Glory, Hallelujah

YM: slytherinkeeper

This fic was originally published on fanfiction.net under the authorname "Nyx."


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Glory Hallelujah
by Flourish ([email protected])

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I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on."

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All is strangely silent in the night, as if the world knows nothing of the battle that has gone on here. The light from a million wands, crowding around me, makes it seem like day; yet none of the witches and wizards gathered have spoken, not even quietly among themselves. Sitting down with a violent crunch of dry, charred leaves, I bury my face in my hands. I miss them. I miss them. I miss them. Glory. Hallelujah.

They were both so sure of themselves, the sureness that comes with youth; was that what caused their rash behavior? When we came to the final battle, the last fight with Voldemort, what happened to their common sense? I remember that Harry was so positive he was the only one who could defeat He-Who-Must-Not Be-Named. And he did. But the cost in lives, in souls, in dreams that would never come to be - the cost was exponential. Glory. Hallelujah.

The ground is bloodsoaked. Why is it bloodsoaked? I can barely remember the details of what happened, my mind numbed. It's Harry's blood, and Ron's; the thought comes unbidden, and I recoil from it, scurrying off of the dark-red dirt like a crab. I can't touch it. My robes are already bloodied, but I don't really notice. Beyond the ground and the blood and the leaves lies a body. I don't want to go to it, don't want to touch it, but the impulse is strong. Like at car wrecks, where you don't want to look but you "just have to." Gathering my courage and standing, heading for the pile of charred flesh and black robes that once was a person, I pray for the first time in what seems like years. I don't want to see Harry or Ron. Please. Let this be someone I don't know, nameless, faceless, lifeless. Please... but I know that in battles there are two losers and I must face up to our loss. Glory. Hallelujah.

I kneel by the body, gently rolling it over. Ron. His bright-red hair is a shock against the darkness and the torchlight, and eerie shadows play across his lifeless face: it seems as though some part of him has returned to torment me. A voice from the past floats up: "Hermione, you can't come with us. Not this time..." I had been about to say something about male chauvinist pigs when the emotion overcame me and I just hugged him instead. I knew then that I would probably never see him alive, but seeing his corpse now with dirt and tears and blood streaking his face is different. Carefully, I feel his cheek, his neck; no pulse, cold as stone beneath my fingertips. Glory. Hallelujah.

Turning and glancing at the other faces that are gathered around, I whisper his death into the stillness. It's redundant; you could tell by how unmoving he had been. Yet someone in the back shouts and breaks the mood. "You-Know-Who is dead - ead - ead - ead - dddd!" It echoes, and someone joins in the cry. Before long there are noisemakers and people rejoicing in a crowd, and only a small circle remains around the bodies. The war is over. Harry won. We won. Harry's dead. Ron's dead. You-Know-Who is dead. Too many people are dead. I don't feel a thing. And in the torchlight to my left as the party continues, someone shouts. "Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!" A thousand voices seem to reply, and the call grows louder. The Muggles will hear. Nobody cares. "Glory! Hal-le-lu-jah! Hallelujah!"

Yet inside my heart something cracks, and I find I cannot join in their merriment. I can only sit, and watch the bodies of my dearest friends, and whisper. Glory. Hallelujah.

Glory.

Glory.

Hallelujah.

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As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free
As God goes marching on!
Glory, glory hallelujah,
Glory, glory hallelujah!
Glory, glory hallelujah!
As God goes marching on!

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