Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, since I'm not J.K. Rowling, which is quite obvious, since she generally doesn't write poetry.

A/N: This is both my first HP fanfic and my first poetry fanfic, so don't be too harsh, but constructive criticism is appreciated. Why doesn't everybody who reads this guess who it's about? After I've got a few guesses, I'll go back in and sneak the names in. So if you want to find out, R&R! It's relatively easy to guess, actually. Oh, I'm also not sure if this is a stand-alone poem; I might come back and build it into a chapter fic, but I haven't decided yet.


Life's a funny thing.

A song, perhaps.

A ballad,

Sometimes sung by one,

Or two.

Sometimes by millions.

There's a battlefield,

In Britain,


Where the forces of good

Fight the forces of evil.

Just like in the storybooks.

It's a funny thing, but

The sun is shining.

Those birds not

Frightened, chirp.

It's summer.

There are flowers.

Everywhere is life,

Except on the battlefield.

There's a girl,

Just one of many.

A wand clutched in her hand.

Her eyes wide,

Almost vague.

She is afraid,

But she won't show it,

Won't give them the


Her chin is firm.

The wind plays with her hair,

Caressing it gently.

It should be a tempest,

Not a summer breeze.

That's all wrong.

But it's the way this ballad's sung.

She fights.

She sees the battle,

Not like a movie,

But like a photo album.

Images that burn into

Her brain.

She sees her teacher

Cut down,

And knows it's

Too late.

His voice has died.

She sees her spell,

A rush of wind that

Signifies death.

It should be black, at least.

But it's not.

She sees the man

In the mask,

A funny mask,

A silver mask,

Like the mask of

An oracle of


He falls to her spell,

His voice gone too.

Her spell.

Her fault.

She stands frozen,

Tries to remember that

They will kill her

If she doesn't move.

It's do or die.

She'd almost rather


The battle continues.

The day wears on.

Still they fight and soon

The sun is setting.

Now a blood-red light

Covers the landscape,

Lending drama to those who

Cough out their last breaths,


Or with another.

She stands exhausted,

Hardly injured,

Not believing it.

The battle,

Almost over.

She hears a voice,

Turns, whirling round,

Sees a bolt of purple light

Come streaking at her heart.

She almost welcomes it.

So tired.

I'm so tired.

But the purple brightness,

Bearing death, does not

Reach her,

Lodging instead in

The breast of another,

A rescuer,

Who steps in front of her,

Takes death for her sake,

Falls back into her arms.

She staggers, drops to

Her knees.

Who is it?

His head falls back,

Shocked eyes stare into

Shocked eyes.


It is nonsensical.

She never had a sense for nonsensicalness

But this is it.


His round face,


Stares into her face,


"I love you,"

He whispers.

There is blood,

Bright crimson,

Beading silently around

His mouth.

She never knew.

She never thought that anyone

Would love her.

He never thought that he

Would be loved.

It's not her fault.

And it isn't his.

But the tragedy is there,


His love,



Until death.

She touches him,

Her fingers soft on his cheek,

Brushing it like petals,

From falling flowers

In the spring.

He pulls in a last breath,

Sighing out her name

As his life departs,

As the last note of his song,

As the ballad ends.

She screams out his,

A battle cry,

A wail of protest,

Bewildered and bereaved,

An apology?