Desperate
Over the next minute or so I cannot help but be disappointed at how much my never sterling communication skills must have deteriorated over the solitary year. Enough control, however, is summoned to stop the first, instinctive reply along the lines of 'you are what?'. That kind of reaction I would not allow myself even at Potter's age, let alone now. After pondering the options acceptable in the framework of the same civil conversation, although still failing to grasp the underlying purpose of actually having one, I settle for,
"Congratulations."
"Thanks," he replies, even more glum than before, if at all possible, successfully confusing me further.
Furthermore, he seems to leave it up to me to keep the feebly struggling conversation afloat. Stifling the impulse to wrap it up with some perfectly acceptable reason – then again, my wish to rid myself of the boy's presence should be acceptable enough – I offer another question.
"When is the happy occasion?"
Contrary to my expectations, he does not wince at the last two words, replying quietly,
"Next month."
I watch the last shreds of the civil conversation give up and sink into the same quicksand pit where I have been submerged some time earlier, feeling little remorse over its untimely demise. It was hardly worth the effort.
"You don't seem too happy about it, Potter."
This earns a rather wry grin, but not a look still.
"Non-verbal and wandless Legilimency? And you weren't even looking me in the eye, Professor."
Well, well. Not quite glum enough to refrain from the usual cheekiness.
"Why do you care, anyway?" he suddenly glares up at me fiercely.
"Who says I do?" I shrug, drinking more tea just to occupy the hands.
"I must be an idiot." The boy shakes his head, getting to his feet. I watch impassively.
"What prompted this observation?"
"Well, what else can you call me – correction, what else can I call myself, you'd never call me anything else anyway – for letting you think that I was fooled by your words for even a moment? You don't give a damn about me, so why even bother to pretend to have a civilised talk? I'm not that desperate for someone to talk to, and my life is none of your business, Professor, since you're not even my teacher anymore! So save yourself the effort of feigning interest and just tell me what to tell McGonagall so I could be on my way."
"Gladly, Mr. Potter. As soon as you answer a simple question of mine."
He glowers in lieu of a 'what?'.
"What in the name of Merlin could possibly make me feign interest in your person?" I ask with a raised eyebrow.
He sputters, indignant replies obviously appearing and vanishing before he can voice them. After watching him for a few seconds, I continue.
"No interest was feigned on my part, and be it far from me to pry in your highly personal affairs. If I recall, it was you who first informed of your upcoming wedding, and did not bother to do so in a manner that would prevent unwanted questions, from which it would be logical to conclude that questions were welcome, despite your outward unwillingness to answer them."
"What're you getting at?" Potter asks grimly, not making any more efforts to leave, however.
"If it is the bottom line you want, Mr. Potter, I would say there are two. First: do not accuse anyone of falsity unless you are entirely convinced of your own sincerity. And second: whether you are aware of it or not, you are exactly as desperate as you claim not to be. Do not deny it again, lest you want the apparent depth of your desperation to increase."
The boy flares up for a moment, letting me see exactly how grave his situation must be, then composes himself enough to comprehend my last sentence and looks away with a sigh.
"You're not suggesting-"
"I am not suggesting anything¸ Potter."
"This is ridiculous." He chuckles, looking anywhere but at me. "You couldn't possibly… I'd never… you wouldn't understand, anyway…"
"Do you expect me to persuade you to talk? Don't."
More hesitation, more shuffling of feet.
"It's not like I have much choice, anyway."
His voice carries a hint of a veiled consent yearning for approval. In vain.
"Oh, there is always a choice, Mr. Potter. Always."
The boy's eyes finally meet mine.
"It is simply much easier to fool oneself into thinking that there is none. Easier than admit to choosing something you would rather not."
He appears to consider this, slowly looking from me towards the exit and then back to me. Good, Potter. Good.
The boy returns to his seat across from me, his expression determined. I do my best to conceal a smile of an unknown origin. Maybe it is simply a rather unfamiliar satisfaction of seeing some of my words actually sinking in.
Potter sits quietly, seeming to study my face. I look back calmly. To his credit be it said that he does understand that no questions will be asked. He chose to talk, and I agreed to listen, but there would be no help on my behalf. His eyes leave my face and scan the table, finally stopping on the Firewhiskey.
"Do you think I could have some more of that?" he asks. I give him a one-shoulder shrug.
"If you believe it will help you."
"Worth a try."
"Fair enough." I Summon a more appropriate glass, as not even in my house would one drink Firewhiskey from a teacup, and pour a moderate measure, refraining from offering any ice in view of his condition. The boy fiddles with the glass, then takes a sip, a breath, and starts talking.
"We came back from Australia, me and Hermione, that is. Some journey it was, took us almost a month to find her parents, because you see, she made sure they would leave no trace should the Death Eaters look – but no trace for us either. I always knew she was serious about everything she does, she's Hermione, for Merlin' s sake, but only then I saw how grim she thought things were… well, they were probably that grim indeed. She was almost entirely sure she wouldn't survive that year, or that even if she did, there'd be nothing in Britain for her parents to come back to…"
He sighs. I do my best to restore the missing facts from his jumbled speech, knowing better than to ask questions.
"We found them eventually, she broke the Memory Charm, and it worked for her dad, but not her mum at first, so she was rather hysterical by then – Hermione, that is, and I was helpless, because I couldn't do a Memory Charm to save my life. I managed to talk to her father a bit, explain what happened… Anyway, eventually it all worked out – that is, she managed to make her mum remember everything, and we moved them back – but she was quite a wreck by then. It wasn't me that should've been with her all that time, and neither of us expected it to take so long. I was a complete prat, I should've realised what travelling with me must've felt like for her. It was Ron all over again, and they couldn't even write to each other. She kept crying when she thought no one was around, and…"
Potter takes a larger sip from his glass, shaking his head lightly.
"I know I sound completely off, because it's not Hermione I'm marrying, after all, but… When we came back, she and Ron wouldn't let go of each other for hours, and we were all staying at the Burrow then, I guess it was better for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to have more people around, and then I saw Ginny looking at the two of them – Ron and Hermione, not her parents, and I wondered whether… And then she looked my way, and… I guess I went a little crazy by then, what with everything, 'cause I'd never do something like that otherwise… I wanted to do something to make sure I'd never lose her again, and it seemed like the only thing I could come up with…"
So he proposed to her. He was afraid of losing her. So he proposed to her. I turn the idea around in my mind, trying to comprehend my own reaction to it.
"And suddenly everything was great. Well, not everything. In fact, nothing was great, apart from that. But it felt like everything was great, it was… like a reason to go on. Because there were times I felt I'd rather not. Then I saw her off to Hogwarts, and then it was really stupid, but I Apparated to Hogsmeade to catch a glimpse of her at the station, and ran into Neville and Luna, then got caught up talking to Hagrid… Anyway, you know what happened next. It was really awkward at first, and…"
The boy grins uneasily for a moment.
"I know what a big-headed prat you think me to be, you've made your point enough times, but I promised them that if I heard 'Professor Potter' even once, joke or no joke, I'd quit there and then. Good thing they took it seriously, because I'd have to break that promise otherwise."
Something must show in my face, because he feels it necessary to explain.
"I didn't for a moment think I ever had the right to teach anyone, but I was doing the best I could, and – I couldn't, I never would walk out on them, not before I felt I'd taught them everything I knew, anything that could help them defend themselves, and other people, should... I know I sound like a pathetic worrywart, but where's the guarantee that what happened once, doesn't happen again? If not Voldemort, then someone else. There'll always be someone, somewhere, and the worst thing I can imagine is being helpless, unable to protect someone... you care for."
I refill his glass using the wand, reluctant to handle the bottle manually to avoid any unnecessary displays of… anything.
"You probably think this has nothing to do with Ginny, or the wedding, or…" he continues.
As a matter of fact, I can see his point perfectly clearly, but let him find his own words.
"I've been thinking about it ever since she said 'yes'. How dared I do something like that, knowing full well who I am, what I've become? It sounds horribly conceited even as I say it, but if something happens again, they'll expect, they'll trust me to be one of the first to do something about it. A person like me has no right to belong, to get attached… or let anyone get attached to them. Not if I can go off and never return one day. I was looking at Teddy one of these days and I realised – oh, but you don't know who Teddy is, do you…"
I shake my head lightly. The boy eyes his glass as if it holds answers to any of his questions.
"I'm… Never thought it'd be so hard to say... I'm a godfather. To Teddy… Teddy Lupin. Ginny and I are helping Andromeda, Mrs. Tonks, that is, to take care of him."
Details line up quickly in my head, and I cannot help but wish I was wrong. If I am not… it explains a lot. Potter's words that follow leave no room for hope or doubt.
"He's a little over a year now, and he knows the faces of his Gran, mine, and Ginny's. He can't talk yet, but I thought I could hear something like 'Da' from him once. How old must he be when he has to learn that I'm not? How old must he be to understand what happened to his father? Who will tell him? His grandmother? His godfather? It'll have to be me, you know. Even thinking of it horrifies me, and to actually say it? It's… it's not something I'd wish anyone to face one day… Especially not Ginny."
He pauses, examining the table again. A few minutes pass before he speaks again.
"That's one scenario. There's a worse one – worse from my own selfish perspective, of course. What if…"
Two terrifying words, as piercingly chilling as 'condolences' is dully cold.
"What if something happens to her… because of me? Imagine Voldemort had not come back eight years ago. Imagine he came back now. What would be the easiest way to get to me? And I wouldn’t be able to do anything if he threatened her. I'd plead with him, I'd give myself up, I'd serve him, I'd kill on his order. Anything to grant her safety. Anything."
I force myself to keep looking at him, even though the room feels completely void of air. But he holds my gaze, and looking away from the two green eyes seems impossible.
"That's why I can't be with her, now or ever. I'd do anything, I'd be anything, I'd take the Dark Mark in exchange for her life. I know I would. Because I wouldn't be able to go on knowing I'm the cause of her death. You… you remember when you said I was weak? Well, you were right…"
He finally looks down, and for that I thank every power in the world and beyond, for I cannot fathom the look on my face at that moment. The strange thoughtlessness experienced before descends on me again, and I can barely hear him when he continues, in little more than a whisper,
"I'm… not like you."
However corporeal I am at the moment, I am nevertheless unable to convince myself of mishearing, or at least misinterpreting his words. I wish I could deny the obvious. What other way is there, when the obvious is too impossible not to deny?
The boy is silent, and with horror, I realise it must be my turn to speak. As if listening was not bad enough. I look at him intently, trying to find words – any words. Failing. The only way seems to voice the only thought that seems to have formed in my mind, the thought unthinkable, the words unspeakable – yet the only thing in a situation as unfathomable as this.
"No, you're not."
Don't look up. For the sake of everything and anything, don't look at me.
The green eyes meet mine. I look away, but it does not seem enough. Unable to meet his gaze anymore, unable to hear anything else he might say, I find myself on my feet and out in the rain. I cannot even remember walking across the room or opening the door.