Proud

Head hurts. Again. Can't think of what is happening. Son is here in the room. He can help. He came in the door and started talking to me about a fight. I can only understand a few pieces here and there. It was a big fight at his school. He talks of his teachers fighting alongside him. He has a shiny, pointy thing in his hand. Sword, I vaguely remember. I look at the pretty painting over by the door. The colors on the lady in the painting are swirling as she turns slowly. A beautiful ballerina. I look to the left. I barely recognize my Frank. I cannot remember how I know him, but I know that I love him and he is my Frank. I look back at my son. I cannot remember his name, but I know he is my son. I want to respond, but I do not know how to speak. I lost that ability a long time ago. My eyes roam around the room, listening to my son ramble on about how the war was won.

"I fought against three Death Eaters, Mum," he was saying. "They broke my wand and a couple of fingers, but… And then Voldemort came to Hogwarts and Hagrid was carrying Harry… Harry jumped out of Hagrid's arms… snake… it was a horcrux… I used the sword of Gryffindor to slice its head off…" I turn my head towards him and grab his hand. I am so happy and an emotion that does not register fills me. He stops and looks at me. He is white as a sheet under all the dirt and grime. Dirty hair and clothes. Bloody forehead. Panting. He is my son. I suddnly know the feeling. I smile widely. I am…

"Proud."