AN: Inspired by something that Frayach wrote. Do not own Harry Potter. AU. One Shot.

Of Fire, Wind, and Boggarts

I found your key on the coffee table on top of an envelope with my name written in your messy scrawl. I left it there. The letter went unopened. In the kitchen, the flowers that I had potted on the sill above the sink grieved as the very source of their life set in the distance. I had placed the array of reds, and whites there in the hope of installing the house with a sense of home. I could not comfort them. There was no longer a home left for them to live in. You left seven sickles and two knuts on the counter, a crumpled receipt from Honeydukes for two chocolate frogs and pound of fudge, and a cup of tea where only the dregs remained. A wrinkled tissue had been carelessly tossed beside the cup. Was that your way of saying that it was hard for you? That you cried after your decision was made?

The first step of the stairs cried for your presence beneath my feet, and I was glad that we had decided long ago to leave the creaking step alone. You said it added character to our - my - house. It told me that I was not alone in my despair. The door to the master bedroom was open. The bed was made. The drawers in the wardrobe moaned as I opened them, and the absence of your clothes nearly killed me. Your scent whisked from the room by a breeze I could not control. Sometimes, even the stubborn mountain loses to the loud howling of the wind. And this time, I bowed down to it.

The doorknob held the remnant of your thumbprint. A few silken strands of your hair slept comfortably on the pillows. You didn't take any photographs, not even your favorite. We still smiled in a wooden frame on top your bedside table. I guess the memories were too much, like an anchor holding you down to a place you no longer wished to be.

A few drops of water slid down the sides of tub, the window was slightly ajar, a wet towel hung helter-skelter on the hook behind the door. You left behind nothing, not even the lingering scent of your soap which had already departed through the open window. Even your toothbrush was missing - a definitive sign that read that you wouldn't be back. Everything had to go: the pillows, the tea cup, the damned creaking step. Even the half pound of fudge in the fridge.

Reducto left my mouth too easily, as the tub crumbled into pieces and the shower curtain fell to the floor in shreds. It was the only way to ensure that I, too, would not be further reduced. I had fallen so deeply already.

You had tried to lift me up. You promised you'd write, but we both know that you won't. It's not in your nature. The letter on the coffee table will be the first and last of the letters you said you would pen. I will not read it. I am already a bird in a gilded cage. You will keep me, and put me down in a place that you will forget, in a place you have a good chance of remembering later. But I will not be here. The cruelest thing you did was leave me with everything. I will burn it down.

I don't pretend ignorance to why you left, and why you won't come back. We talked until all that had needed to be said died with the flames in the fireplace. Our words became ashes. I will make peace with this, somehow, someday. But until then, I will sleep on the couch, watching phantoms blindly making their way to the bedroom upstairs as the fire dances before my eyes. I will drown out their pleasured sounds with a strong drink, and toast the air to your happiness hoping the wind will blow it away and that you receive it in good health.

I cannot say goodbye. I wouldn't have had the strength to say it to your face, even if you had waited for my return before your departure. I still don't.

Mail will come for you. People will still ask me how you are. Both will stop in time. It won't matter. Just as the hearth cannot forgot the fire that warmed it's cold stone walls, I cannot forget you. I won't have it any other way.

000

The months had dragged on. Surprisingly, the house has not burned down. Your key still lies on top of the coffee table. The letter is still unopened. The flowers have long since wilted. The countertop has remained mostly untouched. Seven sickles , two knuts, a crumpled receipt, and a cup of tea where the dregs have spread and morphed into something I cannot name. The wrinkled tissue, however, has since found company. My way of saying that yes, this was hard for me. And yes, I cried after you followed through with the decision that you had made.

The first step of the stairs cried once again for your presence. But I have since run out of tears to join it in its despair. The door to the bedroom is open. The bed is still made. I have yet to sleep in it again. A boggart has made its home in the wardrobe. At least, that is what a friend told me the last time she came down for a visit. She left with the confirmation that I was not alright. I have yet to open the wardrobe. I'm too scared of what will come out. The room smells of dust, and of filth. The closed windows only serve to trap the odors inside.

My fingerprints have erased yours on the doorknob. The few strands of your hair have woken up and disappeared, and the pillow aches for them just as I continue to yearn for you. I have burned all of the photographs, except your favorite. We still smile within the confines of the wooden frame on top of your bedside table. Your smile mocks me. My smile laughs at my willingness to have my memories shackle me to this place. I cannot leave. I do not want to.

The tub is dry. I have long since locked the window shut, and incendio-ed your towel. There is nothing of you left here, and there is nothing left of me except the broken fragments of porcelain and vinyl on the floor. Now, even my toothbrush is missing from this bathroom. On the off chance that I remember about personal hygiene, I do it in the guest bathroom. That and the accompanying guest bedroom are the only spaces where there had been no us in this house. You wanted your friends to have some sort of refuge from our escapades. So they were the only rooms we didn't christen. Now I have found an escape within their walls. But I do not sleep in the bed. The empty space beside me reminds me too much of the emptiness in the other parts of the house. It reminds me that at one point, I never had to sleep alone. At least on the couch, I am simply enough to take up every inch.

The letters that you had sworn to write do not come. I knew that they wouldn't, but I had hoped. Foolishly. But continued correspondence is not your way. Especially when you are trying to leave the past behind. The letter on the coffee table remains the first and last thus far of the letters you said you would pen. I will not read it. Dust has collected on top of your key and the envelope. I have not touched it.

I still have the idiotic hope, faint as it may be, that you will remember the location where you placed a bird and its gilded cage. That is the only reason I have stayed. But I have burned all that I could afford to: the dinner table and its chairs, your emptied desk, the half pound of fudge and contents in the fridge. The cabinets in the kitchen are empty: the food, the silverware, the pots and pans. They were angrily thrown in the bonfire held in your memory. Now, I order delivery when hunger is too much to bare. I do not have the desire to go shopping for groceries, much less cook, and wash afterwards. The trash and leftovers I burn too.

Every night I sleep on the couch. The phantoms always disappear as they make their way up the staircase. I have learned to ignore the noises they make. But have yet learned to squash the envy I feel towards them.

Four months after you left, I stopped pouring my drink in a glass. That was around the same time I stopped toasting to your happiness. I find it distasteful to make a toast from a bottle. And anyways, I know that my words do not reach you, cannot reach you. The wind stopped blowing in my house the day you left. I know that even if they did, you would have no need for them. Why else would you have stayed away for so long? You would've come back if you weren't happy. I do not question this. I do not have the heart to.

Still, believing that you are happy does not make it easier to say goodbye. I cannot. All this time has passed, and still I lack the strength - even though all I have to say goodbye to is your ghost. There is no chance to say goodbye in person. You will not come back, and I will not go after you.

The mail has stopped coming for you. People no longer ask me how you are. Instead, they about me. It will stop in time. They have already begun to leave me alone in solitude. I hope that they tell you that I am doing okay without you. I hope that you at least ask. But it doesn't matter. I will make peace with this, somehow, someday. But even if that day comes, I cannot forget you. I refuse to. I wouldn't have it any other way.

000

Yesteday marked the day that nine months have passed since your departure. Do you know that couples normally break up at the nine month mark? I remember, I was secretly glad that we had survived nine months. I gave you silk boxers. But nine was not a significant number to you, so you had no idea why I had given you a gift. I passed it off as a fleeting fancy. I saw them in the store while shopping and thought that they would look marvelous on you. They did. But they looked better on the floor, at the edge of the bed, thrown carelessly on top of a chair. We lasted 5 years, and you presented me with something every year: a necklace, a book, a shirt, a broomstick, and a ring with the words forever engraved on the inside. I guess, we are not as immortal as we once believed we were.

Your key and the envelope with my name written in your messy scrawl are still on the coffee table. I haven't touched them. I burned the rotting remnants of the flowers and its pot above the sink, along with the crumpled receipt from Honeydukes, the infested tea cup, and the tissues. I used your seven sickles and two knuts to tip the deliveryman three nights ago. This is my way of saying that I can't do this anymore. Nine months is a long time, and I have to break free of this place.

The first step of the stairs cried in warning beneath my feet. It knew what I was about to do. The door to the bedroom is still open. The bed, still unslept in, is made. I make my way to the wardrobe. I will finally burn this place down. But I want the boggart to leave before I do. The door moans as I open it, and you have replaced your clothes. It is as I thought. I am not ready for this.

Your hair is unkempt, unfit for even birds to nest in. The scar on your forehead shines, but is dull in comparison to your emerald eyes. The emotions flickering in their depths weaken my knees. Your pink lips part, and the words that I have always feared come out.

I never loved you.

My knees buckle, and I fall to the ground. There are fresh tears in my eyes. The pain that has dulled over time is reborn and intensifies. Once again, the mountain bows down.

"Don't say that, Potter. Please," I beg as you come closer. "For five years, we were happy."

Do you really think I could've been happy here with you, Death eater scum? You're no better than Voldemort.

My head falls down, hanging limply. I want to get away. I want to leave, and finally close the bedroom door. But my will has left me. I am chained to the floor. You draw ever nearer, your scowl deepening, the hatred and anger in your words positively dripping. Your disgust is palpable.

I wasted five years on you. I can't believe it took me so long to finally see you for who you really are. You're weak and pathetic. A sniveling, pompous, spoiled brat. There's not an ounce of good in you. Not a single redeeming quality. You disappoint me, Malfoy.

You voice the fears that I had once spoken to you in our earlier days. The tears won't stop falling. Every breath is haggard, and I have to do everything I can to stop the tremors that threaten to wrack my body. My hand tightens around my wand, and I point it at you. But you continue towards me.

Malfoy, did you really think you could make me happy? You know I wanted a family. Being with you took that dream away from me.

I focus on the time the day you instigated a food fight. Really, chocolate syrup in my hair called for revenge. And I got it. At the end, we were both dripping in chocolate syrup. As we slipped and slid around in an attempt of walking, we laughed at each other. You were an absolute mess. You had chocolate dripping from your nose, like a disgusting booger. It felt as if we laughed forever.

"Riddikulus." You are dripping with chocolate now. The chocolate booger is on the verge of falling down. I laugh. You slide and slip on the chocolate that has pooled around your feet. I laugh harder, the tears change their meaning. You fall to the ground, fumbling, trying to get up. My laughter bounces off the walls, and I no longer try to control the tremors in my body.

You explode, burst into tiny wisps of smoke, and are gone again. My laughter dies on my lips. The room smells of dust, filth, and decay. I get up and open the windows, including the one in the bathroom. Soon, the wind too will take my smell away from this place. I can only hope that one days it finds you.

Your favorite picture lies on your bedside table. I will leave it. It is too heavy to take with me, like sand in my shoes or stones in my pockets. I do not have the luxury of being weighed down. I've stayed for long enough.

The letters that you had promised to write finally come. The owl you bought to replace Hedgwig leaves without want for a treat. It is a large stack. I slowly count them. But I stop at one hundred. There are still over a hundred left. This is not your way. I glance at your first letter. More dust has settled upon it. I grab it, and tuck it away with the others. I will not read them. Not here.

I watch the phantoms move around the house. I wish them the best. The hearth has gone cold, and the wind has blown some of the ashes away. A half empty bottle of Ogden's Finest sits beneath the couch. I will not touch it.

The letters are the only things I carry to the front of the house. I have not left the house in nine months. Standing outside of it feels strange. Before me is the place where you left a bird in its gilded cage, just in case you might remember its location. But you never came back, and if for some reason you do I will not be here. The cruelest thing you ever did was leave me with everything. I will burn it down. I won't leave until everything is reduced to ash, like our words from a distant memory.

Your letters will be read. The one, I have ignored for the past nine months will be first. Then the rest. And afterwards, they too will burn, and I will follow in your footsteps. I will disappear, and I won't come back. The ashes that the wind doesn't carry away will be all the reasons I need. The ashes will tell any passerby why I left, and why I won't return.

It is the only way I know how to say goodbye. I won't speak the words aloud. I don't have to strength to say it to our ghosts. I cannot. There is no chance to say goodbye in person. That too requires fortitude I will forever lack. Like my reasons, the ashes will say my goodbye. I will not come back, and you won't chase after me.

The mail will stop coming for me. People will ask about me, and this time they won't leave me alone to my solitude. They won't have to lie, and tell you that I am doing okay without you. You don't have to ask. You'll know. It's not a lie.

We will pass each other in the street, both different men than the phantoms that linger here. And besides that glance, and a polite nod of acknowledgement we will part ways. Whatever happens afterwards doesn't matter. We will not return here. I have made peace with this, somehow, today. But I will not forget you. I cannot. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Fin

AN: Reviews would be nice? And thanks for reading it.