A/N: I haven't quite decided if this is going to be just a one-parter or more yet. Idk. I guess it depends on the response I get. Thanks for reading, and I don't own anything.
L E A V E
Of course, I hadn't wanted it to be this way. I hadn't wanted years of friendship, of love, to crumble pathetically. I had wanted the storybook romance, the sort of relationship that causes jealousy in others. I had wanted what my parents had.
But I'm in the middle of haphazardly packing a bag, my heart nearly screaming with the pain of it all, and I can't remember what was keeping us together in the first place.
It's that Veela blood, my father would say. Always giving me a temper and wild, uncontrollable emotions. Normally, I might agree.
Tears are streaming down my face much faster than I can swipe at them. I stumble over the bed sheets as I cross the room; even Veela blood cannot counteract my clumsiness. I toss a few of my jumpers in the bag, along with the picture of my family which rests on the shelf next to his cologne.
He's telling me that I am being foolish, that I shouldn't bother packing, that we both know I'll be back. But underneath the fierce pain in my chest, I somehow understand that walking out of this house is the end of everything between us. It aches much worse than I could possibly communicate to him, to anyone.
He tries to grab my arm, but I wrench it away. Our eyes lock, and his face contorts from his usual, relaxed, confident one to one of shock and worry, immediately. Seconds later, his hair is a dingy brown, and I can tell that he too knows that this is the end.
My chest heaves once more and a new round of tears pours hot and furiously down my cheeks. He's trying to block me from the wardrobe; he's pulling things from my hands, telling me that I can't leave here, can't leave him.
I run my hands through my blonde hair, calming myself enough to remember to search for the source of our end: the Department of International Magical Cooperation letters, the letters which send me to France for a year, the letters which will make my career, the letters which he hid from me for nearly a month.
It all sounds too ridiculous to process. A year in France is the equivalent of eight Auror expeditions time-wise, which is the same number of journeys that he has embarked on since he was accepted into the Auror program. As little as I had wanted to leave him, I knew when I found the letters that I needed to go. I had needed him to support me just as much, but I think that may be futile now. Why, I want to ask him, couldn't he deal with this one trip when I had dealt with so many of his?
I ask him this now, and he doesn't have an answer for me. All he has to say is, "Don't go."
I am fumbling with the fastenings on my bag, forgetting that a simple charm would clasp it together with ease. My mother would call this stalling; she would say that if I really wanted to leave, I would have. But really, my mother is French and perfect and doesn't understand that more than anything, I want him to give me a reason, any reason, to stay.
He's crying, I think. I can hear the pain in his voice. I don't turn to look at him. Instead, I take in the sight of the cramped apartment that we have shared as if committing it to memory. I know that this will be the last time I will see it.
I tell him goodbye and with my eyes closed, I give him a kiss on the cheek and leave, taking with me a bit of clothing, memories of his blue hair, and the letters that probably killed us.