Illusions of Perfection

Tears make shiny streaks down my face as I clumsily cast a few clothes into my now open suitcase. I have to get away, to escape this place. No one will want me here now.

If I were to stay, things would be awkward, disjointed, and there would be the very particular pointed pain of seeing him every day at the breakfast table, where he would have two slices of toast and marmalade, accompanied by a cup of Earl Grey. Perhaps we would pass in the hallway between third and fourth periods on a Tuesday, or first and second on a Friday. Obviously the staff room would be a problem, because I know how much he enjoys resting in the old leather armchair that mutters to him as we take stock of the day's events.

More painful than glancing at his form however, would be the real truth that burns me to the core: the places he would never be again, in front of me, beside me, inside me. It wasn't just the absence of his physical presence that would hurt me though; our relationship had more substance than that. Or should I say, did have more substance than that.

Not really caring now if they are folded, I just keep transferring articles, one after the other, from my wardrobe, shoving and crushing them down on top of each other into my suitcase.

Everything was my fault. How could I have been so stupid as to think that I could actually make things better? All I had been doing was playing in an adult's world, when it was now so obvious that my dreams were still that of a child.

This was the only way. It had to be like this; it was better for everyone. They wouldn't have to try and be polite and understanding.

Not that I would ever expect that of certain people. Some will gloat and say 'I told you so'. Well let them; I won't be here to feel their breath, as the metaphorical noose gets tighter around my neck.

Shrinking my suitcase, I pause to take one final, fleeting look at our quarters; it's caught like the sharp flash on the negative of a photograph. Oh God, I had been so happy here, felt so much love and warmth, experienced what I had thought was understanding. Now the latter was so evidently false, I was false, it seemed.

Hearing a muted sound, I register the once coherent form of my favourite plant pot; so mundane and plain that it was not something I would normally care about breaking. The formerly smooth edges cut the air like a razor and the dark earth dribbles out, tracking the edges of the stone slabs that coat the floor. I had broken it, not intentionally, but accidentally. Feeling a tear run down my cheek, I realise that it echoes the end of our relationship: unintentionally destroyed, not deliberately.

I wonder if I will be as casually brushed up and thrown away as those shards. Will I be as easily replaced? Thankfully, I won't ever know.

Taking the less frequently used side exit from the school, I barely notice as I brush past a few students on their way into the dormitories. It's still not dark, but there is a shadow in the air that tells them that the hour for play is past. Briefly, I consider the picture I must present. I haven't looked in a mirror because the temptation to break it would have been too great; I didn't need seven years of bad luck as well as everything else. I laugh, not only must I appear physically, in a very distraught, and rumpled state, but inside my emotions beat to the same refrain. I was acting out of character. No one would expect me to run away. Today I was acting irrationally. Today my heart had won the battle over my head.

Now, I was turning tail. I was running.

Stumbling suddenly, I smell fresh summer grass below my nose, and feel the soft ache of ground-scuffed knees. Lying on the hard bed whose green mattress offers no comfort, I stay stagnant and still, only taking notice of the pressure on my chest as it presses rhythmically against the solid form of the earth. While the movement informs me that my body is still alive, my soul feels like it is dead, slowly rotting and sending its rancid smell to putrefy and infect the lawn beneath.

Rising hastily, I stumble carelessly through the wards that guard the perimeter of the grounds. The extra security measures are not as strong as they once were, but my departure will be felt. They will know my individual signature, recognise my blood, my essence, me.

Not many here know the Muggle world well, and suddenly I decide that, for now, the Muggle world is where I will go.

I fix my mind on the sea and close my eyes as the world swirls around me, only half registering a shout as the air around my form whistles and swirls. The effort burns my skin, and I feel the harsh prickle as my atoms are realigned once again. Then I smell the fresh tang of the sea, hear the gulls and, opening my eyes, glance the dusky beige sand beneath my feet.

_____________________________________________________________

Over six months later....

Too many times I have tried to write the words to help me out of this situation, but they always seem to elude me. I, who have always been known for my voracious appetite for this form of expression, cannot seem to actually apply them to the page in any coherent form. No, that's not correct. I am usually very capable of forming the evidence of my mind's intents, purposes, and impressions, in what certain people called excessive quantities.

Harry and Ron could always be counted upon to provide me with numerous comments with regards to essay lengths, specifically, my ability to surpass the required measurement quite excessively. Less frequent were my counter attacks regarding their tendency to only just scrape the bottom of the last inch. They sometimes seem to forget the countless times I lent them the odd few sentences to stretch their own work out, until, one late Sunday evening after Quidditch, I declined to assist them.

Needless to say I wasn't popular for a while, though not as ostracised as when I got Harry's new Firebolt broom quarantined by Professor McGonagall in third year. That was something I was not allowed to forget for what seemed like an extremely long time.

After a while, they did begin to realise the importance of completing their homework under their own steam, but they never did get the hang of time management quite as quickly, or as easily.

Quickly and easily. Those are two things that would be of use to me at the moment, and not just to prevent another broken nib or 'spelled-out' parchment from being consigned to the bin.

The failure to commit to flesh the language that is so difficult to speak is probably due to the thoughts and feelings that the words convey, rather than the actual marks themselves. Anyone can copy information from a book and incorporate some personal thoughts and opposing arguments. It is, however, much more complex to set down words that are conveying personal and private messages. Never have I been a person disposed towards composing my own creative literature, outside of a few love letters I had tried to, rather unsuccessfully, foist on unreceptive boys at first school.

Jack Mason had been the young boy who had caught my eye one-morning break, across the sport stripes and netball hoops littering the playground.

Little did I realise that Mr Mason was the preferred choice of many girls in that large grey area where we had spent our playtimes. Even before the bells that routinely signalled the conclusion of the lesson before break had ceased their surprisingly mellow tones, about eight or nine girls would, not very discreetly, re-enact a scene more commonly associated with a chicken shed.

By the end of the year, Jack was engaged to a dozen of his 'chicks' and had taken to kissing them under cover of his coat. Whatever concealing factor he was trying to achieve was rendered obsolete, by the fact that these engagements occurred underneath the netball hoop in the main playground.

If I'm honest, I also don't care to revisit the rather embarrassingly unflattering crush I had at one time suffered for Gilderoy Lockhart.

Professor Lockhart was what Ron would describe as a twat. Hagrid, however, had the claim on my personal favourite; it is surprisingly eloquent and succinct.

"If one word of it was true, I'll eat my Kettle."

If I were in a cruel mood I would say those eleven words summed Lockhart's character up to perfection, but tonight isn't the time for callous thoughts. Now, I see him as a vainglorious man who took the triumphs of others and conscripted them into his own repertoire.

His fate was sad but ironic. It seemed that the memory charm expert wasn't so expert as he claimed to be. For he now casts a shadow on the wall behind his hospital bed, and has more in common with the baby dolls that sleep, talk, and wet the bed.

In a visit to St Mungo's in our fifth year, it was revealed that he had managed to re-master cursive writing. On a more recent visit, I was pleased to report back that he had accomplished the dangerous feat of recognising his own signature.

I'm not someone who normally revels in the discomfort of others, but even I must be allowed some degree of leniency in reference to that man, and not just because of the fact that I had briefly, in the distant past, fancied him rather a lot.

Obviously the next stop must be Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker, whom I first laid eyes upon during the Triwizard Tournament. That was the year Cedric Diggory had died at the hands of Voldemort, the year Harry began to notice girls, and the year that I finally got a proper date.

Victor was well known and I was probably the last person anyone, including myself, and more importantly, Ron, would have considered as his first choice for dance partner. Once again, the truth rears its head and whispers in my ear that the reason I had said 'yes' had been because I was tired of Ron Weasley ignoring me; and of course, at the same time, I was flattered by Viktor's obvious attentions.

Owls had been frequently gouging a track in the sky between Durmstrang and Hogwarts, but it wasn't long before I realised that a long-distance romance wasn't going to work on a long-term basis.

I did like him, a lot, but it was more the schoolgirl kind of love. The emotions I feel for Remus, on the other hand, are much more intense and complicated, and that is the relationship that I'm trying to salvage.

Receiving the freshly collected coal from the scuttle, the fire now rushes up to greet what must be a rather solemn looking face. Nicely rendered, but features lacking any attempt to emphasise themselves. Hair that still, after three newly improved Sleek-Easy Potions defies me, and insists upon remaining rather sadly, an excuse for Ron's occasional humour.

This route of thought does, however, allow me to tackle another boyfriend, as it seems my brain has decided it likes the regurgitation of romances gone by.

Which, much as I don't really want to admit it, I realise its just another delaying tactic that allows me to avoid putting quill, pen, or, like I feel I'm doing, blood, to parchment. Pessimistic, depressed and with a rather cruel and dry attempt at humour, my subconscious mutters that I haven't got that many notches on my broomstick. As I stand regarding the rather fine mantle over my fireplace, I decide that another few minutes of postponement would not make a vast difference.

How do I categorise my feelings for Ronald Weasley? I do still love him the same way I did throughout the nine months we dated, but the fact was that it was the love you feel for a friend.

I had confused companionship and friendly love with the romantic kind, because he had finally admitted that he liked me. Being in a time of stress and conflict, emotions were high, and it seemed natural to take what I thought was the next step in our relationship. It wasn't exactly a mistake, and I would never regret it, but in the often harsh light of a new day, I realised it was a lack of understanding about the different levels and degrees of love that led me to date him.

When I told Ron that what I felt wasn't enough for anything more than friendship he was very upset for a long while. I also know Harry felt ill at ease around us both. The dynamic of the trio had been altered, and even now isn't what it once had been. But there were other factors that further aggravated that particular situation.

I had expected Ron to be a little shocked when Remus and I told everyone about the two of us, but he accepted it in good spirit.

It had been Harry who had very vocally displayed his disgust and amazement over our relationship. Perhaps he felt the disparity in ages would be a problem. Maybe he didn't want to see Remus hurt me, or vice versa. Whatever the grounds were, there was a distance and coldness in his attitude towards the two of us that caused us both sorrow.

Ron has told me many times that he is utterly frustrated by Harry's opinions. Sometimes I think that he is on the edge of punching him, and that is not a situation I desire. No one wants to be the cause of their friends' argument, me especially, but sometimes you have to make decisions about your own life that may act like a ripple in a pond: the cause of ever- increasing circles.

Neither Remus nor I could live our lives to the dictates or whims of others. This new world order that was so fledgling in it's conception demanded that we fight for what we believe in, and at that time we had believed it was us, living our lives together.

Almost a year and a half has now passed since the final battle. Well, the last battle with Voldemort at least. We all realised that he wasn't going to be the only evil we would face, and the fact also dawned upon us that there would always be those amongst us who would believe in his cause, or some derivative of it.

Remus had told me, in one of our regular, and sometimes passionate, discussions, what he believed evil was. I had asked him one quiet evening when we were alone in our little house last summer, only a few short months after that final thrust of the sword had taken Voldemort to his own master. He had replied that the closest he could come to any true definition was that evil was a lack of empathy, because if the emotional responses to their actions could be felt by the aggressor, then they would cease to perform them.

My personal thoughts on war were that its opposite wasn't peace, as a lot of people believed, but rather creation: perhaps new life could spring from the bones and ashes of the fallen.

These feelings, however, were not the reason I was writing with the well-used and ink-stained quill that had been with me since I had first attended Hogwarts. It was a comfort blanket, and I only used it when I had something particularly difficult to express. It seemed to somehow remind me of what I now looked on as the idyllic and almost utopian times of my formal wizarding education. Yes, we had been at war, but the adult responsibilities I have now were not something I had to consider. We had concentrated on one objective; the future, and adult life, had seemed a long way off.

As the nib ceased its scratching, another erasing spell whisked across the parchment, casting a green tinge on the thin skin for what seemed to me to be at least the several dozenth time.

Reaching across the desk to raise the wineglass to my lips, I notice the sizzle as the steam of my breath marked the rim and left the surface frosty and opaque. A touch like a kiss glanced my cheek as lengths of hair escaped from behind my ear; I was already cast adrift from reality like the liquid that had slipped from the now kaleidoscopic pattern of glass that glinted on the stone slabs that formed the floor. My mind had taken me back again into the past.

It's hard to put into words the sensations that had existed in the aftermath of that conclusive conflict. Much more than an adrenaline rush hit us that night. It was as if we realised all that we had, and all that we could have lost. Dreams, nightmares, and desires adhered to form an almost coherent voice that seemed to trace across everyone's senses; even the most stoic, unemotional, and reclusive amongst those who found their way into the school that night.

I remember the precise moment that I gave into the attraction that had been slowly developing over those last months of formal education at Hogwarts. It had been something I had avoided looking at too closely, for fear that I would have to realise the truth behind the walls I had erected as barrier with an almost Herculean effort.

Having previously experienced a crush on a professor, I knew that the way I regarded Remus was nothing akin to that.

It had started as a brief spark one evening while sitting alone at Grimmauld Place. We had been pouring over books that had been procured from what was, as Molly would say, to be considered a very dubious source; texts even the restricted section at Hogwarts would blanch at. It was not, at that point, a mutual realisation. It was, for me, another foundation stone; a step towards something that would grow increasingly stronger. The mortar that bound it to its fellows had become more distinct as we worked together that summer, and during my final terms at Hogwarts.

Although now it seems that the structure, our relationship, was insubstantial. The materials themselves were strong, but the skills and knowledge needed to bind them fully were not based on solid ground. My own insecurities and expectations had been the cause of the subsidence, and quick collapse.

One of those building blocks came on yet another late night, the penultimate before we returned to school after the Christmas festivities. It was the scene for the first of those not exactly embarrassing, but slightly awkward moments in the dance that is mutual, unacknowledged attraction. Like that pulse-quickening moment when you touch hands unexpectedly, or catch the other's eye and the contact is kept for too long.

It was something that, at that time, for many reasons, I knew I couldn't pursue. Not only because at that point he was still my teacher, but also, the reality was that the hostilities were increasing tenfold, and it was neither sensible, nor appropriate to begin a romantic relationship.

I had, at that time, considered myself to be a sensible person, so initially when my feelings towards my DADA professor began to shift away from platonic friendship and respect for a mentor, it caught me unawares.

It had been the last week of January in my sixth year. I had at first decided to dismiss it as a hormonal imbalance, or a misunderstanding of emotions, but the feeling hadn't wanted to be sidelined. Over the next few months I progressed from attempting to avoid him as much as possible, which in itself had caused various unforeseen problems. My eyes had taken to watching him, whenever I had the chance, like an addict getting a fix. It had taken a very good friend to point this fact out to me, and it had been then that I realised that I could not set aside my changing feelings towards my Professor.

*************************************************************

"You like him don't you?"

"Of course I like him, he's our professor"

"That's not what I mean Hermione, and you know it"

I look away, avoiding her penetrating eyes. They're not accusatory, it's just I need time to acknowledge the fact that someone other than myself realises my thoughts about Remus are more than what they should be for a teacher.

"Is it that obvious? I mean, do I make it look like I'm attracted to him? Please, Ginny, tell me"

Noticing the smile that turns her lips upwards, I proceed to whip up my pillow and hide within its soft embrace.

"Hey, it's not that bad you know." I hear the chuckle in her voice as she tries to prise the cushion from hands that are clutching the sweet-smelling case.

Reappearing finally, amidst rays of now static hair, I sigh and harshly commit the padded filling to the floor. Smiling, Ginny throws the case down on top of it.

We are alone in my house; my parents had left us to do 'girly' things while they went to the annual Boating Club Summer Ball. They had never actually done any sailing. I think that it was more a pretence with them; it was, after all, the done thing to be a member of the Peter Gregory Lake Club.

Was that what I was doing? Just putting on a show of indifference? Could everyone see that I liked Remus Lupin, Professor Lupin, member of the Order of the Phoenix, in a way that was inappropriate?

"How can it not be that bad?" I wailed. "I mean, if you can see it, what's to say that everyone else can't? Oh, Ginny what if he can? What if he knows I like him? Perhaps that's why he didn't want to go with me to collect that book. What if that's why he has been trying to avoid me? What if Harry knows, or Ron? What if they all know? How will I ever live this down?"

If he did know, I really do believe that I would never be able to look him in the eye again without taking on the appearance of a freshly pickled beetroot.

"It was bad enough after my crush on Lockhart," I continued, " but this... how will anyone ever forget it?"

"Herm...Hermione... look at me! Look at me, Hermione Granger!"

Her strong tone finally makes me meet her eyes.

"Do you want to know what I think, or are you going to continue sitting there, wallowing in self-pity?"

Taking my silence as a nod to the affirmative Ginny continues.

"Firstly, can you really believe that Ron or Harry will notice your feelings towards Lupin? Ron never even noticed when you liked him, let alone anyone else. Harry...well, I think he has too many other things on his mind to spot your attraction to your adorable werewolf."

"Ginny," I squeal.

"Well, you obviously think he is." Taking my hand she continues.

"This is what I think. In this time more than any other, we mustn't disregard any feelings of love we have, because there are forces that are already working towards doing just that. I don't mean that you should tell him, certainly not at the moment. You have to at least wait until after you have finished your last year. I could be wrong, but it may well be that he cares for you just as much as you care for him, but it is going to be so much more difficult for him to first, come to terms with that fact, and second, admit it openly to you."

"I know that," I said in a whisper.

Rising from her cross-legged position she settles herself next to me and gives me a quick, hard hug, only pausing to brush my hair away from her face as she once again begins to speak.

"Well, if you know that, then it makes it all a lot easier, doesn't it? There are only a few months left before you are let loose upon the wizarding world, and if it all goes horribly wrong, which I don't think it will, you can go and fling yourself off a cliff, or live like my mad Great Aunt Maude: a hermit with only cats and a randy three-hundred-year-old portrait for company."

Giggling now, I ask her how she got to be so wise.

She laughs and tells me that she must have got Ron's share as well as her own.

I decide that there is only one thing we can do in a situation like this: pizza, wine and ice cream. It's about time Ginny discovered the glory that is proper Italian meat and spinach pizza. There are some things the wizarding world doesn't do well, and one of them is most definitely pizza.

*************************************************************

While pizza is certainly one of my preferred food groups, dilemmas are not my favourite dish. I prefer cold, hard facts, and clearly defined ideas. When decisions have to be made, however, I don't usually procrastinate, even when they are difficult or confusing; clarity and conciseness (and often a list) assist me.

However, there had been no books to help me then, as my heart spoke to me so loudly and persistently, that even my head couldn't really do anything but pin its ears back and listen. Listen it still does, even now, when he is so distant, both physically and, sadly, emotionally. While I had allowed my heart to overrule my head in the past, in this case, they needed to work in conjunction to drag me from the mire of my own creation. They had been successful co-workers in the past; there was no reason why that couldn't be repeated.

My barriers had been necessary, and, looking back, I do think that we had already acknowledged, both to ourselves and probably each other, that once the war was over, nothing would stop us from pursuing feelings that were both intense, and already beginning to become crisply acute. For as long as it was necessary, my internal ramparts accomplished their objective. Until that inevitable night, in the dark hours after the final scenes had been played out, when it had then been the time to perform our own little epilogue.

For some reason, I had been alone in my room that evening. After my injuries had been cared for, we had gone and sat silently by the lake, as none of us had enough will, or strength, to talk. For over an hour Ron, Harry, and I had just held hands.

We had come out alive, but deeply scarred emotionally, some more than others. No one approached us; everyone seemed to appreciate our need for solitude from others, while still needing the closeness of our friendship. It had been the arrival of Molly, Arthur, and the remaining Weasley family that had shattered the stillness. Harry and I had left them to feel the first waves of grief as a family, for, however close we were, sometimes blood needed blood.

Impromptu celebrations had been organised by those who had no active involvement in the fighting. I had wanted to go, but I found that, while my feet were carrying me around my quarters, they didn't seem to want to take the trip down to the Great Hall.

My hands had begun to undress me but had gotten no further than the gloves that had protected me from the cold earlier that day.

In the Muggle world of my parents and my pre-magic days, you would say that I was on a high, euphoric, and I suppose that is what I would call it now, even though I had, for many reasons, decided to distance myself from some aspects of the other side of my inheritance. My motivations for this were not something that I wanted to gaze at too closely; at the moment I wanted, and needed, to confront another entirely different matter, before I attempted to resolve issues with my parents.

I don't know why I looked up at the doorway at that exact moment. Perhaps some other more primitive instinct told me I was holding someone's attention, because no sound had reached my ears, and no scent had emerged to alert me to his presence.

No words were spoken aloud, but they had been there all the same in the lock that bound our eyes upon those opposite. In that same instant, that, upon examination, read like the pages of one of Molly's sickly-sweet romance novels, we were able to acknowledge what was kept behind the barricades. And it was in that moment that the emotions broke the dam.

It was a picture that words could not create a frame for.

After the passion had subsided to a subtle glow, I remember the very opposing feelings that had turned over in my mind, as we lay scrunched up on the single bed in my dorm room, occasionally glancing at the spread of clothing across the floor, but more often, at each other. Just listening to the sound of our breathing that night was a revelation, because there was an acute awareness that there were some people whose breath I would never hear again. Happiness, guilt, passion, and desolation are, separately, very powerful emotions, but experiencing them side-by-side seemed to tear at my insides.

We didn't sleep that night; our thoughts had been shouting too loudly.

Those hours had been the first among many rumblings of reflection, and my mind even now doesn't seem to want be silenced. It was not, however, just a recital of battle scenes and skirmishes; there were also deeply private moments tucked in between the conflicts.

While the noises from the victory revels travelled the large distance from the Great Hall, we indulged ourselves in this time alone.

His hands are, for some reason, distinctly embedded in my memory of that night.

I had taken my own and meshed it with his much larger one. For a long while I had let my fingers observe the gentle curves of his palm and the calluses from writing and wand use. It created a tingling sensation that rippled right down to the skin on my toes.

Without having to glance upwards I knew he was watching me. It seemed as though we had our own extra way of communicating, in addition to the five senses we had already used. It isn't anything as highly developed as telepathy though. Some might have called it empathy, but I certainly cannot claim to know what he is feeling, particularly not after the situation that has brought me here, to this very different room. I feel it is better explained as a higher awareness of each other, an affinity. Knowledge of when we are coming together in the same place, or when we are looking at the other person, and sometimes, if not evident in features or voice, a mood could sometimes be strong enough to leak out and fill the air around us.

If I had inclinations towards self-torture, I would remember how this extra sense had resulted in some very pleasant sensations, that weren't always contained within the walls of our bedroom. I would remember the earthy, musky smell that was evident the morning after his transformations, or the altogether different scent that pervaded the bed sheets, grass, carpet, or other surface, after we made love. Or I would remember the echo of a touch on my waist, the taste of him after the sweet popcorn we had shared, along with laughter, as we watched a rather hilarious wizarding film.

But, as I said, I'm not into the deliberate self-infliction of pain. I have caused enough hurt for myself without feeling the necessity to create it intentionally.

Words that night had been rare, but when we had spoken it was to touch upon the people lost; not those close to us, though, because it was still too immediate to openly accept their physical passing from our lives. It was usually about the overall cost of life that even then had seemed little more than platitudes, spoken to bring comfort.

More welcome, were the inevitable phrases that new lovers whisper softly to each other in quiet stillness, that night being voiced aloud for the first time. Thoughts, for that night at least, were allowed to bypass more far-reaching concerns.

It wasn't until the following days, weeks and months that the full reckoning began to be counted; events had passed that both the magical and non-magical worlds should be made to remember.

In the initial aftermath, meaningless protestations were made that this should and would not ever happen again.

What I mean by such harsh words is that initial reactions are forgotten over time, when the distance causes the memories of pain and suffering to be dulled. Grief, while not disappearing, gets easier to bear, and therefore less prominent in our minds; the same can be said about war.

Many, not just those among our group, planned to force the wizarding world to see that changes needed to be brought about; not just for the good of certain areas of society, but also to show gratitude towards what some call 'half-breeds' and 'dark creatures'. Those who had helped us win the war were not the only ones who should benefit though; it wasn't a question of rewards for loyalty. Equality and knowledge was the key to winning this very different conflict.

After the collective issues of the capture of the remaining Death Eaters, the reorganisation of the Ministry of Magic, and the beginning of the acknowledgment that the attitudes and discriminatory inclinations towards many communities within the wizarding and non- magical world needed to be addressed, we all inevitably began to look closer to home.

Later, our individual issues would take their own place in our minds; whether it was coming to terms with each of our own personal bereavements, the shifting of our priorities, or the discovery of the fragility of life, everyone had questions that they were trying to solve. I say solve not solved because nothing in life is ever certain, and even death isn't as final as I once had thought.

That first night, Remus had told me when he began to realise that he regarded me as more than a diligent pupil and respected friend. He spoke little at that point of the internal conflict he had undergone about the morality of his emotions, and what had driven him to take the trip that night to the rooms reserved for the Head Girl.

Another, altogether different, evening, about one month later, we had talked long into the night about both his and my struggles with our feelings for each other and the obvious issues surrounding it. Both of us realised that there would be varying reactions when we disclosed our relationship beyond our own ears. I know he was especially concerned about the effects it might have on the way people would behave towards me, and the very real possibility of negative consequences in the world outside our family and friends.

While we had, to some degree, debated the responses that we would receive from particular people, others' reactions had been like our own news: a complete bombshell. Harry's reaction was something neither of us had expected to be so verbally aggressive.

Some reactions, however, had been as expected, my parents being the case in point. They didn't fully comprehend the world I had been adopted into. I discovered surprisingly that the more important issue for them wasn't the fact that he was a werewolf; it was more the disparity of our ages and the reality that he had been my teacher. I suppose those were things they had read about happening, and they could therefore comprehend them far more easily than the fact that, under a full moon, my boyfriend transforms into an animal with fur, four legs, and a tail.

Some might class our relationship as unconventional and not very politically correct, (we had individually acknowledged that fact before it had even begun,) but with the positive effect the aftermath of the war was having on the wizarding world, we had hoped for a little more understanding from certain people whom we considered friends.