This is my fill for the The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Round 9 (BellyBats Chaser 2)

Prompts:
What if Harry Potter had died in the graveyard at the end of GoF?
Winter winds (3), Birthday (14) and Full Moon (15)

oOoOo

All That Was Lost

I wish I could look away. I'd do anything for it, but my eyes are drawn towards the immobile bodies like magnets, and I'm staring right into Harry's eyes, his beautiful green dead eyes, and, oh, I wish I could look somewhere else!

But I can't, and I'm still staring, and maybe I'm screaming, too, but I can't know for sure because my body and my mind are somehow disconnected, have been ripped apart the second the goblet had appeared, Harry clinging to it, still clutching to Cedric's arm.

I had known right then, when I had seen him, his eyes – they are always the first thing I see about him, they can tell so much – that something was wrong, but only when he had fallen to the floor, unmoving, I had begun to understand.

Somehow, subconsciously, I realize that Ron's there as well, because his fingernails are piercing into my palm, but I can't care about him right now, only about Harry, beautiful loyal dead Harry, he's all I can concentrate on – and still I hear Dumbledore's words, fluttering across the crying, screaming masses like the winter winds that come every December, icy and scary and freezing you to the bone:

"He's back."

I'm staring out of the window, at the almost full moon partly hidden behind the rainclouds, and I know, if I close my eyes and let my magic take me away – I'll be able to forget. It'll be easy to pretend that this is like every other 31st of July, like it should be. That I'm sending a present (most likely a book, at least I would have, if I hadn't been changed so much by what happened) and that Harry will receive it.

I could easily dream it, and it would make bearing it – everything – so much easier, but I'm a Gryffindor. I don't run. Besides, the better the dream, the more painful waking up'll be.

So, I'm just staring. Staring through the milky glass, through the dark rainclouds over night-time London, through the damn moon, through everything.

And while trying to forget that I'm in Grimmauld Place – and why I'm in Grimmauld Place – I keep reminding myself of exactly those things. I can't allow my mind to slip away, to places where it shouldn't be. To dreams where Harry is still alive.

Because that's what Ron's doing.

He can't accept it, Harry's death, Voldemort's return, any of it, he can't, and he won't. But he's losing himself further and further every day, and I know that one day he just won't come back.

And I wish, oh how much do I wish that I could do the same!

Run.

Run, and hide, and forget, and be happy.

And who could blame me? Or Ron?

After all, everyone knows what we've been through. First on Harry's side, during all of his mad adventures.

Then, his death. It had shocked the wizarding world, of course, when it shouldn't have been their business. It had been our business, mine and Ron's and the Weasleys' and Neville's and maybe Dumbledore's, but everyone else? They didn't know him. Not at all. Still, Hogwarts had grieved.

England had grieved and tainted our mourning, our memories, our right as his friends and family to take the time we needed to get over it.

But, of course, they hadn't.

Given us the time.

After the holidays, only two months that had been spent with going to the funeral (we weren't invited to Cedric's of course, nor were the rest of the world, just like it should be) and endless numbers of memorials, after that – the ministry had come.

Umbridge had come.

She had tortured us for claiming that it was Voldemort who had killed our friend. Us, who were clearly not coping well and should've – in the muggle world would've – gotten help. The ministry had been in denial, not for long though – at the end of the year Voldemort had attacked, and won.

The aurors hadn't been a real obstacle, and the order had been informed much too late.

Still in the end they had left, of course, to help someone who'd been making their lives hell for a year, and – of course – Ron and I hadn't been allowed to come along. No matter how much we wanted to get our chance for revenge.

Of course they left without us.

And not all of them did return.

Sirius – Sirius died battling his cousin, Bellatrix. He saved Remus' life, and Tonks', and those of a few dozen young aurors, but in the end she got to him. Remus told us that she stunned him, and he fell through some veil in the department of mysteries, and that it meant he was dead now. He also said that it was probably better that way. He'd made it through Azkaban for Harry, and now that Harry's gone – he had nothing left to live for.

And I understand him, I do.

If there was a fight I could die in, heroic, saving other peoples' lives – I'd do it. Because now that I'm losing Ron as well (Ron, who wanted to fight so hard, but wasn't allowed to, was sent back to his dreams), I don't know what to fight for anymore. Just like Sirius.

For a second I close my eyes, imagine what it would be like.

Dying.

Then I force my eyes open again, trying to ignore the pain of returning to reality, and look back through the glass and the clouds and the moon.

It would've been Harry's birthday today.

I know that Molly baked a cake, and that Ginny crafted a present for him. That Ron's dreaming of sending that letter I've written and thrown into the fireplace. We all wish he were here. With us. Hiding from Voldemort, going crazy with being locked up, but so beautifully alive.

Not having been hit by a killing curse when already clinging to the portkey and Cedric's body, as Albus had find out.

Alive.

As he should be.

"Who is it?"

I'm staring at Neville, whose hand's like iron around my arm.

"Don't," he says, his eyes pleading.

And I know, if it were me – I'd do the same. I'd try my best to keep the others from looking, from finding out whose dead body's been brought home this time, and in what ways it's been mutilated.

But I'm in the other position, and I need to know.

Because I've taken over leadership of the order after Albus' death a little more than two years ago, along with Minerva and Kingsley; which means that I'm responsible. I've sent that unknown person into their death.

I need to know.

"It's not your fault," Neville tells me, but I know that he's wrong. After all I'm the one who has organized this mission, and I'm also the one who didn't come with them despite the fact that I should've. I always do. If I send someone into mortal danger, I put myself into it as well.

But this time Severus needed my help with a potion, and I was the only one who could help him.

So I did.

Of course.

It's a war potion, similar to a muggle bomb, and we've been working on it for a very long time. Combining muggle chemistry and magical potions isn't easy, but it gives me something to do whenever I'm not fighting or planning or spending those few lucid moments with Ron.

Lucid.

It hurts to even think that word, because it says that he's mental for the rest of the time.

Which is true.

He's lost, just like I knew he would be. And I'm so jealous because he can be with Harry and me, all the time, and his world is okay – mostly at least. He's dreaming his own version of the story, our story, our lives, and he's happy with it.

I get to see a few details, in those moments when he talks to me, not the Hermione in his mind, when he asks why we're in Hogwarts when we should be hunting for something called horcruxes, or taking a year off after saving the world. His Voldemort is dead, while ours is still very much alive.

Ron's story seems to be going at the same pace as reality, and some events do intersect. Like, when Dumbledore died. Only that in our world he fell battling Voldemort somewhere in Germany, while in Ron's world he fell from the astronomy tower, killed by Severus.

Severus, who also died, there – but at least even in Ron's mind he was on our – their – side in the end.

Also, Ron's lucid moments aren't exactly a good thing. They make it hurt even more. Because, while he's in reality, seeing and feeling things that are really there, he doesn't realize that his dream is just that – dreams.

Last time he kissed me.

I actually liked it. It was nice.

I looked into his eyes afterwards, his beautiful brown empty eyes, and tried to remind myself that it wasn't real. Couldn't be real.

And I think that I really was a little in love with him, before Harry's death. And that, in another world, we could be together. Somehow, I still love him.

But I can't be with him.

Tiredly I tear my thoughts away from my best friend who's been one of the first victims of the war falling prey to his own mind. I've seen more of them – Flitwick for example, and Susan. Draco Malfoy. Colin. They've all gone nuts, and nothing will ever get them back.

They're living in a special wing of the castle – our headquarters, base and safe haven – where the Ravenclaw tower used to be.

Only when I hear Neville murmur "Shh" and feel his hands running soft circles over my back I realize that I'm crying.

"You shouldn't look," he whispers. "You're so tired already. Go, lie down, take a potion and try to sleep – I'll take care of the funeral. And you'll only have to see the grave when you find out, not the body."

For a second I let myself fall into his embrace, but then I pull myself together again.

"I can't," I murmur and with a swish of my wand the blanket's blown from the corpse, falling into a heap in a corner of the former headmaster's office.

It feels like being caught in an old nightmare.

I'm staring at Remus' uncovered body, and I can't look away.

His clearly broken legs. His no longer bleeding torso. His beautiful dark dead eyes.

And I can't look away.

I don't believe in fate, or karma, or provoking situations. Never did.

However, I shouldn't have thought that it couldn't come any worse.

Really.

Because the next night we lose Kingsley, and Tonks (who leaves her and Remus' tiny son behind) and Sturgis, and Ginny.

And, no matter how much everyone tells me that it's ridiculous, and would've happened anyway – I can't help but feel that it's my fault.

Then Ron begins to get worse, having less and less lucid moments.

His Hermione is his wife now, and Harry's married to Ginny. I try not to think about it because, somehow, I still love him, and I haven't gotten over Ginny's death yet. Or Harry's, for that matter.

Then Voldemort gets hold of Bill, Hestia, and Arthur.

Ron has one of his now very rare lucid moments. And he is convinced I am his wife.

For one night, I let myself believe that as well.

Arthur's arms and legs are being sent to us by owl. Piece by piece, over the course of weeks.

Severus can tell that the body's still been alive only hours before.

Followed by the head.

We lose part of the Forbidden Forest to Voldemort's troops.

This has turned into a war of position, with the only place we're still holding – and defending – being Hogwarts.

There aren't enough of us to help in other countries which are struggling against him as well.

He is recruiting more and more Death-Eaters by the day.

Bill manages to escape.

He's about as clear as Draco.

Somehow we manage to find out (or rather Severus does, with his wicked legilimentical skills) that Hestia's dead.

We take care of Bill's physical wounds, but we can't heal the mental ones.

Voldemort defeats America. Both of them.

The whole fucking continents.

Percy, Fred and George die trying to protect a group of muggle children.

Voldemort takes over the German, French and Bulgarian ministries. He's ruling over almost the whole world now, except Japan and Australia.

I'm pregnant.

Voldemort gets Hogwarts.

I'm one of the few managing to get out, taking some of the children, as well as Ron and Draco with me. Molly, Minerva, Garrick Ollivander and Luna make it out as well.

We lose all the others.

Molly killed herself, unable to take it that of her once so huge family only Ron is still alive.

Ron, who's mad.

Ron.

Voldemort has taken over the whole world.

Somehow we made it to France.

We're hiding in a cave now. Teddy Lupin is there with us, along with Luna's sons, Lorcan and Lysander, and twenty other children we could save.

I try not to think about all those we left.

Those we couldn't get out of Hogwarts without endangering the lives of those few we could safe.

Still, the guilt is unbearable.

I have a beautiful daughter. Rose.

However, there's only nineteen children now. Lorcan didn't make it through a bad pneumonia, along with five others. We didn't have any medication or potion ingredients to.

Minerva is also ill. She's old and worn out, getting worse from day to day.

Somehow, Garrick, Luna and me are making it through day after day, though. Doing nothing but trying to transfigure stones into edible plants and animals, and hoping that we will make it through the night. At least we still have our wands.

There is now way we'll survive this war.

Voldemort'll find us in the end, or old age'll take us. Or some illness.

Still, we try to keep going. Making this life worth living – for the children. They're everything we've got left now, we as in our group – and as in the British wizarding world.

Voldemort is dead.

It was ridiculous.

The prophecy was true of course, none of us could killed him – Albus tried often enough – however, he managed to kill himself.

Not on purpose!

A potion blew up on him.

And because of the way he had modified the dark mark, all of the Death Eaters died as well.

Did I mention that it was ridiculous? And the most unlikely thing to happen?

Still, we're celebrating. After all, there's not really anything else we can do but celebrate our freedom and that we survived. The latter, however, is not really a reason to celebrate. Not for one who's lived through this kind of war.

We're only living for the kids now. Luna, me and Garrick.

Minerva didn't make it.

But all nineteen children are alive, as well as Ron and Draco.

So we do what we have to do.

We look after them. We integrate into the postwar muggle society, secretly teaching the kids everything we know. Most British witches and wizards were Death-Eaters in the end, and all of them are dead now – along with their knowledge. There's probably not many survivors in any other countries, either.

As far as we know we might be the only ones left.

So, yes, what we're doing is what must be done.

Garrick crafts wands for the children, and shows Lysander and Elevar Patil how to do it. Luna and me, we're teaching the others everything we know. Everything we have learned in four respectively five school years at Hogwarts. And what else we might remember.

So much has been lost, so many books and journals, so much information – it's the only way to preserve any of it.

And to help the children make their way.

Rose is a beautiful girl, though scarred for life. As are the others.

In Ron's world all is well.