"he doesn't care about you, he never did. and for some reason you couldn't give a damn. why?"
"you remember those rhubarb stalks?"
"ah, one of these moments, is it? play along with the vague, ambiguous genius?"
"you remember them? they could be seen from the bridge—"
"the first suspension bridge in england, the special unique springs, the brown mould, the ancient wood collected by the lord himself from the tree felling incident. how could I forget? that guide didn't seem to think silence a virtue, although sharing—"
"they looked like fallen angels, dark and broken, all clinging desperately to their stalks. I can remember each one. each distinct feature, as if they were faces. they were joined in bonds of experience, misery, duty, capable of separation, undesired. they were differently the same. some floated, some neared the land but all moved further and further, attracted towards the water with every breath."
"and what? draco is that—"
"do you remember their colour? a deep, purple, stain, is the only word for it. when the water rose, it touched them. it had enough power to move them and some of that purple seeped into the water. you could just faintly see the stain on the lake and then it was gone."
"hermione?"
"but the water, it kept going, it kept moving, it kept flowing and remember farther off it paired with a weaker stream, but far purer, until it at last settled in the still pond. peace. all it ever wanted. contentment and only very occasionally, so very infrequently did it see that faint stain. but all was alright because it disappeared just as easily as it had appeared."
"but what happened to the rhubarb?"
"it did as it always did, it recreated itself into peace."