Lavender, Lavender, laying cold.
Her emanation seeped into the fold
of her world with all it could hold
giving all for what she was told.
Her robes melding structurally becoming a node.
Here and there, above, the wind pulled.

As an empty cage, her mind spied
the mirror of her eye.
In the portal, it did frame
the silhouette of her aim:
the lonely figure of not to blame.

In a cottage of a slide,
her olden soul abides
in residual quietness, as a meek
withered portrait that seeks
to smell the fortunes of the lost
and praise the fortitudes of the tossed
whom danced and faded in the frost.

The soldier does not impart
what he or she had at the start
while in the gallery that's all around,
in the scenery where all they're bound,
in the throes of Hogwarts ground
where the din of lights resound.