So...it's been three weeks? This is indeed the last chapter (excluding the epilogue), but we had to split it up into two parts again because we still haven't finished the second part and it'll probably take us until next year to do so. Thanks for being patient with us and our whacked-up story that has somehow dragged on for months. :)
If someone said three years from now
You'd be long gone
I'd stand up and punch them out
Cause they're all wrong
I know better
Cause you said forever
And ever
Who knew
- Who Knew, by Pink
The Price of War (Part 1) – "Everyone must leave something behind when he dies…Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there. It doesn't matter what you do…so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away." – Granger, Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury
He was falling. Falling, falling, tumbling through everything and nothing, past eternity. Nobody cared; nobody seemed to understand that he was falling, that he was going to crash because there was no one left to catch him.
Dead.
Funny word, he thought. Dead. Just four letters. Not nearly enough to contain everything it entailed.
Dead. It had a hollow ring to it, the word itself, reinforcing that sense of emptiness. That feeling of nothing, of nonexistence. Was that what had happened? A simple ceasing of existence?
Drained away – something drained away – what was it? The soul? The laughter, love, life? Just leached out of a body, leaving behind a cold, unfeeling shell. A meaningless husk. But why, then, did that mere physical resemblance make his heart ache?
But then who was it to say that it had ever been real? Everything – through all those fleeting years, endless moments – anger, happiness, resentment, sorrow, pleasure, regret – if all of that could disappear in the blink of an eye, then what was it worth?
It hurt too much to think. Just that word, tolling its hollow knell in his mind, reminding him again – ever again – that he had lost.
Dead.
You always were a selfish bastard. Both of you. Rushing headlong into things, fixed on one course of action, taking things as they came. Never thinking about how other people would feel. Never stopping to think about the consequences. Idiots. That was my job, dammit. That was supposed to be me.
What did it mean? Death. Gone? An absence – absence of what? And why in the name of Merlin did it have to hurt so much? Why did it feel like a corporeal pain – but maybe he was imagining it? Was he delirious now, going insane?
Intensity, passion, strength, blown away with the force of a breath – snuffed out, and not even brutally, but just – just like that. The things that embodied life – its signature, as it were – vanished without a trace, without anything to indicate that it had ever been.
Not alive. Dead meant…not alive. No longer able to feel, to touch, to see. No longer capable of passionate love, of powerful words, of all-consuming mirth.
That was the bodies before him, as still as the stars fixed in the sky, bled dry of life.
Yes, he decided. That's what death means. Not alive.
4 June, 1997, 5:10AM
He sat in the Great Hall; his back against the wall, beside the doors.
Hermione had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder, tears still wet on her face. He had one arm around her, holding her tightly, because he knew he'd float away if he didn't.
The tables had been pushed against the walls. Blankets were spread out everywhere, like the one he and Hermione were sitting on. They were mostly dark purple or nondescript brown, though there were several bright red and rich green ones dotting the crowds. They were all old and worn, fraying especially around the edges. Thin, too; his, at least, hardly kept the cold from the floor from seeping up into his clothes.
The other students – all the other students – were here too, sitting as he was against the walls. Those with more serious injuries were on the opposite side of the Hall, being tended to by Healers. Several Medi-Wizards were making their way around to the rest of the students, checking them over for cuts and bruises, occasionally offering potions for nausea or hysteria.
Every so often there were loud pops, announcing the arrival of fraught, panic-stricken parents and siblings. Aurors would move to accommodate them, to help them find their children.
The Aurors were everywhere, bustling around with their businesslike airs, moving swiftly through shadows made darker by the blazing candles, their voices raised in an irritating hubbub, calling to each other over the sound of people crying and moaning and trying to comfort each other even though it should have been all they could do to comfort themselves.
Kingsley and Mad-Eye were talking to one of these Aurors, who scribbled notes in a little book as he listened intently. Remus and Tonks had left earlier with a team of Hit Wizards who had come to take Snape and Malfoy into custody. Sturgis had been sent to St. Mungo's along with several others; he had sustained a head injury somehow, during the fight.
And there, to his left, where the Gryffindor table would have been, someone had brought out a scarlet and gold banner. Two bodies had been laid there, side by side, as reverently as was possible in the mess.
Mum was nearby; he could still hear her sobbing hysterically, repeating the words over and over – my baby, my baby, my baby… Dad was holding her, trying to comfort her but failing miserably because he was falling apart too.
He could see Fred and George kneeling on either side of them, heads bowed; Bill and Charlie shocked, shattered; Percy like he was floating in a dream and just waiting to wake up.
Others crowded around them, too; their eyes filled with hushed awe, or maybe terrible sorrow.
Either way, he didn't care. He didn't care about anything anymore, really, and he didn't want anything except maybe for everyone to go away so that he could sleep.
He'd been about to close his eyes when suddenly Dean and Seamus came dashing into the Hall, frantically scanning the room. Their eyes lit upon him and they immediately ran over, their faces flooded with relief.
"You're here!" they cried together, falling to their knees beside him.
"McGonagall told us you were, but we had to see," Seamus said, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"Yeah, thank Merlin you're all right," Dean said, shaking his head. "Neville's okay, too, and everyone else from the PA's still alive."
"Harry and Ginny aren't."
Seamus winced; Dean looked away quickly. Ron felt a slight twinge. He hadn't meant to blurt it like that. They'd been Dean and Seamus' friends as much as his.
But it was unfair for those two deaths to hurt so much more than all the rest. It seemed that the price Harry and Ginny had paid summed up for him every loss he'd suffered in the world.
"I'm sorry," Seamus said, unable to look him in the eyes. "I know – if you could you would've died in his place. Her place."
"Any of us would have," Dean whispered, his voice breaking.
They declared it a victory. The Aurors, the Ministry, the board of governors, the newspapers. It seemed as if the world itself was humming beneath his feet, rejoicing for what the Daily Prophet called "The Final Triumph."
There were celebrations in the streets that lasted hours upon hours. There were calls to make the day a national holiday. There were toasts and moments of silence and plans to build memorials and write books and speeches and songs. There was not a single wizard in the world, it seemed, who did not have a smile on his face.
But the heroes were still dead, and he would miss them. Miss them and cry for them and feel a pain so strong and complete that it would never go away. No victory could sweeten the bitterness of that loss; only soften its horror.
He knew that no cost would have been too high to save the world. He had told himself that, over and over, for the past year. He had been prepared to spend himself, his friends, and everything he loved to gain that victory. But the one price he had never thought to pay was to stand alive in the aftermath and count the dead.
It was hard. Too hard.
But it was what Harry meant, he realized. The price of all the magic, the death, the destruction.
He had to forgive himself for being alive. He had to accept that he was still here – he and Hermione – just as Harry and Ginny had accepted that they had to die.
"We've won!" revelers shouted over the wireless. "We've won the battle, we've won the war!"
He never stayed long to listen. What was the point?
Besides, he'd rather have had his friend and his sister back.
6 June, 1997, 8:00PM
It seemed as if the entire world had gathered together to bid their last farewell to the heroes.
The only other funeral he had ever been to was Dumbledore's, and, looking back, that seemed like a private little gathering compared to this one. The Disapparation Jinxes on the area hadn't been lifted, which meant that everyone had to first Apparate to Hogsmeade and then walk all the way to the grounds.
That apparently didn't deter anyone, for there were more people congregated on the lawns than he had ever seen. And they kept coming, tramping in a steady line that snaked around the castle from Hogsmeade. Most didn't care that there weren't enough chairs; they were all willing to simply stand in the back, grateful that they had even been allowed to attend.
Front row seats were reserved, in general, for those who had directly fought in the war. The left side was set aside for the Minister of Magic and his Heads of Department, who all looked very somber in their black robes and their grave expressions. The two giant representatives, along with Madame Maxime and Grawp, sat off to the side. The merfolk could be seen crowded under the surface of the lake, and the centaurs, who hadn't even shown themselves for Dumbledore, had stepped forth from the forest and stood beside the giants.
Aurors and Hit Wizards and other Ministry members that had come to pay their respects filled the seats behind the Minister. The Aurors looked uncomfortable, having been deprived of their usual patrolling and guarding duties. He wondered, briefly, what would happen to them, now that the Dark had been defeated.
He suddenly caught sight of a short, dumpy woman wearing a squat black hat with rather dreadful-looking pink flowers in it. As she glanced around the crowd, he saw her face, the nightmarish features unchanged from that horrendous year – Umbridge.
And he abruptly pictured what Harry's expression would be like if he knew that woman was at his funeral, and it took a great effort not to start laughing.
He, Hermione, and his family were sitting on the right, with the lake beside them. Mum was crying again, sobbing into her handkerchief as Percy and Mrs. Granger attempted to console her. Charlie and his friends sat behind him, while Bill was with Fleur and her family. Lee Jordan was there, trying to cheer up Fred and George; neither of them had said a word since that day in the Great Hall.
The Hogwarts staff and students filed in next, accompanied by their families. Neville and Luna were together with Neville's grandmother and Luna's father, a slightly crazed-looking man in a floppy hat. Dobby was seated beside Neville, large teardrops cascading down his cheeks and soaking the tea-cozy he held twisted up in his lap.
The former Gryffindor Quidditch team was there; Oliver, Angelina, Alicia, and Katie, huddled together next to Professor Flitwick. Even Cho had shown up, along with Cormac McLaggen. He hoped fervently that neither would approach him.
People from all around the country – maybe the world, even – filled whatever space was left. The bartenders from the Leaky Cauldron and the Hog's Head; the shopkeepers from Hogsmeade and store owners from Diagon Alley; members of the Weird Sisters and players from Puddlemere United and the Holyhead Harpies and the Tornados; authors he recognized from his mum's cookbooks and magazines.
And, of course, there was the expected gaggle of reporters and journalists, standing together in a pack. But by unspoken agreement, they had been shunted far off to the side, where it was hardest to see, hardest to hear.
There was a low hum in the air as the anticipated time drew near. The Hogwarts ghosts began slipping through the walls of the castle to shimmer over the lake.
Although the coffins would be buried closer to the school, near where Dumbledore's white tomb stood, the ceremony itself would take place at the edge of the lake. It glowed more vibrant than he could remember ever having seen it.
Inadvertently, his thoughts drifted back to the last time they had sat in this spot – him and Harry and Hermione and Ginny. That was the last time they'd been together, all four of them, in peace. Not talking about war or death or fighting – just being who they were, the way they used to be.
And it was so painful it was almost funny, how much he missed them – how the regrets flooded through him and the words he'd left unspoken choked him – all that time he'd wasted, never thinking it could end this way. If someone had told him, then, that in little more than a month they'd be gone, he would have laughed. He honestly would have laughed, because Harry was the goddamn hero, and heroes didn't die. Heroes always triumphed and went home to their happy endings at the end of the day, the bloodshed already behind them as they marveled over the miracles and the mistakes and the moments where it could have gone wrong.
And Ginny – Ginny was the youngest, the little girl, sheltered and treasured and made fun of, for sure, but never in danger because – well, because she simply wasn't supposed to be.
But this whole thing wasn't supposed to be – he shouldn't have been at his little sister's funeral at the age of eighteen.
It was just funny, really, a complete joke.
Funny, how he'd never – since that day on the Hogwarts Express – ever told Harry that he was the best friend a person could have asked for. Never told Harry that he was thankful for the times Harry had stuck by him, that he was proud of his courage and determination, and that he was sorry, sorry, sorry for ever being jealous and stupid and snobbish.
Funny, how he'd never – in eighteen years – ever told Ginny that he loved her. Not once, not in seriousness – his own sister. Never really thought about Ginny as a person before, never realized what sort of comfort she had been, so much a necessity to the family that without her, everything was falling apart.
He wanted to tell her that. He wished she were alive again, if just for a moment, so that he could tell her that.
I love you, Ginny.
Diversion my arse. Why'd you have to go and do that, you idiot? I love you…
And he had never told either of them that he had, for a long time – maybe from the beginning – approved of them being together.
"Ron," Hermione whispered in his ear, her voice breaking. "Ron."
He glanced at her, then realized that the ceremony had started. He turned, as everyone else already had, toward the aisle.
The Order – McGonagall, Tonks, Kingsley, Mad-Eye, Sturgis, Blackthorn, and Drake – surrounded the procession as a sort of honor guard. Their wands were lit with blazes of fiery golden light to counter the darkening sky.
Walking side by side inside the ring the Order had created, Dad carried his daughter in his arms as Remus carried Harry. It should have been hard for both of them, carrying the weight of those grown-up bodies, but it was a burden they took up with pride.
McGonagall led the way to a platform where two coffins of pure white stone had been set. Harry and Ginny were laid on top of them; the limp lifelessness of their bodies made Ron look away for a moment.
Every single one of his brothers wept bitter tears; none of them even bothered pretending that they weren't. Mum was sobbing out loud, her face buried in Percy's shoulder. Beside Ron, Hermione was crying, too, her shoulders shaking with silent, racking sobs. He slipped an arm around her waist, and she leaned in to cry against his chest.
Off to the side of the platform was a high table, covered with a white drape. Upon it stood a candle, held in a brazier shaped like a phoenix.
McGonagall came and stood behind the table. She placed her hands on the brazier, and suddenly it was lit. Its clear, strong glow illuminated her face and those around her.
The people gathered in witness, already quiet, stilled even further.
"We have come here," she began in a soft voice that somehow echoed across the lawns, "to say our last farewell to Harry James Potter and Ginevra Molly Weasley. Two extraordinary souls who stood between us and Voldemort; two great heroes who, through their will, their courage, and their grace, allowed the Light to prevail once again."
There was a brief ceremony, silently conducted by McGonagall and Remus. At the end of it, the two of them carried the candle and set it between Harry and Ginny.
Is that it? Ron wondered. But nobody seemed to be moving.
When they returned to the table, there was a new air of expectancy.
"Now let us recall their lives," Remus said.
Ron realized he'd subconsciously been expecting something like this – and dreading it. He couldn't think of anything he wanted to say. He was glad he and Hermione and his brothers were alive. He was glad Voldemort was gone. He knew – he knew – that Harry and Ginny's deaths were not too high a price to pay for all that.
But he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud.
One by one, representatives from the gathered dignitaries, staff members of Hogwarts, students, family, and friends advanced to the now-empty table to speak.
The Minister of Magic rose first, and it took what little constraint Ron had left not to stand up and walk away. What did Scrimgeour know of Harry? All he had ever wanted was to use the Boy Who Lived as a Ministry mascot.
Besides, he didn't need someone else to tell him what his best friend had been like. He'd been with the Chosen One every step of the way, closer to Harry than Scrimgeour had ever dreamt of being. He had witnessed everything firsthand, laughing through good times and slogging through the bad, and standing beside him through all the times in between.
He didn't need anyone to tell him who his sister was, either. He'd lived with her all his life, hadn't he? He knew her annoying habits down to the last detail; he could name her favorite Quidditch player and which subject she hated most; he could list every dream and ambition she'd ever had. And what did Scrimgeour know about her?
Ron blocked the Minister's growling voice out of his mind. He was only aware of his own heavy breathing, his own feelings of grief. He stared out over the lake, toward the mountains that scraped the sky, hardly focusing.
Giant and centaur delegates stepped forward after the Minister, telling the assembled crowd of Harry's unfailing, unflinching determination and courage. Krum was there – he spoke on behalf of Durmstrang, praising Harry's bravery and skill. Several of Ginny's friends came up, sharing their memories of Ginny, of how she had always been kind, passionate, funny. Oliver and Angelina recognized their diligence and talent, both on the Quidditch field and off. Neville and Luna spoke together; timidly at first, their voices gaining strength as they finished.
Others spoke, though briefly. He made no move; neither did Hermione nor the rest of his family.
Night had fallen by the time the line of people waiting to speak had dwindled. Soon, only Remus was left.
He stood behind the table, his hands inside his pockets, and stared up at the starry sky for a moment.
"What is a hero?" he asked softly.
He paused again, still looking upward.
"Someone willing to bear a burden. Someone willing to accept a duty, willing to face an obstacle. Someone who is not infallible, someone who falters like the rest of us. Someone with flaws and sorrows and regrets, who makes mistakes with greater consequences than we could ever dream of."
He sighed.
"As those of us who were with them know," he said in a quiet, slow voice, "neither Harry nor Ginny were divine. They didn't have any supernatural powers that allowed them to defeat the Dark. They were more human, I think, than most of you gathered here would believe. In fact, they were so human that sometimes I think they would have been better off if they were godly. Gods don't deal with petty things like regret and worry and fear.
"I remember Harry saying to me once that he couldn't grieve for Sirius for fear that others would see him. People looked to him for hope and deliverance, he told me, and if they saw him in a moment of weakness, it would make them uncertain and doubtful.
"It pained me to hear him talk like that, to realize that he knew of and was complying with what the world wanted of him. It wasn't fair that he had to accept a duty he had never asked for, one that even the best among us would hesitate to take on. And no one, on top of that, should be forced to bottle up their emotions like that.
"I only wish, looking back, that I could have been there for him more often, so that he had someone to lean on when everyone else was falling back on him. I wish that we hadn't let him go through so much of this fight alone."
He shrugged his shoulders slightly, shifted his feet. He sighed again before going on.
"Sometimes…sometimes I wonder what it would have been like had his story been different. What it would have been like had he been an ordinary wizard with two parents and a godfather and a place to call home, just an average boy riding the roller coaster of teenage life. So much simpler, of course, and happier; maybe a bit less eventful.
"But when I consider the various people he could have turned out to be – the twists and turns his personality could have taken – I imagine someone completely unlike the Harry I knew.
"I have no doubt that Lily, James, Sirius, and I myself would have spoiled him into a rotten little brat. Of his Hogwarts years, I can only picture a cocky, arrogant little copy of James walking around the school. I can't associate any of the nobility, compassion, or willpower of the real Harry with this privileged version of him.
"And so, while I can't say that this was the best way, I feel that it certainly wasn't the worst. I don't think any other circumstances could have produced the combination of traits in him that made him the Chosen One; that brought him this far.
"I don't think Harry ever wanted to be a hero. I don't think Ginny ever considered herself a hero. But they inspired the best in us; they brought forth strength and courage where there should have been none left. It's not that they were born with exceptional fortitude or extraordinary bravery. It's not that they were better than anyone else, for I believe we all have these qualities inside of us. What differs is the extent to which we discover and develop them.
"There are limits, of course; physical constraints, spiritual restrictions, mental boundaries. But Harry and Ginny exploited their abilities in such a way that they were able to overcome their limits. What motivated them to do this? I don't know."
He turned so that he was facing the coffins, where the light of the candle spilled out over Harry and Ginny. Ron saw a tear trickle down his cheek as he spoke again.
"My father once told me, when I was young, that there was a greater good in this world, something beyond my own life and the lives of those around me. I never quite understood that concept, or maybe I never grasped the scope of the world. I never believed that any of our actions could affect what happened elsewhere. And I never thought, at that age, that the importance of the future could outweigh the present. I never thought that you could give things up in the here and now to help people you didn't know – or ever would know – five or ten years later.
"And it is extraordinary to me that Harry and Ginny could think of this greater good and sacrifice themselves for it, for I can admit that I would still never think to do such a thing. And that, to me, is what made them heroes."
There was silence as Remus paused to let out a long breath.
"Regardless of what happened to them before," he said softly, "I know that for the past two years, they were in love with each other.
"It was the same kind of love I saw in Lily and James' eyes, and the same kind of love I myself hope to experience to the fullest someday. And I'd like to believe that their love was what saved them; love so strong that it couldn't keep them apart, not even in death. Because there was no place for him without her, and no place for her without him.
"Their lives and their deaths changed the way I think, the way I love, and the way I live. And even though I'll miss them, I know they're still both a part of me because of the change they produced in the world around them."
Remus bowed his head and stepped down from the table.
Ron closed his eyes, feeling the tears well in his eyes, and hugged Hermione tighter to him.
I know they're still both a part of me…
They truly had sent them to rest. For the first time since he had seen their bodies in the Hospital Wing, he felt at peace. The ache of their losses was still there, but it no longer felt like a wound that would never heal.
Let go.
Let go of war, and battles, and blood.
Let go.
Let go of the deaths, and keep the lives instead.
Let go.
Up Next: Part 2, of course.
This is the way you left me,
I'm not pretending.
No hope, no love, no glory
No happy ending.
This is the way that we love
Like it's forever,
Then live the rest of our life
But not together.
– Happy Ending, by Mika
Hey everyone, please review?
