Here Lies...

It is hopeless.

Death, death, death. Everything stinks of death.

They have won, of course. Doesn't goodness always prevail? asks a quiet, polite voice, Hermione speaking to her in the back of her head.

Of course goodness wins.

They just fail to mention the price of victory.

Everything she has ever come to love is dead.

Here lies Harry James Potter. Gryffindor Seeker, Tri-Wizard Champion, Hero of the Free World, and all-around good guy.

And, if they cared to remember, he had knobby knees, and the outer rims of his eyes danced hazel when he was angry. He loved Transfiguration, even if he wasn't the best at it. He fought with his very heart and soul.

Fought for the vultures outside, waiting to take a picture of his remains.

Here lies Hermione Jane Granger. Brainiac, Leader, Wild Warrior Woman, and all-around genius.

And the world would never know of her secret passions, never feel the warmth of her soul as she struggled against the black rip-tide of complacency in the name of liberation, fair play, and compassion. She wanted to be a Healer, to save the world- after she got Ron and Harry out of their latest scrape, of course. Her favourite class? Arithmancy. She fought with her mind and her fists, at the end.

Fought for the cowering fools at the Ministry, who were bleating about their great success.

Here lies Ronald Bilius Weasley. Chess Master, Strategist, The Side-Kick, and all-around everyman.

And the next generation of students would never see his flaming red hair, matted with bits of blood and brain. They would never hear his laughter, never see him dance circles around Hermione as they fought in jest, never hear him singing off-key as he sauntered about. His favourite class was Charms, and he in his final days, he would magic little pieces of paper to sing to frightened students, somehow knowing it would calm them down. He fought with Weasley strength.

Fought for oblivious Muggles who will never utter his name.

Here lies Luna Marie Lovegood. The Dreamer, Loony, The Motivator, Bearer of Hope, and all-around weirdo.

And tomorrow, most would never know she existed. They would never see the beauty of her, bathed in moonlight, as she prayed over the bodies of her enemies, asking whatever gods she worshipped for mercy, for clemency. She wanted to run the Quibbler. Her favourite class was Astronomy, and at night, she would stare at the stars and talk to her mother. She fought with her love for everyone.

Fought for the classmates who scorn her.

Here lies Albus Dumbledore. Headmaster, General, Wiseman, and all-around legend.

And come this time next year, the stories would grow, but they would never know how he laughed, really laughed, when he could let his guard down. They would never know how he fretted over everyone, how he believed that even Draco Malfoy could be redeemed. He had told her, his favourite class ever was Herbology. He would pat her hand and held her when she wept in worry. He fought with wisdom and decision.

Fought for the people who now say "Good riddance."

She looks around, surveying the bodies. Hogwarts is destroyed, and only God will ever know the final body count. There's nothing left. The respect, the love... gone in a flash of green fire, for people who would not care tomorrow. She has nothing left, and she feels the burden of their souls on her shoulders.

She points the wand at herself and utters a few words. She crumples to the ground, one hand curling around Harry's head and the other resting on Albus' chest.

Here lies Minerva Morag McGonagall, Professor, Taskmistress, Respected Soldier and all-around woman of virtue. Here lies the last Victim of the Second War.