Carve Your Heart Out Yourself

It's a rather unappealing scene.

She's lost her obvious beauty; you've lost your legendary heroism.

You are both quite normal now; quite average. Quite....unattractive.

No one else would want you.

Years of war and loss have taken their toll and there is nothing either of you can do about it. But all that is in the past. Not forgotten, not lost forever, just in the past. Just put temporarily in the back of your mind so you can more effectively appreciate your life now. Brought out only when need be; when neither of you can sleep at night, haunted by what you've experienced, and you somehow know that the other is awake, waiting for the other to make the first move, let out the first sob. Sometimes you talk. Usually about him, your best friend, her brother. Sometimes about the man that ruined it all, but in so many ways gave you more than you could have ever imagined having. The one who all those years ago possessed her once innocent soul, the man who made you a murderer. A lot of times you cry. But most of the times you just hold each other.

Because that's all you really need.

She's all you really have.

She used to be gorgeous. With that long silky hair that could only be described as on fire, and those dark brown eyes that you could so easily stare at for hours and that milky soft skin that was so easy to lose yourself in. She was very poetic. She was very amazing. She was a lot of things.

Was.

Because sometimes life takes hold of you and forces you to be ugly. Sometimes the ugly things you see in the world transfer to your soul, to your physical appearance. Watching her beloved brother die did something to her, as you can imagine it would do to anybody.

You stare at her now, seeing only a slight remainder of what she used to be. She is slightly overweight from bearing you two children and not caring enough to get back in shape. Her hair is no longer fiery, only a dull red, tied loosely in a bun as she leans over the papers in front of her. A few strands drape over her face and lead you to her eyes. They're so old. Still that same color, still just as appealing to you. But no longer innocent and sweet. Wise and understanding. Those eyes know. Those eyes know you. They see right through you and take you to places you never even imagined existing.

You study the rest of her carefully. Her skin is pale and yet still has a slightly reddish hue to it. Small wrinkles line the corners of her mouth, underneath her eyes, and are beginning to appear on her forehead. Her once delicate hands turn the papers over as her eyes continue to scan them. The hands, those hands that once so long ago made you a man, that had turned you on to things you never knew were quite so magical, were no longer soft and silky; they are rough and chapped, having spent so many years fighting the good fight and taking care of children.

She used to be so beautiful.

But then again you used to be a hero. So who's fooling who, really?

You're just as different. A man now, no longer The Boy Who Lived. You look at her through those same glasses you've always worn, the ones that you first saw her through and if the gods let you, will continue to look at her through for the rest of your lives. You glance up and see your ever-so messy dark hair now beginning to gray. You're not old. You've just seen too much.

You've never spiked your hair or done anything fancy like that. You leave it covering your forehead, as a sort of protection from nothing. Just to know it's there, that something's there. But the real reason you leave it like that is so when you look in the mirror or at a picture of yourself, you don't have to look at it. That scar. The one you've carried since you were one year old and will continue to carry forevermore. It will be with you always. It's something you can never get rid of, but the one thing you want to the most.

It's a harsh reminder of what you once were and can never be again.

You're still in shape, you boast. An Auror needs to be, after all. But you're not a hero. Ron was a hero. He saved the entire school and you will spend the rest of your life making sure the entire world knows that. You just killed evil. After he uttered that curse on your best friend, you forgot about morals, forgot about the value of life. You killed him. You murdered Voldemort, fulfilling the prophecy at last.

Life was never the same.

You're no longer a hero. People have forgotten about you, you've made sure of that. It's been merely seven years...you're not even thirty years old.

And yet it's been so long.

And you're so old.

She laughs and brings you back to reality.

You look back up at her and see her smiling face and those shining eyes and you fall in love again for the millionth time in seven years.

You remember why you continue to live.

"One of the first years wrote an essay about you." Her voice is the most comforting thing you've ever heard. You need it so badly.

You would've died without her.

You both had lost. You both were lost. Neither of you knew what to do after he died. He had been everything to the both of you for as long as either of you could remember.

You had grown to become good friends with her ever since the events of your fifth year. She was the only one who knew what it was like to face him. She understood you. You thought she was beautiful.

You had always thought she was so beautiful. But you couldn't do anything about it; you didn't even want to really. You weren't good enough for her and she was far too much like a sister to you.

Then she stopped being beautiful and became real. She stopped caring about being perfect when he died, began to realize what the most important things in life were.

And you began to realize she was your only connection to him now.

You spent every waking moment with her, trying to find the similarities she had to him, trying desperately to forget about the differences.

She saw right through you.

She knew you needed her and she didn't try to make you love her.

No, that came very much all on its own.

Because one day you woke up and the fact that Ron wasn't there anymore wasn't the first thing on your mind. She was. Not how much she was acting like Ron that day or how she said something that Ron would've said. No, you were thinking purely about her and all that she entailed.

You woke up and realized you had very unintentionally fallen in love.

She had become your hero and you were forced to fall back in the shadows and admire her quietly.

She did not complete you, didn't fulfill you, and didn't make you forget completely about everything that you had experienced. She just made it better. Not completely all right, just better. Or maybe not even better, just worth it.

She was someone to cry with, someone who understood. Someone to love when that was the only thing you both needed, but didn't have enough courage to deal with.

After his death, you were both shadows of your former selves. Maybe you still are.

But it matters not, because those shadows are who you both fell in love with.

Because sometimes in times of ultimate sorrow, times when you're at your ugliest, your worst, that's when people see you for what and who you really are.

And sometimes they love you even more for it.

You never dreamt that was possible.

Then again you had never dreamt about her before either.

Until her beauty had faded and you saw her for what she really was.

The woman you were destined to love.

"Harry?" She has finished reading you the child's essay and you find that you have once again gotten lost in her voice; in her.

You smile at her to show you are listening.

"What do you think about when you space off like that?" She always asks that. You want desperately to tell her, tell her how you feel, how much she consumes you, how much she is you.

You're too scared. You're such a coward. You always have been, especially when it concerned her. She's always scared you so much.

"You, of course." You act like you're joking, because you can't be serious about your feelings for her. Some things are too precious to be taken seriously.

She smiles. You remember everything about your past together.

When she became a teacher at Hogwarts, how you held her hand tightly as you both entered the place that had been your home for seven years, but had become your hell in mere seconds when you both watched him die. She was braver than you could ever pretend to be.

You remember being with her for the first time. You had never had time for a girlfriend. After the whole fiasco with Cho, it all seemed very superficial. The whole boyfriend/girlfriend, you hold my books, I'll hold your hand when people are looking, let's write we love each other all over our notebooks kind of thing. It was not something you were looking for. You didn't quite know what you were looking for; maybe you weren't even looking for anything at all. It just found you and everything suddenly made sense. She never asked you to carry anything for her and you never expected her to carry anything for you. You never had any awkward moments when one of you had to take the initiative and grab the other's hand so that you could prove to the world you had somebody. Nothing had to be proven with the two of you, sometimes your hand just naturally found hers and even when it didn't, that was okay too, because you kind of liked the world not knowing. You liked being the only one who knew that Ginny Weasley was the world's best kept secret. You didn't exploit your love or show it off; it was quiet and shy and simple, but at the same time very complex. Or maybe it wasn't either, because being truly in love made you realize that love is neither this nor that. It's everything at the same time, yet nothing really. No big deal. The kind of 'no big deal' that makes you want to run and scream or rejoice and hug everyone or maybe rejoice and hug everyone while running and screaming. It made no sense, yet was the only thing in your life that had ever made sense.

It was something you couldn't quite put into words.

Or at least that was your interpretation of it. It was how you thought about love that cool March night all those years ago. You were a virgin. She was not. It added even more imperfection to your scenario and made you love it even more. You would never tell anyone about what it felt like that night, to be that close to another human being, to actually be able to feel their heart beat next to yours, right in sync with each other.

It gave you happiness that you couldn't hear about if you tried. Because the very few that do experience it realize just how precious it is and that you can't put it in stories or movies. They like to keep it a really pleasant surprise.

You think back to your wedding day. That sunny afternoon in June, five years ago. You were at a loss as who to have at your side, as your best man. Ron and Sirius were both dead, had been gone for years; Sirius for nine, Ron for two. You chose Remus. She chose Hermione as her maid of honor.

It was nothing special really. Neither of you really needed it. What was being married anyway? Just a piece of paper and the same last name. But it made Molly and Arthur happy and it was very lovely all the same.

You moved here. You had a home. A home that wasn't Hogwarts and wasn't the Burrow; neither had really been your home, you had always felt you were intruding. No, this was yours. It belonged to the both of you; just like you two finally belonged to each other.

You stare at her some more and could never imagine life without her. A thunder of feet on the stairs breaks you out of your reverie.

Or imagine life without them, for that matter.

Two children complete this imperfect picture of yours. A boy, aged four years old is the first down the stairs. He is an absolute monster, wrecking everything he passes. You couldn't tell from the way he looked, exactly like you they say. That same damned hair that can never be calmed and a skinny small body. He has her eyes though. Those innocent milky brown eyes. His name is Ronnie. What else would it be, after all?

Following him ever so quietly is his little sister, your precious little girl. Lily, merely two years old. Many people say she looks like her mother, having inherited the fiery red hair from her, the splatter of freckles. You realized from the day she was born, that she must look exactly like your own mother, with those emerald green eyes you gave her. But in the quiet way she carries herself, the way she is always following her beloved brother, willing to do anything and everything for him, she strongly reminds you of Ron.

Sometimes your heart feels like it will burst when you see them.

They come over and hug you. They make you feel wanted. You realize you need nothing more than this.

They then head over to their mother and climb over her, interrupting her work. She doesn't care. She would die for them in a heartbeat.

You stare at them, your family; your life. They are not perfect by far. Ronnie is an absolute terror, teasing his sister on end, breaking all his toys, being quite the raucous four year old. Lily hardly ever speaks, one of those quite people who are so shy, you want to yell at them to say something, anything really. They are the type of family you would never ask for, but when you get them, you wouldn't give them up for perfection on any particularly bad day.

And then her. The years, the experience of motherhood, and the tiresome job of teaching children are really beginning to take their toll. She looks so tired, so much like Molly. She no longer turns heads, no longer even gets a second glance from anybody. She's very average. Very much like anybody's mother.

She smiles at your children together and kisses them both on the forehead.

She has never looked so beautiful.

And you have never been more happy.

Because sometimes, when awful things happen, you need to carve out your own love story; make your own happiness. You need to stop looking and stop searching and just look right in front of you, for gods' sakes. You need to fall in love with who you least expect, at the moment you least expect it.

This is it, you realize.

This is it.