Alone, arms crossed tightly against the wind,
Narcissa walks through fallen blood-red leaves
down into the hollow where Bellatrix lies
hidden, protected from self-righteous vandals.
Low afternoon sun turns the edges of her stone
an eerie yellow beneath the darkening sky. But
Narcissa feels no presence; her sister left no
ghost. Only an empty space, and her bones.
As she lays a conjured asphodel on the cold earth,
Narcissa strains to recall the heat of Bella's hand
in hers, the curl of her heart-shaped mouth
at some private joke.
She must remember.
She is the only one who cares to.
Andromeda has known for half a year
where her damned blood rests,
but it takes another sleepless night and
dead-hearted morning to call her here.
Her ears pound as she draws closer, past
skeletal trees. It's there: The name on the stone
hits her like an obscenity. Tears burn
and she looks aside to the grey western sky.
She doesn't want to see the cold truth
that this brings none of them back—
none. But in the corner of her view, she spies
the pale yellow of a faded asphodel.
She knows who left it.
There's only one who would.