In the End
o
All my life I've been told these things.
And I did believe in them, blindly.
I never even tried to build up my own mind.
And now that I've finally come to think and question what I took for granted for so long, there's not much time left.
o
They said this battle was supposed to bring the Dark Lord his long desired victory.
That we would finally conquer the Wizarding World on its whole.
And rid it of all those, unworthy to cast a spell.
How wrong we've been.
o
How could a small number of your so called 'Inferiors' almost withstand our cunning, carefully planned attack out of the shadows?
o
Wherever I look there's mud and blood and a cloud of pure hatred and death, eating every hope away.
I'm so tired of those baleful terms.
They seem to have ruled all my life, poisoned my soul and fogged my judgement.
o
I'm not saying this because we lost.
So did you.
There's no winner to this battle.
No one to learn from the mistakes we made.
o
Across the lake the morning sun seems to rise right out of the water, dipping its smooth, glimmering surface into a reddish glow.
To my mourning mind and injured soul it appears to be an endless pool of blood.
A horrid, yet so suitable thought.
o
I keep my eyes wide open, try my best not to blink despite the blinding brightness.
To take in every bit, every detail of the dawn.
I know it's the last one I'm going to see.
o
The ragged sound of troubled, uneven breathing causes me to turn my head away from the absorbing scenery.
It's you.
It's you, who lie there, just a few feet away, in a pool of your blood, dying.
o
I didn't realise I gasped at the sight of your injuries, but I must have as you slowly turn your head to face me.
I steel myself against the hatred in your eyes, the loathing, but find none.
Instead, you weakly lift one hand, reaching out to me.
o
"Please," you implore, soundlessly.
I still recognise the movement of your lips.
For a moment I'm stunned, then, despite my ever quicker blurring consciousness, I realise that you don't see, don't recognise me.
o
Or do you?
o
I can't tell, but then – in the end – it doesn't matter.
I try to get up, but can't.
So I merely crawl on my stomach until I reach you, clasp your blood smeared fingers with mine and press them – gently.
o
In the end, it seems the right thing to do.
In the end, I realise how wrong I've been.
o
About you, about me, about – everything.
A terrible sadness tightens my throat.
But there's nothing I can do anymore, not a thing – no more.
o
So I simply lay my cheek onto the ground beside yours, hold your hand, press it softly and watch your blood mingling with mine as it slowly, nonsensical and irredeemable seeps into the churned up, muddy ground by the lake.
o
Disclaimer: As usual, Rowling brought the characters to existence. I'm just messing up their life.