If I die, Gabrielle, think this of me:
That there’s a corner of a Hogwarts field
That is forever France. Yet here's the key,
Under foreign soil, a flower concealed;
A flower of France, courted and aware
Of duty to family not her own.
A girl from France, breathing lusty French air,
Warmed in yellow sun; dying far from home.
Think not, Gabrielle, with a weary heart,
Of my paper-thin pulse, slipping to death.
Think of happier times in lumos light,
And of glorious love, shared in full part,
With a man who would give me his last breath,
Sacrificing all, for this one last fight.