Winter of the Roses

It was, as I remember, the winter of the roses.

Each day would dawn, and each sun would set, and I would put one more rose in the cracked glass vase on the table beside my bed. There, I would gaze at the roses, until I fell back into the blissful world of innocent sleep. I would dream about the roses, and remember what they were for. No one had ever given me a rose before, and I held onto those roses like a babe holds onto its mother. I needed the roses, just as much as I needed him.

In the beginning, there were white roses, when thoughts of passion seemed so far away. The rose would arrive in the morning, carefully positioned on my bed. Sometimes, I tried to stay awake to see who brought the rose, for I knew whom it was from. The soft, velvet petals brushed against my skin as I breathed in it fragrant, intoxicating fumes. The innocent white hue was the rose's redeeming factor, and yet, its greatest flaw. My fingers would caress the long, thorn-less stem and stroke the leathery leaves. I treasured those first few roses, for I knew that I was holding love.

Then, there were the pink roses. That was after our kisses had become less chaste; our embraces had become needier. I could feel it when he hugged me, that his arms held me tighter than ever, like he needed something that only I could give him. He would whisper my name, over and over, until I felt drawn with him into the darkness to which he was slowly spiraling. Those roses were less fragrant, I remember, and the thorns had not been so carefully cut off. The petals were still soft, though, and I comforted myself with the thought that our love was still as soft as that rose. The graceful colouring of the velveteen petals reminded me of the sunrise, the time we would kiss hastily, bow our heads, and hurriedly say goodbye. We would steal away to our own respective Common Rooms, for if we were seen, we would be shunned.

The red roses came after that. These roses came after nights of passion, and unleashed fury. Our anger and energy came from the deep recesses of our corrupted hearts. The rage mostly stemmed from our life, our families' attempt to mold our lives, and at ourselves, for being weak enough to be molded. The rose petals were still soft, slightly powdered, reminding me of a deadly poison, or a toxic dust. The fragrance was all but gone, and the dark red roses reminded me, somewhat morbidly, of blood. The thorns were intact, and pricked my flesh. Sometimes, I did it deliberately, watching a small bead of red rise up from my flesh, relieved to feel pain beneath the numbness. I was living a lie now, and the harsh pricks of the rose brought me back to reality. I stopped putting these roses in a vase, and threw them into the fire in the dorm, watching the other girls' faces go slack at the cavalier treatment of a gift before they turned suspicious eyes to me. Let them talk, Virginia, he had said. Let them think whatever they want, as long as you don't tell them.

A black rose came after that.

The stem, petals, and leaves were pure black. I felt the stiff, hard bud, still closed, my eyes closing momentarily as I let a tear slide down my cheek, splashing onto the doomed flower below. The stem fell out of my hands, rolling onto the floor as I collapsed on the bed. I remember dimly the door opening, and shutting soon after that, a cool hand on my brow, some hurried whispering nearby. It was Susan, a fellow Gryffindor. I could hear her asthma kicking in, her wheezy breathing. She stooped down to pick up the rose, and sat beside me on the bed. I sat up, and leaned my head on her shoulder, letting the tears flow freely. Her nimble fingers pulled my hair, a shining river of molten copper, and gold, deftly braiding it.

"I'm so sorry, Ginny."

I didn't say anything, but opened my eyes, watching the room blur behind the crystal tears growing in my eyes. Susan finished with my hair, and put the rose in my hand before standing awkwardly, and walking across the room. My brown eyes followed her every move, and I stared at her avidly as she stopped at the door, and turned to face me, leaving a hand lingering on the doorframe.

"Ginny, I'm really...I don't know what to say. Ginny...I guess you already know, but Draco Malfoy is dead."

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Fin