Note: A short drabble for you...I have no idea where it came from...
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I making any profit from this piece of writing.
Understanding
When was the last time that you looked at your boggart? Not for a long while, I would bet, for you told me it turned into the full moon and now, as I sit in this chair and watch you bustle around my parents' kitchen with glazed, unfocused eyes, I am convinced that is no longer true.
Looking at a boggart now would be like looking in a mirror.
You're scared of yourself.
I knew you were a Gryffindor within half an hour of meeting you, there was something about the way you sat at that table, unflinching and focused on every word that Dumbledore spoke, and you were the first to volunteer when he proposed a new mission. You lacked the rash urgency of the other Gryffindors I could recall, you did not seem to rely upon sheer courage alone, you liked to plan things, be methodical and thoughtful. That's what I liked about you to begin with, I thought you could teach me a thing or two, I'd been mistaken for a bold as brass Gryffindor on more than one occasion and I knew it was something I needed to shake off.
But now I see the reality: you're not the sparkling example I thought you were. You're too thoughtful, you dislike things that are unplanned more than you should. Even when Death Eaters descended upon Bill's wedding I could still see your mind working, furiously coming up with a plan, you panicked, if only for a moment, and I was sure that killing curse was going to hit you had you not come to your senses with a mere moment to spare.
I didn't plan for things to turn out the way they have. You certainly didn't, either, and it shows. You hate it, this situation of ours, you hate everything about it. It's not what you want, and worse still you were not expecting it. You pretend otherwise, of course, but it is startlingly obvious from the way you disappear off into your mind for long periods of time, thinking, planning, trying to make some sort of sense out of things, trying to plan a way around them.
I wait for the day when you finally come to the obvious conclusion that there is no way to plan a way around us having a baby without you doing some sort of runner.
You've told me you won't leave me.
I don't believe you.
So, when you do finally disappear off to anywhere other than here with me, I want you to know this:
You cannot run away from yourself.
It doesn't matter how far you go, or for how long, you simply can't do it.
And once you've gotten that fact firmly in your head, you can come back to me, come back to our child, and I promise I won't be angry. I won't be upset, because I understand. I understand why you are going to leave. And I understand that you will come back again afterwards.
I understand that this is the best possible thing for us, and one of these days you are going to understand it too.