What Shakes The Elephant

What Shakes The Elephant

Chapter 25 – ‘Cause She’s Only Just Gone

“Woke up and for the first time the animals were gone,
It’s left this house empty now, not sure if I belong,
Yesterday you asked me to write you a pleasant song,
I’ll do my best now but you’ve been gone now for so long,

The window’s open now and the winter settles in,
We’ll call it Christmas when the adverts begin,
I love your depression and I love your double chin
I love most everything you bring to this offering…”
-The Animals Were Gone, Damien Rice


The room was cold and empty. It was the first time in all the time they had lived there that this one room felt devoid of life. This was the room of hidden dreams and comforting thoughts. This was the room of homely moments and bright mornings. It was the birthplace of their lives. But now those welcoming ribbons of light, the ones that filtered in through the blinds that were slightly askew, were not filled with comfort and calm. They were cold and harsh. The walls were covered in old photos and the bed was poorly made. The pillows were still concave in places. The slippers on ground were still warm from their last use but there was no life here. It was a room preserved in a memory and nothing more.

This was not home.

Harry sat on the small stool and stared at the bed where Ginny had once lain. The entire place still smelled of her. The cupboard was filled with her clothes. Her toothbrush was still on the counter. Her shampoo sitting on the shelf by the shower. Her perfume uncapped and waiting on the dressing table.

But she was no longer here. The photos on the wall smiled and laughed and taunted him like the ghosts of memories that would forever linger in this room and torture him. He could not sit here any longer. He could no longer sleep in this bed. He could no longer live there. Yet something stopped him from leaving.

Something held him back and pinned him to the stool as his eyes bore deep into the sheets of the bed as though trying to see something far beyond them. His eyes were distant and unfocused. His face was sullen but blank. The atmosphere of the room conveyed such a thick mess of emotions that it could have caused someone with a lower emotional range to explode.

The window was open a crack and allowed a frosty breeze to permeate the room and fill the area with the chill that Harry thought now belonged there. It suited the whole thing so much better.

He did not move as the wind grew stronger and pushed open the window further to let more of the cold inside. He made no motion at all, lost so completely in the events of the past few days that he could not bear to alter the rest of his body. It was all simply too much.

Just two days ago –or perhaps a little more, he had lost track of time –his wife had been alive. His whole world had been just a little more simple… or perhaps it was just a little more complex. He never really understood the shift in his world when someone close to him died. He couldn’t identify if it had simplified it all, with one less person in his universe, one less voice in the back of his head, one less opinion to worry about…

And then Harry had the urge to hit himself for the inconsiderate thought. It was horrible. Horrible. He couldn’t think like that. He loved Ginny. She was his wife, his world, his heart and his soul. She was the mother of his children and his steadfast support. She was his inspiration and his home. She was his beacon of hope and happiness. She was his love.

She was his love…

Was…

The more Harry thought about it, the more something felt off. It wasn’t right. There was something unhinged inside of him that was not reacting in the proper way. He felt empty and dead inside, but not the way he should have felt.

He did not feel the vigor and anger he felt at Sirius’ death. He did not feel the betrayal he felt at Dumbledore’s death. He did not feel the loss, the pain, the disappointment and the loneliness that he had felt as he had been forced to watch his loved ones die during the war. He felt nothing that strong.

Had he simply been so desensitized to death that the loss of his wife meant so little? Had he gotten so used to death that it had become a usual visitor in his world?

Harry let his eyes slide closed. That wasn’t it. He knew that wasn’t it. It could not be.

Just look at how he had reacted to the possibility that Mrs. Weasley had died. Look at his instinctual reaction to Narcissa Malfoy’s death. And Lucius Malfoy and Draco… the attack on their lives…

That was not the answer.

He knew the answer. He knew it but he did not want to admit it. He couldn’t. Admitting it would be admitting to… no he simply couldn’t.

Harry continued to stare into nothingness, remembering the early moments of his life with Ginny in this house. He remembered how her face had lit up when they walked into that room upon first visiting the house. She had been so enamored with the place. Everything about it, she had said, was perfect. It was a gorgeous home with character and history. Harry had never particularly cared but it made her so happy he bought it the same day.

And now he hated the place.

He hated the little grooves in the walls where they were imperfectly built. He hated the magic that kept the roof from shifting under the varying creaks of the house. He hated the creaky wooden floors and how the varnish had been too thin in some places. He hated the colours of the rooms and he hated the cracked tile in the bathroom. He hated the tiny chip on the corner of the mirror. He hated the window panes. He hated the frayed bottoms of the curtains that Ginny had refused to mend because it gave the house more character. He hated the rugs on the floors. He hated the kitchen table. He hated the bed and the uneven springs in the mattress. He hated the comforter and the stains it had accumulated over time.

He hated everything in the room but not with a burning hate the way he wanted to hate it. It wasn’t a powerful dislike. It was a calm and steady one. It was not right. It was simply not right.

He wanted to hate it all with such a burning fire that he could torch the place and move on with the kids. He wanted to hate it so deeply that he could overturn the bed and make a bloody mess of the room. He wanted the hate to brim from him like lava and explode so that he could get it all out.

But he didn’t hate it like that. He didn’t feel enough of anything at all.

He could not cry, not even when his children were crying. He could not cry when he was alone. He could not cry when he slept alone for the first time in fifteen years. He could not cry.

He tried to force the tears but nothing came. He tried to ignite the anger and cry for justice but nothing came. He tried to scream but no sound escaped his lips and his throat only felt more closed than it ever had been before.

So he gave up and was sitting still as stone, staring at the bed he and his wife had once shared, knowing that it really did not matter at all.

“Harry?” a soft voice came after a tap at the door. Harry did not look up. He knew it was Hermione. He knew why she had come but that did not change the situation. He would not respond. Without looking over he knew she had taken a step past the threshold and paused, unsure of what to say as there was nothing adequate that could be said. She had sighed deeply but silently as she stared at him staring at the bed and she had thought of how much pain he must be feeling. This angered Harry further as he felt guilty. He felt none of the pain he should. He felt nothing at all. Nothing powerful enough to be worthy of the occasion. “Everything is ready, when you are.”

Harry wanted to answer that he would never be ready, that it was absolutely thoughtless of her to suggest that he could ever, in anyone’s imagination, be prepared for what he was about to do. He wanted to tell her that they could all wait for eons because he was not about to step out there for his final goodbye. Not if he was meant to feel prepared to do it.

But Harry did not answer in the harsh and cutting words that he had intended. He had not snapped at Hermione and told her that she could inform everyone else they were perfectly welcome to fuck themselves. He did not say anything remotely near this. Instead, he replied in a manner unlike himself.

“Yeah, alright,” his voice said, though he couldn’t imagine how it had come out that way. Something had possessed him and he got to his feet, despite the valiant arguments his mind was offering in retaliation.

“You don’t have to do this, Harry,” Hermione whispered suddenly, stopping him at the door. He did not appreciate the arrest in movement as he knew if he stopped for too long, he would never be able to do it.

He looked up into her eyes and saw that they were brimming with tears but they were tears of worry for him, not for Ginny’s death. She had shed her tears for her sister-in-law and now she was crying for those that still lived in her wake. She was crying for her surrogate brother, her best friend. Her brown eyes were shining and she resisted the obvious urge to wrap her arms around him to hug him.

“Yes I do, Hermione,” he replied quietly, his tone more understanding now. His other emotions felt guilty for how worried she seemed. “I have to do this. I can’t go on the rest of my life pretending it all never happened. I have to be strong for my children. We all need this closure.”

He spoke the words to reassure her but he did not believe them in the slightest. He felt as though he was two different people in the same body, fighting for dominance. The more reasonable part was winning by far but Harry didn’t care for that part of himself. He did not want to be reasonable… he wanted to be unreasonable and angry.

Yet something about how poorly that angry part seemed to be fighting made him wonder.

He stopped thinking clearly from that point on.

Hermione wrapped her arms around him, finally, and held him close. He let her hug him though he could hardly raise a hand to pat her back until she let go. They walked down the hall and out into the front garden.

It was almost Christmas. Just two days away. Just two days…

The ground was covered in a perfect blanket of white powder and the trees wound up skeletally from the frozen ground, mimicking the reason for the event. The beautiful winter scene, however, was punctured by a shining translucent dome that hung over most of their front lawn. The house faced nothing but open land for a long while before the next house came into view. It was surrounded by trees and nature and that had pleased both Harry and Ginny upon first inspection.

The dome, now, was magically altering the weather inside of itself. Instead of snow on the ground, there was lush grass and a stone walkway down the centre of numerous rows of chairs. The chairs were all black and identical. They faced an altar, surrounded by flowers and arrangements of all sorts. Upon the altar was the pink granite casket that Ginny had formally requested and –ironically –clashed horribly with her hair. It might have seemed funny to Harry, that his wife had purposely chosen this unusual tomb, but he had no laughter in him.

There were people milling about inside the magical dome, each of them wearing impeccable white. The family had requested white clothing for the occasion. Harry never liked the idea of dressing in black. Ginny had not enjoyed it much either. A funeral should not be meant to mourn the death of the person, but rather to celebrate their life and so she chose white.

Harry might have suggested bright colours, but it was not his funeral… It was hers.

He took a step through the magical barrier and immediately felt warmth spread through him at the sudden change of temperature. He did not look at any of the guests yet. He stepped up to the altar and began to study the flower arrangements. He looked at the cards and banners that told of the families that had sent them. There was a beautifully white bouquet from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley sitting at the head of the casket. James, Albus and Lily had been given the colourful arrangement of roses and lilies that sat at the foot of the casket in honour of their mother. Ron and Hermione had sent another with carnations and daisies. Bill and Fleur had arranged one with orchids and white oleanders set off to the side. The rest of the Weasley boys had provided another with yellow and white flowers that Harry could not identify. Several arrangements were set around the edges, each from Ministry colleagues, one from Shacklebolt himself, one from Neville and one (full of very rare and strange flowers) was from Luna.

Harry’s arrangement was splayed over the top of the casket and consisted of blood red roses that hung downwards over her. He had not chosen it. Mrs. Weasley had taken care of the flowers. He did not know how to feel about it.

There was one arrangement, however, he did not recognize. It was floating around the back of the casket and Harry was immediately attracted to it. He walked over to inspect it and realized that it was arranged with peonies, lilies, irises, poppies and, most importantly, bleeding hearts. The bleeding hearts hung from the edges of the arrangement and acted as some kind of crown over the casket.

Bleeding hearts were Ginny’s favourite flower.

Harry’s lips parted in surprise. He tilted his head to the side and looked closer at the small card that accompanied the arrangement.

--Deepest sympathies from Lucius, Draco and Scorpius Malfoy—

Harry’s eyebrows raised slightly and he immediately turned to the crowd of people waiting for the ceremony to begin. It did not take him any time at all to identify the three guests who were terribly out of place. Draco stood next to his father and son. The other two were looking around, attempting to provide their sympathies and condolences but Draco was looking directly at Harry. His eyes were not the same cold grey they normally were, but some molten mercury that called to Harry immediately.

The blond gave him a small, sad smile and nodded to him. Harry felt all the air leave his lungs and his throat closed up more tightly than before. Now he wanted to cry, though he could not identify the cause. He did not understand it. He did not see it.

Finally, someone signaled the beginning of the ceremony and Hermione came to lead Harry to his seat. Harry only saw Draco sit from the corner of his eyes and wished, suddenly and incomprehensibly, that he were not sitting in the front row but towards the back instead. He did not belong in the front row, in the first seat.

He shut his eyes and tried not to think of all these warring hearts that beat within him, but instead heard only parts of the words the man before them spoke. He did not know who was speaking. He could not bother to identify the source of the voice though it seemed familiar enough.

He did not care. His wife was dead and he did not even know how to feel or be strong. He did not want to admit to the nagging idea that stayed at the back of his mind. He did not want to see it.

Finally, as soon as the ceremony was over, Harry left. He walked right out, past the line of people that wished to offer him their sympathies directly and he went back inside his own house. He felt dizzy and his vision was blacking out.

Sitting himself on the closest chair he could find, Harry shut his eyes completely and sunk into his hands on his knees, taking a deep breath only to release it quickly. He sobbed without tears and bit his lip hard.

“It was a beautiful ceremony,” a voice said softly. “As far as funerals can go, in any case. None of them are particularly pleasant experiences.”

Harry lifted his head. It felt as though it weighed ten times the usual as he craned his eyes up to find the source of the voice. His gaze fell on Draco as he stood in front of Harry in the kitchen, leaning softly against the doorframe.

“Yeah, I suppose,” he replied, finding it hard to speak. His voice was raspy and distant. “Thank you for the flowers, by the way.” He could not look away from Draco now that he was there.

“No thanks required,” he answered softly. “That’s what friends do.” The words fell from Draco’s mouth and crashed against Harry’s heart in a way he did not understand. Even the blond seemed displeased with his own wording and had to force them out.

“The bleeding hearts?” Harry croaked, unable to formulate any clearer question. Draco smiled softly and Harry thought he just might shatter.

“Albus told Scorpius at some point,” he explained softly. “Scorpius picked out much of the arrangement. He wanted it to be perfect, I suppose.”

Harry nodded and looked away, biting his lip hard. He tasted the rusted tang of blood against his tongue and shut his eyes hard, refusing to look at Draco any longer. He couldn’t. He couldn’t bear it.

“Harry,” the soft voice came as Draco moved closer. Harry could feel himself shaking in a way he did not want to. He felt the tension grow on the air and refused to open his eyes. “Is there anything I can do? Why are you shaking?”

He kept his eyes tightly shut.

“There’s something wrong with me, Draco,” he replied quietly, trying to steady his voice but finding it impossible. “I don’t feel the way I should. I’m not as hurt by this as I’m supposed to be… I don’t want to cry and I don’t want to scream… I just feel empty. I don’t feel right.”

Draco was very close to Harry now. He could smell the other man though he fought not to do it. The proximity closely coaxed Harry’s eyes open and he looked up into Draco’s silver orbs, immediately wishing he hadn’t. They opened a floodgate of emotions that Harry did not comprehend and had no intention of sorting through.

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, his voice more soothing than Harry had ever heard it. There was no mockery, no discomfort. This was not the Draco Malfoy Harry wished he were. If he were still the same old arrogant blond child, Harry might not feel this way. He might be able to fight it more. “You just lost your wife, Harry. There is no set way for how you should feel. What makes you think your feelings aren’t adequate?”

Harry wanted to ignore the question and refuse to answer but he couldn’t. The floodgates were open and there was no stopping the rush.

“Because I’m not sad for Ginny’s death like I should be,” he replied in barely more than a whisper. His shaking had stopped and his voice no longer wavered. “My mind has been devoted to someone quite different, as of late.”

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A/N: OMG I’m so behind. GAH. Posting this and on to the next chapter! Writing marathon lol

Hope you liked it. Big admission there. More coming. It’s rough. Gah.

Love you all!