Splendor in the Grass

At the eastward facing window of an upstairs bedroom of the small cottage nestled in the green hills of Wales, there was a comfortable lounge, and on this lounge reclined a woman wearing pale green silk, gazing motionless toward the sunny gardens and green lawns outside. She seemed to be waiting for something or someone; her hands were folded quietly across her lap, and her red hair hung heavy over her thin shoulders, making her look very young, like a child. Lost in some dream-like reverie, her eyes were fixed unseeingly on the far horizon. A wistful, lonely look was on her face, and as her eyes fell on the sloping hills and brightly colored gardens before her, Ginny saw only the tall, upward thrusting towers of Hogwarts rising over the gray lake.

In her hands she held a book of Wordsworth's verses. It was old and the cover faded; the pages were dog-eared and yellowed with age. With a slight, almost imperceptible sigh, she began to turn through the leaves.

On the fly-leaf was written four words in a hand she knew almost as well as her own. To Ginny, with love.

That was all.

Downstairs the doorbell rang, but she didn't even look up. Either Hermione or Harry would tend to that. She had a tryst to keep. She needed some sort of closure, some final way of saying goodbye so she could break with the past and finally find a future.

She remembered that day he had given the volume to her, twelve years before, almost as clearly as if it were yesterday. The gleam of sunlight on his pale hair. The color of his eyes, the set of his mouth. The way the branches of the mighty oak interlaced overhead.

On the fortieth page he had lightly underlined the words:

Though nothing can ever bring back the hour,

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower,

We will grieve not, rather find,

Strength in what remains behind.

She hadn't cried, though she had wanted to. She was scarred and crippled forever, both bodily and spiritually, and she wanted to cry for all the sacrifices she and millions of others had made. Wanted to cry for Ron - Terry - Seamus - all those thousands of boys she had nursed on the battlefield with curses flying overhead, all those thousands of boys who would never come home. For Cho, who had drowned herself; for Lisa Turpin, who had lost a father, a lover, and a brother; for Penelope, who had died in Percy's place.

But she hadn't cried. She'd squared her thin shoulders and kept on fighting. The war wasn't over yet - would never be over for those that still awaited loved ones who would never come home. They were in a new world, and she had to help make it a better one than the old.

And Draco . . . he had gone away. "I'm a coward, Ginny," he had said to her that day, quietly and without flinching. "I'm a coward, and I can't face it all - not yet. I have to leave, get away. I'm a coward, Ginny, and knowing this, can you look me in the eye and still say you love me?"

She had truly thought her heart would break. He was going away, and there was nothing she could do to hold him. He was going away, and she could not go with him, not with the orphans still weeping in the streets and the wounds still fresh and bleeding, not with -

"Ginny? May I come in?" The voice was soft, not so much shattering her thoughts as dissolving them.

Ginny turned, and saw Hermione enter the room. A gentle, quiet, womanly Hermione, as different from the carefree, laughing girl she had once been as if they were two separate people.

One look at Ginny's face and the book in her hand and Hermione knew. She entered the room swiftly, closing the door behind her.

"Oh Hermione," sobbed Ginny, breaking down at last. The tears she'd held for twelve years spilled out in a rush. "Oh Hermione, I tried so hard to forget. I thought . . . I thought . . ."

"Hush, darling, hush, it's all right, you'll be all right." She patted Ginny's hand in a motherly fashion. "No one's asking you to forget."

"I - I didn't go with him when he asked me to."

"Ginny, love, what's passed is passed. You can't undo it."

"He wanted me to go with him."

"There's no sense in making yourself miserable over it. I never knew - you never said a word all these years. I thought you were happy."

"I didn't think about happiness." She wiped her face on her silk sleeve. Happiness! She had been done with happiness years ago.

"Ginny dearest, there's something I want to tell you. Draco - Draco's downstairs - with his wife and son. He - he asked to see you - but if you like - I can send him away."

Ginny sat up suddenly. "No," she said, evenly. "I want to see him."

"I don't want you upset."

"I won't be upset. I need to see him. Just one last time."

"Are you sure, darling?"

"Yes."

"If you're sure."

"I am."

She strolled to the doorway and stuck her head out into the hall. "Harry!" she called. "Harry! Gin needs help."

Footsteps on the stairs - laughter in the hallway - "Gin - Gin - guess who's here to see us!" An elbow in his ribs from his wife. "Owwwwww," he said, "What was that - oh - I'm sorry - I didn't think." His voice was muffled.

Contritely, he bent to pick up his best friend's sister. When Ron had died in the war, he had had two last requests - trust Ron to be greedy. First, he had asked Harry to take care of his sister for him, and Harry, along with a refusal to believe that he was dying, had sniffled and agreed. Second, Ron had ordered Harry to marry Hermione, and, with his dying breath, swore that if he didn't, he'd come back to haunt him. Not that either Harry or Hermione had needed any prodding. After the birth of their son, Ginny had moved in with them to their cottage in Wales to help care for the baby. Ronald James Potter was eleven months now, and already beginning to toddle around.

Harry carried Ginny into the living room, setting her carefully on the chaise lounge. Ginny didn't notice. Couldn't notice anyone or anything but the tall, fair-haired man that stood before the fireplace. His back was to her, but when Hermione and Harry had slipped out of the room he turned.

The tragic years had passed him by without dimming the dignity and charm of his face. She looked sadly at the tall, quiet figure and held out a slim white hand. He took it in his own.

"It has been many years since I have last saw you, Ginny."

She smiled gently. "Yes."

"You have been happy?"

"I work hard and therefore - yes, I am happy."

"I have thought of you often."

"Have you?"

"Of late, very often."

"I did not know you had been married until several months ago."

"I have been married for many years. Would you - would you like to meet my family?"

"Yes. Very much so."

He opened the door and spoke a few quiet words with Harry. Harry nodded and left, returning a few minutes later. Ginny heard the gurgle of a baby.

Draco came back in with a dark-haired young woman carrying a child of two years, who was screaming happily.

"My wife," said Draco softly. "Rebecca. My son, Christopher."

Ginny smiled tremulously. "May I hold him?" she asked.

Rebecca Malfoy handed over the child. Ginny pressed her face into his soft, downy hair. He smelled like powder. She firmly repressed any thoughts that this child might have been hers.

No one saw the lone tear that trickled down her cheek. Her eyes were quite dry when she handed the baby back. Rebecca, with a quietly murmured goodbye, went out again.

Draco took her hands in his and raised them to his lips.

"I am glad that I could have seen you one last time before we go our separate ways," she said softly.

"Yes. I am also."

There was a long pause.

"We part as friends?" asked Ginny.

"Yes. And we will continue friends apart."

"Goodbye, Draco," she whispered.

He didn't answer. Pressing a kiss into her palm, he stood and exited the room.

***

"Do you still love him, Ginny?"

Ginny closed her eyes. She thought she could see a gray-eyed young man and a flame-haired girl standing under an ancient oak.

Though nothing can ever bring back the hour,

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower,

We will grieve not, rather find,

Strength in what remains behind.

"Yes," she said. "I always will."