Emma Potter; Going to War

124: The Final Battle

I was lying facedown on the ground again. The smell of the forest filled my nostrils. I could feel the cold hard ground beneath my cheek. Every inch of me ached, and the place where the Killing Curse had hit me felt like the bruise of an iron-clad punch. I did not stir, but remained exactly where I had fallen, with my left arm bent out at an awkward angle and my mouth gaping. My hand still rested in Harry's though, and I knew he was alive. I had expected to hear cheers of triumph and jubilation at our deaths, but instead hurried footsteps, whispers, and solicitous murmurs filled the air.

"My Lord . . . my Lord . . ."

 It was Bellatrix's voice, and she spoke as if to a lover. I did not dare open my eyes, but allowed my other senses to explore my predicament. I knew that my wand was still stowed beneath my shirt because I could feel it pressed between my chest and the ground.

"My Lord . . ." 

 "That will do," said Voldemort's voice. 

 More footsteps: Several people were backing away from the same spot. Desperate to see what was happening and why, I opened my eyes by a millimeter. Voldemort seemed to be getting to his feet. Various Death Eaters were hurrying away from him, returning to the crowd lining the clearing. Bellatrix alone remained behind, kneeling beside Voldemort. I closed my eyes again and considered what I had seen. 

The Death Eaters had been huddled around Voldemort, who seemed to have fallen to the ground. Something had happened when he had hit Harry and me with the Killing Curse. Had Voldemort too collapsed? It seemed like it. And all of us had fallen briefly unconscious and all of us had now returned. . . . 

 "My Lord, let me —"

 "I do not require assistance," said Voldemort coldly, and though I could not see it, I pictured Bellatrix withdrawing a helpful hand. 

"The children . . . Are they dead?"

 There was complete silence in the clearing. Nobody approached Harry or me, but I felt their concentrated gaze; it seemed to press me  harder into the ground, and I was terrified a finger or an eyelid might twitch. 

 "You," said Voldemort, and there was a bang and a small shriek of pain. "Examine them. Tell me whether they are dead."

I did not know who had been sent to verify. I could only lie there, with my heart thumping traitorously, and wait to be  examined, but at the same time noting, small comfort though it was, that Voldemort was wary of approaching us, that Voldemort suspected that all had not gone to plan. . . . 

 Hands, softer than I had been expecting, touched my face, pulled back an eyelid, crept beneath my shirt, down to my chest, and felt my heart. I could hear the woman's fast breathing, her long hair tickled my face. I knew that she could feel the steady pounding of life against my ribs. 

 "Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?"

 The whisper was barely audible; her lips were an inch from my ear, her head bent so low that her long hair shielded my face from the onlookers. 

 "Yes," I breathed back. 

 I felt the hand on my chest contract; her nails pierced me. Then it was withdrawn. She had sat up. There was silence, where I assumed she was examining Harry. 

 "They are dead!" Narcissa Malfoy called to the watchers. 

 And now they shouted, now they yelled in triumph and stamped their feet, and through my eyelids, I saw bursts of red and silver light shoot into the air in celebration. Still feigning death on the ground, I understood. Narcissa knew that the only way she would be permitted to enter Hogwarts, and find her son, was as part of the conquering army. She no longer cared whether Voldemort won. I don't know if she ever did.