MetaFic

She runs her hand across its marked and scarred surface and remembers. Each scratch, each a stain a memory, a reminder of the time they have had together. The longest and deepest is covered by a Glamour; made by the belt on her jeans which, although they had been quickly discarded, still got caught up in their passion. Her trembling arthritic finger traces the scratch’s hidden path across the dark wooden surface. She knows each twist and turn as well as she knows the bumps ridges of the scar on his forehead.

The sights and sounds of past conversations, of laughter and of tears have gone and only a mournful silence remains. She longs to shout out; to rage at life for taking him first but everyone is waiting for her outside and she is determined to see this through without breaking down.

She can still see him sitting across from her, his bleary sleep filled eyes wide with wonder as she told him about the new life that was growing inside her. Her mind switches to their arguments as they’d tried to squeeze the table into their staff quarters at Hogwarts having failed to persuade the castle to expand the space they had been allocated. They had argued, they had fought, but most of all they had loved.

At it, they had entertained young and old, rich and poor, famous wizards and witches and everyday folk. But the treasured moments had been with family. Here they had sat and admired the messy paintings of their three children, helped with Junior School homework, and sympathised with summer homework. Here too Hedwig and their other family owls Apollos, Priscilla and Aquila had delivered good news and bad.

Last night she had sat and wept through the memories, the loss too great for her to bear even though she had known that this day was coming. She looked again over to the place where he always sat and forced the tears from her eyes. A few short days ago they had had one last meal together. He had been propped up in his chair, held there by a charm as she spooned the food into his slack mouth. Then, she had held back the tears hoping his unfocused eyes wouldn’t notice but now, even though she’d promised herself she had cried enough, she is overwhelmed by her grief.

She stands quickly, angry that she has allowed her sorrow to overwhelm her again, telling herself that she must be strong for the sake of the children. She shakes her long white hair free of the slide that has been restraining it. He always loved to see her hair flowing free in the wind and today she will not disappoint him. It flows down her back, its pure white, vivid against her obsidian black robes.

She will wear no veil whatever tradition requires. Her family and friends will see her face for the last time before she leaves them. No, she will not throw herself on the funeral pyre as some fear, but her life will end when her husband is cremated. This jar of clay, this earthly vessel, this shell that is Ginny Potter that has been sustained well past her three score years and ten by her magic and his love, will fade and die returning to the earth whence it came.

The door opens and her eldest beckons her.

“Its time,” he says simply. His eyes are red rimmed and she smiles sympathetically at him, thankful to be distracted by her role as a mother.

She nods and bends down kissing Harry’s lips for the last time. They are cold and grey, devoid of the life and passion that made her quiver and moan, but she is not disappointed. She knows that he has gone and that she will be reunited with him soon.