Epilogue

(Seamus Finnigan)

There is a girl with her her blond hair all up in a silk, pink ribbon. Her dress is plush pink, hanging off her body gracefully. Hair rustling in the warm, spring breeze, moving through dark blond sand like the wind of time. She sits in the middle of a vast, green meadow that goes on forever. She sets her hand down behind her, turning her head elegantly, meeting your eyes. She looks at you with deep brown eyes, they twinkle like they've got the most delicious secret in the world. She is frosted over, like she's covered in a sheen. Her persimmon lips curve upward with a feral smile. She lets her head fall back slowly, and she laughs a musical, harp laugh. Sunlight clings to every part of her, making her shine from the inside out.

She crooks a finger, beckoning you over to her. You feel yourself move forward, as if you can't control it. She is laughter, she is happiness, she is light. Close, you need to be close to her.

Suddenly, the sky turns an angry dark gray, clouds spitting thunderous yells. Large, black trees grow out of nowhere, all around her. Something moves behind them, the leaves crunching. The girl is no longer smiling. She looks around, frightens, and opens her mouth to speak. A dark, black shadow tackles her, bringing her down to the ground and then disappearing. The girl screams in terror, cutting through your very bones. You run to her, run towards where she used to be, but there is nothing left except the echo of her scream. She slips through your fingers as you claw at the leftover shadows. The trees begin to grow under your feet and you are brought up to the furious black clouds. You shrink away, but there is nowhere to go.

You are incased in cold, empty dark with screams, deafening you as thunder rumbles from inside your heart.

You wake up suddenly, gasping and sweating. You turn over off the couch and vomit onto the floor, clutching your stomach and knocking over the bottle with your foot. Muggle scotch spills in a puddle as you fall back, squeezing your eyes shut painfully.

You feel dead on your feet, even though all you've done all day is throw a quaffle around with Hastings in the desk over and compare hosting prices for minor Quidditch series'. You didn't get much sleep last night, though you never really do.

You tug at your work robes. Even though you work for the Department of Magical Games and Sports, which is the most relaxed part of the Ministry, you still have to wear them every day. Regulation, and all.

You feel like you might as well be drowning.

But it's almost the end of the day, almost time to leave, almost time for the Floo to Mungo's.

Your gaze darts over to the picture of her habitually.

Parvati gave it to you, after saying that she had far too many and thought you could take some. You took a few greedily, but all the while thinking it was no substitute for the real talking, laughing, breathing one.

It's during fifth year, sometime during the winter. She's wearing her pink winter coat and white knit hat, her hair curling around her red cheeks. She laughs, throwing her head back as if she'd just heard the funniest thing in the world. You keep it in your pocket, always, and now it sits on the desk in front of you.

Your fingertips brush the edges, and you lay your head down on the desk dejectedly looking the other way.

You were supposed to protect her, and you let her almost die. Looking at her, even in a photograph, fills you to the brim with heartache. Seeing her every day lying in a hospital bed, barely breathing is almost unbearable.

But you can't stand not to see her, not to be there for her. So you let yourself be consumed by regret and you're reminded of your failure as a man, because you know that if she woke up and you weren't there, you would never forgive yourself as long as you lived.

"Here." You throw Dean his jacket as he gets ready to head out.

He threads a scarf around his neck, asking, "Not coming tonight?"

You shake your head, staring down at a purple splotch of paint the hard-wood floor of your shared flat from an assignment in Dean's art class.

"Come on. Neither Parvati or I would mind it." He says, throwing his keys into his pocket. "Really mate."

But you shake your head, because you know he's just trying to be a good friend. You know he wants to be alone with Parvati tonight, as they've been getting serious lately. Being third wheel to them, no matter how much you like both of them, would just depress you more than staying home again and trying in vain to fall asleep early.

Dean leaves, you retreat to your room and stare at the ceiling for what feels like hours. You've been to see Lavender today, so like usual, she captures your mind. And like all nights, every time you start to drift off, you relive the entire battle in a flash. Parvati's been going to these counselling sessions offered for those involved in the war, telling him that it's good for people with "post-traumatic stress disorder". You can't bring yourself to go, much less hear or speak about it at all.

A long time later you hear the door close, and hear a girl giggle. It's hardly the first time Dean has brought Parvati back to the flat, but you stuff your face into the pillow and are glad no one can see your tears. You are happy for them, but you can't help wishing, completely selfishly, you had your girl back instead.

"Shit." You grunt to yourself, shoving the bloody miniscule brush back into the bottle and using your own finger to wipe away the excess red that's not on the nail.

"Need help?" The nurse called Elsa asks, amusedly looking down at you while closing the curtains.

You shake your head, because you're determined to finish the task. You know you probably look like a giant tit, putting nail polish on a girl's fingernails, something that a mom or sister or friend should do. And maybe it won't even make a difference. But you remember her saying that she loved red nail polish, and you know she would probably hate the state of her nails now if she could see them.

The healers told you only three days ago that they predicted she'd wake up very soon, saying that she's moved in her sleep enough to deduce that she could even be active again within the week. It still hasn't sunk in yet, the idea of finally having Lavender back in your life. It had been a little over sixth months since you'd last spoken to her, since you last heard her laugh.

You look sadly over her scars, scars that will never fade. Not because you think they mar her beautiful face, in a way they show who she is much better than the flawless-skinned face she had before, but because you know that she'll be devastated when she sees them.

So you paint her nails, so she'll feel pretty when she wakes up.

(Lavender Brown)

Your eyes open slowly, taking in the surroundings. Sunlight streams in from a window next to you, cloying to the soft cream-colored walls. Your head rests on what feels like a couple fluffy pillows, and you are covered by white, sheer blankets. You're in a bed, in the middle of a small white room with seemingly nothing but the bed you're on and a white chair, sitting emptily next to you.

Am I dead? You ask to yourself.

You try to move your neck, but only get a couple centimeters before pain shoots up your spine. You look down at your fingernails, which have been sloppily painted red. Your eyes move up to your arm, where you can see a long, white scar.

Tears prick your eyes. So it wasn't a dream. Everything that happened is actually real, and if you have scars on your arms, you definitely have them everywhere else too. You feel selfish, crying about having some scars when you know many must be injured much worse, or even dead.

But you cry anyway.

Your hair hasn't been brushed in a good long while, and your lips feel cracked and dry. You concentrate on breathing, because you sob a little too hard and lost your breath. Slow, deep breaths.

Suddenly, the white door on the side of your small little room swings open, and two women in what looks like nursing uniforms walk in. One with gray hair and wrinkles around her eyes takes a vase off the windowsill next to you, dumping out the flowers and replacing them with vibrant, fresh ones. The other nurse, with brown hair up in a tight bun, straightens the chair, and then meets your eyes.

She smiles a kind smile. "Oh, Miss Brown, you're awake!" She looks at her watch. "He'll be here in... well, I'll say about twenty minutes."

"Who?" You ask hazily. You inwardly wince at your voice, it sounds croaky and disgusting, definitely not melodic or soft.

"The boy for goodness sake! Oh, Elsa, what's his name?" The gray haired one calls to the other nurse.

"Er... Seamus Finnigan." The nurse says, looking at the chart next to your bedside.

Your heart drops at the sound of his name.

"Has he been asking for me?" You selfisly blurt.

"Oh honey, he's been here every day since you've been brought in. Always at ten after five, always stays until we have to kick him out."

You don't say anything else. You thought you were dead. That you'd never see anything again, let alone Seamus. Your heart still jumps with the thought of seeing him, even if you are merely shreds of a body.

The two nurses bustle around the room for a bit. You should ask them how bad the injuries are, but you can't bring yourself to vocalize it. You almost don't want to know, because if they're as bad as you think, no one will ever want to look at you again. You blink your eyes painfully.

The door opens suddenly.

You almost consider shutting your eyes and pretending you're asleep, you're not ready to talk to him, but you can't take your gaze off him. He looks older, stubble dotting his chin, and in black work robes. His hair is longer than you remember, flopping back into his eyes as he picks up the sign-in sheet next to your room door.

His Irish lilt makes your heart soar, just to hear the way he speaks again. "Elsa, Marie, good to see you both again, you wouldn't believe the day I've had at work today - "

His eyes meet yours, and the clipboard drops loudly on the floor.

In a second, he's right next to you, his rough hands clasping your face, his eyes staring into yours. You smell his scent once more, wrapping around you in the most delightful way.

"Lavender, you're... you're..." He touches every bit of your face with his fingertips and then traveling down to hold your hand tightly. He pulls the chair from behind him right up next to your bedside. "You're..." He kisses your hand, over and over again.

"Hi." You manage to croak out. Your voice is heavy.

"Merlin, I didn't... you... I was so worried that you would be gone forever, that you'd never wake up..." He whispers desperately. "It's all my fault, I said I would protect you, Lavender, I'm so sorry..."

And suddenly he's crying, crying real actual tears, whispering over and over that he was sorry. You tell him it's alright, it's ok, that you don't blame him, please. It's the first time you've ever seen him cry, and your heart feels like it might collapse in on itself.

So you throw all your strength into lifting your arms to him, and he leans over to hug you again. His tears land on your face, your neck, and your shoulders. He whispers over and over, like a chant, that he loves you.

(Seamus Finnigan)

The first time she steps into your room, it feels like a dream.

She's here. She's awake. She's speaking and walking and breathing. You help her up the rickety stairs to the third floor where the flat is. She goes slowly. There is no railing, you think dumbly. Maybe you should have put one in.

Your chest hurts when you see that she walks with somewhat of a limp now. It's because of the bandages she wears, but they'll be able to come off in a few weeks, the healers say. She looks like every step aches. You focus on getting your keys out.

She lives with you now. You wonder if her family knows what's going on, if they're even still around. She never talks about them.

But you love her staying with you. Her warm body against yours every night. She's the light in the dark when you wake up in a panicked sweat. And you're there for her when her wracked sobs echo around the room and she can't seem to forget the sights that plague the both of you.

She makes you breakfast sometimes. Before work. She watches you get ready, and you leave her in the empty flat. It's a struggle to get out the door everyday, but you know that if you don't you won't have a flat to leave her in at all. Sometimes Parvati stays over and the four of them have dinner together. So normal, like a once-imagined dream of their grown-up lives together.

You see her looking in the mirror, eyes cold and harsh in scrutiny of her bare torso. So you kiss her and tell her how beautiful she is every day, and you hope sometime she'll understand that it's the truth.

You read through the Quidditch scores like every morning. Wasps beat the Magpies in a crushing win of 320 to 60 which was unsurprising due to the Wasps new trade.

"Where are you going?"

She stops rigidly, hand tightening on the handle of her suitcase.

"Traveling." She replies shortly.

"Traveling? Where would you be traveling?" You ask, folding the newspaper and laying it on the table. She moves out the door, and you run to catch her on the stairs. You reach out, grasping her forearm. "Hey, Lavender, wait. What's going on?"

"I've just... I've got to leave."

"Leave?"

She lets out a short breath, like releasing too much air will release everything she's trying so hard to hold back.

"I try to ignore the looks when I step outside, naive children pointing at me, and the polite and embarrassed apology that then follows from their mothers. But I'm damaged goods. "

"Lav - " You call to stop her. She continues down the stairs, and you follow her as she runs down them so fast she holds her hand against the wall for support in substitution for the non-existent railing.

"And then there's you, and you've got a shot at a normal life, a happy life. You've got it all worked out, a job, a flat, money, you've grown up without me. I've got nothing, I'm basically homeless, I've got no NEWTs, no experience, and now even my looks are gone."

"Hey. Hey." You say softly, stopping her again and cupping her face in your hands. You try to reassure her as best you can. "I love you. You've got me."

She pushes away from you, making her way down the front steps, outside into the fall air.

"You think you still love me now, and you say you always will... but that's just because when you look at me you see who I used to be. A few years later, the memory won't be enough for you, and you'll come to resent me, but you're a good guy and won't leave me because I'm basically crippled, so you'll just let yourself die inside. I won't be the one who brings you down, I won't be the one who kills you, I can't - "

"Shut up."

And she looks at you with anger and confusion in her eyes, and you know she's in pain, so much pain, and you don't know if you can fix it. But god dammit she can't leave. You won't lose her again.

"Do you ever think I would have been able to live with myself if you had died? I was supposed to protect you. And I failed. But somehow, by a miracle, I got you back. I'm not fucking letting you go again. Not now, not ever."

She says nothing, but you step up next to her, pulling her down into a kiss. And she clings to you, letting her silent tears wet the front of your shirt.

You open your eyes blearily as she traces invisible patterns across your chest. You shift, and she looks up at your with her deep brown eyes. Sun shines through the cheap curtains in your room and makes her blond hair look weightless.

You've finally got all the time in the world, just to lay in a warm bed with her on a Sunday morning, lay for hours and breathe. Your hand trails over her bare shoulder and then up her neck. She tilts her head up and kisses you lazily, a change from the hungry, frantic kisses from late last night.

"Hi." You whisper.

"Hi." She whispers back, kissing your collarbone.

Her blond hair drags across your chest as she rises, wincing as she stands up.

"What's the matter?" You ask worriedly, reaching out to steady her.

She only smirks at you. "Nothing. Just a little sore, you know, from last night."

"Did I hurt you?"

"No." She replies. With a cheeky smile, "It was brilliant."

You grin arrogantly, leaning back with your hands over your head. "Oh."

She falls back onto the bed, hitting against your chest. "Shut up." She kisses you chastely once, twice, and then pulls away again.

"I'm going to take a shower."

"Want company?"

She says nothing, so you jump out of bed and follow her into the living room (well, if the room that isn't yours or Dean's can be called that), tackling her on her way past the couch.

"Seamus! Bugger off!"

It's been a year since she came back to you. Her limp is gone, the shallow cuts closed up. Most of the scars, though, won't heal.

You take her to the seaside for a week during the summer. You hear her saying that she always wanted to go when she was younger but her parents never took her. It takes a significant chuck out of your savings, but it's worth it.

And she's lovely. She blossoms here. She runs across the long, gray, sandy beach chasing the seagulls. Her bare feet barely touch the sand as she sails after them, just for the hell of it, just to run. Her gold hair splashes color against the landscape.

And you run after her, like you always will be, chasing her. And you're both laughing, really laughing, for the first time in a while.

And then you sit together, squeezed into the same beach chair, the cold ocean coming up to bite your toes. But you don't mind because she's breathing steady and she isn't wearing a million layers and you can see her skin and she smells like flowers and salt and the sea.

"Don't you wish you could just go back?" She suddenly whispers. "Back to when we hadn't lost anything?"

"Yeah. But we can't." You say.

"Everything is gone now. Lost."

"No. Not everything."

"I know. But rebuilding hurts." She says. "Hold me, will you?"

"'Course." You wrap your arms around her.

"And... thanks, Seamus." Her head leans against your chest.

"For what?"

"For not letting me run. And for taking care of me. And for loving me." She says against your neck.

(Lavender Brown)

You stare at yourself in the mirror every morning now. Analyze yourself, every single line and flake and crinkle and scrape... and scar. You focus and refocus your eyes back and forth, hoping to stop noticing them, but you can't.

You can see Seamus watching you in the morning while he gets ready for work, looking at you with concerned eyes.

You know he was hurt by the war as well. He's got permanent markings and scars that will never heal, just as you do. He has nightmares too.

But you can't talk about it with him. Maybe you're too afraid, maybe it's too painful, or maybe you're afraid to crack the precarious, fragile life that you've lived ever since you woke up in that hospital bed.

He lets you stay at his flat. You're got nothing, no money, no job, but he says nothing.

A nagging voice says it's because you're crippled, and who's going to kick out a cripple?

It takes you two months and twelve days to get outside.

Seamus forces you.

You plead "Don't make me."

"Come on, fresh air is good for you. Sunlight. Other people." He pushes gently.

He helps you down the stairs, because you can't even fucking walk normally. You'll never wear high heels again, much less strut the way you used to. You would be angrier, but his gentle grasp on your elbow is too calming.

The sun beats down on you. It's too light here, everything too visible. You're withering, every step you take, you feel worse and worse.

Seamus doesn't let go of you, though, even when he has to lean back to lock the door.

You try to focus on him, and how the sunbeams get stuck in his fly-aways or the way he squints his eyes to look up at the sky.

But then, suddenly, everyone is staring at you. Every kid they pass points, every parent steers their child away. You're disgusting. You're a public menace, about to be arrested for disturbing the peace. Ugly things should be locked away.

"Lavender." He speaks softly into your ear, but you can't, you can't do it, and you break away from him, pathetically hobbling away as fast as you can, back to the flat, and then you reach the door and you realize that you don't even have the fucking key so you can't get in, and you stand there like an idiot waiting for Seamus to catch up with you.

Your back hits the door and you slide down into a ball, under the partial shade coming from the ledge above.

You grit your teeth and force it down, making yourself smile up at his hopeful face.

But he sees right through you, and you hate that he knows you so well.

"It's shit?"

You put your fork down, saying, "No, no, it's... well, yeah, it is."

His shoulders droop, and he moves around the kitchen table to lean against the counter, his back to you. You feel a little like a bitch, that you couldn't lie well enough.

You're touched that he even tried to cook dinner for you. You stare down at the burnt steak in front of you, and feel yourself smile a little.

So you creep up behind him. He's wearing his ratty Kenmare Kestrels t-shirt, the tag sticking out the back, with a pair of ripped jeans he must have changed into after work. But you like him this way just as much as you like him in a tie. You like him always, actually.

You hug him from behind, your body pressing against his, and you bite his shoulder playfully, smiling when he turns around and kisses you.

You kiss him back, and he picks you up, hands gripping your ass and shoving you onto the counter, attacking your neck with his lips and he drags his teeth along your skin, giving you shivers. You hook your legs around his hips, and it makes you shiver when he drags his fingers down your thighs.

And it's ok that you'll have to eat the leftovers in the back of the fridge that have probably been there for weeks, because he tastes better than anything.

"Um so... so..." He gulps. "Sorry, I'm nervous."

Your heart is pounding, you can't breathe, and he's holding your hands and gathering up his courage. You're standing outside the flat (after a walk - you can make it three blocks now, a small accomplishment), going to grab your keys, when he stopped you and took your hand.

It's early morning on a Saturday, and he's still got bed head (there's a piece of his hair that, no matter what, will always stick up in the back - he has to comb it down). He looks panicked, and you just want to hug him because his voice is almost trembling.

"I'm not great with words... but I guess you know that."

You breathe a laugh, and his laugh follows.

"...so...so I'll just ask."

He takes a deep breath and your throat is almost closing up and you might cry and your emotions are everywhere, the way that only he has the power to induce. He's the only person that could ever do this to you because you care about him so much, and you want to spend the rest of your life with him.

"Lavender Brown, will you - "

"Yes!"

"- marry me?"

"Yes, yes, of course Seamus, of course - " He cuts you off by smashing your lips with his and it's all toothy and messy but it doesn't matter because your head is screaming and you can't remember the last time you were this happy... ever.

(Seamus Finnigan)

She's gorgeous.

Her blond hair is combed all to one side, threaded with tiny white flowers to match the white lace of her dress. She wanted to wear a long-sleeved dress, but it was summer, and he insisted he wanted to be able to see her. You wished she wouldn't cover up.

And she didn't. The sweetheart neckline of the dress fits her perfectly, and she's captivating as she walks down the aisle on your da's arm. You feel like you can't breathe, like her short walk from the back of the room to where you are is a mile.

But then she's here and you're holding her hands as she smiles back at you.

And you can't believe that she's yours.

The priest is dithering on about something, and then she looks at you expectantly, and a moment passes.

"Oh, sorry, yeah, 'course I do."

The guests laugh, but you only care about her next words.

"I do."

"You may - " And before the priest can even finish his sentence, you're sweeping her up in your arms and kissing her. Kissing your wife, and you're alive and she's alive and you're together.

The porch chair creaks back and forth. Ice chips clink in a glass of whiskey. Lush, green hills sprawl out in front of you, dotted with trees in the distance. You stretch your arms over your head and your legs out in front of you, closing your eyes and feeling the warm sun on your face.

"This is the good life."

"For you anyway. This little bugger is insuring me that I can't have any fun." Lavender quips, looking sidelong at the glass in your hand.

You glance down at her humongous stomach. She's been ready to pop for ages, and you're impatient. You want to see your baby!

"How are you feeling today?"

"Fat."

"You don't look it."

She shoots you a glare, and you laugh heartily, taking her hand and squeezing it.

You wish you could freeze time and live in this moment - in your home, with your baby, and your girl. You will protect them and love them - forever. You look at your wife, sitting across from you. She looks beautiful here, a blossoming flower among the gorgeous Irish landscape.

"Hey. What?" She asks you. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Nothing. I just love you."

She smiles warmly, leaning over and kissing your cheek. "I love you too."

And that's all you ever needed.

A/N: So. The end.

I know I seriously neglected this piece, but I just finished it anyway and decided to post it. If anyone still follows this story, I'm sorry I let it go so long.

So here's some closure. They lived long, happy lives and so did their three children.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed that chapter (forever ago) and I hope anyone reading this enjoyed the ending. I know I enjoyed finally finishing it (◡‿◡✿)

Please review!