An Ending to Destiny

An Ending to Destiny

Harry knelt on the wet ground in front of Ginny's grave. He was filled with sorrow, and he felt lost beyond what words can describe. He grasped at the earth, and clenched it tightly in his fist. In a way, Harry wished he could squeeze it until it bled. But, if he compressed it any longer, the only blood he would see would be his own.

He threw the dirt down with contempt, for contempt was all he had for it. How could he not, when somewhere beneath it lay Ginny, dead, and forever silent?

Harry pulled from the pocket of his jacket a poem he had written. It was the only time he had written poetry, and Harry knew it would probably be the last time as well. He looked at it for a moment before laying it open, at the bottom of her tombstone.

His eyes were filled with tears, and Harry wept for much time in front of Ginny's final resting place. After he had dried his eyes and brought his breathing back to its normal pace, Harry began to remember the best time of his life.

Harry wished he had been blessed with the gift of foresight. If he had been, he would have given into the will of his heart much sooner. Harry cursed himself for second guessing his feeling for Ginny. If he hadn't, he could have had more time with her. Instead, he'd only had a few secret months of being with her at the end of his seventh year.

Although, those few months were the best in his life. He and Ginny had gotten so close to each other in that time. How could he have known that the power of their love was predestined to destroy Voldemort? And how could he have known that Ginny was too weak (only) of body to fight off the evil that had pulsed through the air following the Downfall of Darkness, as it had been called? He had no way of knowing, and yet...Harry often felt like there was something he should have been able to do.

And yet, there wasn't. Harry's eyes often became darker when he was upset, or overcome with sadness, and now they were a heavy shade of green, reminiscent of the dark leaves on roses. There were many roses around Ginny's burial place. There were possibly a hundred or more of them. Each one Harry himself had brought. His poem waved slightly in the wind. Harry set a stone upon it to hold it down.

He looked for a long time at Ginny's grave. And sometime in his vigilance, his purpose became clear to him. Harry recalled the curse Professor Moody (well, the likeness of Professor Moody) had taught them; he recalled what had killed his parents, Cedric Diggory, and countless others. Harry lifted his wand, and put it lightly to his temple with a steady hand. He looked at the gravesite and screamed, "Avada Kedavra!"

In an instant, the air around him became an impenetrable mass of green light. Then, as quickly as it had come, the light vanished. Harry was lying on his stomach with his eyes open frighteningly wide. His mouth was open too, and a small trickle of blood came from it, and dripped onto Ginny's grave.

Harry could just not stand to be away from her. He had pulled himself away from the completion of his destiny because of a fulfillment of one stage of it.

Nearby to the hand that still held the wand, was his poem. This is what his final words would always be remembered as:

Recollection of Tenderness

In her eyes was

a deep forest of green.

It grew from

the depths of her soul,

And spread its Leaves

like Angel wings before him.

Her lashes were

dark Ferns

whose curve was

as that of the Earth.

And her hair was

a smoldering fire

that burns eternally

with her passion.

Her lips held a

radiance of love;

The rosebud shape of

her mouth

begged for his Kiss.

Her neck was of

a swan,

with the feathers of White

Being her youthful skin,

and trailing poetically

to her back.

To him her arms were

Willow Branches

that were shaped by the singing

of the wind.

They grew so gracefully

around him,

And held him in their

tender embrace.

Her laugh was the babbling brook

with peace and hope

always in its sound.

And the light of dawn poured from her

when she sang.

His love for her was

nothing less than

the very Sun

with all its power

and glory,

all its color and majesty,

And all its fire and heat.

--Harry Potter

...and though he could not bare to be parted from her,

his legacy of heroism,

and of that of their love,

would blossom with fragrant flowers

around those graves always,

and in the minds of all who know this tale.