Author's notes: Short. To the point. Goodnight.

…And what is it with me and associating seasons with death…?!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter isn't mine.

Tonks tastes like color and sunshine when Charlie kisses her and her eyes sparkle like rain. She's springtime—or what springtime would be if it was five foot six and had bright pink hair. She is everything bright and clean and fresh and new in a world that's caught in the depths of darkest winter.

It would only make sense, then, that she would die in the spring before the flowers wilt under the harsh glare of the summer sun, or the ground is a gaping brown hole, bone dry and thirsty. Better that springtime personified dies before spring does.

It does not mean that Charlie takes it well. It does not mean that his heart does not break and his world does not fall apart—it does not mean that Charlie is anywhere close to okay or that he is not shattered like broken glass. It does not mean Charlie can move on, move past the tragedy of his springtime being ripped away from him.

It simply means—in the most basic and primal way—that Tonks dies in the spring and she takes the spring—or at least Charlie's spring—with her, it seems, for without her, the days grow long and hot and miserable.

There is a reason Charlie does not move on—his springtime is gone in a burst of color and light and sound, falling like a star in a blaze of spring glory.