Copyright: What elements of this story that I own, and are not the property of anyone else, are licensed
CC-BY-NC-SA. That means that you can take anything in this story, up to and including the whole thing, and use it
however you like, as long as you promise me three things:
1. You will link back to me (preferably to my author page)
2. You will not make money off whatever you do
3. You will share your work under these same conditions
I honestly didn't expect to be adding to this, but the idea came to me and I thought it was just too perfect NOT to add. We're mostly DH-compliant here, taking place in the aftermath of the Final Battle. I changed a little bit - made it more of a battle and added some other deaths to match, but those are secondary elements. Enjoy!
Fallen
It's finished.
Harry Potter remembered, a long time ago, looking up into the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall and being amazed to see the stars. Now he was looking up again, and he saw those stars, but he was more sad than amazed, the illusion shattered by the broken timber and masonry that lay at the edge of his vision. For these stars were no magical trick, no great feat of power designed to wow young children. These stars were the real deal, laid bare by the crumbled ceiling of the once-Great Hall, looking down from their place in the heavens upon the destruction wrought by Lord Voldemort.
The Final Battle had come, and it had come swiftly and it had come terribly. Voldemort had massed a terrible army of beasts maligned by Wizards, and the forces of Light had been all but overrun: Giant warriors, whose armored footsteps shook the foundations of the Earth, trampled all who stood in their way and beat the ancient stonework into submission; Dementors swept through the opposing army, leaving few soulless in their wake but driving their terrified enemies into the waiting jaws of Vampire and Werewolf legions; the acromantula colony, woken from their dark home, came to pick up the pieces.
The Order fought bravely: Kingsley had amassed what Aurors and Hit Wizards were loyal, Minerva had roused the Suits of Armor from their long sleep, the fifth, sixth, and seventh years stood by those Professors who were most capable, House Elves flung spells from the upper ramparts, and Hagrid and Grawp held their line as only they could. Even the centaurs emerged from the Forest and, though they were effective at rounding up the acromantulas, not even they could turn the tide. All seemed lost, until Charlie Weasley rode in with a team of dragon-tamers.
All this long while, Harry battled Lord Voldemort: a battle of Spirit, in which Harry died and was reborn, and a battle of Magic, in which the Dark Lord died and did not return. And then it was over. It was over for most, and it was Over for some, and as Harry turned his gaze from the ruined ceiling of the Great Hall he saw. He saw the Some, rows upon rows of plain white sheets, and he saw the Most - who didn't look particularly numerous - hovering over the sheets belonging to those they had lost. The surviving Weasleys were there, huddled in solitude around two sheets; Parvati Patil, a lump on the floor, broken down by the strain of deciding which of two to visit first; Dennis Creevy, so young, sobbing over another. Then he saw Her, looking as lost as he felt, owning none of the Sheets and yet all of them at once. He took a step towards her, but the floor under his foot was unsteady. He looked down.
He had stepped on a hand. A female one, it looked like. His eyes followed up the leather-clad arm to where it became a Sheet. From the top of the sheet, he could see the barest hue of bubblegum pink bleeding through the white fabric, and something broke in him. He wasn't able to delude himself anymore: the happy fantasy that held him together ruined by this sight of pink. He could no longer pretend that the Sheets were not People, people who had died in the war that only he had been able to stop. He saw the Hall with new eyes, the bile rising in his throat. The surviving Weasleys were still there, huddled in solitude around the bodies of Fred and Charlie; Parvati Patil, still a lump on the floor, broken down by the strain of deciding whether to visit her sister or her best friend first; Dennis Creevy, who still looked so young, sobbing over his big brother. And Her, looking as sickened as he felt, grieving for all of the Dead at once.
He wanted to scream and cry and break things and be broken and vomit. He felt the weight of their deaths on his shoulders, and he felt his knees buckle, but saw the arm again and he couldn't bear to fall. So he chose the next best thing, and fled. He didn't see Her look up, see Her take in the look on his face as he contemplated the arm and the Sheet, see Her lips form his name, see the rest of the Hall look up as he fled, see Her moving after him, see Her stopping as he ran faster. He didn't see these things, or indeed anything at all. He just ran.
***
It would have been impossible for him, if asked, to say precisely where he ended up when he finally stopped running. He had wanted to get Away, try to get above the dark clouds that had settled on the castle, fly over the stench of Death. Looking over his final location, he decided that he had done about as well as he could do.
He was in one of the Towers, the highest one still standing, but not a single identifying feature remained to indicate exactly which tower it was; the events of the Battle had demolished much of the tower's structure, leaving the stone floor on which Harry stood exposed to the elements, and exposed to the noxious black smoke that taunted his efforts to rise above. Hogwarts still burned, in some remote areas, and the fire was not merely limited to stone if the heavy stench of fat was any indication. He looked about, helplessly, searching for some way above the pain. The smoke and the scent and, most of all, the view did nothing but remind him of all he had caused, the lives his dallying had rendered him unable to save, the families that had been torn apart, and the wounds that would never heal.
His gaze flicked upwards, and became locked on the sky. Through patches in the smoke, brilliant stars winked coquettishly at him, mocking him from their High Place, taunting him with the knowledge that only in their realm could he finally be above the suffering. He took a step towards them, every fiber of his being stretching out, seeking to join them.
He had been very small when he first saw the stars, when Vernon had locked him outdoors overnight for some imagined offence. At that time, he imagined that every Good Person turned into a star when they died, so that they could look down on those they had left behind. He imagined his parents up there, looking down, trying to protect him by whatever means they could. It was a silly notion, a childish fantasy to try and make sense of the cruelty in his world, but it had been attractive then, and it was attractive now. He imagined them up there again, his mind filling in the lines between dots until there was Lily Potter in the sky, arms opened to her son.
He took another step. There was James Potter, ready with a warm smile and a pat on the back.
Another step. There was Sirius Black, restored to his glory days of hearty laughs and boyish likeability.
Another…
A tight grip on his shoulder stopped him dead. His eyes broke from the sky and looked down, at where the floor should have been but was not. His one leg was outstretched, ready to take that next step, but there was nothing solid for it to land on; nothing but smoke and, he knew, the fall. He brought his leg back, seeking solid ground again, and tried to ignore the sickness in his stomach as he turned to face the one who had stopped him, his rescuer or his torturer, depending on your perspective.
He could have handled pity. He could have handled disappointment. He could even have handled anger. If he had seen any of those emotions reflected in her sweet, brown eyes, he would have been okay; he would have been able to carry on, and maybe in the not-too-distant future he would have been able to take his place among the stars. But understanding? Empathy? Those broke him. Those ensured that all he could remember was how close he had come to making that woman, his most loyal friend, feel pain that would never go away. The shame, the anger at his own selfishness, it met the sorrow of Death in his heart, and mingled together, exerting a force so powerful that Harry slid to the floor, unable to support the weight of his guilt.
He felt her kneel beside him. He knew what she would say: that he was being stupid, that Death was not his to control, that he had no right to kill himself. He wished she wouldn't say those things, even though he knew he deserved to hear them.
He felt her small, warm hand cover his larger, cold one where it sat on the cold stone.
She didn't say a word.
They sat there, the two of them, in silence. Part of Harry wondered what was going through her mind, what she thought of him in that Low moment, but his voice failed him, and he could not ask. He couldn't even look at her; all his shattered conscience would permit him to do was sit on the cold stone, staring blankly into the floor, with her hand on top of his the only source of warmth he felt.
No, not the only. There was something else, a gentle warm that spread over his hand and under it, so slowly that he was only barely conscious of it until it was all the way there. He turned his head, slowly, to see that his hand was sitting in a shallow pool of blood, that there was a fine line of it running down the side of his hand, and that the fine line led up Her arm.
He knew where the blood was from, he realized as the old familiar sickness knotted his stomach again: Her scars, the ones on her arm that she had suffered at his expense, protecting him and his mission. The pain he felt at the reminder of her injury was no less potent to him than the pain of all the Death he had seen that day, but she was there, and they weren't; she was there for him to apologize to, to make even the most pitiful attempt at redemption, to ease the guilt on his soul.
He brought his eyes up to her, intent on saying the words that he knew - hoped - would soothe his suffering. But then he saw her eyes, and he could not. She knew what he was thinking, she must have; known how he had come to realize that her scars had been caused by him, that his presence had caused her pain unimaginable, and that knowing this was tearing him apart. He saw her eyes and saw the last thing he expected to see:
Forgiveness.
She could not deny the truth in his mind, that if she had not met him then she would not be in pain. As much as she had often tried to, she could not deny that he had, directly or indirectly, caused her to hurt more than any eighteen-year-old girl should be expected to hurt. But she forgave him. She knew what he had done, and what he had failed to do, and she forgave him.
A small smile, the barest of upticks of the mouth, grew on his face, and it was returned.
She forgave him.
In the end, maybe that was all he had ever needed to know.