Chapter Twenty-Nine

Disclaimer: None of this belongs to us.

The hall seemed eerily quiet compared to the screams, shouts, and sobs of battle. People grieving, healing, and resting.

She would not forget this, she knew. She could not forget this.

How everything was well—until it wasn't. She would promise that she was not to forget anything. If she did, the deaths of those she loved would have been in vain. Her children would be told the same horrible story, and their children would be, and so forth.

They would not forget, she vowed.

They will not be forgotten.

She will remember—the memory of Harry Potter, limp in Rubeus Hagrid's arms, burned into her mind.

Blood, scars, and death.

It will never be forgotten.

They will never have to know what it took to build this world, but they will never forget, and the Battle of Hogwarts, 1998, will never fade.

This will be their story to tell—this story of hatred, revenge, and death. It is a story of power, skill, and determination. Of loyalty, hope, and love. It is a story that they will tell, with every gory detail, deathly mind, and broken dreams. They will learn of everything that was put to risk, played out on the field, and they will know how much it cost. They will know that it cost too much, and those that paid the price will never be forgotten. None of it ever will.

This will be their story to keep alive, and this will be the story they must keep alive—if it dies, the cost paid will too, and people will have died for nothing.

They must remember.

She pushed her way to the middle of the crowd, almost subconsciously, and the crowd parted for her.

In the centre of it all was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.

He was scarred, splattered with blood, and weariness seemed to radiate off of him.

Like the rest of them, too much of them.

Witches and wizards all around were hushed, watching. Ginny's mouth opened, the name on her tongue, but the moment he turned, fixing those bright green tired eyes on hers, the words stuck and refused to come. She stood, frozen, suddenly acutely aware of her mud-and-twig riddled hair, her rumpled and torn clothes.

She had not seen those eyes for a long time. She had not seen him—truly seen him—for a very long time.

Not since that kiss, the one in her small bedroom she called home, with a broken relationship on the tip of his tongue, and proud eyes.

And then Harry said, "Ginny?" and all of a sudden she was stepping closer, her body moving without her mind's command, and in another second Harry was doing the same, and they found themselves in each other's arms.

It felt like home. It felt like peace.

She didn't know when or how, but she found herself burying her face in his chest, her eyes squeezed shut and leaking tears onto his shirt.

His hand rested on her head, gently combing, untangling, playing with her hair.

"Harry," she whispered. "Harry."

"Ginny," Harry mumbled into her ear, and Ginny clung on tighter, instinct taking over and evaporating her pride. She was exhausted, she finally realised. Her eyelids were heavy and her limbs felt like wood, and all she wanted to do was to disappear into Harry's arms and stay there.

They were surrounded by battered and bruised teenagers who have just fought in a war, killed people, seen others killed. The air was tinted with the sharp copper sting of blood, and the cries and shouts still lingered. But through it all, Harry still held Ginny tight, and this was their home. This was their hope. Their constant, bridging them between two worlds. As their lips met, and as her hands were in his hair, and his on her back, she let herself go.

Their mouths crashed, and Ginny couldn't get enough—of Harry, of peace, of love.

Of their constant.

When they pulled apart, she let herself remain in his comforting arms, and for a moment, she let herself believe it was worth it all.

"Miss. Weasley," Professor McGonagall said, giving her a polite nod.

"Professor," she replied, and gave her a quick look over—had her professor made it out alright?

Her robes were torn and tattered, as they all were, and a long gash had been cut into her cheek. As she walked closer to Ginny, she noticed that she was limping. Badly.

"Are you alright?" she questioned again, reaching an arm out, grabbing McGonagall by the shoulder.

"Fine, fine." She paused. "Grab that book, please," she said, her voice flat, pointing at a textbook sitting beside a lone stretcher. Ginny nodded, and grabbed it quickly.

She watched as her professor nearly collapsed onto the ground, and swallowed.

She couldn't be that hurt, could she?

"What would you like me to do?" she asked, as McGonagall pulled down her collar, showing a large, purplish bruise from jawline to shoulder. Ginny gasped, and the professor winced.

"Open the book please, and you should be able to flip to the fourth chapter—fixing bones," she said, and Ginny felt like she was in transfiguration class again. She rushed through the pages, and true to McGonagall's words, the pages bore intensive paragraphs on mending human bones.

Professor McGonagall glanced down, and pointed to the middle of the page.

"This one should do," she said, her voice calm, as though she hadn't just instructed a student, one with barely any study in the healing department, on how to fix her collarbone. Anything could go wrong; in fact, it had a relatively high chance of going wrong.

"Are you sure Professor? Shouldn't you be seeing a healer for this?" she shakily replied.

"There are those who need much more medical than I do, and I have full confidence of your abilities."

Ginny raised her wand, her hand wavering.

"Brackium Emendo," she said, loudly and clearly, and the professor relaxed significantly as the large bruise disappeared. She rolled her shoulder, rubbing a hand over it, and a small sigh came from her lips.

"Thank you, Miss. Weasley," she said earnestly. "Thank you, for everything."

Ginny suddenly felt very awkward—what was she supposed to say to that?

"No problem Professor. Glad you made it out," she joked, flashing her a smile. Professor McGonagall gave a small laugh, and it sounded like she meant it.

"I'm glad you made it out, Miss. Weasley," she said, this time seriously. Then, she got up, and walked into the crowd.

Ginny gave a small smile, and waved a hand at her retreating figure, and although her professor could not hear her now:

"Thank you."

"Ginny!"

Turning around, Ginny saw Padma rushing towards her.

"Hey, Padma," she said casually.

Slowing to a walk on her final steps towards her, Padma put her hands on her knees and looked up at Ginny. "I need to tell you something," she said, the words clambering, rushing out.

Ginny cocked her head. "Alright."

Padma opened her mouth—and then looked away. She bit her lip and lowered her eyes.

Ginny felt the slightest bit of worry rise in her. "What's up?" she asked dubiously.

"That… the Slytherin who joined D.A," Padma answered, haltingly. "Started with an L, Loran or—"

"Logan," finished Ginny immediately. She leaned closer, eyes wide. She felt her heart beginning to beat faster. "What about him? Where is he?"

Padma suddenly stopped. She stumbled back and raised a hand to her mouth. She turned away. "I…"

Ginny closed the space between them again. "Tell me," she demanded. "What happened to Logan?"

After a long pause, Padma looked into Ginny's eyes, and they were full of tears. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

Ginny's heart was pounding. "How? Where?" she stammered.

Padma blanched.

"Tell me!" she yelled, shaking Padma by the shoulders. Padma's eyes widened even more, and her bottom lip quivered. Ginny hesitated, then sighed. "I'm sorry—I just—"

Padma nodded, and took a deep breath, seemed to steel herself.

"He—" Padma put her face in her hands. "Rabastan had his wand aimed at you, Ginny! When you were with Elizabeth, and Logan saw and ran and—" She gulped. "I'm sorry, Ginny, I'm so sorry. I know that you were close friends—"

But the rest of her words were lost.

Ginny's head was spinning and the world seemed to be turning around and around. Logan? Why would he…

He betrayed you, hissed a voice in her ear. He stabbed you in the back. You should be happy he's dead.

But he died for her? He ratted her out, and then gave his life for her's? Somehow, that made it much, much worse.

Logan had died for her, she thought, the truth sinking in.

She pressed her fingers into her eyes, hard, tried to block out her thoughts, that voice in her head, nagging and mocking, but, now, about something different: you did this, you did this to Logan and he's dead because of you and it's all your fault—

"No!"

There must be something missing. Padma saw someone else, that's all. Or, or—it was all an elaborate ruse, both Rabastan and Logan playing the game with Ginny. Or…

It could be a million other reasons. Logan simply could not have died for her.

Ginny spun around and ran.

It was all a blur, people and hallway walls, and then a pair of doors, and then she was outside the castle and running, running, running across the bridge, to the entrance of the Forbidden Forest.

There were no bodies, she knew. They had been all retrieved by the students and professors alike, for the families and the graves. She cast her gaze to where she and Elizabeth had been, and an echo of a memory flickered in her mind. Elizabeth, trembling in her arms—then there had been a strangled yell to her side.

But the rest was lost to panic, fear, and desperation.

She inhaled sharply, turned on one heel, and dashed back, running running running, and her mind didn't catch up with what his body was doing until she caught the glimpse of messy black hair, one person surrounded by dozens.

"Harry!"

Harry turned.

"I need a favour," Ginny said.

Harry tilted his head with furrowed brows. "What kind of favour?"

Ginny took a deep breath and raised her head. "I need to borrow the Resurrection Stone."

There it was, the millisecond after Ginny spoke, that flash of panic on Harry's face.

"I don't have it," he said slowly, and looked at Ginny with a blank look.

He was lying.

"How do you even know about it anyways?" Harry questioned, and Ginny looked down at the ground in embarrassment.

"Hermione," she mumbled, and Harry ran a hand through his hair, giving a loud sigh.

"I lost it—dropped it really. I don't know where it is," he said, and she thought his voice tremble a bit.

"You're lying." The conviction was strong, and Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and bit his lip.

"You're right," he began. "I have it. But I wish I didn't."

"I know what you're going to say," Ginny pleaded, "but trust me. I know, speaking to the dead doesn't help, it doesn't work, it will only make it worse—but I need to know something," she rambled. "Closure, something." Her voice started to shake. "Please, Harry," she begged, and Harry gave in.

He reached into his pocket. "I need it right back—it is powerful, and will harm you." Ginny nodded and Harry dropped a small, heavy stone into her open hand. "I don't suppose I can ask you what you're going to do with it?"

Ginny shook her head, and gave him a sad, slightly bitter smile.

"Thank you," she said. "Truly."

Harry gave her a sad look.

The evening air was brisk and cold on her face and a flurry of leaves swirled through the air. The ground squished beneath her shoes, and the trees towered over her, sending down an ominous glare.

An unmarked grave, but she knew its place.

This was it.

She took a deep breath and turned the stone thrice in her hand.

Each turn of the stone felt like changing the world.

There was a whisper of breath, the air fluttering around her, a sudden chill.

A boy with tousled blond hair and blue-grey eyes shimmered into view.

His clothes were tattered and torn, and he looked as though he had just been through battle.

So you live in death with what you die in, Ginny thought, and she had to stop the urge to give a small laugh.

They stood in silence for a moment. Logan looked at Ginny with an unreadable face. Ginny stared back, mouth open. The words had clambered in her mind on her way to the graveyard, but now, they seemed to get stuck in her throat.

She gulped, and was about to speak, until Logan beat her to it.

"It was Rabastan," Logan spoke up first. "He had my parents, Ginny, I swear."

"Your parents," Ginny repeated. She imagined her eyes the size of saucers.

"Yes. He captured them. He forced me to take you and Elizabeth, he said he'd kill them—" his voice broke, and Logan let out a sardonic laugh. "He did, anyways, even after I did everything he told me to."

"Oh, Logan…" Ginny put a hand over her mouth.

"It was him," Logan continued, almost babbling, "it was him, it was all him—he killed my parents and he—" Logan choked—"my mother, he—" he shook his head violently, unable to continue. "He tipped off the Carrows about you leaving Hogwarts with your mother—"

"Him?" Ginny fought to understand the onslaught of new information flying her way. "It was him," she whispered.

"Rabastan," Logan confirmed, his head low.

Ginny wanted to scream, to kick, to curse and vow to kill Rabastan Lestrange on the spot. But when she searched inside her, all she found was exhaustion. A bitter, heady emptiness where rage had once been. She was so very tired.

"I was so stupid," Logan spat, "I believed he would let them go. I stabbed you in the back just for that little bit of hope that turned out to be a lie." He looked back up, and there were tears in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, forgive me, please, I didn't know."

"Don't be." Ginny took another step closer, a hand reaching out, almost on the other's shoulder but knowing that, even if it was, it would not touch. It would pass through, for they were in different worlds, and he would not be joining her's, and Ginny would not be joining his, not for a very long time. "I would've done the same. Anyone would've done the same. I forgive you. Of course I forgive you."

Logan blinked at her, and then his shoulders drooped, the tension seeping away. He swayed in the summer air. "Oh," he breathed out. "Thank you."

"I think I should be the one saying that." Ginny remembered the reason behind her visit. "Padma told me, she said she saw you…"

Logan nodded in affirmation. "You should have seen Rabastan's face. It was the most I could do." He smirked a bit.

But Ginny couldn't laugh. "I'm so sorry, Logan." And now she was the one rambling on, not even knowing precisely the thing she was apologising for: "You shouldn't have, I'm sorry, your parents, I didn't know—"

"It's alright," Logan cut in. "I'm with them now."

Ginny looked closer. Logan had a smile on his face, and his eyes were soft and so bright they seemed to shine out from the rest of his body. He was happy, Ginny realised, happier than she had ever seen him, and in an instant she felt something rising in her, she couldn't quite fathom what it was, but it was surging up and it overflowed. Jealously, she realised. Jealous—she was jealous.

"But you're dead!" burst out of her. "You're dead!"

Logan raised an eyebrow. "I am well aware of that," he said coolly.

Ginny wrung her hands. "How can you be so calm about this? I—I treated you so horribly, I'm sorry, I didn't know, and you jumped in front of a spell for me! You died for me!"

"Well." Logan shrugged. "It's okay now. I'm reunited with my parents. You forgive me. I saved a life." The corner of his lip turned up. "I think I'm satisfied."

Ginny was quiet.

How could she respond to that?

To any of this?

"I have to go," Logan suddenly said. "It's dangerous to raise the dead for so long. To speak to them. To be with them." He looked reluctant, but determined. "Do not summon me again, Ginny. It will only make it worse."

Nodding, Ginny looked down at the stone in her hand, and then back up.

"Thank you, Logan. Thank you," Ginny said quietly. "Goodbye."

Logan smiled. "Goodbye, Ginny."

Edges hazy, colours fading—Logan forever disappeared from view.

Ginny stood at the graveyard of hundreds lost, all died for Hogwarts. Slipping the stone back into her pocket, she turned and walked away from it all.

Rabastan Lestrange,

I will keep this short, not in the fear of wasting your time, but in that of wasting mine. I will not let you take up any more of my life. I hope you are enjoying life in Azkaban, and that this will reach you well.

You captured the parents or Logan Erudia. For what? To watch him become a traitor? You killed his parents, even after he did what you asked. What satisfaction is there in knowing you have broken a promise?

You think you won, don't you? That you've successfully gone through with your plan, that you're superior? You're wrong.

Logan loves his parents, so much so that he would follow your orders to the word. I bet his parents begged you not to hurt him. Logan loves, and he is loved. You? You have nothing. No one loves you, and you resort to these disgusting acts just so you feel worthy of something. You aren't.

I won't bother naming every single horrible thing you have done. We would need a lot more paper. What you have done, to yourself, to others—I can only shake my head in pity. You have admirable power, strength, and skill. You could've had it all. But yet you threw it all away, again and again. And for that, I'm very, very sorry.

To a better life,

Ginny.

(Do not pity the dead. Pity the living, and most of all, pity those who live without love.)

Ten years later

She was in a large, large room. The ceiling towered above her, and banners were strewn across the walls, green and black, emblazoned with a beautiful, elegant "M." Malfoy, she thought. The windows outside revealed a tall fountain, spewing water.

Familiar—but not quite. Her hands were not bound, but free; and in the middle of the room:

"Well, well," said a voice, sickening sweet. "Look who it is."

A face she hadn't seen in years.

Amycus Carrow sat bound to a chair. His lips curled in a menacing snarl.

Her legs seemed to move on their own accord, and within seconds Ginny found herself a mere few feet away from the other. There was a dagger on the floor, she noticed.

A table sat beside it

She tilted her head. "This is quite interesting," she mused.

Amycus threw back his head and barked out a laugh. "Look at you," he mocked, "Older, are you, now? Ha! No more smarter, that's for sure. You wanted to fight, didn't you? You didn't help, you idiot, you killed Logan and hurt Elizabeth. You lied to your mother. You're pathetic, yo—"

Without thinking, Ginny reached out and slapped Amycus straight across the face.

A stinging resistance pained through her hand, but the feeling of a little revenge was to be relished.

Amycus seemed stunned for a moment, and then he laughed again. "Pathetic," he repeated, sing-song. "Stupid, stupid girl."

I'm not a girl, Ginny thought. I'm not fifteen anymore, headstrong and scared.

Ginny bent over and picked up the knife. "Don't make me use this," she said quietly. The weapon felt powerful in her hand. Made her feel in control—of someone's life, someone's fate.

The handle rubbed against her palm, the feeling foreign.

Amycus sneered.

"Go ahead, you stupid girl," he spat, spittle landing on her shirt and onto the floor.

And something snapped. Ginny felt herself grin, impossibly wide.

"Oh, I will," she murmured, and raised the dagger, slowly pressing the tip against the prisoner's chin.

The skin grew pale with the pressure and Ginny pushed further, watching the blade dig in, to the point of breaking the barrier, letting out red, red, blood, almost, almost—

The realisation struck her so fast, so hard, it shattered her vision and roared in her ears, blindingly powerful and utterly devastating.

Ginny let out a single, broken cry. The knife dropped to the floor with a loud clatter, nearly hitting the table.

Clambering, staggering, stumbling away from the bound victim, Ginny raised a hand to her mouth. Her eyes burned and tears leaked out.

A flash, a memory, a recollection: for a split second, Ginny saw herself. Standing with a dagger to a man's neck, maniacal grin stretching her face.

She saw herself, and in that moment, she had been Amycus Carrow.

A sob escaping from trembling lips, Ginny turned around, meeting a pair of open doors, and she fled.

Her body gave a lurch, a sudden, abrupt jerk, into sharp, painful awareness.

Ginny gasped, eyelids fluttering, pulse thrumming in her ears. Her hands were gripping the edge of the duvet, white-knuckled and deathly tight.

Something stirred to her right.

"Ginny?" came a sleep-scratched voice. "You alright?"

Her breathing gradually coming down to a more normal pace, Ginny watched her fingers unfurl around the blanket, leaving a wrinkled edge.

"Yeah," she muttered. "M'alright. Just… bad dream."

There was only a humming noise in response. They both understood.

Ginny ran her thoughts through the scenario of which her subconscious had decided to dream up—ten years after the events that evidently lead to it.

Turning around so she was facing the other, Ginny could make out a faint outline of a face, tracings of his features. "Harry?" she asked quietly.

"Mm-hmm?"

"Do you—" Ginny swallowed, "Do you think, if you could—if you were—if you had the same powers as Voldemort, would you. Would you do… the same as he did?"

"Ginny." Harry's voice was still hushed, but urgent, tinged with alarm. "Would I be like him, you're asking?" His voice became harder, more fierce. "Would I kill an innocent little boy's parents just because I wanted to live longer? Would I do that?"

Ginny flinched and recoiled.

"Oh, Merlin, I didn't," she stammered, "I didn't mean it like—"

She bit her lip.

There was a pause, and then a sigh.

"I know. I'm sorry. It's just, don't ever think like that. Voldemort had great power, and he abused it. He could've made a brilliant wizard, but he chose to turn to evil. He made a lot choices in his life, and I did too. Our choices took us different places—not our powers."

"I know," Ginny whispered. "I'm sorry."

Harry's eyes flickered up to meet hers: adjusted to the darkness by now, they were bright green and luminous, reflecting the thin sliver of moonlight that streaked through the crack in the curtains. His hair was mussed, falling down over his face, but Ginny could imagine, very nearly see, the pale lightning-bolt scar.

"You're alright?" he asked again, but softly, almost like an afterthought.

Ginny nodded. "Yeah," she responded once more. "I'm alright."

She hadn't been alright for a while, but yes. Ginny was alright. In this instant, Ginny was happy.

Smiling, Harry leaned in and gently kissed her, before closing his eyes, his breaths slowing and steadying.

Ginny held still for a moment, and then she turned around and went back to sleep.

(We've all got light and dark inside of us. What matters is the part you choose to act on: that's who we really are.)

Author's Notes:

Over 100 000 words, nearly 30 chapters, and a year and a half later, we're finally at the end. I would just like to say thank you, to all the amazing readers we have gotten over the months: the ones who leave reviews, the ones who just drop a follow or favourite, and those that just read. Thank you to all of you, and you have made this journey every bit worth the while. I'm terribly sorry for the late updates, but this is the last one. Thank you, to our readers for sticking with Ginny, and with us.

Signing off for the last time,

Zigostia (Bonnie & Michelle)