Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters with which I am having so much fun. I am merely the puppeteer rather than the craftswoman (i.e. Rowling herself)

Note: This is my first tentative attempt at writing something long-term. I will definitely need as much encouragement as I can get if I am to continue. Please, let me know via reviews if you believe this story has any potential to continue or if I shoud kill it while I'm able. Thank you!

****

We all knew that Harry could not defeat Voldemort and yet we persisted in our foolish errand, hoping that our innermost fears would be conquered in him, in Harry, our Savior. We were all naïve; we were all of us deceived by our optimism.

I remember the final day, that final battle. The sky was soaked with blood, the blood of muggles and wizard-born alike without distinction. The insanity of Voldemort and the blood-lust of his mindless slaves painted the world anew in their images. I cannot see the battle as a whole, merely in stained snapshots which blizzard throughout my subconscious while I sleep.

I see Ginny, young and fierce, lying face down in a puddle of blood and sludge and human waste. I see Ron facing a death eater without fear, spine erect and dignified; He died within seconds. His death, mercifully, was swift. I remember standing in a field of wheat, staring up at the unnaturally bleak sky with the Dark Mark suspended in smoke and shadow as my friends and schoolmates and teachers and neighbors died around me.

I watched Severus Snape pull off his mask and turn on his former companions. I watched him hurl curses at death eaters, carving his bloody way towards Voldemort in a misguided attempt to save Harry. I remember him finally being hurled into the sky by a giant wielding a heavy wooden club stained with fresh and stale blood.

I remember the silence that fell in the aftermath, the silence which was interrupted only by the sound of Harry's lifeless form falling peacefully into the wheat. His body, which had found no respite in his miserable life, had at last found repose in death. Even if that death came at the hand of his greatest foe, even if it came at the cost of thousands of innocent lives, I remember the peace in his face and feel comforted. He had no chance of living, of surviving, of conquering. But the chance at peace which he was unwittingly granted by his enemy, his conqueror, was a gift of no small consequence. I remember that.

I cannot explain how I managed to slink away into the shadows, or why I felt that my life was worth the exertion at all. But I found myself in the abandoned Great Hall, undisturbed by the death eaters or by any surviving students. In my mind, I believed the world ended, the school destroyed, humanity exterminated. And in this belief I took comfort, wrapping my broken body around it and feeding it, tiny piece by tiny piece, into my heart.

****

Note: Once again, please review if you believe this beginning shows any potential. I would like to continue, but I can never tell if it would be worth it or qualify as beating a dead horse. Help me out here, ladies and gentlemen.