I touch the words on your gravestone as the raindrops trickle over them.

I don't even know why I have come here. It seems senseless, seeing as you fell by Voldemort's wand more than ten years ago. It makes me wonder where your spirit is now. Maybe you are bickering with Sirius somewhere, or have found my father, and are still busy taking your 'revenge.'

Once I never thought it possible that blood could flow in those cold veins of yours. But it did, which was why it spilt so quickly that night. And you had likely ebbed away and died in less than a minute, while the Autumn leaves blew past you, and I heard there was likely no-one to witness your passing, no sounds of grief to mark your death, but the boughs of the Forbidden Forest groaning in the wind.

Mortality is far from new to me, but forgive me for believing you to be beyond it.

Like loving – but I was wrong there too, wasn't I? I know now how losing it must have changed you – can see why you acted the way you did, even though I will never understand why. Hate breeds hate.

But then Dumbledore made sure I learned that when young, didn't he? Lucky for him to die of peaceful old age. Lucky for him.

Your grave's unkempt and overgrown already. I don't think people can be bothered, after all you hardly sparked much reverence in your life. Though I can't help noticing the almost lank way the sickly yellowish grass is leaning about in the drizzle, and it seems kind of perverse. Are you still sneering at me from beneath, Sir?

I sigh, and remember there was a purpose to this visit, one you might not approve of. But when did you ever approve of anything I did? The ruffian haired boy, living thwart of your past?

I reach into my robe and pull out a single white Lily, then kneel and prop it up carefully by the headstone.

Asphodel and Wormwood. My regrets follow you to the grave.