THE END OF THE AFFAIR
I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
- Sylvia Plath -
It's hard to explain what happens to a relationship, over time. I walked into my life with Harry with an open heart and an open mind, so ready was I to finally be able to love him openly and no longer have to worry about whether or not he was going to die tomorrow. We had high expectations of our future together, back when I was naught seventeen and he was naught eighteen years of age.
He lived with us for a little while, after the War ended and while we were all trying to rebuild our lives. He and Ron lived in his little room at the top of the stairs, while Hermione and I lived in my little room at the bottom of the stairs, my parents somewhere in the middle, separating us at night when the lights were out and the nightmares inevitably came.
None of us ever did take our NEWTs, in the end, not traditionally since the school was closed. Mum tutored Hermione and I enough to pass what we needed to in order for us to make the next steps we wanted to make in our careers, while the boys were given a free pass at the Auror office to go ahead and begin their training. I know they would have given Hermione that pass too, if she'd been interested, but of course she wanted to do things the right way before she entered Law Enforcement.
I had decided to be a Healer, after tending to the sick and watching so many people die needlessly in the Battle of Hogwarts,
(and some lived needlessly, too – never forget that)
some only because there were not enough knowledgeable hands to tend to the sick an injured. When I was seventeen I began my five year Apprenticeship with St. Mungo's, and Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I moved into Grimmauld place against my parent's wishes. But we were of age, and though none of us were interested in getting married, we all knew that would happen eventually … or so we thought.
Ron and Hermione split up, though very amicably done, about a year later. They just grew apart, and realized they had no interest in each other outside of physical attraction – and at the end of the day that just wasn't enough for either of them. So Hermione moved out and found her own flat in Diagon Alley, while the three of us remained.
Then Ron left too, moving into a flat not far from Grimmauld Place. He told us we needed our own space to be a couple, and despite our protests that we wanted him there, he would hear none of it. So, for the first time ever, at eighteen and nineteen, it was just Harry and me together for the first time in our lives.
And it was wonderful. To make love in the kitchen and not have to worry about someone walking in, to not have to worry about cooking curry since Ron didn't like it, to even be able to walk about in just my knickers if I needed to and not have to hear Ron scream "My eyes!" – it was a triumph.
And Harry and I got to know each other for the first time, really, in a way we hadn't before. No longer were we "Harry and Ginny", we were "darling" and "dear", and even sometimes "Merlin" and "Morgana". We would help each other study, since we were both woefully behind in Potions, and sometimes we would just sit and watch each other while the other wasn't looking – just because we could do it.
That was five years ago – five beautiful years of listening to my mother's incessant nagging about us not being married, of waking up next to the man I love every morning, of going to sleep every night knowing that I am loved in return. I now work at St. Mungo's as a Healer, specializing in Spell and Curse Damage, as well as Creature Induced Injuries – all things that were needed on the battle field.
Even though there will never be another War
(Oh Merlin please let that be true)
it's how I've come to terms with it – by knowing what needed to be known.
And yet, sometimes in the middle of the night the nightmares still come. And Harry doesn't always wake up for them. As a full Auror now, he takes a Potion at bedtime to help him sleep as the days can be very rough and give way to sleepless nights. So I lay there, frightened and shivering again with the memories of the dead I couldn't help, the memories of the live ones I couldn't save.
The memories of the faces, the innocent faces of the children who are now just a -
- memory is all he has, and all he'll ever have, at the end of the day. He fought a war based on the memory of a woman with bright red hair that he longed to stroke with the spider-like hands of his youth, now given way to long, large hands that he was once told were elegant, especially when juxtaposed against his other less than desirable features.
He survived the War, though only barely, and lived in a self-imposed exile at St. Charmaine's in Paris, though the Ministry owled daily, begging him to return as a hero. Their hero.
He could not.
What kind of hero was he?
What kind of man was he, really, at the end of the day?
A man who stood by, watching the students he swore to protect being tortured by his "friends". "Friends" who were actually his worst enemies, dressed in the same robes he wore when he was forced so that he could stand before his Dark Lord.
A man who mentally abused a poor child who had done nothing other than have the misfortune of being that red-headed woman's son with the Marauder who contributed to his worst memories.
A man who started to care so little about life that he forgot to care for himself. No, not forgot. It was on purpose – his abuse of himself mixed with the abuse he let the Dark Lord heap on him instead of Lucius, Draco, or scores of others who he didn't want to see suffer.
What kind of man is he? Is he a man who almost died for love, or is he malicious man who eventually dies because of the hate in his heart?
(Did he even care at all? Did he really?)
His stay at St. Charmaine lasted much longer than he thought it would, as after he was healed from his injuries they just let him stay on in their lab, making Potions through all hours of the night. It was safe, and for the first time in his life he was very happy, doing what he loved in a place where no one really knew what a nasty bastard he really was.
(What kind of man was he then, when no one knew his name?)
He's back in London now, wandering through life as he does research for the Ministry. He wouldn't accept the warm welcome home – instead he returned as quickly as secret about three years ago and set up his lab in the bowels of the Ministry where no one could find him.
The house in Spinner's end went to Hell, finally, and he sold the land and decided to just rent a flat now.
It would give him the ability to leave again, if he ever needed to. And sometimes he needed to, though the allure of being home among his on people was something that he thought he wanted most nights.
Before the dreams came.
Dreams that were no longer of her face, as her face was now only a distant, happy memory. Now the dreams were of the children's faces, screaming in pain as he would not and could not do anything to help them as the Cruciatus Curse was thrown at them by the Carrows. They were dreams of the faces of the dead, always surrounding him as he saw them when his mind just tipped past the veil before his own idiot will dragged him back.
They were dreams of the kind of man he really was. An evil man. A greasy git. A right bastard.
Not the great hero of legend, just a faulty man who -
- dreams the same dream every night, exactly the same way, in triplicate sometimes. But what does that mean? How can it always be the same dream of work? He takes the Potion, just as asked, but he can't help but think that he's missing something.
When he wakes from the dream he always reaches for Ginny, and usually she is awake, too, happy that he has joined her for a midnight cuddle. Sometimes they make love, and it's as sweet and gentle as it's always been.
Always.
He's come to hate that word.
It reminds him of the man disappeared who fought for his Mum's memory.
What a stupid thing to do.
He didn't think so at first. Then it was noble and a story of legends. But now, after six years to reflect and no answers from the dead it's just … sad. Pathetic really.
Always.
(I'll always love you, from the top of my head, to the bottom of my feet, you know that don't you?)
It's an absurd notion that love will last forever, in his mind at least. He loves Ginny – he knows that, but what if he woke up tomorrow and it was gone, like it was when he was infatuated with Cho?
Love is transient, love is fluctuant and fluid, love is a silly notion for school boys and girls.
He hasn't asked Ginny to marry him. And he probably never will now. They are both happy enough, and why do they need a sheet of paper to make it official when another sheet of paper could nullify the whole thing? She feels that way to, he knows this. Although they've never spoken of it, he knows that she agrees and believes it with the same fervor he does.
Love is pain, in the end.
Look what good it did his Mum and Dad. Love killed them. And for what, so he could live and almost die twice? Some sacrifice, when it could have just as easily have been Neville. Just as easily another boy could have had endure the pain of being the Chosen One, being
(the only one who ever made me feel like this, oh please don't ever stop …)
the one to save them all.
It still hurt. Every day.
Not the scar, not the visible scar that told his tale.
No, the scars that hurt were the scars in his mind that no one could see, the ones that never seemed as though they would never heal properly. They were the reason why he had to take the Potion to sleep at night and dream that stupid dream. In triplicate. Over and over again.
Love kills.
Does he love Ginny anymore?
Did he ever really?
(What kind of man is he?)
(Will the pain ever end?)
A/N: I'll only say this once - nothing you recognize is mine. I couldn't let go of the plot of the shorter version of this story, though I fully believe it stands on its own. But, I wanted to explore these themes more. So, here we go on for a dark journey ahead.
