Sleep was not likely to seek the survivors of the recent battle, nor was it likely to be sought, not with the grounds of Hogwarts silently mourning the deaths of the battle's many victims. The air itself seemed to cry in a hollow remembrance of the many who sacrificed themselves willingly to defend that which they hold dear. It was in the name of all things good that they fought, with the knowledge that evil shall be triumphed over whenever it is face to face with righteous rebellion.
Inside Hogwarts castle, there was a silence so complete that it made the walls shiver. Whispers could be heard, this was true, but all in all it was the overwhelming comprehension of the situation that left a silent, heavy burden upon the shoulders of each individual. Passersby would nod blankly at one another, a salute of survival, an acknowledgment of endurance, though none stopped. Everyone had a purpose, everyone was walking somewhere; either to kneel beside a casualty of war, or to tend to those still clinging to life.
Led by Madam Pomfrey, a group of adults cared for and tended to the injured and harshly cursed. Bottles of healing potions and Skele-gro lined a table outside the hospital wing, where the patients had spilled out into the corridors, resting on beds conjured from thin air by the assisting adults. Students, members of the Order, and staff members alike lay still beneath thin white sheets, still fighting of death's call and allowing potions to work their magic.
From the entrance hall, bodies of slain death eaters and Voldemort supporters were removed and set in the courtyard where Dumbledore himself took care of them. He allowed only Kingsley Shacklebolt to assist him, and no one could tell what they were doing. One by one, the bodies were lifted by two or three students and carried outside: Antonin Dolohov, Fabian Brookgard, Bellatrix Lestrange, and Goyle among the many.
But the line of bodies of students was by far the most breathtaking, heartwrenching, and horrible sight anyone had yet seen. The death toll was not enormous, but the sheer quantity of magical blood spilt of young, underage witches and wizards was enough to drive anyone to rip out their own heart so as not to feel pain any longer; to avoid the trauma of gazing upon those who had thrust themselves between freedom and danger, and had succumbed to the latter.
Pavarti Patil knelt beside her sister's lifeless body, her face pained with a loss so deep, comforting was tenuous. The bodies of Ernie Macmillan and Anthony Goldstein were surrounded by three or four Ravenclaws, including Cho, all appealing the bodies of their friends with defeat. The acknowledgment of death so fierce that none could staunch the steady bleeding of tears, and no one cared to hide their obvious pain.
Luna knelt beside Seamus Finnigan, who was sprawled in grief next to the body of his once best friend, Dean Thomas. The boy's shirt had been nearly ripped off during battle, leaving his bloody chest exposed to the world he'd already left. Joining Luna and Seasmus was Neville, who placed a hand on the former's back and stood behind her, lamenting the loss of their friend.
But of the Order of the Phoenix, only one death was already upon them. Molly Weasley, clothed in bright blue, lay with her arms clasped over her stomach as Arthur held her head in his hands, tears dropping onto her face. Ron stood next to his father, hands draped around his neck as he gazed somberly upon his mother's body, not bothering to wipe away tears of his own. Next to him, Ginny, Bill, Fred, and George all knelt in silent reverence to the inert body of their mother, silenced by grief, silenced by the tears of their father.
And as though to emphasize the grief of all inside the castle, the skies let go of their own tears and let the rain crash to the ground as low rumbles of thunder rippled overhead. The rain was a gift, a sign that life continued without those recently dead, though grief could not be quenched. The craving of an irreversible truth was that water is unable to satisfy the parched throat of a dead body.
Harry Potter stood away from the Weasleys, his favorite family in the whole world, watching them ache as one. The anguish on her children's faces was a pain unto itself, known only to Harry. He had his arms crossed and leaned on the wall next to an empty portrait, feeling grief and remorse swell inside him as he too reflected on the life of Molly Weasley, the first real mother figure he'd ever had. She'd defended him, fed him, loved him, and cared for him when he thought that it might perhaps be impossible to achieve such affection from a woman such as herself. It was an ache that he could not properly identify, and thus, could not come to terms with.
But just as he'd understood the sacrifice his own mother made, the fact that she'd protected him when Voldemort sought to relieve his future of a threatening opponent, Molly Weasley would be remembered as such. She was a sacrifice to the wizarding world, alongside the names of her fellow warriors who captured more death eaters in a span of three hours than the ministry had been able to reprimand over the course of Voldemort's last reign.
Harry turned his head and watched Lupin, Tonks, and Mad-Eye round up the last set of death eaters to transfer to Azkaban, which they had found out upon arriving with the first batch that the dementors had fled to rejoin Lord Voldemort. Harry had overheard Mad-Eye telling Tonks that new protections were placed on Azkaban and half of the aurors were recruited to keep guard while they thought up a new plan for the prison. Among those imprisoned were all three Malfoys, Draco barely clinging to life, Rodolphus Lestrange, whom Harry couldn't believe survived the massive attack he'd endured earlier, Kristopher, still bound in ropes, and countless others he did not know or could not properly identify.
His anger turned to Kristopher, who no longer was forced to suffer the imprisonment by dementors. He felt ashamed as the strong will of wishing unendurable pain onto the man strengthened with every second his eyes remained locked onto his sour-looking face. He averted his eyes, but with no relief as he was reminded again of the Weasley's pain, which made him want to remove his heart and put it in place of the one stopped beneath Molly's chest.
"Pain and loss are a part of life," a low voice said behind him. Sirius had approached, unbeknownst to Harry. "We lose the people we love, it's always a matter of when and where, which is why it is usually so difficult to cope with." Hermione had just joined the Weasley's, embracing Ginny, and letting her cry into her shoulder.
"Why does it happen to the best of all people?" Harry asked, his voice cracking from lack of use, but also from holding back a sob.
To Harry's surprise, Sirius laughed, but it was not his jubilant one. "Not to be trite, Harry, but it's all a matter of opinion." He shook his head to clarify. "Yes, Molly Weasley was among the best of all people, but the question should truly be why doesn't it happen to the best of all people? To the well organized mind, as Dumbledore likes to say, death is but the next great adventure. Molly died valiantly and doing what she did her whole life, taking care of her children. She died where no other mother has." He spread his arms and looked around the room. "Do you even see another mother in this room?"
Harry looked around and realized, painfully, that he was right. Molly was the only mother defending her children, she died in service to them, her last great act of love.
"Your mother, Harry, would have done absolutely anything for you," Sirius said, his voice returning to its low whisper, as though sending the message on a gust of wind. "And she did, she died to save you. If you are to understand anything this day, understand this: the love of a parent is never quite as clear until it's gone, and when it's gone, it becomes stronger than ever." He clasped a hand on Harry's shoulder, then released him and walked away.
The battle was foolish, Harry knew it, Voldemort knew it, but it had seriously crippled Voldemort's forces and struck blows that could not be relinquished. The dark days of Lord Voldemort were coming to an end, regardless of how bloody the last battle would be. Eventually, soon, it would be over.
But pain would never be over. Mourning the dead was a life long act, one that those left behind faced daily, recognizing the absence of someone who should be there.
"Is that his mother?" someone else had crept up behind Harry. She had a small, soft voice and spoke with a ring of sorrow. Harry finally moved from his position, which he had not done even for Sirius. Emma Gold was standing behind him, looking worn and tired, her eyes red.
"Yes," said Harry, licking his lips to momentarily quench his thirst. Now that he had a moment to look closely at her, Harry realized Emma was at least two inches taller than him. She'd wrapped her hair back to keep it off her neck, which was small and decorated with a silver necklace. She had also taken off her sweater, under which she was wearing a light grey t-shirt, one side sprinkled with blood that seemed to be seeping from underneath.
"Emma," she said, to remind Harry of who she was.
"I remember," Harry nodded, extending his hand. She took it and shook it firmly, the small muscles in her forearm contracting as she did. "Why did you warn me about Kristopher and Draco?" he asked, the words spilling out. The whole conversation with her had been in the back of his mind for hours. "What is your story?"
She looked surprised. "Do I need a story?"
Harry thought for a moment. "I just mean, you're in Slytherin. Forgive me, but it's a bit uncharacteristic."
Emma smiled. "Dogmas cause men to revolt, Harry, even though they are set up to promote a state of welfare and peace. I find nothing peaceful about this situation, do you?"
Harry screwed up his face, confused. "What the hell does that mean?"
Now she laughed, soft and friendly-like. "For the longest time this school has been divided, each side fighting for a cause they deem most important: a wizarding community purged of the unworthy versus coexisting peacefully. I would much rather fight for the latter. I would much rather fight for peace than for constant war, which would be inevitable if Lord Voldemort takes over."
Harry's face softened again and, for the first time in hours, smiled. That was the purpose of their battle, the fight for peace.
She looked over at the Weasleys. "Your friends were very lucky to have a mother such as her, one that came to fight alongside them rather than against," she said softly, in a tone that might suggest she was about to cry, but her eyes remained dry, no tears left to shed. "My mother was a death eater. Can you imagine the disgrace I face if ever we get out of this mess? It's obvious to everyone but the dark lord that good overcomes evil in the end. When that time gets the better of us I will have to explain to my children who their grandmother was and that she died fighting against her own children."
The light behind her eyes vanished with the words of her mother, but her mouth remained curved in what appeared to be a self-pitying smile. With extreme curiosity, Harry watched the features of her face twitch, unwilling to yield tears for her mother. It was odd to hear her speak this way, odd to be talking with a girl he hardly knew and hear her spill this personal information with such honesty.
"What about your father?" Harry asked, immediately uncertain as to whether he should have asked this.
She shrugged. "Who knows," she said, purely uninterestedly. "Might be dead, we don't really know. He left my sister, Alice, and I with his mother a long time ago. We've lived with my grandmother since I was about…ten, I think."
"Your sister thinks the same way as you, does she?" asked Harry, feeling a sudden upsurge of sympathy for the girl. Emma, who had been caught up in the sudden movement by the line of student's bodies, looked back at him. She nodded. "Why haven't you spoken to me before, if you feel this way?"
"I might be in sympathy with you, Harry, but I'm not an idiot," she let out a low laugh, it made her appear somewhat proud. "I prefer to enjoy school. Can you imagine the ridicule I'd face if I'd revealed myself any sooner?" She gave him a smile that neither mocked nor scorned. "After watching your friends fight alongside you, however, I do wonder what life would have been like if I had just abandoned the 'laws of my house'," she used air quotes around the last phrase.
Harry shrugged. "It's never too late," he said.
"I turn seventeen in three months," she said, giving him a look of utter apprehension. "We should be developing friendships our whole lives, learning about relationships, but the girls and boys in my year only wish to get through school in order to serve Voldemort. It's too late for me mostly because it never could have began as long as I'm in Slytherin. Which is, fortunately, only one more year."
"That's a pretty sad way to look at things," said Harry with a frown. "How can you go through life thinking that way?"
Emma smirked. "Your life was predestined from the time you were a baby, according to the prophecy. Are you going to go through life now thinking you have another choice? Not to place our predicaments on the same level, Potter, but it is, as they say, the way things are." She shrugged. "That isn't to say I'm not going to try," and she cast a quick glance towards the Weasleys.
A moment of silence passed between them as Harry considered her, tilting his head to one side. "I'm sorry, about your mother, I mean," he said, "but your children will never have to feel ashamed of your mother when you fought for the very opposite cause. Bloodlines don't make family, you know. Mrs. Weasley was as close as a mother to me as I can get."
Another moment passed as they both stared blankly around, attempting to take in everything going on around them. Then Emma smiled again, taking a deep breath and looked back at Harry. "Well, Harry Potter, it was certainly an honor to meet you," she said. "And I'm sorry about your surrogate mother." He smiled back, warily, and watched her turn and walk away, towards the staircase, and disappear behind a doorway.
Talking with Emma had made him feel better. She had made him realize something that he might not have been able to otherwise, aside from Mrs. Weasley's sacrifice. He realized that for the people who really were sacrificing everything they had left, this war was the only thing they could trust in, hope for, as the wizarding community fought to hold on to the people they loved and a society that would, one day, coexist peacefully.
It was perhaps, this thought, that allowed him to finally move from his spot far away from the Weasleys, and pluck up to courage to mourn Molly Weasley's death with them, rather than as a bystander. He headed across the room, glancing down at the bodies lining the wall as he went, casting over them a look of deepest gratitude.
Harry stopped next to Ron, who looked up, tear streaked face and blotchy red eyes. At the same moment, they lifted their arms and embraced, Harry knowing that this boy was the closest thing he had to a brother, and the best friend he could have ever asked for. When they broke apart, Ron's arm draped around Harry's shoulders as together the looked back down upon Molly. He wanted to say something to Ron, to the Weasley's, but everything he thought of sounded blithe and rushed.
As he stood still next to Ron, feeling the heart beat of his best friend palpitate in hard crushing tones through his skin, Harry felt oddly distilled and quieted. Maybe he didn't need to say anything. Maybe it was better that all the things passing through everyone's minds remained unsaid.
On his other side, Hermione appeared, slipping herself under Harry's arm and grasping Ron's hand still draped over Harry. She laid her head on his shoulder and continued to watch the Weasley's silent pain. The strength of each family member was mesmerizing, kneeling or standing around Molly's body. Their eyes seemed entranced and unable to be torn away, watery and red though they were.
Suddenly there was a loud creak from the opening of a very large door and Harry, Ron, and Hermione all turned in surprise. From the doors of the entrance hall burst Percy and Charlie, both white with shock and terror, running at top speed towards their family members.
Fred and George looked taken aback by Percy's appearance, and the young man stumbled before the lifeless body of his mother. He choked, his eyes welling with tears, and fell to the floor beside Bill. Instinctively, Bill wrapped an arm around his brother's back as Percy had nearly curled up into a ball. All looked beseechingly at Charlie.
Charlie was hardly managing to keep himself together. He was drenched from the rain outside, as was Percy, and his muscles rippled underneath his overcoat.
"He came to Romania to get me," Charlie managed to say. "Apparated right into the post office, apparently. Word hadn't yet reached me, though I can't imagine how fast it could have. They were holding him hostage at the Ministry, but he managed to break free." His sentences were fragmented and disheveled, and after he said as much as he could, he too knelt next to Percy.
Harry looked at Ron, who had the appearance of being recently clubbed over the head with a Bludger. He removed his arm from around Harry and walked over to Percy and Charlie, wanting to be in their midst.
"I feel like I'm intruding," Hermione whispered, tears still falling down her rosy cheeks.
"I know what you mean," said Harry, wrapping his arm more tightly around her waist. "Do you want to walk?" She nodded, and he led her away, knowing their absence would go amiss.
Harry took her handThey headed out of the entrance hall and up the stairs, down the corridor Harry had been impaled with glass. Without thinking, he reached with his free hand to touch the spot the glass had pierced. Hermione noticed.
"How does it feel?" she asked, looking up at him.
Harry shook his head. "Fine, I don't feel a thing. I can't believe you were able to do that so painlessly."
She gave him a hollow laugh. "Believe me, it wasn't painless."
They walked in silence down the next couple corridors, slowly striding along and listening to the thunder that phased neither of them. Their dragging feet were masked by distant rumbles, and their shadows were interspersed with droplets of rain on surrounding windows.
Finally, Hermione broke the silence.
"You know," she said, coughing a little to hide her awkwardness, "you said something…something really serious…right before Voldemort appeared." Even though Harry could not see her, he could almost feel her blushing hard. Her heart beat quickened and he felt her arms shake nervously.
In the darkness, Harry smiled, remembering what she was referring to. "What? When I said I love you?" He stopped walking and she turned to face him.
"Ye-es," she said, smacking her lips with what could only be nerves. "I know it seemed like we were about to die, Harry, so I'll give you a chance to take it back."
He frowned, knowing that she was only being logical. "Do you want me to take it back?"
She kept her eyes locked inside of his. "No," she said, barely above a whisper.
Harry smiled again, letting the emotion flood through him. He backed her up against the wall. "I love you, Hermione, and I don't want you to think that it was the heat of the moment that made me realize it," he said, leaning his mouth close to her ear. "I just knew that I might not ever get a chance to say it if I didn't say it right then." He could hear her breathing hard, slow jets of air sliding out of her mouth.
"I love you too, Harry," Hermione whispered back.
With one hand against the wall and one around her waist, Harry kissed her and felt her immediate response. The connection of their lips was deeper than it had ever been, deeper because it meant more than juvenile emotion. After a moment, he removed his hand from the wall and put it on her face, bringing it closer to his own, feeling her soft skin in his hand and reveling in the intensity of the kiss. He felt her hands move from his back to under his shirt and onto his stomach as they spread wide and gripped his skin, bringing his torso more closely to her own until not even a severing charm could separate them.