clumsy_auror | (no subject)

(no subject)

Distractions are a positive thing.

Books are somewhat helpful, but her attention keeps wandering; the television or music are even less effective. Doing something with her hands is a definite improvement, so Nymphadora's sitting on the couch with a scrap of fabric, a spool of thread, a needle, and her wand in her hand. She's practicing the sewing spells Molly taught her.

As a concession to Bernard's nerves, there's a blanket tucked around her legs, and a cup of tea on the table in front of her.

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He laughs, despite himself, a little bitter. "You know. This is the trouble with prophecies. You don't know how and you don't know when, and you don't know if time split and this is the timeline where one of us dies in a freak gardening accident. You know?"

"...Oh yeah. That makes me feel a lot better."

"I always make you feel better," he asserts, grinning boyishly against her pant leg.

"You do tend to, yes." A pause, and then, tentatively, "I know I kept saying how we had to be wary of getting complacent, because you're right, prophecies aren't etched in stone, but... I wasn't careful enough. I thought it'd all be fine."

There is a lot of blinking in between her statement and his response.

"I don't understand how you could have been more careful. Maybe it was... some developmental defect. Maybe it was all the drugs I did making my genetics all funky." He shakes his head. "I just don't see how you can think that you did anything wrong."

Nymphadora shakes her head. "No, not careful physically. Careful emotionally."

"...Oh."

That's trickier.

"Well. For what it's worth. I'm not really too invested in being careful emotionally. Don't really see the drawbacks. Today is one thing." He shrugs, his hand smoothing up and down her hip. "But if we were ever careful do you think we'd be here now?"

"Probably not," she whispers, watching the progress of his hand.

"For instance," he murmurs, "what would have happened if, after we kissed on New Year's Day, you would have chickened out and said, 'Oh, I should really go back to Charlie, he's my boyfriend'?" The stroking ends in a firm pat. "Nothing good."

"Yeah. I know." Her hand catches his, and their fingers thread together. "Trouble is, all the stuff that makes sense when you say it doesn't help so much, inside my head."

"I know," he replies, crestfallen. "I just wish I knew how to help."

"You do," 'Dora murmurs. "Just like I hope I help you."

He smiles, at that.

"Always."

'Dora takes a deep breath in, and lets it out slowly.

"So. What're we doing the rest of the day?"

Have to look ahead.

Have to move forward.

"You mean, besides revel in each other's scintillating company?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. "Well, we get the kids up, and then we cook dinner, and then we throw them into the garden and spray them wish hoses until they're clean and then we shut them in their cages and have some real fun."

She laughs softly, and leans over to kiss him on the cheek.

"I love you."

He beams.

Mission accomplished.

"I love you, too."

Standing, he holds out a hand. "Come on, wife. I'll let you stuff my chicken."

"A nice little role-reversal," she muses, taking his hand and standing up, too.

She follows him into the kitchen, listening to his banter, to how eager he is to lessen the pain.

It's not gone, not entirely. And maybe it never will be.

But it's life. And it's there to be lived.

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