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Once upon a time, there was a wee, lonely boy who used to weep every night in his dark chamber. His sobs seemed deafening in the quiet of his ancient home, so he would bury his face into his pillow terrified of disturbing his grandmother. No, she wasn't evil, but she could get mean about the child's tears. Sometimes, he believed they made her sad too, as if they were a reminder of what they'd both lost. Lady Longbottom was no whiner, and sure enough, no grandchild of hers would be one either.
So, he'd hide under his covers and bury his head in his pillow and refused to whine, even as his pillowcase got wet and salty.
As he got older, his crying dwindled. At first they would come out once a week, when he was forced to go to the hospital. The place was cold and smelled weird, and was full of sad and sometimes mean looking people. It terrified him.
His only solace, and the only reason he'd endured the trip, was a simple, crumpled up gum paper. Every visit ended with a new wrapper that he would keep close to his heart, tightly gripped between his hands throughout the night, and safely saved in a coffer in his bedside drawer once the sun came out.
With time, even those midnight cries subsided as he got used to the hospital's halls and learned how to shield his heart a little better.
However, there was a day in particular that never failed to bring him to tears, a day when his loneliness and sorrow felt the heaviest, pressing down on him; a heartache so big, it made it hard to breath.
The kid hated his birthday.
There weren't many people who knew the anniversary of his birth. His Gran knew, and the elves, but they hardly made any fuss about it. His uncle hardly remembered the date, but he and his wife would showed up for a modest dinner very year.
The adults would talk like he wasn't even there, eating food that wasn't his favourite, and a dry and bland cake, even the merengues were in jeopardy with his uncle around. They would also torment him to force his magic to emerge, then branded him a squib when that failed.
The boy's parents, on the other hand, weren't aware of the date, or his age, or even his presence most of the time. Their minds were absent, frozen in time. But they were alive, and he had a whole coffer filled to the brim with his mum's shinny, crumpled presents as proof. Still, the empty chairs beside him as he blew his candles were a stark reminder of every wish that went unheard.
He would crush in bed, his heart heavy and exhausted, and he'd cried, holding his coffer like a lifeline until sleep claimed him.
And then, one day, it happened. Maybe it was because magic had finally claimed him (that's another story) or maybe he'd asked for it so many time that the candles couldn't deny his wish any longer, but one hot summer, while playing by his summer home's lake, the little boy met a little girl as pretty as a flower.
He saw her picking up wildflowers at the edge of the forest. He stopped her from picking up one of the many poisonous blooms that covered his yard. She called him a hero, and her smile brightened something inside his chest, something he'd never thought he'd felt before.
They spent the whole summer together, chasing each other around the forest while their grandmothers had their tea, sleeping over at each other's homes, talking for hours on end as they crafted flower crowns.
He told her about his dreaded birthday, and she opened up about her parents' plans for her future. She promised she would be there when he next blew his candles, and he promised he would never let her parents send her away to marry anyone but him.
He no longer feared his dark chamber or the silent halls, he didn't feel lonely while lying awake in his bed anymore. His heart felt lighter than ever. But then, days before his birthday, he had to go back home.
„No!“ a little voice cried. „That's not fair!"
He chuckled, hugging his daughter closer.
„I know my little wildflower, but the story's not over."
„I don't want to keep listening,“ she pouted. „I don't want the boy to be alone in his birthday.“
„He wasn't.“
They turned to the voice new voice. His flower was leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed and smiling fondly at them. His grin widened, and his heart swelled.
Their daughter perked up.
„Mum! You know this story?“
„I know it by heart, baby.“ she nodded and pushed herself off the wall. She kicked off her heels and sat on the bed by their feet, taking a deep breath. „Coming midnight, the boy lay on his bed, feeling lonelier than ever when a owl flew through his open window and let a red envelope fall on his chest. The moment he opened it, the little girl's voice filled the room. She wished him a happy birthday and sang for him.“
„When the letter burned, he found a single wildflower between the ashes. It was his favourite birthday for a long time.“
The girls eyes grew heavier as she snuggled at his side.
„And did the boy keep his promise?“
His eyes met his Petal's, years of memories passed between them as they smiled at each other. She turned to their daughter.
„He did,“ she nodded. „They got married and had a beautiful baby girl.“
„And many more birthdays together,“ he finished. „Now is time to sleep, my little wildflower.“
They tucked her in and turned of the light on their way out. His little wildflower was never afraid of the dark. Her little voice stopped him.
„Daddy? Where you the little boy?“
He smiled. She had her mother's wits.
„I was.“
„Do you like your birthday now?“ she asked shyly.
„I do.“
„Do you have a new favourite now?“
He thought about it for a second.
„You know? This one is pretty close, baby girl.“
She grinned at him, a smile so bright it brightened the dark room, and snuggled deeper in her covers.
„Happy birthday daddy.“
„Sleep tight, my beautiful wildflower.“