Warning: This is a companion story. Read A Beautiful Distraction before this.
Disclaimer: I do not own HP, nor do I own the lyrics to A Beautiful Lie by 30 Seconds to Mars.
"It's a beautiful lie
It's the perfect denial
Such a beautiful lie to believe in
So beautiful, beautiful it makes me
…
Everyone's looking at me
I'm running around in circles, baby
A quiet desperation's building higher
I've got to remember this is just a game"
A Beautiful Lie
The sky above was a devoid, empty canvas, waiting for someone to paint colors upon it. Snow covered the ground between the two separate columns of seats, tracks printing the aisle, small indents in the pure, white snow. To the left loomed Hogwarts, where the awful event had taken place, where she had died. The lake was frozen, to the right, white crystals tracing their way over the ice, turning it from transparent to opaque, trapping the mermaids beneath its deathly, icy surface.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, stretching slightly as he stared down at his shabby suit, the knees worn, hems frayed slightly, shoes scuffed from not picking his feet up as he walked. On either side of him emitted the sounds of mourning. Ron sniffled slightly, trying to hold himself together, face crumpled but no tears escaping the jail cell of his eyes. On his left sat Hermione, tears streaming down her face, mascara smudging, as she faced, literally, for the coffin sat just feet in front of them, the truth of what had become of her best friend.
Harry stared at his shoes, the toe of one more scuffed than the other from his tendency to trip over his left foot, as his mind battled with accusations, thoughts swirling in his brain. Was it his fault? Could it possibly be? Staring at the mind numbing blankness of the snow, he thought about the note she had left, the one, scribbled in the fine penmanship he had always admired, that told the sad tale, how she felt trapped and without another choice, speaking of a nameless boy who had caused her indescribable amounts of pain. Staring into the pure white snow, Harry wondered, not for the first time, if he could be the nameless boy, if he could be responsible for her death, if he could have killed Ginny Weasley.
Shaking his head, he banished the thought, locking it away deep in the dungeons of his heart and mind, where it couldn't eat away at his conscience. If it had been his words to kill her, she had brought them on herself. She had forced those words from his lips as surely as if she had formed them herself. She had slept with his enemy; she had broken his heart. She had killed herself.
The coffin sat, pale as a pile of gleaming bones, its waxed, white marble surface polished to shine, before them, just ten feet away, as students passed by, paying their respects with a few mumbled words and added their own blood-red rose to the growing pile atop the casket.
Glancing directly in front of him, diverting his green eyes away from the haunting reminder of what had happened to Ginny Weasley, his indifferent gaze landed on red hair. Ahead, in six white, stiff chairs covered in scarlet velvet cushions sat the rest of the red haired Weasley clan, their faces, he knew, though he couldn't see them, bore the expressions of pure grief.
He stared at the back of Mrs. Weasley's head, her wavy caramel cropped hair so different to Ginny's bright auburn, which had been tinged with streaks of sheer ruby red locks. Molly's head moved, catching the wan, lifeless light as her pale-colored hair reflected it, revealing sparks of the bright red he had seen in Ginny's, before she moved her head again and it was gone, as fleeting, ephemeral, as Ginny had been.
Sobs. The only sound he could hear in the thick, pressing quiet that pushed in on him from all sides. The air, the trees, the lake, all were quiet, eerily so, as sobs echoed through the respectful silence Mother Nature gave to Ginny's memory. And, in the middle of it all, was Ginny's coffin, like the core around which everything else revolved, tied to her magnetic energy, like she was the sun and everyone else a planet: living, breathing, existing solely for her.
He had tried to be that for her, to worship the gold-gilded ground she walked upon, he had never hurt her, she had never known the pain he knew, the pain he lived with everyday as he remembered her. She had never felt the despair and ache he had felt, the all-consuming pain that ignited and burned a hole through the depths of his heart, eating away at his soul. She had never had to feel the stab that came with the realization that she wasn't good enough, wasn't enough to keep him happy. She had never dealt with the despair to know she wasn't worth the truth, that she was merely worthy of a beautiful lie.
No, Ginny had never felt any of that. He had; he had felt it all.
He had seen the awkward glances they gave one another in the hall. He had seen how she blushed when he asked her of her opinion in class. He had seen the brief brushes of their hands, lasting just a second too long, when he passed her the quill she dropped, as they stared deeply into one another's eyes before breaking the contact and hurriedly glancing away, each discreetly scanning the room for anyone who had seen the interaction.
With each glance, each blush, each gentle caress of their hands, his suspicion had grown, parts of his heart crumbling and falling into the deep oblivion below. He hadn't wanted to believe it, and yet, every time he pushed his lips to hers, softly, sweetly, the small voice in his head had accused her of lying.
Staring at the scuffs on his shoes, the row of redheaded Weasley's, each donning mourning clothes, rose before him and walked slowly to the shining, bright coffin. In his hands sat a single rose, its petals as bright as her hair. Squeezing his eyes shut, he remembered the day, the minute, the moment, she had ripped out his heart.
He had been lying awake in bed, suspicions swirling, whispering, in his mind as he stared at the crimson velvet hangings on his bed, the Ron's snores emanating from the bed across from him. As the accusations grew louder, so loud they drowned out the snores, he had grown agitated. The whispers were itching at his mind, sinking under his skin where he couldn't scratch at them.
He had turned on his side, the candle at his bedside illuminating his face. Staring at the table, he had just barely been able to make out the Marauder's Map, sitting innocently in the dimly lit room as it taunted him, breathing in his ear that it held all the answers to his questions. Fidgeting in his bed, Harry had stuffed his hands beneath his pillow, struggling against the impulse, the instinct, the need, to check the map. He wrestled with his thoughts, trying desperately to tame the beast inside his heart that had reared its ugly head, as he had grown suspicious.
Finally, the beast had won the fight and Harry had lain tired and exhausted in a small corner of his mind as it took control. His hand had moved, of it's own accord, over to the map, snatching at the supple piece of parchment. Scanning the yellowed paper, he searched her dormitory desperately for her name written in a spidery scrawl. His emerald eyes had stared at her empty bed, wishing as his heart cried in pain that she was there, that it was all in his head, that he had never looked.
Scanning the papery halls, he had finally found her name, scrawled in a slim, ebony writing. As her dot had moved, every step had brought her closer to the Slytherin dormitories. With every inch the godforsaken dot moved, Harry had felt a knife pierce his heart. As he had watched her move into a room, he had been able to imagine just what she would look like when she opened the door to his enemy's bedroom.
Ginny would have been wearing the silky, pure white nightgown that Harry had thought she had reserved solely for his emerald eyes, rather than for him to share with a set of stone-grey ones. Her body, the soft curves and slight hills, would have been barely concealed, visible enough to tease the viewer but not enough to release the secrets it held. Her hair, the gorgeous vivid red, would have been down, falling sweetly over her shoulders as she stood before his enemy, her hand on the inky, cold door knob, her white teeth biting a supple pink lip in the beautiful coyness Harry had always loved so much.
And then, her dot had moved, speeding towards the inkblot labeled with his enemy's name as they collided into a mess of ink and scribbles.
Harry stood up, mechanically, his entire being devoid, as he realized the redhead beside him was doing the same. Following the footsteps of his best friend, he dragged scuffed shoes through the snow, creating small trenches for the battlefield of love that had been his life the past week.
Staring at the back of Ron's ginger head, he saw the broad shoulders of his best friend shake as he cried privately above his sister's coffin, his tears mixing with the red roses sitting atop its marble face.
After a few moments, Ron wiped his eyes and straightened his shoulders, pressing his lips together once again to seal his sorrow within before he walked stiffly to where the rest of his family sat, their faces wet to match his own.
Harry stepped forward slowly, as if time had completely slowed down and he was walking underwater. As the softened heel of his old, leather shoe crunched gently on the smooth blanket of snow that covered the landscape, his emerald eyes looked down on the beautiful face of the one girl who had held his heart in her hands, who had crushed it in her cruel fists.
Her hair, the color as vibrant as it had been in life, the brightest color in Harry's world, was worn down, curling gently over her shoulders. They had dressed her gently in a vintage, silk gown, much like the one he knew she had worn to see his enemy, the collar high, covering the ugly mark he knew must sit there. Her eyes had been tenderly closed, giving the impression that she was merely sleeping and would eventually wake, that her laugh would once again ring through the air, that her eyes would sparkle yet again, that her lips would whisper beautiful lies into his ear once more. Her mouth, soft and sweet when they had kissed, smiled gently in an enigmatic smile that Harry knew held all her secrets between her lips.
Looking down at the rose he held in his hand, its stem bent slightly, the scarlet petals skewed, he added it gently to the growing pile before returning his eyes to her face. As he stared onto her gentle face, he felt a single, lonely tear slide down his cheek, tracing a chilly trail as the frozen wind hit it. Gazing at that secretive smile that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his existence, he whispered softly, "I would have done anything for you, I would have given you everything. But you didn't want me, did you? It was never me you wanted; it was always him. I should have known."
Stepping away from the coffin, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his old suit, his head hanging low, his jet-black hair dangling over his eyes, as some of the last memories he had of Ginny assaulted his mind.
He had sat in the empty common room, his chair placed between the girls' and boys' dormitories, until four in the morning as the darkness closed in, trying to suffocate him. With every passing moment marked by the tick of the giant clock on the opposite wall, he had gripped the supple leather of the armchair he sat in harder until his fingers were digging holes into the fine furniture.
She had finally crept into the dark room moments after the clock chimed four o'clock, her red hair tangled wildly, her pink lips reddened by the events of the night. As she had turned to close the door silently, Harry had seen from where he sat that the silk nightgown she wore was rumpled. When she had turned back around, she had begun to walk across the room towards the dormitories, a small spring in her step, unable to see where Harry sat watching, cloaked by the darkness.
When she had been nearly three feet away, Harry had stood up, moving so that he was placed between the dormitory entrance and Ginny, before he cleared his throat and said, "Where have you been all night, Gin?"
He had watched, smirking slightly, as the redhead scrambled for a lie, her eyebrows gently knotted in confusion as she tried to spin a thread to add to her web of lies. "I–I–I was–"
"Don't even try to lie to me!" Harry had interrupted her, yelling loudly before dropping his voice to a harsh whisper as he slipped the Marauder's map out of his pocket and held it up, folded lengthwise in his hand, as proof. "I've been watching you all night. I know you were with him. I know what you did."
Ginny had gently bit her lip, "I'm sorry Harry, but I–I can explain!"
Hatred had welled up inside his chest, what possible explanation could she provide? "I don't want to hear it, Gin! You lied to me!" Harry dropped his voice even further, turning his head slightly to the side as if he couldn't stand to look at her as he whispered to himself, "For how long?"
Ginny had heard his question and looked at the floor, her eyes glistening with the tears she was holding back as she said, "Three and a half months."
It had felt like a knife stabbing through the center of his heart. Three and a half months. He had been deceived for three and a half months. He had believed this beautiful lie for three and a half months. "I bet you both had a great laugh about it before you fucked him, didn't you? I can't believe you would do this to me, Gin."
Ginny had taken a small step towards him, her hand reaching out to comfort him, but he had jerked away as if the mere thought of letting her touch him burned through his skin like acid, "Don't touch me. I never want to see your face again. You're nothing, you're just a whore." Harry whispered, contempt shimmering in his eyes like the deadly knives of an enemy before he turned and walked away, leaving Ginny to collapse onto a nearby chair, her knees curled protectively to her chest as her hair fell wildly over her shoulders, as she mixed her tears with the fine, crimson velvet.
He trudged his way back to the crimson and white seat, where he sat staring at the pale, devoid sky, remembering the moments when he had been told she was dead. He had walked into the common room to see a scene of complete, swirling chaos. The small room had been filled with students and teachers, all trying desperately to force their way upstairs like fish trying to swim upstream.
He had scanned the room silently until his emerald eyes had spotted Hermione, sitting quietly in a corner, her bushy hair falling over her eyes as her hands covered the rest of her face, her shoulders quaking. Ron stood awkwardly beside her, lost in his own world, his brown eyes focused on the furthest wall, as he tried to process what fate his little sister had met.
He had approached slowly, his feet feeling heavy and refusing to move. As he stepped forward, his heart began to pound loudly as he feared what could have happened and several million possibilities flashed through his mind. Hermione had looked up, her dark eyes connecting with his as she whispered the words that echoed and reverberated through his world.
She's dead, Harry. She hung herself.
Hermione had been the one to find her, hanging gently by an ivory cord wrapped around her neck, a nearby chair overturned, the red pillow that had once sat upon the wooden chair on the floor, a note on a nearby desk, her thin, elegant handwriting perfectly describing the pain she had suffered through, refusing to name the man who had caused her to commit this unspeakable act as a final, kind gesture to him.
Staring at his hands, tanned and callused from hours spent outside, the fingers strong yet gentle, the backs broad, veins visible under rippling skin, Harry smiled softly as he remembered the note. It was just like Ginny to leave her killer unnamed. In life, she had always cared for everyone else's wellbeing before hers.
Every one's except for his.
Seeing a silver flash in the corner of his eye, Harry whipped his head to the right, towards the aisle, in time to see Draco rush by, his hands shoved into the black depths of his expensive suit, his blond head ducked, his pointy face covered in shadow. Seeing the face of his enemy, Harry felt hatred rise in his chest and he suddenly knew the truth.
It hadn't been Ginny's fault she had died. It hadn't even been Harry's. It had all happened because of Draco Malfoy.
Without Draco Malfoy, Ginny would never have whispered those beautiful lies into Harry's ears. Without Draco Malfoy, Harry wouldn't have responded to her lies with scathing words. Without Draco Malfoy, Harry wouldn't know the feeling of true pain.
Without Draco Malfoy, Ginny Weasley would still be alive.
Review if you please!
If you didn't read A Beautiful Distraction like I recommended, I suggest you do so now. And keep your eyes open for A Beautiful Mess, which will be the final one-shot in the Beautiful Trilogy.
Thank you, and goodnight.
-Katy