Hagrid stumbled behind Voldemort, teary eyed as he carried Harry Potter carefully, as if he was holding a porcelain doll threatening to break. Harry Potter. A boy who brought hope through the dark age of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
A horrible scream was heard, and the few eyes that turned saw Professor McGonagall, a hand over her mouth. The ones who didn’t stared at the boy who lived, eyes desperately searching for any missed signs of life.
Those whose attentions were turned away snapped back when Voldemort announced the death, and everyone was fixated on the scene in front of them when The Boy Who Lived rolled out of Hagrid’s arms and challenged the snake like creature that claimed to be man.
The dust had settled and the ashes of the once Dark Lord had blown away, but the battlefield refused to show mercy, as past followers ruthlessly fought against children and parents, often killing families for the sake of revenge.
Warriors Kids ran past fallen friends and jumped over rubble to continue fighting, ignoring screams of both physical and mental trauma.
Hours passed and Hogwarts became a graveyard, littered with bodies of students, house elves, families, centaurs, and teachers before the fighting finally seemed to cease. Survivors stepped cautiously through piles of bodies, some tearing up at sights of friends who couldn’t uphold promises of a happy reunion, or breaking down in front of a loved one, eyes glazed over and unseeing with a small blood trail from their mouth.
Despite tears, all the survivors had one goal in mind: finding the boy who ever since he was a child, quickly became a beacon of hope through the dark times.
The body was alerted to the small handful of survivors by a woman named Molly Weasley, who screamed so loudly a snobby girl named Pansy Parkinson swears it brought her back from death.
Harry Potter did not have a painless death. His limbs were mangled, and he was missing half of his left leg which auror’s believe was a result of a splinching…
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Ron squeezed his eyes shut, a wave of nausea overtaking him as his hands drop with the paper. He can feel them shaking from the pain and opens his eyes to find the holes in his left palm have bled through the wraps again.
Ron cursed the unknown spell that fucked up his hand, but didn’t make any moves to stop it and watched as the white wraps were overtaken by a pinkish color, then slowly turning red, then maroon, before dripping with blood onto the sheets.