Piacular: expiatory; atoning; reparatory
February 8, 1999
They walked side-by-side along the winding lane. Orange dawn crept over the snow-covered fields. A lonely tree stood here or there, snow dripping in glittering drops from its bare branches under the glow of coming day. Little farm houses burnt red and brown and orange in the dawn light stood still nestled and sleeping against the colored sky. Patches of mud where the snow was already receding speckled the sides of the road and a small winter bird hopped here and there, looking for their breakfast. Above their heads, a handful of shimmery morning stars still twinkled red and blue and gold, like a handful of glitter had been tossed into the heavens.
At first they didn't touch, slipping out of the house one after the other, the boy shuffling along with his hands thrust in his pockets and dark head bent, the girl stepping lightly along the frosty, rutted road, long hair glowing coppery in the orange light. There was a careful distance, small, but still present, between them as they breathed in the sweet, cold, morning air and listened to the hushed calm of the country in winter.
Then, as they rounded a curve and the road started to run along the flooding river, one of them would reach out into the cold and slip a hand into the other's. Their breaths rose in foggy swirls, but they did not break the peaceful silence. And by the time they returned to the crooked old farmhouse with its red roof and its pile of old wellington boots, and its chickens pecking in the yard, their arms were around each other, helping to drive out the cold.
Every day since Christmas morning they partook of this quiet ritual. Nothing needed to be said, for a solemn apology was understood between them. He for his leaving, and she for her withdrawing. The rest of the day they would laugh and smile and sneak brushes of the lips, but first they must walk to the river and back again.
And each day as the snow melted, receded just a little bit more, so too would the equally terrible and separate memories they both carried inside of them. Each morning they faced the new dawn together.
A/N: Every story of Harry and Ginny is a little different. I don't imagine them getting together again right away after the war. There's too much… there, I think. But by Christmas I think they've started to sort it out. Maybe I'll find a snapshot for the first Christmas Eve after the war…. It's all in my head, it just needs to be written.
Anyway, thank you so much to those who review! Especially the anonymous ones who I can't respond to directly. Your words are wonderful! :)