AN: Obviously none of the characters belong to me. It all belongs to J. K. Rowling and the publishers. Yay!

"Hello. Hogwarts, too?"

I turn my head to face him. Stupid of me, really, to kid myself into thinking that I'll see anything other than the barely concealed excitement in his eyes. What did I expect - or rather, what did I hope to see? Betrayal? Loathing?

No. It's been too long for any of those emotions to flash across his eyes as they often used to.

"Yes."

I look down at my hands. Once small fingers that barely used to be able to grip my first broomstick had grown calloused, rough, and now adorned with a silver wedding band. I clench my fist tightly until I feel my nails biting into my palm.

I refuse to look at his face. I can't look at his face. His eyes, my personal favorite trait of his, had long grown tired and old, but somehow kept the playful glint despite everything we've both been through. However, those same pair of eyes that used to be a place of comfort now made me realize the coward I was; the coward I still am.

"That's you done, my dear," Madame Malkin's voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn my head to her and barely hold back a laugh. I still can't believe that after all these years, she's still here. One of the last few shops that remained twenty-six years after I had walked through its doors. A small boy with white-blonde hair steps down from the footstool while a dark haired boy watches on.

"Well, I'll see you later, I suppose," he said. I will never understand how it was that he could speak to strangers in this manner. Of course, I'm not a stranger, but now, to him, I am.

"Goodbye."

Funny how words never seemed to lose their taste on one's tongue.

The small room is silent except for the crackling of the embers and the slow, deep breaths of the sleeping boy on the bed. I lie awake, following the intricate pattern of the vintage wallpaper. It isn't cold even with the lack of clothes on my body and with the boy hogging the blanket. I know it's my only chance, the only time he'll be defenseless. The only time I'll have the courage to see this through. I close my eyes.

"We're leaving tomorrow," he whispers against my neck. I know he's trying to make a compromise. How long can we fool ourselves, I wonder. Instead of replying and breaking our fragile facade, I hold him against my body and try to calm his breathing. He grips my shirt tight to the point his nails break through the cotton. "I don't want to go."

I slip my arm out from under his head and lay him gently down on the pillow. I'm careful and more gentle than I have ever been in my entire life. I don't want him to wake up. That's the last thing I need, to be honest. I get out of bed and try to locate the robe I've dropped earlier in the night. Even in the dim light of the moon and the soft glow of the fire, I spot it near the pile of the sleeping boy's clothes. I sigh as I drape it around me.

But we know he has to go. He has no choice. "Come with me," he says. Only a fool would think those three words as a simple phrase, a phrase that's been thrown together in haste, a phrase thrown together in desperation. It's not. We know it's more than the act of following him and shutting ourselves from the rest of the world, ignorant to what the people need. It's a matter of following him across a line between life and death, except I do not know if the direction he's going is towards life or towards death. However, the thrill of being with him in the unknown is addictive and alluring. I've had everything planned for me ever since I was born and being with him throws everything off balance. It's exhilarating. Still, I know I can't leave my side and he can't leave his. There's too much hanging on the line.

I sit on the couch gazing into the dying fire. I realize that I'm shaking as I try to pour myself a glass of alcohol. If he was awake, he would narrow his eyes and scorn at me for drinking anything stronger than the occasional firewhiskey. But I ignore the thought of him as I tip the amber liquid of spirits down my throat. I can feel it burning down my throat and warming me inside. I pour myself another glass but I'm shaking so much that I spill half of it onto the table.

"Don't delude yourself into thinking you're strong enough," Hermione's voice rings out. Her eyes are bloodshot from the lack of sleep from researching through what seemed like the whole wizarding world's book collection. Her arms are crossed across her chest as she looks at me with worried brown eyes. When I don't answer, she turns her head to Pansy Parkinson, seeking help. "Please." Hermione's voice is laced with pity that my skin begins to crawl. I smash my fish against the kitchen table.

I hold my head in my hands to steady myself. My breathing is shallow, fast. I know what must happen but I can't help holding on to the tiny thread of hope. Hope weaved with lies I have been feeding myself for the past few days. Maybe I am strong enough. Maybe I can help. Maybe I don't have to do this. I strangle out a bitter laugh. I'm a fool, a fool formed by hate, desperation, fury, and frustration. I grab my hair and start to pull.

"Do it for him," Pansy murmurs. She's not scared of me, I can tell. She never was. Even when I'm towering over her and punching at the wall. She just looks at me with a mask of indifference. I'm furious. Not furious at them, as I want to be. No, furious at myself. If only I had a little more guts, a little more self-preservation. I yell at the top of my lungs in hopes of alleviating the pain in my chest. It doesn't work. Hermione's crying and Ron's watching from afar. "He loves you, mate."

I wrap my arms around myself. I should be in bed, wrapping my arms around him. I should be kissing his eyelids the way he likes but will never admit. I should be kissing him to forever seal the taste of his lips on my tongue. I should be holding him in a way he's never be held before and never will be held again. I can feel my eyes prickling but I had promised myself that I wouldn't cry. That I'll be strong enough to at least see this through.

I finally calm down. "You'll get over him. You'll find someone who's worthy of your love, again. I promise," Hermione goes to hug me. I flinch when she gets too close. I can see the hurt in her eyes and I can't help but feel a little disgust for her. She has her perfect life already while mine is going up in flames. How dare she.

I press my thumbs and forefinger to the bridge of my nose and squeeze. It's hard enough to cause me pain but I don't stop. I stay that way for a while breathing in through my nose and out through the mouth. I reach across my glass toward my wand. As I grab mine, his wand catches my eye. It's so much different from mine, I never really looked at it up close. Instead of going for my wand, I now reach for his. I memorize every groove and nick etched onto the stick of wood. This wand had saved countless number of people but he'd still yet to realize it. He thinks that magic only kills, silly boy. I give a loving caress to it one last time before I set it down and pick up my own.

Pansy crouches down next to me. I have my head in my hands, bloodied from the shattered glass of the wine bottles. I'm stubborn enough not to look at her. I hear Hermione's muffled sobs and I can already tell she eyeing me as if I was something due to explode at any moment. And judging from the mess I made of the Burrow's kitchen, I can hardly blame her. Pansy placed a well-manicured hand on my thigh and her other hand reaches out and gently tilts my chin up to face her. In a surprisingly soothing and mellifluous tone she asks, "Love, Are you scared of loving him?"

I walk across to the side of the bed where his body faces away from me. I know I would regret not seeing his face in the years to come but I don't trust myself at this moment. He always looked younger while he slept. The pressure of the war simply melting away, leaving him looking like the eager child he once was. I allow myself the luxury of stroking my hand through his hair one last time. Quickly, I snatch my hand away terrified that I may call everything off. This is my only chance.

I hear a sound of a door clicking shut and the sound of footsteps. He is home. His bright smile falls quickly as he sees the state of the kitchen. "What happened?" He asks. I tilt my face at him and give him an innocent smile. I just shake my head, grab his hand, and lead him upstairs to our room. Our room was decorated by Fleur, as it was used as her parent's guest bedroom during her wedding. As soon as we're through the door, I hold him as he kisses and lickes away at my scabbed knuckles.

I glance over his body one last time. His slender frame with a graceful dip of his spine. His talented fingers that rest at the end of a defined arm are clenched in a gentle fist. His throat is bared as his head is thrown back against the pillow. His long legs are tangled with the white cotton sheets that showed a hint of hair poking out. His eyelashes are resting against his angular cheek that I want nothing more than to kiss every lash. His hair is fanned haphazardly around his head making him have an illusion of a fallen angel. And his lips, so full and red, even in the moonlight makes my heart ache. I lightly trace the air above his cupid's bow as I lift the tip of my wand against his temple.

We kiss passionately, nothing like anything we've haven't ever done before, but this is urgent. There is a tangible taste of desperation as our tongues meet and writhe against each other. I arch into his knowing hands as he moves his mouth onto my ears, my jaw, and then my neck. I open myself up to him. Not just with my body, but with everything I've got. There is no more pretending. We both know that this is the final time we would ever get to do this, even if his reasoning iss different from mine. He doesn't know, doesn't even suspect, what is going to happen to him in a couple more hours, as he slides down my body.

I whisper the four syllables I will never be able to take back.

Soon, I'm baring out my soul. Everything is white now that pain and pleasure knew no bounds. He's gasping near my ear and I'm holding onto him as if I would fall if I didn't. We take a few moments to recover with him curled up on my body, his head on my chest. "I always liked listening to your heartbeat," He sighs. I smile and don't answer him as I keep stroking his head. I feel a wet drop fall onto my ribs as he smiles through the same pain rushing through my own body. "I love you."

"Obliviate." And a single tear falls down my face and lands right where his heart would be.

"And I love you, too," I whispered back. "Please, don't forget that."