It’s so hard to move on Still loving what’s gone They say life carries on Carries on and on and on The news that truly shocks is the empty, empty page While the final rattle rocks its empty, empty cage And I can’t handle this I grieve for you
- “I Grieve” by Peter Gabriel
“Strength is born in the deep silence of long-suffering hearts, not amid joy.” “ Felicia D. Hemans
It’s been a year since the death of my father, and I still cannot help but wince when I gaze up at the clock in our living room and see the longest golden hand pointing to “deceased”. Every day is a new disappointment as I descend the stairs of the Burrow to find that his place at the dinner table is missing, and Mum is purposefully averting her eyes so that she may avoid a fresh flood of tears. Often, I force myself to get through each passing moment with a heavy heart, as the memory of my father is fresh in my mind and the pain of his loss runs deeply through my very core.
Today, as I kiss my mother on the cheek and say goodbye, her watery smile tells me that she is glad I am going, and that she will too, when she is ready. I mostly avoid her gaze, for I know that I will only see how much of the old happiness and sparkle is missing from her eyes. I look to the floor and walk out the front door.
As soon as I step outside, the icy wind rips right through me, momentarily taking my breath away. I pull my coat tightly around myself and shove my hands in my pockets as far as they can go. I’ve forgotten my gloves, but I’d rather not turn back and get them at the house, because I fear that I will loose my nerve and stay there if I do.
Fresh snow crunches beneath my feet as I continue my journey away from home and towards the road up ahead, fighting against the relentless wind. I’m heading to the cemetery, which is where my father is buried. A shiver suddenly goes down my spine; not from the bitter cold, but rather from the awful thought of my dad being buried anywhere. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to him being dead. I don’t think so.
Even though my father died a year ago today, part of me is still waiting for him to pop up one day and cry, “April Fools!” or something else just as ridiculous. I know that it’s silly of me, but I guess letting go of the man who has always been my hero and my source of strength takes some time. Some mornings, when I shuffle downstairs to have breakfast, smelling the heavenly scent of eggs and bacon, I half expect to see my father with his arms wrapped around Mum’s waist as she scrambles eggs on the stove, whispering ‘Good morning’ in her ear and kissing her lightly on the cheek until she giggles merrily and blushingly tells him to sit down and eat his breakfast.
But every morning since he died, of course, no such incident has ever happened again. Each morning that memory is gone almost as quickly as it came, and I see the familiar sight of my mother half-heartedly cooking at the stove, probably wishing the same thing as me. She’d never let on how sad she is, or how much she misses him, but I know her too well to be fooled by the delicate mask she has tried so desperately to keep on, attempting to hide the pain that now consumes her.
As I think this, a familiar burning anger churns in my stomach, and my thoughts drift to a certain blonde-haired, blue-eyed rival from my past: Draco Malfoy. The reason why I am without my father today.
It was a month before Christmas last year, when the fight against Voldemort had reached a major turning point. My dad, along with McGonagall, Lupin, Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Tonks, was sent on an important mission to kill three of the most powerful Death Eaters serving Voldemort, who were supposed to be arriving at the Malfoy Mansion that night.
Their names were Antonin Dolohov, Augustus Rookwood, and Bellatrix Lestrange. The Order had acquired information that these three Death Eaters were to create horcruxes in the near future “ therefore making Voldemort and his alliance nearly impossible to destroy before it was too late. If they were not killed now, there was no telling how long it would take to kill them later.
It was a dangerous mission, breaking into a house with five Death Eaters, but it had to be done. However, Lucius and Narcissa were not among those chosen to have a chance at near-immortality, which meant that they did not have to be killed.
Now it seems I’ve left out Draco, and not counted him as the sixth Death Eater, but I haven’t. He was on our side at the time, and still is. Why and when exactly he suddenly switched sides, I don’t know. All that I heard from the Order was that he was to be trusted now, and protected as one of our own. Easier said than done.
The rest of my knowledge is limited. The surviving five from the Order’s mission group would gladly have given me a detailed account, but I chose not to know the gruesome details of my father’s death, valiant though it apparently was. All I am aware of is that when my dad and the others broke in to the Mansion, they were surprised to find that the three Death Eaters were dueling with the Malfoys. Later knowledge indicated that the three were under the guise of staying as guests, but were really sent to create their horcruxes that night after murdering the Malfoys. Thankfully, it is too complicated a task to complete during an ambush of six other wizards, and they failed to create any horcruxes “ but succeeded in murdering Draco’s parents. Narcissa and Lucius were said to have fought bravely, but to no avail. Good riddance, I say.
Draco, meanwhile, was fighting for his life against Rookwood, and it was my dad who saw Draco under the Cruciatus Curse and ran over to help, causing Rookwood to lift the spell and hastily cast the Killing Curse instead.
The members of the Order that were on that mission all agree that he did a very brave thing, pushing Malfoy out of harm’s way. I think it was the biggest mistake of his life. The curse was not meant for my father, but for the worthless jerk he shoved aside.
My eyes tear at the thought. How I wish he wouldn’t have left us, and had instead been able to be there for Christmas last year. The sight of his empty stocking hanging limply above the fireplace and the pile of his gifts slowly growing larger as we found them under the Christmas tree almost brought me to tears last year, just as it does now.
I am not used to crying; I have gotten into the habit of holding it in, for the sake of my family. I don’t want to make things any harder than they already are. I’m Ginny, the baby of the family, yet the feistiest one of the bunch. I’m the kitten with the lion’s roar; the one who sticks up for us the most. I can’t let them down.
My mum is a broken woman, no matter how hard she tries to hold herself together and no matter how desperately I try to pick up the pieces and mend her shattered spirit. She hides it well, most of the time, and I owe it to her to do the same.
Charlie is still in Romania working with the dragons, as always. I think he’s met someone. His letters seem to hint at a relationship, and I’ve noticed he seems happier. I just hope whoever it is will keep his mind off of the loss of our dad.
I know that Fleur is helping Bill. Though sometimes still worthy of my Phlegm nickname, Fleur has continued to surprise me ever since their wedding. Her spirit is endless, and she’s one of the strongest women I know. I thought she’d be all tears at the funeral, but instead, every time I looked in her direction, she was clutching my brother’s hand with a silent reassurance, and only a few tears escaped her eyes. I’m actually glad she’s my sister-in-law.
Every day I thank God for Fred and George. Even the thought of them makes me smile. I envy their ability to keep their sense of humor even in the toughest times. They’ve stayed light-hearted and optimistic, bringing happiness back to my family when I thought I’d never see it again. I can see the grief in their eyes, sometimes, but they amaze me when their faces are full of laughter despite the pain I know they feel inside. Mum would be a basket case if it weren’t for them.
And then there’s Ron. As much as I worry about my mum, I worry about him the most. Ron seems immune to the twins’ antics, choosing to force a polite smile instead of laughing out loud with the rest of the family. He is so quiet sometimes I wonder if he’s fallen ill and lost his voice. But the only illness I know he has is grief “ it is written all over his face, so blaringly obvious that it looks as if he is close to tears every moment. Perhaps he is, though he refuses to let himself cry. Not since the funeral, at least.
I remember standing between him and Mum, clutching both of their hands tightly as my dad’s casket was lowered into the ground, where he would lay forever. It hit me then, as if someone had punched my squarely in the stomach, and I was almost winded from the impact. I could feel the lump forming in my throat, and the moisture gathering in my eyes, and no matter how hard I resisted I knew that in a matter of seconds I would be crying along with everyone else in my family.
But the sound of my brother’s sobs was like a trigger that turned off a switch in my body, making my tears dry up and the lump in my throat soften. He needed me. I turned to see his face streaming with tears that he could hold in no longer, gasping with sobs as he watched the casket get lower and lower. I dropped his hand and instead wrapped my arms firmly around his neck, holding him as he wept, saying, “Oh God, Ginny... I’m going to miss him so much...”
He hasn’t spoken of our father again since.
I’ve reached the cemetery. The air seems to have become completely still as I stare at the rows of headstones covered in a light layer of snow. I take a deep breath. I haven’t been here in a while.
His grave is near a tall tree, whose branches are now bare, reaching up at the sky like long, brittle fingers. I make my way over and crouch down so that I’m at level with the headstone, then wipe off the bits of snow stuck to the surface, revealing the thick letters carved underneath:
BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER
1951 - 2005
REST IN PEACE
My eyes instantly become clouded with tears, and the words swirl together into a blur of gray. Tears begin to fall down my face, but I choke back a sob and speak into the still morning air, desperately asking the questions that would forever remain unanswered.
“Why, Daddy? Why did you save him? Why did you have to leave us when we still need you?” I stop for a moment, collect myself, and then I whisper, “You’d be so proud of us. I know you used to worry about what would become of us if something happened to you. But Mum’s been doing well at her job at Flourish and Blotts, and the twins help her out with money so it doesn’t get too tight. We just miss you terribly. I wish we didn’t have to have another Christmas without you.”
I let the tears trickle down my face until I hear the soft crunch of snow behind me. I pause, regaining my composure and wiping my face with my gloved hand. Then I slowly turn around to face the last person I want to see at that moment.
I gaze up at a man whose cheeks are rosy from the biting wind and whose cold gray eyes seem to match the icy weather. I do not see the compassion in his features, nor the guilt that will be forever etched in his face, weighing heavily on his heart.
Instead, I see the enemy, the one who has taken my father away from me - the one who deserved to die in the first place. To me, he is a criminal, robbing me of a father whose strength I need the most.
“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” I ask coldly. I wrap my coat more tightly around my body as I begin to shiver.
He seems indifferent to my biting tone, or perhaps nothing else I can say anymore would do much harm. After all, the funeral was only a year ago.
The shock of seeing him that day had been like a slap in the face, and my indignation had caused me to pull him aside after the burial. My words came out in a flood of anger as I told him that I wish he could have be the one inside the coffin, and if it had been, I would have spit on it. That was when Charlie realized what was happening and dragged me away, telling me to let it go and leave him alone.
But Malfoy merely sighs. “I’m paying my respects,” he answers quietly. He is not looking at me; his eyes are on my father’s tombstone, searching for a sense of relief that would never come.
My eyes narrow. “As if a Malfoy would ever have respect for my father.”
Draco looks at me. “He saved my life, it’s the least I can do.”
“The least you can do is go away and leave me in peace,” I respond harshly, turning back to the headstone. The knees of my pants are soaked through with snow as I kneel on the ground, and my hands are nearly numb from the cold, but I refuse to leave until Malfoy has gone first. I am fighting a small battle that I do not intend to lose.
But he is far from surrendering. Instead of walking away, Malfoy walks up to the grave where I sit. As I stare determinedly at my father’s granite headstone, tears in my eyes, he bends down and lays a rose on the snow in front of us. It’s red, and its petals stand out boldly against the stark white ground. I almost gasp at the sight, shocked to see him make such a gesture, but that surprise is almost immediately replaced with a burning anger at his next words.
“I understand what you’re going through. I lost my father, too,” Malfoy says softly.
I stand up, feeling the anger well up inside of me until I feel I will burst. “Your father died a Death Eater! You don’t know anything about what I’m going through,” I say through clenched teeth.
“I’m only trying to help---“
I spin around and glare at him furiously. “You know what would have helped, Malfoy? If you had died in the first place!”
I can instantly see the hurt in his eyes, though I choose to ignore it. Malfoy sighs. “Ginny,” he begins, reaching out and touching my arm lightly. “I didn’t mean to---“
“Get off of me!” I yell, and I loose control, swinging my arm back and hitting him as hard as I can. My hand connects with the side of his face, leaving a deep red mark on his cheek. He actually takes a step backwards, momentarily thrown off balance. And I stand here, watching his face turn from hurt to shock and back to hurt again, feeling no sympathy as I clench my shaking fists.
“My father didn’t deserve to be killed!” I scream at him. “He never did! What makes you any better than him?! Why do you get to be okay and my father had to die?”
Malfoy blinks. Looks down at the ground. Takes a deep breath and makes eye contact with me again.
I glare at him. “I hate you, Malfoy. It’s your fault! I just want to be happy again, but I can’t when I think about him every day,” I say, dropping to my knees. “It hurts too much. I miss him every minute that goes by. I don’t know if I can do it anymore.” My voice cracks and I let the tears fall freely down my face as I hug myself tightly, struggling to keep myself from breaking down completely.
I hear Malfoy kneel down in front of me. When he starts to wrap his arms around me, I instinctively pull back, but he persists, and I find myself too drained to fight him any more. He hugs me tightly against him, and my tears soak the front of his jacket as he holds me. “I’m sorry,” I hear him whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
I forget about holding myself together for my family, and being the strong, self-controlled one. In a matter of seconds, I allow myself to cry, really cry, for the first time in a long time. I’m not thinking about the part he played in my father’s death, or the boy I knew back in school. I’m allowing myself to be comforted by one of the only people that have been able to do so since I lost my dad.
Soon, I have no more tears left. I’m so tired that I do nothing when he wipes my tear-streaked face with his thumb, and I merely watch as he stands up and rests his hand on my father’s tombstone. He closes his eyes, and I see a single tear fall from his eye before he turns around and walks away.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
The letter came a few months later, sent by owl and addressed to my mother. She sank into a chair when she read it, shocked into silence at the news of what had become of the man who the love of her live had sacrificed his life for. I rushed over in alarm, peering over her shoulder and reading with wide eyes.
Malfoy had been diagnosed with a terminal disease a few months ago, but had refused all treatment. He passed away quietly the morning before and would be buried at the same cemetery where my father was. My family and I had attended the funeral; a small gathering, for Malfoy had been disowned from his family once they learned of his true loyalties. I shed no tears, but inside, I was overcome with grief and regret that I had never realized Malfoy’s amazing strength until it was too late.
I came back to his grave just a few weeks later. The marble headstone was freshly polished, and I could see my reflection in its glossy surface. I knelt down in the grass and traced my fingers lightly around his name. An image of his face flashed through my mind, his cheek red from where I had slapped him and his eyes wide in astonishment. I swallowed, finally ready to say the words that I should have said a long time ago.
“I forgive you.”
A few minutes later I got up and walked away, leaving behind my bitterness, my anger, and a singe red rose.