Memory

It doesn't seem real as you sit in the gloom of your room, staring at the picture on your desk. You can't imagine her with you, you can't imagine her loving anyone but you, and yet she's hot there. She's not stood in the doorway to your room; she's not talking to you, asking you how your day has been. It's not your children that she's raising, and you wonder if you imagined all of the times you spend with her. But you didn't imagine it, you know that, and as you watch her kiss him, her son resting on her hip you know that you will be left with only your memories of her, for she's moved on, she isn't yours anymore, she's his, she's Mrs. Fred Weasley. She'll never be yours and so you shrink back into the gloom, the memory of her haunting you as you fall asleep, the photo in your arms.