My first fanfic. Hope you like it.
The war was supposed to be some great victory. It was going to be the last stance that saved the wizarding world. The blood spilt, the death that permeated the air was enough to send me to St. Mungo's. All my friends, my classmates, my professors lying lifeless on the ground. It was the stuff that hero's tales were made of, except twisted to some perverse, unnatural fashion.
Ron Weasley, Madam Hooch, Madam Pince, Hannah Abbott, Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, the Creevey brothers . . . . . . so many dead on the school that became the battlefield. The children that became the warriors are dead, from all houses, all heavily hit. Our coming of age had come in blood.
Death was indiscriminate, uncaring of which side you stood on. I walked through the Quidditch pitch coming upon the body that caused so much pain, so much suffering, so much desperation. Finally dead, finally the end that the wizarding world so badly needed.
Not too far away was the body of Harry Potter, the Boy-who-lived, the savior of the wizarding world. Fresh tears awoke me from my deadened state. I saw it all happen in slow motion, like some of those American action movies. Voldemort fired the killing curse at Harry. Ron took the hit. Harry immediately Avada Kevadra'd Voldemort. Lucius Malfoy killed Harry form behind. Cowardly bastard.
At that point I broke form the stagnation that was halting my actions. I was so infuriated, so saddened, so desperate. I could not see straight. Wand forgotten, I saw red, and had passed out. Only to awaken now, to stare at the battle fought, contemplating what had happened. Draco Malfoy turning to the light with Blaise Zabini and turning around and killing their housemates of seven years. Our graduation day had turned into a massacre. The death of everyone I ever loved. The finality of it was depressing.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- *-*-*-*-*-
I was about to see the know-it-all Gryffindor give her valedictorian speech. No surprise there. When all of a sudden scores of Deatheaters apparated giving a new meaning to the term "snap, crackle, and pop". I had always been fond of the Muggle cereal, though I'll be damned if I ever admit it.
Except for the younger students who had taken it up themselves to scream like banshees (honestly, what was that going to achieve), everyone took out their wands to join their respective sides. The Order or the wizards that once were, the Deatheaters. Half of Slytherin had abandoned Hogwarts to join the Dark Lord. Any loon who can't be any more creative than the "Dark Lord" needs to find a hobby. I believe that I induce much more fear by looking at a student who had just killed one of my cauldrons than the term the "Dark Lord."
Hexes and curses bring flown and thrown every which way. Chaos and anarchy would have found a great home here. Dumbledore, the supposed symbol of all things good and holy, ordained by the almighty Garvedians to be the poster boy of the Light, wa shaving trouble keeping up with the onslaught of attacks he was enduring. His strength was failing. Great. Bloody fucking brilliant.
All around students were falling, students that I ridiculed, that I taught, that I favored and that I scorned. Sobering myself into action, I started to attack violently anyone who dared attack MY students, My hope for MY freedom and MY redemption. Damn the sadists who decided to follow a nut job who wants to exterminate the general populace. Come on, seriously, what will that accomplish? Absolutely nothing.
Oh great. Saint Potter. The final duel. The one that would decide everything. It was like a running Quidditch commentator in my head – Voldemort attacked Potter . . . Weasley intercepted . . . . . Potter killed Voldemort . . . shot down by a cowardly Malfoy senior from behind and . . . . the wizarding world is saved by one Harry James Potter who is our official martyr.
Then the most unusual awe-strucking thing happened . . . . .
The war was supposed to be some great victory. It was going to be the last stance that saved the wizarding world. The blood spilt, the death that permeated the air was enough to send me to St. Mungo's. All my friends, my classmates, my professors lying lifeless on the ground. It was the stuff that hero's tales were made of, except twisted to some perverse, unnatural fashion.
Ron Weasley, Madam Hooch, Madam Pince, Hannah Abbott, Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, the Creevey brothers . . . . . . so many dead on the school that became the battlefield. The children that became the warriors are dead, from all houses, all heavily hit. Our coming of age had come in blood.
Death was indiscriminate, uncaring of which side you stood on. I walked through the Quidditch pitch coming upon the body that caused so much pain, so much suffering, so much desperation. Finally dead, finally the end that the wizarding world so badly needed.
Not too far away was the body of Harry Potter, the Boy-who-lived, the savior of the wizarding world. Fresh tears awoke me from my deadened state. I saw it all happen in slow motion, like some of those American action movies. Voldemort fired the killing curse at Harry. Ron took the hit. Harry immediately Avada Kevadra'd Voldemort. Lucius Malfoy killed Harry form behind. Cowardly bastard.
At that point I broke form the stagnation that was halting my actions. I was so infuriated, so saddened, so desperate. I could not see straight. Wand forgotten, I saw red, and had passed out. Only to awaken now, to stare at the battle fought, contemplating what had happened. Draco Malfoy turning to the light with Blaise Zabini and turning around and killing their housemates of seven years. Our graduation day had turned into a massacre. The death of everyone I ever loved. The finality of it was depressing.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- *-*-*-*-*-
I was about to see the know-it-all Gryffindor give her valedictorian speech. No surprise there. When all of a sudden scores of Deatheaters apparated giving a new meaning to the term "snap, crackle, and pop". I had always been fond of the Muggle cereal, though I'll be damned if I ever admit it.
Except for the younger students who had taken it up themselves to scream like banshees (honestly, what was that going to achieve), everyone took out their wands to join their respective sides. The Order or the wizards that once were, the Deatheaters. Half of Slytherin had abandoned Hogwarts to join the Dark Lord. Any loon who can't be any more creative than the "Dark Lord" needs to find a hobby. I believe that I induce much more fear by looking at a student who had just killed one of my cauldrons than the term the "Dark Lord."
Hexes and curses bring flown and thrown every which way. Chaos and anarchy would have found a great home here. Dumbledore, the supposed symbol of all things good and holy, ordained by the almighty Garvedians to be the poster boy of the Light, wa shaving trouble keeping up with the onslaught of attacks he was enduring. His strength was failing. Great. Bloody fucking brilliant.
All around students were falling, students that I ridiculed, that I taught, that I favored and that I scorned. Sobering myself into action, I started to attack violently anyone who dared attack MY students, My hope for MY freedom and MY redemption. Damn the sadists who decided to follow a nut job who wants to exterminate the general populace. Come on, seriously, what will that accomplish? Absolutely nothing.
Oh great. Saint Potter. The final duel. The one that would decide everything. It was like a running Quidditch commentator in my head – Voldemort attacked Potter . . . Weasley intercepted . . . . . Potter killed Voldemort . . . shot down by a cowardly Malfoy senior from behind and . . . . the wizarding world is saved by one Harry James Potter who is our official martyr.
Then the most unusual awe-strucking thing happened . . . . .