Chances pass by, and healing becomes of little effect, of little use, of little need. And still, I cling on, hoping for an inevitability to pass by, delayed for some years to come. Then, for some months. Some weeks. Days. And, finally, hours become a precious commodity, as reality begins to take grip, and show me the truth the situation. Death does not like to be kept waiting.

A red puddle lays spilled across the floor above her head. The puddle shimmers golden when the light hits it right, and glimmers purple in the shade. The puddle is so beautiful, so pure and beautiful. That puddle of red hair, spilling about her head, fanned out on the pavement beneath. A face, milky-toned and innocent, vacant and cold. A hand, still as marble, just as cold, but far too blue. And a nagging suspicion. That this may be the end.

And she lays dying, picturesquely sprawled across the subway floor. And she lays dying, no blood or bruises to be seen. And she lays dying, with no hope beyond the hope that, perhaps, if a minute longer is held, I may appear.

And she lays dying. Alone. Cold.

And I feel it, but can not find her, dare not find her.

I feel it, but can not move.

I feel it, but can not fly to her aid as all of me cries to do.

I feel it, but can only wish that I feel it for myself, not for the other.

I feel Death. I feel life draining. And yet, my cheeks are flush, my hands are hot, and I pace, side to side, back and forth, in the presence of a million Muggles, of a million men. As she lays there, feeling Death, blue, cold, still, and alone.

And my Ginny dies, so sadly on that subway floor, with the words "Hermione," in her mind, her throat, and on her lips.

And part of me dies, miles away, non-retrievable. Irrevocable.

Gone.