Platinum Waters
Her eyes were for ever cast upwards to the heavens, unseeing, their chocolate-hazel colour flung in whorls to the stars and back. Her skin was papery, and as white as the lunar glow that illuminated her marble features. Her coral-snow lips were slightly parted, forever with the message on her pointed tongue. In the cold winter air, ice spirits skated frost across her face, dancing in frothy white icicle dresses, tossing drifts of miniature flakes across the waters, only to immediately melt into nothingness on the surface. The frost froze across her open eyes like cracked jigsaw puzzles, pieces that would never fit together. Her hands were clasped around the silver locket encircling her throat, white diamonds winking and flashing like prisms on her finger. The spangling weed caught in her tangled hair, brushing her with verdant fingers, touching her with slick wet features. Lily roots coil like serpents, the white flowers floating at her crown like a head-dress, or mourning funeral blossoms. Dead ribbons of lilies encircled her feet. She was drinking the wind, tasting the distant air, always with a milky breath, that stood still for all eternity.
A drift and tumble of feathers, as white as her skin, drifted past on the glass-still lake, its graceful neck folded under in the end of its desperation, a soft black beak, and staring button eyes. But she did not see it. She did not see a thing.
Her bare skin was growing paler than pale, white on blonde, blue on silver. The perfect opal angel child, naked and vulnerable lay there in the waters, a deathly occupation of star-gazing, her body pointed to the all-seeing faces from above. Mists of liquid platinum rose from her solidified form, breasts and legs, her face and fingers all mixed together in a terrible tumble of archspirit's tears.
And then the snow came. It filled her eyes, and littered her mouth, scattered drops spilling like silver-dust, touching everything with a lily-white shroud. The pale gleam on her eyes was gone, and with that she sank, slowly, painfully under the glass sheet of iced diamond water. Her hair dashed out behind her head, and was the last thing to disappear. A scent of myrrh hung in the air, and all around the ancient fir trees glinted like gaudy Christmas tinsel. The spirits went to sleep, and a host of silver horses cantered away through the inky night, galloping straight to the stars, an angel riding on the back of each one, dragging a black carriage behind them.
And far away, a boy named Harry Potter wept for the one true love of his soul. And very near by, a white and scarlet voice laughed cruelly. With the lose of the one thing that could have saved the boy who lived, death's sweet angel had given life to the devil's cobwebbed child. Voldemort had risen once more.