It was almost springtime. Healthy, green leaves were beginning to appear on the trees, beautiful flowers were blossoming in the garden, and the weather was steadily becoming more pleasant. The skies were cloudless, and they were coloured with a blue so bright that it was difficult to look at for any length of time. For the first time that year, she was able to glance through the window of her nearly-empty house and feel the faintest glimmer of hope. For the first time since her husband died, almost exactly a year ago to the day, she wanted to be alive.
She decided that this would be the day to begin her spring cleaning. Truthfully, she had been slacking off horribly with cleaning, but it was just so difficult for her to find a reason to live when the one thing that meant the most to her was taken so abruptly, in a manner so hurtful and unfitting, that it was a chore to simply get through the day. But, the sun was warm and bright, and she decided this would be the day. This would be the day she would conquer her emotions, be productive, and go at least an hour without thinking about Harry.
All of her photographs were upturned on the mantle. She couldn’t bear to look at the smiling faces of her once-happy family. It hurt too much. But, slowly and one-by-one, she set them to a standing position. Her promise to not think about him was broken immediately. The mere image of his unruly black hair and the smile that was so undoubtedly him was enough to send a steady stream of tears down her cheek. In a way, she wished that it had been a Muggle photograph, because then she wouldn’t have to see him moving around and waving to her as though he were alive. She brought the photo to her lips, brushing them against the cool glass that protected it.
Her tears were blinked away as she took in a deep breath. She needed to get over this; she needed to move on. It wasn’t healthy to allow herself to become so emotional all the time. Even her mother had said that she wasn’t allowing herself the opportunity to explore life without him, but she never listened. Instead, she sat in the musty, old house all day, smoking cigarette after cigarette, and crying because she'd lost him. But, this was the first time for months that she had seen his face outside of her mind’s cruel visions of the night he died. It seemed that that mere moment in her life would never stop replaying itself. That fateful moment in time, the meagre seconds that it lasted, would live on forever in her memories. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to forgive herself.
“Oh, Harry, I’ll never forget,” she whispered, allowing her tears to freely flow from her eyes, staining her reddened cheeks and marking them with her grief.
Her grip on the photograph slacked, and it fell to the floor. The glass shattered, a thousand tiny shards scattered around her feet. She gasped for breath and fell to the floor beside it, disregarding the fact that the photo was still very much intact. It didn’t matter. Photographs were the only souvenir of her marriage that remained tangible, and she had allowed it fall to pieces.
When she was finally composed enough to get to her feet, she removed her wand from her sleeve and said, “Reparo!” The miniscule fragments of glass rushed together, reforming into its original shape, and she placed it back inside the frame. Then, she went to return it to the mantle, but was halted by a foreign piece of parchment that was sitting enticingly on the shag carpet before the mantle. When she first opened it, she recognised immediately the familiar, messy script that was her own.
Dear Ginny,
You may not be willing to believe this at first, but I need you to at least try. It is very important that you do what this letter says, even if you think it’s mad. I cannot emphasise enough how important it is that you just do what I say, if for no reason beyond curiosity. Please, try to understand how strange this is for me, as well.
The letter you are reading is from you. Right now, I am in the year 2045 and I am sixty-four years old. Harry died one year before you read this, almost to the day. Where you are, it is the year 2012, and you are thirty-one. I know that you are trying to recover from Harry’s death, and I know it has been terrible for you, and that’s why I am writing you this letter. You’re never going to move on when you never change anything. I’ve learned that the hard way, and I’m going to tell you what to do so that you can avoid what you’ll inevitably come to if you continue down this road. It is imperative, Ginny, that you do as I say.
I will not give you all of the details, nor will I tell you why, but you will be okay again. These instructions will come as a shock to you, but please just do it.
Go to Draco Malfoy.
I will be in touch.
She read the letter three times, unsure of what to think or say or do. It was definitely her writing that filled the page, but she could not remember ever writing such letter. In fact, she was certain that she hadn’t, and she had no way of explaining how the letter had gotten there. That photo had been sitting on the mantle for years. She wondered how long that letter had actually been there, waiting for the fateful day that she would drop the photograph and it could finally reveal itself to her.
It was mad to think that she had come back from the future with a letter that gave explicit instructions to go to Draco Malfoy. She hadn’t seen the man in years – had no desire to – and now she was actually considering if she should do as instructed. What did she have to lose? She was at the lowest point she had ever been in her life, and the prospect of being able to move on was appealing enough for her to think twice about what the letter had said. The miniscule chance that she could possibly move on from the hell that she had been living in for the past year was enough hope to make up her mind.
She was going to find Draco Malfoy.
She decided that this would be the day to begin her spring cleaning. Truthfully, she had been slacking off horribly with cleaning, but it was just so difficult for her to find a reason to live when the one thing that meant the most to her was taken so abruptly, in a manner so hurtful and unfitting, that it was a chore to simply get through the day. But, the sun was warm and bright, and she decided this would be the day. This would be the day she would conquer her emotions, be productive, and go at least an hour without thinking about Harry.
All of her photographs were upturned on the mantle. She couldn’t bear to look at the smiling faces of her once-happy family. It hurt too much. But, slowly and one-by-one, she set them to a standing position. Her promise to not think about him was broken immediately. The mere image of his unruly black hair and the smile that was so undoubtedly him was enough to send a steady stream of tears down her cheek. In a way, she wished that it had been a Muggle photograph, because then she wouldn’t have to see him moving around and waving to her as though he were alive. She brought the photo to her lips, brushing them against the cool glass that protected it.
Her tears were blinked away as she took in a deep breath. She needed to get over this; she needed to move on. It wasn’t healthy to allow herself to become so emotional all the time. Even her mother had said that she wasn’t allowing herself the opportunity to explore life without him, but she never listened. Instead, she sat in the musty, old house all day, smoking cigarette after cigarette, and crying because she'd lost him. But, this was the first time for months that she had seen his face outside of her mind’s cruel visions of the night he died. It seemed that that mere moment in her life would never stop replaying itself. That fateful moment in time, the meagre seconds that it lasted, would live on forever in her memories. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to forgive herself.
“Oh, Harry, I’ll never forget,” she whispered, allowing her tears to freely flow from her eyes, staining her reddened cheeks and marking them with her grief.
Her grip on the photograph slacked, and it fell to the floor. The glass shattered, a thousand tiny shards scattered around her feet. She gasped for breath and fell to the floor beside it, disregarding the fact that the photo was still very much intact. It didn’t matter. Photographs were the only souvenir of her marriage that remained tangible, and she had allowed it fall to pieces.
When she was finally composed enough to get to her feet, she removed her wand from her sleeve and said, “Reparo!” The miniscule fragments of glass rushed together, reforming into its original shape, and she placed it back inside the frame. Then, she went to return it to the mantle, but was halted by a foreign piece of parchment that was sitting enticingly on the shag carpet before the mantle. When she first opened it, she recognised immediately the familiar, messy script that was her own.
Dear Ginny,
You may not be willing to believe this at first, but I need you to at least try. It is very important that you do what this letter says, even if you think it’s mad. I cannot emphasise enough how important it is that you just do what I say, if for no reason beyond curiosity. Please, try to understand how strange this is for me, as well.
The letter you are reading is from you. Right now, I am in the year 2045 and I am sixty-four years old. Harry died one year before you read this, almost to the day. Where you are, it is the year 2012, and you are thirty-one. I know that you are trying to recover from Harry’s death, and I know it has been terrible for you, and that’s why I am writing you this letter. You’re never going to move on when you never change anything. I’ve learned that the hard way, and I’m going to tell you what to do so that you can avoid what you’ll inevitably come to if you continue down this road. It is imperative, Ginny, that you do as I say.
I will not give you all of the details, nor will I tell you why, but you will be okay again. These instructions will come as a shock to you, but please just do it.
Go to Draco Malfoy.
I will be in touch.
She read the letter three times, unsure of what to think or say or do. It was definitely her writing that filled the page, but she could not remember ever writing such letter. In fact, she was certain that she hadn’t, and she had no way of explaining how the letter had gotten there. That photo had been sitting on the mantle for years. She wondered how long that letter had actually been there, waiting for the fateful day that she would drop the photograph and it could finally reveal itself to her.
It was mad to think that she had come back from the future with a letter that gave explicit instructions to go to Draco Malfoy. She hadn’t seen the man in years – had no desire to – and now she was actually considering if she should do as instructed. What did she have to lose? She was at the lowest point she had ever been in her life, and the prospect of being able to move on was appealing enough for her to think twice about what the letter had said. The miniscule chance that she could possibly move on from the hell that she had been living in for the past year was enough hope to make up her mind.
She was going to find Draco Malfoy.
Author notes: What do you think? Please review!
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