Love – (noun)

"Daddy, what's love?" asked Rose.

Shit.

How was I supposed to answer that one? I mean, I could answer questions like, "Why does everybody stare at Uncle Harry?" or "Why can't Crookshanks talk?" but this?

"Well, sweetie," I tried, "love is… love is when you care about someone very, very much."

But that didn't seem right. It was more than just caring for someone.

"Well no…" I contemplated, "that's not the right answer."

The answer to this question delved much, much deeper than Rose's three-year-old brain could comprehend. It wasn't something that you could just… explain.

"I'll get back to you on that, Rosie," I compromised, "I'll get back to you…"

Normally, I would've said, "Go ask your Mum," but Hermione was a bit busy today. Our second child was born yesterday, a healthy baby boy by the name of Hugo. He had the smattering of Weasley hair and freckles, but had his mum's eyes. As for his personality, well, we'd have to see and get to know him.

But anyways, Hermione had her hands full, and she needed time to rest.

Hermione, my Hermione.

Even after five years of marriage and five years of dating, those words never failed to bring a smile to my face. Hermione was everything that I was not, making up for my faults, and lacking in my strengths.

I laughed as I realized how long it took for me to realize this. See, love is a funny thing. It happens before you know it, and it's bloody scary to let your heart lead before your brain. Maybe that was the meaning of love. Letting your heart lead your brain.

But that wasn't the only thing. I recalled the days when we were searching for the Horcruxes, when I felt worried out of my mind when Hermione wasn't in my sight. I guessed another definition of love was the feeling you get when you can't breathe properly when that significant other isn't in the same room as you.

Stuck for an answer like Hagrid trying to go through the passage under the Whomping Willow, I did as Hermione would do: look in a book. I pulled out the gigantic Muggle dictionary from the shelf in our library. "A profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person," it read.

I laughed. This was clearly a definition written by someone who had never been in love; someone who had never experienced true love. Someone who had heard of it, seen it, maybe even thought he was in love. But no, there was much more to love than just affection.

But, you see, love isn't something that you can put so easily into words. You see, love is when you care about someone more than you care about yourself. Love is something that you think is going to be awesome, until it happens. Then you find out that it is way more than that, something that words cannot explain.

"Aaaahhhh!" I heard Hugo cry. I stood up and walked to the next room, but I was too late. Hermione was there, caressing our son and calming him down. In the morning sunlight, her bushy hair glinted, and she seemed to glow. She was patting Hugo on his back, whispering, no, singing softly into his ear. I leaned against the doorframe, and smiled. This, this, was love.

Eventually she turned around and noticed me.

"What?" She demanded softly, as to not wake Hugo.

"Nothing," I said, "nothing," I whispered softly and smiled. Hermione's brows furrowed, her expression confused.

"It's just…" I started, "it's not 'nothing.' It's everything." Walking up to her, I placed a small kiss on her cheek. She smiled and asked,

"What is up with you today, Ronald? You're very sweet."

"Just… you're beautiful, you know that, right?"

Hermione smiled as she placed Hugo in his crib. Holding onto the rail, she turned her head towards me.

"Look at him," she said, her gaze drifting back towards our son. "He looks just like you. Red hair, freckles, even his smile reminds me of you."

I put my arm around her waist.

"But see, he has your eyes," I pointed out, "your beautiful, chocolate brown eyes." I looked up at her face and stroked her cheek with my hand. She smiled, then yawned. "Sweetie, you deserve a break. Go take a nap. I'll take care of him if he starts to cry."

Beaming appreciatively, she broke free of our embrace, and walked into the bedroom.

I decided to go to the refrigerator to get a bottle for Hugo, just in case he got hungry later. As I walked to the kitchen, I noticed the pictures on the wall, pictures from when we were at school, and from just a couple months ago. Many of the Weasley family, of Harry and Ginny, of the kids, of the Grangers, and some of award ceremonies.

Then I remembered Rosie's question. Harry's mum had died for him, she had sacrificed herself for him, out of love. Perhaps another definition of love was being able to die for someone, putting someone else before you.

There were so many different ways of describing love. I thought back to all of the definitions I had come up with during the day. Love is letting your heart lead your brain. Love is when you care about someone so much you forget about yourself. Love is more than you will ever expect it to be. Love is feeling like you would die in place of that one person.

But the truth was, you would never know what exactly love was until you experienced it for yourself. It's not something that one can put into words. Not something that there is one solid definition for.

I peered into Rose's room, appropriately painted a light pink, with matching accessories decorated with dainty roses. She sat in her favorite striped pink chair, doing her favorite activity; reading. I smiled at her likeness to her mother, and sat down opposite her.

"Rosie," I said, "I can't tell you what the meaning of love is." Her brow furrowed, not unlike Hermione. "it's something that you've got to figure out for yourself. I can't explain it in words."

All these years, I had never really got to thinking about what love was; I simply loved. And how ironic, that the person who had made me think about it was my daughter, my sweet and curious three-year old who was just beginning to meet the world.