He doesn't make a sound when he comes to the breakfast table. He's generally not in the cheeriest of moods when he wakes up in the morning. I watch him, from behind The Daily Prophet, as he takes a seat and reaches for the plate of toast. I smile to myself.
When I look at him, I see myself. He has jet black hair that never lies flat, no matter how many times he tries to comb it. He's small for his age (I know he'll grow out of that like I did), and wiry and quick as well. He even wears the same round glasses. When I see him, it's like looking into a mirror. All except for his eyes. He gets his beautiful eyes from his mother. They are wide and a silvery-gray, and every time I look into them, I feel as though she is looking back at me through his eyes. He holds me with those eyes, the same way that she did.
He is only five, but he already knows so much. He's smart, and it's the same kind of intelligence that she was known to posses. He also tells me stories: they are stories that he reads in The Quibbler. I blame it on his grandfather, who sends him every issue. But I love to hear him tell me the stories. His eyes light up and he smiles. It is so beautiful to see him smile.
And when it rains, that's when it's the hardest for me. He grabs me by the hand and leads me outside. We both tilt our heads back, just like she taught us, reach our hands into the sky, and spin and spin, catching the raindrops on every part of our body. We stop our spinning at the same time, and look at each other. He lifts those misty, silvery eyes to me and I know he's crying, just like I am, but the rain mixes with the tears on our faces. And every time, he hugs me hard around the waist, as if he never wants to let me go. I know the feeling. I never want to let him go either.
At night, before I tuck him into bed, I stand at the doorway and listen to his prayers. "Dear God," he says, "I know Mum is there, next to you. Dad said she's an angel now. Tell Mum that I miss her, and I love her. And God, please watch over Dad. He misses her more than I do. But let her know that I'll take care of him for her, just like he takes care of me." That's when I almost break down completely, because I know it's true.
"James," I say, as I put aside my paper and look at him across the table. He's about to take a bite from his toast (one that would have been way too big for his mouth, I dare say), and looks at me instead. "I love you."
I say it all the time, but every time I do, he gives me the same expression: his eyes get a little bit wider, and his mouth quirks a little at the corners. Then he says, "I love you, too, Dad."