𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐮𝐦 | 𝐜.𝐝 𝐟𝐟

𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦.

I'd never given much thought to how I would die – though I'd had reason enough in the last few months – but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this.

I stared without breathing across the circle where my parents were, into the dark eyes of the Lord, and he looked pleasantly back at me. Theo was supposed to kill him. But I stepped out, forcing the curse out my wand before he could. And he was going to kill me for not doing the job properly.

Surely it was a good way to die, in the place of someone else, someone I loved. Noble, even. That ought to count for something.

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Expelliarmus!"

The bang was like a cannon blast, and the red and green flames that erupted between Harry and Voldemort, at the dead center of the circle, marked the point where the spells collided.

I held my breath. Could a disarming spell win an unforgivable curse?

Harry red jet met Voldemort's green jet. The Elder Wand flew high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling, spinning through the air toward the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it. 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.

I identified this feeling as hope. For once, I hoped that we'd be free. I finally had faith in Harry.

Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snake-like 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.

Please tell me it's over, Harry. Please tell me you did it.

One shivering second of silence, the shock of the moment suspended, and then the tumult broke around Harry as the screams and the cheers and the roars of the watchers rent the air.

He did it. They won.

The fierce new sun dazzled the windows as people thundered toward him, and the first to reach him were Ron and Hermione, and it was their arms that were wrapped around him, their incomprehensible shouts that deafened him.

The fabulous Golden Trio, celebrating their win.

Then Ginny, Neville, and Luna were there, and then all the Weasleys - what's left of them anyways - and Hagrid, and Kingsley and McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout, and they were seizing him, pulling him, trying to hug some part of him, hundreds of them pressing in, all of them determined to touch the Boy Who Lived, the reason it was over at last. The people pushed past me. I felt like a mere bunny in an elephant stampede.

I fought against the current, looking for space and air and freedom I finally had. Away from the circles of embrace, I found my friends, sitting next to a pile of rocks - what used to be the fountain - staring into nothing. I went over to them, happy that all of us survived.

The sun rose steadily over Hogwarts, and the Great Hall blazed with life and light. We dragged ourselves to the Hall. We were an indispensable part of the mingled outpourings of jubilation and mourning, of grief and celebration.

Everyone wanted Harry there with them, their leader and symbol, their savior and their guide, and that he had not slept, that he craved the company of only a few of them, seemed to occur to no one. He spoke to the bereaved, clasped their hands, witnessed their tears, received their thanks, heard the news now creeping in from every quarter as the morning drew on; that the Imperiused up and down the country had come back to themselves, that Death Eaters were fleeing or else being captured, that the innocent of Azkaban were being released at that very moment, and that Kingsley Shacklebolt had been named temporary Minister of Magic...

They moved Voldemort's body and laid it in a chamber off the Hall, away from the bodies of Fred, Tonks, Lupin, Colin Creevey, and fifty others who had died fighting him. They should have left him there. Burned him. They shouldn't have brought him anywhere near the fallen ones.

Minerva had replaced the House tables, but nobody was sitting according to House anymore: All were jumbled together, teachers and pupils, ghosts and parents, centaurs and house-elves, and Firenze lay recovering in a corner, and Grawp peered in through a smashed window, and people were throwing food into his laughing mouth. It was nice to see the mix. But I only craved the company of four.

As I was wandering down the halls, looking for the air and freedom, Minerva tapped my shoulder. As reflex, I flinched and held my wand up. Not really acclimated to their win yet. I still thought people were out to get me. But she wasn't scared. In fact, she had an amused smile on her face. Behind her trailed my friends I was yearning for.

"Follow me, my dears."

Somewhere in the distance we could hear Peeves zooming through the corridors singing a victory song of his own composition:

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

We reached the statue, and climbed up the stairs into the Headmaster's office. This is it. She's sending us home. Or better, Azkaban. I prepared myself for insults and shouting and screaming from the portraits.

But it was applause. All around the walls, the headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts were giving us a standing ovation; they waved their hats and in some cases their wigs, they reached through their frames to grip each other's hands; they danced up and down on the chairs in which they had been painted; Dilys Derwent sobbed unashamedly; Dexter Fortescue was waving his ear-trumpet; and Phineas Nigellus called, in his high, reedy voice, "And let it be noted that Slytherin House played its part! Let our contribution not be forgotten!"

I was overwhelmed with guilt. How could they say that? I helped Voldemort. They're dead anyways. Hasn't anyone told you not to speak with the dead?

"You aren't criminals. You deserve this. And, I want you to have this," Minerva handed us a Time-Turner.

We looked at each other. Surely this couldn't be a ruse. They've already won. We all surrounded the tiny artefact in her hand. Slowly, our fingers reached out. A sickening feeling erupted in me.

As we spun into Merlin knows where, she whispered, "A chance at normal."