Author's Note: Thanks to those of you who've reviewed so far. Several chapters of this story are already written, so I'll try to be reasonably quick about updating.
***
He was annoyed at the unsteady heartbeat that the first few lines of her letter caused. She couldn't forget? Good - he certainly hadn't been able to. She was burned into his memory, a brand he would never escape. When he closed his eyes, it was as if her face was imprinted on his very eyelids. Every lovely feature, surrounded by masses of swirling red.
After six weeks without her, six whole weeks in which he could not remember sleeping, he had mixed a dreamless sleep potion, stirring lacewing flies and moonstone counterclockwise 72 times in hopes of finding peace without the danger of finding her in his dreams. He remembered raising the glass of milky liquid to his lips and hurling it across the room at the last second. His mirror had screamed as it shattered, and house elves had scurried to see if Master was all right.
Master was not all right.
Nothing had been right since she'd gone. He couldn't bear thinking of her, but it seemed he couldn't bear not to, either.
And now she had written him a letter. Now she was getting married. He buried his face in his hands, feeling himself start to slide back down that slippery slope of blame, the one that reminded him that things could have been different.
***
He could not have imagined when he first met her that they would end up entangled as they were, limbs and lives blurring into one when they were together. But brave, beautiful Ginny Weasley had set his senses spinning, to the point where every flash of red was a distraction and every throaty, knowing laugh made his head snap around. She was always with him, even when they were apart.
And because of her, he understood what it was to be happy. When she came to him, he forgot that they were supposed to hate each other.
***
He takes care of me, protects me. He loves me, even. I know he loves me, because he shows me. I feel it in everything he does. For the longest time, I thought it would be enough. I really thought that being loved by someone who would give himself to me without reservation was what I wanted.
After all, that's where we went wrong, isn't it?
He makes love to me so tenderly, as if I might break into pieces. He is slow, and he is gentle. He's a wonderful lover and he knows all the right places to touch me.
But when he touches me, I don't feel anything. His hands go right through me. It's the oddest feeling, really - his hands run all over my body and you're still the one running through my heart.
I've ripped this letter into shreds time and again, but something makes me start over each time. It has to be said, even if you've moved on. Even if what we had is the most distant of memories for you, even if you barely remember my name …
I have to try.
***
He set the letter down, breathing heavily, and noticed that his fingers had started to crumple the parchment as he read. Was she daft? Two years or two lifetimes, his memories of her were anything but distant. She hummed through every cell in his body, had seeped into his very pores.
And yes, he remembered her name, remembered whispering it in her ear as he held her and gasping it out as he loved her. Those familiar, beloved syllables that rolled off his tongue so easily.
He remembered every moment they'd shared, even the one he regretted most. Smoothing the creases out of her letter, he tried to block that memory. Time had not soothed the self-inflicted wounds of that day, especially when he could have gone to her and made it right. Stubborn pride had kept him from doing it, thinking she would come back because she loved him.
He realized now that she'd stayed away because she loved him - because she was too strong to settle for less than everything.
***
The flat was cleaner than it had been since she'd moved in. With her wand tucked away in a drawer, Ginny had moved through each room, scrubbing and polishing and dusting. When her pale face stared back at her from surfaces never meant to reflect it, she moved on to a new task. Without a task, she would run mad.
Maybe she was mad already. Surely something had to be very wrong inside her head for her to have sent the letter. Gods, the letter. He might have it now. Where had her owl found him? In his office? At home, in bed? Alone? Not alone?
She had to stop thinking about it. She had done what she'd thought right, and that was that. Unless … unless it wasn't.
Ginny was spared further contemplation by the pop of someone Apparating into the living room. She froze, reaching out a shaking hand to grasp the wall for support. She sucked in a deep breath and tried to steady herself, but the smile she pasted onto her face was wobbly.
"Ginny?"
At the sound of the familiar female voice, Ginny's legs nearly gave out. She gasped in relief, letting out a slightly hysterical laugh.
"Hermione," she breathed, then repeated it more loudly. "Hermione! I'm in the bedroom."
Hermione appeared in the doorway and arched an eyebrow when she saw the expression on Ginny's face, a mixture of bald relief and something else she could not define.
"Are you all right?" she asked curiously. "You look so … odd, Ginny."
Ginny supposed she did look odd. Her heart had nearly stopped beating at the thought of who her visitor might have been. Her wards were set to allow very few people in - her family, Hermione, and her fiancé, of course. But without telling Bill, who had helped her construct these defenses, Ginny had added someone else. The person who had torn through her carefully warded heart would find no barriers, magical or otherwise, if he ever decided to visit.
"I'm fine, Hermione," she said, forcing some brightness into her voice. It sounded glaringly false to her ears, but Hermione simply smiled, nodded, and went on.
Part of Ginny wished she could do the same.
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