The pollen tickled her face as it flew steadily off the flowers, blown off by the gentle wind. The abundance of flowers was breathtaking: all in one giant meadow was a sea of beautiful colors. Purples and reds, blues and yellows, pinks and whites. They all morphed to form the oddest yet most magnificent rainbow Earth could hold on the ground. The sun gazed down on the spring flowers resting in the meadow, its rays petting them with a tender touch.
She sat amongst the ocean of flowers, a dot of mixed color in a field of perfectly coordinated ones. Her short satin white dress started to tint green as she moved across the grass to pluck a tulip from its home. Its white body was bordered with indigo, and the pollen within jumped upward and away as the wind blew on it. She held it up to her nose and inhaled; it smelt the same as the flower had but a year ago, only now it was not a calming smell—rather a dark one, reminding her of memories wanted to be forgotten.
She remembered the touch of his rough hand that contained a sort of tamed innocence brushing her cheek right here, in this meadow. He had given her that melting countenance with his silvery-gray eyes. A smile crept along his lips at the sight of her. It was a half-smile, but his eyes spoke enough to show his love and happiness. He too had plucked a flower—much like the one she would pluck a year later—and lightly pulled a strand of her brunette locks behind her ear. With that he placed the flower through her hair, giving her a radiance not normally seen upon a girl like her. Then he had leant down to softly kiss her cheek, moving steadily until his lips were with hers.
Happy memory was that, yes…but to think of the tragedy to follow that seemingly endless bliss would make that wondrous feeling in her heart plummet fast until she was sick with twisted reminiscences.
Shouts of spells being thrown this way and that from hundreds of mouths. The night was menacing and devastating enough without the blood spilled then. She was running with much swiftness away from the death and mayhem here to the meadow again. She needed him then, wanted him then. He would make it all worthwhile—worth it to sneak through the slaughter instead of fighting back.
There was he, standing alone in the flowers. But he wasn't the same as he was before; his eyes carried no compassion, no happiness now. His smile wasn't even half—it was a frown, and a miserably pitiful one at that. His blonde hair was swept everywhere like he'd just gotten into a fistfight. She flung herself into his waiting arms, gasping for breath. Her attempts at breathing soon became shaken sobs, and her tears spilled onto his robes.
"They're fighting…because of us, Draco," she sobbed. He nodded, stroking her back.
"I know," he whispered, "I know." She pulled away slightly to stare into his handsome eyes, to find some solace in them. Alas, they remained cold and dead, leaving her even emptier. Their noses were almost touching and she could feel his breath as he exhaled. She clutched his arms in her unstable hands, making him vibrate with her sadness and stress.
"Why?" she whispered, the watery sorrow flowing from her sockets, "Why does it matter? Love should be all that matters…" He nodded, snaking his arms around her reassuringly.
"It should be," he said, his voice gaining some spite, "but it doesn't." She coughed as the tears dripped down her drying throat. Resting her head on his chest, she cried harder than ever.
"Nice to see the two of you." drawled a bored, angry voice. The lovers broke their embrace to stare at the deadly eyes of the man before them. His wand was out, aimed at her heart, ready to strike her dead. Her chest heaved up and down with dread. If she had to die now, she wanted to know he wouldn't. But that wasn't something she could control.
Jets of green light spouted from the man's wand. She closed her eyes, waiting for the blast to reach her, kill her. But instead of a spell hitting her, she felt a solid figure push her away. No, she begged mentally, No, no, no, no, no. She opened her lids and spun round to see him there, lifeless. A few feet away the man, his father, laid dead too; he must've been hit with another of the same spell. But her eyes weren't for the murderer; they were for him only.
His eyes stared up, no twinkle in them. They were just glassy orbs in his head now. His skin was as white as ever but as she touched it, it felt cold—a coldness that comes only from death. No blood, no cuts, no slashes; he was clean of war wounds. He had died with the hate, mistrust, and wand of his own father. His lips were parted very slightly, not having fully closed after uttering the curse. She knelt by him and kissed those lips—but they didn't kiss back, and they were cold.
She sat next to the spot where he died and was buried. Six feet under her was her deceased love—the only man who would dare risk his life for her. And all of her friends hated him because of where he came from. No one cared that he changed. No one cared that he loved. They only cared who he loved, and if it was her…well, they didn't like it. Her smooth hand set the flower where his head was that night. She lightly kissed it to symbolize her love of him. Then she turned round to stare at all the other colors.
Memories. Many, many memories in this meadow. Good were few, but bad were abundant. She wished she could remember a time when she was happy in this rainbow meadow.
But those days were long since over.