That night of the battle, there were two fights fought. Two scores were settled, even if it seemed like one on the surface.

Harry fought Voldemort. But really, it was only just the two of them. To the rest of the Wizarding World – the students of Hogwarts, especially – he was only a figure. He stood for evil, and for the sorrow that had hindered their lives so heavily. Really though, that's all he was: a black cloak, representing the mountain they had to tear apart, stone by stone. But he was untouchable, only Harry's to fight.

The others' battle was broader, and just as personal as the war between The Boy Who Lived and The Dark Lord. Their animosity was all for the death eaters. Bottled up and shaken till it bubbled, their hatred was for the masked magicians who had ruined their lives, year by year. Voldemort was their leader, yes, but he was not the one who had killed their friends and relatives. Sure, they understood that it was his fault, but that wasn't the point. They couldn't fight a face. They couldn't put their bitter, broken hearts into it if it was only one man. One man who they'd never met, regardless of his notorious resume of havoc.

So there were two fights that night. Two battles that needed to be won, if only to save their precious world. This was personal. The Death Eaters, Voldemort – it didn't matter. All that they knew was that this needed to be done. And since it cut so deeply, every curse's repercussions too vast to eyeball, they could do it. Even as the bodies continued to fall, each death harboring a little more anguish than the last, there was maybe a little bit of hope in the breathless way they kept on fighting.