Bella Rosa
By Kirjava Deamon
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its canons.
I love how it turned out.
Critic and Flame at will.
.
A red rose.
He couldn't give me a rose for friendship. We had no friendship.
He couldn't give me a rose for purity. I wasn't; who could kill their own kin and still be pure.
He couldn't give me a rose for love. We weren't in love. Not really anyways.
But he could give me simple things, things to show he noticed me. Me, a Slytherin, a year younger to his Gryffindor sixth year. He would laugh when I pointed this out. He would laugh when I threatened to hex him. He laughed when I cried about my cousin. He was always laughing, for some reason. We were just children then, two teens who knew nothing of anything.
"I'm in love Lupin," I said as he spun me around, dancing to the tunes of no music. "We're in love."
"How could I love my little Bella more?" He would reply, laughing again. I liked his laugh.
"Oh shut up, stupid," I would retort and bat at him with my wand.
But that was when I was fifteen. At fifteen you'll still blush when a hand rubs yours. At fifteen you'll you're almost not a child but not quite.
If only my cousin knew.
My Remus.
A yellow rose.
He couldn't give a rose for friendship; we were just cousins, though we had a forbidden bond.
He couldn't give me a rose for purity; he'd done plenty of bad things as a child. Plenty more than his friends, I knew about the all.
He couldn't give me a rose for love, how could we love?
My cousin Sirius was a stranger fellow than him. He would eat chocolate frogs and blow the golden papers in the air and chase after them. He was the first Gryffindor in the house of Black. He was the only boy I knew that could be angry one moment and just at the sight of something could switch to laughing. I loved laughing, watching others laugh that is. He had always been my companion, though at school the bitter rivalry of our house drew a deep line that only our secrets could cross.
"So, Sirius, dance with me now or I'll tell what you did to Narcissa's dress to mother!" I would yell.
"Bella, why now? I'm not afraid of Aunt Cassandra!" he would smirk and fold his arms.
"Well then I'll tell AuntElladora about the prank," a smirk identical to the one that was on his face creped over. His smirk immediately fell into a slight fear. He didn't show it though, it was in his eyes.
"I hate you, cousin dear," he said bitterly, though smiling at the game we'd always play.
And we danced.
But that was when we were thirteen. At thirteen, getting an A over your best friend was an accomplishment. At thirteen being called names was still insulting. At thirteen you were still a child, barley.
My Sirius
A white rose.
He couldn't give me friendship, our blood were negatives.
He couldn't give me purity; he was always in some fix with my cousin.
He couldn't give me love, he was to busy chasing after the emerald eyed Evans.
He was the one to make the corny jokes. He was the one to grumble when ever I "pranced in". He was the one to call me a hag but still dance when I demanded. I always danced, long ebony tassels flying behind me. He hated me for my blood, even though different; Potter remained like a Malfoy in his arrogance and ignorance.
"I challenge you to duel, Potter, for that prank of yours," I hissed at him after changing my test grade. My wand shooting black and deep red sparks of anger. He only laughed. I hated his laugh.
"Little Black, that was Sirius," he responded using my "nickname", putting hands in the air.
"Shut it, Potter," I snapped, soon he was on his back, wand on the floor beside me, "never prank me ever again."
He just laughed.
But we were sixteen. At sixteen you are only barely adults. Still stuck in the middle of being an adult or child, the borderline. At sixteen you still would sit by the lake with pumpkin juice and talk, laugh when someone fell down –purposely—and cried when a parent died. Sixteen was a strange age.
My James.
A pink rose.
He couldn't give me a rose for friendship; neither of us knew what that was.
He couldn't give me rose for purity, he was a crafty traitor through and through.
He couldn't give me a rose for love, he didn't have a heart.
But he could have been a friend. He could have been an angel. Could have been famous. Could have been anything, but he wasn't. Everyone pushed him around for his appearance, for his skills, from their jealousy. I wasn't surprised that he was a traitor, that he was a Death Eater like me. I'm the one that introduced him to the "other side"; I'm the one that got him to the right hand man position while I claimed most loyal. I don't care I killed my white rose, my James. He deserved it.
"I can help you, Peter. The Lord is looking for traitors," I whispered, my voice next to his left ear "we need people who can be double crossed."
He would look scared, ice cream white. I liked ice cream. He was basically my pawn, I could move him into sacrifice or to defend the queen, me.
"R-really? H-he'd want me?" he'd stutter.
"Yes, why would I lie?" I smirked, I always smirked.
He smiled for the first time.
We were only nineteen then. Only barely adults, we didn't care about jobs or money. We only cared if we could get a boyfriend before our friend. So careless; nineteen was a strange age.
My Peter.
Now I laugh bitterly at the memories as the Lord's rivals carry me to my death. Bringing me to the tiny cell housing a Dementor. A bittersweet death. I remember things, like they say at the time of your death.
My Remus, my red rose.
My Sirius, my yellow rose.
My James, my white rose.
My Peter, my pink rose.
The Dementor floats towards me, then stroking my raven curls, to add not gently. I realize its scab covered hands to draw back its hood to show only a gapping mouth. My last kiss, my last bittersweet moment alive.
It kisses me.
Please put roses on my grave.