Harry watched his fiancée walk away down the road. It was one of their favorite ways to spend a good weekend – visiting Hogsmeade High Street. Even though they had graduated (or, in his case, left early) from Hogwarts, the familiar sweep of little inns and storefronts was a comfortable place to hang out together. At the moment, Ginny was off to do some bit of shopping here or there among the more effeminate stores, and so Harry could use the time to duck into Honeydukes or the Three Broomsticks to get a treat for the woman he loved. She was going to Madame Puddifoot's, but just on a whim, not for a drink, so he decided to grab a few butterbeers for the two of them.

The Three Broomsticks was not busy, Harry found as he entered.

"Hi, Madame Rosmerta – I'll just take the two butterbeers. Thanks."

He wasn't particularly interested in starting up a conversation at the moment, and in any case she didn't seem too shocked to see Harry Potter in her pub – although that may have simply been because Apparating wizards were able to pop in as often as they liked, regardless of where their affairs were taking place. Harry merely appreciated the chance to think a bit as he sat down at a low, worn table.

Ginny. She was his everything. She had been for years now…

She was great. Without trying to be anything other than herself, she represented everything that he wanted in a girl, in a woman, in the love of his life. In and of herself she was a beautiful person. But he knew her to be an incredible woman in her love for him, too. She held him to a standard and had expectations for him, not because she was stuck-up, but because she wanted him to live his life to the fullest. When he had had to leave her for a time to protect her, he had known she would understand. Of course she did. She would expect no less of him; and so he loved her.

So why was he staring at the butterbeers before him, wishing, suddenly, that he had only ordered one?

It was agony to even admit that to himself, to subject himself to the onrush of panic that came with doubting his love for her. Why was he so afraid? She was great. She was great. Why?

He didn't want to drink; he felt nauseous. Soon she would come in here, sit down in that chair, and not know what he was going through. He would have to… Oh, gosh… he was going to have to talk to her like everything was fine…

Everything is fine, he told himself, taking deep breaths. It was less of a conclusion than a hopeful thought formed as if to test whether it was true. Look at the facts. He remembered how he felt when he was around her at Hogwarts, their beautiful summer afternoons together out on the grounds, the feel of her touch and her kiss… How much he had loved her. How badly he had loved her.

Do you still feel that?

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up…

He had wanted nothing more than to while away the hours after class holding her in his arms by the fire in the common room or out under their favorite tree on the grounds… He had needed that nearness, the closeness of her and her beautiful body.

But you were never in it for the physical side of things.

This, he was sure, was true. He had always loved Ginny for much more than the prettiness of her face or figure – it would be impossible, he rather thought, to overlook everything else that she was. He had wanted to be close to her always, to be in her arms and to hold her in his, because he had loved her, and not because he had only loved her body. She was his everything. He had always wanted nothing more than to be in her embrace.

As the past years had gone by, he had noticed with appreciation the way she looked, and how she seemed to outshine any room she walked into. Her long hair with its shade of deepest red, her fair skin, the depths of her brown eyes, the shape of her body. She was breathtaking. But she was more than outwardly beautiful, and for all that she was he loved her.

And yet you are not with her now.

There it was: that was it. He was not with her now, when earlier in his life he would have followed that girl wherever she went, whether it be to the ends of the earth or right up the street to Madame Puddifoot's. He would have wanted to hold her hand always, to feel that touch. So what was different?

Ever since he was old enough to be interested in girls, he had had a burning desire to find one to love and to love her with everything he had. He would have done anything to have someone to give his heart to. When he had found Ginny, he had been triumphant in this passion. He had been a hopeless romantic and he had thought he had succeeded in satisfying that desire. So what was different? What had changed, now?

He felt a tear on his cheek and brushed it off. He did not want to be sad about it; he wanted to understand. Surely the magic between them wasn't gone, not after what he had felt for her. That couldn't be it. From what he knew, the romantic part of marriage would go on indefinitely, and he intended to marry her. It couldn't be over before the marriage had begun. Could it?

Presently, the door to the pub opened and Harry looked up. Ginny walked in and was scanning the tables for him. He took in the form of his bride-to-be as she stood there.

And suddenly it made sense.

No, he didn't feel for her the way he used to.

After hunting down Voldemort and becoming Wizardkind's great hero, he had changed. He had learned a lot about love. From Dumbledore. From Ron, Hermione, and all the others who had shown him love over the past years. He no longer felt the need to express his love to Ginny in the same ways. He had always wanted to touch and hold her to express his love for her in a physical way, and now he saw that he didn't necessarily have that passion anymore. He didn't burn with that desire as much as before.

There would be time for physical love later, and he looked forward to sharing the most intimate union with her when they were married. But this woman, the one who was approaching him at the table in the Three Broomsticks pub, was one that he would stand by no matter what. She was someone that he couldn't live without, and he would have peace expressing that in as many ways as he could possibly imagine. It was the end of an important stage in his life; his youthful expression of love had died. But from its ashes had risen something far greater.

"Kind of a lonely place," the woman of his dreams commented as she sat down. When he didn't respond, she noticed the look on his face. "Are you all right?"

Slowly, he felt his face split into a smile. It grew, and then he was grinning. "I am great." His eyes actually welled up with tears of sheer joy, and he turned a bit to hide them so as not to alarm her. "I am beyond great."

"I'm glad," she murmured. Watching him for a moment, she reached over and put her arms around him briefly. When she broke contact, the warmth remained.

The butterbeer, which he hadn't touched, suddenly seemed enticing again. Still grinning from ear to ear, he took a swig. He would be spending the rest of his life with his own Ginny Potter; and, in thinking of all the ways that he would love her and do everything for her in the future, he decided that he must still be something of a romantic after all.