Chapter Text
It had been bad. Far too bad. Too many fighting with the sickening heat of blind devotion and just as many who had died because of it.
They had won. The battle of Hogwarts had been ended by the only side that had mattered, those who stood with Dumbledore, who fought the good fight. The right side.
Harry Potter was dead. When exactly he had died was anyone’s guess. Its only witness was a giant, half of one, who still stood at the edges of the forest staring into it as if he was trying to write history in his own head.
They had heard it, of course. A great laugh. The even greater announcement. They’d seen the body. Despite all of that they had still fought and won, even without the chosen one at their side.
Harry Potter remembered dying. Funny thing… he wasn’t sure how you could remember death after you’d already died.
He had wanted to keep on living.
It’d been a scramble, his own consciousness reaching and grasping for a hint, anything that would keep him awake… keep him awake just long enough to know.
What had happened to Hagrid?
To Ron and Hermione?
Everyone that was still left barricaded in the walls of Hogwarts?
He had reached for it, even begged for it, and then he had caught something. He wasn’t sure if he actually heard it or not. If gasps of terror had really been real. If he had heard Neville’s yell across the crowd or the fight that started. Mrs. Weasley screaming for her children to stay close. Professor Mcgonagall mid-battle trying to instruct her students on defensive jinxes. Bellatrix laughing. It had all been there and so distant, like he had dreamt it many weeks ago and was just now trying to remember.
He hoped they wouldn’t be angry. Maybe they’d be too distracted by the excitement of the day. They would forget to miss him. Harry Potter cried.
Then again…
Remembering was one thing, crying was another. How could you cry if you were dead?
He opened his eyes.
He was laying in the dirt. Just then the realization came that the bitter taste in his mouth had been grass. He spat.
There was no one around him. Not bodies, not survivors. His body was curled beside a tree. His robes, tattered and far too big for him, threatened to trip him as he stood. They had to be rolled up just so he could stand and steady himself. Every limb ached, his voice felt hoarse and that alone was almost convincing enough to not ever leave the cool spot. But across the field. Far, far away in the shadow of the distant castle were voices. Harry couldn’t quite make out what they were saying but he knew he wanted to go to them. That’s what got him moving, and one step at a time he made his way towards Hogwarts.