Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.


THE SONG OF SOLOMON

Chapter13: The Passing

One would have thought that Draco Malfoy exacted his revenge by murdering Ginny Weasley, but Neville Longbottom disagreed.

Harry Potter was the one he murdered.

True, Neville was planting white roses around her tombstone, kneeling on the soil after he had placed the seedling of a holly tree by her grave. Yet Ginny had died in peace, her soul contented, her heart grateful for the time to say goodbye before her final drift into oblivion.

Neville wiped off the sweat on his forehead, and stole a glance at the shell of a man he had known and respected for decades.

Harry sat slouched in an empty chair that had been arranged for the funeral, his dull and diffused eyes staring at something nobody else could see. Over the past months his hair had turned completely white, the familiar tousle giving way to a lifeless mass that fell with disquieting neatness. Even through the warm fabric, suited for early April, one could tell the body beneath had reduced to nothing but skin and bones.

Neville thought of calling him, of sharing some lighthearted stories from Hogwarts to distract the man from his pain, but the guests would arrive soon and Harry deserved a moment of peace.

Thus he bit his lips and channeled his energy to the delicate lives blossoming in front of him. He looked into the skies, wondering whether it was necessary to irrigate the plants; the blue was half concealed by clouds but a storm did not seem to be in sight.

From the distance came fragmented syllables of loud chatter, drawing his vision towards the other side of the graveyard. The first arrivals looked unfamiliar, their gestures rude and intrusive against the peaceful swaying of grass and branches on the trees. Large black boxes hovered above their shoulders, monsters with large circular eyes that glared towards them.

Neville frowned, and gently pulled on the hem of Harry's robe.

Harry woke from his trance, his face nonetheless blank with confusion.

Neville rose, stretching his straight and tall frame after a brief pat on his dirt stained knees. His hand rounded on Harry's shoulders, pulling and supporting his friend as the latter stood.

He led Harry towards the direction away from the journalists, up the slope but not knowing where exactly they were headed. He could feel the frailty of the life leaning against him, feeding only on the strength brought by the breeze, and decided to preserve its energy by keeping silent.

The winding road soon descended towards the other side of the graveyard.

It was like a different world. Gone were the plain tombstones surrounded by meadows and trees; instead, a jungle of marble stood, of magnificent statues of angels and dignified busts of the departed. Its long shadows obscured the grounds from sunlight, and despite the grandeur of the monuments Neville could see long yellow weeds strewn at the foundation of most of them. He read the surnames of the deceased. Flint. Gamp. Rosier. Crouch. The ancient pureblood families.

He felt a tug on his sleeve. Harry was nodding towards a newly interred tomb a few meters away, a weak but unmistakable glint in the green of his eyes. Neville smiled at his friend's adventurous spirit, and moved his arms to help him forward.

As they drew near to the destination, the names engraved on the marble became increasingly familiar. He looked away from the tomb of Bellatrix Lestrange, telling himself that his hatred for her was buried along with the body, that his role in the world was to cultivate the living, as so many, present company included, had done for him.

Neville's heart froze at the sight of the first Malfoy grave. He instantly regretted bringing Harry here, but it was too late; he could already smell the damp and raw scent of freshly turned soil. Harry was walking almost on his own now, his lips quivering, his white hair fluttering in the wind as magic re-infused his senses. He seemed to know what was awaiting his presence just steps away.

A simple slab of marble rested on the soil. The white stone was accentuated by a slash of grey that ran vertically down its center, mercilessly stripping it of purity; yet, the slender line seemed so fragile that Neville could almost envision the next rain washing it all away. There was no statue, no delicate bas-relief, only three simple lines of inscription adorned the surface.

Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Beloved Father, Husband and Son.

5th June, 1980 to 15th November, 2050.

Harry, who had reached the tombstone ahead of him, had collapsed in front of the marble, his hand outstretched to touch the engraved words. Neville had expected loathing and vengeance in his gaze, he could found none; instead, the eyes were wide with comprehension, sifting through the torrents of guilt and sorrow. Crouching on the soil to press his warmth against the other man, Neville realized the fingers on the marble were not tracing the name, but rather, the month of loss.

A gasp escaped from his throat before he could stop himself; for the first time in the day, Harry looked at him, the corner of his mouth lifted slightly as if attempting a smile.

Then he turned back to face forward. The eyes behind the spectacles shut slowly, as if exhausted by the weight of what they had seen. As the lashes shuttered closed, two sparkling drops leapt down the weathered face. Tears that were held back in the frantic attempts to locate Malfoy in early winter, that evaporated at St. Mungo's on Christmas day when his magical outburst from furiously shattering the empty Snitch against the window permanently damaged the Atmospheric Charm; the brine that went swallowed between the words of farewell to Ginny, that evanesced in the drunken haze among the depths of winter when all he could mutter were the words promise and traitor; that, in the month that followed and up to this moment, remained frozen in the stillness of his withdrawal.

As Harry rested his head against the stone and cried to his heart's desire, Neville retrieved his wand and tended to the trees and grass around them. The weeds were charmed away from the perimeters, the earth below watered with a silent Aguamenti. Rays of sun bounced on the pools of water that had gathered like rain on the grounds, their refractions painting with faint strokes of colors the warm vapors that softened the harsh profile of the limestone and the deep creases on Harry's face.

Satisfied with what he saw, Neville settled beside his friend. He realized that while those living warranted cultivation, those who had passed on deserved remembrance, no matter how sweet or bitter the memories were; for ultimately, they justified why life was worth living in the first place.

He then did what he could do best.

He waited.