Photographs

"Don't leave me. Don't... I love you."

Blood stains the grass of the darkened battlefield.

"Harry. Harry, please, no. I need you. I need you. Come back to me."

Tears mingle with drops of rain.

"He's gone, Ginny. It's over."

Rain spatters quietly against the bedroom window as she holds a hand to her racing heart. She disentangles herself from the bed sheets and pulls on her thin dressing gown, more for comfort than for warmth. Although to be quite honest, comfort has been a long way off these days.

These days? More like these years.

It's always the same. Every night she dreams of that day, of him. Every night she wakes up crying, or screaming, or just plain out of breath. Every night she faces the reality that she couldn't save him, that he's gone.

Every night she takes out the photographs.

Tonight is no different. She withdraws the small box from the depths of the wardrobe and settles herself back on the bed, tucking her legs beneath her and reaching for the box lid with trembling hands. One by one she takes out the photographs. One by one she relives the memories.

Her first day at Hogwarts. Percy had insisted on taking a picture, "to preserve this moment as one to look back on proudly when you become Head Girl." It had been a nice sentiment and a nice photograph of herself, but all she could see now was that dark head of tousled hair in the background, green eyes sparkling with laughter at some private joke with Ron and Hermione, completely unaware that he was in range of the camera lens, completely ignorant that the main subject of the photograph was a girl who would love him till the end of her days.

The Gryffindor Quidditch team. They had just won their first match of the season and their excitement was evident. He was smiling - grinning - and holding one end of a large red and gold banner. She was holding the other end and staring at him rather than at the camera. Victory had been theirs, and yet it had been just beyond her reach.

The two of them. She had persuaded him into making a silly face before the shutter clicked. It was a ridiculous photograph - and it was perfect. They had been so free, so full of abandon. Times like those had been few and far between, and they hadn't lasted long enough. They hadn't lasted anywhere near long enough.

A tear lands between his face and hers, causing the already tear-stained photograph to blur just a little more.

It's been five years. It's time to move on.

No, not yet. She doesn't want to move on. She doesn't want to let him go.

He's gone, Ginny. It's over.

No, it's not. It's not over until she says it's over.

She wipes a shaky hand over her eyes and pulls out another photograph. Her favorite. The one she loves the most. The one she hates the most.

The day he asked her to marry him.

How had she survived that day? She had been sure her heart would burst from sheer joy. It had been a reprieve from the constant battle that raged around them, and a day to celebrate love in the midst of war. Love that she had known would last even if their lives didn't.

She clutches the well-worn photograph to her chest and lets the tears come. She had learned better than to try and stop them; there are simply too many to be held back. She hates the tears, but they give her release. She hates the emptiness in her heart, but it reminds her that she hasn't forgotten him. She can't forget him. If she forgets him, it means she never loved him.

It's time to move on. He wouldn't want you to hang on like this.

But the photographs are all she has to hang on to, all she has to bring herself even a small measure of comfort.

Not comfort. Guilt.

Yes, guilt. Guilt for not having fought harder. Guilt for not having gotten there sooner. Guilt for not having been able to save him.

You couldn't have saved him. He was already gone.

But maybe, just maybe... a few seconds sooner, a few steps faster...

If I could have just told him goodbye.

Perhaps that's what hurts the most. It isn't the fact that he hadn't lived to see their wedding day. It isn't that they hadn't had enough time together. It's the knowledge that she hadn't been able to say goodbye to the one person she'd loved most in the world.

I'm sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry.

Hours pass as she cries over the photograph, cries over him. She's lost so much, so much of her heart. It doesn't seem fair that their love can be contained in a small wooden box. It doesn't seem right. He isn't a boy in a photograph. He is so much bigger, so much more. He fills her soul with the mere memory of his presence until she can barely breathe for loving him so much.

It's been five years.

Five years without him. Five years with only a box of memories for company.

It's time to move on.

Move on where? Move on how? She doesn't even know if it's possible. She doesn't know if she even has the strength to do it.

Please, no. I need you. I need you. Come back to me.

But he isn't coming back. No matter how many tears she cries, no matter how many photographs she mourns over, he isn't coming back. She can't change it, can't save him. He's gone. It's over.

I loved you so much, Harry. You were everything to me.

She gently returns the photographs to their place and wipes the tears from her cheeks. She runs her fingers over the smooth surface of the box before she picks it up and places it at the bottom of the wardrobe.

It's over.

She closes the door, climbs into bed, and turns off the light.

Goodbye, Harry.

FIN