This was written for a contest on , basically the idea is that we are to re-write the epiloge to Book 7. I wont spoil my ending.
So, not JKR... but I think she could've thought this option through
The war and battle continued to rage, the ribbons of spells hung and flew high above the ceiling, higher than any house banner had ever flown. No one could tell the difference between friend and foe in the height of the battle. Later some would wonder who had died of friendly and not so friendly fire. Screams echoed and tears were shed, for a face was only recognizable once they had hit the floor. Molly Weasley turned from killing Belatrix, to see her only daughter hit the floor, dead. She ran to her body screaming, and fell next to her. Lucius Malfloy tripped on an outstretched arm and sent an avada kedavra curse at it without looking, killing his wife. The smoke began to fill the room towards mid-night, impairing the survivors from finding each other and pitching battle once again. Cries from the fallen echoed like a distant song, louder than even the screams of those who had found their loved ones' remains. The last spell was cast at 3 am, hitting a chandelier and lighting the room for but a moment. Then silence fell until the sun rose.
There were no victors, just survivors, and what they saw became legend. Ron grabbed his brother's arm and helped him stand, wands encased in their shaking hands, looking for anyone left to fight. Draco Malfloy saw him, and held his arms up, showing he would not fight, any differences forgotten. Draco then pointed in silence at Hermione, tending to McGonagall in a corner. Tonks sat on the floor next to her aunt's body, cradling Lupin's torn face, tears hitting his forever closed eyes.
Luna reached out and took Neville's hand, together they walked along the line of the dead, trying to account for their fallen friends, and enimies. Goyle and Professor Flitwick were laid side by side; those who remained did not care for whose side you fought for. Together, Luna and Neville
turned over one black robe, if only to identify the remains for the list to be later drawn up. The light from a broken window shown in and cast an unearthly light upon a skull, the flesh had been burned or charmed away. But still, somehow, etched within the bone of the forehead was a single, bright, scar.
Nineteen years later:
The whistle of platform 9 ¾ had long been silent, almost two decades. No one dared to rebuild on the remains of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, instead sending their children to Drumstrag, Buxabottoms, Salem University, Bisonsrest, Toro de la Escuela de Magia, and other worldly schools. All the magic, and wonder that was once held within those walls had not died, but changed. No more spells were spoken, no more potions created, but, instead a different magic took place, moss grew on the walls, and meadow larks began to sing. Nature was teaching the magic world, how to heal, and the world of magic, was beginning to listen.
The boy who lived, had died nineteen years ago, for a dream that could never come true, but perhaps, that was okay.
See? Sacreligious aint it. :D I never thought Harry should live.
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