Crimson Stains
A/N: I own none of these characters as much as I'd like to fool myself into saying Bill Weasley was mine. This was previously published under the name Wandering Prophet, and is still my own (with exceptions) work of fiction.
He wandered through the courtyard; destroy by countless curses and hexes, of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the school's timeless grandeur gone. He was searching for people. Survivors. The green grass, trampled by countless feet, was stained with patches of red. Blood. He wiped his sore, soiled hands on a handkerchief, taken from the pocket of his battle-torn robes, smearing its pristine whiteness with red streaks. So many people had died in a few short hours. He wanted to run. He wanted to run and never look back to his present life.
Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger, Nymphadora Tonks, Charlie Weasley, and Neville Longbottom had die, in vain, to help him fight. He instructed them through the battle. He had killed them; watch each and every one of them die on the summer grass, that had become icy cold, surrounding the castle. Cho Chang also ambled around, looking for survivors, "Cho!" he called. She spun round and looked at him. He pointed to the lake and she ran off to look.
He stumbled on something large. Looking down he saw a body. Ernie. Kneeling down beside the unmoving figure, he shook Ernie Macmillan's arm. Nothing. He pressed his fingers to the boy's neck to search for a pulse and was surprised to find a faint rhythm there. "Dumbledore!" He called through the now hushed battlefield. Dumbledore stood close to the lake with Madam Pomfrey, helping heel the injured, "Ernie Macmillan's alive!" He smiled briefly. Dumbledore smiled slightly in an almost hopeful way, then nodded, sending Dean Thomas to retrieve the unconscious Ernie.
Sixty-seven survivors, so far, out of thousands.
He walked on, and found a tall, thin blonde boy sitting in the grass, facing away from the death and destruction surrounding them, sobbing, "Draco?" He whispered. Hearing the whisper, the pale boy looked up. His cheeks were stained by the marks of thousands of tears, which had slipped lazily down his skin, mingling with the blood seeping dangerously from a small slash on the left side of his pale face. His eyes showed anger that would live with him for the rest of his existence.
Draco's clenched fist was shaking as he spoke, "All I have left." He opened his hand to show what was concealed there: a necklace and a lock of blonde hair: his mother's, no doubt. These obviously had been taken from Narcissa Malfoy, as she lay dead on the battlefield, killed by her husband. He had watched Lucius ruthless killing curse hit her in the height of battle, revenge for her daring to disobey him. He awkwardly patted him on the back. "Let me give you some advice," he said, taking a seat on the grass beside Draco, laying a hand gawkily on the youth's back.
"The bottom line is, even if you see them coming, you're never ready for the big moments." Draco nodded sullenly, not making eye contact with this unlooked-for advisor.
"No one asks for their life to change," he said, after gathering his thoughts and wondering if the boy was taking in any of what he was saying. "Not really." He slowly muttered to himself, losing his train of thought.
Draco looked up then, anger and frustration carved into every line of his face, "So what? We're helpless? Puppets?" Tears leaked down his weary face. Angrily he wiped them away.
He looked at Draco and shook his head. "No. The big moments are going to come; you can't help that. It's how you react to those moments that count, and the choices you make. That's when you find out who you really are. In the end. You are all you've got." He rose, patted Malfoy's back, and turned to go back to his search.
"Oh, by the way Draco," he called over his shoulder as he crouched beside the prone figure of Blaise Zabini, "We're gathering by the Whomping Willow. When your ready" Draco heaved himself off cold grassy ground and adjusted his persona from devastated teenager to cocky Slytherin Prince before making his way over to Dumbledore in his usual cocky manner. "Once a Malfoy, always a Malfoy." Draco's advisor muttered under his breath, observing the boy as he moved on to another body.
He looked round the sea of bodies, some unconscious, some stirring, and some dying where they lay. Here and there, there was a solitary figure walking around crouching down occasionally, as they were, checking for any sign of life. Everywhere he saw blood and broken bodies; heard victims' gasping breaths, weak, wet coughing. Survivors sat holding their wounded or dying friends in their arms, weeping. He noticed that Ron Weasley sat stroking Hermione Granger's hair out of her closed eyes and unearthly pale face, whispering, "Please wake up, sweetheart, please." He knew even as he watched the grief stricken boy that it was no use, he had checked her pulse minutes before. There wasn't one. He called Ron's name and directed him to Dumbledore, who, being Dumbledore, was offering Draco Malfoy a sherbet lemon and hot chocolate. Ron slowly got up, cradling Hermione's limp, lifeless body gently as he began to carry her to the headmaster. He laid a hand on the Ron's shoulder as he began to carry his burden past him, "Ron, I'm sorry, but Hermione's dead."
Ron nodded gravely, a slightly glazed look in his tear-filled eyes, "I know. As much as I wish it wasn't true, I know it is. I just…I can't let go of her yet." He looked upwards at the figure, his wet eyes reflecting the pain deep inside himself.
"May I say goodbye?" He wasn't sure why he felt the need to ask this, but was grateful when Ron laid Hermione at his feet and walked a couple of meters away. "You were so smart, I hate to admit it; you just weren't smart enough for this." He turned away slowly, and walked off through the land of the dead with an audible sigh.
So many dead, he thought to himself with a heavy heart, so many unfulfilled lives gone to waste. He made his way over to Ernie Macmillan, who was mercifully still unconscious, and in the more than capable hands of Madam Pomfrey who had set up a triage area near the Whomping Willow. He left him in the care of those who were able, and retreated to the lake, sitting on the ground, facing the calm water.
He didn't hear the headmaster's approach, and wasn't aware of his presence until Dumbledore rested his hand on his shoulder and began to talk in a weary voice; "There are moments in our lives that define us; that set the course of who we're going to be. Sometimes they're subtle, sometimes they're not." The older man stood silently for a moment to let the younger absorb his word before adding, "It's okay to cry. Everybody will understand." Dumbledore turned and walked away, to help other who needed comfort or advice or healing.
For the first time in his adult life, Severus Snape buried his face in his hands and let the tears come.