Warning for mentions of death and grief.
You grasp the obsidian urn between your bandaged hands. It is only fitting that you scatter his ashes in the Black Lake since you are the saviour of the world — at least, that's what you've been told to do. That's what you're expected to do.
To be honest, you're more numb than anything. The echoes of the battle — the stones cracking, the magic crackling, the sound of destruction and death — still ring in your ears, no matter how much you try to block it out. You try to focus on the lake, the iridescent sheen it has, shifting between blue, grey, and white.
The effort is futile because you can't think of anything else, and the urn isn't helping matters. If anything, it's draining you. The longer you hold it, the longer it reminds you of what you have lost. Not just the bodies lying in the Great Hall, waiting for their send-off. Your heart grieves for the survivors, the ones who have to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives.
You hesitate, glancing around at all of the sombre, bowed heads. They're all waiting on you, but you're looking at — you're looking at —
Your eyes find Ron's, who is standing next to you. He lifts his head. He is strong, but his eyes are hollow and he looks as though he's aged. He's no longer the boy you laughed with late into the night. The boy who shared his chocolates with you and moaned over homework. He looks... he looks so tired.
Over his head, you can see redheads scattered in the crowd of spectators. Not spectators, per se, but not mourners either. They, like you, are here for their role in the war. Because they are expected to. They too look exhausted, and if you squint, you think you can see George Weasley shaking. Shaking. The man who'd laughed and found joy in darkness, shaking. The empty space next to him.
(You think back to an exchange you'd had with him. You'd found him on the steps leading out of the castle just this morning, face in his hands. He hadn't looked up when you'd approached and sat next to him.
"You don't have to come if you don't want to," you say, hoping that you're saying the right thing. Emotions are high, and you're uncomfortable in the face of such a barrier.
He raises his head, looks at you with bloodshot eyes. "No," he says firmly, his voice unwavering. "I'm coming."
Closure. It's about closure.)
George is just one person. You think of Teddy and your eyes search for him, finding him in Andromeda's arms. Even he has sensed the mood and has appropriately quieted.
Not him, anybody but him, you think as you are once again reminded of your childhood. But no. He will grow up safe and loved. I will protect him.
With a fresh burst of energy, you step forward and tip the urn over the water. Ashes fall out of it and float away almost lazily. You watch them drift, the surge of energy ebbing quickly.
Voldemort is gone. But as you scan the sea of worn, grieving faces, you must muster up the will to endure what lies ahead. Even if right now, you feel like collapsing. You must rally these people. It is no longer the time to fight. It is time to heal.
(A breeze bites into your cheek, and you think you can still smell smoke. Once again, you have to shake off the memories.
Yes, there is a lot of work to be done.)
602 words
Written for Assignment 9, Necromancy Task #3: Life Force Absorption: Write about someone feeling drained.
Race to the Top - Checkpoint 4 - (word) iridescent
