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All He Can Do... | ||||
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Category: Post-HBP Characters:Harry/Ginny, Other Genres: Angst, General, Tragedy Warnings: None Story is Complete Rating: G Reviews: 5 Summary: It makes him fume with anger, it makes him cry in sorrow, it makes him swell with hope. And all he can do is... One-Shot Hitcount: Story Total: 4602 Author's Notes: Yeah, yeah. Nothing is mine and all that crap... Just so you know, I am working on an extended version of this for those people who said it needed more dialogue, etc. Also, a Ginny POV is coming too. I'm on a writing binge.
Oh, a kudos to The Cat Empore for the song that inspired this. |
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There was a woman, sitting, rocking in the chair by the picture window on the far side of the room - mumbling to herself, over and over. And her eyes screaming to the world “My being is gone but still I am not dead." And in the opposite corner of the room, a man sits biting into a leather belt, over and over telling his dog to behave, there’s nothing outside, it’s just the wind. And in the middle of the room the girl - the oh-so young girl, no older than 12 - banging out a constant middle C on the grand piano under the light of the skylight. She says he is brave for coming here. “I can’t, Harry. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand to remember,” she says each time he invites her to come along. It has become a ritual, these visits. It grounds him. They may have won the war, but there is a long way to come. You remind me of something I do not want to remember, people say, and they lock them away. And his eyes stream with anger. It makes him fume and all he can do is watch and make them as comfortable as possible. All he can do… He stands on the knoll over the valley - not hidden, but open to all, a basin where magical and non-magical alike can come and fill with their grief. He stands looking out over the hundreds - no, thousands - of white stone pillars, all the same. No matter they commemorate a witch, a wizard, a Muggle - God, how he hates that stupid distinction more each day. No matter they young or old. No matter what side they fought on, all the same. And he walks the endless aisles of identical standing stones, carved with simple silver plaques. Names, dates of coming and going, ages - oh the ages - all different but identical. She will come here with him and together they stand and remember. And together eyes, green and brown, stream with sorrow, as they remember them all. Victims of anger and greed and misunderstanding and lies. Forgotten and ignored because it hurts, oh how it hurts to remember. And his eyes stream with sorrow. It makes him weep and all he can do is watch and mourn. All he can do… The young girl runs around and around the garden, long red mane flowing out behind her flashing with green ribbons and sunlight. If she could just catch this butterfly, then she could she exactly what it was that made it just that shade of pink. He comes and watches them, the future of the human race. Those abandoned because people don’t want to remember, don’t want to have to explain. The orphanage is bright but not cheerful. But they play on, and grow, and his eyes stream with optimism. It is up to them now. It makes him hope and all he can do is watch and pray. All he can do… All he can do… “There must be more than this,” he says forlornly. “I must be able to do more." “ What Harry? What more can we do.” “ We could make people remember.” “ But how? They don’t want to. I don’t want to.” “ How can we learn,” he says with remarkable coolness and calm, for he has had this conversation before so many times, “if we forget?” “ The world goes on, Harry, even if it shouldn’t.” “ But so many dead, homeless, insane. How have we improved if we can not care for those who most need our help? You and I, Ginny, we are okay. We have everything we could need. My parents and theirs and yours and theirs saw to that. But what of that young girl, Ginny, who parents are gone and cannot provide” She did not respond, it felt wrong. “ We have life, and we care for those we lost. But what of all those graves, Ginny? Left untended, uncared for. How sad those that have gone on must be to look back and see no-one wants to see. And those poor people. All alone in that horrid place, that institution,” he spat the word. “They don’t need an institution to get better, they need people Gin. People.” “ You are right, as always Harry. No one should have to suffer any of that. There has been so much suffering already. Which is why…” “ Which is why people don’t want to know.” He collapsed in exhaustion. “ And why we need to show them …” Harry ears prickled. This was new; in the six years they had been having this conversation they had never got further than this. “But first I need you to show me.” And with that she kissed him. The woman rocked, and the man chewed and the girl played. And together they cried. They walked the abandoned aisles of the memorial, finding grafitti on the stone of one Elanora Bones. And together they cried. And the girl played with her friends. And together they cried. And they cried on the street corner: “Have you forgotten, you who have lost so much? Have you forgotten who you left behind? Be ashamed for you have forgotten. You have forgotten your sick and your alone and your dead!” “ But what more can we do?” would sound in reply. And Ginny would get up a scream at the top of her lungs, for all to hear, “Remember them you fools! Would you let your sister, who lives and is sane, go without a shoulder to cry on. Then why let your sister, who is mad. “ “ Would you let your brother, who lives and is alone, go without a home? Then why would you let another’s brother. Would you let you mother’s grave become a billboard? Remember them, go to them. Go to them!” And the papers take up the call, and the governments, and finally - oh finally - the people themselves. And they flood into the institutions, and they take home the children and they care for those who are gone. There was a woman, sitting, rocking in the chair by the picture window on the far side of the room - mumbling to herself, over and over. And her eyes screaming to the world “My being is gone but still I am not dead.” And a man sits beside her and together they sit, and smile, and his eyes scream to the world “Her being is gone, but I share mine with her. And we are not dead.” And in the opposite corner of the room, over and over telling his dog to behave, there’s nothing outside, it’s just the wind. And with him sits a woman, her hands in his and she cries. But she cries because she is happy, the dog may be gone but he is still here. And in the middle of the room the girl - the oh-so young girl, no older than 14 - banging out a constant middle C on the grand piano under the light of the skylight. And with her sits the maestro and together they play a beautiful song. And she looks at him and smiles. The middle C stops and without a word she takes up the harmony. She says he is brave for doing this. “I couldn’t have , Harry. I couldn’t have stood it. I couldn’t stand to remember,” she says each time she visits. It has become a ritual, these visits. It grounds him. They had won the war, and they had come so far. His eyes stream with joy. You remind me of something I do not want to remember, people say but we must remember. And they come. It makes him cry and all he can do is watch as they make them as comfortable as possible. All he can do… He stands on the knoll over the valley - not hidden, but open to all, a basin where magical and non-magical alike can come and fill with their grief. He stands looking out over the hundreds - no, thousands - of white stone pillars, all the same. No matter they commemorate a magician or not - God, it fills him with joy that the distinction means so little now. No matter they young or old. No matter what side they fought on, all the same. He walks the endless aisles of identical standing stones, carved with simple silver plaques. Names, dates of coming and going, ages - oh the ages - all different but identical. Except for the flowers. So full of life, colour on the white. They will come here with him and together they stand and remember. And together eyes, so many eyes, stream with sorrow, as they remember them all. Victims of anger and greed and misunderstanding and lies. And they mourn the futility of it all. And his eyes stream with sorrow It makes him weep and all he can do is watch as they mourn. All he can do… The young woman runs around and around the garden, long red mane flowing out behind her flashing with green ribbons and sunlight. If she could just catch this boy, then she could tell exactly what it was that made him go just that shade of pink. He comes and watches them, the future of the human race. The homes of so many. Those taken in because people don’t want to remember, but have too - don’t want to have to explain, but with hearts so full they do. And they play on, and grow, and his eyes stream with optimism. It is up to them now. It makes him hope and all he can do is watch and pray. All he can do… All he can do… Disclaimers: Harry Potter and all his bits and pieces, including friends, home and school belong to JK Rowling and Warner Bros. The quote at the top of this chapter comes from Miserere by The Cat Empire, also not mine. This is my first published fanfic so be kind! |
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