There are so many memories about this place; so many memories that just won't let go. So many memories that won't stop playing in my head, over and over – my last memories of you will haunt me forever.
I'm outside the Burrow. Rain is pouring down and I'm probably soaked, but I can't feel it and I don't care. I don't think I feel anything any more.
Everyone else is still at your funeral, but I had to get out of there. I couldn't stand to stay there for a moment longer, listening to all those people who don't even know you spewing off lines and lines of unimportant speeches about what a great person you were and how much everyone adored you. It's true, but what does it mean coming from them? None of them knew what you were really like. What does it mean when there was so much more to you than that? Your mistress was there, talking about all the good things you've done. Does she know you were married? I assumed not. She didn't notice me; doesn't know me. Why did you do it, Ron? You didn't love her. You loved me. I stood at the back and slipped out unnoticed.
Hell knows, I saw your good side and your bad side. You did something to me I could barely forgive, but I still loved you. I may not have forgiven you on the surface, but…you and I both know I only left to be 'honourable'. My morals dictated that I could never be the other woman…well, screw morals now. Where did they ever get us? I went through everything with you, and now you're gone and I'm going to have to go through everything else alone.
Yes, you were a great person, but you were good and bad and everything in between…you were funny, handsome, generous, everything anyone could ever expect you to be. You were jealous, and arrogant, always hell bent on revenge.
They've forgiven you, you know, for jinxing them or crashing their cars, for sitting on their cats and for getting excessively drunk on fire-whisky. That's all they remember. They've forgotten what happened between us. I bet you never thought my father would forgive you for how much you hurt me, but he has. They all have. They've forgotten the bad and will only ever remember the good…isn't it funny how death martyrs people?
You're not a martyr to me. Rest assured, I remember the smell of her on your clothes, the taste of her on your lips. The slightest memory of you, bringing almost a flood of happiness, is tainted by the aftertaste of her. I will remember you and a sense of weightlessness will flow through me. Then the image of her comes unbidden to the surface of my mind and it's as though someone is squeezing all the air out of my lungs. Yet I know your reasons, I know why you did it, and however pathetic they seemed this time last month they now seem so trivial. It was one night, one inconsequential night…if only I had taken you back, I could have had a few more precious days with you. I swore I'd never say 'if only'.
So much for death not martyring you. Somehow it has morphed the lying, selfish pig-headed you of yesterday into a hero, into someone I can't help but forgive. I love you so much even now and it has taken me a long time to come to terms with that. Fool as I may be for doing so, I am falling straight into the arms of time. I'm allowing time to wash away the pain you've caused because your death is allowing me to do nothing else. You were unsuccessful in exacting my forgiveness during life; now you're trying from beyond the grave. And it's working. Guilt will imprison me until I forgive you.
I'll be damned if I ever forget what you did to me but I'd rather lose my mind than forget what we had.
I locked away all of those memories and threw away the key. But looking back now, I never really wanted to forget. I never want to forget how your eyes blazed with anger when something went wrong, or how that smile of yours would slowly curl up the edges of your mouth when I said something funny. I never want to forget how you trod on my feet when you danced with me, or how your voice sounded in the middle of the night and how your ears always blushed pink when you were embarrassed. I even want to remember how your hair had that annoying habit of always sticking up, how your kisses always tasted slightly like lemons and how, even at the age of 20, you never quite managed to work the toaster.
I've gone inside now, and I'm heading upstairs. I brush my fingers across the banister and a cloud of dust floats off, ready to settle somewhere else for an innumerable amount of years.
As I walk into your old room, the brown door greets me with a resounding creak and I am met with a comfortingly familiar blaze of orange walls. The Quidditch posters are peeling from the wall, gathering dust and slowly fading. The members depicted have long since left the team. No one has been in this room for a long, long time. There was no need for anyone to come in here after you left home. It was left alone, occasionally cleaned when Molly had a spare minute.
The war on Voldemort began. Many were mercilessly slaughtered, day after day. Each rising of the sun bought more casualties; each set of it brought more bad news. Five long years after the war had begun, my bad news was brought to me…
It was a day of ecstatic celebration for many, yet abject misery for anyone who knew you. 'He will be remembered as a hero,' the Daily Prophet had said. They forgot about you the next day; they were too busy celebrating Voldemort's downfall. You stuck with Harry to the bitter end, to the bloody and angry end. To your end. You were by his side when Voldemort cast the killing curse on him. You were in front on him when it hit. You sacrificed yourself for your best friend once again, and it is this that the Wizarding World will remember you for. But not me. I will always remember what you did to me, and how I love you so desperately in spite of it. You're not remembered simply for your fame in my head.
How can you do this to me? Why do you still have this hold over my heart?
Perhaps you thought that one noble act would counteract how you had slept with another woman? You decided to become noble, a hero, a good man – how I wish you could have remained a coward like everyone else! Of course, you were always brave, always loyal…why did you have to be?
Many of your possessions were taken with you when you moved out, yet some still remain. A tiny replica of a Comet 260. An old fish tank, the frogs once inside long dead and gone. An old Wizarding Wireless still tuned to Quidditch International FM. I switch it on, and the commentator is in tears, announcing your death. The nation is mourning the death of a man they never really knew, but I guess you would be happy – you always wanted to be the famous one.
I open a drawer. Inside is a big red box with a hinged lid. I swing the lid open to reveal all the letters I have ever written to you.
Reading snippets aloud, I notice tiny dots of water on the paper. It is a moment before I realise I'm crying. I stuff the letters hastily back into the box, shrink it with my wand and hide it in my pocket.
I'm almost angry at you now. How dare you leave me alone? How dare you step in front of Harry when you knew the result would be the end of your life? Yes, I love him too but he could take care of himself! Why on earth did you do it? How dare you be so brave, so noble, so perfect…so hard for me to hate and stay angry with for longer than a minute? I wonder…if you were still alive, would you be just as sorry about her as you were a week ago? Or would facing death have put it under a new light?
I remember the headlines perfectly. 'Ron Weasley Dies Saving Boy Who Lived', 'Hero Sacrifices Himself for Future of Wizarding World'. Read all about it, read all about it, read…
Do you remember how much I hated your room a few years ago – all that orange! I don't want to leave it now though. If I could stay in here forever, surrounded by you and all your things, then I would…but I don't think your mother would take too kindly to that idea. Desperately miserable as she is, she's determined this room should be useful. I think she wants to use this place as a sewing room. She wants to knit shoes for the baby. I don't want it to be filled with the whirs and clunks of an insignificant little machine, ever. This room smells like you, you know. I can't imagine it smelling like yards and yards of fabric.
At the thought of our baby, I close my eyes and tears seep from beneath their sealed lids. You're never going to see her grow up; teach her to ride a broomstick…
It's the first time I've cried, you know. It's supposed to be good for you, but I can't say I feel any less numb, so I'm not sure why I'm doing it.
I quickly brush the tears away and just as quickly realise my actions are futile. I walk over to your window, open it and breathe in the fresh air. I close my eyes and let the wind dry my tears. The wind is making no progress. I'm going to pretend that it's because it's raining, but we both know better.
An idea strikes me. With a shaking hand (and shaking everything else for that matter – my legs are like jelly; I've never been good with heights), I hoist myself up onto the windowsill and climb out. It only takes a few seconds to scramble up on the roof. I'm shocked when I notice my knees are scraped and bloody from the climb. I didn't feel a thing.
It's so peaceful up here, with all the stars out and the moon casting an almost surreal glow upon everything. I can't help but remember where we were this time last year, even though I'd sworn to myself when I got up this morning that I wouldn't think about the past…
It was Christmas, and it was snowing. The perfect setting for Christmas cards. We were out for a walk, your red hair contrasting so vividly against the snow, and mine flying out in all directions from the wind. I don't remember how long we walked, and talked, and held hands, but it was a long time. Can't say I was complaining, really.
We were soon engaged in a furious snowball fight (you never would admit I beat you), and wet and freezing, we paused for breath. My mistake. You threw a snowball at me so hard I went flying to the floor. You came to check if I was alright, and, as you bent over, I pulled you down with me. I think I knew even then that something was wrong and I wanted to make the best of the now. It's a feeling I had often throughout the duration of the war and I wished I'd acted on it more, particularly recently…you kissed me, and I will never, for as long as I live, forget that kiss. Never. It tasted more like lemons than any of the others ever have.
Now, sitting up on your roof, looking out at the stars, I still find it hard to believe that you have gone. But looking up into the skies, I know you're sitting out there somewhere, laughing at my sentimentalities, just desperate to call me a soft git and gloat over my forgiveness. You'll always be there, and it is only a matter of time before I join you.
I was hoping for a happy ending, or even just to feel something, by climbing up here. I haven't got it. I'd be furious with myself for forgiving you, for letting your death martyr you, if only I could stop feeling as though someone has frozen my insides.
You're not coming back, are you?
She knows that. She said so at the funeral. I hate that I can't tell anyone she was more than just a work colleague to you, even if it was only for one night. It would make them hate you, resent you, and I could never deal with that. Or perhaps they would resent me, hate me for speaking ill of the dead? I hate her for being so free from blame. I feel so guilty for not forgiving you before it was too late, so I try and shift some of the blame onto her. It's her fault all of this happened, I tell myself, her fault that my husband had an affair. But what did she ever do wrong except to get involved with a man whom she didn't even know was married?
You should have told me about her before. You should have told her about me. There was me, thinking she didn't exist, and there she was, blissfully ignorant of my existence. I daresay she still doesn't know I'm your wife, as I didn't speak and I wasn't mentioned.
But what can I change now? Despite what went on, despite promises to myself to be mute on the subjects of 'if only' and martyrdom, I still love you. I can't comprehend it, or condone it, but I do. And there is no getting away from that, for as long as I live.