Magic? || Years 5-7

We Hope: The Battle of Hogwarts

Shadows darkened the floor of the entrance hall, silhouettes of an army far greater than their own. Amisty could hear the feral snarls of the werewolves grating on the inside of her skull. She stepped forward.

The golden light spilling out from the ruins of the castle painted the Death Eaters in harrowing clarity. Voldemort stood, all cruelty and dead, white skin, stroking his damned snake with one finger. Bellatrix stood at his side, face twisted in a dreadful grin.

Battered and bruised with tears streaming down his cheeks and tangled in his beard, Hagrid held the lifeless body of Harry Potter.

"NO!"

All at once, reality came crashing down. Amisty swayed, bile coating the back of her tongue in bitterness as Bellatrix cackled at Professor McGonagall's despair.

The world hollowed and muted and Amisty clutched to Hermione's arm, trembling because he was supposed to live.

"No!"

"No!"

"Harry! HARRY!"

It came wretched and raw, dragged from Amisty's through without her control. The crowd of survivors swelled with it, a cacophony of cries and curses and abuse hurled at the Death Eaters—

"SILENCE!"

Bang! The world flashed white. Amisty's throat seized mid-shout, silence a noose around their necks.

"It is over!" Voldemort shrieked, brandishing the Elder Wand. "Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!"

With aching slowness, Hagrid knelt to lay Harry on the grass. His glasses were crooked, eyelids shut as if he were sleeping. His scar had splintered farther down his forehead.

"You see?" Voldemort said, striding back and forth along Harry's body, his cloak brushing his arms. "Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!"

How dare he—

"He beat you!" Ron bellowed, shaking with fury, and it was like the charm had snapped. All around them, shouts went up again, too many at once to decipher every call.

BANG!

"He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds," Voldemort said, gleeful, "killed while trying to save himself—"

The crowd jostled.

"Neville, no—!"

Neville leaped forward, seething, but with a flick of Voldemort's ground, he fell to the ground. A flash, his wand went flying. Voldemort tossed it to the side, laughing.

"And who is this?" Voldemort said, suddenly soft. Dangerous. The hiss of a snake ready to strike. "Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?"

Delighted, Bellatrix threw her head back and laughed.

"It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?"

"Ah, yes, I remember," Voldemort said, watching Neville with a lazy sort of disdain. Neville was stranded between the survivors and the Death Eaters, struggling against invisible binds as he forced himself to his feet.

"But you are a pureblood, aren't you, my brave boy?" Voldemort asked as Neville rose, fists clenched tight.

"So what if I am?" Neville demanded.