Author’s Note: Hello everyone. This is my first attempt at a post-Hogwarts story. I write for fun, and the thrill of a well-told tale. If you enjoy this fanfiction then please tell me, as all encouragement is appreciated. If you want to criticise all I ask is that it is constructive. I live to learn.
Thanks to Anka, my wonderful beta reader, for her constant support. Also thanks to Antonia East who nudged me to write this story as only a good friend can.
London sprawled under a clear night sky, basking in the light of a million stars. The early hours of the morning saw a cease to the dense traffic, and only the occasional vehicle passed through Oxford Circus under the dancing neon signs. The moon cast his benevolent eyes over the land, and not even the hum of planes from Heathrow disturbed the industrious peace of the city catching a few hours of sleep before the working day began.
Suddenly, to the west, the horizon erupted with light. No natural source could turn the dark heavens pale with such speed. The stars vanished and the moon dimmed as the buildings were thrown into stark relief.
The noise followed: a wave of thunderous rage that assailed England’s capital. Glass shuddered in the window frames and doors creaked on their hinges. The pitch dropped further and car alarms began to shriek across the metropolis. People opened windows and doors, leaning out of their homes to gape at the sight before them. Police ran out into the street, straightening hastily donned uniforms and wiping the sleep from their eyes. They asked everyone to stay calm as they shouted and bickered among themselves, too confused to make any sense of the events. There were one or two sounds like a car backfiring and people flinched, thinking of gunfire and looters.
The light remained: a burning glare that made the eyes water and the heart hammer in fear. It lit the night until the sun took its place on the eastern edge of the Londoners’ world and then, as swiftly as it had come, it vanished.
He sprawled on the ground, cutting himself on sharp rocks and tree roots. The air was cool and dry against his skin, but he could not relish it as the agony pulsed through his body. Each beat of his heart shed more blood on the ground and he curled up, trying to find the strength to stand and fight. He had to. He couldn’t give up and he couldn’t lose, but he knew he would not survive this day.
Forcing himself to his feet he gasped as his leg collapsed under him, broken and useless. Something stabbed into his chest as he fell and his breath became more laboured. The dry soil was turning to mud with his blood and he could taste the hot, metallic flavour on his tongue.
He forced his eyes open and peered at the blurred landscape. He’d lost his glasses, but there was nothing to see here anyway. It was chokingly dark, and only the shape of strange, gnarled trees leant any definition to the shadows.
There was neither sight nor sound of Voldemort, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t here.
The wind screamed among the trees, snapping branches and flicking dust into the air. It hit his body, and he cried out as the pain increased unbearably. Not wind, but something else. Something worse.
He groped for his wand, but couldn’t find it among the detritus around him. All he could hear was the steady patter of blood from his wounds on the skeletal leaves beneath him.
A shrill ringing filled his ears and he lay down, gasping fitfully for air. He had feared that he would die when the battle came, but he had not thought he would be so alone. There was no one to hold his hand, or apologise, and he knew there should be even though his memory eluded him. There should be someone, some point to all this pain…
His thoughts became more fractured as his heartbeat slowed, and by the time footsteps approached he was unconscious. Gentle hands touched his wounds and someone hissed in sympathy.
‘Looks like I found you just in time, lad.’
A small shield of silver was pinned to his robe by callused hands and the blue gemstone in the middle began to flash. It quickened until the light suffused him and his broken body vanished from sight.
‘They’ll look after you, if they can.’
The New Forest was destroyed. Where hardwoods, centuries old, had stood there was nothing but charred stumps. The devastation continued for several miles around, as though a fire had devoured all in its path. The earth was scorched, the grass gone and the mud was baked into clay.
Hermione Granger looked around her and tried to conjure up some emotion, but the world was too far removed from her. All she could think was that if they had been more careful, or thoughtful, or better prepared this would not have happened. She would not be here, nodding as people questioned her on the identity of the dead, waiting for news of the injured, searching for any sign of the two who had struggled and screamed within that orb of burning magic only hours before.
Someone’s hand touched her shoulder and she turned slowly, dreading another pale-faced mediwitch with a corpse at her side. The hands grabbed her shoulders and forced her to look up at the owner’s face. She knew she should smile at him to reassure him, but the muscles in her face were unresponsive. She could only stare at him with hollow eyes and distantly think that she was glad to see him alive.
His robes were torn and blood matted his hair to his head. The right hand side of his face was bruised and his left hand was heavily bandaged. His blue eyes were wide and bloodshot and he shook her, repeating a question she hadn’t acknowledged the first time he had asked.
‘Hermione, have you seen a nurse?’ Ron asked, his voice firm and authoritative.
‘There’s one over there,’ she murmured, pointing to where a young witch was kneeling next to a body, collecting dismembered pieces into a pile.
‘No, I mean have they taken a look at you? You’re bleeding.’ He touched her temple and she flinched away at the pain that arced across her face.
She shook herself, and pulled away from him. ‘I don’t have time for that. I have to find Harry and Ginny.’
Ron looked down at the ground between his feet before he steered her gently towards one of the tree stumps and pushed her onto it. He knelt in front of her and ran his fingers over the bandage on his hand before he began to speak. ‘Ginny’s gone to hospital, and so has Neville. They’re both unconscious, and Neville’s badly hurt. He got Lestrange,’ Ron smiled in grim satisfaction before continuing, ‘but it cost him.’ His voice tightened and he swallowed. ‘Ginny tried to reach Harry when that spell went off. She’s got bad burns on her hands and arms. It looks like she reached straight into it.’
‘Merlin,’ Hermione whispered, burying her face in her hands. ‘Harry was inside it. There was – I – I could hear him screaming.’
Ron didn’t say anything in response, but she saw the tears in his eyes before he turned away and looked towards the site where the spell had erupted. People caught in the flow of it lay burned to death, unrecognisable in the charred rags of their robes. Ginny had only touched the stationary interface, but he knew she was lucky to be alive.
‘Maybe it was cooler in the middle?’ he asked as he watched wizards in protective clothing take readings from the air.
‘Voldemort was screaming too. He saw Harry destroy the last Horcrux, and then the spell detonated. He knew he was going to die, but he wanted to take Harry with him. You could see it. He wasn’t going to let Harry live.’ Hermione’s voice was emotionless as she continued. ‘I ran away.’ She clenched her hand around her wand tightly and Ron heard the wood crack before she threw the fragments to the ground.
‘Everyone else fought but I ran away!’
He grabbed her as she tried to leave and held on tight as she struggled, desperate to escape. ‘If you hadn’t you’d be nothing but a pile of rags. You knew what was happening, and you had to run,’ he said quietly. ‘You did the right thing.’
‘I abandoned him! How is that the right thing?’
Tears splashed on her robes and Ron gently relinquished the sobbing witch to a Healer who Apparated away with the distraught young woman. He didn’t want to leave her alone, but he had to know. He couldn’t turn his back on this until he knew it was over.
‘Excuse me,’ he asked one of the wizards, who took off his helmet and smiled sadly. He was a tired looking man, balding and soot stained beneath his protective clothing. ‘Is there anyone in there?’ He motioned to the epicentre of the damage. ‘Any bodies or – or anything?’
The man shook his head sadly, but obviously saw the doubt in Ron’s eyes. ‘You can look for yourself. It’s safe now, but there’s nothing left except mud.’
Ron nodded and followed the man until he stood in the very centre. The wizard, sensing the youth wanted to be left alone, departed.
The wind whistled past, scattering the last tendrils of smoke in front of it. Unsheltered by the trees the place seemed desolate and barren. Overnight it had gone from being a haven of nature to a scarred, twisted piece of land.
Ron shivered and moved forward, looking down at the mud. There were footprints there and he recognised the distinctive zigzag pattern of the trainer soles. Harry had stood here, circling. Ron followed the path and found traces of silver from the broken locket, the last Horcrux.
Harry’s footprints staggered then, and two long streaks showed where he had fallen to his knees. Strange swirls in the dust and mud showed the contortions of the magic all around him.
Voldemort must have been furious and distracted as Harry stumbled to his feet again, and Ron flinched when he saw the earth, burned so badly that it had melted into glass-like strands. There was just half a footprint there, nothing more. Harry was gone.
He stepped back and something crunched beneath his foot. Bending down he picked up the mangled spectacle frames and wiped mud from the lenses. The metal was bent but not melted, and Ron felt his hands shake.
So many people had died last night, and yet Harry’s glasses were unbroken. How was it fair that so many lives could be destroyed, but something as fragile as that could be spared?
He swallowed hard and pocketed the spectacles before he turned his back and walked away. There was nothing left to see here, and nothing left to hope for.
His tears fell unheeded on the lifeless ground and the wind scoured his cheeks. His best friend was gone.
Harry couldn’t fight anymore and the war was finally over.
It would be days before the Muggle Prime Minister would receive a letter, apologetic and weary, from the Minister of Magic, detailing the events of that night. No doubt the man would find relief in those words. He would nod his head and offer sympathy in his own neat script, but he would be content with the knowledge that there was one less madman for him to worry about. This “Voldemort” was dead and no longer posed a threat to the nation.
He would not think of what had been lost to make this statement truth, nor would he wonder on the fate of those involved. He was happy to forget the wizarding world once more, and get on with the more mundane politics that he was accustomed to.