characters are the creation and intellectual property of j. k. rowling. no profit is derived from this work of fan fiction.

Rated PG-13
 
 

the unspeakable universe: don't believe in endings
 
 

2001: approximately 3 years after the defeat of Voldemort
 

"This isn't working, is it?"

Well, no. Because you're always running around playing the hero, and it's not that you do a bad job, but Ron, you never bloody talk. You and Harry, you're hopeless, the pair of you. You don't need to protect me. I may be an academic, but I'm not helpless, and I'm as much an Auror as you are, even if I'm not on active duty.

I was there when you fought Voldemort. You don't need to protect me from horrors.
 

"This isn't working, is it?"

Apparently not.

Don't get me wrong, the sex is fantastic, and truly, no one could wish for a better first lover.

But we never have fun anymore.

Remember those days after Voldemort fell, how we laughed and cried and ran around like children? We rented that big old house in the countryside, and there were a million friends coming and going, and everything was going to be fine at last.

It was you and me, and Harry and Ginny, and we were going to live happily ever after.

It's not that I don't believe in happy endings. I just don't believe in endings.

You know why I never read fiction, Ron? Because most stories have endings, and I cannot believe in those. Beginnings, endings ... where do you draw the line? At birth and death? Or the primeval mud and the final fire? There are always consequences, there's always another unspeakable evil, there's always another Sorting.

Why do you think people always want sequels?

What the hell.

I prefer the sciences, anyway.
 

"This isn't working, is it?"

No. But I'm glad that you were the one to say something. Lately I've wondered if you were even aware that I was here. Except when we fight, of course.

It seems like we spend more time fighting than not, these days. I remember when we had arguments just so we could have the fun of making up again.

We were seventeen years old, remember, and we'd already saved the world.  We knew everything.

We were children.

I'm nineteen, Ron.  I don't want to feel this weary.

If we leave it here ... if we end it here ... I think we can be friends again. I know it's a cliché, but ... well, you understand.

You do understand, don't you?

You're my best friend. You're one of the first real friends I've ever had, and if I lost that in all this stupid bickering -- well, I'd never forgive myself.
 

"This isn't working, is it?"

No.

I think it's over.

We're really over.

Not that I believe in endings, of course.

It's over. There's nothing left now.

But I do love you. And given time, we'll probably come to like each other again, even if we're never lovers.

So this isn't a real ending, after all.