Between the Lines

This fic got into my head after I noticed the new hp_unfaithful community on LiveJournal. It's completely different from what I usually write, so I can't wait to hear what you think about it. Huge thanks to both my betas, potion_lady and iulia_linnea for helping me make a lot more sense out of this.

Warning for angst.

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Love is like a flower. It is so rare, so beautiful when first we encounter it. We cherish its presence, nurture it, encourage it to grow. We prune away those unsightly parts that cause us sorrow so that we can pretend it is perfect and not damaged, or unpleasant to look at.

But one day the inevitable happens, and it begins to wilt; no matter how desperately we try to curtail it, prolong it; one day, it withers. Never in its entirety, for there is always a weak pulse that feeds us, but it is not always enough to sustain us, and we can either accept our loss and lick our wounds as we walk away with head held high, or fall to our knees and forever cling to the ghost of what was while we haunt the past.

Ginny

When Harry proposed on my nineteenth birthday, in the kitchen at the Burrow in front of our friends and family, I never stopped to think that we mightn’t make it, that the day might arrive when he couldn’t bring himself to look at me. The moment he fell to his knees and fumbled with the lid of the ring box, I screamed yes and cried happily; why wouldn’t I? I was to marry my childhood sweetheart, the envy of every witch in the country. I would bear his children and share my life with him; no-one and nothing could touch us, we would be invincible together.

And for many years I lived that idyllic fairytale. He worked hard to become an Auror, and he didn’t just trade on his name and notoriety; he put his back into that job, sweating blood and tears to become Head of the Division. He always took care of his family; first when it was just the two of us, and then when the children came along. I saw his eyes turn glassy as he held James for the first time, whispering promises to our newborn son when he thought I had fallen asleep. It was the same with Albus and Lily, the same look of awe on his face, the same mantra pledging devotion and protection until his throat became hoarse and his eyes remained red, long after the tear tracks had dried up.

Days turned into weeks, weeks to months, and months forged years. We made so many happy memories, our family. The children went from helpless babies to independent toddlers to miniature versions of Harry and me, and in the time it takes to blink, their Hogwarts letters had arrived, three in the space of four years. Perhaps Harry had only ever come home as soon as he could to see the children; I like to think that for at least some of our marriage it was also the thought of me waiting that warmed him enough to return punctually.

In any case, once James, Albus, and Lily had gone, Harry hardly ever returned before midnight. It had happened before of course; he was in charge of an entire Division, and being an Auror isn’t a cut and dried nine-to-five job. I knew that when I married him, when I made my vows for better or for worse. It meant understanding that if the dinner went cold or the children missed out on a bedtime story, it wasn’t his fault. Back then, I smiled to myself and thought of all the good he was doing, how his hard work and dedication kept our children safe in their beds at night. I felt safe with Harry.

But as I said, after the children started Hogwarts, he put in longer hours and missed dinner more often than not. Cooking for five is a pleasure, cooking for one is simply miserable. And if he rolled into bed and mumbled about how tired he was, how he had to be up again in six hours time I tried not to show my disappointment. I was married to the Chosen One, what right did I have to complain that his people-saving complex was obliterating our love life?

People say, ‘oh, you must have known,’ but the truth is, I didn’t. With the benefit of hindsight and a Pensieve, I still don’t see it in his face. I don’t think even he knew, which should make it better but it doesn’t, because I can’t blame him for something he had no control over.

The first time in twenty years I’d heard the name Severus Snape mentioned, was when Harry practically fell through the Floo in his enthusiasm to tell me. Even without the Pensieve I remember it clearly, because he so rarely came home at lunchtime.

“Hey Gin! Gin! You’ll never guess what! They only found Severus bloody Snape alive and well, the old bastard! Turns out he faked his death and escaped to the country! Pure bloody chance that Michaels was on holiday and spotted him on his way back from the pub, picking flowers of all things! In a field! I mean, who picks flowers at midnight? Anyway, Michaels stayed back and followed him, then called reinforcements because, well, we all know Snape’s a tricky bastard. Good job he did too; took six Aurors to bring him in!”

I was full of questions, naturally. Would he be charged with the death of Albus Dumbledore? Would he go to prison? What did he look like now, had he changed much? I had little in common with the man, but I was interested. My husband had always fervently denied that Snape was guilty of betraying the Order; hell, we’d even named one of our children after him at Harry’s insistence, but to me he would always be Professor Snape, the greasy old git who taught Potions and made students’ lives a misery, no matter how Harry liked to excuse his behaviour.

He didn’t stay to eat lunch with me that day, just excitedly poured out as much as knew and pecked me on the cheek before Flooing back to work. From then on, he was hardly ever home, and when he was he talked incessantly about the trial, about how his testimony should help clear Snape’s name. He laughed when he said the miserable old bastard was completely ungrateful, and I didn’t think to question the fact that the only topic of conversation in our household became our ex-Professor. I didn’t worry that his eyes only sparkled when he was regaling me with the latest caustic putdown Snape had employed to cut him down, or how delighted he seemed that the man was being awkward and uncooperative.

I attended Severus Snape’s trial, many of us did. But for me, I needed to know that the previous months had not been in vain; that Harry hadn’t wasted hours and hours on a lost cause when he could have spent time with me, just the two of us again like the early days. I had no reason to think it odd that he could barely keep his feet still as he sat in the interrogation chair and willingly offered his memories up for inspection. I thought nothing of the glances between him and our former teacher as the trial took its course and neared its conclusion. Why would I find anything strange about the fact that, when Severus Snape was cleared of all charges, the loudest person in the uproarious crowd was Harry? He’d talked, slept, ate nothing but Severus Snape for months and this was the best outcome he could have hoped for. I thought he’d want to go out and celebrate, but he simply smiled an apology and led Snape from the courtroom.

He didn’t come home that night. I slept fitfully without him by my side and when he finally returned not long after dawn wearing creased clothes and a sheepish grin, I lost my temper. He placated me, of course, whispering how sorry he was, that he’d escorted Snape home and the man had offered him a drink, then another, until he’d passed out on the sofa. I couldn’t understand what they could possibly have in common, but Harry mentioned that they’d talked about his mum and I knew better than to argue with that. Lily Potter was one ghost I could never compete with. I never dwelled too long on the similarities in our appearance, but I was aware of it.

I soon forgot my anger when he crawled into bed next to me, even the stale stench of his soured breath couldn’t stop me wanting him. God, how I’d missed that intimacy. I held ontoit tightly with both hands because I never wanted to let it go, but even as I clutched at it, at him, I could feel him slipping away. He wasn’t there, with me, that morning. I can see it now, looking back, as clear as day. But then it was only a feeling, an indefinable uneasiness when he looked straight through me. He wasn’t seeing me;he was going through the motions. For the first time since we were teenagers, our lovemaking was nothing more than sex.

Life was painfully dull at that point. Oh, I had Mum and Dad just a Floo journey away, not to mention my brothers and their families, but that only seemed to make it worse, somehow. My children had flown the nest, and were, for the most part, self sufficient. My husband had not only married his job, but lately made her his mistress, too. Under his jurisdiction, it was decided that Severus Snape needed protection from any number of assassins, ex-Death Eaters or just families who felt they had been wronged in the war. Harry, claiming he needed to set an example to his team, volunteered for the lion's share of the work, and I stopped cooking altogether. It was too depressing to watch it decompose, even under the strongest of preservation Charms.

I counted the days until the children returned, certain that Harry wouldn’t put Snape before his family when he realised how broken we were becoming. But then, the call that every mother dreads came, and all I wanted was Harry with me, his strong arms wrapped around me when we Flooed to Hogwarts' Infirmary.

I don’t know why I didn’t owl him to meet me there, or why I refused to let one of the junior Aurors contact him. I still can’t remember who gave me Severus Snape’s address and how I managed to Apparate there without splinching myself. The state I was in, it would have been more likely than not. The cottage was as solitary as the man who owned it, surrounded by fields and trees, quite set apart from civilisation. It was hardly surprising.

I suppose, looking back, I can only explain my actions as those born from a sixth sense about the whole situation. I didn’t knock on the door, but took myself around the back, through the neatly tended garden. I recall being somewhat envious, and perhaps a little jealous. If Harry ever spent time at home anymore, we might have a garden to be proud of too.

It was a bark of Harry’s laughter that sliced through that train of thought, all the more surprising because Icouldn’t remember the last time I’d heard him laugh and, combined with my worry over Lily’s broken leg, itfilled me with panic. My chest tightened painfully and I stuck out a hand, steadying myself against the whitewash stone. My lungs felt like elastic bands were tightening around them. I could still hear Harry, laughing softly from inside the house, and as I fought for enough breath to call his name, I heard the unmistakeably deep growling voice of Snape.

“Is this what you want, Potter?”

Harry’s laughter trailed off then, and it shocked me to the core to hear the lust in his voice. “Gods, yes, you know it is. Haven’t I told you often enough?”

“You may have made reference to it once or twice.”

“Well then, obviously my verbal reassurances aren’t sinking in. Perhaps I should give you a physical demonstration?”

I’d never heard Snape laugh before. I suppose it was more of a chuckle, but I couldn’t imagine those cruel, thin lips twisting into anything other than a sneer and, as bizarre as it sounds, I edged along the wall to the back door because I wanted to see if he really was capable of it. Despite overhearing the conversation between them, it honestly didn’t register what it might mean, or if it did, my brain refused to process it.

I don’t know what I expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t my husband, my good, kind, loving husband lowering himself into Severus Snape’s lap and carding fingers through his hair. A million explanations raced through my mind as I watched them; Iliterally could not tear my eyes away as the imposter, for an imposter Polyjuiced as Harry was the only explanation, brought his lips down to meet Snape’s, who was indeed smiling. Snape’s hands moved under Harry’s shirt, pushing it up, and Harry moaned, moaned the way I’d heard countless times before.

He began rocking his hips, and I still couldn’t look away. Severus Snape removed my husband’s shirt with a detached coldness that turned the blood in my veins to ice when Harry responded with a long, guttural exhalation; he sounded primal in a way that I’d never imagined he could, like he had been in pain until Snape touched him. It was then that I realised my nails were bleeding where I had raked them down the wall, shocking streaks of red on white that brought me back to myself. Suddenly the late nights and dedication to Snape’s case made sense. The night of the trial, had that been the start of it? Maybe not, maybe it came later, earlier, who knows? I certainly don’t, not even now.

When those long, stained fingers worked to undo Harry’s trousers and he failed to protest, I made a decision; I walked away. I pretended as well as I could that it wasn’t happening, that Harry was drugged or being impersonated, and it helped while I concentrated on getting to Hogwarts and taking care of our daughter. I like to think I maintained my dignity when she asked for Harry and I told her he was unavoidably busy at work; I certainly didn’t break down or cry, despite feeling like there was a gaping hole in my chest.

I stayed with her for the rest of the day and only left when I could bear the thought of returning to that huge, empty house by myself. It’s a strange thing, to be lonely when you’re surrounded by people. I could have gone to the Burrow, but I kept seeing Harry on bended knee, smiling up at me as he slipped a ring on my finger. It felt tainted, my family home for nearly four decades, despoiled by him.
Our own home was worse; every room, every chair, every single item that furnished it seemed haunted by vivid memories and I wanted to burn it down, rip his life apart the way he’d destroyed mine.

In the end, I settled on something that, in a way, would be far worse. I’m not proud of myself, and to blame my actions on being intoxicated certainly does not excuse my behaviour, but I was hurt and I wanted him to hurt as badly as I did. I went into his study and took out what few possessions he had left of his parents; letters, photographs, odds and ends, really. I put them in the kitchen sink and set them on fire, the perverse thrill of revenge cutting through the numbness like nothing else could. He’d broken my heart;I was merely returning the favour.

I don’t remember much else about the early part of that evening, other than it passed in a haze of liquid solace and bitter tears before he returned. His smile of greeting as he stepped out of the fireplace fell away when he laid eyes on me; obviously I must not have looked my best. For some strange reason, that made me laugh.

“Bloody hell, Gin, what’s the smell? Did you burn the dinner again?”

What dinner? I thought. Why would I cook when there was no one to eat it? I certainly had no appetite. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I waved him away and he went, like a good little Auror should when he returns home to the smell of burning, to check the kitchen. His anguished shout was music to my ears; it almost, almost made up for the sounds of pleasure I’d been forced to stomach earlier.

Seeing his face was even better; finally, he was looking at me with passion, though admittedly it manifested itself as a strong desire to kill rather than the heated gaze a man gets when he wants to make love to his wife.

“You crazy fucking bitch!” he screamed, clutching a handful of charred paper and ashes, “what the fuck have you done, Gin?”

His tears were too delicious for words, as he stood in the doorway shaking with rage, no doubt trying to stop himself from hexing me where I sat, legs curled up beneath me, balancing the glass on my leg.

“I want a divorce,” I said quietly, thinking how final the words sounded. I calmly took a sip of my drink and smacked my lips together before raising my head to meet his furious expression.

“Ginny, what have you done?” he repeated, ignoring my request. I could hardly bear to look at him. I wanted to throw the bottle at his head, but that would have wasted good Vodka, and if I had ever needed a drink badly, it was then.

“What have I done,” I mused in a sing-song voice, “why don’t you tell me what you’ve done, Harry? What you’ve been doing?”

He went from angry to blank, and back to angry. “I haven’t done anything! I come home to find all that was left of my parents fried to a crisp in the kitchen sink, Gin! So stop fucking about, and tell me why!”

Inside, I was laughing at how easily he took the moral high ground, but on the outside I was livid.

“You made a vow, Harry. You broke it. That’s why.”

“What are you talking about?” he spat, adjusting his grip and losing yet more dust to the hostile atmosphere in the room.

“I’m talking about Snape.” Merlin, even saying the man’s name irritated the bile in my stomach. Any lingering hopes I might have clung to that it had not been Harry I’d seen that afternoon flickered and died when his face drained of colour.

“Oh God, Gin – “ He started to walk towards me, arms outstretched but I couldn’t; didn’t want him anywhere near me, not after that. Not now, not ever.

“Don’t you dare,” I screamed, jumping off the sofa and backing up against the wall, “don’t you fucking DARE try to lie about this.”

I’m not sure when I drew my wand, but in the next moment it was aimed at his throat and I felt eerily calm as I thought about using an Unforgivable on him. My husband, the father of my children, my soul-mate, best friend and lifelong companion; the spell made it to the tip of my tongue.

“Gin,” he pleaded, running a shaky hand through his hair. Hair I had kissed, ruffled, smelt, played with. “I’m – I’m so sorry.”

Well of course he was sorry, he’d been found out. No one ever really means they’re sorry, if they were, they wouldn’t have committed whatever act warranted an apology in the first place.

My wand hand faltered, but my resolve did not. “Get out. Take whatever you needand get out, Harry. I never want to see you again, and neither will the children when I tell them.”

“Gin, please, I know you’re angry but think about the kids.”

He really didn’t know when to shut up. Why should I think about the kids? Why wasn’t he thinking about them when he –

“Were you thinking about them when Severus Snape had his hands all over you, Harry? Did you think about the kids every time you came home late and lied to my face?”

“Oh God, god,” he said, stumbling towards the table and slapping his hands down on it to steady himself. He hung his head, in shame perhaps, maybe just because he still couldn’t look me in the eye. It ignited my fury even more.

“Do you know how I found out, Harry? I came to get you because Lily needed us. She’s in the Infirmary at Hogwarts with a broken leg.”

His head shot up then. Oh, he was looking at me now, alright. “While you were – fucking - our ex Professor, Harry, our daughter needed us.”

I drank in every emotion that ravaged his face; confusion, anger, guilt. I drank them all in and resolved to feed off it for a very long time.

I still don’t know if he genuinely was sorry, nor did I care. I refused to let him call the boys before I had spoken to them first. Harry might have willingly removed himself from our family, but I would kill him before I let him take my children too.

He left, eventually, though I didn’t ask where he was going or when he would come back to collect his stuff. I didn’t want to think about splitting the house and organising custody, I didn’t want to face being alone for the first time in my entire life or prepare myself for the inevitable grief that mourning the death of a relationship invokes. I wanted to sleep and for a few blissful hours, not think about any of it, about him.

Did I want to save my marriage? A question I ask myself at the beginning of every day. Sometimes the answer is yes, more often it is no. Love is nothing without trust, and how could I ever trust Harry again?

Despite what I had threatened, I took no pleasure in causing my children pain when I explained why their father had moved out and left us. Some would say I should have kept the details from them, but then they would draw their own conclusions, and I couldn’t bear to have them think the situation was my fault; on top of everything else, that would have been a fatal blow.

It’s been six months since he left and I haven’t seen him since. James and Lily have visited him a few times and are always careful to watch what they say when they return. I tell them not to; that they shouldn’t feel they can’t talk about him just because it might upset me. Albus has refused all contact with Harry, a blow I know he will have been devastated by; parents don’t have favourites, but Al is the spitting image of him and Harry doted on our youngest son.

Occasionally I tell Al he should go too, but he refuses and won’t even discuss it with me or his brother and sister.

What Harry did didn’t just destroy my faith in peopleand love, it destroyed our family as well. His being punished by the resentment of our children is far worse than any revenge I could have dreamt up.
I’m slowly adjusting to single life, but I’m nowhere near ready to date again. Part of me wants to wish him well, that if this thing with Snape outweighs all that he gave up, then good luck to him.
Another part of me can never, and will never, forgive him.

***