Feb. 20th, 2006

clumsy_auror: (nymphadora)
It had been a chilly morning in London, snow skittering across the frozen sidewalks, wind whipping through the grey streets and around corners. It was odd to be on her own -- strangely quiet, and somehow less structured than her days had become. It unsettled her in a way she couldn't explain.

Nymphadora returned home to find Bernard sound asleep on the sofa, Anthony dozing on his chest, Sunny curled up at his side. A faint smile quirked her lips, and she stood there for a few long moments before shrugging out of her cloak and taking her packages back to their bedroom.

Inside the closet, 'Dora stood gazing at Bernard's short row of shirts and trousers, all black, all rather faded and the worse for wear. She pulled nearly all of them from their hangers, one by one, sorting them into piles; some to be cut up for the rag bag, some to be put aside for working in the yard or on an especially messy bomb.

It occurs to Nymphadora that, in any other circumstance, she wouldn't be doing this alone.

Love, she'd have said. Love, look at the state of your trousers. Reckon we ought to go and find you some new ones?

And he'd groan good-naturedly, and together they'd go off to the shops, squabbling cheerfully over this shirt or that one, stopping at a cafe on the way home for a cuppa, walking arm-in-arm through the city, she looking at the way the streetlights flicker off his bright hair--


But it doesn't do much good to think like that, on days like today.

She pulled her purchases from their wrappings, hanging up jumpers, trousers, button-downs, t-shirts. All black. All unquestionably Bernard. She knows him well enough for this.

It's likely, she muses as she gathers up the bags, that he won't even notice.

And that's okay.

Because that's Bernard.

It's who he is.

And this is where he is.

And that, Nymphadora reminds herself, shutting the closet door behind her, is really all that matters.

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clumsy_auror

October 2007

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