Disclaimer: All ideas or characters in this fic pertaining to Hogwarts or the wizarding world in general are property of J.K. Rowling. I am not making any money and no copyright infringement was intended.
I opened the door and heard Potter start. He had heard me open it and knew someone was here. I eased the door open the rest of the way, and walked until I was about five feet behind where he was kneeling.
Potter knew it was me, he always knew. Besides, no other person could have found him here. I knew he knew it was me. My suspicions were confirmed when—
“Malfoy,” he greeted me, without turning around.
“Potter,” I said back, my voice sounding hollow and empty even to me.
“Why are you here?” he asked, still not turning towards me. “Why did you have to find me?”
I didn’t reply for a long time. Instead, I looked around and remembered. Remembered what Hogwarts was like before the war, before everything and everone had gotten killed. I saw every person who had been unjustly killed in the room with me. They were y, staring at me. I closed my eyes and saw Weasley—Ron—lying on the ground, not a mark on his body. I saw Potter weeping over the s. I saw myself, alone, as always, mournful and sorrowful.
“I knew you were here,” I finally replied. “Because you have something to tell me.”
More memories chased each other across my mind as pain warred with hatred warred with sadness.
“I do have something to tell you,” Potter agreed, finally turning around to look at me. I looked away, even though I said I wouldn’t.
I waited for him to go on. And waited. When Potter didn’t say anything for over five minutes I began to glare at him, not willing to stay here for an hour until Potter collected himself and could speak.
“Are you going to tell me?” I asked impatiently, looking up and noticing that potter’s eyes were averted too.
Then he looked at me, straight into my eyes. Jade collided with grey.
And I saw my father looking at me, though he looked nothing like Potter. We were standing in the Great Hall once again, when my father came to collect me, to swear me into the Eaters.
I rebelled, not just because I felt like it. Because I COULDN’T join the Eaters. So I replied as I always do, coolly, arrogantly and completely without emotion.
No thank you, I won’t take the Dark Mark. No, goddammit, sod off already!
I was rewarded with the Cruciatus Curse, then my father being locked in Azkaban. I was alone, not for the first time.
But then my father’s face turned back into Potter’s and I narrowed my eyes.
“Get on with it,” I growled.
Potter drew a deep breath, then exhaled.
“You want to know about her, don’t you?” he asked, then winced as if regretting his words.
I grabbed his shoulders and almost began to shake him.
“Yes, damn you, yes! You were the last person to talk to her, she must have said something. Tell me!”
Potter closed his eyes, and I did too, even though I didn’t want to. Behind my closed eyelids I saw the final scene, in this very room.
Potter was sitting there, tears pouring like rain down his cheeks. I had never seen his eyes so shot before. He had her head cradled in his lap and even then I could she that she was gone. Forever. I would never speak with her again, never.
“She did say something,” Potter went on. I knew he was going to start reciting the words, I knew he had repeated them to himself over and over since that day. “She was dying, and coughing up . I laid her down and she opened her eyes and looked up at me. She said, ‘Harry. Please, live. Don’t mourn for me, don’t cry. And don’t let anyone else cry either. Remember me, but don’t cry over me. And tell Draco I love him, and that my answer is yes’”.
I realized that there were tears on my cheeks and I hurriedly brushed them away before Potter opened his. The full impact of what had gone on, hit me, and I roughly turned away.
“Wait,” Potter said suddenly, pleading. “Do you blame me?” he asked, his voice ing.
I turned back, rage in my eyes.
“Yes. Yes, I blame you. She went and tried to defeat Voldemort by herself, doing your job. You were the one destined to kill him, Potter, not her.”
“But,” Potter began pleading. “It isn’t my fault…she was in the wrong place a the wrong time.”
“That is where you are wrong, Harry Potter,” I said, using his first name for the first time in years. “She wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong time. She went to try and save the wizarding world on her own, without any of your help. She sacrificed herself for you, and all you can think about is how bad you feel now. Potter, she died for you, and you aren’t even thanking her I the way she asked.”
“What did she ask me to do, then?” Potter asked angrily, his hands balling into fists. I could see how angry I was making him feel, and I was reopening an old wound.
“She asked you to live, Potter. Do you call this living, sitting here wallowing in self-pity? She asked you not to cry over her. What are you doing? Wailing your eyes out. Do what she asked you to, Potter. You’ll feel better.”
His only response was to push past me to the corridor beyond, never to return.
But I turned to where Potter had been kneeling when I first walked in. I walked over and kneeled down, just as he had been doing.
Kneeled down right next to a pool of . I hovered my hands above the pool of , then dropped them to the ground, right in the . I wanted her on my hands, the last part of her left on earth.
And only then did I let the tears fall freely. Only then did I let down the mask of calmness I had been wearing for the past three days. Only then did I let the tide of emotions that had been building up flow.
I cried like a child, for hours. I cried for her loss, I cried for my loss. I cried for the ignorance we reveled in, when knowledge would have saved her. I cried for Potter, all the other souls, and for myself.
And I cried for the one person out of all of us who dared face Voldemort and do the one thing every person had been terrified to do. The one thing Potter needed to do but was too scared to. The one thing that killed Voldemort but killed her to. I cried for her, my love, my now-gone Ginny.