The first time he turned away in bed, you were glad. He was beginning to become almost smothering in his desires, his wants, his needs. You felt like you needed your own space. You needed to breathe.
At first it was only once a week. There was no way you could tell his expression from that tousled black head. Which, as you realised, was probably what he wanted. What did he think when he stared at the creamy blank wall?
And then, twice a week.
Three times a week.
Slowly, insidiously it seemed, your beautiful relationship turned and crumbled into dust. There weren't any fights, oh no, you were always careful about that. Every single disagreement was carefully sorted out. That was part of your relationship from the start. You wanted the relationship to be equal. You didn't want him to be reminded of you as a teacher, but rather, you as the man.
More fool you.
How could you have taken the word of a teenager to be truth? You see it now. It was mere hormones. Hormones and pity.
He didn't love you. How could he? A bright, beautiful, young man love a bitter, old, wasted old Death Eater? Ridiculous. Everybody else could see it but you.
You still hoped.
Now he turns away almost every night. Your once rich conversations about everything have dried up. Much like yourself, really. He's careless as he kisses you - pecks you on the cheek, almost like an uncle or Merlin forbid, a father - goodbye every morning as you're left alone with your precious potions in the darkest corner of the house.
He's independent now. Free of all the shackles of youth. It's all you've always wanted for him. Isn't it?
As your shaking hands measure out the ingredients - careful, careful - you wonder how long it'll take him to realise this.
How long will it take him to come to the same conclusions as you?
How long before you wake up to find a neatly folded note on the pillow beside you?
How long before he leaves?
