Chemicals React.
As I stare down at the pale, lifeless body of my dead husband, Ronald Weasley, hot tears sting the back of my eyelids. I glance to my left and see Harry Potter, my best friend whom I have secretly pined for since our first year at Hogwarts. He is looking down at the second casket in the room, this one holding the body of Ginny Weasley, tears falling thick and fast from his emerald eyes. My heart breaks at the sight. I walk toward him, take his hand, and squeeze, hard. He returns the pressure, as if holding my hand is the only thing that is keeping him anchored to the ground.
We are together physically, but we are alone in our thoughts, both newly widowed. We are lost in our own grief. My sadness is for two reasons: one, for Ron and how I will never again see him stick his head full of flaming red hair around one of the doorframes in our house, and two, for much more selfish reason: I am saddened to see Harry in this way, broken and lost. I want, more than anything, to heal his heart with my love. I have so much love for the dark-haired, green-eyed man, standing slumped and grief-stricken next to me.