A/N: This is my first fan fiction ever. Admittedly, a few times I attempted one, but this is the only one that has gotten off the ground. Please be gentle with any critiques you may have, but don't sugarcoat it. I love feedback on my work, whether it's praise or constructive criticism. I'll see whether or not to write more based on any reviews I might receive. A few of the deaths are influenced by Arabella and Zsenya's After The End, which can be viewed on Sugar Quill, but the story itself is mine. I do, however, recommend their fanfic. Enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: If I owned the Harry Potter universe, I wouldn't be writing fan fiction. All the magic comes from the mind of JK Rowling, and I claim only the events and plot of the story that follows.

Prologue

War has always been romanticized, sugar-coated, made to look like quite the honorable thing. Those who have known it aren't quite so willing to embrace this image of killing as righteous. But the veterans, the families of empty bodies, the orphans with haunted eyes, and the ones who survived only to wish they had not... they all know better. Nightmares, memories of terror, dread, and death, would haunt each and every man, woman, or child that was capable of thought. Memories of anger, hatred, pain, grief, and terrible loss. A loss so deep that it carved through the heart and burned the soul.

It was the fifteenth of August, early morning. The sun, as if frightened of what it might uncover with its light, was rising slowly above the horizon, timidly peering through smog and shadow to the clearing in a forest that served as the yard for a gargantuan structure. Littering the emerald lawn were bodies - some were old and frail, others strong, in the height of their adulthood. Still more were small, helpless, the bodies of those who had never received a first kiss. There was little bloodshed. It seemed strange that, in the midst of it all, a group of no more than ten stood huddled together, not speaking. There was little noise, little movement. Even the lake seemed oddly still. The wind no longer built up tiny ripples in the water. Instead it stood like a vast, cold mirror, awaiting those first rays of sunlight. The first rays of hope. Perhaps the eldest of the group spoke first, her voice weary and heavy with the loss they had all felt.

"We need rest. All of us. I'll see to it that the bodies are collected." Her voice faltered slightly, and she turned, moving away from the rest of the group. For a long moment, nobody else moved, nor did they speak. The silence seemed a comfort and an insult. Then, slowly, as if only moving by instinct, the cluster dispersed indoors. Here and there a pair clung to one another, hands comfortingly placed themselves on shoulders, but still no one spoke. There were two that remained alone, away from the comforting touch of a friend; one stationed himself in the front of the group, the other far behind. The freckle-faced redhead at the front remained silent, but walked so quickly it was difficult to remember that he had not slept for what could have been days. The other was slow, but not sluggish. He seemed to float along behind the others with a ghostlike glide. Even his eyes, once such a striking green, were now pale and grey in the moonlight, void of the fire that once burned within them. And still the silence went unbroken.

There are those lucky ones in the world who will never hear the sound of a bullet striking flesh, will never be able to smell death in its thickest, most repugnant form. They will never know the feeling of watching a soul leave the eyes of the person they love. The ten people that entered the fortress before them were not among those blessed people. Nor, unfortunately, was the silvery-blond boy they had left behind, sobbing silently over the empty corpses that had once been his parents. No one came to squeeze his shoulder and murmur comforting words in his ear. He was, once again, alone.

One Week Later

The Great Hall felt empty without the noise and the crowded tables. There were chairs gathered around a single table, covered with food. Harry stared at his plate. His stomach seemed to have shrunk considerably since the food appeared. He had forced only three forkfuls of a strange, spicy pasta into his mouth when he nudged his plate away. The sound of forks scraping plates was soft and scarce. No one else was eating much either. Meals usually took at least twenty minutes during schooltime, but this one took no longer than five. Regardless of how hungry each person seated at the table was, none seemed to have much of an appetite.

At the end of the table, the sound of a chair scraping the floor alerted them all that the Headmistress was rising to her feet. A goblet was in her hand. Harry could hear the contents sloshing slightly as her hands shook. It didn't take much for the table to fall silent; hardly anyone was speaking as it was. The candlelight cast a shadow to McGonagall's face that made her seem twice as old as she was. Then again, the weary look to her features didn't add much of a youthful glow.

"I think a toast is in order." The words were so simple. It was silly how much of a sinking feeling Harry experienced. After all he had been through - all everyone here had been through - the thought of being put on the spot once again had him on edge. Perhaps it was the memory of Dumbledore, tall and proud, lifting his goblet while his words were repeated in a buzzing murmur throughout the entire Hall: "To Harry Potter."

The strong, battle-worn hand of Harry's godfather found its way to his shoulder, and squeezed gently. Harry lifted his goblet, his expression unchanged.

"Many of our loved ones made the ultimate sacrifice so that we might sit together today. None of them shall be forgotten. I have received an owl from the Minister informing me that Ollivander has remade an exact copy of Hagrid's wand. It will be buried with him, and Fang has earned a grave next to his," McGonagall continued, her voice wavering. "He has been given the Order of Merlin, First Class, and is officially a legal wizard.

"The Order of Merlin was also awarded to George and Angelina. Luna Lovegood has been awarded the Order of Merlin, Second Class, and should she wake she will be given a full presentation ceremony. The Order of Merlin, First Class, and a full pardon by the Ministry will be awarded on the seventh of September to Severus Snape." She paused after this, her eyes dry and yet shimmering as if full of tears. "Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ronald and Ginny Weasley, and Neville Longbottom are also due to be awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class. Sirius Black has received another official pardon from the Ministry and he and Remus Lupin will also receive the Order of Merlin, First Class. Dobby will be the first house elf to receive the Order of Merlin, Third Class. Arthur and Molly Weasley, Fred Weasley, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, and myself will receive the Lignum Vitae award. And Harry Potter will receive the title of First High Wizard."

This truly sparked murmurs. Harry blinked. Somewhere in the back of his mind he found a memory. Hermione was scolding him for forgetting this very title. According to her, Dumbledore had been suggested for it several times after the defeat of Grindelwald. His stomach turned over, and suddenly he found himself wishing he hadn't eaten those three forkfuls.

"No."

Several people looked around at his voice, obviously shocked that he had spoken at all. Harry, too, found himself surprised at his own voice. Suddenly he found himself struck dumb again, but even more surprising, he found that McGonagall did not argue.

"The toast, then." She raised her glass, her voice more grave than Harry had ever heard it before. "To those who fought, and those who fell. There is no award to express our gratitude and our grief. And to those who ended the war," she paused, her eyes moving not only over Harry, but over the entire table. "Thank you."

They drank in unison, and when McGonagall sat again, Harry was sure he saw tears on her cheeks. He lowered his eyes to his plate in silence. The others attempted to eat, but to no avail. Soon there was chattering around the table, light-hearted attempts to drown out the feelings everyone harbored in their hearts.

The dinner was over, and he rose to leave. For a moment, Harry almost felt like laughing. Since Tonks, Flitwick, and Moody had recovered and joined them, they were thirteen at a table. The urge to laugh quickly turned to the stony feeling he'd experienced all week. Trelawney's Seeing abilities were just the thing the Death Eaters needed. Her kidnapping had upset even Hermione. The news of her murder - undoubtedly after Voldemort discovered that her Visions were few and far between - reached Hogwarts just days ago.

Harry suddenly felt a great surge of emotion. He was filled with anger, pain, guilt, and a surprising twinge of fear. For more than seven years Harry had faced the Dark Lord without a trace of fear, and now it threatened to grow within him. He found himself frightened of the murderer, the cruel, heartless man (could he be called a man?) with his high, cold laugh. How foolish. Voldemort was gone forever, and, after all the death and horror, Harry was finally afraid of his parents' murderer.