Chapter Text
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Prologue
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2nd May 1998
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When the wall crumbled, Percy Weasley dove to protect Fred. They were clinging to one another, Fred's face shielded against his big brother's chest, as they took their last breaths.
When George found the bodies, he froze, forgetting his training for the briefest of moments - a mere second, really, yet just long enough for a nameless Deatheater to fire a killing curse straight to his back.
Bellatrix Lestrange, cackling with glee, took great pleasure in the way Molly Weasley screamed when she slit Arthur's throat with a well-placed Diffindo.
That pleasure, however, could not hold a candle to the pure euphoria Bellatrix felt over the fact that the woman went catatonic, unable to utter even the faintest of sounds, when she did the same to Molly's only daughter.
When Antonin Dolohov raised his wand to call out a killing curse near the base of the old astronomy tower, Remus Lupin, battle-worn and still weakened from the recent full moon, moved a mere half a second too late.
His lifeless form crumpled to the ground, eyes wide and unblinking, as if he were simply staring up into the night sky, just as he had done from that very tower so many times in his youth.
Across the grounds, inside of the castle, and three floors up, Hermione Granger took one single step forward before she fell to the cold, stone floor, screaming in agony whilst Ron Weasley desperately tried to find the source of her pain.
In her distracted state, Hermione did not bear witness to Luna Lovegood and Dean Thomas taking their last breaths just down the corridor at the hand of Lucius Malfoy.
Nor was Hermione present when The Chosen One fell for a second - and final time - in perfect synchronicity with the moment Voldemort splintered into pieces.
It had once been prophesied that neither could live while the other survived.
The funny thing about prophecies, you'll find, is that they are far too often taken at face value.
And so, the war was won.
Seventy-Four people who had fought valiantly for the side of the light were dead.
And in the Hogwarts hospital ward, Hermione Granger lay in a small bed, staring blankly ahead as Poppy Pomfrey informed Minerva McGonagall that neither she, nor the healers from St Mungo's who had volunteered their time to assist the injured, could discern a reason - medical or magical - for what ailed The Golden Girl.
This is where our story begins, and this is where our story ends.
Twenty years after it started and stopped.
And yet, it is far from over.
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So, I try to say goodbye, my friend
I’d like to leave you with something more
But never have I been a blue, calm sea
I have always been a storm
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