Her eyes were the color of fresh cut grass in the spring back home; a pure and clean emerald that sparkled with humor and sweet tears that were shed for kindness and never-ending consideration for others. Her hair was the perfect shade of red, an undeniable crimson that flickered in the light like a campfire. When she turned her head, those luxuriant waves fell over her shoulders and flooded her back with delightful color. Her lips were the palest pink, a delicate shade of plump rose that gave her an endearing softness. He could only imagine how soft they would feel, how giving those eyes could be, how perfect her tresses were.
Her kindness for others showed in her every move. Her lips would move and sweet words would be uttered. Her hand would rest on a friend's shoulder and would convey all the words that were needed. She was the best kind of friend, the purest, most honest and the most devoted. She gave her all to the people she cared for and never expected anything but honesty in return. He never knew why she consistently sought him out. She offered her friendship on a silver platter, hands outstretched, pleading for his friendship in return. He didn't know what to do when she gave up such purity so quickly, so easily. So he ran, with scathing words that could cut and burn a person to the core in his wake. The tears she offered then were bitter and harsh, a cold mockery of her nature.
She turned away because he couldn't break his darkness. The guilt ate away at him day and night, until there was nothing left except a broken, hollow shell of the man he was supposed to be.
He watched her turn to another man, her heart aching with his rejection. He watched her fall for someone she had always cut to the quick. He watched the man turn her against him. He watched her swell with the child of another man and give birth to a boy he wished had been his. He watched, in silence, at her funeral, when friends and family gathered to shed bitter tears over a woman who represented light and life. He watched as they all left, and then, only then, did he approach her freshly dug grave and kneel at her side in the warm soil.
He brushed a hand gently across the surface of her grave, touched the headstone with a tender hand. He did not cry, that would be a dishonor to her. He could never cry for the woman who had monumentally altered his life, who had carved a smile into his unwilling lips. He could not cry for the only woman to ever make his heart burn with a love so deep that when she had passed away, his heart froze, an eternity of pain etched into his future.
No, it was not right to do such an injustice to a woman like Lily Evans.
So he rose from the damp soil and left the past in his wake, a wave of guilt prepared to destroy the hardest man to ever walk the corridors of Hogwarts.