Learning to Live Without Him

I feel his eyes, dark and fathomless, boring into my very soul, caressing every inch of my being with his loving gaze. I feel his hand tracing the curve of my chin, and I lean willingly into his touch. I love this man….

I’ve forgotten him. I assure myself of this fact every morning as I wake up and find myself mistaken, realising that I’m staring into eyes that aren’t his, but my husband’s. Blinking and smiling gently, I kiss him and rise from the bed, drifting into my childrens’ rooms and waking each of the three in turn. I fight them into the kitchen, where Ron is already waiting, flipping through the Daily Prophet.

His blue eyes are slightly swollen with sleep, and he rubs them with the back of his hand as he greets his daughters. At seven, four, and three, they are his pride and joy, and he kisses each little face before settling back to listen to their chatter. He is a good father, and I know that I should be grateful that to be blessed with such a loving man. I am grateful. I love him, and I am happy. I assure myself of this fact every morning as well.

Finishing the breakfast preparations, I leave my family to eat while I get ready for a long day in my office, which is too small and too dim to be the source of any enjoyment. Nothing interesting could play out on so depressing a set.

I hear Molly’s confident knock echo down the hall and the girls excitedly greeting their grandmother. Quidditch season will be starting soon, and Ron has extra practices with his team-mates in preparation. Keeper for the Chudley Cannons, his days are long and hard at this time of year.

Ron will be leaving soon, as will I, and the children will stay here with Molly. Annie and Diane wander off to one of their bedroom to play, while Grace returns to her room only long enough to retrieve her books.

She will spend her day practicing her penmanship and maths. She learned to read very young, much like I did at her age, and to write, but the things she scrawls on the parchment are hardly legible. Her grandmother teaches her like she taught all seven of her own children, preparing her for her coming days at Hogwarts. It’s four years away, but one can never be too knowledgeable, and she, like I, craves knowledge.

Kissing my children goodbye, I take my leave and head for the Ministry of Magic entrance, willing my mind not to drift back to him, willing myself not to wonder how things might have been….

Laughable, really. If I had stayed or gone back, I highly doubt things would have changed at all. I was the know-it-all Gryffindor, the bane of his existence. Why, over the years, have I allowed myself to think that things may have ended up differently?

I guess it shouldn’t matter, really; after all, though I may not feel it sometimes, I am happy with the way my life turned out. I have to be. I’m happy… and I’ve forgotten.