AN: All of Disintegration has been re-edited! Also, Disintegration and Lassitude have been broken up into chapters, as well as the new and last story that concludes Dwindling Pieces. Please enjoy!
It was a cool hand that awoke me this morning, that brought me out of my drowsy slumber. It was a smooth hand that pushed back my hair and lush lips that whispered the morning's greetings into my skin. It was a reminder of where my life is at this point, an offer of happiness given to me by the person who loves me.
But the silk voice that tells me "I'm yours" shatters any hope of this morning being a part of the life I desire. The voice does not belong to the person I love. You never told me that you were mine – no, I was yours and yours alone.
As I opened my eyes, finally startled out of my sleep, light brown hair and even lighter brown eyes invaded my vision, and it took all my might to keep from closing my eyes in disgust. I forced myself to look up and offer the woman sitting on my bed a fraction of a smile, afraid that if I extended it any farther that it would become a grimace. She beamed down at me, reminding me that breakfast would be served in half an hour, and that she was leaving afterward to take our daughter out.
I was tempted to correct her, to remind her that it is her daughter, and not mine. No daughter of mine would have brown eyes; grey like mine, yes; green like yours, yes. But not brown, like hers.
I sat up, allowing the sheets to pool around me, and looked out the window, glaring against the bright morning rays. The weather this morning was completely contradictory to my mood, and I slid grudgingly out of bed and made my way to the washroom.
My wife, for she prefers that I call her so, always complained about my bathroom; she says it reminds her of a Quidditch changing room, complete with several unnecessary shower stalls. She doesn't see the need for multiple sinks and cracked mirrors that are too small to be of any use. She doesn't understand the significance of the whole setting, with lockers in a corner and benches all about the place. She's a fool for not realizing that it is a Quidditch changing room; that it is an exact replica of the changing rooms back at Hogwarts. But then again, she never did attend Hogwarts.
As I stood in the second stall, letting the water beat down on me, I was reminded of our last moments together. We had stood there, hidden in the showers of the Slytherin changing rooms. You had come to me in the dead of night after I had finished flying. You reminded me that I was yours, filling me with your intoxicating desire.
I cannot believe I allowed myself to live through the torture of remembering the way you caressed me as I stood in the shower this morning. The cold tiles against my back and the warm water smothering my face were reminiscent of every touch; every bead of water was your finger tracing my back, feeling every inch of me.
But then her voice pierced my silent torture and echoed throughout the room, and she called me down to breakfast.