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It's a heartache
Nothing but a heartache
Hits you when it's too late
Hits you when you're down
It's a fool's game

Bonnie Tyler – It's a Heartache

BEAUTIFUL BLUES

"I'm not in love with you anymore."

She had to squint her eyes, because the sun was shining brightly, with several rays of light falling through small openings between little Hogsmeade houses. Students all around were slowly preparing to leave, a clear unwillingness hanging over them while doing so – this was their last free afternoon before the exams after all, and one would be crazy not to dread the end of that. They filed up at the exit of the village, and she watched them flocking together like sheep, vaguely realising that she should be one of them. She failed to get up from bench she was occupying, however, because, well.

Her boyfriend just informed her he wasn't in love with her anymore.

"Huh?"

She tore away her blank gaze from the crowd and turned to him, his aristocratic profile painted against the sky. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and shook his head slightly, "I'm sorry."

"Wait," she said. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

And, Jesus.

Then she laughed. Because he'd never, ever apologised before, and it was all sorts of twisted that he'd had to dump her before being able to do so. She pondered about this for a split second, she laughed some more, and after that, she fell completely silent.

It wasn't funny.

In fact, there was no adjective further off to describe the situation than funny.

"You're breaking up with me," she stated.

The mass of students decreased. Their silhouettes vanished over the hill, and she was going to be in so much trouble if she didn't just follow them – but damn it. Her sensible mind was furnished with some kind of film, making her feel dazed like she just came out of a four hour movie she didn't understand. She wanted to get up, but the pit in her stomach was growing so heavy gravity wouldn't obey her.

"I know it's fucked up," he shrugged. "It's terribly bad timing. You should be happy. I just – I can't be the one to do that anymore."

"Why?"

It was a simple question, but it took him more than thirty seconds to answer. To her own disgust, she'd actually counted.

"I don't know. I guess things like these just... happen."

She felt a rough impulse to counter that, yell at him that a load of bullshit wouldn't convince her. But she was rational enough not to give into that, because the fact was that he was right – these things happen. People fall in and out of love all the time; like the sunrise and the sunset, like ebb and flood, only not in sync. Because he'd fallen out of love with her... and she loved him all the same.

She loved him all the same.

"I see," she managed to bring out, running her hand through her red hair to give herself a nonchalant air. "Okay."

"But we'll still be friends, yeah?" He asked, sounding uncharacteristically hopeful, as if to appease her.

That didn't work.

Instead she frowned. "I don't really think I want to see you again any time soon."

Then finally her will triumphed over the laws of physics, and she pushed herself right upwards. He was breaking up with her like the stupid prick he was, and she wasn't going to be the naive idiot who'd sob in front of him – she really wasn't. So she scraped together all that remained of her pride, forced herself not to ask any more questions, looked at his painfully handsome face, and folded her arms (because it made her feel safe, somehow, and because it was a defensive gesture – she'd read that in Witch Weekly).

"I really am sorry," he said, and it almost made her miss his usual drawling tone.

"Me too."

And after that, she turned around and left.

When she knew he couldn't see her anymore, she started running, both of her hand palms pressed against her eyelids.

The first thing she did when she went back to her dormitories, was taking the photo on her nightstand and putting it in one of her drawers. It was a Polaroid picture, made by Albus, because he'd been testing his latest Muggle gadget. She was making a goofy face, and Scorpius was rolling his eyes – but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and that's why she loved the picture so much. Because he was always terribly reserved, and she'd managed to make him laugh. She should've won awards for that.

Unfortunately, that picture was taken months ago.

And now she didn't feel like looking at it – probably wouldn't feel like it for a long, long time – knowing she wouldn't be the one to make him laugh again.

The second thing was searching through her letters, looking for the one he'd sent her almost precisely a year earlier, proclaiming his love for her in hidden tiny hints – a letter she'd held close to her heart and she now wanted to rip to shreds (because, bloody hell, his love for her?). When she finally found it underneath the stack of her parents' messages, she couldn't help but unfold it. She leaned against the bed frame, scanned the words she knew so well, and then, slowly but surely, she tore it apart, piece by piece. As she reduced his now no longer legitimate words to a sea of confetti, her hands and the ground and the ceiling and the closet began the blur.

Because, much to her pride's dismay, the third thing she did that moment was ever so ungracefully bursting into tears.

She cried, because he'd showered her with gifts.

She cried, because he'd kissed her in a way only he could.

She cried, because he'd made her melt every time he'd put his arm around her, carried her books, smirked, drawled, whatever.

She cried, because he'd loved her.

She cried, because he didn't anymore.

And, when it came down to it, she cried, because every time she was with him, she felt kind of funny, like smiling – like she couldn't even explain it properly, and it was sort of consuming but that was okay... and she had to catch her breath sometimes, when she looked at him, and then she had to swallow before she could speak again, and... and what did that matter now?

It wasn't fair.

He'd fallen out of love with her, and she hadn't.

It just really, really wasn't fair.

And for that, she cried some more.

"Can you believe this?"

Amber Blane eyed her with an expectant frown and waved Witch Weekly in front of her face.

"What?"

"Malfoy gallanting around with other girls already."

She knew it was a bad idea. She knew she was about to inflict horrible torment upon herself, but a supernatural force caused her reach out and grab the magazine from Amber.

"God," she muttered, but nothing else came out.

Because she was looking at a moving picture of her ex-boyfriend with his arm wrapped around some girl she couldn't make out, and suddenly she didn't feel like talking anymore.

"How inconsiderate of him!"

"Well," she said, searching for something witty to say but ending up with absolutely nothing. "Yeah."

She shoved the magazine away from her, as if it was a disease.

And that was the last of it.

The weeks after – the weeks of N.E.W.T.'s – she functioned on automatic pilot.

When her friends told a joke, she laughed, and when she had to write an essay for transfigurations or potions or whatever, she wrote it. She refused to let herself turn into a zombie, and did everything to maintain her sense of normalcy. She didn't try to contact him, because she found that it was easier to pretend he didn't exist altogether (even though he plagued her thoughts, and her dreams, and her mornings, and her evenings, and her afternoons, and – you know). That, and of course her pride. Her pride was the only thing she had left when it came to him, and she wasn't going to beg. She'd honestly considered it, ridiculously often even, but she knew it was over, that he wasn't going to change his mind. Her friends wanted to make her do it – because she was kind of miserable – but she'd seen the finality on his face. And that other girl.

She couldn't get past that finality, or the girl. Not now, and probably not ever.

So she dealt.

And cried in the mean time.

At her graduation, she found her entire family sitting there, attracting looks from all over the room. She waved at them enthusiastically, but then stopped mid-gesture when she spotted him near them as well. She couldn't see him out properly – couldn't distinguish the different lines of his face – but he was so typically him she couldn't be mistaken. Not in a hundred years. Her stomach twisted at the sight of him, at the knowledge that he was here, and she started wondering – did he come for her?

She fed on that thought for the entire ceremony.

She put on her prettiest smile, gracefully accepted her diploma, and descended the stairs.

It wasn't until he came to her later, that the ultimate blow presented itself.

She was talking to Amber when he tapped on her shoulder, an apologetic smile playing on his lips.

"Lily, can I talk to you?"

Amber got the message and left – not without rewarding them with a significant look.

"Yes," she said, and her heart raced.

"It's just – "

But then he shut up.

And she got it.

Because she looked past him for a split second, and found her cousin there, not too far behind them, staring at her with a worried expression on her freckled face. Thing was – and she realised this with nausea hitting her so hard she felt dizzy – she now recognised the girl in the picture.

She closed her eyes.

"I see," she whispered.

Scorpius Malfoy had fallen out of love with her.

Because he had fallen in love with Rose Weasley.

Clearly, there was no place for pride in that.

And so, she stopped dealing, and threw up on his fancy leather shoes.

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-Josephine