InsaneJournal

Millicent Bulstrode

Millicent Bulstrode hadn't cried since she was five when that mean boy at Quality Quidditch Supplies had told her that she had thighs like Stonehenge. She didn't cry when she found out that their Headmaster had just left them. She didn't cry when she couldn't find Vincent or Gregory. She didn't cry when she did see Hermes fall. She didn't cry when the giant knocked down the wall currently pinning her down and she didn't cry when she saw that bone sticking out of her leg.

She did cry when she realized that she was stuck like a butterfly with a pin and that there was nothing for her to do but sit and bleed and hope not to die.

No fighting.

No fleeing.

Just waiting to see who would win this bullshit.

---

Hannah Abbott & Seamus Finnigan

“For Regulus Black!” screeched a small army of house elves as they went tearing across the floor of the Great Hall.

Hannah Abbott very nearly tripped on one. “Who the bloody blazes is Regulus Black?” she wondered, limping over to Seamus. She was getting worried - she hadn’t seen Megan in over an hour. Ernie, too. A stray Killing Curse whizzed directly overhead and she shrieked, clutching the top of her blonde head as if making herself slightly shorter might save her, turning to see who had cast it--

-- And her blood nearly froze in her veins. Voldemort was no fewer than a few feet away from them, his eyes cold and victorious, his snake-like face twisted into a sneer -- “Oh Merlin,” Hannah said weakly, her knees going to jelly. But she didn’t stop. She grabbed Seamus and gave him a yank, but he was already ducking too, and they fell to the floor together as yet another series of Killing Curses just barely missed them.

Seamus cursed, loudly, pushing back up to his feet. “Stay low and weave,” he ordered, assuming Hannah would see the wisdom therein and go along. If they were to make the Great Hall, that would be the way. Back and forth, don’t be in one place too long... “And let’s stick together, yeah? Neville’ll kill me if somethin’ happens to ye.”

“Okay,” she whimpered, and did as he suggested. It felt a lot more frightening to lean over and weave as he’d instructed; she couldn’t truly run that way. But she knew that standing straight and fleeing in a straight line would make her even easier to kill. With her teeth grit, she dodged yet another Killing Curse, tears streaming from her eyes.

They had weaved apart somewhere. Hannah paused, trying to see if Seamus was nearby, trying to see if Voldemort was still set on killing them, when a massive spider dropped from the side of the wall where it had concealed itself. Hannah didn’t even have time to scream; it pinned her with a massive leg to the floor, holding her fast. She didn’t drop her wand, no, but she couldn’t raise her arm, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t cry...

“ARANIA EXUMAI!”

The spider went flying, smashing hard into the wall above Hannah - and unfortunately gravity meant it came crashing back down upon her. Its huge tangle of legs kept it from pinning her, though, giving Seamus time to run up to her and cast the spell again, this time flinging the beast off to a wall much further away. If the thing wasn’t dead, it sure as hell wasn’t awake.

Seamus held his hand down to Hannah to help her up. “Roomin’ with an arachnophobe’s got its advantages,” he explained.

“Eeuuoooph,” came Hannah’s whimper as she stared at the immobile legs crunched just above her. Occasionally, one twitched. While Hannah hadn’t had the fear of spiders that plagued some people, she was pretty sure that she was developing one - immediately. Trembling, she took Seamus’s hand and helped herself up, smoothing her skirt down as she did so.

“I think we’re even,” she said a bit hollowly, and let a hysterical giggle escape her mouth. “R-right then. Where were we, before You-Know-Who nearly killed us?”

“Great Hall,” he reminded her, squeezing her hand once before letting go. “Headed for the Great Hall.”

---

Hestia Jones & Ernie Macmillan

There was one question Ernie had when he awoke from his Christmas Eve torture that he’d never quite gotten answered. The feeling of emotional and mental numbness that left him disassociated from his body and the world - was it shock? Or had it been the remains of the calming draught he’d taken hours earlier?

Feeling the same way now, Ernie could conclude that it had been shock. He was in shock now as one eye scanned the ceiling and the other saw only black. His shirt clung to him slickly and though he couldn’t feel the blood running across his skin, he could feel the change in pressure in his body, the way his veins just emptied and collapsed with each beat of his heart, the way his muscles pulling from the wound.

There were a few cracks up there. Rather than wonder if the ceiling would collapse on him and cut short what remaining time he had, he thought he could see sky through it. Fighting outside - that would have been a better idea. Better view.

He wondered if Justin was dead like Harry was. It would be easier to let go, he reckoned, although he didn’t really feel much in control of things at this point. How did you fight to stay alive? There were no binds to break free from, no rock to push uphill. Did you just will yourself into living?

Exhaustion and blood loss was claiming him fast. Ernie closed his eye and it was a few beats before it opened again, the ceiling now blocked by a blur of a face.

The atmosphere had changed - centaurs and others had led a second charge upon Neville Longbottom’s withdrawal of the blade of Gryffindor, and while the castle was still chaos, Hestia Jones remained as focused as she could. There were still those on their side falling, although there seemed to be less curses to actively dodge and shield herself from as she combed the stone floors for survivors. With many of the bodies collected before, it made the newly injured easier to spot and the woman’s eyes caught sight of blood pooling from an alcove nearby. She dashed forward, slumping down next to the boy, and if it weren’t for the fact that the last time she’d laid eyes on him, he’d been in similar rough shape, she may not have recognised him. His face was split diagonally from brow to throat, through an eye and even into his shoulder. Upon shoving away chunks of stone she could see his arm was hanging by a thread and her wand was immediately gliding over him. Ernest Macmillan. She would save his life again or so help her lord, she thought with a clenched jaw.

“Macmillan,” she said loudly, leaning over him as she worked to stop the bleeding before anything else. The wounds were deep and healing his innards would take time they couldn’t waste out here, amongst the chaos although they had a mild stroke of luck in that the heat of the battle was now being waged beyond the castle’s entrance. “Ernie, it’s Hestia, Megan’s aunt - I’m ‘ere and you’re goin’ to be just fine, lad, I got yeh,” she told him, Scottish accent thicker than normal when distressed. Her wand began to pull his skin back together and she muttered the charms quickly, blood vessels closing one by one so he‘d have enough blood in him left to survive the night. He’d probably need more. Blood-replenishing potions when she got him to Mungo’s - she was sure they were out at triage. There’d been no more for Megan until Poppy had arrived. Hestia refocused, shoving the worry for her niece from her mind. “Stay with me, mate, Megan’ll ‘ave your head if you drop off on us now.”

He could hear her last words because something pulled and something that had been dull suddenly roared into angry, violent life and Ernie screamed, then choked on the blood that dripped to the back of his throat.

“‘’Kay” he managed to breathe before letting out a shuttering mewl.

“Thatta BOY!” Hestia cheered. Screaming in agony was loads better than not at all. She flicked her wrist and pulled a patch of potion-dipped fabric from her robes, placing it over his eye to prevent infection and further disorientation, then continued to his arm. “Breathe, it’s okay, mate, I know it hurts but that’s good, means your nerves are all in workin’ order, aye.” She transfigured the mangled sleeve of his jumper into a sling and secured it tightly so the stitching she did of his shoulder would hold until she could add the proper paste to help. Slowly he was looking less like he’d been in a blender and more like a human being. As her magic worked itself through his muscles, beginning what may be a slow agonizing process of reattaching them to themselves, Hestia finally let herself take a breath and glance around. They weren’t far off. Luckily he’d managed to stumble back within reach... he just might make it out of this. “Not long now and we’ll get you back to a the healin’ station to patch yeh up proper, Ernie, we just have to wait until I can transport yeh. Easy does it,” she instructed, checking over what else she could in the meantime. She slipped a hand over his forehead delicately, maternally, bending to catch his eye if he could still see and throwing a shield up protect them in the meantime.

So this was what it was like to fight to live - it bloody well hurt. He could see why people just let themselves go. He wasn’t sure he didn’t want to be one of them.

Any other thought or word kept getting obliterated by the mine field of pain; sometimes sudden and sharp, other times pulsing and stretching.

“.... Stoplease...” he slurred, words he’d never dare say in the midst of torture but couldn’t help but whimper now. Ernie made a futile motion to pull the burning thing she’d set on his face with his dominant hand and was unprepared for how heavy it felt.

“Sorry, love,” she replied, voice firm but sympathetic. She was certainly better at bedside manner than her niece ever would have been. “Here...” Hestia hadn’t anymore pain potions on her, but she could ease it a bit, gently tucking his hand back down away from his face and tapping his brow with her wand - a featherlight touch, numbing that half of his face. She was confident now that it wouldn’t interfere with them diagnosing him later on if she kept the charms short-lived. She did the same to his shoulder area, and throat, where the magic was having to work the hardest to piece him back together.

There was a crackle in the air above them and a statue in the next alcove crumbled from the wayward curse, shaking their position. Rising to her haunches, Hestia looked down at him grimly. “Time’s up, we’re movin’ out, hun,” she told him confidently. “Now don’t panic, I’m binding you so nothin’ gets worse. You’re with me,” she continued to reassure him as she did so, locking his legs together and his good arm to his hip, careful not to twist anything into a position that would be worse. Some of his wounds weren’t healing. Dark magic, she could tell - it’d take more than simple muscle reconstruction. She needed to get him out of here, now. With the typical modified Leviosa all field healers were taught, she carefully lifted him off the ground, but only high enough to be above the rubble, not enough to be an easy target.

Ernie coughed again as he exhaled peaceably, back to being blissfully numb. He let himself be body bound and wondered if he could stop fighting now. As the slight breeze of motion swept over him, he closed his eye just for a moment.

---

"Deathly Hallows" excerpt
Pages 735 - 737

In the Great Hall, despite the teeming of students, adults, creatures and ghosts, one image took precedence: Harry Potter suddenly appeared as if he had been there all along, his invisibility cloak dropping to the ground.

The battle raged on.

Ian Podmore

At the Healers station, Ian Podmore considered it a boon that he couldn’t see. When Lisa Turpin told him to talk to someone, he could do so without knowing the extent of their injuries. When Lisa handed him a cloth and told him to mop someone’s forehead, he did so perfectly, having no idea who lay bleeding and desperate on the cobblestone floor beneath him. Was it a student? A professor? An Order member? A Death Eater? His blindness made him a better person, because he would have left a Death Eater bleeding to death if he’d known what they were. Sometimes the injured spoke to him. Sometimes they just whimpered. Some were silent, and he hated them more than any others because sometimes their hands went from warm to cold and that’s how he knew they had died. Ian moved as quickly as he could, but time spun away from him – this now, and now that, and Ian, I need you to hold this – and he did it all without complaint, without noise, cringing only when the walls around them shook with explosions that would bring another swell of the injured.

Harry Potter was still alive, people whispered. He was dueling Voldemort right now.

All right, Ian thought to himself. He’d catch the reruns later, considering he couldn’t see a damn bit of it. Right now, all he wanted was another bandage to stop this damn bleeding.

---

"Deathly Hallows excerpt
Pages 737 - 741

"Protego!" roared Harry, and the Shield Charm expanded in the middle of the Hall, and Voldemort stared around for the source as Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak at last.

The yell of shock, the cheers, the screams on every side of "Harry!" "HE'S ALIVE!" were stifled at once. The crowd was afraid, and silence fell abruptly and completely as Voldemort and Harry looked at each other, and began, at the same moment, to circle each other.

"I don't want anyone else to try to help," Harry said loudly, and in the total silence his voice carried like a trumpet call. "It's got to be like this. It's got to be me."

Voldemort hissed.

"Potter doesn't mean that," he said, his red eyes wide. "That isn't how he works, is it? Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?"

"Nobody," said Harry simply. "There are no more Horcruxes. It's just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good..."

"One of us?" jeered Voldemort, and his whole body was taut and and his red eyes stared, a snake that was about to strike. "You think it will be you, do you, the boy who has survived by accident, and because Dumbledore was pulling the strings?"

"Accident, was it, when my mother died to save me?" asked Harry. They were still moving sideways, both of them, in that perfect circle, maintaining the same distance from each other, and for Harry no face existed but Voldemort's. "Accident, when I decided to fight in that graveyard? Accident, that I didn't defend myself tonight, and still survived, and returned to fight again?"

"Accidents!" screamed Voldemort, but still he did not strike, and the watching crowd was frozen as if Petrified, and of the hundreds in the Hall, nobody seemed to breathe but they two. "Accident and chance and the fact that you crouched and sniveled behind the skirts of greater men and women, and permitted me to kill them for you!"

"You won't be killing anyone else tonight," said Harry as they circled, and stared into each other's eyes, green into red. "You won't be able to kill any of them ever again. Don't you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting these people -- "

"But you did not!"

" -- I meant to, and that's what did it. I've done what my mother did. They're protected from you. Haven't you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are binding? You can't torture them. You can't touch them. You don't learn from your mistakes, Riddle, do you?"

"You dare -- "

"Yes, I dare," said Harry. "I know things you don't know, Tom Riddle. I know lots of important things that you don't. Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?"

Voldemort did not speak, but prowled in a circle, and Harry knew that he kept him temporarily mesmerized and at bay, held back by the faintest possibility that Harry might indeed know a final secret...

"Is it love again?" said Voldemort, his snake's face jeering. "Dumbledore's favorite solution, Love, which he claimed conquered death, though love did not stop him falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork. Love, which did not prevent me stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter -- and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse. So what will stop you dying now when I strike?"

"Just one thing," said Harry, and still they circled each other, wrapped in each other, held apart by nothing but the last secret.

"If it is not love that will save you this time," said Voldemort, "you must believe that you have magic that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than mine?"

"I believe both," said Harry, and he saw shock flit across the snakelike face, though iut was instantly dispelled; Voldemort began to laugh, and the sound was more frightening than his screams; humorless and insane, it echoed around the silent Hall.

"You think you know more magic than I do?" he said. "Than I, than Lord VOldemort, who has performed magic that Dumbledore himself never dreamed of?"

"Oh, he dreamed of it," said Harry, "but he knew more than you, knew enough not to do what you've done."

"You mean he was weak!" screamed Voldemort. "Too weak to dare, too weak to take what might have been his, what will be mine!"

"No, he was cleverer than you," said Harry, "a better wizard, a better man."

"I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!"

"You thought you did," said Harry, "but you were wrong."

For the first time, the watching crowd stirred as the hundreds of people around the walls drew breath as one.

"Dumbledore is dead!" Voldemort hurled the words at Harry as though they would cause him unendurable pain. "His body decays in the marble tomb in the grounds of this castle, I have seen it, Potter, and he will not return!"

"Yes, Dumbledore's dead," said Harry calmly, "but you didn't have him killed. He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before he died, arranged the whole thing with the man you thought was your servant."

"What childish dream is this?" said Voldemort, but still he did not strike, and his red eyes did not waver from Harry's.

"Severus Snape wasn't yours," said Harry. "Snape was Dumbledore's, Dumbledore's from the moment you started hunting down my mother. And you never realized it, because of the thing you can't understand. You never saw Snape cast a Patronus, did you, Riddle?"

Voldemort did not answer. They continued to circle each other like wolves about to tear each other apart.

"Snape's Patronus was a doe," said Harry, "the same as my mother's, because he loved her for nearly all of his life, from the time when they were children. You should have realized," he said as he saw Voldemort's nostrils flare, "he asked you to spare her life, didn't he?"

"He desired her, that was all," sneered Voldemort, "but when she had gone, he agreed that there were other women, and of purer blood, worthier of him -- "

"Of course he told you that," said Harry, "but he was Dumbledore's spy from the moment you threatened her, and he's been working against you ever since! Dumbledore was already dying when Snape finished him!"

"It matters not!" shrieked Voldemort, who had followed every word with rapt attention, but now let out a cackle of mad laughter. "It matters not whether Snape was mine or Dumbledore's, or what petty obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed them as I crushed your mother, Snape's supposed great love! Oh, but it all makes sense, Potter, and in ways that you do not understand!"

---

Katie’s eyes were on her dead friend, who was never dead at all, he was here with them. He was dueling the Dark Lord, the duel that would define everything, every part of their world. She put her hand in Lee’s, who seemed to come out of no where and appeared at her side. “We’re going to come out of this on the other side.” She squeezed his hand hard and tried to will good luck to Harry. She had never and would never see anything like this in her life time.

Jill was getting the healing station as orginised as she could, keeping their classmates alive, and giving them hope. There was hope in human form, Harry Potter dueling the reason for all this pain this year. She had never wanted to see anyone win like she wanted to see Harry win. She was watching with rapt attention, not realising she had been holding her breath at points. It was now or never.

Peter was letting one of the healers work on his broken wrist as he watched Harry Potter duel the Dark Lord Voldemort. Everything had lead up to this, and he couldn’t help but be completely fascinated by it. He wasn’t sentimental and everyone knew it, but he couldn’t help but reach over and touche the forearm of the person next to him, they were a lot more worse off than he was, and thought he wasn’t a comforting person, he was trying. They had made it this far and they deserved a win. He prayed, prayed that Harry Potter would emerge victorious.

---

"Deathly Hallows" excerpt
Pages 741 - 744

"Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wand from me! He intended that Snape should be the true master of the wand! But I got there ahead of you, little boy -- I reached the wand before you could get your hands on it, I understood the truth before you caught up. I killed Severus Snape three hours ago, and the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny is truly mine! Dumbledore's last plan went wrong, Harry Potter!"

"Yeah, it did," said Harry. "You're right. But before you try to kill me, I'd advise you think about what you've done... Think, and try for some remorse, Riddle..."

"What is this?"

Of all the things that Harry had said to him, beyond any revelation or taunt, nothing had shocked Voldemort like this. Harry saw his pupils contract to thin slits, saw the skin around his eyes whiten.

"It's your one last chance," said Harry, "it's all you've got left...I've seen what you'll be otherwise...Be a man...try...Try for a some remorse."

"You dare -- ?" said Voldemort again.

"Yes, I dare," said Harry, "because Dumbledore's last plan hasn't backfired on me at all. It's backfired on you, Riddle."

Voldemort's hand was trembling on the Elder Wand, and Harry gripped Draco's very tightly. The moment, he knew, was seconds away.

"That wand still isn't working properly for you because you murdered the wrong person. Severus Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wand. He never defeated Dumbledore."

"He killed -- "

"Aren't you listening? Snape never beat Dumbledore! Dumbledore's death was planned between them! Dumbledore intended to die undefeated, the wand's last true master! If all had gone as planned, the wand's power would have died with him, because it had never been won from him!"

"But then, Potter, Dumbledore as good as gave me the wand!" Voldemort's voice shook with malicious pleasure. "I stole the wand from its last master's tomb! I removed it against its last master's wishes! Its power is mine!"

"You still don't get it, Riddle, do you? Possessing the wand isn't enough! Holding it, using it, doesn't make it really yours. Didn't you listen to Ollivander? The wand chooses the wizard... The Elder Wand recognized a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or that the wold's most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance..."

Voldemort's chest rose and fell rapidly, and Harry could feel the curse coming, feel it building inside the wand pointed at his face.

"The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy."

Blank shock showed in Voldemort's face for a moment, but then it was gone.

"But what does it matter?" he said softly. "Even if you are right, Potter, it makes no difference to you and me. You no longer have the phoenix wand: We duel on skill alone...and after I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy..."

"But you're too late," said Harry. "You've missed your chance. I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago. I took this wand from him."

Harry twitched the hawthorn wand, and felt the eyes of everyone in the Hall upon it.

"So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?" whispered Harry. "Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disamred? Because if it does...I am the true master of the Elder Wand."

A red-gold glow glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both of their faces at the same time, so that Voldemor'ts was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco's wand:

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Expelliarmus!"

The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead center of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort's green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air toward the master it would kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last. And Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward. Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in his hand, staring down at his enemy's shell.

---

The cheer that went up was deafening. Ian actually flinched, his breath knocked out of him from the sheer force of jubilation coming from the Great Hall around the corner. He felt stupid, that his tongue was too big for his mouth, but he asked it anyway: “Lisa… What….?”

“You-Know-Who is dead!” screeched someone on his far right. “Potter’s killed him!”

Ian’s hands dropped. His heart thudded in his chest and he couldn’t seem to get enough air, so he forced himself to breathe more slowly, his lips pressed together in a thin line. You-Know-Who was dead. Ian tried to imagine a world without You-Know-Who. It had been so easy when he was younger – in his second year, maybe – but now it seemed a fanciful impossibility, like a world in which fire didn’t burn you. Shouldn’t he feel something different? He didn’t feel joy. There was relief, certainly, but that relief was tempered by exhaustion and a brutal anger that so many had died to help finish You-Know-Who. He’d come back once. Would he come back again?

Outside in the hallway, shouts of sheer euphoria rang out. Drew grinned at Sarah as he pulled her in for a hug, happy to see that she was all right. “Can you believe it?” he yelled, with obvious jubilation in his voice. “Harry did it! What a hero!” He laughed some before throwing an arm around her shoulder and kissing her cheek.

“We did it!” Scott screamed loudly, at no one in particular. He hugged the nearest person, who happened to be Parvati, before grinning widely at her. Bronwyn cheered, cried and hugged everyone in sight. Hannah screamed and jumped up and down, punching her fists into the air like Hufflepuff had just scored its winning goal. Peter felt true joy, he never experienced true joy before. He was finally gone for good, these monsters were going to be leaving soon. He looked around for a moment, taking in the death and destruction, he wondered who from his house was gone. He felt himself wander away from the healing station, ready to go home, see his parents. He ached to see them, see Leah, Gemma, and Liam, who felt like they had been gone for ages. He was going home to his family, that’s all he wanted to was to see his family, sleep for at least twenty hours, and take the summer to forget.

Alicia couldn’t believe it. They had actually succeeded. She was too tired to do anything but smile at those who were closest to her, but she was elated. And when she saw that four-eyed genius next, she would buy him a bloody firewhiskey. “Harry, you sod,” she mumbled loudly. “Fucking brilliant.”

Katie jumped into Lee’s arms as Voldemort had fallen, they had won, it was all over now. “Where is everyone else?” She asked him, searching the Great Hall for Angelina, Alicia, the twins, and Oliver. Oliver was helping carry the deceased into another room, Fred among them. She saw George first, standing with his family, mourning their loss. She passed Cho Chang, stopping to hug her tightly and sending her to search for her own brother. She needed to find Alicia and Angie, she had to make sure they were all right, alive at the very least. None of them were really all right after this, they would carry this forever. She felt overwhelming joy and overwhelming pain at the people she had known and lost. She fought her exhaustion, and started to help with some of the clean up, not ready to face her family after such an intense evening.

It was over. This was over, they had won, he had fallen. Jill was standing over one of the injured, gently prodding them to take some blood replenishing potion. “We’ve won.” She told them gently and started to plot out how exactly she was going to get home and see her family. She prayed that Jules had made it home with Spencer, that her family was waiting for her. She started crying out of joy, exhaustion, and fear of what she may discover. She pushed the tears off her cheeks and asked one of the other healers if they were set here. could it be possible of she slipped away for a bit and looked for her family.

It was Peeves the Poltergiest who sang out loudly, his voice echoing through the hallways as he giggled:

We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter's the one!
And Voldy's gone moldy, so now let's have fun!

---

Ian & Sturgis Podmore

Ian didn’t join in the festivities that started almost immediately after Voldemort’s defeat. He stayed with the Healers, helping the injured, asking for names. Where was Megan? Ross? Lauren? They weren’t here. It was possible that the official Healers that had begun arriving from St. Mungos had already helped them. He didn’t think of the bodies stretched flat on the floor currently being processed. He couldn’t.

“Hey. You.”

Ian didn’t respond, so absorbed was he in disinfecting someone’s bandage.

“You there. Gryffindor. Dark hair.”

Ian turned to the direction of the voice, annoyance in his expression. He was busy. There was something familiar about the timbre of the voice addressing him, but only just.

“That’s what I thought! Hey there, Podmore!”

Again there was that strange feeling of recognition. The voice wasn’t right, somehow; Ian felt he’d know it if it was peppered with pops and hisses from a wireless, and then suddenly it came to him. “…Lee?” he asked. “Lee Jordan?”

“The very one!” Lee grabbed him and pulled him into a hug; Ian stiffened under the onslaught but allowed himself to relax, muttering an apology about getting blood all over Lee. He knew his hands had to be filthy.

“Lee Jordan,” he muttered, feeling his mouth tug into a smile despite himself. “River.”

“Ha, that’s right! River! So you guys did get Potterwatch in here. And look at you! Sight for sore eyes, mate! C’mon then! I’ve got someone for you to meet!”

“But what about—“ Ian looked back toward the Healing station; there was a safety there. One didn’t have to deal with the cheering and the cacophony of joy currently rattling Hogwarts to its foundations.

“Mungos is here! They’ll handle it!” Lee’s cheerful voice was only matched by the strength of him as he tugged Ian along. Ian stumbled, unsure of where they were going, not knowing if he was about to collide into someone or something, dragged away from the small little corner of Hogwarts where he’d spent the last few hours of the battle.

“Where are we….?”

And then all breath left his body as someone taller, bigger, and stronger than him pulled him into the hug of a boa constrictor. Ian froze, panicked, his hands pressing against the strange man’s chest, but whoever had him wouldn’t let go. Something warm and wet trickled on his neck. His captor was shaking. Tears, Ian realized, and as he stopped fighting he realized that the person who had him wasn’t all that much taller than him, that he could feel bones under the other wizard’s robes, that he could smell cigarettes and whisky and something indefinably foreign and familiar. Ian swallowed, a chunk of ice dropping into his stomach. No. He wasn’t ready yet. It had been two years, two long, vicious years. Two years of his mother pretending that she hadn’t been crying. Two years of Bianca shoving a newspaper under his nose whenever it mentioned the word ‘Azkaban’. Two years of pity-filled glances, of nasty rumours, of defending his father from being a thief, a hooligan, a Death Eater, and then wondering after everyone had gone to bed if maybe he could actually be some of those things. He’d left, and Ian was so angry and so scared and his knees could barely support him and he hated that strange light that flared in his chest right then, that light that he’d come to understand as the most painful of any emotion: hope. I don’t have time to hope. And yet it pierced him from the inside-out.

“Dad?”

A voice rumbled against his hear. “You need a fucking haircut, kid,” Sturgis Podmore said. His voice was an old man’s. “You look like you’re in a boy band.”

Ian wrapped his arms around his father, and began to cry.

---

Melinda Bobbin & Callum Selwyn

Melinda knew, really, that she should have stayed behind to fight for Hogwarts. She’d intended to all along. But Dominic had looked at her, and then Francesca, and she had found herself rising to leave. Why had she done that? Couldn’t she have spun it that she meant to help from the inside, as she’d been doing in Ravenclaw all year? Would the others who stayed have even allowed her to fight with them? She didn’t know if she’d be actually fighting and she wasn’t any good at defense or healing, but she knew how to assist the healers. She knew how to shelter some foolish child who’d stayed behind, long enough to get them to some central location, the Great Hall or something. But no, she’d allowed herself to be seen leaving and then gotten stuck in a closet by Brownie, which served her right, she supposed.

The noise had stopped a few minutes ago. There had been many sounds of battle, mostly far although she suspected it had gotten close a few times. At least none of those disconcerting sounds of building destruction had happened right on top of her. That would have been a way to go, crushed to death in a collapsed broom closet. She might have had to become a ghost and haunt Brownie just on principle. As it was, she was dusty and annoyed, but unharmed. She didn’t allow herself to get nervous yet. Someone was bound to find her eventually. Right?

Callum spent the first few minutes after Voldemort’s shocking, dramatic downfall in helping secure the remaining, defeated Death Eaters for arrest; it was a makeshift affair, but there were enough adults, enough members of Dumbledore’s Army, that they didn’t really need the help of a sixteen year old Slytherin who’d fought with them for the first time today. Still, it made him feel better. A little better. He wasn’t sure he’d ever really feel okay, a suspicion only exacerbated by the way his stomach dropped at the sight of his older brother in chains. Damien had taken the Mark willingly. He’d fought for the Death Eaters. He’d called Callum a blood traitor and threatened to kill him and helped their father torture him. But he was still Callum’s brother, and in spite of all of it the younger boy found himself nauseous at the thought of him in Azkaban for the rest of whatever life he’d have.

Turning away, he’d spotted Bronwyn across the Great Hall and had gone to her out of sheer relief that the muggle-born girl he considered family had survived this. The question of whether or not she’d seen Melinda during all of the chaos had garnered him a very, very interesting answer; and she’d agreed to let him be the one to go and fetch her.

And so here he was, standing in front of a closet with his wand up. “Alohomora,” he said firmly, then reached to pull the door open.

Melinda was sitting down against a wall, knees drawn up to her chest. She’d kept her wand lit for awhile, then decided there was no point, so the light dazzled her eyes. She wondered vaguely what she must look like, in pajamas and a heavy pair of boots, covered in a thick layer of dust and dirt, blinking forlornly. It occurred to her that there would be tracks on her cheeks where she’d cried in frustration, though she’d been calm for hours now. “Br-” She spotted who it was and cut herself off, sighing a little. “Callum.” She wasn’t sure whether to be happy or hate her life. That depended, she supposed, on what he intended to say.

For the moment, he didn’t intend to say anything; instead he stepped into the closet and reached a hand down for her, ready to haul her up to her feet if she took it.

“Melinda,” he said levelly after that was accomplished. “All right, then?”

Melinda tucked her wand into the pocket of the cut-off sweatpants she was wearing and took Callum’s hand, letting him help her up. She considered trying to pull him down, just because she felt like being a brat right now, but decided that would be immature and refrained, gaining her feet. “Fine, yes,” she said, looking him over. “You?” He’d clearly been through a battle, and she felt a stab of...something. Jealousy, worry, anger? All or none of these? “What happened? I heard the D- You-Know-Who speaking to the castle.”

“Alive,” he replied, simply, because to claim to be fine would be a lie and Merlin knew he was sick of those. If he had his way, he’d never tell a lie again for as long as he lived. “It’s all right. You can say his name now. He- Voldemort’s gone. Dead. Potter did it again.” A small, mostly humourless smirk appeared on Callum’s face. “You picked the wrong side, a bit, love.”

Melinda considered for a moment what to say, taking the opportunity to move past him, out of the damned closet. Small spaces were no particular hardship for her, but with both of them standing in the narrow little room it just got annoying. Finally, she spoke. “I’ll agree with you there when and if they throw me into Azkaban. Otherwise, it’s only my business what side I was on and why.” She was a little sick of alleged good guys telling her how worthless and evil she was, and a little sick of agreeing with them. Honestly, was she some wilting flower from a novel? No she was not, she was Melinda Bobbin and...well, whatever.

“They might, at that,” Callum said softly, following her from the closet and shutting it behind them. She might have apologized for her treatment of him, and he might have thanked her for it, and admittedly it had gone a long way to repairing what had broken between them, but he wasn’t ready to forgive her, not yet. At least not without being realistic with her rather than protective, the way he might once have been. “They’re taking a good lot of people there. Damien’s one of them. You might not be marked, Mel, but you angered a lot of people. You alienated nearly everyone. I’m not sure anyone will speak for you. I’m not sure how harsh they’ll choose to be. You’re seventeen. I don’t know what will protect you, now.” He sighed a little, carding his hand through battle-mussed hair. “And even if they don’t take you- you chose the wrong side. Don’t pretend you don’t know it. Not to me, not now.”

“I’m not seventeen yet,” she murmured. Although she probably would be by the time they got around to trials. Nine days -- well, eight now. It had to be near dawn, didn’t it? So eight days and she’d be of age. Fabulous. She knew it didn’t matter, but she didn’t know how to respond to anything else he’d said. She didn’t know it was the wrong side, actually. She didn’t know what side she was on. In her heart, she believed in purism, and she couldn’t discard that. But she also believed that nearly everything the purists had done was wrong. “I’m sorry about Damien,” she added. “And maybe it’s not that bloody simple.” That was about as close as she could get to expressing how she felt about the situation. She wondered if Marina had ever gotten around to taking the Mark, like she’d been considering at Easter. Hell.

Melinda shook her head and turned back toward Callum. “Okay. There’s probably something we should be doing other than standing here.”

“Yes. It is,” Callum said, catching her gaze and holding it with perfect conviction. “It is that simple. You dated a halfblood, Melinda, and you love your impure Gryffindor cousin.You maybe be more Slytherin than I ever was, you may be prouder than Artemis and prickly to boot, but somewhere in there you know it’s that simple. That people are just people. Maybe someday you’ll even realize it.” He gave another sigh, then reached out to put an arm around her shoulder. “You’re right. Bronwyn’ll be wanting to see you, at least. Let’s go.”

Melinda nearly looked away, but she resisted the urge, meeting Callum’s gaze almost belligerently. She knew he would just take looking away as a sign of his being right. This year had changed her a lot, made many differences in her personality, but if nothing else she was still stubborn as the earth. She waited for him to be finished before she turned away, holding her head high. She may have been dusty and rattled and near-universally hated, but she was still a prefect and right now there had to be something she could have been doing for her house. She didn’t expect Callum’s arm descending around her shoulders, and it gave her a moment of pause. She didn’t know if she wanted it right now, but she decided not to think too much about it, conserve her energy, and let her head rest against his shoulder for a moment.

Quickly, she discovered it was very awkward to walk like that and lifted her head again, but the thought was there.