Shards Of Glass

The battle was still raging. Masked figures in black robes were gradually being outnumbered, pushed back towards the edge of the glassy lake, which was reflecting the hue of the overcast sky.

It had been going for hours. Both sides had been prepared: they had stood facing each other, silently in ordered ranks. The air had been muggy, descending like a suffocating blanket as the hours had progressed before the first signals were given and the first spells had been fired.

Then the first had begun to fall. Longbottom, Finnegan, one of the Weasley brothers. Both friend and foe had fallen and the ground was scattered with bodies lying, sprawled, side-by-side. But the volley of spells was relentless so the dead were ignored, and the wounded left to crawl back to the safety of the barricades, the lucky ones aided by a friend, the unlucky ones struck down by the enemy as they moved, unable to defend themselves. It was strange really- there had been so much talk of the honour and terrible beauty of war: the strange and earth real showers of light that came with every wave, swish and elegant flick of the wand- so beautiful but all so deadly, but when you finally saw the carnage; the figures that lay across the grounds, sprawled and lifeless the seed of doubt began to grow in the mind. But there was no time for the seed to be nurtured- each time a seed reached the fertile soil of the mind, a scream of a friend, a loved one maybe, would push and choke the doubt: the weeds of hurt and pain.

But this was it- the final push. Few were standing on either side, exhausted and weary. The exchange of fire intensified. More fell- a pretty brown bushy haired woman and an older severe looking woman wearing glasses. But still they pressed forwards, nearer and nearer the end.

And then it was over- the last robed wizard fell with a furious scream; Voldemort was gone, and the aim of many past years had been realised.

But it had been at a huge cost.

The end: many had wondered what it would be like- some had imagined embracing a group of smiling friends and laughing; maybe shedding a tear for a brave soul that had bravely died in the glorious battle that marked the end of the oppression, and the beginning of the golden future that lay out before them. Only some, the oldest, the ones with experience hard learned had envisioned this- the scene that lay before their eyes. It was one of complete and utter desolation: one of pain and hurt. There was not one family that did not have to bury a loved one.

At the end the dead were removed- one by one; picked up reverently from the place where they had fallen, alone.

But in the corner, slightly away from the main fighting something made them pause. There lay a man, with the fairest silvery blond hair, and a woman with a mane of red silk running down her back.

They lay in the position in which they had been in before the spell had struck them, and they had fallen; locked in an embrace, arms around each other, as if this alone could protect them.

And they were smiling.