6A/N: Hello, again! This is my Valentine's Day story: full of love and laughter and just enough angst. I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: HP isn't mine. It belongs to J.K. As does all of my time of leisure.
War is destruction. War is sacrifice and finality. War waits for nothing. For no one. War doesn't care if that was your best friend, fighting for a better tomorrow. War doesn't care if you have a family to get back to. War doesn't care if your wife is having your first child. War doesn't care if you have twenty children. War is now; now is War. If you dwell on the future or past, it will claim you. Just another rookie. War is your present; War is your now. Keep your head in the game or you'll lose everything. War is a time for being brash; it's time to use those survival instincts. Now or never. Go.
"What do you live for?", he inquired.
She hated it when he became melancholy. It was horrible enough to watch the Order drop, one by one. Memorial after memorial. It became so tiring. Before, there were ceremonies. Arthur and Kingsley would dig the grave; Molly would sob; she would rest her heated forehead on his shoulder and count the teardrop that fell from her eyes; he would look blank; Harry wouldn't even show. She wasn't worried about the rest of the Order. As much of a "family" or united front as they tried being, they were all fighting for themselves. Everyone fighting their own demons. For no one had the time to worry about their neighbor as they fought to the death with their fears and their peeves and their oppressors.
She, however, never fought for herself. She fought for Molly and Arthur. She fought for Harry. She fought for her parents. She fought for all Muggleborns and Half-bloods and House elves and whatever new case she adopted this month. She fought for him. She fought for love and conveniency and the hope that one day they would win against all. She fought for faith and conviction and because everyone deserves a chance.
She thought that they were winning. She and Harry would plan while everyone slumbered; proposing their next step, scheming their secret weapon, and fantasising about what the end of this war would mean for each of them. They could be free; Harry with Ginny and she with him.
But now it was different.
The Order no longer held funerals — the deceased were dispatched to Shell Cottage for burning; there was no more space for burial. The Order was losing. She was losing. The equilibrium of good and evil was fluctuating and she was so scared what would happen when the scale stopped shaking; where the weights would lie. Now, she was desperate. Now he was full of angst. Now she wasn't sure where their weights lied on stability of love and resent. Now they tired; tired of trying, tired of fighting, tired of waiting, tired of loving.
It was horrible enough to watch the Order drop, one by one. It was killing her to watch them die.
"I live for you," she said with a small smile. "Don't you know that?", she asked tiredly.
"How do you think it will end?", he interrogated.
She hated thinking about it. It was bad enough that they hadn't had food in a week. The scavenged berries and mushrooms. They had been hiding out in the forest for a month now. At first, everything was satisfactory; they were out of Grimmuald Place. Then, everything was tolerable; they had found the Horcrux. Now, everything was godawful. Tolerance ran lower as irritations ran high. Food supply lowered as appetite raised. It was January, and they had nothing.
Now, there was no love. There was just possession. They belonged to each other as much as they didn't want to stay together. Nevertheless, this was not a time for messy breakups and emotional breakdowns. Now was a time for lucid thoughts, clear minds, and no mistakes. They had collected on more piece of his soul. But now, to her, it felt as important as a game piece. But that's all this was. A colossal chess game. She threw herself pity parties because she didn't choose this life, she was born into unhappiness. Exceptional inadequacy. But he came in and was the sunshine on her rain parade. "We still have each other" he'd say with force. "Yes, darling, of course we do" she'd respond with hard eyes. Another ceremony. Another ritual.
Another battle.
She didn't know how it would end. Any of it. "In death", she wanted to say. "In bitter betrayal." "In slow torture." "In insanity and chaos; the Death Eaters must have their filthy, barbaric paws on Pandora's Box by now."
"In our victory," she responded harshly.
"Will you miss me?", he cried.
She loved how he penetrated her soul with his deep and dark questions. Her blue-eyed oppressor. He run his mouth all day, spouting out stupid and brutish ideas; he could forget the simplest concepts; he could manifest ignorance and arrogance and disgust from sunrise to sunset. But, right when the moon took center stage, he could ramble to her about the universe. He could tell her about all of his ingenious ideas and match her in conversations about religion and beliefs. Some nights, he would even stump her, leaving her awake all night until she thought a witty comeback while he snored obnoxiously beside her, his arm trapping her in place. He was two different people; her Neanderthal, complete with an overbearing need to prove his masculinity, and her philosopher, with unabridged and limitless knowledge about unconventional conversation.
When it counted, when it really, truly mattered, he was everything that she had ever hoped for; he was funny, he was handsome, he was considerate, he was sensitive, and he was hers. He belonged to her more than she belonged to him. It was always in her best interest to never give herself to anyone; but, at night, she was all his. She figured that no one was perfect; we all have our flaws and our cute quirks and our inconsistencies. He was the most inconsistent person that she knew.
The sound of the wall behind her collapsing drew her back into reality.
She looked at him; really looked at him. She noticed that his eyes were turquoise around the outer rim, then cyan, then the bluest blue she had ever seen. Completely soul captivating. So dark that it was almost indistinguishable from his pupil. But she saw it. She knew it. She had studied him for years. First, to find his weaknesses. Then, to discern what she found so attractive about him. And finally, to remind herself why she loved him.
Despite all of her hesitations and his adventurous nature and how wrong the timing was and his hair — the bloody hair!— she wanted to believe that it was all worth it. She wanted to count her blessings and her losses and take every past, present, and future event with a grain of salt because he gave her what she couldn't imagine anyone else could: he gave her an infinity in numbered days. And she would always be indebted to him for that.
So for once— for the first and last time— she was honest with him.
"Of course. But your daughter will never have to. She might miss your voice— raised, soothing, or patronizing— and your snores— as atrocious as they are," she cracked a watery smile, "and she will have to miss seeing all the happiness and confusion and pure love and emotion that only you can give me. Nevertheless, I promise you, Ronald Weasley, she will know every story that I know about you. I swear to you that she will always know who you were and what you fought for and how much you loved her, even if you never even knew she existed."
As he took his last breaths, the gaping wound in his abdomen swelled, then contracted. She brought his pale hand to her watery cheek, kissed it, and placed it on her growing womb. With concluding effort, he smiled his crooked smile, coughed, and relaxed.
"Always."
A/N: I might have lied a bit about the love and laughter. Just a bit. Don't hate me! But, if you do, at least tell me that you hate me in a review.
'Til next time!
P.S.: if you see any issues, please let me know!