Well, I used to have the notion I could swim the length of the ocean If I knew that you were waiting for me
I used to have the notion I could swim the length of the ocean I'd plumb the depths of every sea for you
I'd escape from my chains, and I'd reach out for you
Maybe I'm in love with you
Maybe, maybe I'm in love with you
That's it, that's the law, that's the whole of the law
— yo la tengo
Freezing wind blew off the lake, stirring the dry, dead grass between the graves. There were patches of snow on the ground, still, and icicles hung like teardrops from the statues that decorated the rooflines of the mausoleums. The bare branches of trees were flung like openwork lace across the ice-blue sky.
The words of the funeral oration rolled across Ginny like dark water. She felt as if she were drowning in them.
For behold, I show you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.
The dead raised up incorruptible. Ginny thought of Tom, and shivered again. Her companion turned to her and placed a thin, black-gloved hand on her shoulder. 'Are you all right?'
'I'm all right.' Ginny nodded at Blaise, who tucked a wayward lock of poppy-red hair behind her ear, and frowned. Blaise, Ginny thought distantly, looked perfect as always in her black velvet scarf and matching gloves. A black fur muff dangled from one dainty hand and diamonds burned frostily in her earlobes. By contrast, Ginny thought, she herself must look like a scarecrow: she'd hardly had the energy to brush her hair that morning, and she'd lost so much weight that her black dress hung on her like a sack. 'I'm just a little cold.'
For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.
Victory, Ginny thought bitterly. Oh, they'd had victory all right; the wizarding world was still rejoicing at the death of Voldemort, still holding parades and parties and drowning Hogwarts in thank-you letters and grateful gifts, all for The Boy Who Lived. Not that Harry cared, or had even noticed. He hadn't been able to bring himself to come with the rest of them to the funeral. He hadn't even looked up when Hermione asked him. He hadn't moved in days from the same splintery old chair in the same corner of the infirmary.
He was still splashed with blood. Not his own blood. Madam Pomfrey had declared him entirely unharmed. They had all been unharmed, a lucky miracle.
All but one.
O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?
On Ginny's other side, Hermione made a little noise, something between a whimper and a gasp. Ron put an arm around her, rubbing her shoulder awkwardly with his scarred right hand. The tops of his fingers were red with cold; he must have forgotten his gloves. Ginny wanted to reach over, touch his arm, seek comfort, but his gaze was flat and distant as he stared at the neat black coffin with its wreath of dark blue flowers. She wondered what he was thinking.
She looked around. Most of the funeral guests were strangers to her.
Lupin was here, though not Sirius. Next to him was Snape, like a ragged old crow in his black robes, his narrow face white and severe.
Recquisat in pace. Descensus.
The coffin began to move slowly downward; a corner of the wreath caught on a protruding root; scattering leaves and dark pansy petals into the grave. Ginny's breath caught in her throat. Darkness seeped into the edges of her vision, like ink spilling into clear water. She imagined herself fainting forward onto the coffin and took a stumbling step away from the yawning gap in the earth.
'Ginny,' Blaise whispered, reaching a hand out to catch her sleeve.
'No,' Ginny said. She hurried away from the grave and the neat knot of black-clad figures standing around it. The square heels of her boots crunched on the frost-mantled snow. Narrow paths of packed, icy earth ran between neat rows of mausoleums. She passed a grave whose headstone was carved into a heart. Amor Vincit Omnia.
'Bollocks,' she said savagely, spinning away from the grave. She wanted to cry, but the icy cold had leached all moisture from the air, and the tears sat in her throat like a hard knot. She stalked along the path, rounded a corner, stopped at the ironwork fence that surrounded the graveyard. Leaning against it was a boy with fair hair.
She knew who he was, but it didn't matter. She wondered if there would ever be a time when the sight of a slim boy with fair hair, wearing dark clothes, wouldn't make her feel as if she'd been hit across the chest with a Beater's bat. He looked up, hearing the sound of her boots on the snow.
'So soon,' he said. 'Is it already over?'
'No,' she said, roughly. 'I couldn't stay. I couldn't bear it.'
He came towards her, limping. His left arm was bandaged, and both blue eyes were circled in bruises. Draco had nearly cracked his skull apart with that knife. 'Seamus,' Ginny said, taking his hands-they were bare, and she wrapped her woolen fingers around them-'You shouldn't have come.
You're not well enough.'
He was watching the crown of the hill with its sugaring of white gravestones. 'I thought I could stand it, but I couldn't,' he said. 'So much death. I remember-' He broke off, looking past her. She turned to see Blaise on the path to the gate, tottering a little in her high heels, red hair snapping like a banner under her black fur hat. Seeing them, Blaise paused. Her eyes were fixed on Seamus with a look of horror.
Seamus pulled his hands out of Ginny's and turned away, walking towards the gate that led out to the road. It clanged shut behind him.
Blaise hurried towards Ginny. The cold air was whipping color into her cheeks, but she was still pale. 'Are you all right? Did he-?'
'It's not like that, Blaise,' Ginny said. 'Seamus and I, we're friends. He's…'
'Not a psychotic killer? I know.' Blaise shoved her hands deep into her fur-lined pockets and shivered. 'But I can't help it. I look at him and I see him with Pansy's blood on his hands.'
'Blaise-'
'He tried to kill me, too.'
'It wasn't him,' Ginny said, as strongly as she could, knowing it wasn't strongly enough. 'Seamus and Tom are two totally different people.'
Blaise sighed. 'I hope you're right.' She tilted her head to the side, the long, silky strands of her dark red hair mixing with the silvery fur-lined collar of her cloak. 'Does Seamus….remember any of it?'
'He says he doesn't,' Ginny said. 'But sometimes he wakes up screaming.'
'Screaming what?'
' 'No, no, no,' mostly,' Ginny said bleakly. 'People's names sometimes. He screams them to get away, to run. Sometimes he screams for me. Virginia, Virginia. He never used to call me that.'
Blaise looked appalled. 'God, that's terrible.'
'I know.' Ginny wrapped her arms around herself, and shivered.
Blaise narrowed her eyes, her look oblique. 'Can I ask you something?'
'Go ahead.'
'Why are you here? You didn't even like Pansy.'
'Seamus wanted to come,' Ginny said. 'He feels…responsible.'
'Well, technically-'
