Writing is a good therapy.
It had been three days ago when they'd last exchanged words, and even then it was only a simple inquiry about the milk.
She can't remember when she last really spoke to him. It wasn't because of a fight, or anything. If it was, she wasn't aware of it. It was a simple case of having nothing to say.
"Teddy," she says, and he pauses, turning. His hands dripped water on the floor because he'd been doing the dishes, and she normally would've fussed about it, but now she finds that she doesn't really care. "What are we doing?"
He lowers his eyes from hers and turns back around. He shuts off the water.
The silence stretches out for a long time. She can hear the sound of his voice in her ears, his laughter, what he sounded like when he said her name. Once upon a time, she figured she might have been in love with him.
She admits this to herself and makes her legs work. She stands and sets aside her book. Her bare feet make no noise on the carpet as she moves toward him. She places her hand on his tense arm, and he turns to her unspoken request.
She moved closer and stood up to kiss him.
He reciprocated immediately, but didn't touch her. The kiss was lazy.
She felt nothing. Nothing when she looked at him anymore. He wasn't anyone to her.
She didn't know the man she was living with. Had been living with for many years now.
"Nothing," she said when they pulled apart.
He leaned against the counter and spread his hands out in a helpless gesture. "Nothing," he agreed. She dropped her hand.
"Can I stay until I find something else?" she asked softly, and he nodded swiftly.
"Of course, Victoire," he promised, and it was then that she knew that it was over. He never called her by her given name. Two and half decades of friendship and her best friend and brother became a stranger.
She wondered, fleetingly, what happened, and then she figured that nothing had, really. It was a simple fact that work had kept them apart and people change. Feelings disappear when they're never acted upon.
She turned and walked away.
Grief hit her like a tidal wave when she made it to her room and shut the door. She sank to the floor and drew her knees to her chest and buried her face.
She didn't look for a new apartment. She cried herself to sleep, instead.
…
"I really am sorry," Teddy apologizes once more. She's the one that turns, this time, and she gives him a fleeting smile. She passes her trunk to the worker loading the train, and she puts her hands on his face. Runs her fingers through his hair.
"Don't be sorry," she whispers against his lips. "I'll never forget the person you helped me become, all you've done for me. If you need me, send an owl. It's just that we've grown apart and there's nothing more for it."
He tightens his hold on her elbows and kisses her chastely, sadly, desperately, "I don't what made me let you go," he tells her.
She shakes her head and laughs softly, kissing back. "No one let go. We caught sight of something beautiful on different roads and wandered off like lost children."
"What a way to say goodbye," he whispers, and she can feel the tears on her fingers.
She kisses him again and sobs quietly. "It wasn't. This is. It's time to turn the page."
"Goodbye, Victoire Weasley."
She releases him and climbs up the stairs to the cart on the train. She doesn't look back, but after the door slips shut and she sits down, the train starts to move. She looks out the window and catches sight of his gray eyes and dark blue hair, mussed from her fingers and his face wet. They don't break their gazes as she rolls away and she stares at the same spot on the window long after the station has turned to mountains and he has disappeared from her sight and her life.
…
A year has passed, maybe two. She doesn't know, exactly. All she knows now is that her mother is crazy for ever having left France for England and that she loves her creative writing classes.
"Who in the world has blue hair?" Her best friend Veronique asks her one day, and the question makes her pause.
"What did you say?" she requests, spinning in her chair to face the dark haired woman across the room.
Veronique points impatiently at the printed-paper she's holding. "I'm just reading this short that you wrote and I'm wondering what's up with the blue hair? It seems to be a thing with you."
"What? No it isn't," she denies, and she turns away.
It's a bitter lie.
"Whatever," her friend says. She mentally collapses with relief. "Don't tell me. What do I know anyway? I'm not your best friend or anything."
She could slap her.
"It's time," Veronique finishes, and she glances out the window to see that she's right.
They gather the blankets and their cokes and they migrate outside to watch the sun set over the horizon.
Veronique vanishes in the middle of it because it gives her an idea- which is the whole point of this, really, but she still feels bitter about the abandonment- and she remains sitting and blinking at the dying rays.
It feels like she's seen too many sunsets, and they mean less and less to her each one she sees. Their beauty is drained and superficial and blank. Just like her.
…
She's alone.
Has been for several days.
She hasn't seen an owl for a long time.
The noise startles her and she drops her quill. The ink splatters all over her writing and she curses, reaching into her boot for her wand. Before she reaches it, the owl lands on it and digs his claws into the paper so it's worthless now anyway. She sighs and pulls the red string from his leg. He hoots at her softly and flies to her windowsill.
The parchment is clean and crisp. It's also very cold, which doesn't surprise her much. She unravels the note slowly, careful not to tear it. There are ten words written.
I miss you more than I thought I would.
-Teddy.
Her heart breaks.
…
And that night, she's on a train.
…
The light is on behind the curtains. She shivers in her winter coat and grips her trunk more tightly, swallowing heavily. She walks forward.
The door swings open as soon as she steps on the first stair leading up to it, and he's there. He's in a night robe and slippers, looking absolutely ridiculous with the neon green hair color and shady gold eyes, but he looks more happy than she remembers him ever being in the last few months before her departure.
"Vicky," he breathes, eyes wide. She smiles, a small twitch of her lips, but he laughs joyously and pulls her close.
"Vicky, Vicky, my Vic," he says in her ear, and she wraps her arms around him.
He feels like he always has- strong and lithe, his heart beating under her ear and the wiry muscle of his arms holding her tight. He was never a stranger, and she wonders why she ever thought that.
For the first time in a long time, she feels like she's come home.