Silk clothes and frilly hose is just a waste of money.
Come with me and stay with me and say you'll be my honey.
This was the right choice; Harry had never questioned that fact. Now, he was as certain as ever, soothing soft sobs as they escaped from pink lips.
They had made the decision to move after Hermione's death. They were both so torn up; they needed to get away. Harry bought a house by a shore, warded it so no one could track them down, and off they went.
It was difficult at first, and sometimes the days crept by agonizingly slowly, and those were the times that they both thought they might just slip into depression, starvation, death. Winky, who Harry had brought along with them, was the only thing keeping that from happening. She brought them food and stayed until they ate. She kept them busy with little projects- painting the walls of the bedroom the Muggle way, starting a garden the Muggle way- Harry enjoyed relearning the things the Dursleys had forced him to do as a boy. Without the screaming and yelling, it was, surprisingly, fun.
Eventually Winky didn't have to watch them eat, or force them out of bed in the morning. They relished the sweet sea air. They stood atop the widow's walk and watched the sun set together.
After a couple of years, they began to talk about returning to the wizarding world. They still got the Daily Prophet, and, while the search for them had been called off, there was still the occasional lament from someone or another. They felt terrible for leaving their family behind, of course, and their friends, but, they decided, they couldn't go back. Not yet. There was still, they told each other, the lingering agony of Hermione's death. In reality, it was desire- the desire to wake up together in the mornings, Harry's fingers entwined in ginger hair.
So they stayed. They expanded the garden; they took up new hobbies. More and more often, their wands lay unused on the table in the kitchen. There was little need for magic in their still, sweet world, and they were satisfied with using their hands.
A decade later, Harry awoke to a panicked freckle-face, crying, "I can't remember...I can't remember the spell to get my wand. I-I shouldn't-"
"Shush," Harry murmured, encasing a lithe body and long limbs in his arms, kissing every tawny speckle. "You don't need to remember."
Calmer now, they curled into each other, and Harry sighed contentedly. He would ask Winky, later that day, to put away their wands somewhere that his beloved would never find, and so again be troubled by the magic which was now just a murmur in the back of their minds.
A/N: Is it Ron or Ginny? YOU WILL NEVER KNOW. It could be Ginny, torn up by her best friend's death. It could be Ron, torn up by his girlfriend's death...and suddenly gay for Harry! XD
Regardless of who it is, go listen to "Cornbread and Butterbeans" by the Carolina Chocolate Drops. I was listening to it on repeat while I wrote this, and it's pretty great.. Thanks for reading for my first HP fanfic in 3+ years! :D