A/N: Ravenclaw House, Year 2. Short: "Tomorrow comes whether we want it to or not." W/C: 1562
A great big thank you to my wonderful beta readers: Brhi and Celestia0909.
Tomorrow comes whether we want it to or not. The seas continue to crash and storm, the sun continues to rise and fall, and the Boy Who Lived continues to bear the weight of too many moments he should never have had to witness and the deaths of too many people.
That night, under a sliver of gleaming moonlight and a smattering of stars, just a few hours after the Battle of Hogwarts as it would come to be known, Harry Potter was just that: a boy who had lived.
The grounds of Hogwarts were empty and quiet, leaving only the sounds of faded memories to play repetitively in Harry's head. He thought of a night on his broom, following Snape and Quirrell into the forest. He thought of a night when the moon was much brighter and Peter Pettigrew escaped into the night as Snape defended them from an ailing Professor Lupin. Sirius had leapt forward in dog form, fighting his best friend to protect them all. He thought of a night where a burst of magic brought him and Dumbledore stumbling onto the grass. He thought of each face in each memory.
They were all dead now.
On either side of Harry were Ron and Hermione, the only two people who had survived with him and the only two people Harry expected to really understand what life was now. There were others, though, and they understood a little bit, too. Together, they sat in a circle in the grass. On Ron's other side was Luna and Neville sat beside her. Ginny was between Neville and Hermione.
Pain had carved their faces into ghostly statues, like caricatures of who they had been before all of this happened. Their eyes were dark with haunted expressions, the result of having seen too many flashes of green and white and red erupt from wands around them. Their mouths were turned down and slack, the result of screaming too loudly for too long until it was all too much.
None of them spoke as the moon climbed to its zenith. Words were a luxury none of them felt privileged to wield that night. Besides, they had been there together, like they always had, and nobody needed to say anything to acknowledge that. At some point, they'd all scooched towards the center of their makeshift circle, as if on some unspoken but mutually shared desire to be closer and warmer, although it wasn't a cold night. Their lanky arms and legs bore all the signs of their adolescence, despite the age that had etched into the worried lines in their faces by then. They were embracing.
Hermione's head had fallen lightly on Harry's shoulder, comforting in the way that only the closest of friends can be. Ron and Harry clutched forearms between them, lending strength to each other and drawing from their shared experience as children who had grown up too fast. Ron placed his other arm on Luna, whose head was against Neville's chest. Neville stooped to rest his cheek against her head and his arm on that side stretched across her small frame to clutch Ron's other forearm. His free hand extended towards Ginny and held one of hers on her leg.
The only Weasley daughter sat much like her brother- upright and stoic, and both of their faces were utterly open with the grief that played in the turns of their mouths, the set of their jaws, and the furrow in their brows. She held Hermione's hand on the opposite side of Neville. Tangled in the middle were their legs.
They were from different parts of the country and from entirely different backgrounds, so there was no common song they could sing to usher in comfort as the night dragged on, and no one with enough spark left to be the first one to try. There were not enough words to utter the epitaphs for those they had lost, and no one could get past the lumps in their throats anyway.
The thing about young witches and wizards, though, is that they do not depend on words much. Although they hadn't yet had the opportunity to master wordless, wandless magic, excepting a few instances on Harry's part and the many exceptional demonstrations of Hermione, they were all massively skilled in accidental magic, young as they were. It wasn't hard to lose control of the roaring power of magic inside themselves and when grief lay so heavily upon them, and control seemed irrelevant at this point anyway.
Between soft hands and warm bodies, a light began to glow. At first, it seemed like a trick of the eye, the result of a glistening, star-lit tear as it slid across the freckled face of one or the other of them. Then, the light became undeniable as it grew. It was soft and warm and powerful and gentle all at the same time. It was exactly who they were in that moment.
In other circumstances, they might have moved. They might have let go of each other, dug their heels into the warm grass, and pushed themselves to their feet, insisting that someone was playing a trick on them. Tonight, however, there were no tricks, and there was no attempt to push away the magic that slowly encompassed them. After all, it was coming from within them.
Like the softest white of a Patronus, or the glistening silver of a memory pulled from their heads, magic crossed their hands and wrists wherever they touched. It was as if the stars themselves had come to hold them together, or the wispy hands of their lost loved ones, locked in the past, had come to embrace them one last time.
Tears fell more freely as some of them opened their eyes wider to watch and others closed their eyes tightly to feel instead. Neville was one of the latter; Ginny, the former. The rush of magic seemed to extend beyond the accidental magic of their childhoods and warmed them in a way that nothing else had. It was the feeling of hot butterbeer at cold DA meetings, and the adrenaline of winning a Quidditch match in a wintry stadium. It was tea at Hagrid's and chocolate with Professor Lupin.
The night seemed colder then, as if their group was the only source of warmth in the whole of the night. The Black Lake reflected the dim moonlight and cast a silhouette of the Whomping Willow onto a backdrop of sky. Looming and mysterious, the Forbidden Forest was full of shadows and suddenly seemed much less dangerous than it ever had before. Herds of centaurs and unknown creatures were less terrifying than death and torture.
After hours of screams, tears, and shouted incantations, the grounds of Hogwarts were still and silent. It was a sharp reminder that nothing could smash the legacy of this place, whatever might happen to its occupants. However, much had happened to its occupants, and many people would never leave these grounds.
Soft green grass, scattered with the burnt corpses of fallen friends and family members. Eyes that reflected the stars, set in faces twisted with horror. A gentle breeze that carried the scent of blood and fear. The contrast was painful.
A choked sob erupted from Harry's chest, the first noise for what seemed like a long time. The light didn't fade, but dissipated, leaving them and scattering across the grounds in spirals and sparkles. The darkness enveloped them again, but seemed less oppressive as Harry's broken moans and gasps shattered the illusion of peace.
Five sets of eyes fixed on Harry for a moment as his grief shattered the innermost parts of his chest. He was just a boy, but his pain was that of someone much older. After a moment, four sets of eyes remained as Neville looked away, sobbing, as well. Then three when Hermione followed suit, and on and on until they were a collective mass of heartbreak.
Truly, such pain is more than anyone could handle, and certainly more than the 16- and 17-year-olds could be expected to. However, as the moon disappeared beyond a mountainous horizon and the pinks and golds of morning blossomed into the eastern sky, their sobs relaxed.
They drew closer in those moments and when morning had arrived properly, it set its eyes upon Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived; Ron Weasley, the Boy Who Fought; Luna Lovegood, the Girl Who Loved; Neville Longbottom, the Boy Who Survived; Ginny Weasley, the Girl Who Resisted; and Hermione Granger; the Brightest Witch of Her Age.
They'd heard before that happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if only one remembers to turn on the light. They'd heard those wise words from the mouth of a man none of them truly knew, but they'd never thought to consider that all that light might just be within themselves. More than that, it was within each other.
Tomorrow comes whether we want it to or not. Their grief continues to crash and storm around them, and their hope continues to rise and fall.
That morning, in the drizzling light of sunrise, just one day after the Battle of Hogwarts as it would come to be known, six young witches and wizards were facing the next day, and the first day of the rest of their lives.