Victory or Death: A Slytherin Battle Cry

The cracks of the glass echoed around the room, as he walked towards the hole where a window had once been. He looked out of the gapping hole and watched as the sun set and the shadows of what was left of Hogwarts began to deepen. They were all dead, his best friends, his comrades and the woman he loved. All of them martyred to The Dark Lord's New Order.

As he looked around the room, he realized how bad the damage was. Huge holes were in the walls, and there were burn marks everywhere; all of the armchairs destroyed. Even with the damage, he could still imagine what it must have been like here; in the Gryffindor common room. How they would have joked with each other, studied together, and brought warmth to this room. That would never happen again because all the Gryffindors were dead. In fact, any student who hadn't sided with Voldemort was dead. They had all given their lives for what they believed in, for what they wanted. Draco knew he should think them weak for that, but he didn't. He wasn't sure why he didn't despise them; he even felt a little pride in what they had done.

Then he thought about his own house. Only a handful of the Slytherins had survived: a couple of third years and one sixth year. He was the only seventh year to survive the fighting, if you didn't include Blasie. Draco didn't count her because, even if she survived the night, she would be crippled for life.

The carnage of the battle was a blur that even years later he would never remember clearly. The only details he could recall were from before the battle when his father had talked to him.

"Remember Draco we're Slytherin. We use any means we must."

That's when he realized why he only felt pride in what his friends had done and not why they had done it. He understood why he respected his ~enemies~ sacrifice. It was because he was a Slytherin. The values of that house were etched on his soul. He was Slytherin; more than his father was, more than Voldemort, and possibly more than Salazar himself. He respected the Gryffindors because they had acted like Slytherins and used whatever means necessary to achieve their goals.

That day he had been loyal, smart, and brave, but he was still a Slytherin, what use did he have for these things? All he had done today was work for another. He felt nothing for the New World he had helped create. Victory or death had been the cry as they had attacked, but he was alive and had lost: lost his friends,lost his lover, and lost his world. He had been a fool and had lead others to be just as foolish. He had wanted to be Minister of Magic one day; he had wanted to earn the respect of others, but now he would forever be his fathers son: Voldemort's lackey.

The darkness covered his flight from Hogwarts. The world that he had helped create had nothing for him. He had chosen wrong and he would see Voldemort dead no matter what it took.

Now decades later he was getting ready to lead the Resistance on its final assault against Voldemort. For the second time in his life he would be fighting on the grounds of Hogwarts, but now he was older and wiser. Victory or death for him, there was no other options, except this time when the rubble settled he would have pride in what he built.