There was something about Louis that Harry couldn’t quite put a finger on. Louis was everything you were warned about as a child. He was handsome, charismatic, dangerous, but underneath it all, he was Louis. In Harry’s mind that name encompassed a realm all its own. He was young and vibrant, yet timid, and sometimes shy. He was hilarious and energetic but also smart and often calm. He was everything to the point where it all became nothing, but a perfect sort of nothing, a nothing that could only take the form in hundreds of blank novels that were too beautiful to be soiled with the flawed thoughts of man. He was Louis who was everything to Harry, but somehow nothing to himself.