When they arrived at Grimmauld Place, Ginny’s emotions were mixed. She couldn’t be there; she couldn’t be in that house. For a year, she had barely been able to leave it. It had been her sanctuary. But then Draco forced her to come to terms with her guilt, forced her to think about what happened one year ago, and now it felt like a prison. The house was suffocating her, choking the life out of her with each breath she took. She began hyperventilating, but Draco wouldn’t come near her. Not until she finished telling him what happened. But she couldn’t speak.
After taking a deep breath, she approached the mantle. There were over a dozen photographs sitting upon her fireplace, each of which told a happy story. A photograph from when they were still in Hogwarts, a photograph of them kissing at the altar, a photograph of her dancing in the rain, a photograph of Harry smiling. At one point, those images had been her life, each one imprinted in her memory so vividly. But they still, somehow, felt like distant memories, a part of who she used to be. She looked at the images of herself – smiling, happy, and fierce – and realized that she hadn’t been that girl, that woman, for a very long time.
She was conscious of the fact that the blond man across the room had not yet taken his eyes away from her. Ginny looked at him, knowing that he was patiently waiting for her to reveal the ending of the story. It was in that moment, when their eyes locked, that she realized that she wanted to tell him everything.
“It was a gun,” she said, her voice hoarse from crying. “As soon as Harry rolled down the window, the man put a gun to my husband’s head.”
Draco said nothing for a long time. He just looked at her, his face as expressionless as stone. “You couldn’t have possibly known what was going to happen,” he replied, his voice even.
“But I made him,” she reiterated. “I was the reason we were in that car, down that street. I was the reason that Harry talked to that man.”
“You didn’t know.”
“What the hell difference does that make?” she asked, her voice rising. “It was an accident, but if I accidentally ran into you with a sharp knife and killed you, it would still be my fault!”
The blond was still expressionless. “You were acting in good faith.”
Ginny laughed hollowly. There was no hint of amusement in her voice, only pain and irony. “A fat lot of good it’s done for me, faith.”
He walked towards her slowly. “You were right when you said that you’ve changed, Ginny.”
This took her by surprise. “Excuse me?” she asked, not unkindly.
Draco said nothing for another long moment, only looked at her, analyzing her every feature. Her warm, cinnamon-colored eyes were swollen and red. Her face, which at one time had been exceptionally beautiful, was aged well beyond her thirty-one years. Small wrinkles were beginning to form around her eyes and lips, and her face appeared to be generally hollow. All of the fire and spirit that had, at one time, been the complete essence of her appearance had dissipated. This wasn’t Ginny Weasley. That girl had died alongside her husband.
He swallowed. “I think there’s a part of you that’s still alive. You need to find something that brings it out of you and hold onto it. If you don’t, then there is no point in trying to live. You’re dead already.”
His words were like a slap in the face, but as she watched him walk from the house, head held high and hands in his pockets, she realized that he was right. She had completely lost herself to her grief. There was nothing left of her.
*****
It wasn’t until days later that she was finally able to get out of bed. The sun was shining so brightly through the window that it hurt. Bitterly, she closed the blinds, blocking out the rays of light that stung her eyes before walking into the kitchen to fix herself some tea. When she got there, she nearly jumped in surprise as she saw someone sitting at her kitchen table.
“Ginny, darling, do you always sleep in this late?”
“Afternoon, Mum,” the younger woman replied inexpressively. “How long have you been here?”
“Since ten o’clock.”
Ginny all but ignored her mother, going on with fixing her tea and refusing to make any sort of eye contact. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her mother or want her mother to be around, but she simply wasn’t in the mood for company. She wasn’t in the mood for having company, or eating, or bathing, or doing anything but sleeping. She couldn’t even cry anymore. It was fruitless.
Molly huffed and yanked Ginny away from her stove. “For goodness sake, Ginevra,” she cried, forcing her daughter to look at her with an abrupt shake of the shoulders. “Your family has indulged your ridiculous behavior for a long time, but enough is enough.”
“I know you are all sick of me, and that’s why I don’t bother coming around.”
“We’re not sick of you! We miss you!”
“I just saw you earlier this week.”
“Yes, and that’s my point, love. I saw you, Ginny. I saw glimpses of my daughter, the one who has been gone for a long time. And I can’t help but wonder what it is that had brought your spirit out like that before bringing you back to this.”
Ginny looked at her mother, wise and strong, with an inkling that there was something missing. Something that her mother wasn’t telling her. And then it hit to her. “You – you’ve got my last letter, haven’t you?”
The older witch nodded. “You can imagine it was quite a shock to see the spitting image of myself come knocking at the door of the Burrow,” she said, turning around and taking a seat at the kitchen table. “Oh, Ginny, I know this has been such an impossible year for you, and I understand how miserable you are, but it’s time to let this all go.”
“How, Mum?” Ginny pleaded. “I’d do anything to not be this miserable person. I’d do anything to be able to look at his picture and not feel like dying. If you know what I can do to get over it, then tell me!”
“Bury it,” Molly whispered.
“Excuse me?”
The older witch reached into the pocket of her robes before pulling out a crumpled up piece of parchment. She set it on the table. “That’s what the letter says,” she clarified. “Take the picture of Harry that’s sitting on your fireplace and bury it.”
“Why in the hell would I do something like that? I love those pictures! I could never –”
“Oh, stop, Ginny! You’ve got other pictures, but there’s one that hurts you the most. The one that you found the first letter behind kills you inside every time that you look at it. You need to bury it.”
Ginny bit her lip, her eyes welling with tears. “How will that help?”
“It’s symbolic, love. It’s like a grave at the cemetery, you see. Bury the picture in a place where you can always go visit it rather than leaving it in the open where it can haunt you.”
Slowly, the young redhead walked over to her fireplace and picked up the picture, giving it a final look. With that picture always in front of her, she had almost been able to play pretend. She could look at it when she wanted and see Harry smiling at her and waving, and it almost felt like he was still there. But he wasn’t. Much in the way that his body had to be buried, so did his picture.
She approached the door of her house, but before she could leave, her mother’s voice halted her.
“When I saw you the other day, I know you weren’t happy,” Molly said, “but I saw a part of you shining through your face that had been absent since Harry passed away. I know what it was – or rather who it was – that made you smile again, Ginny. Hold onto him. He needs you, too.”
Ginny realized that strength wasn’t being able to look at that picture and not cry, because she would always love Harry and she would always miss him. Strength was being able to bury it, to bury her guilt, and to realize that she wasn’t responsible for his death. Blaming herself would not bring him back. Not ever. It was time for her to live again.
*****
A few more days passed before she was finally ready to see him again. A part of her knew from that first day that there was something in her that sparked into life when he was nearby, but she hated herself for considering it. The nemesis of her deceased husband, the bane of his existence, was the only thing that made her feel like a real person again. A real, living, breathing person, and not a shell of herself. Draco had brought her back to life.
She didn’t need to knock at the door when she arrived. As soon as her hand was lifted, the door opened.
“Draco, I –”
He never allowed her to finish that sentence. In a split second, he had gathered her in his arms and covered her lips with his. All of the painful emotions that they had felt began to evaporate. Their experiences had been so similar – guilt and pain and isolation – and they both knew that there was no sense in dwelling on it any longer. There was no reason to continue to hide behind their sadness.
It was time to move on.
They separated only slightly, each panting for breath as they allowed the intensity of the kiss to settle between them. All they could do was look into each other’s eyes and realize that, through finding comfort in one another, they had finally started to heal. They had begun the next chapter in their lives with the promise of a brand new day.
After taking a deep breath, she approached the mantle. There were over a dozen photographs sitting upon her fireplace, each of which told a happy story. A photograph from when they were still in Hogwarts, a photograph of them kissing at the altar, a photograph of her dancing in the rain, a photograph of Harry smiling. At one point, those images had been her life, each one imprinted in her memory so vividly. But they still, somehow, felt like distant memories, a part of who she used to be. She looked at the images of herself – smiling, happy, and fierce – and realized that she hadn’t been that girl, that woman, for a very long time.
She was conscious of the fact that the blond man across the room had not yet taken his eyes away from her. Ginny looked at him, knowing that he was patiently waiting for her to reveal the ending of the story. It was in that moment, when their eyes locked, that she realized that she wanted to tell him everything.
“It was a gun,” she said, her voice hoarse from crying. “As soon as Harry rolled down the window, the man put a gun to my husband’s head.”
Draco said nothing for a long time. He just looked at her, his face as expressionless as stone. “You couldn’t have possibly known what was going to happen,” he replied, his voice even.
“But I made him,” she reiterated. “I was the reason we were in that car, down that street. I was the reason that Harry talked to that man.”
“You didn’t know.”
“What the hell difference does that make?” she asked, her voice rising. “It was an accident, but if I accidentally ran into you with a sharp knife and killed you, it would still be my fault!”
The blond was still expressionless. “You were acting in good faith.”
Ginny laughed hollowly. There was no hint of amusement in her voice, only pain and irony. “A fat lot of good it’s done for me, faith.”
He walked towards her slowly. “You were right when you said that you’ve changed, Ginny.”
This took her by surprise. “Excuse me?” she asked, not unkindly.
Draco said nothing for another long moment, only looked at her, analyzing her every feature. Her warm, cinnamon-colored eyes were swollen and red. Her face, which at one time had been exceptionally beautiful, was aged well beyond her thirty-one years. Small wrinkles were beginning to form around her eyes and lips, and her face appeared to be generally hollow. All of the fire and spirit that had, at one time, been the complete essence of her appearance had dissipated. This wasn’t Ginny Weasley. That girl had died alongside her husband.
He swallowed. “I think there’s a part of you that’s still alive. You need to find something that brings it out of you and hold onto it. If you don’t, then there is no point in trying to live. You’re dead already.”
His words were like a slap in the face, but as she watched him walk from the house, head held high and hands in his pockets, she realized that he was right. She had completely lost herself to her grief. There was nothing left of her.
It wasn’t until days later that she was finally able to get out of bed. The sun was shining so brightly through the window that it hurt. Bitterly, she closed the blinds, blocking out the rays of light that stung her eyes before walking into the kitchen to fix herself some tea. When she got there, she nearly jumped in surprise as she saw someone sitting at her kitchen table.
“Ginny, darling, do you always sleep in this late?”
“Afternoon, Mum,” the younger woman replied inexpressively. “How long have you been here?”
“Since ten o’clock.”
Ginny all but ignored her mother, going on with fixing her tea and refusing to make any sort of eye contact. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her mother or want her mother to be around, but she simply wasn’t in the mood for company. She wasn’t in the mood for having company, or eating, or bathing, or doing anything but sleeping. She couldn’t even cry anymore. It was fruitless.
Molly huffed and yanked Ginny away from her stove. “For goodness sake, Ginevra,” she cried, forcing her daughter to look at her with an abrupt shake of the shoulders. “Your family has indulged your ridiculous behavior for a long time, but enough is enough.”
“I know you are all sick of me, and that’s why I don’t bother coming around.”
“We’re not sick of you! We miss you!”
“I just saw you earlier this week.”
“Yes, and that’s my point, love. I saw you, Ginny. I saw glimpses of my daughter, the one who has been gone for a long time. And I can’t help but wonder what it is that had brought your spirit out like that before bringing you back to this.”
Ginny looked at her mother, wise and strong, with an inkling that there was something missing. Something that her mother wasn’t telling her. And then it hit to her. “You – you’ve got my last letter, haven’t you?”
The older witch nodded. “You can imagine it was quite a shock to see the spitting image of myself come knocking at the door of the Burrow,” she said, turning around and taking a seat at the kitchen table. “Oh, Ginny, I know this has been such an impossible year for you, and I understand how miserable you are, but it’s time to let this all go.”
“How, Mum?” Ginny pleaded. “I’d do anything to not be this miserable person. I’d do anything to be able to look at his picture and not feel like dying. If you know what I can do to get over it, then tell me!”
“Bury it,” Molly whispered.
“Excuse me?”
The older witch reached into the pocket of her robes before pulling out a crumpled up piece of parchment. She set it on the table. “That’s what the letter says,” she clarified. “Take the picture of Harry that’s sitting on your fireplace and bury it.”
“Why in the hell would I do something like that? I love those pictures! I could never –”
“Oh, stop, Ginny! You’ve got other pictures, but there’s one that hurts you the most. The one that you found the first letter behind kills you inside every time that you look at it. You need to bury it.”
Ginny bit her lip, her eyes welling with tears. “How will that help?”
“It’s symbolic, love. It’s like a grave at the cemetery, you see. Bury the picture in a place where you can always go visit it rather than leaving it in the open where it can haunt you.”
Slowly, the young redhead walked over to her fireplace and picked up the picture, giving it a final look. With that picture always in front of her, she had almost been able to play pretend. She could look at it when she wanted and see Harry smiling at her and waving, and it almost felt like he was still there. But he wasn’t. Much in the way that his body had to be buried, so did his picture.
She approached the door of her house, but before she could leave, her mother’s voice halted her.
“When I saw you the other day, I know you weren’t happy,” Molly said, “but I saw a part of you shining through your face that had been absent since Harry passed away. I know what it was – or rather who it was – that made you smile again, Ginny. Hold onto him. He needs you, too.”
Ginny realized that strength wasn’t being able to look at that picture and not cry, because she would always love Harry and she would always miss him. Strength was being able to bury it, to bury her guilt, and to realize that she wasn’t responsible for his death. Blaming herself would not bring him back. Not ever. It was time for her to live again.
A few more days passed before she was finally ready to see him again. A part of her knew from that first day that there was something in her that sparked into life when he was nearby, but she hated herself for considering it. The nemesis of her deceased husband, the bane of his existence, was the only thing that made her feel like a real person again. A real, living, breathing person, and not a shell of herself. Draco had brought her back to life.
She didn’t need to knock at the door when she arrived. As soon as her hand was lifted, the door opened.
“Draco, I –”
He never allowed her to finish that sentence. In a split second, he had gathered her in his arms and covered her lips with his. All of the painful emotions that they had felt began to evaporate. Their experiences had been so similar – guilt and pain and isolation – and they both knew that there was no sense in dwelling on it any longer. There was no reason to continue to hide behind their sadness.
It was time to move on.
They separated only slightly, each panting for breath as they allowed the intensity of the kiss to settle between them. All they could do was look into each other’s eyes and realize that, through finding comfort in one another, they had finally started to heal. They had begun the next chapter in their lives with the promise of a brand new day.
Author notes: And that is the end! I know this story ended up being really sad and emotional, but I hope you all enjoyed this. Leave me something sweet!
The End.
cherryredxx is the author of 15 other stories.
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This story is a favorite of 1 members. Members who liked Bury This Picture also liked 40 other stories.
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