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I bring flowers up to your room, daisies, bright and fragile, in a crystal vase. You’re sitting up in bed, your back against ten-thousand pillows, a book in your hands, and for a moment you look fourteen again.
The vase goes on your nightstand, right between the lamp and the neat assortment of potions that you require. You thank me, bless me with a smile, and I crouch on the floor, by the bed, my head on your lap. You begin to read your story out loud, your fingers running through my hair, soft and gentle, and within my contentment I find the seeds of grief.
-
I wish I could offer you silence, I know you don’t sleep anymore, but with two little kids in the house it’s not possible. They run up and down the stairs. They watch videos in front of the big TV and laugh at cartoon shows I don't understand. And they’ve taken to playing marbles outside your bedroom door (do you hear them? do you mind?)
Their voices call me back to childhood. To days spent with my brothers, and Ginny, making mischief and testing how well we could get away with it. But Rose and Hugo are angels. They definitely take after you.
-
I know you love my mother, but I also know you hate her visits (I do too).
She takes possession of the space, and I feel like a child again. She tidies the room, and complains about my house keeping, and when Rose cries because Hugo pinched her, she goes and scoops her up in her arms. The gesture is effortless, and I watch the heartbreak on your face wishing I could do something about it.
“I’ve got it,” I tell her when she asks if we want her to make dinner for us.
“It’s no problem at all,” she responds.
“No, mum, really, I’ve got it.”
When I bring up your soup, you won't touch it, won’t even pick up the spoon. Your expression is hard, and your eyes far away, and I want so badly to pull you back to me, but I don’t know how.
“I’m glad they won’t remember me,” you say when the soup is cold. “I haven’t been a very good mother.”
I can’t talk about this. I can’t even think about it. Selfishly I burst into tears, and then like always it is you who comfort me.
-
Rose loves stories. She’s six years old and she’s already read more books than I ever have. Each night she asks me to read her a story, and I do, but I’m no good, and she knows it (she has something to compare it to, you see). I don’t make the voice like you do and I keep losing my place on the page so that she has to point it out to me with her little finger.
This year she has started taking her books outside with her. I will look out from the kitchen window and see her sprawled on the dewy grass, her face buried in a book and in that moment I love her so much I can barely breathe.
We have album books full of pictures of you when you were her age. They don’t move of course, but you have the same smile, the same shape of the eyes, the same way of posing for the camera. I wish I had known you when you were that little. I wish we had more time.
-
Neville understands.
He doesn’t come often, but when he does I feel a great sense of relief. He doesn’t even have to say anything (he doesn’t try to either). He is soft and kind, and an expert in grief. He grew up on it, he knows how it sneaks into you, cold, and violet, at the most unexpected moments, and how at other times it is like an old wound, distant, and partially healed.
“She doesn’t want to celebrate mother’s day this year,” I tell him. Despite the fact that my family comes much more often he’s the first person I’ve told.
He nods quietly and lays a hand on my shoulder.
“When I was a kid, Gran always made me celebrate. We would bring my mom cards and flowers at St. Mungo’s, as if she could understand them,” he sighs and shakes his head. “I know why Gran did it, but really I think it did more bad than good. Those were some of the most miserable days of my life.”
I know you like his visits too.
He’s the only person I leave you alone with now.
-
I struggle to sleep without you.
I toss and turn, hug a pillow to my chest.
And in the dark I try to describe the smell of your hair, the feel of your skin. I want to capture everything.
Harry suggested a pensive, but I don’t want to live like that.
I don’t want to play scenes over and over again. I think I would grow mad.
I know you’re not asleep, and I know that there’s only a wall between us.
I picture you in bed, still, and silent, eyes staring out of the window. I want to lie beside you. I want to hold you, to give you every reassurance I have. But you asked to spend nights alone, and I will respect that, even though every moment that I’m not with you feels like a moment wasted.
-
Your world gets smaller and smaller all the time.
You read less books, you accept less visitors, ask less questions about my life.
What’s the point I guess? When you know you won’t be able to finish the story.
-
Harry and Ginny try very hard but they’re not natural around us anymore.
Ginny doesn’t know what to do with herself. She has no solemnity. She can’t take the long silences that sometimes stretch out between us and she’ll start talking about something of little importance, and once she starts she can’t seem to stop herself.
Her stories are animated: big gestures, spot-on impressions, eyes bright and shimmering. She draws attention to herself. She has more charisma in her little finger than I have in my whole body. Even the kids are captivated by her.
But it’s inappropriate. It’s out of tune. It’s like a scene from a very different story. And she doesn’t even notice.
Harry doesn’t look at her when she does this, he stares at his hands, and me, I look at you.
You never say anything but I know that look in your eye. I know that when Ginny talks about Sundays at the Burrow, and evenings with her friends, you're thinking about all the things you can’t do anymore.
I wish I had a little bit more courage. Enough to tell Ginny to shut her mouth. But I can’t do it, I’m not ready for that conversation either.
-
When we were kids I often found Harry’s optimism frustrating, now I love him for it.
He is the only person who still has hope, you know.
He is still doing research, pulling out old books, coming up with half-brained schemes.
“What if we use the Elder wand?”
I don’t contribute anything to his long whispered plans. To be truthful I don’t have the energy to. I know that’s a terrible thing to say when you can’t even get out of bed anymore, but caring for the kids alone all day is harder than I thought. (I’m sorry mom).
So I sit there, and I let his words wash over me. I nod, and make affirmative sounds. And at the end when nothing comes from it I tell him:
“Thanks for trying mate.”
And in that moment I see a flash of comprehension in his eyes as he realizes that I don’t share his hope, that like you I have already surrendered.
“I’m gonna find a way out of this,” he assures me, hands on my shoulders, looking me squarely in the face. And his eyes are so intense, and I hear the earnestness in his tone. And for an instant I stop pitying myself, and I pity him instead. How is it possible that he’ll lose someone else? It’s cruel, don’t you think?
-
You write your will out carefully, according to the Ministry instructions. You’re precise with the wording, and you even get a professional to come and look it over. Afterwards, you say everything should be squared off nicely. You don’t want any problems for me.
I don’t even want to look at it. I hate it. Want to rip it to pieces.
-
Hugo threw a tantrum today. He levitated his cereal bowl and splashed it over the table.
I didn’t know what to do. He’s four years old. How do you reprimand a four year old?
We always did it like mum and dad. I was the good guy. You were the bad guy. You were supposed to deal out discipline. I don’t know how to be the bad guy. I just don’t.
Do you want to know what I did? Oh, Merlin, how you’d laugh at me.
I sat down on the puddle of milk and cried.
I guess it worked. He was so stunned he stopped screaming.
-
Everyone brings flowers. Everyone brings food.
Everyone tries so hard to be useful and to comfort us.
None of it works of course.
The flowers die. The food goes bad.
I prayed the other day. Never done that before. And I was too ashamed to even tell you.
I know it’s coming. But I’m not ready. I’m not ready at all.
-
I caught a good moment the other day.
The kids were playing with their toy broomsticks (the ones George got them). Running through the grass and then kicking off from the ground. Hugo kept messing up, flying crooked, going left when he meant to turn right.
He wanted to quit, but Rose wouldn’t let him.
She adjusted his grip and his posture, and asked him to do it again. I wish you had seen the elation on her face when he did properly. She jumped up and did a little cheer, hands in the air.
Damn Hermione, they’re really good kids.
-
We knew the timeline. We knew how long we were getting. And still like an idiot I’m surprised when you worsen.
The potions become more frequent, and I can see how much more effort you need for each movement, each gesture.
My solution is to call mum over and get her to watch the kids. I don’t ever want you to wake up alone.
-
It’s our anniversary and I want to be romantic, when really I’m just devastated.
For breakfast I recreate the first meal I ever cooked for you - scrambled eggs, fried sausage, and burned toast.
You laugh when you see it, big smile on your face.
I crouch on the floor by your bed, kiss your hands, fight back my tears.
“Oh, Ron,” you say as if you know every thought in my head. Then you pick up the burnt toast and smile again. “This is just what I wanted.”
-
Your magic died today, as we knew it would, and it feels like the dreaded confirmation that the end is coming.
You say you don’t mind, as you carelessly hand me your wand. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” you tell me.
But I know. I know.
You put on a smile for me. “Are the kids awake?”
“Yeah, they’re awake.”
“Can you call them in please?”
Rose is excited to see you. She runs right up to your bed, carrying her latest book, and begins telling you all about it. Hugo is shier. He stays by me, his small hands gripping the leg of my trousers.
“Come, Rose is telling us a story,” you call to him, but he won’t let go of me.
-
We bring out the album books. Study them. Look through the pages - still pristine.
Our wedding was in Winter at your insistence. Mum wanted a Summer wedding. But you stayed firm, and I sided with you. The pictures show our friends and family bundled up in bright coats, snow trickling down on them while we stand in the front. You made the arch yourself - a little flick of the wand. And Luna decorated it with bright golden lights that shimmer in your eyes.
I was so nervous that day that I butchered my vows. George and Ginny laughed, but you didn’t, you paid them no attention at all. You kept your gaze on me the whole ceremony, and it steadied me, reassured me.
I wish I had the power to reassure you, to steady you. When we reach the end of the albums you give a little sigh.
“Be sure to take lots of pictures while they’re growing up.”
My hand forms into a fist, but I manage to nod curtly.
“And send them off with a camera when they go to Hogwarts. I wish we had more pictures of that.”
“Me too.” There’s a lump in my throat.
Unbidden I remember you at eleven years old. The bushy hair. The large front teeth. The stack of books pressed against your chest. And that look in your eye - you were determined to know everything, to conquer everything. It’s something I have always admired in you.
“Ron-” the weakness in your voice frightens me.
“Yeah?”
“I think it’s time,” you say.
I shake my head, I bite my lip, stubborn, foolish, blind.
“No, really, I think it should be this weekend,” you tell me. “I’m ready for it. Please. I won’t have the strength to do it after.”
“There’s still time,” I insist.
You smile at me. All knowing. All seeing. And your hand rises to touch my face, cold as ice. “My poor boy,” you say affectionately as I break down again.
-
I sent out messages on Thursday. To our friends, your old colleagues, my family. I keep it brief. Factual. No need to be sentimental.
They show up in waves. With (you guessed it) flowers and food.
Nobody knows what to say. They’re awkward, uncertain. But the truth is I don’t know what to say either. I confine myself to greeting them, putting the flowers in vases, the food on the table, and then walking them to your room in small groups.
Some people have words of wisdom for me (I wish they did not).
Andromeda had me pinned in a corner for an hour, talking of her own grief.
I know that she lost her husband, and her daughter. But the truth is I don’t care about her losses. I am too wrapped up in my own.
Other people leave your room sobbing, their whole bodies shaking, and they come downstairs to the room with all the food and tell me everything I already know.
“It’s not fair.”
“She’s the most brilliant witch I’ve ever met.”
“Oh, god and the kids are so little.”
“I don’t know how you’re keeping it together.”
I don’t know either. But I do keep it together.
My family take turns sleeping over that weekend. George and Angelina one day. Mum and Dad another. Ginny and Harry on Sunday. They’re great with the kids. Because I’ll be honest Hermione, I can’t really deal with the kids right now.
So it’s Angelina who made them breakfast on Friday. And my dad who entertained them all of Saturday, producing bubbles and sparks out of his wand, like he used to for us when we were kids. And on Sunday Ginny made sure they had a bath, and did all the washing.
I’m grateful. I’m very grateful to have them all. To know that our children will always be cared for. But you know, I’m also angry, I am so angry sometimes I can’t even breathe.
I wish I was the one dying. I know you would handle it so much better.
-
We’re standing in the Kitchen, and I’m gazing at the mountains of food that are scattered over every surface. Pies, casseroles, and bread of every sort.
Harry’s voice breaks me out of my thoughts:
“I want to stay with you,” he says, watching me closely.
“Not a good idea.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone.”
I glance up at him, and I smile. He’s been a good friend to us. The greatest. But we aren’t a group of three anymore. It’s just you and me.
“Hermione and I talked about this,” I tell him calmly. “We made a plan.”
“I know but that was weeks ago, you need support,” he throws his hands in the air. He’s never done well with feeling helpless.
“Harry, I love you-” I say, and my voice shakes, because even after all these years together and everything we’ve lived through it isn’t an easy thing for me to say. “But Hermione and I talked about what we wanted, we created a plan, and we’re sticking to it.”
There’s hurt in his face, anguish, anger, all of it. All the things I feel. He nods, and then pulls me into a hug, so tight it’s like he wants to break me.
“I’m one owl away if you or the kids need anything.”
“I know.”
I will need him. I will need him so much. But after.
-
It’s horrible to see you in pain.
Your body shutters. Your body contorts. You’re so helpless against it and I am helpless alongside you.
We administer the potions as indicated but they’re not enough anymore. Not at all. As the pain becomes unbearable you weep, you yell, and you ask for death.
“I can’t, I can’t,” you beg me, using all your pitiful strength to reach out a hand and grab a fist-full of my robes, drawing me to you. “Please.”
Your voice wrecks me. It makes me want to give you everything you ask for. But that’s not the plan. No, I have to listen to the plan. You see you made that plan in better times. I gotta trust you.
“No.”
“Ron, I can’t take it.”
“Shhh-” I put my arm over your shoulder. “It’s gonna be over soon, but not yet, remember? Not yet. We gotta have one more good day.”
-
I want your last day to be perfect. I want you to only have good moments. And the thing is that right now I’m not in a good place, and I can’t even fake it. No, what I can do is take a potion. I need it, you see. Otherwise I’d be crying all day.
It takes effect slowly, as I lie in bed, glancing up at the ceiling above me. I feel the warmth of it over my chest, like a great glowing sun.
I’m not drunk on it. It’s not real happiness, or anything like it. It’s mild. It’s like the happiness that comes from a fresh breeze on a hot day. It's a relief. It’s relaxing. And it’s exactly what I needed.
I hum on the way to Kitchen. I turn on the radio as I cook, dancing around, waving my wand, looking pretty silly I suppose. I wake Rose up by lifting her sizable collection of stuffed rabbits, levitating them over her head and then dropping them on her.
She wakes up covered in little stuffed bunnies.
“Daddy!”she shrieks, eyes narrowed maliciously.
As I laugh she hits me on the shoulder with one of them.
“Now, how about some pancakes?”
Her face changes instantly. “Pancakes?”
“Yep. And they have chocolate chips.”
We wake up Hugo by jumping on his bed and tickling him. His small limbs fight back, as he looks sleepily around, eyes big and blue, full of confusion.
I love the chaos. It reminds me of better mornings.
We bring you breakfast in bed. You’re propped up against the pillows, wearing new paisley pajamas, your hair in a sleek braid. Rose jumps on the bed, sitting wedged between you and the wall, and Hugo sits on your lap.
It’s been a long time since we’ve had breakfast like this all together. I know you’re in pain. I know you’re barely holding it together, but blimey Hermione I am so proud of you for holding it together, for orchestrating this last day.
After breakfast you read them a book. Rose is patient, her fingers absentmindedly stroking your arm, but Hugo gets bored. He keeps picking up your potions and I have to flick them away from him with my wand.
The story wears you out. And as soon as it’s over I say, in most cheerful voice:
“It’s time for mum to take a little nap now, say goodbye.”
Rose kisses your cheek and Hugo mutters “goodbye” as he climbs off the bed.
-
It’s summer. It’s sunny. The perfect day.
You haven’t been outside in two months, but today you manage it (or we manage it).
I levitate you outside onto the grass, positioning you careful against a pile of pillows. We’re having a little picnic. There are cucumber sandwiches, strawberries, and lemonade with fresh mint.
Rose is wearing her prettiest dress (the blue one with the stars at the hem) and I put a little hat on Hugo, to shield his fair skin against the sun.
“Oh, this is lovely,” you say as you blink against the sunlight.
I hold your hand, feeling your wedding ring on your finger.
The plan was to play a muggle card game you’re fond of but you don’t have the energy for that, so the kids and I play instead while you watch.
I win the first round, and you scold me with your gaze. Was I supposed to lose to make the kids feel good? I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t understand that.
I let Rose win the second one, and she laughs as she shows her matching cards, big smile on her face.
“This game is stupid,” complains Hugo, but we go on to play four more.
The day is still bright and fine, and they go off to play in the grass while we sit together.
“They’re gonna be fine,” you say. “I know it. They’re gonna be fine.”
“Yes,” I assure you.
You smile at me, a sad smile, that I know so well. “You promise you’ll be fine too?”
“I promise,” I say, kissing your cheek.
You lay down in the sunshine, your fingers caress the grass. And we look up at the big blue sky above us.
It’s beautiful really, it is.
-
Ginny and Harry arrive at six. She doesn’t come in. She stays by the entrance waiting for the kids.
Their overnight things are all packed up and they’re excited to spend the night with their cousins. They ask if they’re allowed to have chocolate tonight and I say yes. Why not, right?
The three of us come into your room together, they climb up on the bed and you hug and kiss them each twice, your face white from the strain of not crying.
At the door I hug and kiss them too as they each take one of Ginny’s hands and apparate away.
As we stand in the entrance Harry and I can hear you sobbing from upstairs.
The truth is that I do not want to go up to you. I want to remember you smiling in the sun. I don’t want to remember this Hermione. I really don’t.
I don’t know what I would have done if Harry hadn’t pulled me up those stairs. He’s so determined sometimes. He always has such a strong sense of duty. As soon as we’re through the door he goes to you, hugging you, letting you sob on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” you say, after a while, pulling back, your face puffy as you wipe the tears away.
“Don’t apologize.”
You shake your head. “I don’t want to waste my time crying, let’s talk about the good days.”
And we do. It’s not easy at first. None of us are in the mood for such happy recollections but then Harry talks about the time you set the birds on me and Lavender and we all laugh. You know, we did have a lot of good times.
The funny thing is that we don’t talk about any of the “important” things we did in school. We saved lives, started a rebellion, won a war, but what we talk about are the days where not much happened. The week after exams when we lay out on the grass looking out at the lake. Cozy winter mornings, where Harry and I played chess while you read muggle novels. Day trips to Hogsmead, long study sessions, particularly tasty meals we’d enjoyed in the great hall.
“You know, I’m really happy I met you too-” you say when a silence comes.
“You mean you’re happy we locked you in a bathroom with a troll?” I say and you laugh, nodding your head.
“Best thing you ever did Ronald.”
You take another dose of potions and now it’s time for Harry to go.
He kisses your cheek, and he holds your hand, and he doesn’t want to leave, but I know you’re tired and I make him.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he tells me, hugging me tight at the door.
And then climb back up to you.
-
We lie in bed together and I stroke your long hair.
You’ve given today everything you had and now there’s nothing left.
Your breathing is so quiet, and I don’t even know if you’re awake or asleep.
“I love you, always did, “ I tell you, putting your hand against my heart.
-
I know you're gone. I know it. But I don’t want to leave.
I stay in bed with you, watching the sunrise.
Funny thing is I don’t feel alone yet.
-
“Ron.”
Someone has come to get me, as I knew they would, but it’s not who I expected.
“Ron.” His voice is gentle, kind. I don’t think I would have listened to anybody else, but I listen to him.
Like an obedient child I get off the bed, smooth the sheets around you, kiss your cheek, your hand. I look at your face carefully, knowing it’s the last time, and then I leave.
I’m sobbing even as I cross the threshold.
My dad is half-way up the stairs when he sees me and he runs up, wraps me in his arms.
“You did good Ron,” he tells me. “This is the most important thing you have ever done and you did good.”
-
I’m never left alone. It seems to be some unspoken rule between the members of my family. There must be someone with me at all times.
It’s usually Harry, or a very quiet version of Harry who seems to hurt every single time he looks at me. Sometimes it’s mum who cries even more than I do, and tries to tell me that everything will be okay. Other times it’s George, who has no words to comfort me and instead just puts his arm around my shoulder.
I want to say that I miss you, but you know that’s not really true. I can’t really believe you’re gone, you see? I still expect to see you. I still expect that one day you’ll be reading all of this and you’ll say: “Oh, Ronald.”
-
Rose and Hugo ask about you everyday. They can’t be comforted. They cry for you, no matter what I do and I can’t bring myself to lie to them. Mum says I should just tell them you’ll come later, that you’re away for a while, but that doesn’t feel right. I know you would want me to be honest. I know you want me to have an honest relationship with them.
I can say the words a hundred times. “Mommy is gone and she’s not coming back,” but you know in my heart I don’t really believe them yet.
Can’t let you go.
-
We buried you today. It was a big thing. Everybody came. I remember only flashes of it. I remember that my mum and dad took Hugo and Rose, and that I was sitting between Harry and Ginny, actually, I think I held each of their hands.
I remember the look of your coffin and the array of flowers over it, all kinds of flowers, we asked everyone to bring what they liked most.
Fleur enchanted them so that they swirl softly in a circle above you. I like that. Maybe you would think it was showing off, but it looked good.
At the end of the service I stepped up (or tripped up). I couldn’t manage to say anything cause I was sobbing but I looked out into the crowd, and I looked through every face and god Hermione, I swear I looked for you.
Everybody I loved was there. Where were you?
-
I hate it when people say that I’ll recover. What if I don’t want to recover? What if I don’t want to go back to being my old self? Everything has changed now. I can’t be the same person I was. How could I, when my whole person was wrapped up in you?
-
I don’t think we’ll ever go home. Ginny and Harry have offered to have the three of us stay with them permanently and I think I’ll take them up on it.
I know that’s not what we talked about. But you see I really don’t think I can do this alone.
Besides, the kids like it here.
-
Today Rose pulled me away. She tucked at my sweater, and led me from the living room into the garden outside.
I knelt so that I could look her in the eye. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
She hesitated - and I could see so much in her eyes that I couldn’t understand, so many feelings that I can’t even same. And she said: “I really miss mom.”
And she’s so small Hermione. She’s so tiny. And maybe all these feelings are too big for her. I don’t know how anyone does it. Don’t know how Teddy did it, or Harry, and I don’t know how we’re gonna do it.
The only thing I could think to answer was to say that I missed you too.
-
My dad takes me on walks. We go around the Burrow, up the hills, where we used to play Quidditch when we were kids. He doesn’t say anything but I like his presence, it brings me peace.
(And what about you? Are you at peace?)
-
I can’t talk about you yet, but sometimes you’re implied in the conversation.
Ginny will say something about a book she read because someone recommended it, or Harry will start to say an anecdote about our time in school but his words will die out before he speaks your name.
Don’t get me wrong, I want to talk about you, I want to relive all the great things that you did. But I guess now the wound is too fresh. Maybe at some point I’ll miss you differently, but right now everytime I think of you it’s like I’m gashed open.
-
I hate Lee Jordan. He and George came by today. And he said the stupidest thing anyone has said so far.
He told me that women love kids and that he’s sure I’ll be able to find a new girlfriend as soon as I want.
I didn’t even know how to reply to that.
Can’t even understand that way of thinking.
I don’t have any desire to be with anyone else. It’s not even on the distant horizon. It’s like another planet. Another galaxy. Another Universe.
-
Do you remember the first time we held hands?
Not as a couple, just the first time. Because I do. We were twelve years old in the girl’s bathroom brewing an illegal potion and we both reached for the spoon at the same time.
I remember the way my heart jumped when my hand went over yours and that surprised, slightly anxious smile you gave me.
Fuck. Why did I waste six years pretending I wasn’t in love with you?
-
I found Harry crying today. He was in the attic, his face all contorted, full of rage, as if he was fifteen years old again.
He said all kinds of things, or he yelled at them. He talked a lot about our sacrifices, the ones that he and you and I made, and how in the end they didn’t matter. How in the end we’re all just getting fucked over by things outside of our control. He talked about Teddy, Sirius, and Fred.
It was kind of nice to see him have a tantrum for a change.
-
I spent most of my morning watching Hugo and Lily fight. One of them found a little cricket and managed to capture it, but now there is a general disagreement about who this someone was. Both of them swear it was a one-man job, and both of them swear that it was themselves.
We tried to sort it out but it wasn’t very successful.
(Hugo dropped the cricket on Lily’s head)
-
I think I’m getting creepy. Today I went back to the house, and after sobbing in every one of the downstairs rooms that are filled with so many memories of us, I went up, and I opened your closet, and moved the clothes around, and crouched on the floor with the door closed.
I love the fabrics of your sweaters, and I love that they still have a faint smell of you.
Honestly when I was in there it was easy to believe that you were still on that bed, reading one of your books, looking out of the window.
I sat there for ages, willing it to happen. I’m growing even more foolish somehow. You’d laugh at me, but I am.
-
Today a strange worry hit me: what if you never knew how much I loved you?
What if I didn’t make it clear enough?
What if I didn’t say it enough?
What if you died thinking that I just loved you a normal amount.
And then I think back at all the fights we used to have, our endless arguments, and I hate myself. I know that they’re all part of our story, but I can’t bear the idea that I ever hurt you. (And I know I did, and a lot, and I am sorry, I’m so so sorry Hermione).
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Rose asked me about Hogwarts today and I choked up.
It’s funny I’ve known about Hogwarts my whole life. My family has attended for hundreds of years, and I have so many memories of my brothers there, or Ginny there, of nights spent playing chess and talking nonsense with Harry and yet, now, when I think of Hogwarts I only think of you.
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My favorite picture of you was taken at Harry and Ginny’s wedding.
You always used to laugh at that. “What about our wedding? Didn’t I look good then?” you would shoot back.
And you did. But you see this picture is special. It’s a blurry picture (Luna took it of course). And it shows you in profile as you watch the reception ahead. And there’s this look in your eyes. This look of love, of belonging, of family.
When you notice the picture is taken you turn and smile at Luna, and there are tears in your eyes you’re so happy.
That’s how I want the kids to remember you. I want them to remember how much love you had, and how happy you were to be with us, with all of us.
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I think we’ve all adjusted to this new cohabitation. Not just Rose and Hugo, but Sirius and Albus and Lily. There’s a new kind of normal with the kids, and we all sense it.
I guess they’ll grow up more like brothers and sisters than cousins, and I love that. You know there are nice things about being part of a big family.
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Sometimes I still can’t believe all this happened. I still have moments early in the morning were the world feels good, and my heart feels whole.
And then I remember.
I remember.
And I go to your grave, with the headstone that you choose, and the inscription that you wrote to save me any trouble, and I kneel on the ground and conjure daisies for you. Bright and fragile.