It started with a mistake; him and her slightly drunk at the Leaky Cauldron, her because she had just been the victim of a painful involving a freckled, red-headed git and lots of tears, him because—well, he didn’t need
a specific reason to drink.
It became a secret affair, coworkers at the ministry, enemies no more.
The reason he gave was that she had a good body, hers was that she was lonely.
And then it changed. She had become his drug—because working and drinking weren’t the only things that could make you forget.
He liked her too much to let her go; her old boyfriend was apologizing.
In his opinion, the bastard didn’t deserve her, shouldn’t have come back—shouldn’t have been taken back—after all those tears he was the reason of. But that was his opinion, and, really, who was asking?
But even after she took him back, they continued doing what they were.
It could be that she liked him; it could be that she liked getting away, it could be that she liked what she had with him, the secrecy and the passion. He didn’t care which; she made him forget it all and that was all he needed.
And then it wasn’t. They say distance makes the heart grow fonder—it wasn’t distance, though, it was time, or, rather, lack of.
She had a boyfriend.
He didn’t have a girlfriend.
She had caring parents, best friends who would die for her, and, of course, her boyfriends’ overlarge family, which she was an important part of.
He had one father in Azkaban and one mother who just didn’t care.
She had a life and a home to go back to.
He had a gigantic, empty manor.
But it was all this, the less time spent together, and the careful attention he paid to her when they were together, because it would only be that memory of her that, along with his bottles of Firewhisky, that would get him through until he was with her again, that made it happen.
He was in love with her.
And as they approached their end after three years of secret nights and stolen touches, he holds her sleeping body close to him because he isn’t ready to let go.
She says she will not be able to continue with their affair after she is married. Her boyfriend proposed, and, of course, she said yes.
And, after all, he can find someone else, a replacement for her, because they are only physical. He says yes.
He wanted so much to say no.
So he holds on to her like his life depends upon it and he knows too well that he is going to lose so much with her.
She told him the previous night that he would easily find someone better, it couldn’t be hard; he was perfect. He didn’t say what he wanted to; that no, he wouldn’t and wasn’t. Because she would never see how he would never be able to find someone better than her because there wasn’t, and how he was so imperfect, especially compared to her.
Because for all she said about blood, riches, and looks, she was something he never was and could never hope to be.
She was something to someone.
And as he looks on at the wedding of the woman he loves with the man he hates, asks himself why he isn’t barging into her dressing room at that moment and trying to explain to her that he loves her and may not be able to live without her; and that nothing and no one would ever be the same.
But he cannot decide whether he wants her to be happy, or himself to be happy.
Because she could never be happy with him.