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i started dating harry sixth year. i can’t say how it happened, but it did. i hated him for getting my father locked up and the task set before me, and he hated the world for taking his godfather from him. we never should have worked, and yet…
“come with me,” he said. he knew of my task, urged me to forsake it, go to dumbledore instead.
“i can’t,” i told him. not at the expense of my mother.
“come with me,” he said. to hunt horcruxes. to fight the dark lord.
“i can’t,” i answered. my task complete, at another’s hand. but my family still caught up in this web. i was scared.
“come with me,” i begged. we could escape. all of us. run away to the continent and never look back.
“i can’t,” he responded, dully. like it was the last time. he was scared. of death, but of running away more. of everything and everyone he’d leave behind to perish in his place.
he went, and i did not follow. but i also could not escape without him.
“harry potter is dead!” the dark lord proclaimed, and my world tilted off its axis.
“come with me,” i imagined his spirit called to me. and i nearly went.
but then he was there, rising from the dead like an avenging angel.
“come with me,” he demanded, and this time i agreed. we fought, me battling death eaters and him defeating the dark lord, saving lives and the wizarding world, again.
“come with me?” he asked, hands held out in supplication.
“of course,” i said, clasping his hands and allowing him to lead me to visit his parents’ graves, tell them it was done; the war was over; he’d survived.
“come with me.”
yes. always. never a last time again.