Lavender, Lavender, dead as a rock,
laying so peacefully - a broken clock.
Pale and wistful, the vestiges of her soul
carried up in a draft like an aroma from a bowl.
As the colors drain
from a rainbow to plain -
the lilt expires from her mane.
A flash of light redounds above,
while a heavenly is towed by a dove (for Lavender)
"She's dead," says Hermione as a matter of fact,
"I'm dead," says Lavender tacitly in her last tact -
washing over their past in redact.