A few wrapped parcels are left on his bed in the Hufflepuff sleeping quarters, and the wrapping paper is likely more than enough to give away who the gift would be from - after all, wizard wrappings would have been far more animated than the still, multicolored balloons that adorned these. Inside, Dark would find a few books, though again, they were not of the wizarding variety - they were muggle cookbooks, ones that a certain girl thought he might find interesting - and perhaps even like.
One would assume, given the expected, joyous mood that most experienced upon the arrival of their day of birth, that the star Hufflepuff student would be basking in the attention he received from his peers, ‘happy birthdays’ and ‘well wishes’ of all kinds tossed his way with every hallway he traversed down. Indeed, he appreciated the combined efforts of his classmates, though a gentle smile was all he could muster in response to their overwhelming showings of what he deemed to be fake affection— they’d have neglected to even realize it was his birthday at all had one of his so-called ‘friends’ not announced it in the dining hall, making it out to be some national, noteworthy holiday.
To him, however, it was no different from any other day. Nay, it was worse, given the one man he should have received well wishes from hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge his own son’s birthday.
Not a visit. Not a gift. Not even a parchment with a simple ‘Happy Birthday’ scrawled upon it in his easily recognizable handwriting.
He supposed it was foolish to get his hopes up, given this differed no less from any other year, but his success at Hogwarts and his many achievements had done little to deter his father from continuously viewing him as naught but a nuisance. An unwanted, unloved stain upon his otherwise perfect life - the silverette’s birthday, if anything, may as well have been a grim reminder to the older wizard of the mistakes he had made almost two dozen years ago.
It still h u r t, though, so much that he turned down all invitations to properly celebrate what should have been a wonderful occasion, opting to, instead, retire to his room to busy himself with his homework. A boring alternative, but it would serve as an efficient distraction from the pestering cloud of pessimism that had settled atop his head.
— such had been the initial plan, that is, until crimson eyes settled upon what appeared to be a gift. The boy was not stupid enough to make the same mistake twice, knowing they weren’t from his parental figure, and, given they did not glimmer, or gleam, or hover atop his neatly made bed, it was painfully obvious from whom he had received it. Ah, simple and unimpressive as the packaging was, it was more than enough to warrant the beginnings of a smile, the wooden frame faintly groaning beneath him as he settled atop his bed, immediately tugging the gifts into his lap.
“Wynn… she remembered.” He hadn’t even mentioned it to her today, thinking it was pointless to— IRRELEVANT, more-so, given he preferred to be alone. Now, though, as he carefully tore open the gifts, he found himself yearning for her presence, if only to remedy the sudden bout of suffocating loneliness that had overtaken him upon realizing she was not here.
Oh, how well she knew him.
A hand smoothed over the cover of the first book, eyes gliding over the text - he was akin to a child in a candy shop, suddenly wrapped up in something so very captivating, but struggling with where to start. To anyone else, standard cookbooks may have been a dull, unimpressive gift, mayhap even borderline disappoint— but, to Dark, however, who derived great pleasure in being given even the smallest opportunity to expand and improve his culinary skills, the timid, muggle girl may as well have just gifted him the world.
Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to find her and, if she was willing to have him, spend the rest of his birthday with her, if only to get a taste of what it truly meant to feel genuinely appreciated on a day that certainly warranted it. The thought of finally breaking this depressing tradition of spending his birthday by himself, or in fake happiness in an attempt to banish this feeling of neglect…
It— SHE— was more of a gift to him than the cookbooks, truth be told.
