Author's Notes: Written for TuesdayNovember's Rewriting Challenge on the Bellatrix Lestrange: The Dark Lord's Most Faithful Forum.
For this challenge, the goal is to rewrite a fic written by another member - essentially, it's fanfic fanfic. And of course, just like fanfiction, the idea is not slavish dedication to the original, but creativity and a new reworking of the original idea.
Because we're going to be playing a guessing game – trying to work out who rewrote whose stories – I am not allowed to reveal the identity of the original author at this time. I enthusiastically encourage you to check back in a week or two so you can see the credit to the original author.
)O(
Everything goes silent when the curse hits Voldemort. I'm frozen, eyes wide and muscles tense, and I can feel everyone else's shock as strongly as my own. He falls backwards the same way that anyone would, the same way I've seen more times than I want to count now, and every fraction of every incredibly drawn-out second, we're all waiting for him to regain his footing and shoot another spell back at Harry. But when he hits the ground, when he lies there not just for a second, but for minute after long, silent minute, slowly I can hear the murmur rising in the crowd, the movement begin, as people begin to realize that it's finally really happened. He's finally really dead.
And then the cacophony begins. People scream – some from shock or horror that they've kept bottled in too long, and some from obvious euphoria – and I can feel hands grabbing at my wrists and shoulders, everyone eager to reach out and touch someone just to know that this isn't a dream, just to share in the awareness that yes, it really happened.
I pull away from them all and go running towards Harry, letting out a wordless scream of happiness as I go. His head is turned away from me, so I can barely see his face, but his lips are parted, his jaw slack as if with shock that it's actually done, that Voldemort is actually dead.
My cheering dies in my throat, though my grin does not fade from my face. I wrap my arms around him – catching Hermione in the hug as well, because she's on the other side and hugging him just as tightly – and Harry is limp and sags against me a little. We haven't done much hugging, and never under circumstances like this, but I'm sure that in the past, he was always stiffer and more upright than this.
"Harry?" I want to keep it quiet, talk gently, and my voice shakes with the effort because everything in me is telling me to scream to the whole world, Harry, he's dead, it's over; celebrate! "Harry, you did it! He's dead, Harry!"
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't even look at me. His eyes are glazed and barely focussed, but he's looking ahead, at the corpse on the cobblestones in front of us.
I look too, even though I don't want to. I want to forget that Voldemort ever existed. The last three years of my life – the years in which Voldemort because real, not just for me, but for everyone around me – have been marked with so much misery that can be traced back to him. The only happy moments were the ones upon which he had no effect: playing Quidditch, talking to Luna, kissing Harry. I'd made every effort to push his existence out of my mind (as I had between in my second and third years, as had been easy in those years), but it had always been a struggle to know what was happening because of him and what wasn't. But now he was gone, gone forever, and I'd never have to think about him again.
His corpse looks too ordinary. I half expect it to move or turn to dust or disappear completely, but it just lies there, slack-jawed and blank-eyed, like any other body would. I don't like looking at it. I don't want to see it anymore, not ever again. I want it taken away and forgotten completely – not even fading to a memory, but wiped cleanly from my mind never to be thought of again. I want him not to matter.
Harry sinks out of my arms and I take half a step back automatically and stare at him as he falls to his knees. The sounds of whooping and cheering quiet a little, just among the people who are close enough to see him. I glance at Hermione, who looks as perplexed as I, then to Ron, who has already turned away to say something excited to Neville.
Harry has his head in his hands, and if he weren't so still, I would say he was crying. His shoulders don't move, and he doesn't make a sound, though perhaps it's only that the din is drowning him out.
"Harry?" I say tentatively, and he doesn't respond.
I stand by, confused and feeling useless, and watch him. Everyone else moves away after a few moments – probably deciding that Harry has had enough of being the centre of attention and just needs a second to collect himself after the enormity of what he'd accomplished hit him – but I don't. When other people back away, I move closer and stand over him, looking down at him. I don't look at Voldemort's corpse again.
No more Voldemort. Only Harry.
It seems like a long time before Harry finally raises his head, and when he does, he finally looks up at me.
He was crying after all. I can see the tears on his cheeks reflecting the early morning sunlight and there are finger marks on his glasses where he tried to wipe them away. But he isn't crying anymore, and as I look at him, lost as to what to do, his lips curve up in the slightest smile.
He pulls himself to his feet, and I'm there to help him up. He locks his arm around my shoulder and I can feel him resting his weight on me. I'm more than happy to help hold him up.
Everyone wants to shake his hand and clap him on the shoulder and hug him, and now he does respond, smiling to each one of them and hugging them back, but all the time, he keeps one arm on me, and all the time, I stand by him and try to tell him without words how ready I am for this chapter of our lives – the part that was more about Voldemort than about each other – to finally be over.
)O(
Fin