It's Better This Way
written humbly by a girl with jagged arms
I've seen it a million times in my mental replay: she puts her plain, straight, red hair behind her ear timidly and bites her lip, eyes wide with some hidden emotion. I actually thought that she was going to tell me that she loved me, and we would make love again, and this time I might stay with her in until she was asleep there in the room of requirement, instead of rushing to the shower and washing her off of me, and then escaping to the dormitory so that I could be alone. But the words were tense and I could hear the loneliness in her voice, "I'm pregnant, Harry."
A chill and acidic nausea spread from the pit of my stomach up to my throat. I stared in disbelief. My mouth went dry; opened and closed and opened again before I looked around frantically for a sniggering Fred and George who were going to tell me that this was a joke. They were painfully missing, and I managed to croak, "B-but…"
She was still biting her lip, eyes wide, and now I knew what with: fear and confusion and pregnance. She shrugged, as if to say she knew, she'd already thought out the "buts"…but painful reality had come smashing down again and she was defeated. Then her face crumpled and big tears rolled out from her eyes and she buried her face in my chest. It wasn't any use. My arms hung limp at my sides no matter how I knew that I should hug her. I'm a horrible person, I know, but when she looked up hopefully, still crying, I couldn't stop myself from thinking how ugly her face looked: distorted and twisted and trembling with need. I slapped her because I was amazed at how well she'd covered it: she loved me. All the clasping and twining and reaching and kissing and striving, of course she loved me! As soon as I had slapped her and she looked at me I knew: she had not covered it, I'd merely refused to see it. I ought to have apologized for slapping her, but she ran away too quickly.
Then Hermione came, and told me what a lousy, insensitive prick I was. All I could do was agree. "Yes," I said, "I know…" At the end of her diatribe she asked me what I was going to do. I was petrified, staring at my sneakers, which looked at that moment like boyhood incarnate. I couldn't think of any thing to do, except apologize over and over, but even that seemed like too much work and I was so tired… I turned around and walked blankly to the dormitory where I pulled the drapes shut and surrendered to darkness.
I was awakened by the sound of the metal rings sliding against their railing. I squinted one eye open, lazily. It fell on Ron before it was punched, and then it swelled completely shut. I let him beat me until he was too exhausted to raise his fist again. When he stopped, he was straddling me, which was quite painful, as he'd broken one of my ribs at some point. I imagine that him looking at my bloodied face just then, he felt something akin to the disgust I'd felt when Ginny started to cry. "I don't care what any bloody prophecy says," he spat as he spoke and his voice cracked with sobs he simply wouldn't allow, "You're dead to me, Potter." Okay, I thought, and drew the drapes and pondered the many possible escapes from this unfortunate situation.
Despite the magical remedies that were quick, painless, easy, Ginny stoically remained enrolled at school as her stomach swelled to embarrassing proportions. She bore the child in the early portion of July at the Burrow, with me, and Molly and Arthur at her side. She's much stronger than I am. I got many more cold glares that summer than I'd ever gotten all those years people thought I was the heir of Slytherin or some fame-obsessed git, and each one stung worse than my scar has ever prickled. I tried for a bit, to be a good dad, but I just couldn't stand being so ostracized. "This is the father," they introduced me as, "The father, Harry." I couldn't go back to being just Harry. I even tried to ask Ginny if she'd marry me, but she wouldn't, not after she knew I'd never really love her. So now I just tuck money into Christmas and birthday cards, put the school pictures in my wallet, and try to convince myself it's better this way. It's better this way, right? Right?