I touch the words on
your gravestone as the raindrops trickle over them.
I don't
even know why I have come here. It seems senseless, seeing as you
fell by Voldemort's wand more than ten years ago. It makes me
wonder where your spirit is now. Maybe you are bickering with Sirius
somewhere, or have found my father, and are still busy taking your
'revenge.'
Once I never thought it possible that blood
could flow in those cold veins of yours. But it did, which was why it
spilt so quickly that night. And you had likely ebbed away and died
in less than a minute, while the Autumn leaves blew past you, and I
heard there was likely no-one to witness your passing, no sounds of
grief to mark your death, but the boughs of the Forbidden Forest
groaning in the wind.
Mortality is far from new to me, but
forgive me for believing you to be beyond it.
Like loving –
but I was wrong there too, wasn't I? I know now how losing it must
have changed you – can see why you acted the way you did, even
though I will never understand why. Hate breeds hate.
But then
Dumbledore made sure I learned that when young, didn't he? Lucky
for him to die of peaceful old age. Lucky for him.
Your
grave's unkempt and overgrown already. I don't think people can
be bothered, after all you hardly sparked much reverence in your
life. Though I can't help noticing the almost lank way the sickly
yellowish grass is leaning about in the drizzle, and it seems kind of
perverse. Are you still sneering at me from beneath, Sir?
I
sigh, and remember there was a purpose to this visit, one you might
not approve of. But when did you ever approve of anything I did? The
ruffian haired boy, living thwart of your past?
I reach into
my robe and pull out a single white Lily, then kneel and prop it up
carefully by the headstone.
Asphodel and Wormwood. My regrets
follow you to the grave.
