The Last of an Era

The wind blows harshly this time of the year, but it's surely more bitter when it's blowing through the grounds of a marble and cold stone monuments.

She walks hither and yonder, letting her fingers trail against the rough statues, cherubim who seem to mock at her as they smile down at her brown head. Moments of childhood, captured by magic and some unknown sculptor’s hand, smile wickedly on her face.

She is the end of an era, the last of great heroes. She thought he would live forever.

He had outlived the war that had taken their other best friend. Ronald Bilius Weasley had died snarling, roaring death and destruction at the sneering face of Bellatrix Lestrange. He fell, but not before planting a seed of chaos in the carefully constructed garden of the Death Eaters. With his last breath, he told her of Voldemort’s father, where he was buried.

Bellatrix had killed Ginny in retaliation for destroying her world, her way of life. But Ginny had died with a smile on her face, the voice of Riddle silenced forever. Bellatrix had gone truly mad then, for Ginny's smile was said to mock her for the rest of her days, never letting her rest.

He should have lived forever. Harry, strong, willful, defiant. Harry, who looked so much like his father, but in truth, he was more like his mother. He had her will, her love, and her unwillingness to back down.

At the end of the destruction, it had only been her and Harry standing. Neville lies under the soft crab grass, his grave surrounded by his beloved plants and the plots of his two parents.

She reaches his grave, a simple marker. They had outlived seven years of craziness, books and adventures. She shared a bond with him; they were two Muggle-raised children in an unknown world, enraptured with the feel of power that they now had command of. They had been scorned by society long before walking into the walls of Hogwarts, and that brought them together more than anything else.

She doesn't cry, anymore.

And he walks behind her, a metre or so away.

And if anyone should understand, he does.

He is the end of an era. Seven years of pranks, bonds of fellowship that he thought unshakable.

He, more than anyone, knows how tenuous those bonds really were, how easily disconnected. And he is happy that she has never known true betrayal, that she has been spared that pain. But the dull, hot pain of sudden severance, twisting into a heart, is that much more horrible.

He's been able to avenge James and Sirius. And Lily. Oh, his first friend, the first person to ever save him and extend their hand in solidarity. And he knows she knows that pain firsthand. Her two best friends had died, and she wasn't spared the pain of not seeing it.

She will never be able to avenge Harry and Ron's deaths. Bellatrix committed suicide at the feet of her Lord, and the man who killed Harry.... he died too.

She turns to see him, her face a frigid mask. They are the last ones standing. Voldemort is dead, the Death Eaters demolished, but they are the only ones left. He comes to her and strokes her head. He doesn't whisper promises of happiness, because they will evaporate come the next full moon, and his head in her lap, and they will stare at the moon together.

And he knows she's seeing Harry's mangled body in her head, hearing his last screams when she cradled his head. She's hearing his final words of love to her, his promises that he will see her on the other side of the Great Divide, him and Ginny and Ron. And he knows that even then, she didn't weep. Because she's seen so much, done so much, and now, she merely wants to sleep.

But there are still things that go bump in the night, and she will not sleep until those wicked things are dying, their blood on her hands. Oh, she is clever, and sharp. She isn't dead. He knows that she loves him, that she clings to him as the last link to a happier past. She clings, just as hard as he does.

He doesn't know if they'd be in this interesting predicament, Professor and Pupil hunting by the light of the half-moon. They are killers at heart, both of them, and once upon a time, perhaps this would have sickened her. But her brothers in arms are lying in the cold English ground, and she is alive, warm, strong and beautiful. The dying sun reflects off her skin like the coldness of her blade. Magic is a last resort, and she would rather that they scream from her hand and her hand alone.

And he will merely watch her, as she has watched him. And he will wash her blood-stained clothing in the freezing creek by their ramshackle home, as she cleans their weapons of choice. And when the full moon comes, he will run beside her as wolf, biting the legs of evildoers as she rips the life from their soul.

They are the last of an era.

But she holds her middle lovingly as she presses a kiss to the cold stone of her best friend's grave.

They are the last of an era.

And the harbingers of a new one.

And they will walk again, one day.