is a memory made and lost until what's left is simply fragments and echoes of what once was.

And that, for Harry, was that summer evening with Hyacinth. Fragments of joy, echoes of laughter, ache in his tired legs. He never was much of a runner, and neither was she, but for that night only, they had stridden through the streets, having their own little version of fun. She would mention little facts about the plants, giving funny names that sprouted from her lips with mirth and assurance.ย 

He couldn't remember any of the names for the life of him, but he could remember the funny way she pronounced her words, her R's rolled like a kitten's purr, or how she called sweets "candy". She pronounced his name as "pot-ter" like each letter had its own significance instead of the soft "ah" that most people would use at the end. He couldn't remember the streets they walked on, or how long he was walking even if he had been living in the neighbourhood for the past ten years of his life.

He did remember really seeing fireflies for the first time.

Hyacinth had taken his hand again, swinging it as they trudged through the bushes of the forest just beyond the playground. She told him that she wanted to show him something she had never shown anyone else before, a place where she usually read her magical words and mystical rhymes and verses. He was nervous, he had never been to a forest before. There was no telling what his aunt and uncle would do if they found out. He couldn't help but be pulled in by her and her beautiful voice though.

"Harry, we're almost there."

"Close your eyes, Harry, and wait for me to tell you to open them."

"You have to hold both my hands for this."

"I said no peeking, Potter!"

"Ok, open them."

"What do you think? It could be our new meet-up spot. I mean, that is, if you want to? I don't have that many friends since I moved here nearly two years ago."

"My mama always told me that her good friend who was an 'engkanto' blessed me when I was a baby. She said that's why the 'alitaptap' liked to follow me wherever I lived."

"Oh, Papa went to heaven when I was four, and Mama vanished when I was six and a half. I don't know what happened, not really. One moment, we were at this really fancy place, and I fell asleep in the garden behind the house. The next, I was waking up in the lobby of a bank and holding a record Mama used to play me before I went to bed. The adults at the police station said I wasn't on the records, so they placed me with a new family about two years ago, like I told you."

"I don't remember Papa much, only that he had brown hair and brown skin like mine. He was always shorter than Mama in the photobook. Mama always was happy that I looked so much like him. But she also said I was lucky I didn't get his big nose. Mine is still a little flat though."

"You don't know what your parents looked like?"

"Your aunt and uncle never mention their names?! That's awful of them. If it makes you feel any better, I don't know my parents' names either."

"Maybe your eyes are from your dad, and your hair is from your mom? I could totally imagine you having a mom with that crazy hair. Mine doesn't stay in place most of the time."

"Do you want to meet up again tomorrow?"

Her words replayed in Harry's head over and over again. His brain was buzzing, and he was in a daze throughout the trip back to the Dursleys' house when Aunt Petunia had come to pick him up. Not even Dudley in his new Smeltings uniform strutting up and down the living room with his flat-straw hat, ridiculously orange knickerbockers, and knobbly stick could put his mind off Hyacinth.

His eyes met the ceiling and saw a little spider making its home in the corner of the cupboard. He wondered what she would have thought about it. It was like she had something to say about everything, in a good way of course. Except for an 'ipis', she had almost gagged the word out. He hoped never to find out what an 'ipis' was.

Harry found himself lying in bed, fidgeting with the flimsy little toy soldier he had gotten from a class game. No matter how many spiderwebs he counted, or dust spots underneath the wooden stairs, or even the stitching of the raggedy quilt he was given as a blanket, his body refused to go to sleep. Her words and actions had given him energy, magic jumping up and down his bones, making his heart pound with excitement.

So, he did something he never imagined he would do. He grabbed the small book bag that the school required them to use and pulled out an old history notebook that only had two or three pages filled out. He never really was good at history anyways. He reached in the bag again to fish out a broken half of a pencil, the rubber end snapped off and the lead side blunts, but still useable. And then, he started writing all about what had happened that day, trying to commit everything he remembered, down to the littlest detail, onto paper.

By the end of it, he had filled up a whole page filled with a messy smudged scrawl and hastily crossed out ramblings, but everything was there in essence. And, at the heart of all those hurried words and squished letters, was a nine-nearly-ten-year-old girl in a long-sleeved orange gingham dress, scuffed leather shoes and a lavender scarf wrapped around her head.

The last few lines were squeezed into the bottom of the page, almost as an afterthought, filling him with the courage that burst up when he gave her his reply.

P.S. I'm going to be seeing her again in the forest tomorrow. She said she wanted to show me some of her books. Honestly, a lot of the stuff she says doesn't make sense to me, but I want to understand it. Is this what it's like to have a friend?

. ใ€€ใ€‚ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€โ€ขใ€€ ใ€€๏พŸใ€€ใ€€ใ€‚
ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€
ใ€‚ใ€€ใ€€ ใ€‚ใ€€.
ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ ใ€‚ใ€€ เถž ใ€‚ใ€€ . โ€ข
โ€ข .ใ€€ ใ€‚ใ€€.
ใ€€ ใ€€ใ€€ใ€‚ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€๏พŸใ€€
ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€.
,ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ .ใ€€ใ€€ . ใ€‚

. ใ€€ใ€‚ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€โ€ขใ€€ ใ€€๏พŸใ€€ใ€€ใ€‚ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€‚ใ€€ใ€€ ใ€‚ใ€€.ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ ใ€‚ใ€€ เถž ใ€‚ใ€€ . โ€ขโ€ข .ใ€€ ใ€‚ใ€€.ใ€€ ใ€€ใ€€ใ€‚ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€๏พŸใ€€ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€.,ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€ใ€€.ใ€€ .ใ€€ใ€€ . ใ€‚

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