The sky was a brilliant orangey-red. The magnificent castle that was Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry stood overlooking the small village of Hogsmeade, where people were celebrating, as people everywhere were doing, and had been for the last three days and nights. Voldemort was defeated. Finally he had been beaten, finally it was over.
Inside the grand castle, there was no celebrating. There was no sound except slow footsteps, echoing in the vast rooms and high corridors. An old man walked alone through the school, sometimes imagining glimpses of things, people, sometimes thinking he heard long forgotten laughter and conversations.
Albus Dumbledore usually had an undying enthusiasm for everything, a vitality that very few people had. Now there was no spring in his step. His clear blue eyes no longer twinkled happily.
This place held so many memories, he thought. So many faces he had known, so many times he'd laughed, so many times he'd cried. So many mistakes he'd made, so many lessons he'd learned. So many battles he'd fought.
Everyone was celebrating. The evil was gone. For now, at least, he thought wryly. None of the people dancing and singing and shouting joyfully were thinking of those people who had given everything they had to defeat evil. He did not blame them, they'd had little to be happy about for what seemed like forever. The people who had defeated Voldemort had done it so that people like them, those people, could be happy again, be free. But victory had come at a terrible price; the lives of those who were willing to give them.
Dumbledore stopped walking for a moment and closed his eyes. He was glad, of course, that Voldemort was really and truly gone. He was glad that from now on there would be no pain, no fear. But so many good people, so many people he had known, so many friends had given more than everything for it to be that way. The final battle had had to come. And the front line had been here. Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry.
Voldemort had come to the castle with his now huge army of Death Eaters, killing all those who refused to join his evil host and all who had not fled. A few people had stayed, or come, to fight as he had, determined to rid the world of Voldemort once and for all. They had known, although none of them had dared to put it into words, that there was every chance they would not live, but had stayed regardless, hoping that after them, others subsequently would. Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger, Ron and all the Weasleys. Rubeus Hagrid, Minerva McGonagall. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. All of them, and others, had fought bravely, as best they could against Voldemort's horrific masked troops. Many of the Death Eaters had fled, too cowardly to die, even to fight for the master they had chosen.
Only Harry and Dumbledore had known that it was destiny for them all to die to save the world, as it were. Dumbledore was glad that Harry had taken the burden himself, and not told his friends. He had seen how hard it was on Harry, to watch them discussing the future, knowing they had no future, saying nothing. But it was right that they had never known it had to be the way it was.
Harry had been the last to die. He had watched everyone he loved die. Eventually he and Voldemort had been the only ones remaining, as was fate, and Harry's overwhelming grief and rage had given him the power to kill Voldemort. Good had triumphed, as it inevitably must. Harry had fallen to his knees and wept, had screamed for his dead friends as his own life faded.
Dumbledore thought back to the last moments before the battle. Every person present had been grave and serious, knowing what had to be done. These people were the bravest, most courageous people Dumbledore had ever known. He wished he had told them he was honoured to have known such people, willing to sacrifice everything for the sake of others. The same look of timeless conviction, determination beyond its years had been in the eyes of every person.
The silvery-white figure of the old man began to walk again. He walked through a wall to the entrance hall. He thought back to the time he'd first come to the castle and known straight away that this was where he belonged, that this was home, and that he would return here again and again.