I felt it long before I knew it.
Her voice, once irritating, unknowing to me became smoother than glass. The sound of her was the only thing that could pull me out from the deep water of panic after the war. How she phrased her words and talked to me calmly was like throwing ice on a fire. The feeling of her hands gripping my face, with a tightness I wish I had on my sadness, had been my lifeline. I could be who I was with her, because though so many things had changed, my feelings for her had not; so many things were taken from me, but she was still there. I could still run my fingers through her hair, I could still feel her heartbeat when I cupped her face. She was there, and she was alive. Even when she wasn't present, the ghost of her followed me as if she'd consciously sent it to look over me. I thought about her all the time. She could have just gotten off the couch and my mind would redirect to my eye's previous muse. I would miss her when she was within arms reach. I would feel the desperate need to come home when I was already laying between my sheets, but with her in my arms, things were almost normal again. She was the trail of bread crumbs left behind to find my way back. She reminded me of who I was when the depression forced me to forget.
I was afraid before I accepted it.
For weeks I was silent. I would stand transfixed in my kitchen, thinking about life without her; this was what caused the majority of my anxieties. The very possibility of her casting me away was enough to keep me awake. My mind would create demons out of the shadows of my bedroom, and Harry would have to listen to me stir in the middle of the night. She could have left me, or, she could have stayed, and in a world with supposed infinite realities, there was only one in which she stayed forever; and how in the hell could I have been lucky enough to live in that one? I layers awake, wondering if I should take precautions and just end it as it would hurt more the longer it went on. There was one problem though, I didn't want to. God, I didn't want to. I came to the conclusion that it would hurt whether or not it happened later or not, so I might as well make the pain worth it. And I'm so glad I did.
Then, realization hit me in the oddest way possible.
We were at a small, family owned inn somewhere deep in the heart of Italy, our midway stop between England and Australia. The way she flopped herself down on a folded up futon couch, and how her hair stood at a contrast against the tan fabric while she buried her nose in the softness, forced a smile to my face even after the long afternoon we'd spent hopping from portkey to portkey. She held one leg up, bent at the knee, and attempted to kick her shoes off, but failed miserably and gave up. All I could see was her back, the small roundness of her rump, and her massive head of hair, but that was when I realized I loved her. I loved not only her looks, I couldn't see them when she pressed her features into the fluff, but I loved her. She could make me laugh like no other, and she always put me first. She always looked out for my feelings and how her actions would impact me. She would bring me coffee, and kiss me in the morning as I woke up, not caring that I hadn't brushed my teeth yet. She made me feel wanted, and that felt so good as I'd wanted her for so long. For so long, I wanted to be able to hold my arms around her for more than a friendly second. I wanted to sit so close that our knees touched. I wanted to know how her small hands would feel in mine. A comforting pain shot through my stomach every time our skin came in contact, and when her lips touched mine I forgot where I was. There were things I needed to do, places I needed to go, and people I needed to see, but when she entered the room and wrapped her small arm around my waist, I forgot entirely. She'd tease me by starting a conversation before trailing her lips down my neck, then laugh as my answers drowned to confusion. We would make bets, and I lost every time.
When my mind began to get the best of me, I knew my theory was a fact.
Wondering about our conjoined hands and close legs turned into something much more devious, and I couldn't help myself. In the most inappropriate moments, I would wonder about how she looked under her clothes. I wanted to feel her frantic heart against my bare chest, but most of all, I wanted to hear how my name sounded when it escaped her lips underneath me. I fantasized about her prancing around my room in nothing but my shirt. I drove myself insane. There was one incident where Bill asked me if I was alright. I was staring at the drywall, as if I were about to burn a hole in it, and I was gripping the edge of my chair so tightly my knuckles turned white. I snapped out of my trace and answered him, somewhat short of breath because of my thoughts. These thoughts made their way into my dreams. On several occasions, I had to do the laundry as I didn't want to face the embarrassment of anyone else washing my nightclothes and sheets. It was quite a terror, but it was worth it.
I didn't want to acknowledge my weakness.
A year passed, then two, and my thoughts of her beside me in bed turned from just one night to every night for the rest of my life. I wanted her to be the one nudging me awake for work, and yanking the covers off me when I wot passed noon. She wanted to travel the world, and I wanted to go with her. Young children evolved from there. Sometimes there were a few, others many, and even just one. It always varied, sometimes a girl would look just like me, and others she would look like Hermione but possess my eyes. Often times there was a boy with frizzy brown hair and freckles all over his body like me. All these possibilities would shake us awake on Christmas to open presents, or just on any morning they wanted a home cooked breakfast. I would smile in the middle of nothing important, when people asked why I'd say I was thinking about a good joke. I even denied it myself. I wouldn't let myself know what it was. I said I was thinking about the "what ifs", and how it was just that; I repeatedly told myself that I was thinking about it just to think, not because it was what I actually wanted. Then, I'd frown. I frowned because I disappointed myself when I said I didn't hope for that future; I wanted it, I wanted it so much, and there was nothing I could do.
I've finally figured out the extent of my condition.
As I lay here, tracing the skin on my wife's back in our newly shared bed, I finally realize what she's done to me. Hermione is complex, and occasionally she's hard, but I've dedicated my life to solving her puzzle. I could have everything in the world, but I wouldn't be happy without her by my side; she is the key to my success. People have asked me if I could live without her. I used to say yes. If she left me I could continue to function, not matter how miserable I might be. But then I learned the difference between living and surviving. My heart would beat, and my lungs would take oxygen; I could survive, but I couldn't laugh, and I wouldn't ever be content again. I could not live. I would do anything for her. If she requested it, I would trade my blood to ensure her happiness. If she wanted snow, I'd cause a white out over Britain. If she wanted a fire, I'd set the house aflame. She has me wrapped around her little finger and she doesn't even know it, but I do, and I'm okay with it. She is the only person who can make my day or break my week with the simple slip of the tongue.
I'm a goner, and I don't want to come back.