This can be read as a prequel to "In Your Hour of Need", but it works just as well as a standalone reflection.
Further, I'd like to thank my beta reader, the talented TheWonderfulShoe. And I still don't own any of the characters and places created by the wonderful J. K. Rowling.
oOoOoOo
War. It's such an ugly word. Short and effective, making you believe in vain that it will be like that in reality too. She left the window she was sitting in, sighed and picked up the latest letter from her mother, feeling the longing for her parents almost overwhelming her. The letter contained a lot of worrying, but not the usual sort. "Are you wearing your scarf?", "I hope you're eating enough." and "Don't trust the smooth-talking boys, you're far too young.". Those were the usual, well known phrases, the way her mother communicated. Before the war. Now they were replaced with "Which people are you talking to?", "You are careful with what you're saying, aren't you?" and "Make sure you always know where your wand is.". This letter was no exception. Her mother worried infinitely about her friends, her routines, her classes, and anything else that could possibly make her look like she was on the wrong side. As if she would ever make an intentional choice to be seen as anywhere near their side. She pressed her lips together when she came to the end; her father had sent her a short greeting this time. His hastily scribbled words talked about honour, beliefs, and how things definitely would get better soon. She just had to endure a little bit more, just a short time, and then it would finally be over. Her lips started to shake, and she took a deep breath to calm herself down.
And what if she just couldn't endure any more? This war consumed her. Woke her up in the morning and put her to bed at night, sat next to her at every meal and watched her with a hungry grin when she tried to focus on the things she used to enjoy. It supplied her with this constant pressure on her chest, the fear that never left her alone. Because her mothers words were just a pale reflection of her own screaming fears. Did she look at that boy in class too long? Accidentally bumping into that girl in the corridor, would people see that as a secret greeting or a gesture of disgust? Her latest essay, did she succeed in making it steadily grounded on the right side, but not placing her in the front line? The truth was that she had started to feel her opinions loosen up, the black and white of the war starting to get blurred and grey. She was reaching a point where she really didn't care who won, as long as the war ended. And that, she was perfectly aware, was a very unpopular and dangerous way of seeing things right now.
Her grandmother used to talk about signs of fate. When your life seemed too hard and unsure, those shining moments would appear, giving you the solution and comfort. She had always been a bit sceptical to those things, but right now she fervently wished her grandmother were right. Her life was certainly both hard and unsure, and she could use almost any sign right now. Anything that would take her out of the world of lead in which she lived. But no, no signs. None that she could see anyway. She got out of bed, dressed, and had breakfast, all in a manner that started to feel more dead than alive. Every day she got new examples of what would happen to you, should you fail at keeping a flawless façade, and every day the fear conquered another small piece of her life.
Getting woken up in the middle of the night is never comfortable, even less so if you know that it most likely is bad news. She knew that some of her classmates were excited, dressing with determination and whispering to each other while they were moved from their dormitories to the meeting, but she fumbled with her buttons, almost numb with the fear. The only thing that had comforted her a little bit had been that the war at least was out there. But now, it wasn't any more; now it was here. She was supposed to be safe here, and now she was hurried through the dark corridors with a pounding heart. She came here as a child, and this school had been with her all the way from a sulky kid to a young woman. She grew up here, fell in love here, met her first loyal friends here. Now she wondered in panic if she was going to die here.
The hall felt bigger than usual, but at the same time it felt like the walls were slowly shrinking in on her. Everywhere were strained expressions: confused, scared, serious. Over at the other side of the hall a group of students were standing together with hard faces. The determination in their body language scared her even more, and when that woman started to speak she had to concentrate hard to hear at least a bit of what she said. " ... evacuation will be overseen ... when I give the word, you will organize your house ... to the evacuation point." Evacuation point. They would be taken out of here. A ripple of gratefulness went through her, but she had barely relaxed when a boy stood up. "And what if we want to stay and fight?" The hall exploded in applause, and she felt her heart fall through her stomach. Would she be forced to fight? But for the second time she could relax a bit; it would be optional. So what were they waiting for? She wanted out now, if not sooner. But that annoying woman just kept talking... until the voice came. The voice that made them scream in panic, but then scared them all to perfect silence. The voice of her nightmares, the very essence of the war.
"I know that you are preparing to fight." Her head was spinning and she wondered if she had forgotten how to breathe. "I do not want to kill you." A ray of hope. "Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed." Suddenly her breathing came back, shallow and at a fast pace. "You have until midnight." A short window of time in hope for a miracle. The voice fell silent, and she looked up around her after swallowing a couple of times. And then she saw it. She could almost see it glow, seeking her attention. There it was, finally, the sign, the end of the war.
She slowly rose from the table, and she could feel herself shake while she lifted her arm and forced out her voice, clear and urgent. "But he's there! Potter's there! Someone grab him!"
The events to come couldn't be stopped though, and now they are the celebrated tale of every household. The war has finally come to an end, and she's sitting here at the window, again. She knows that all over the country people are hating her, some even wanting her dead. But she doesn't care, because the fear is gone. She once again knows how to breathe, how to walk, how to watch the sky and not only be numb. She hasn't remembered how to laugh yet, but she believes it will come. The war is over. There is time.