"Die of a rose in aromatic pain."
Alexander Pope
Five years.
It's been five years since you died, falling in battle like the proud lion that roared within your heart. I found you, battered and broken, coughing on your own blood, once-innocent eyes filled with pain as tears fell down your face. A sword with the Malfoy crest impaled you, going through your stomach into the cold dirt below. You had tried to pull it out, but to no avail. You were too far gone for even the strongest Medics to heal. With a hoarse scream of pain, you grabbed my arm, locking gazes with me even as I sobbed.
"I love you, Ginny." You whispered, and with a howl of defeat, you fell back. You died with your eyes open, staring defiantly at the sky. I remember when they buried you, how even McGonagall lost her composure and fell to her knees, crying for you. Prayers to the gods came from everyone's lips, pleading to any who might listen to use their powers and grant you life once more.
The earth of your grave strains my skirt, as my tears drip onto your grave. They put a lion statue above you, animated to snarl at any who were unwelcome in your presence. Your name, carved in silver metal shines brilliantly on this moonlit night, making the white roses in my hands seem pathetic in comparison. I never deserved you, or your love.
Every year, I come to this spot and beg forgiveness for not being there to save you. But this night will be the last. I pull out the dagger on my hip and lay the roses at the lion's feet. I can feel the cold metal tip upon my heart as I shove it through myself, crimson drops staining the flowers.
The last thing I see is your name and I whisper.
"I love you too, Hermione."