I know I am late about posting last week's drabble, but I have a very sad and real reason why. My very best friend in all of the HP fandom, in all of the cyber world, in nearly all of the world PERIOD! died very suddenly on Monday, Feb 12, 2007. When the news broke across the fandom, no one could believe it, and I was the first to be in contact with her family (because I know them too) and they confirmed the sad truth. Her family asked me to be the one to spread the word about her death to the rest of her friends and to field questions, let people know where sympathy cards could be sent, etc... For the last week I have done all of that and much more for the sake of my friend's family and for Jenny's memory.

Jenny was, quite simply, my sister. The Ron to my Harry. I was supposed to be the Maid of Honor at her wedding; I was supposed to be Godmother to any children she was going to have. I loved her, and she loved me. If you look at the book characterizations of Harry and Ron, that was most definitely me and Jenny. This first drabble is her's. It was just my immediate reaction. The prompt word (RED) was meant to represent Valentine's Day, but for me it had a very different meaning. So this first drabble is VERY sad and angsty, and even selfish on my part. I wrote it for ME and for JENNY, and really didn't care what anyone else thought. This one was for us.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

But Violets Are Blue (Red) ( Jenny's drabble; AKA: mr-yer-on-fire)

You hated red, having always had so much of it: red hair, red freckles, so many red-headed (and freckled) siblings.

I used to love red. Loved your hair and freckles, and of course I still love your family.

Then The War came and both of us saw enough red to fill the seven seas.

Blood, huge pools of it.

Blood matted your red hair and coated over your red freckled until I couldn't see YOU anymore.

I hate red now; don't own anything that's red.

The only time I see red now, is when I place roses on your grave.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I decided, after much thought, to put LAST WEEK'S drabble and THIS WEEK'S drabbles in the same chapter. The group I belong to dedicated this week's prompt word, LION, (Jenny once ran a group called "Lionron") to her. I saw all of the sadness in the HP community as a whole, especially over at LiveJournal, and I realised that while we all had a right to mourn, we also have to stand back up. We are still Gryffindors and we are still brave fighters. This is a set of two drabbles, and they are meant to mirror the feelings of the general HP fandom as a whole over the past week. These drabbles are not dedicated to me or to Jenny, but to EVERYONE who still has the courage and strength to stand up and ROAR!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Roar (lion)

Half of Gryffidor fell dead in The War.

Immediately after Voldemort was gone, Harry fell unconscious and silent, and Ron sat by his bedside and fell silent with him.

The Gryffidors that remained also began to fall silent as they waited for news, for any information..

The Gryffidor Lions had managed to conquer and silence the Slytherin Snakes in The War, but now, suddenly, the Lions were quiet too as they watched, waited, and prayed.

For a week no news came, and the Gryffidors felt as if they had lost their voices entirely.

The Lions had forgotten how to roar.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was on a Saturday when one Gryffindor found his voice again. Ron came screaming out into the hospital halls, saying Harry was awake again, groggy, but awake.

And like him, Harry was no longer silent. Two Gryffidors had found their voices again.

News spread as one voice awakened and helped give life to another voice. They started low, like a murmur, but built up as more of the surviving Gryffidors came to the hospital.

St. Mungo's had a lobby-full of Lions; an entire pride of them, each with their own voice.

The Lions had learned to roar again.