A/N: Last chapter, yeah! And I managed to get exact word counts the whole way through! Hope it's been enjoyed :)
It was over. The sounds of grieving, of celebration, reached Michael's ears. Bodies lay upon the floor like carefully placed dinnerware on a well-set table. All except Voldemort, who no one had deigned to touch—the unwelcomed guest to their dinner party.
Michael stood numbly at the edge of the hall, his gaze almost idly, distractedly, seeking out those he knew. Cho was at the opposite side, a Mediwitch taking care of her. Neville stood near the centre of the room, his hand in Hannah's and small smile on his face in spite of the wounds he'd received. Luna was pensively overseeing the grief of the Weasley family, though her focus seemed mostly to be on Harry.
Michael watched as she walked over to him, and spoke briefly. He didn't bother to look up as Luna shouted her diversion, but instead smiled wryly. She was something, that girl, he thought as Harry made his stealthy exit. He stood a while longer. Something was wrong with him, he knew. As the world went on around him, heavy with emotion, he stood empty upon its edge.
"Alright, mate?"
He forced a smile so fake it burned. A nod, and Seamus continued on.
xXx
Days passed slowly through a thick sludge of grief and mourning. Terry and Anthony were gone, as were many others—good and bad. In the aftermath of the destruction, that they died for a cause they believed so strongly in whispered no comfort to the survivors.
The void that filled their passing was vast, but Michael found himself comforted by the pain and by the tears that streamed down his cheeks at each funeral. For they told him that, though cast as a weapon of strength during war, he was wrought not of steel, but of flesh, soul, and heart.