Written for Harmony & Co's Lyric Llama challenge. Enjoy!

"I'm torn to pieces, I'm broken down, I still see your face when you're not around, I sit here in misery wondering if I'll ever be, Half the man you wanted me to be." 'Torn to Pieces' by Pop Evil

The Cottage

It was pouring outside, the heaviest downpour all spring, thunder rumbling and the wind constantly threatening to knock him off of his broom as he flew towards the Forest of Dean. She'd left yesterday, leaving only the memories of the two of them, of their history and a dull ache in his chest, an ache that could easily be called remorse.

He swerved violently as he saw the lightning flash, thunder falling just mere meters from him. Why he even bothered to swerve was beyond him, perhaps it would be easier if the shock just hit him, knocking him down, killing him like no other spell was ever able to do.

His heart beat wildly in his chest and he was breathless, seeing barely anything at all because the lenses of his glasses had fogged over. As he maneuvered his old firebolt, his other hand tried to clear the blurriness of his glasses and though his vision was still precarious he was still able to see the deep cobalt shingles of their roof. He began to fly towards it, until he penetrated between the tall centuries-old trees and landed on the now muddy clearing where the wood and stone cottage that had been their safe haven for so long stood.

Everything was dark and quiet aside from the rain. Carrying his flying broom, wet to the bone he walked the few steps to the front porch where the rocking chair still was, abandoned. With some difficulty because he was completely wet and his jeans now clung to his legs like a second skin, he pulled out the key from his pocket and unlocked the door.

As soon as he entered the familiar scents of her, the very scents that to him were home, invaded his senses. Cinnamon, earl gray tea, the unmistakable smell of old books covering almost every surface… But then, something entirely new. Lavender. The delicate scent of infanthood, of baby powder and clean laundry. He felt a sick feeling start in his stomach, not because it was unpleasant, but because what he had done, better yet, what he hadn't done began to set in.

He shut the door behind him, going further into the cozy living room, the large stone fireplace looking bare without the picture frames, the room awfully damp and cold without the fire in the hearth, without her presence here.

If he weren't so sure of just how completely he'd screwed everything over, he'd half expect her to appear from up the stairs dressed in her flannel pajama pants, golden curls piled messily over her head—a look of worry and of love on her features. But she was gone now, he'd royally fucked things. One thing to be sure of when the subject was Hermione Granger—she kept her promises. Unlike him.

He set his broom in a corner and removed his leather boots by the backdoor. He trudged upwards the stairs, tired, extremely spent, the cold from the weather, his clothes that were impossibly wet and the sheer loneliness seeping through his bones.

He sighed deeply and rubbed his face with his right hand midway and then he felt the particular coolness of the metal and the vision of it completely disconcerted him—his wedding ring. Because he was married, had been for years. Before he knew it, a sob escaped his lips and he ran the last few steps up, straight for the bathroom. He turned off the shower, hot water perhaps the only thing capable of cleansing him of all his guilt, of the feeling dirty in much more than a physical way and the guilt of not being courageous enough, not being half the man she'd needed him to be. Both of them, his wife and her to be.

He pulled off his clothes and entered the shower, letting the water wash away the cold and the tears and sobs that desperately escaped him. He'd ruined everything. His legs failing him, he lowered himself to sit in the porcelain tub, shower still falling over him and then going down the drain—but he could care less.

How was he to live without her? He thought he'd never live to see the day, he'd dreaded it without ever suspecting this would be the greatest fear and dread he'd ever carried in his life. He'd been stupid, he married the wrong woman and now he had to live with this terrible choice because not living with it meant hurting far too many people who did not deserve to be hurt. He had two children with her after all, who he loved more than words could describe despite everything.

He awoke what felt like hours later with the shower water having gone cold. His skin pale and wrinkly from being in the water for so long, the small bathroom completely foggy. He willed his legs to raise him up and turned off the faucet. He stepped out, feeling as though he weighed two tons and pulled a clean towel from the cabinet, wrapping himself in it, before stopping before the sink mirror, completely fogged up. He raised his hand to wipe it away. He didn't see his own miserable reflection but hers, her brown eyes full of sadness and disappointment. And then the blood curdling sound of the high-pitched crying and screaming of an infant and she disappeared into the mirror, gone to soothe her child, their child—now just her child, the fruit of their love, of their sins a life that for all intents and purposes should have never been born, but was.

A child who would never call him 'daddy', who would never know him.

She disappeared into the world with their daughter, whose name he didn't even know—had she gone with Iris or Rose, he couldn't be certain… She wanted him to help her choose and he didn't. He was terrible with choices, they all ruined his life, how could he risk plaguing their child forever?

He wiped away the last tear and retreated to the bedroom that had been secretly theirs, wondering if this pain would ever go away, if he would ever find them again—two large bits of his heart that had disappeared into the world.

How stupid he was.