𝘋𝘈𝘕𝘊𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘞𝘐𝘛𝘏 𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘏𝘈𝘕𝘋𝘚 𝘛𝘐𝘌𝘋/𝘵𝘰𝘮 𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 (English version)

Chapter 82

To lose or to win.
In war, it seems there are no alternatives.
No nuances, no compromises.
You either survive, or you don't.

Sarah had known this for a long time. At least, in theory.
In the years she had spent studying the First Wizarding War, she had convinced herself that, even though the Order of the Phoenix and its allies had won, much—too much—of what truly mattered had been lost.
It wasn't just about numbers, though the numbers were terrifying: the fallen in the war had been many, a list of the missing so long it seemed unreal.
Each name seemed swallowed by nothingness, as if the world itself had forgotten them. Only traces remained, shadows, memories.

In those days, she often asked herself if she was afraid of death. And the answer had always been: yes.
Yes, of course.
No matter how much one tries to pretend, who can truly stare into the void and not tremble? Close their eyes and then... nothing.
Silence. Darkness.
No certainty, no guarantee that anything continues. Just a blind leap into the dark.

That thought had always frightened her.
But over time, and with the losses, she had learned a harsher truth: dying was easier than losing someone you love.

Because the death of others is never a single moment.
It isn't just when they tell you, "They didn't make it."
It's the entire descent: the doubt that grows into suspicion, the fear that rises, the hope that struggles to hold on, then denial.
And finally, when the body is there, in front of you, silence arrives.
A silence so absolute it even suffocates your tears.

Sarah knew that feeling well.
She had experienced it before. And now she felt it returning, step by step, as she walked through the devastated corridors of Hogwarts.
She avoided the Great Hall.
She walked aimlessly, as if an invisible thread were leading her somewhere. Occasionally she passed someone: a boy with hands covered in dried blood, a witch with a vacant stare, a professor dragging a body wrapped in a cloak.
Sarah did not stop.
She didn't want to see. Not yet.
She had glimpsed too much before, a torn scrap of cloth, an abandoned hand, a bloodied shoe, and had always looked away.
She wasn't ready.
She still needed to pretend, for a little longer, that maybe, somewhere, someone she loved was still alive.

But time, relentless, had begun to move. And with it came a need.
Not to know who had died, but who remained.
Who was still there.
Who wasn't.
Who would grieve forever.

It was Tom who found her, sitting on the steps at the entrance, hands clasped over her mouth, eyes lost.
He said nothing, merely held out a hand, inviting her to follow him. And she took it gently, finally accepting to take the first step.

The doors of the Great Hall were wide open.
The light of dawn filtered from above, muted, faint. It illuminated the interior in a way so different from usual, creating patterns that lent the place an almost serene appearance.
Sarah froze at the threshold. She had always thought that, when the moment came, her legs would move on their own, eager to know. But now they felt heavy, like two blocks of stone.
A part of her didn't want to go, a part feared the truth too much.
Tom gave her a small nod, as if to say: I'm here.
And she moved.

The long tables had been pushed aside.
The floor was covered with sheets, bodies, silence.
Some were uncovered, hands resting along their sides.
Others were covered, only feet visible, or a lock of hair peeking out.
Around them, there was only pain, the kind of pain seventeen-year-olds should never have to know.

Some cried silently, some sat motionless, some drank potions as if they were water, without even tasting them.
Every face was a fragment of a world that had shattered.

Sarah moved forward slowly, her feet uncertain. She sighed whenever she did not see a familiar face.
Tom was beside her, always silent.
Occasionally he glanced at her, but he dared not speak.
There were no words that could fit.