With a war brewing, many viewed our generation as older that we truly were. It was true to some degree; we had all witnessed too much sorrow too young. With this age came rumors of torrid love affairs and violent rivalries. Most of it was false. The truth was we all scared little kids, patiently waiting for our number to called. We were waiting to be drafted into the war.
For a long time, it was hard to be sad for myself. I had watched the news. I saw plenty of war and famine before. I followed politics close enough to watch the genocides in Africa unfold before my eyes in electronic images.
I couldn't sympathize with a magical war. The whole idea of killing someone magically just didn't seem as horrible as warfare I had seen on television. Landmines and poison gas were more terrifying than a feeble stick of ornately carved wood.
I couldn't cry for a long time. I didn't cry when Cedric Diggory died, and he was in the same house as me. I couldn't cry, even though I knew that this was the beginning of the end. I knew that the muggle blood that ran through my veins made me a target. It had already claimed half of my family.
I turned eighteen on the day of the final battle. I fought like the rest of my classmates in our suicide mission to prove that there was good in the world, though somehow I didn't believe it myself. The only thing I remembered thinking was that I was now my sister's legal guardian. I was an adult in the muggle world, and this world where I had lived happily for most of my life, had now burdened me with the life of the last remaining member of my family.
I cried for the first time in years that night before the final battle. I didn't cry out of pity for Harry Potter. I didn't cry out of sorrow for the many children who would die tomorrow. I cried out of shame for my lack of conviction. I cried out of fear. I curled into Justin's lap and cried while he stroked my hair and tried to be as comforting as one fearing for his life could be.
I couldn't sleep that night. Instead I imagined myself in an empty field surrounded by grave markers. I wondered if my name would be among the dead or the living. I realized that no one would really notice anyway.
I found my way to the common room, only to find that it wasn't empty. Instead all of the older students were floating in and out of the room, ghostlike, as if they were already dead. I found Susan in the small crowd and I hugged her tightly. She began to cry and fell into the arms of a sixth year boy behind her. Hannah and Ernie ran to the rescue and held her tightly, trying to remind her of everything Harry Potter had taught them during their fifth year.
My fingers were tangled with a strange hand, while I witnessed the gradual breakdown of the people around me. I looked up to see Justin holding my hand tightly. He pulled me close and hugged me tightly. No one knew if this was the last time they would see each other.
Despite all the people around us, Justin found the courage to tell me he loved me. I didn't want to believe it. It added a name to the list of people that I had to protect. I pretended I didn't care for about five minutes. I realized that if I was destined to die tomorrow, the last thing I should do would be to shut people out. Instead, I pressed my head against his chest and tried to fight back tears. Professor Sprout came in and urged us to retire to our rooms. Everyone left except the seventh-year students. Instead we all took places around the fireplace and sat together in a comfortable silence. Some people eventually drifted off to sleep, but I couldn't. I leaned against Justin's shoulder and thought of graveyards.
My head rose with his chest and I shook him awake gently. He looked at me with eyes half closed, but humored meas we didn't know our fate. I asked him to run away with me. I told him that if we hid in the muggle world, we would be safe for a while. He refused and asked how long a while would be. He was right. A while could be five minutes, a year, three months, ten days, anything.
It would be better to sit and wait for the attack, like targets. Dead or alive, it didn't matter much anyway. We would all be just faceless names by the morning. Only one really counted. I wondered if he was sleeping. Heroes need their rest. The restless needed their heroes.
Hope you enjoyed that. In case you're completely confused, this story is about the night before the final battle (assuming they all knew it was going to be the final battle), as told by a seventh year Hufflepuff. Brownie points to whoever can guess the name of the Hufflepuff. Actually, she'll be reoccuring in my stories, because well...she doesn't really exist much in the books (but he/she does exist...just as a last name).