Memorializing a Hero
Chapter One

            It was over, finally.  The battle was done, the war ended.  Voldemort was dead, the last Death Eaters captured.  The battle, had taken place on the land that all of the British Wizarding community had thought most safe.  Hogwarts now lay in ruins, its stone walls fractured.  Those that still stood seemed a morbid skeleton of what had once been.  And around Hogwarts, the beautiful grounds were trampled; the dirt was stained a deep rust colour that many wondered would stain the ground forever, if the grass would grow back red with the blood of the fallen.  In a land such as this, the earth itself had ways of remembering such things.

            Strangely enough, the Quidditch stands had been preserved.  They bore battle scars, of course.  The banners were gone, burnt or torn.  But the stands themselves were still there, and it was there that they gathered.  The survivors of the war, those who had fought and those who had hidden, walked toward the stands in an eerie silence.  Before, they had hosted crowds of cheering students.  Tonight, there was only silence.  All were thinking of those who were not there.  All were mourning one soul in particular.

            The casualties had been high.  It had come as no surprise to any in the Order, they had known the stakes from the beginning.  To others, however, those who had not accepted Voldemort’s return until it was too late, the sheer number of deaths had been astounding.  Almost an entire generation, gone.  Not all died on the same side. Neville, Justin, Luna, and Fred Weasley had died in Hogsmeade from a surprise attack.  George slit his wrists the next day, unwilling to live without his other half.  Draco Malfoy had been killed early in the war at his own father’s hand when he refused to continue the ‘family trade.’ Hermione Granger died shortly after she graduated, her very existence an insult to Voldemort.  She, a muggle-born, had proven herself to be the most intelligent witch to ever graduate from Hogwarts.  Even if she had not been a friend to Harry Potter, she would have been a target.  Hagrid died bravely in one of the worst battles, taking twelve Death Eaters with him.  McGonagall went down protecting a group of children.  Remus Lupin had been driven mad under Cruciatus, until he became the dangerous creature that he had so feared.  Harry had been forced to kill him, cradling his body just as he had uttered the words.  The last of the Marauders, gone.

            Most of those fighting on the front lines the night of the final battle had died in the backlash from the disintegration of Voldemort’s soul.  The Boy-Who-Lived lived no more.  Albus Dumbledore had died shortly before him, shielding him from the fatal curse with his own body.  Severus Snape died beside the both of them, apparently from a potion of his own design.  None knew if he had been poisoned or if he had taken the potion himself.  Had he lived only a short while longer, he’d have seen the stain of his youth disappear from his arm.

            The survivors were all here, that night, to remember the fallen.  They all watched, silent, as a gaunt redhead moved down onto the pitch, carrying a bowl in his remaining hand.  He placed it on a small table.  A screen had been set up in the field, much like a muggle movie screen, but this one was meant to show the contents of that bowl.  It had been their savior’s last wish.  “Let them know me,” he had said. 

            So, the last remaining member of the Golden Trio tapped the side of the bowl awkwardly with his wand and stood back with tears in his eyes.