The only sound that echoed in the Wizengamot Courtroom was Ronald Weasley's heavy breathing. He was barely feeling his four broken teeth, his cracked ribs, his concussion, and his four cuts that were bleeding profusely. He was barely managing to stay up, but that didn't matter.
I did it.
Voldemort's eyes were blank in death, as red as the blood that came from the deep gash opened by Gryffindor's Sword. To the last, he had expressed his scorn for his challenger, but the surprise etched in his face showed that he'd realized his mistake.
Wormtail had still the same expression he had for the whole fight : frightened. He had done nothing but cower in the dark, firing some spells at his backside. Not surprisingly, he had met a fate worthy of his personality : killed by a Killing Curse fired by Voldemort that missed its aim.
Bellatrix's blood was everywhere. Even the Dark Lord himself had been surprised by the astounding power behind Ronald's Sectumsempra that had literally made her explode. A lifetime of horror and hate, all condensed in a single blow. She deserved nothing more.
CLANG!
The silver sword fell from his trembling fingers. He had to grab a nearby seat to prevent a fall. But all his exhaustion, all his pain, still didn't matter.
I did it.
Without even looking at the defeated Dark Wizards, he slowly made his way outside. His steps echoed in the empty corridors, empty not considering the bodies of the victims of the last battle.
With a final effort, he made it to the Atrium, where the survivors of the Order were all assembled, with the few prisoners taken alive. Cheers erupted at his appearance. Both those with a wand, and those without one (he had been adamant on expanding recruiting for the Resistance amongst the Muggles, since Voldemort declared himself publicly even to the Muggle world) hailed their chief, the fearless leader that had brought them to victory.
He looked at them, and he was certain that once he would have felt an enormous amount of pride for them. But he had no more feelings. He felt only cold... and tiredness. He only wanted to crawl out of there, reach the liar where his loved ones and friends rested their final rest... and stay there forever.
But suddenly, he saw something in their stares.
Expectation.
This is wrong.
It was true. They were looking at him, not just with joy over their victory... but also with hope for the future. And that hope resided with him.
At that moment, Ronald Weasley, now 41, knew that for the second time, he was stripped of what he wanted.
Many years later
The roaring fire in the fireplace had no power over the coldness that was beginning to take over his feet and his legs. He felt those limbs were his no more. They were preceding him on the last road.
He was glad.
As he coughed feebly, he looked one last time at his hands : once round and strong, they were now withered, all bone and skin. The image of old age.
It's about time.
He felt all the weight of his nineteen-and-one-hundred years. Years full of hope and ardor, the first eighteen. Years full of work and efforts, the remaining eleven-and-one-hundred.
For ten years he had lead those who refused the Dark Lord to the path of victory. For eighty-four yeas he had to lead the Magical World in the task of rebuilding a society virtually destroyed by the twenty-six years' war, the Great Wizarding War as historians now called it.
Fifty years serving without interruption as Minister of Magic; it took a lot of effort and pleas to convince the grateful world to reluctantly let him step down from office. But he then had to serve as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, longstanding Teacher of Defense against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, Counselor of the International Agency for Magical Cooperation (agency he'd strongly supported when it was established), and a myriad of other titles and places. At last, he managed to retire when he was one hundred-and-one years old. For eighteen years he had done nothing but meditating over his life and hoping his numerous visitors would leave him as quickly as possible.
I have done much.
His influence over the stabilized Wizarding society had been critical. He had strove to create a society ridden of old prejudices against not-Purebloods, hybrids, and magical creatures like house elves and centaurs and werewolves. There was hardly a library in the world without his memoirs book The battle for Freedom. His papers on social and political analysis were the bread and butter of students everywhere. The honors bestowed on him were simply too many to count.
It's wrong.
Yet, he knew that, as much as he had done, it was simply wrong.
He had done for all his life since the Battle of Hogwarts what he felt was right. He had forfeited what he felt he wanted.
A lifetime of success, fame and praise simply couldn't cover up the fact that others should have done that. His friends and loved ones. But there was no other.
It's over.
With curious detachment, he felt his heart slowing down, too old to keep beating for someone who couldn't care less for his life now.
At last.
For the first time in years, he smiled a true smile, not a public smile for bystanders and the press. He sat more upright, let out a relieved sigh, and closed his eyes without regrets.
For he was gone where what we want and what is right make no more sense.