This story is written for a challenge over at HPFF. I'd highly appreciate reviews for this story, as it was hard to write a 500-word piece.
That being said, I don't own the characters or anything - I merely borrow them.
When you're young, you never think about moments that might change your life forever. In fact, you might never even think about it, until the moment hits you in the face - and if you do, it would probably in the likes of getting married or having children. That being said, I know I definitely did not think about those moments, mostly because of the fact that they were ultimately depressing, especially with the war going on.
However, the moment I heard McGonagall's scream, closely followed by both Ron and Hermione's and, upon seeing his body in the arms of Hagrid, mine, I knew the moment was there.
Denial was the first thing that went through me. Not willing to believe what my eyes saw, and not willing to hear what Lord Voldemort said. Not able to move, and not even because she was held back, as Ron said that Harry beat him, not able to speak as others yelled beside her. Not able to do anything, as Neville stood up against him and got set on fire because of it. Trying to hold back tears at the same time, not allowing their wetness to blur my vision, for I might lose sight of his body. Tears, both out of grief and out of anger. Blinking furiously to keep them at bay.
And then all hell broke loose again.
I got forced out of my stupor, and suddenly I found myself in the Great Hall, firing curses at Bellatrix Lestrange, fully determined to do whatever I could to stop them from harming anyone else. Even though I knew there was no hope left. Even though I knew we were losing. Even though I knew I most certainly wouldn't come out of this alive. And I didn't even care anymore. All I wanted was to avenge Harry's death, to make sure to try my hardest to not let his efforts be in vain, not caring one bit if I lived or died to see the end.
Because I knew my life had changed, and not for the better.
At least, that's what I thought until my mother stepped in after I narrowly escaped death, as I watched her duel, and defeat, Bellatrix Lestrange. After Voldemort blasted several people feet away and against walls in rage, and after Harry suddenly re-appeared, obviously alive. Then, hope started to fill me again. Then, I thought life had changed, but maybe not for the worse. That maybe, finally, everything would be right again, they would be able to breathe again and that maybe, maybe they'd finally have a good reason to celebrate and just be. And when it finally did end, she celebrated because of the end, grieved because of those who were lost and felt relief because it eventually did change for the better, and finally she could be with Harry again.
Though, of course, that didn't mean I would refrain from hexing him for pulling that stunt on them. That, I couldn't promise.