Older
It’s January, a terrible month, when you suggest we travel to the Alps. It takes much tongue-biting for me to refrain from saying that phrase you fear, “midlife crisis.”
I bring clothes that are prettier than they are warm. The cold enjoys my vanity and bites my exposed neck, the way you used to, Lucius. Now you just offer me your scarf as we stand in the cold. We’re at a tourist spot near the mountains. It’s a shared space with Muggles, but you’ve cast the charm to ward them off. Twenty minutes, you said. The Swiss won’t send the authorities after you for twenty minutes. With your legal history, I’m surprised you took such an international chance.
That war. How you put our son in danger… I know you never meant to, that you would sooner die than do that again, but Lucius, it was your choices. We’ve grown tighter, I think, but not closer. Tighter is from desperation, a need for safety. Closer is not what we are. I want our old selves back.
Our top-floor hotel suite looks right at the mountains, and I leave the curtain open for the view. When night falls, though, the only thing I see in the glass is my reflection, and it makes me feel old. We’re already in bed at ten o’clock. I draw the curtains with my wand. I wish you weren’t asleep. I wish we still couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I brush your long hair from your face as you sleep. Forgiving you is a work in progress, but love helps the task.
You stir at my touch, more so than I expected, rub your eyes, and sit up.
“...Narcissa?”
For some reason, it’s all you have to say.
I’ve missed this, Lucius, our romance.