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One body down, Oliver Wood told himself as he gently laid a young witch's body down on the Great Hall's cool stone floor. Countless more to go.
He had never felt so pummeled in his entire life. Even all those hours spent practicing and preparing for Quidditch never left him feeling this utterly spent.
Yet he continued to move, continued to work, methodically helping the others as they carried the bodies of those whom had fallen in the battle back into Hogwarts, laying them on the ground, saving their corpses from the horrors outside. Perhaps it wasn't that his body was tired, but rather that his soul felt sick and depressed. They had fought, and won, but at such a terrible price. Some of the dead weren't even of-age, some of them bare children caught in the terrible crossfire.
Children shouldn't die in war, he thought fiercely, brown eyes catching sight of another clutch of wounded fighters huddled in a corner of the Great Hall. Children don't deserve this sort of death.
But reality, he acknowledged, didn't care about who did or did not deserve a particular sort of death. It didn't care if one man thought a child shouldn't die in war.
It simply existed, and left mortals to learn to cope.
And cope is what we'll be doing a lot of tomorrow. There was no doubt in his mind about it. Children, parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and friends had died at Hogwarts tonight. Tomorrow would be the first step of many to recovery. Funerals would be arranged by friends and family still bewildered by their loved one's death. Names would blaze across every wizarding newspaper and magazine in Britain. Stories would be told of the fallen, immortalized by those who were left behind.
But that was tomorrow.
The fight wasn't over yet. This was only a lull. Voldemort had fled from the school, but he was still there, hidden somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. In his gut, he knew Harry Potter would confront him once more...and all he could do was put the same faith in Harry now as he did when they had played Quidditch together.
His feet had carried him back outside, to the front steps where he had true scope of the devastation. Death Eaters and their enemies alike lay scattered on the front lawn of Hogwarts. Slowly, he walked down the steps, which were now mercifully clear of any bodies. It wasn't the same story beyond the stairs.
Here, a matronly woman lay staring at the star-studded sky. She had died of some curse that had caught her across her throat. Not a few yards away from her, a Death Eater was facedown, the arrows in his back testifying as to how he died. Centaurs, I suppose. Or one of the suits of armor.
Even as his eyes returned to the woman, he saw Madam Rosmerta and Aberforth Dumbledore picking the woman up with infinite care before moving towards the castle. Rosmerta's eyes were overly bright in the moonlight, but no tears fell. He had the feeling she had personally known this woman, but, like him, did not weep for her death. Their shock had worn away quickly, their minds shifting straight to crisis management. Grieving would come later, once the war was truly over.
For one brief moment, Oliver's gaze strayed to the dead Death Eater. He wondered if perhaps he should carry the man into the Great Hall, then shook his head. No. Perhaps he was being petty, after all, that had been another human being, another person who had been alive just that morning, who had had parents like him, who had attended Hogwarts like him, who had walked, talked, and laughed like him. But he just couldn't bring himself to carrying that man inside, to rest beside those who had died in defense of their own lives, and the lives of future generations.
Not yet anyway.
He moved on, taking a deep breath as his eyes swept the battlefield for the next person needing to be carried inside. They were still people, he realized, unable to think of the fallen as anything but people, as though they still lived. They did live...but only in memories, pictures, and the hearts of those they left behind.
Look at me. One horrible battle and I turn into a right sentimental sop. Even as he scolded himself, and moved off to where he saw someone else moving amongst the bodies, he knew, deep down, that it would only be worse if he ran across someone he had known. A housemate. A yearmate. A friend.
He had already seen Fred Weasley's body...and Professor Lupin's. From the moment he laid eyes on their bodies, he could only bow his head, thoughts filled with memories of the laughing redhead, and the professor he had intensely respected. Angelina had been devastated, sobbing her heart out on Katie and Alicia's shoulders. He knew Fred and Angelina had planned on marrying after the war, a plan that would never come to pass.
As much as he wished he knew what to say or do, he couldn't think of anything to say besides "I'm sorry", and pat Angelina rather awkwardly on the shoulder. Somehow, he didn't think it would help her, or bring her comfort. If anything, his fiery-tempered former teammate would become irritated at someone showing her pity, and turn the business end of her wand on the unfortunate soul.
Hence the reason why he turned his attention to working on bringing people back into Hogwarts.
After the first underage fighter he had brought in from the grounds, Flitwick had paused beside him, shaking his head sadly.
"Adam Carver. Must have slipped up from Hogsmeade after the battle started." Oliver bent, carefully easing the young wizard's body to the floor. Flitwick sighed sadly. "He won't be the last underage death."
Icy fingers licked down Oliver's spine as he straightened. Flitwick had stated it as if it were a fact that they were going to find more underage witches and wizards dead outside. Surely the rest had obeyed orders to flee to safety.
Wood, you fool, if one boy was loyal to the cause, to Potter, then what makes you think that others weren't as well? a voice snapped irritably even as he headed out of the Great Hall, in search of more bodies. Do use your head, laddie buck.
True to Flitwick's prediction, they did find more bodies of underage witches and wizards. Heartbreaking as it was to see their small bodies lifeless on the ground, it was even more heartbreaking to witness the parents, siblings, and friends as they realized their sons, daughters, and best friends were missing.
Oliver stopped counting how many bodies he had carried, or helped to carry, into Hogwarts. It seemed far too disrespectful to turn all those lost lives into mere numbers. Instead, he recounted what he knew of their lives, and if he didn't know them, then someone else helping to carry the bodies into the school did.
Marietta Edgecombe had been a Ravenclaw. Her best friend was Cho Chang. Their favorite thing to do during the summer was to go to the Muggle cinema near Marietta's home. She had died when a giant threw her through a window.
Euan Abercrombie had been a Gryffindor. When he was younger, he wanted to become a Muggle firefighter like his father, but when he discovered he was a wizard, he decided he wanted to become an Auror, protecting and saving people just like his father. His death was perhaps one of the more ironic ones. The boy who had once wanted to be a firefighter died in a fire he himself had summoned...and had taken three Death Eaters with him.
James Bradley was a Hufflepuff. He had always been the quietest of his year, but the younger years had adored him, as he treated them all like little brothers and sisters, mentoring them where he could, and providing a comforting shoulder for them to cry on, and a caring ear for them to pour their worries, hopes, and fears onto. He hadn't died, but would never walk again.
He was one of the lucky ones.
Oliver's world narrowed to the people he carried, the path he carried them on, and the others who shared stories of the fallen. Slowly, his mind numbed, everything coming at him through a haze. Had he been playing Quidditch, it would have been the first sign that he needed to take a break. But now...now it was a welcome buffer, keeping him from thinking too deeply on what had happened tonight, and what was to come in the days ahead.
A muffled sob brought him out of his reverie, and back to his surroundings. His feet had carried him down the road towards Hogsmeade, towards a knot of fallen bodies. Some were of Death Eaters, but others...
They can't be more than sixteen, he thought sadly, even as his eyes landed on a familiar-looking round-faced boy who was kneeling next to a small boy, his head bowed. "Neville?"
Neville Longbottom looked up, eyes tortured. "Colin wasn't supposed to be here," his housemate whispered, swallowing hard. "He was underage. We sent him to Hogsmeade, told everyone underage to get to safety. Why did he come back?"
"For the same reason we did, Neville." He rested a hand on the younger boy's shoulder, hoping that maybe, just maybe, it might be enough to give Neville the strength to carry on. "Come on. Let's get him back up to the castle."
Woodenly, Neville nodded, but didn't move.
He had feeling that might happen. Be matter-of-fact, laddie. He'll snap out of it sooner or later. Moving carefully around Neville, he bent, picking up the boy, Colin's, legs. The fallen boy was small, almost tiny, in death. He nodded towards Colin's upper body. "Grab his arms, would you?"
It was all the direction Neville needed, rising to his feet, hooking his arms beneath Colin's. Slowly, the pair made their way up the drive, passing the scant handful of others carrying out the same grim duty as the two Gryffindors.
Colin. The name struck a chord in his memory, as did the boy's face, but he couldn't remember much of him. Just a blurred memory of a tiny boy holding a camera, forever bounding after his older classmates, trying to take pictures of everything. A glimpse of the scarlet and gold badge on the boy's chest proclaimed him to be a Gryffindor. I'd bet most of the people here, of age or not, are Gryffindors. He still clutched his wand. A fighter to the death.
Between himself and Neville, they managed to get Colin up the front steps of the school, then hesitated in the entrance hall. Neville looked between Colin and the doors to the Great Hall, his eyes flickering.
Whatever his former teammates might have said about him after a grueling practice, he was far from a monster. The last thing he wanted was for Neville to break himself by carrying a friend into the Great Hall.
"You know what? I can manage him alone, Neville," Oliver Wood said, heaving Colin over his shoulder. And, for the fallen Gryffindor's final time, carried Colin's body into the Great Hall.
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Hours later, well past dawn when Harry Potter finally defeated the Dark Lord, Oliver realized there were no more bodies to carry in.
He stopped on the front steps of Hogwarts, staring blankly out at the grounds. In the broad daylight, the scars of the battle were all too clear. Scorched grass marked the places where hexes and curses had gone awry. Stone fragments dotted the lawn where the giants had taken chunks out of Hogwarts and tried flinging them at each other, as well as their enemies. Glass glinted amongst the blades of grass, sparkling diamonds amongst a sea of emerald liberally spattered with crimson blood. Part of armor lay scattered about, the remains of the enchanted suits of armor that had once stood in the halls of Hogwarts and had been summoned to serve as another line of defense.
It would take weeks, months, to repair, hours of carefully cast reconstruction spells, and days to reassemble the demolished suits of armor. Everything would visually return to the same as it always had been at Hogwarts.
But for the students and staff that lived within her walls, and the residents of Hogsmeade, nothing would ever be the same again. People had died here. No one in this generation, or perhaps the one to come, would be able to forget it.
"You didn't take a break."
Oliver knew that voice anywhere now. After his housemate stood up to Voldemort at Harry's apparent death, he knew he would have Neville Longbottom's voice engraved in his mind forever.
He glanced at the younger boy, no, young man, Oliver corrected himself, then raised an eyebrow, noting that Neville was alone for the first time since the final battle. "No fans? I'm impressed."
Neville grinned. "Harry and I ordered everyone off, and his house elf was a right demanding thing when people refused to listen. He even grabbed a pot and started whacking one poor sod who wouldn't stop fawning over Harry." Oliver snickered. That would have been a sight to see. Neville sobered. "Harry told everyone to focus on the real heroes of the battle. In the meantime, he was going to get some sleep and advised everyone who had been in the battle to do the same."
"Wise man," Oliver stretched, wincing as his back cracked several times over. His muscles didn't feel in much better shape now that he had stopped moving. "Think McGonagall would mind if I slept in the Gryffindor common room?"
"She certainly would not," McGonagall's voice rang out from behind him. Oliver turned to see his Head of House giving him that all-too-familiar stern look. Her features softened as she studied him. "Mister Wood, you look like I feel."
"Trade you," he offered, a slight grin quirking up the corners of his mouth. McGonagall's hair was a bit disheveled, and bore the signs of injuries from battle, but all in all, she looked better than he thought he probably did.
"You wouldn't say that if you knew how much my bones ached." She gestured for him and Neville to walk next to her, heading back into Hogwarts. They traversed the halls, sidestepping rubble, ignoring empty plinths, nodding to the portraits that called sleepy greetings to them, all in complete silence.
McGonagall stopped in front of the Fat Lady's portrait, turning to the two boys. Oliver braced himself for a reprimand, or at least a scolding, for the two of them to sleep until dinner. After all, it wouldn't be the first time she yelled at me to go to sleep already, Oliver reflected, mentally smiling at the memory of McGonagall chasing him off the pitch and back to his dormitory. He had been a stubborn little second year who had just managed to join the Quidditch team, and was determined to practice until he was as good a Keeper as his Captain Charlie Weasley was a Seeker.
Strong arms pulled him into a hug. Surprised, Oliver reacted out of long habit, bringing his arms up to return the gesture. He wasn't the only one, as he realized Neville had also been caught up in McGonagall's embrace.
"I'm so proud of you two," she whispered, squeezing them once more before releasing them. Oliver opened his mouth to protest. He hadn't done anything tonight. Sure, he had been fighting, but so had so many others. He could understand why she would be proud of Harry. Or even Neville.
But what had Oliver done?
"What have you done?"
Whoops. He didn't realize he had spoken aloud. Damn. Must be more tired than I thought.
"Wood, what you were doing outside was more helpful to your peers than you can imagine." Seeing the incomprehension on Oliver's face, McGonagall heaved an exasperated sigh. "Really, you aren't that thick, Wood. By talking and sharing stories of the fallen with the others that helped you carry the bodies into the castle, you helped ease their grief. That, in my book, puts you right up there with Harry and Neville as far as my being proud of you goes. Now. Albus Dumbledore." The Fat Lady swung open. McGonagall nodded towards the portrait hole. "Get some sleep. There are transfigured beds inside. If I see either one of you awake before dinner, I'm going to pour Dreamless Sleep Potions down your throats, whether you like it or not."
Without a word, the two men slipped into the common room, discovering that the furniture had been swapped for beds, beds now occupied by various former students and families of students. There must be thirty or forty beds crammed in here. Not one single bed was unoccupied.
Neville surveyed the scene with far more amusement than Oliver could muster. "I'm never complaining about the cramped conditions in the Room of Requirement ever again," the younger man declared, then nodded towards the narrow pathway between the beds leading to the boys' dormitory. "Come on. Dean's in the Hospital Wing, so there's a free bed in my dorm."
Oliver nodded gratefully. With the adrenaline quickly fading from of his system, it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other. Even though he doubted he would have been the only one to fall flat on his face from exhaustion, he did have his pride.
At the door of the seventh year boys' dormitory, they were greeted by a house elf wearing some sort of locket. The little creature took one look at the weary boys, and ushered them into the room, directing them to the two empty beds. "Master Harry said to make Master Neville and Master Oliver comfortable." Oliver's eyebrows shot skyward. Harry had known he was coming here? But that was impossible, as a glance to the other beds testified. Every other occupant in the room was fast asleep. "Kreacher happy to help Master Harry's friends."
The house elf bustled about the room, shoving clean clothes into their hands, and directing them towards the bathroom. When neither boy made to move, Kreacher propped his fists on his hips, fixing them with a menacing look that promised he would haul them into the showers himself if the pair didn't start moving.
For the first time in ages, Oliver surrendered. He didn't want to do anything at all. He just wanted to sleep, because he knew when he woke, the real work would begin. I better find Angelina later, he thought muzzily to himself a few minutes later as he laid back on the bed, groaning softly as it cradled his sore, but clean, body. If nothing else, I can give her a hug.