It's the gentle circular motions of her shoulder blades as she stretches in the morning sun. It's the way her hair falls in her face as she tries in vain to hold it back. It's that look—you know the one—that she gives him as she gently turns back to glance at him. She's playful at this hour. Giggling, feeling refreshed in the new day's promises. And all he can do is admire her beauty.
His fingers trace geometric shapes on the small of her bare back as he lies down, looking up at her, their eyes meeting. Her coyness fades as she glances at the clock, beside him on the nightstand.
"Duty calls," she murmurs, leaning down to press her lips against his. She slides out of bed, clad only in a nude bra and flimsy panties.
It's the way her hips sway as she moves to their bathroom. It's the curves of her body, perfected with the aftereffects of motherhood. It's her smell lingering on her pillow case—which he has now pulled close to him. He closes his eyes, hoping to fall back into dreamland until his gorgeous wife is out of the shower. His realizes his efforts are pointless, as he feels the weight of small bodies clambering onto his bed. The bigger of the two, his darling daughter, reaches him first.
"Daddy," she speaks so softly, her words echo like a prayer. He holds his eyes shut, forcing a snore. She huffs in response, and he imagines her crossing those chubby arms of hers.
"Dad!" Another voice commands his attention. Despite a tone of authority, the speaker is only about three. Nonetheless, he is rather experienced when it comes to these early wake-up calls. It is a tradition. Which is why neither child is surprised when after a moment of silence their father pops up tickling them both. Their shrieks fill the room. They roll around the bed, stomping on throw pillows and extra sheets in an attempt to escape their father's arms. Fortunately for them, he is not on his game this early in the morning. He is too busy admiring how wonderful they are.
It's the bounce of her ginger curls and the genuine belly laugh that shakes her small frame. It's the way his eyes mimic his mothers, both in hue and expression. It's how they look at him—like he is their everything, blissfully unaware of how much they mean to him. He thinks of life before them and is unsure of how he could have ever felt happy or complete.
And then his wife—his best friend, his soul mate, his reason to breathe—is out of the shower. She's dressed too, which disappoints him slightly. She ushers the kids out of the room—they have to get ready for a fun day at Nan Weasley's house. Two sloppy kisses on his cheeks, in addition to an intimate one on his lips, later, he is left alone in his bed, to sleep for another half or so. He gets out of bed, knowing that it is useless trying to fall asleep without any of them beside him. Everything is useless without at least one of them by his side. He gets dressed, grinning as he hears their banters from the kitchen, mother and daughter fighting over which clothes to wear, sister and brother fighting over what to bring for snack.
Yes, Ron Weasley is a bit whipped. Harry can tease him all he wants, but he could not give a damn. He is beyond happy. Life is good. He is king.
And the royal family has never been better.
