Understanding You

Understanding You


I am sitting drinking alone in the dark at the kitchen table when I hear a knock on the door. I open it up and there you are, looking back at me, standing casually as if you have every right to be lounging on my doorstep after all these years. Your hair is longer than I remember it, glowing strangely in the silver light from the streetlamps. It makes me wonder suddenly what a flame might look like underwater.

I don't know why you're here, or where you've come from. I've heard all the news and rumours about you, though, all these years since we left Hogwarts behind. I've followed all your headlines carefully. I know how it's been for you since the war ended, since your brother Ron died. One lover after another, I hear, an endless string of one-night stands, your three brief marriages never halting the constant flow of various people fucked and forgotten by you. It painted a hard picture—but I never felt sorry for you.

I don't know how long we have been standing here, staring without speaking, but finally you say in a carefully bored tone, “So? How about it, Pansy? Going to let me in?”

I nod once, still stunned, and wordlessly step back to allow you access to the house. I still haven't said anything to you, not “hello”, not “how dare you just show up after all these years”. I've greeted you with no tears nor embraces, no slaps nor screams. Anything would have been more appropriate than all this empty staring, but it's too late now.

“Got anything to drink?” is the first thing you say as we enter the kitchen. Suddenly I am aware of how messy and uncared for my home really is, noticing as if for the first time all the used paper plates, plastic forks, and paper towels strewn about as if there were no trash can. Wait—is there a trash can? I wonder briefly, but then push the thought down with an inward grimace.

I gesture to the table where there is an open bottle of cheap wine and a stack of red plastic cups. I had been making good use of the wine before you came, but I don't mind sharing, really. We sit and I pour two cupfuls of the terrible stuff.

“Here,” I say in a voice that surprises me in its gruffness, shoving one at you. It is the first word I've spoken to you in ten years.

We don't talk after that. There are a thousand things to ask, to say. There is so much unresolved between us. I don't understand why you would come here, but I can't bring myself to disturb the surrealism with questions. I can't quite believe the scene: you and I sitting in the dark at the same table, steadily drinking down cheap wine from little plastic cups. I'm almost certain I'm dreaming, and the more I drink, the more I'm sure of it.

Vaguely, through a haze of alcohol, I think that I should make sure you are real. I lean forward and touch a strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear. You close your eyes—and I can feel you shiver—as I draw my fingers back along the skin of your neck, just under your ear. I smile, then, remembering—and then choke on my breath in surprise as the realization comes that I have touched you, that you are indeed real and I am not dreaming.

Slowly I remember how to breathe, and I rise abruptly from my chair. I don't look at you when I say with difficulty, "I'll show you to your room." I start up the stairs without looking back to make sure you'll follow. I know you will.

On the second floor, I hold open the door for you. Gentleman for a lady, the caustic thought drips like acid on my hazy mind. I almost want to laugh. We are neither of us ladies, and I have certainly been no gentleman to you.

You enter the room and gaze around, taking in the dust and staleness that proves that the door to this room has not needed opening for a very long time. You turn around, and our eyes finally meet and lock for the second time tonight. Suddenly, it is difficult to breathe, again.

Your brow furrows in confusion for a moment, then clears slowly, and you tilt your head to look sidelong at me. Your brilliant hair falls seductively over your eyes, which even when clouded with alcohol seem bright and sharp in the darkness. You are beautiful, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. And you know it.

"Pansy—" you begin in a low tone that I don't recognize, and I say, "No. Sleep well," before you can finish and I slip out clumsily, shutting the door with a bang behind me.

I hear you gasp behind the door, and I slump down on the wall behind me, because suddenly staying upright seems too great a feat to achieve. I long to go in and forgive you for every wrong you've ever done me, forgive myself for every wrong I've ever done you. You have that effect on people. But I am stronger than that. I don't go crawling around after lost loves.

No, I think wryly. I just lose years of my life pining for them. I'm no fool who thrives on self-illusions. I know my weaknesses, my failings. I know the things I'll never understand. I remember every time I failed to understand you—and your love for me—back at school when we were young. I haven't forgotten the way I took your resilient, everlasting cheerfulness for granted when I left you—and then watched from afar as it leached out after your brother's death. I know I don't deserve you, no matter how flawed you are. But you—you don't need to know those things.

I struggle to my feet and walk away from your door, the silence behind it screaming in my ears. It echoes through the musty, overpowering space of what must be called, for lack of a better word, my home.

~*~

The next morning I drag myself out of bed, downstairs and into the kitchen, where unexpected brightness assails my swollen eyes.

"Jesus," I mutter, registering the windows open and shutters flung wide in a way that I never have them in the morning. I like to keep my mornings shaded. Bright mornings aren't cheerful when your head is pounding like a jackhammer on speed.

I turn my attention to you, clanging around in the cupboards near the stove in my old turquoise short bathrobe. I wonder where you found that?

"Ginny—what the hell are you doing?" I say, grimacing and covering my eyes with one hand, partially to keep out the offensive daylight, and partially to block out the sight of your freckled legs, longer and even more shapely than I remember—

"Making breakfast!" you say brightly, as if this were something everyone did in the morning. I glare at you from between my fingers and grunt in response, but don't say anything more to dissuade you.

I remind myself that I am too strong for your charm, but nothing in the world can keep my fingers closed and my eyes from following you around in my robe, clattering around my kitchen as if you owned it. I thought I remembered everything about you, but only now does it come back to me that never once while I knew you did you suffer the next morning from drinking, no matter how much you consumed. I always attributed it to the everlasting good fortune and happiness that went hand in hand with being a Gryffindor, with being a Weasley. I think on some level I hated you for it. But that was before your brother was killed, and my structured myth of your charmed life died along with him—just as I think yours did, too.

You are opening and closing cabinets and drawers, looking for pots and pans and whatnot. I lift neither voice nor finger to help you—this is your silly project, none of my concern, and besides, I am not quite sure where those things are either. I am content to let you search. Finally you've found what you need, I suppose, and you pull the last few dusty eggs from the cupboard—I had forgotten those were in there—and you tap them with your wand to remove the Ever-Fresh Charm. You lose no time in frying them up, chattering steadily to the tune of my occasional unresponsive grunts as your whole arm moves cheerfully with the spatula.

I don't quite know what to think, much less what to do, as a plate of eggs lands solidly in front of me. I let my hand fall from my eyes, and I look up into your steady, amused brown gaze. A small smile plays around your lips, and suddenly I am hard pressed to keep my face from imitating yours.

"Thanks," I say, and quickly look down and set in on the eggs.

It's the same as it ever was, I think, vaguely surprised at the lack of rancor in the thought, as your mindless chatter starts up again, telling me what's in the eggs, how refreshing it is to cook after such a long time of never having to. I only half listen. You were the only one who could always find a way to leave me speechless.

~*~

The days pass one by one, long days seeming to stretch halfway into the night. You talk frequently, and I spend most of my time listening to your chatter, occasionally contributing to conversation. We never get to talking about anything real nor useful, but even so, I find myself falling willingly into the pattern we've constructed. It's like we're playing a game; we're two old acquaintances who by some chance of fortune happen to be staying in the same hotel. In the game, we've got no old times to catch up on, since we only knew each other slightly, and no need to remain friendly in the future. Everything is temporary, it's all just a stop-off, but even so there's no other life to discuss than this.

It's all false, our life—carefully constructed to function around the borders of things neither of us are brave enough to address. I know it's foolish to fall into the trap of being satisfied with an illusion, but it's hard to resist. I'm no saint, no infinitely wise martyr. I can't resist this illusory life. How many years have I tried not to dream about what it would be like to live with you, to wake up and find you in my home every morning smiling at me?

And that is what this house is becoming—my home. This house that has always been a stranger to me, an empty shell I used only to protect me from the elements—your presence has brought out its soul, brightened its rooms with sunlight from windows I never bothered to open, cleared dust and trash away from floors and countertops I never cared enough to maintain. Before you came along, I was always largely unfamiliar with the great empty house, an old, inherited family property I had never even visited as a child. Living here had been like an extended visit to someone else's house--but now, with you, I have begun to notice the beauty in the old Victorian latticework, the intricacy of the snakelike designs decorating the baseboards, how warm the parlor feels when the sun fills it at midmorning.

It's only when the sun begins to set that our life loses its dreamy, daily magic. Tired and sweaty from casting heavy cleaning spells and doing yardwork all day, we settle into our chairs at the kitchen table, and start pouring the wine. Every night, the scene is the same: the sun setting, the wine pouring, and the cheerfulness draining out of both of us as we watch the red liquid reach the top of a cup. That's when all the realities of our lives, of our pasts and futures, catch up to us. It's another routine that we both rely upon, started the very first night you showed up at the door.

We never talk when we drink. We sit and stare dully at nothing, getting steadily drunk as the kitchen grows dark around us. We never light a candle. When all our wine is gone, I stand up, and you follow me up the stairs, each of us gripping the handrail to keep us steady. We reach your room. I open the door for you. You enter, and you look back at me, always with that silent invitation in your beautiful eyes that I know I am falling in love with all over again. Not that I was ever able to stop loving them. And every night I shake my head and force myself to return to my room alone.

Right now, the sun is setting, and I watch you leaning into the cupboard to retrieve the bottles that we keep stocked in mass quantities. My heart feels strained, stretched out, as I watch you do this, as I watch every night. You are beautiful. I need you so badly I can taste it, and though we spend every day together, you seem always too far away for me to touch. I close my eyes and listen to you carry the clinking bottles over to the table, hear your low sigh as you lower yourself into the chair.

"Ginny," I say, my voice coming from a long way away. I am surprised to hear it; I had not meant to say anything. I can feel something roiling, churning just beneath my stretched-out heart, where it's been screaming for days against the impassive brick wall of my mind. It seems that the roiling has found a way to get around my unresponsive brain—it's gone straight for my mouth.

You look up in surprise—once the wine is out of the cupboard, we never talk.

"Um...yeah?" you reply, stopping mid-motion with the corkscrew and bottle in your hands.

My gaze slides over to your motionless hands. My heart is beating fast.

"Let's—let's do something else tonight," I say, then look back at you. Your eyes are wide. You don't respond for a moment. We are so used to our routines; I know it has never occurred to you for us to do anything but follow them. Truthfully, it has never occurred to me, either—my mouth has taken the reins from my brain, it seems.

Slowly, you nod. "Okay." You pause. "What do you want to do?" You set down the corkscrew and bottle, stand up, and offer me a hand. I take it and get to my feet.

I'm standing close to you—six inches away, maybe, or less. I can feel your breath ghost against my face and I close my eyes, feeling the heady pleasure of your warmth and proximity. I feel a bit dizzy, and I can hear you breathing lightly and fast—a match for my racing heart. I look up into your eyes—you were always a bit taller than me—and I whisper, "I'd like to go upstairs."

No! I think desperately. No, if you do this, if you give in like this, she'll be gone tomorrow morning! You weak shit, Pansy! It's not worth it to lose her! But another part of me—the roiling—argues back. No. Some things are worth the risk. And fake things break sooner than real ones. All these thoughts are independent of my appearance, apparently, because you don't react to the screaming in my head. I am almost amazed that you can't hear it.

You release the breath you had caught at my words. You are clearly taken off guard, and understandably so. All those nightly invitations you'd extended to me, only to be turned down each time—and now, I have broken our pattern, turned around to offer my own invitation to you? The confusion in your eyes is palpable, and even in my agitated state, I find it endearing.

Even though my heart is fluttering nervously somewhere in the vicinity of my throat, I don't take my eyes away from yours. I think this is the bravest I have ever been. I reach out and take your hand, feel it trembling in mine, and the voices in my head grow quiet. I'm terribly afraid of losing you, it's true—but I'm more afraid that if I don't try to make us real, we'll continue this charade of false happiness, and I'll end up losing you in the most painful way of all: with you right here in the home we've made.

I close my eyes and lean forward slightly. "Please," I whisper almost inaudibly, on the verge of giving up in shame, when I feel your soft, warm lips meet mine, and I am lost in an ecstasy of sensation. It is better than I had been imagining these past weeks, better than my memories from Hogwarts, better than anything else in my life. The roiling under my heart spreads throughout my body, finding a new center just under my stomach where it becomes a pleasant swirling burn.

Then the kiss is over, but the feeling remains and I pull back slightly from you. Your eyes are glowing and they reflect the unfamiliar joy that surely must now be radiating like light from my skin. I take your hand, no longer trembling, and lead you upstairs.

~*~

I open my eyes, gradually, and blink a few times. My bedroom. It's full of light, which makes it unfamiliar, but not unpleasant—slowly memories resurface, and I remember throwing the windows open to the night sky when you and I came up here. This is the one room you had not yet seen, and the windows had remained shuttered up until last night. Judging by the slant of the sunrays, it is already late in the morning. I smile languorously and sit up, turning to awaken you.

You are not there.

I leap out of bed, all traces of pleasant sleep gone, roughing up the blankets and scattering the pillows in search of a goodbye note. Surely you would have left a note, at least? ? The minutes drag bloodlessly by, but I find nothing, and collapse back onto the messy sheets with a quiet, breaking sob. You are gone, you are gone, you are gone, I repeat in my head as I rock back and forth, holding my knees on the bed. I knew it would happen and now it has, and I could have waited, I could have kept you for a while longer, but now you're gone, you're gone... I had known that this might happen, but somehow in the course of the night, I had forgotten my fears, I had let my guard down, forgotten that I was taking a risk in giving myself to you. My worst fear—I'm just one of the many fucked and forgotten by you.

I don't know how much time has passed, half an hour, maybe all of one. I have run out of tears and my sobs are now dry, racking heaves. Soon I am too exhausted to cry at all, and I fall back on the bed. I stare at the ceiling. I didn't know how much this would hurt. I had decided it would be better to lose you—the real you—instead of losing the you I wanted because I wanted to keep the fake version with me. But now, now I want any piece of you I can get—real, fake, it doesn't matter, just so long as I don't have to live entirely without you.

My stomach rumbles. Pangs of hunger try with increasing success to rival the dull, sustained ache in my chest. Finally, I am forced to give up on apathy, and I pull myself up to go downstairs. As I walk toward the bedroom door, though, I imagine my footfalls echoing in a lonely way around the empty house as I walk down the staircase, and I turn away from the door instead, and head for the bathroom, content to put off the inevitable for a while.

I wash my face and hands, moving slowly and taking a bit more care than is necessary, but finally I must turn around. In a way, I'm glad I took the time to wash up—it would feel like disrespect to go down into the beautiful home you and I had created together, looking shabby. I may have lost you for the second time in my life—but that doesn't mean I have to lose everything you've given me. I only wish that I had been able to give you something in return. My stomach growls again and I put my hand on the doorknob.

"Ginny, I love you," I murmur, and open the door.

And there you are, holding a fully-loaded breakfast tray in your oven-mitted hands. "I made breakfast," you say with that quirky, cheeky smile I love so much.

And finally—I understand.



Fin