Upon the snowy red she glides, awash in lovely glory in the morning sun. Some have seen it garish and obtrusive, others have seen the end in sight. Only Fleur, fair and golden sees the softly glowing orb in majesty and salvation.
On this night so many fell, staining icy snowfall red before it hits the ground. In moonlight, the smallest Weasley, dressed in red weeps the blood of a hundred men, a thousand cries rush through the night; she longs for higher ground.
The Dementors, what frozen horrors they have wrought.
A red sunset killed her tears; time to fight, she called to all. Sound the horn, and mothers cry, a battle march for all to hear. Hermione tumbles through the dark cascade, breaking vile souls in seven.
The Hufflepuff whip through the night upon steeds of pitch, cutting down enemies and honor alike. Never to kill, they swore, never to take what is not ours. Honor and gentlemen, indeed.
Today they've taken what was freely given.
With her comrades, Luna stands upon the precipice of stone death. It is ancient, the balcony, and holds bloody magic of power untold. Upon the flagstone sits the sacrifice of the men and women before her, their last breaths and declarations, fair and just be damned, this is war. As she steps to the edge to see the darkness setting on the hills, a lonely ribbon slides from her plait and settles upon the ground, unnoticed by the moon. Undone already, her hair whips about her face in stinging tongues through the frozen air; she has seen them. Death comes from the trees, she thinks, and from within. This is my fate.
She will stand.
She will fight.
