I continue to write one-shots. I really enjoy them and they make me release some of my feelings. Plus I feel that the fallen of the Battle need to be remembered. I always wanted to know more.

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Remember, I will still be here
As long as you hold me, in your memory
Remember, when your dreams have ended
Time can be transcended
Just remember me

-Remember, Josh Groban

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Dreamed

I never imagined that I would survive the night, though I couldn't say that I wanted to see the dawn the morning after. Things always look worse in the light. I learned that lesson a long time ago. Somehow, I escaped the battle with nothing more than a curse scar and a killer head ache. I got off better than others.

Walking through the Great Hall was a mix between a carnival and a mortuary. Dead bodies and laughter, in my mind, never blended well. With a slow gait, for I was beyond exhausted from the pure amount of magical energy I had used, I approached the one body that mattered to me.

I stared for what felt like forever. The simple act of looking down at him made me want to run home, made me wish that I had followed the advice of my best friend and ran away. Of course, I had never been one for running.

I couldn't run home, could I?

Home was right in front of me, lying dead on the stone floor.

Falling to my knees, I didn't cry out when I felt a jar of pain from an open gash on my joint. I simply stared.

He did not look himself. His hair was white, perhaps from some strange curse, I could not be sure. His body was grotesquely swollen. I felt a wave of nausea wash over me, causing me to rock forward and place my palms on the ground for stability. Gashes of once oozing blood were now congealed and not even bothered with an effort to heal.

The most disturbing of his morbid features were his eyes.

I remembered them. Anyone who ever met him would say that his eyes were his best and most defining feature. They had always been the darkest chocolate brown, warm and inviting, intoxicating some would say, filled with a zest for adventure and what he always called 'the right thing'.

Now, they were staring at anything and nothing. Their bright inner glow had long since gone out. They were lifeless, a shell, a shadow.

Tears were beginning to form as I tried to fight them off. I was strong. I could get through this. I had made it through my father's death two years ago without falling apart in public. I could make it to the privacy of my own room, but then again who was to say that my dorm had not been destroyed?

Reaching forward for some kind of line of rescue, I took hold of his hand. It was still warm. I began to feel my walls crumbling, falling. I could hear others crying, wailing, beating the ground with their misery. They were screaming names, lamenting their loved ones, their friends, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers…

Their boyfriends.

Without realizing, I had begun to allow the tears to flow freely down my face. I could not stop, nor did I honestly want to. What more was there that I could do?

I spent hours sitting beside his corpse, holding his hand. I watched others come and go, but I remained.

When it became late, a woman came past, a piece of parchment in hand. She asked his name. I replied, my voice monotone. She nodded and watched me sadly, her eyes falling on my hand entwined with his.

"What was your relation to Mr. Boot?"

I didn't respond. My air felt like it was frozen in my lungs. She had used the past tense. I grasped onto his hand with such force that it was a wonder his bones didn't break. Or perhaps since his body was in such disarray his hand may have been broken to begin with.

"Miss?"

"He is my boyfriend." I murmured. She nodded and moved away. No one came to approach me for everyone had their own losses to face.

We had dreamed that once the war ended we would buy a flat in London, you know? So he could work at a reborn Ministry and I could start working at Gringotts. He had never thought of purposing since the year had been straight from the flaming depths of hell. The day that he had been tortured had also been our anniversary, the day that he had meant to ask me. We had dreamed of marriage, though, and children, of romance and simply living together.

…living together.

I suppose that will never happen, will it?

Death has a funny way of ruining your dreams…

Once more the narrator does not have a name. Why? Because she is a lot of different people. She does not need a name for the reader to identify and feel her pain. Please review.