Shadow Boxing
Rating: R
Series: Harry Potter
Genre: Drama/Angst
Pairings: HP/DM; HP/GW
Series Spoilers: None
Warnings: YAOI (aka SLASH), angst, much morbidness.
By Moon Faery
Archived: (eventually at) Moon Faery's Garden );
Disclaimer: A statement created solely to save one's ass from becoming lawn for the proverbial legal mower. I do not own Harry Potter - J.K. Rowling does. All materials are used without the permission of their various owners. The only gratuity I accept is verbal (or written), and money doesn't even begin to enter the picture. However, this story line, original characters and plot are MINE. (Holds fic close to her.) Grrrr...
Author Notes: Potential sequel. It stands on it's own fairly well though. we'll see how it goes.
Summary: Five years after the war and only three after their marriage, Ginny watches Harry die of grief. There's only one person who can help, but she can't fight a ghost, and sometimes the consequences of trying are worse than she could imagine.
0-0-0
Ginny fidgeted with her dress, bunching it up in her fists, then smoothing out the wrinkles. The sun shown through a clear sky, with no sign of rain on the horizon; a strange occurrence for England in spring. It had taken her weeks to find him, and once she had found him, it had taken even longer to get over her rage. She could understand why no one had told her — he was in her place after all.
The Potter family graveyard wasn't as well kept as the average person would expect. Harry, the last survivor of the family, ignored it almost completely, except for three carefully tended graves, right in a row near the back. The spot beyond them was empty, holding only a tiny gold embossed sign reading Reserved: H. J. Potter.
That was the end of the row.
The rest of the cemetary had been allowed to run wild, creating a kind of minature wilderness right in the middle of Godric's Hollow. Vining roses twined with ivory, vying with each other for damage done to the statues and gravestones. The path was barely visible in the undergrowth, forcing her to pick her way along to the tame area slowly, each step dragging slower and slower undtil she reached her destination. Stopping at the first two graves, she laid down a white rose at each.
December 1960 — October 1981
James William Potter
May 1960 — October 1981
The last grave had been tended recently, the red roses decororating it were still fresh and unwilted. A small marble bench had been imported for visitors to sit for extended periods. Her jaw clenched at the sight. Oh yes, she could understand why she hadn't been told. It should have read Ginerva Weasley Potter.
It should have.
"Hullo Malfoy. Long time gone, huh?" Wrinkling her nose distastefully, she took a seat on the bench. It was comfortable, warm from the sun and smooth. Settling herself gingerly, she eyed the headstone. An old witch's legend said that talking to the headstone was the same as talking to the ghost but without the smart backtalk, which suited her just fine. She didn't want answers. Not anymore.
"I bet you weren't execting me, were you? No, don't answer that." Overhead the birds began chirping again, a sound she hadn't missed until it returned. Now it was too shrill, distracting her from her anger. It was hard, holding onto her rightous indignation when facing that fact that others had it much, much worse. "Do you even remember who I am? Little redhead girl, followed Harry around like a puppy?"
No answer came, but she wasn't expecting one.
"I married him, you know. It was three years in December." Bending over in her seat, she picked up one of the roses. "Was he the one who brought you these? Stupid question — who else?" She crushed it, watching the delicate petals crease and darken as they were pressed in her fist. "Funny. He never buys me flowers. I'm lucky to hear my own name instead of yours when we make love. I suppose flowers are asking too much." The flower dropped, bleeding scarlet and jade.
"How long were you lovers? A few weeks? Months? Years? I guess it doesn't matter anymore, does it?"
Her lips, glossed pink and shining in the sunlight, smirked. "Don't worry, he hasn't told anyone. I'm the only other one that knows, except maybe Ron and Hermione" Her voice grew bitter. "No one was going to tell the wife, oh no. Just let me go on thinking he loves me." Her hair, kept in a long ponytail, brushed the bench as her head bent forward. Almost whispering, she said, "He may love you, but he married me. I'm the one who gets to spend their life with him, not you. Just remember that, while you're laying there in my place, by his side for all eternity while I'll probably end up at the very back of this God foresaken place."
She sat back, the vengeful glint in her blue eyes fading to sadness. "Had a hell of a time getting the wedding together though. Wouldn't let me write the invitations, and kept mucking them up everytime he tried. I guess he kept writing 'Potter-Malfoy' instead of 'Potter-Weasley'. He does things like that.
"He still loves you, you know." Ginny paused, fighting the way her throat kept closing. She cleared it, blinking to clear the tears from her eyes. "I hated you. I hate you. He's mine, he's been mine since I first saw him... You stole him. You stole what's mine, and I'll never, ever forgive you.
"Even though he never really was mine to begin with. I can't fight a ghost, Malfoy, especially one that won before I was even in the game."
Something dripped down onto her knee. She touched her cheek, searching for the tear that had escaped, but none had. Overhead, the sky darkened, clouds rolling in from nowhere to hide the sun. Another lone raindrop pattered down.
"I guess I don't have much time anymore. Better get to the point." Ginny swallowed, looking away to focus on one of the battered statues, an angel trapped in roses and chipped by time. It stared at her accusingly from behind it's wrap of thorns. "Harry and Ron don't talk much anymore. Not since Ron lost his eye in the last battle, getting Hermione out. She's getting better by the way, but she'll never be able to walk again. The medi-wizards say that if you hadn't tackled her, she wouldn't have survived at all. I don't think Ron ever forgave Harry for not being there to take it for her, instead of you. He doesn't have anyone but me anymore, and I don't know why he's with me."
Overhead, the sky continued to darken, warning drops starting to fall. "He cries a lot; he tries to hide it, but I can tell. And I know he has dreams about you. He still love you, and that leaves me out in the cold, doesn't it?" The wind picked up, picking up her ponytail and playing with it. The crushed rose broke open and scattered. "I want you to let him go. He's grieving himself to death, Malfoy, and it's your fault. The medi-wizards, Muggle doctors... They can't help, we've tried. It's been five years — let him go." Lightning flashed, blinding her. "I just want him to be happy, and you're in the way of that. I'd give anything— anything, to make him happy. I'd die if I had to.
"Goodbye, Malfoy. Sleep well." Grabbing her hair to keep it from tangling in the shrubbery, Ginny ran for the safety of the Aparation Platform just as the rain began to pour. Behind her, lightning lit the graveyard.
Heedless of the tiny tears being ripped in her dress, she pelted across graves and over benches in her effort to escape the weather. Copper-bright hair dulled to brown as the rain soaked it as she jogged up the steps. She panted to catch her breath, waiting for a lull in the storm to risk Aparating, though it was dangerous to try in bad weather. It seemed like a short eternity before the wind and lightning calmed. Wringing out her hair, she Aparated directly to the main room. Water dripped from her shoulders to the carpet as she wrung her hair out into a potted plant, looking around for her husband.
"Harry?" She frowned at the silence that echoes through the house. Usually, one of them was playing music, or a cauldron was on the boil. Even Crookshanks, the snub-faced cat they'd taken in for Hermione, wasn't in evidence. Giving her hair one last twist, Ginny went to investigate the quiet. Her footsteps felt like they should have made some nose, but the plush carpeting absorbed everything. She forced herself to fight the urge to sing, to make noise. It was too much like the cemetary had been, solemn and dead in the middle of life.
"Harry?" Dripping hair slapped the doorframe as she poked her head into the family room, the wet splat making her jump. Giggling at her own silliness, Ginny let out a small sigh of relief at the sight of the shirtless figure on the couch, dressed in his favorite pair of blue jeans and Dobby-knited socks. "Taking a nap, huh?" Crouching down, she crept forward, lowering her voice to a whisper even as she snuck up to the sofa. "None of that now. We've a storm to enjoy."
On the couch, Harry didn't stir.
Her smile faded. "Harry? Love?" Her fingertips brushed his cooling cheek. His lips were curled in the most beautiful smile she'd ever seen on him, a sweet hopeful expression that make her heart twist with pain. He'd never smiled like that for her. She shook him hard. Anything to get that awful, heartwrenching, wonderful look off his face. "This isn't funny anymore. Wake up." His head flopped to the side quietly, clouded green eyes sliding open to stare blankly out at the world. Her knees gave out, sinking her down to kneel by the couch.
He wasn't breathing.
A piece of paper drifted from Harry's dead fingers, falling into her lap to land message up. Her tears smeared the ink as she stared down at it, rereading it over and over again, as if she could change things by will power alone.