I feel old, more every day. My skin is looser and won't strengthen. I know he sees it. I see it in him. His hair is flecked with grey, like his eyes have always been. His lips feel thinner, when I do feel them. He's snoring, gently – his breath whistles and still has the power to soothe me, the sound washing over our little night. The moon's coming through the curtains and we're cast in silver like a premonition. The colour will keep fading from us until we're bones. A door creaks somewhere in the house and for a moment I'm sure it's Rose, stumbling through the dark to find my embrace, but it's not. She'll not come. I could go and stand by her room, peak through the slit in the door like I did in the old nights, and her bed would be deserted. Christ knows where she is. At least I can close my eyes and see Hugo now, wrapped up in crimson and gold like a king. 16 tomorrow. Ron dealt with his present; what do I know about teenage boys now? But I miss those days, sometimes. It was still fun then, although we were on the cusp of some terror beyond our understanding. Death seemed fierce then. All fire and destruction. What is it now? Lurking. Silent. Always just out of sight. I feel older than is fair.
A few cards are still on the bedside table, wishing us a happy 20th wedding anniversary; the tiny fireworks on the front will go on exploding for all eternity. I meant to put them away. There were doubts, perhaps there always are, but I was pretty in that moment. For once my hair was glossy, sleek, tumbling down the nape of my neck in myriad knots. My skin was ivory like the moon, lips pinched rose pink. I had promised my mum I'd wear a dress rather than a robe - some little muggle token – and it was ice white, glittering with a thousand crystal butterflies. Red leaves cracked below our feet all day. They set the rhythm of our first dance. It had been a long wait. I was scared. He'd asked before and I hadn't said no exactly, but wavered, staring into the depths of my future, not knowing what I hoped to see. So I fixed onto his pale eyes and let him move me. James was just born; a wriggling, screaming bundle, draining Ginny all day. Exhausted and bewildered, she was still glorious, still outshining me as she always did. There's never been bitterness. We have always been on different paths. But Ginny and Harry had always seemed so sure, and they still are.
He shuffles in his sleep; rolls to face me. His snores cease for a moment as he presses his nose into the pillow. His hand brushes my waist through the duvet. Unconsciously my hand moves to his face, ambles along his jaw, thumb strokes his freckled cheek. Perhaps he doesn't look so old at all. We could be in that tent now, a life time ago. He used to come to me at night and it would be like this, just like this. We always were restrained for teenagers on the run. You could feel the stars then, with just that thin layer keeping us apart from them. You could feel the stars inside yourself, flickering like our hearts.
'What are you looking at?' His voice is hoarse. He smirks.
'You.' I let those thin lips press against my forehead. 'I can't wait for Hugo to be back,' I say, my voice muffled by his shoulder. His hand cradles my head and draws me to his chest, like he did to Rose when she was tiny.
'Me too.'
I can feel tears building in my eyes, and if I speak again this spontaneous, strange sadness will flow. He knows. He will see me through tonight.