Personal
Grieving over loss,
Sorry to be heavy, but heavy is the cost,
Heavy is the cost.
August 30, 2017
The graveyard was empty.
He appreciated the silence.
No noise came from the church; its stained glass windows shinned brightly, reflecting the sun into his eyes. He was thankful for the sun-it gave him the façade of warmth.
Walking away from the back of the church, he interweaved among the rows of tombstones, passing Kendra and Ariana Dumbledore to reach the white marble headstone two rows behind.
A fresh wreath of roses lay on the grave. He brushed his hands against the petals, a heavy feeling in his chest.
Hermione
He knew she came here, nearly as often as he did, though they never discussed it. She always left behind roses, of various colors, and a certain residue of her essence; it made him feel as though she were beside him-a source of infinite comfort.
His hand moved up to trace his parents' names.
He licked his lips and began. "Hello, Mum, Dad." He paused. "You'd think this would be easier, after so many times, but it doesn't. That's good, I guess, because I know it still holds as much meaning, coming here, as it did the first time."
He closed his eyes, remembering the shade of night, the soft carols, the feeling of a warm hand pressed into his, so many years ago.
"I wish you were still here, everyday. Things would be easier, I think. Maybe you could help me with-well-everything. It's hard, because I know what I should do, and I do it, for the most part, but still-" He trailed off. "Still, I think about her all the time, especially when I shouldn't. I don't know why I can't stop. I should be able to stop!"
His breath came out in heavy pants. He became aware that his fingernails dug into his palms, leaving small, bloody marks. For some reason, the sight of his blood calmed him. He stared at his hands as he continued.
"She comes here, a lot. I suppose she talks to you, like me, but I dunno what about. Probably the same things I do." He laughed softly. "We're a mess, she and I; you're probably tired of hearing us talk about it."
He looked up, watching a small bird, of a brilliant red color, land on a tree branch and begin to sing.
"I love her, you know, even after all these years, even after trying so hard not to. It isn't normal; to feel this way about someone you have practically no contact with. How can one moment, 11 years ago, change so much?"
He sighed, leaning back on his heels.
"I love you and miss you both. Bye, Mum and Dad."
Laying a bundle of flowers on the grave, he turned to leave. He stopped though, when we saw an elderly man, trimming the hedges along-side the church. It was the first time he had seen another person in the graveyard aside from himself, or Hermione. When the older man turned around, Harry noticed the clerical collar he wore; it caused his shoulders to stiffen, if only slightly. The priest waved at him with a smile. Harry felt obliged to walk over and greet him.
"Lovely day, isn't it?" The priest's voice was gravelly, but kind. It matched the look of his face, weathered, but soft.
"Yes. Fine weather."
The priest stared at him for a moment. "You know, of all the graves here, the one you were at gets the most traffic, which is odd, considering I've only ever seen four different people visit it."
"Oh?"
"Yes, an odd couple I've only seen once, at the beginning of my time here, a woman with brown hair, about your age, and you. You and the woman used to come together, but that stopped some time ago. "
"You've quite the memory."
The priest chuckled. "Oh yes, it makes my parishioners mighty glad for that wall that divides us during Confession."
Harry, surprised at his curiosity, found himself asking, "Does it work?"
"Work? Confession?" The priest's eyebrows rose. "That depends on your point of view, I suppose. If you mean `work' in terms of obtaining God's forgiveness, then yes, it works." He looked at Harry expectantly. "But I don't suppose that's the `work' you're referring to."
Harry squirmed. "I mean, does it allow you to forgive yourself?"
"An interesting question, my son." The priest appraised him. "One that most people don't consider. Most people feel that after admitting to a sin, being truly sorry for committing the sin in the first place, resolving never to commit it again, and then doing a form of penance, they can forgive themselves. But ultimately, to answer your question, I believe it depends on the person. Confession can't help you forgive yourself if you don't want to be forgiven. Actually, if that's the case, I don't think anything will help."
Harry bowed his head.
"The key is, you see, to believe you deserve to be forgiven."
"But how? How can someone deserve that if they've done something so awful, so terrible-" He trailed off.
"Because you must. If you spend your life wallowing in self-pity, how can you begin to make up for what you've done? Self-infliction only causes more pain; it does not help anyone in any way. It's better to do good than feel bad, and if you cannot do this for yourself, then do it for others."
"I-I can't. Because now, the only person I'm hurting is myself. I can't let it go, because I can't tell her, because if I tell her, it'll cause the pain I've been trying to keep from her." He babbled.
The priest turned back to his shrubs and began cutting away.
"Do you know why I prune my shrubs, Mr. Potter?"
Harry, taken aback at the abrupt chance in subject and the use of his name, merely shook his head.
"It's an interesting way of helping a plant. You see me, now, cutting away at the plant, leaving it looking, well, not in the best shape." He pointed to a shrub to his left with missing branches, leaving barren spots. "The form of pruning I use on this particular shrub is called thinning, for it involves the removal of entire branches. Surprisingly, in removing these branches, I encourage new growth in the plant, growth that will more readily bear beautiful flowers, in fact."
The priest paused in his pruning and turned to smile at Harry.
"You see-sometimes, in order for growth to occur, a little bit of pain and unpleasantness is necessary. You'd be surprised what the benefits may be." He gestured toward the blooming white flowers of the plant, then resumed working on the shrubs.
"Do you love your wife, Mr. Potter?"
Harry, tired, responded honestly. "No."
"And do you have children?"
"Yes."
"And you love this woman who visits your parents' graves so often?"
"Yes. Gods, yes."
"Then how are you helping anyone by remaining in this marriage? How can you bring happiness to your wife and children when, deep-down, you resent them for keeping you from your own happiness?"
"I don't resent my children! It's for them I've remained married."
"I doubt, Mr. Potter, that it has escaped their notice that there are problems between your wife and you. Children are wonderfully observant in that way."
Harry sighed, feeling utterly exhausted.
"I do not know you, Mr. Potter, nor do I presume to understand your situation, but it seems to me that in order for you to forgive yourself, you're going to have to do a bit of pruning."
A/N: A tribute to the greatest scene in canon-the graveyard scene. And yes, I brought in a priest, so sue me. Don't worry; I'm not bringing in religion. He just popped into my head and into my story, only for this scene. As for the pruning, perhaps an abrupt metaphor, but my priest always speaks in riddles like that, so there.
I felt bad for posting such a short chapter, so I decided to post another, equally short, chapter. Hope you all enjoy!
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