Pigtails

He hated her hair in pigtails.

It didn't happen often, much to his relief, especially since she'd grown and matured. But every once in a while, they came out and he hated it. Pigtails meant she was feeling insecure. She had none of the spunk he loved. They were the days he felt much more protective, much emptier than others. Pigtails meant it was a shy day, a day she interacted with people only if she had to.

Pigtail days meant she was found in the most remote corners of the castle. They were days when she loved solitude and silence, craved them almost more than anything. They were days he knew she needed a hug, someone to tell her things were okay.

Before they'd started dating, he had to look for her on the Marauders Map, searching out her little black dot on the page to assure himself she was at least in the castle. He'd wanted to run to her, hold her. Now, she came to him, her hair in pigtails and he pulled her close, murmuring nonsense into her hair. They were the days she fell asleep in his arms just because she couldn't make herself climb the stairs to her lonely bed. They were days they often fell asleep on the couch.

He hated pigtail days.