Disclaimer: It's all JKR's and the WB's. No money involved.
A/N: I actually wrote this a week after Deathly Hallows and totally forgot about it, so it's more MY feelings about the Final Battle than Harry's feelings. R&R.
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The next few weeks, though filled with celebration at the defeat of Lord Voldemort (no longer is the name feared) were the hardest for those who survived the short, violent reign of the Dark Lord and his followers. The losses were great; not one wizard went without the loss of someone they knew and very few could say they had lost no family.
All were torn between elation at the downfall of evil and sorrow for the death of friends. Everything felt so bittersweet. In the happiest of moments wizards and witches fell to tears for the fact that those they lost would never feel this joy. It was for the Greater Good, many convinced themselves; their friends died fighting evil, fighting hate.
Yet survivor's guilt consumed those who lived. It could have been me, they thought, but I lived. Either twin could have fallen to the Death Eaters, but George was the one to survive, the one left to laugh without his closest and dearest friend. Those who loved each other endlessly, Remus and Tonks, died at the hands of evil while Molly and Arthur live on, love on. Parents lost their children and children their parents. The pain is burns unceasingly. The sorrow grows each day rather than weakens as everyone says it will.
But George will laugh some day. And Ted Lupin will grow up, a strong and proud wizard. Love will go on for love has conquered evil. And if evil returns with hate in its eyes and cruelty in its heart, as it inevitably will, those who live and love will take it down again.
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We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter's the one,
And Voldy's gone moldy, so now let's have fun!
A week after the final battle at Hogwarts the words of Peeves the Poltergeist swam through Harry Potter's mind. The lanky boy with jet black hair and eyes green as ever sat at the end of his camp bed in Ron's room at the Burrow, just as he had done nearly a year before.
Harry had spent most of the week on that bed, speaking numbly with Ron and Hermione, holding a crying Ginny, denying all the deaths that had cast a shadow of gloom over the wizarding and muggle worlds at such a time of excitement and celebration. He knew he should be glad that Voldemort had finally been defeated, but felt guilty to smile. He had just gotten over the deaths of his godfather and his mentor when suddenly fifty more deaths, unnecessary deaths, were thrown into the mix.
Moody who had protected him and taught him, though not at school; Fred, one of the few people left in the wizarding world who was there to make people smile with his jokes the past couple years; Tonks with her newborn son who would never know his parents; Remus, the last of the true Marauders, the father of Tonks's son and very much a father to Harry over the years; poor, young and innocent Colin Creevey, Harry's biggest admirer, who cherished good above his own life when he ignored McGonagall's instructions and ran into the middle of the battle; Harry had even reminisced about Crabbe, an obvious enemy, but one who was young and could have changed as Draco had.
Harry thought about Draco and his mother. Narcissa Malfoy had, though she would never admit it, saved his life and the lives of hundreds of wizards, pureblood and muggleborn alike, because of the love she held for her son. She denied her master and all the power she could have gained to save her son. She had risked her life by lying to Voldemort for her family.
Harry couldn't help but think of his own mother, the woman he had seen in the form of a semi-ghost just seven days earlier, and felt a pang of sorrow. He didn't regret dropping the ring in the forest, losing it forever, for he knew he did not want to end up like the second brother in the tale and he didn't want his family to live sad and cold as the girl in the story had when brought back into a half-life, but he missed them now more than ever.
He felt knew what they would say if they were sitting by him on the camp bed. He imagined his father's hand gripping his shoulder proudly, reassuring him, as he had been reassured once before, that as long as the memory of his loved ones remains they will be there, in his heart. He saw his mother's hand upon his own, her green eyes sparkling. In those eyes, his eyes, an impenetrable love glowed and he knew it would remain. Remus would smile solemnly and tell Harry not to blame himself, as terrible as Rita Skeeter and others like her may make it sound, it all was for the Greater Good. Sirius, his bark-like laugh resounding off the walls of the small room, would tell Harry to listen to his father and Moony, for they were always the most level-headed of the group.
"Dinnertime, Harry!" he heard someone shout up the stairs and shook the images of his parents and their best friends out of his mind. Harry considered Peeves's rhyme again. We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter's the one…. He had turned out to be "The Chosen One" after all. He had defeated the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But Harry knew he hadn't done it alone. He'd done it with the love of every good witch and wizard and even some he thought could never be good nor had an ounce of love in their bodies. Harry thought of Snape, the man he had hated and vowed he would never trust the moment they laid eyes on each other, the bravest man he had ever known whose love had really been the thing that saved the wizarding world.
He pushed himself out of the bed, ran a hand through the mess of black hair on his head, and made his way down the many flights of steps to the yard of the Burrow, silently vowing to keep the memory of Severus Snape alive with all the love he contained.