Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter
Oliver is fighting alongside the others. The stress and heat of battle is overwhelming. The stench of death is nearly unbearable but as he races to the aid of his friends he feels rage pour through his veins. His beloved quidditch pitch, that he had been taught on, and led his troops into battle on in years past when sadness had not blanketed the land, was in flames. The stands were crumbling and the towers with their long house colored drapes were torn and feeding the growing fire. Memories flashed before his eyes, wins and losses on that pitch and he felt hate stronger than he had yet experienced. He saw all the death around him, and his childhood home crumbling around him and he felt broken. His teammates and classmates falling around him as jinxes flew every direction. A crude song reached his ears. The death eater to his left was singing a song, that didn't quite rhyme about setting fire to the pitch. He sang about the screams of those who were trapped in the blaze. Oliver shot curse after curse at the death eater who laughed dodging and blocking the spells. Neville appeared at Oliver's side, protecting his fellow from other disciples of the Dark Lord. Green flashed and a body slumped in front of Oliver. The tiny mousy frame of Colin Creevey fell at Oliver's feet, tears filling his eyes and hand clutching his wand. Oliver's eyes filled with hot tears as he shot a spell at the death eater who slumped down. The tiny boy had begged for an autograph when he saw him, despite the onslaught and as he was being bustled away from the school. He must have snuck back into the school, either due to bravery or stupidity. And here he was, giving his live to save Oliver's. Why had he done something so stupid? Oliver looked at Neville who was looking just as scared as Oliver felt. His hand was white as he clutched his wand but he peeled his fingers away, putting it in his pocket to help carry Colin's body into the castle. Oliver didn't question where the death eaters had gone. His camera lay smashed on the ground abandoned forever. Oliver cried over the tiny boy's body, carrying the small boy who weighed next to nothing while Neville trotted along beside him looking shocked and confused, as he stared down at Colin's wand. They lay him next to the rest of the bodies in the Great Hall. Oliver picked up a scorched bit of parchment that was resting on the dirty rock strewn floor and, with a small flourish signed it. He tucked it in with Colin, feeling broken. He hadn't been given a chance to give the boy the autograph in person, he had seemed too bright and now his cold face looked so dark and scared. Oliver bent his head and held the boy tight as he cried. His world was crumbling around him. This war was not as boring as the ones Binns had droned on about or as fantastical as books had promised. It was dark and cruel and sad and disgusting. Children died and families cracked and the smell and heat and intensity of the situation pressed down upon all in the Great Hall as they looked at the rows of dead.