Harry.

We’ve been together to many places. The road less travelled. The road more travelled. The mornings smelling of Chelpark Ink. And torchlights under the blanket.

Gulping down milk and rushing to school. Gulping down tears and ‘I will be fine’s.

There had been a link. Or an imagination maybe? Broken spines of books and yellowed pages. Inkblots on fingers and sometimes a bleeding knee?

But always, always, coming back to it. Desperately wanting a little, tiny bit of that nothingness, because magic is a powerful world. A powerful word.

Splashing through puddles, writing tutorials, burning fever and Wingardium Laviosa. Its always been like that. A big chunk of this world, and little bit of theirs. A dark, cruel, bright fascination.

I always knew this would end. It was altogether too fragile to last. Like a butterfly wing you so want to touch, but which tears under the slightest pressure? Too many question-marks, too many thoughts bordering on madness. Escapism.

It ended today. The boy didn’t die. But the magic did.

And somewhere within, the butterfly, which I had held on to, so tightly, yet so delicately..flapped its wings and escaped.

But it's okay though. I still have some of it’s colour on my fingers.