Saviour

They thought that you could save them, save them all. They believed this with every fiber of their bodies, with every spell they cast, with all the adulation cast your way. But they were wrong.

You know now that you should have known that. But back then, you were as foolish, as hopeful as the rest of them.

Bitterness settles in your stomach as you pile wood into the small fireplace. The flames leap high, crackling, hissing, and spitting small embers at you. But it doesn't warm you. Not inside anyway and that's where it counts.

You can still remember the stories they used to tell about you. At first, you thought them ridiculous, stupid, hero-worshipping. But then as time wore on, as the stubborn stains of battle began to not wash off, as you watched your classmates - still children - die in front of you, part of you began to believe those stories. Began to think that you could truly save them all.

And who could blame you? You needed that hope.

Was it your fault that you didn't listen to your common sense? Was it your fault that you didn't listen to the quiet niggling traitorous voice at the back of your head that spoke sense? Was it your fault that you had your common sense blinkered by the bright lights of fame and notoriety? Was it your fault that you were consumed by blind faith?

A tongue of flame shoots upwards and you watch as it flares and arches before dying.

You know that history will judge you harshly for the decisions you have made. But you know, with equal certainty that you had to make those decisions. As hard as they were, they had to be made and you were the only one there to make them.

Everybody was surprised when you decided to turn to the Muggles for help. You gave an impassioned speech, telling the ignorant wizarding public about the superiority of Muggle weapons for the fight against Voldemort. And you were right about that at least.

As you draw your chair closer to the fire, you wonder what you would do if faced with a similar situation today.

And you laugh as you realize that you would have done the exact same thing. Voldemort was always a greater evil in your mind.

The Daily Prophet called it: A deal with the devil.

You remember reading that headline and laughing. "Ridiculous," you said. "The Muggles aren't devils." Hermione agreed with you but Ron was silent.

Perhaps you should have remembered that old Muggle proverb. From the frying pan into the fire.

The tide of the war quickly turned with the help of the Muggles and you are still grateful for that. Known Death Eater hideouts were bombed (they're just terrorists, the Muggles told themselves; they're just Death Eaters, you told yourself) and the occupants twisted and ravaged beyond recognition.

You felt sick when you saw the first pictures come back from the Muggle raids. The Muggle ones were bad enough but add motion and your stomach roiled as you saw a hand twitch in the rubble. Still, you told yourself that it was for the common good.

Voldemort is evil. Death Eaters are evil. Therefore, they must be destroyed by any and all means possible. Simple as that.

But it wasn't.

You couldn't watch as the Muggles shot Draco Malfoy. He was your schoolmate only two short years ago.

You couldn't watch as they threw weapons with strange names at the Death Eaters in battle because you knew that if you did watch, you would see faces - some familiar - contorted and destroyed.

Now you think that you should have done more watching. Perhaps then you would have known what was to happen. Perhaps then you could have taken steps to hide prominent witches and wizards. Perhaps then ?

The fire flickers and you pile more wood onto it, not caring. You're cold from all these memories and you need the warmth.

It was a happy, jubilant day when Voldemort was finally defeated. Using a Muggle-designed device that concentrated your magical energy, you fired Avada Kedavra at him. It was over so quickly and you were glad.

You were so happy - everybody was so happy - that nobody questioned the Muggle troops as they quickly herded everybody into Hogwarts. For safety, they called it. Just in case there were any rogue Death Eaters around. Nobody asked any questions. And a few hours later as a nuclear-tipped missile destroyed the very foundations of the thousand-year-old school, leaving nothing but smoldering ruins, there was nobody left to ask any questions.

Nobody, that is, except you.

A small shudder runs through you as you think about how close your brush with death was that night. You had only run out to Hogsmeade for some butterbeer.

And you still cannot think of all the lives lost in that explosion. All the friends, enemies, lovers, companions, acquaintances, fellow witches and wizards killed.

At first, you thought it must have been a mistake. How could the Muggles have done such a thing? After all, they were your allies, your friends! It must have been a massive, cataclysmic mistake. But as news filtered through of more explosions around magical Britain, you began to realize the truth.

This was a deliberate action taken by the Muggles. Perhaps they found the wizarding world too unstable to be allowed to survive. Perhaps they were scared of magic. Perhaps you didn't really care to list the possible reasons.

All you knew is that your world was destroyed, lying in tatters, and that there was nothing you could do but retreat and hope.

You wrap the blanket tighter around yourself and lean forward towards the fire. A trickle of blood comes out of your nose and you wipe it away with irritation. It has been doing that a lot lately.

You hope that there are some people still left, scattered around Britain, like you, hiding, waiting, hoping. There must be. You hold onto that thought.

You didn't save them all. But maybe, just maybe, the few that are left will be enough.

For now though, you cough, wipe the sweat off your forehead and still shiver from the cold as you draw your chair ever closer to the fire.