A/N: Hello lovely readers, new and old. Thanks for reading and sticking with me as I try to manage the mess that is my life.
Trigger Warnings: There is some mention of physical abuse.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
"In the midst of darkness, light persists." – Mahatma Gandhi
It begins with the end.
"Harry Potter is dead! There is nothing that can stand in my way now," Voldemort hisses, glaring with red eyes at the fallen members of the resistance. His followers coalesce around him, faces sneering, lips twisted into victorious smirks, eyes gleaming cruelly. Their silver masks are discarded, haphazardly strewn across the Great Hall, forgotten. There is no need for them now.
She chokes back a sob as she stares transfixed on Neville's broken form, yet another body sprawled on the cracked marble floors in the crumbling ruins of the once great castle. The Sword of Gryffindor lies a few feet away from both Neville and a boy with unruly black hair, glistening with a fresh greenish-silver substance, Nagini's blood. The giant green serpent slithers in a circle around the Dark Lord, spitting her forked tongue gleefully at the bodies despite her injury. A feast lays before her eyes.
She feels numb. She should be planning, sparking with anger and rebellion. But she sees the remaining survivors, faces ashen with mirrored expressions of pain, grief, and defeat. And one by one, each of them crumple to their knees. Surrender.
There is no hope left.
The crumbling grey room is all she knows now. The air is thick with a suffocating smell of forgotten-ness, but she doesn't mind it anymore. A tiny candle, burnt down to a stub, splutters and struggles to keep its flame, lighting the room with a weak, flickering glow. That is all the light she can risk.
She's not sure who else of the resistance is alive—if there is a resistance. She hasn't set a foot outside the room since that fateful battle, and her only company is Luna. They never share any words for fear of revealing her presence, and she hardly ever stays longer than a few minutes only to bring food, but it is comforting to have a friend.
Ever since her forced marriage to Rabastan Lestrange two weeks prior, she has become loonier than before. More frequently now, she enters the room with purple splotches on her arms and face, sometimes a handprint impressed into the tender white skin of her neck. On those days, her eyes are glassy, her actions twitchy and jumpy, recoiling at any movement. Her only moments of sanity are in those few minutes when she would glance at her desk. Her blue eyes would always meet hers with a hopeful, desperate gleam.
But always, she only shakes her head in return.
Her desk is a mess of gears and cogs, brass pieces and thick tomes. In the centre of it all sits a softly glinting gold necklace, the pendulum broken apart and refitted with brass, glowing faintly with silvery magic. Her attention is to a leather book open in front of her, thinner than all the other volumes on her desk. Half its yellowed parchment has been torn out, the rest faded over time, much to her initial frustration.
But now, as her thick brown hair falls over her shoulders as she bends close to the book, she trembles with an excitement she hasn't felt in a long time. She picks up her wand—not hers, actually, but one Luna had acquired—and waves it, the incantation spoken wordlessly.
In the midst of the spell, she feels it coming and a feeling of dread rolling over her. As if on cue, her body seizes up, waves of pain crashing through her body, reaching every nerve ending. Burning, relentless, white-hot fire flows through her arteries. She bites her tongue and clenches her fists in an effort to stop herself from screaming. The wand is snapped cleanly into two pieces from the strength of her grip.
And then, it's over.
She takes a shaky breath, her knees weak. She had fallen to the floor during the episode. She scrambles towards her desk, uncaring of how her muscles scream in pain as she struggles back. Her project has become her whole life, the world's only hope. She can't fail.
But as she reaches for the necklace on her desk, the pieces finally re-joined and complete, her fear subsides.
Luna steps quietly into the room; practice makes her as silent as a shadow. She looks thinner than she remembers, with dark bags under her eyes, porcelain skin marred by fresh purple bruises, a sad resigned expression haunting her dulled blue eyes. She walks closer, bearing a tray of soup. The smell is inviting, but all she can think of now are emerald green eyes, free of pain and the burden of a prophecy. If she gets this right, she will be saving hundreds—thousands—of lives.
Luna's eyes meet hers, sees the golden chain hung around her neck, and in that moment, she receives the answer she has been waiting for. The tray clatters to the floor, piping hot soup spilling on the floorboards and the loud crash that ensues is heard through the entire building, but neither of them cares.
Before she even realises it, the Ravenclaw's thin arms are wrapped around her, tears pricking both of their eyes. "Good luck," she whispers. The first words she has heard in what seems like eons.
Right as the blonde speaks the words, the door bursts open, hinges squeaking as a tall angry figure steps into the doorway, sleeves rolled up and his forearm baring a distinct black brand. Rabastan Lestrange.
His eyes immediately find hers, and his expression flickers to one of surprise as he raises his wand. "Avada—"
"Go!" Luna yells as she leaps into the path of the jet of green light.
She stumbles back, eyes widening in shock. Nevertheless, she heeds Luna's last command before the Death Eater can aim another curse. With shaky fingers, she spins the tiny hourglass. As she disappears, Luna crumples to the floor with a serene smile on her face.