The War

The war had been raging for months now. Hogwarts was no longer a bustling hive of cheerful activity, instead a muted atmosphere more like a prison than a safe haven. Owls had slowly petered off over the months, and the silence at breakfasts was broken only by the occasional flutter of ministry owl wings as they brought the latest condolences to the families of the newly dead.

Harry sat in his place at the Gryffindor table, a sad caricature of normalcy that nobody believed for a moment. The empty places on either side of him where Ron and Hermione usually sat remained a reminder of what was going on all around the castle's walls. Arthur Weasley had died three days ago in one of the increasingly common Death Eater raids, and Hermione had spent the hours since the news had arrived, comforting Ron, crying tears for the family she had not heard from in four weeks, and mourning the death of her best friend's father.

Nobody was untouched by grief. Even the Slytherins had suffered, receiving the same formal messages as the rest of them. Malfoy's hair no longer shone as clean as it used to, his once immaculate robes creased and dusty. He had worn patches on both knees from crouching to support the younger students of his house who had not yet hardened their hearts to the cruelty of war.

And Harry watched it all, the desolate self destruction that surrounded him, and he cried, silently in his head where no-one could see he was as weak as the rest of them. He woke every morning, from vision-plagued sleep, and wiped the stickiness of unshed tears from his eyes, going through the motions as he always had, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin before leaving the relative security of the common room. The image the rest of the school saw was one of calm, he portrayed the part of brave hero who was going to be their salvation, but inside he was just a scared, angry little boy who had been forced to grow up too fast.

And he was angry. The fire they saw in his eyes was not one of courage as they mistakenly believed, but one of long burning rage, a fierce hatred of everything that had been forced on him. For every person he had loved who had been killed. He had lost everyone he cared for in some way; Ron and Hermione had not left the encompassing dark of Ron's bed, tightly surrounded by blood red curtains, for the three days they had grieved. Remus had gone on a mission for the Order, and had not sent word to Harry in over two months. Dumbledore had aged, far more in the war months than he had in all the years Harry had known him. The only constant link he had to keep him grounded, the only outlet for his constantly building rage was Malfoy. Harry would never have imagined he would be grateful for the continued animosity they shared, but it was all he had now, and he relished every moment of it.

And one day the Ministry owl landed in front of him.

No other owls arrived that mealtime, and all eyes were focussed on Harry as he ignored the dark grey envelope sitting beside his plate. He didn't need to open it to know who it was he had lost. There was only one person on the outside it could be. The weight of all the gazes of the school felt heavy on his back, and he stood, abruptly and left, eyes cast straight ahead, envelope gripped firmly by his side. Before he was even through the doors of the Great Hall, his pace had quickened to a run, and he flew out of the hall, across the entrance hall and into the wide expanse of the grounds.

And there he screamed. Loud and long and so full of pain that students and teachers alike flinched, and bit their lips and held each other tight. Because now they realised. Now they saw that the strength they had seen had been a lie. The one thing that had kept them all from giving up was nothing more than a dream they couldn't reach. At that moment their hope was lost. And they felt it; they felt their spirits fall, plummeting down, into the abyss of fear they had balanced on the edge of for all those months.

That was the moment they all believed they had lost the war. None of them moved from their places, even long after their food had gone cold and been taken away uneaten. Hours passed, and still they sat, eternally frozen by their despair.

And the little boy who had been forced to become a man had gone, striding purposefully through the gates and on, ever on, until he came to the place the Dark Lord was waiting. And he killed him.

And then he cried, curled up into a ball of misery, and sobbed, heart wrenching, bitter, angry sobs, that no-one ever heard, until his body was spent and he had no more tears to shed.

And finally, he slept.