AN: Read. Review. "And if perchance you should wish to cry, let your tears be your joy." - George Reme.
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She sat by his grave, a broken woman, the graceful, weeping slope of her back making other mourners turn away silently making them remember their own separate grief. No tears fell from her hidden eyes, the grief went too deep for that, so deep that it would never be gone again.
The grave was covered with expensive, haughty flowers that looked as if they didn't belong in a graveyard, but in an undusted parlor somewhere. The grass was only just beginning to lift out of the ground, a signal of the oncoming spring. The woman simply looked at the grave, not lifting her eyes as the soft rays of the sun whispered down on her back. She reached out a steady hand to touch the still-cool stone of the grave marker. Her eyes did not touch the words on the marker, only the date, a date so close to the birthdate that it was reason for mourning in itself.
She spoke, then, in a low voice, so low that passerbys would only hear the quiet murmuring flow so similar to those of thousands of other mourners. She spoke of many things, of things he had missed, of things he had experienced. She spoke not for him, but for herself.
Not many people had come to the funeral, but the relatives had, oh yes, the many respectable relatives with their stern, disapproving faces and the obligatory flowers, the short, clearly spoken speeches. They'd looked at her in disapproval as well, the woman in black with the empty eyes and the empty hands. A young man's life, summed up in disapproval.
He had died not in disgrace, and not in honor, but in a simple accident. Oh, yes, so simple. Not many mourned him, for not many liked him. Except for her. She had always been his companion. She had not approved of him, either, but she had always liked him.
She had learned to love him, as well, as time went by and little things showed her the nature beneath the bastard covering. A character to admire, a character that had went the wrong way because it wanted to. A character with stubbornness and warped nobility, a character with clumsy love and cemented pretense.
She felt the presence of a young couple beside her, and she looked up, slowly, fiercely resenting their hypocrisy in coming to a grave they wouldn't mourn. They stood together, as they always had, the way she had always been jealous of. The way that had made her run to the young man who now lay beneath six feet of living earth, his eyes closed and his heart still. The slender hands that had comforted and caressed her, the tenderly loving eyes that had shut off under another's scrutiny to form sheets of ice.
The young man above her spoke, his voice low and concerned. "How long have you been here?"
She didn't need to answer. The answer meant nothing, not to him. She was beholden to no one except those she loved, and he had killed off her love for him ruthlessly years ago, with sweet smiles and sour betrayal. Betrayal with the one who stood beside him now, her face downcast as she searched the grave marker, as if looking for answers she wouldn't find.
"Ginny -"
Oh, how easily he said her name. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to laugh loudly, but she was too tired, far too tired for dealings with her personal devil. But she mustered up energy from somewhere, energy to smile and say," Harry."
He looked down at her, those concerned green eyes. She had loved those green eyes, once.
Once.
The woman beside him stirred, as if uncomfortable. "I loved him too." She told the woman sitting by the grave, a thin hand smoothing the granite of the headstone.
She looked up again, but she had no smiles for this woman, this woman who had stolen her first love away from her, this woman who now claimed love for her true love. Her eyes were hard, her lips tight, and her hand curled fiercely around the headstone. "He didn't love you." She told her, truthfully, out of a basic need to hurt this woman who stood before her with the handsome black haired man. She would not have told her this while he was alive, but now she did. Now that he was dead.
The standing woman flinched, her hand went to her mouth. Good. The man beside her made no move to comfort her, and the concern in his eyes intensified. Good. Let them both feel pain, like she had when they had betrayed her with one another. Like she had when - her hand flexed convulsively around the headstone.
"He didn't love you." She repeated. Her lips curled into a cruel smile, for she knew that the blow she was about to deliver would hurt most of all. She was glad it was the truth, and she was glad that she could deliver it. "He didn't feel anything about you. He hated you at first." She paused, loving the pain that crossed her face, sweeping out any other emotion. "But then he felt nothing. You were nothing to him. He never thought about you." Poison spilled from her lips as easily as tears had spilled from her eyes, a long time ago. But there was truth in poison, sometimes.
She pressed her forehead to the coolness of the headstone, but she did not weep again. Her tears had been shed, and she would not weep in front of them.
He knelt by her, reaching out a hand to touch her, and she did not flinch from his touch. For the sake of the love she had once given him, she would allow him to comfort himself by saying he had done everything possible. His voice was hoarse and raw. "Ginny, you don't mean - you're not yourself."
That made her smile again. "Every bit of it is the truth." She said. She smiled venomously, eyes feverish and hot, up at the woman who still stood with hand pressed to mouth and tears brimming at her eyes. "He loved me, you know."
And then the dam of poison broke and she was left with a sort of empty wonder. "He loved me." She repeated. She could afford to be gentle again. She stood and brushed her hand against the headstone, the headstone, his headstone. She did not turn to look at the couple who stared at her, so worried. So worried, but their worry came too late. She might have embraced that worry, once, before they had betrayed her.
"Where are you going?" he asked, reaching out to touch her. She stepped away, stared out at the sky, the huge empty expanse, and felt the emptiness take her. She didn't mind. Emptiness was easier to bear -
She looked at the sky, and walked away, her head bowed and hands loosely held.
Where was she going?
She was going to him.
There was nowhere else to go.
Not for her.