Note: This one didn't quite work out how I planned...it was hard to stick to the same format! But I hope somebody likes it!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I making any profit from this piece of writing.

Invisible Part 5

I am the person you try to miss. You can spot me in a crowd from a mile off, that's me, the one that makes your gaze fall to the floor, the one so bright it makes you sigh. It's been that way for a while and I hate it. The worst part is that I find myself desperate enough to resort to attention seeking, and that's not really me. It's true.

It used to be true.

And it's ironic, don't you think, that a character trait I despise is suddenly one that seems to define me in my attempts not to be invisible?

I'm invisible to you. Sometimes I think you don't realise I even exist.

For somebody who doesn't exist, I interact with you a great deal. I still sit next to you at every Order meeting we attend, I put my hand in your lap and you rest your own hand limp atop it. We make each other cups of tea, and you take yours into the sitting room and bury your nose in a book. We still have our chats. We talk about Harry, the Order, the War, and then I talk of love and you smile vaguely and mumble incoherently under your breath. We've stayed up late without Sirius, missed his company as we sit before the fire and drink too much after dinner. Each time the two of us sit upon the sofa, side by side, in complete and utter silence, and I'd stare into the warm glow of the fire and think I'd like to snatch the fire whiskey from your grasp and throw it into the flames, watch them roar fiercely and shock you. I want to know you're human, that you can feel shock, that you can feel anything at all.

A few times I've caught myself thinking foolishly that you might not be quite as unfeeling as you first seem; when you arrive late for meetings and lean to press a kiss atop my head as you hurry past to your chair, when you serve me absurd portions of Molly's lasagne, smiling and reminding me that I'm eating for two now.

But then I remember that when you do those things we are always in company. You're just an actor, I've not met anybody so meticulous about keeping up appearances as you. And the worst thing about remembering is that it only makes me admire you even more.

I don't admire you, not really. I hate you. I hate everything about you. I hate the way you took the happiest moment of my life and made it the most despairing instead. I hate the way I can reach for your hand and yet never reach you at all. I hate the way I try to reason with you and yet you don't seem to listen, let alone think about what I have to say. I hate the way you talk to Molly about my baby, as if it were mine alone instead of being ours. I hate the way you hate yourself, the way you think yourself so completely unworthy of me, of our unborn child, of happiness.

I hate the way you never say my name. Not even my first name. And I hate the way I think myself silly for getting hung up about such a thing, because in truth it isn't very silly. In truth it means I'm still in love. Because no matter how much I hate you I love you a hundred times more.

It's silly that I love somebody who doesn't even notice me.

And yet I would not have it any other way, because you can't stop what you've started. Someday I'm going to give birth to our child, you're going to be a father. And when you are, when you rock our baby to sleep, tuck it up into bed and kiss it goodnight, you're going to realise I was right all along. There will be no child as lucky as ours, having a father like you. And you are going to feel lucky too.

And when that happens, when we defy those who are against us once again, prove our critics wrong, I'll take one look at you, at our child, and I'll tell the world that there's no stopping us.

We'll give society the finger. And I will be proud never to be invisible ever again.