Blood! Blood, so much and so little. It tingles and stings, hot blood on cold skin; and God, it is cold in here. And the boy, Potter-Harry-Who-Lived-So-He-Could-Die is here, an ironic gesture on the part of Fate, to let just one thing go right. Finally, here at the end. The memories stir and slip out of him, like water seeps through stones; and he pleads, because these are things that must be seen and known. The Boy Who Lived must live a little longer, and then he must die: But he will know why. Why we're both going to die. Look at me.

The memories continue, soft-lit and hazy, like sunlight through autumn fog, and then they drift by. He reaches out to catch them, to hold them and keep them; but always too swift. Always just out of reach. Always.

Love-Lies-Bleeding, his quill scratches onto the parchment. A variety of Amar—With a whisper of robes, she drifts by, moving down the aisle while Slughorn's back is turned. Amaranth, he resumes, from the Greek, amarantos. He glances up through his curtain of dark hair as she shuffles past again, with a hungry look he's grateful no one sees. A bowl of water, and a flower petal. Unfading.

Horace bursts through the doorway, red-faced and sweating from hurtling up the staircase. "The bowl! The bowl in my study! It's empty, Albus! Empty!" He pants, leaning on the doorframe. Also called, The one that does not wither. "My little fish, the one that L—" But before he can complete the thought, Severus is hurtling through the doorway, seeming to take the staircase in a single bound, and he's running for the boundaries. No, he groans on each aching breath of cold night air. No. With a loud crack he Disapparates, and from the center of town he smells smoke. No.

Love-Lies-Bleeding, he writes, and the memories bleed and blur together. He's sprinting down the cobblestones, Horace's empty bowl in the center of his mind. Amaranth. The bowl is empty but the house is full, he tells himself, even as its ruin comes into view. Unfading. Not empty, he tells himself. Love-Lies-Bleeding, he writes, and he knows it's true but still says it isn't. Unfading. A flower petal floating on water. Not gone.

Love-Lies, he writes, and dizzies and sickens and sags to the floor. Gone. The one that does not wither, and no one must know, now the best of himself is gone. Love-Lies, he writes, and is empty. He hesitates a moment before closing her eyes. Unfading. He's surprised at how light she feels in his arms—Empty, he thinks; and he howls. Dead.

Love, he writes, and the pain is distant, his body light. Love, he writes, and he does have her eyes. Love, he writes, and no, not gone. Love, he writes, empty and full. Love, he writes, and there's a tree on a hill, in a field filled with flowers. Love, he writes, and her laughter runs through him, like water seeps through stones. Love, he writes. Love.