The Raven's Call

Potter!

I don't remember falling asleep. But I remember waking up. The Great Hall was quieter than it had been all night, the hush of morning creeping in through the shattered windows and crumbling walls. A shaft of light cut through the dust, warm and golden, brushing the floor like a promise we weren't sure we deserved.

Chatter echoed softly around the room, hushed voices, footsteps, chairs scraping. One by one, we stirred. Students. Staff. The wounded. The grieving. All of us, blinking into the dawn of whatever came next. I pushed myself to my feet, limbs stiff, chest tight. There was a strange stillness to it all—like the castle itself was holding its breath. We followed the sound, the weight of it, as it pulled us outside. Onto the grounds. Down the stone steps. Across the broken earth. And then I saw them.

A dark procession. Voldemort at the front, flanked by Death Eaters. Their cloaks billowed in the breeze, boots crunching gravel with every slow, deliberate step. But none of that mattered. Not compared to what Voldemort held.

"Who is that? Hagrid's carrying?" Ginny's voice broke through the silence, sharp with dread. Neville stood at the front of the crowd, the tattered remains of the Sorting Hat clenched in his fists. He didn't answer her. Couldn't. "Neville—who is it?" Cradled in Hagrid's arms... was Harry.

Limp. Motionless. Dead. "Harry Potter... is dead!" Voldemort's voice rang out like a curse, sharp and gleeful. My breath hitched. A horrible weight sank into my stomach. Around me, someone choked on a sob. Ginny let out a sound I'll never forget—a broken, strangled scream—and tried to surge forward. Arthur Weasley caught her just in time, arms locking around her shoulders, holding her back with quiet strength.

"Silence!" Voldemort hissed, his red eyes narrowing. "Stupid girl." He looked over the gathered crowd with a grotesque smile, basking in the shock, in the grief. "Harry Potter is dead." A hush fell over us, suffocating and still. The kind of silence that comes when the world tips too far to one side. "From this day forth... you'll put your faith in me." No one moved. No one breathed. "Harry Potter is dead!" he roared again, louder, more triumphant—like the words themselves were a spell he wanted etched into the stone of Hogwarts forever. The Death Eaters erupted in laughter. That horrible, sneering sound rolled over us like thunder. Voldemort joined them, his own cackle twisted and high. "And now..." He raised his arms wide. "It's time to declare yourself. Come forward and join us... or die."

"Draco!" Lucius Malfoy's voice rang out from across the courtyard, urgent and trembling. "Oh, Draco." He sounded... relieved. Desperate. Beside him, Narcissa gave a small smile, hopeful and pleading. "Draco, come." I turned. Draco was standing with us—with Luna and Stella—just a few feet away. His face looked hollow. Lost. Like he'd aged years since last night.

My heart twisted in my chest. He took a step forward. Stella's hand shot out, fingers curling around his wrist. "Draco, no—" she whispered, her voice cracking. He froze. "If Harry is dead..." His voice was barely audible. "Then there's no point in me staying to apologize." Stella's breath caught. I could see the pain shatter across her expression. Her hand dropped to her side, as though his words had burned her. "You don't mean that," she said, quiet, shaken. "I—I'm sorry." And then he pulled away.

He walked alone across the rubble-strewn earth. Voldemort's smile widened, grotesque. "Ah, well done, Draco. Well done." He pulled the boy into a mockery of an embrace—cold, possessive, wrong. Draco didn't even flinch. He let himself be wrapped in that twisted parody of affection, then stepped quietly in line beside his parents.

Then Neville started limping forward. My stomach lurched. What was he doing? "Well, I must say I'd hoped for better." Voldemort's voice rang out, dry and cruel, laughter bubbling behind him from the crowd of Death Eaters. He stepped closer, sneering. "And who might you be, young man?" Neville didn't flinch. "Neville Longbottom." His voice was steady. More laughter. "Well, Neville," Voldemort said with exaggerated amusement, "I'm sure we can find a place for you in our ranks." "I'd like to say something." Neville cut in, firm. The crowd quieted just slightly. Even Voldemort hesitated, visibly annoyed that someone had dared interrupt him. "Well, Neville," he hissed, "I'm sure we'd all be fascinated to hear what you have to say." 

"It doesn't matter that Harry is gone." Neville started before being interrupted by Seamus. "Stand down, Neville!" He yelled from behind us. But Neville kept going, louder now. "People die every day. Friends, family. Yeah... we lost Harry tonight. But he's still with us. In here." He pointed to his heart, eyes blazing. "So are Fred, Remus... Tonks... all of them. They didn't die in vain." He turned, locking eyes with Voldemort. "But you will. Because you're wrong! Harry's heart did beat for us. For all of us. It's not over!"

Before I could even blink, he reached into the tattered Sorting Hat—Merlin knows how it even got there—and drew out the Sword of Gryffindor. Pure silver, gleaming in the morning sun. The world paused. And then—chaos. Harry erupted out of Hagrid's arms, stumbling forward, alive and very much breathing. "Potter!" Draco shouted suddenly, bolting out from the crowd. He threw a wand—not his own—straight to Harry, who caught it with a wild look in his eyes. Draco didn't stop, sprinting straight back over to our side.

Our hope had been restored.