Chapter Text
Rain fell on the five dark figures standing in the deserted square under the light of the crescent moon. None of them moved and a passing observer would have been sure to mistake them for statues. They stood in a semicircle around a motionless body wrapped in long black robes and with skin so pale that it almost seemed to glow in the moonlight.
Several minutes passed before one of the five figures stirred. It was a young woman. Her long red hair had long since been drenched, as had her dark cloak, the hood of which had long since ceased to offer any protection from the pouring rain. Her dark green eyes seemed to see much more than the motionless body on the ground. "Is it over?" she whispered barely audibly and the brown-haired man next to her, his brown eyes covered by cracked glasses, grabbed her hand.
At first, no one seemed to dare say more, let alone do anything. But then a slender young man moved out of the group. His curly black hair stuck to his head and his brown eyes seemed as alert as those of a hunted cat. He held his wand tensely pointed at the figure. Another member of the group seemed to be trying to hold him back. He looked very much like the brave young man and his steely gray eyes watched anxiously as the younger one stepped forward. He would surely have held him back, but the last of the group held him back. He shook his scarred head slightly at the worried man and the silence grew tense.
Only the rain seemed to break the absolute stillness as the young man crouched down on the wet muddy ground and turned his motionless body over. A petrified, pale face came to light. Blood-red eyes stared without life from the pale skull. There was an echo of the dead man's last emotions in them;
Pure surprise.
The young black-haired man waved his staff in an intricate motion and magic settled over the body. The tension was palpable in the air and everyone else present gripped their wands ready to attack. The silence and tension was interrupted by a hoarse sound from the youngest among them. His body was trembling and it was impossible to tell whether he was laughing or crying. It could well have been both.
"Is he dead?" the man with the glasses asked tensely, demanding. "Dead.....Dead!" whispered the youngest among them happily at first, before a hysteria took over his shout that hardly anyone his age could or should be able to relate to. The tension in the group burst like a soap bubble and each of them collapsed like a house of cards. None of them seemed to know what they had to do. Tears of relief fell, everyone hugged each other and no one seemed to break the silence louder than the young man's sobbing laughter, which was only interrupted by the embrace of the man with whom he shared an uncanny resemblance.
It was a night that would go down in history. The five friends went down in history as heroes. And when, a few days after this historic night, the most loyal follower of the blood-eyed tyrant named Tom Riddle, Bellatrix Lestrange, was caught and locked away, our heroes could rest assured...
All was well.