The first scream you heard wasn’t your own—it came from somewhere down the corridor, raw and jagged, like something torn loose from a throat. Spells crackled like fireworks overhead, illuminating the Great Hall in bursts of red and gold and sickly green.

You stood at the top of the marble staircase, shoulders heaving. Smoke drifted up from the entrance, curling through broken windows. The portraits along the walls cried out or had long since fled, leaving their frames empty. Hogwarts was burning, and you had never looked more like a war widow in mourning.

But you didn’t cry.

You hadn’t cried since your father died.

Your wand was steady in your hand, and your emerald robes—once regal—were singed and torn at the hem. Blood smeared across her temple, and her left sleeve was ripped at the shoulder. You hadn't noticed. You didn't care.

Your path crossed Draco Malfoy’s unexpectedly in the Entrance Hall.

He was breathless, wand raised, blood trickling from his lip. Professor Slughorn was nearby, slumped but conscious. Two Death Eaters were bearing down on them—and without speaking, you leapt between them.

"Ventus Maxima!"

A gale blasted through the corridor, sending cloaks and spells flying. One Death Eater was slammed into a wall; the other spun, wand flailing, and Draco hit him with a stunning spell to the chest.

For a second, the cousins stood there in silence, panting.

“Nice timing,” Draco said.

Draco almost smiled. Almost. Then he ran.

Then the world stopped.

“Harry Potter is dead.”

And there he was. Harry. Carried in Hagrid’s trembling arms. Slack. Lifeless.

Dead.

He was dead.

Harry.

Harry, who held your hand in the dark. Harry, who knew when not to ask questions. Harry, who kissed you like the world might end and laughed when you mocked him for it.

Harry, who was now lying in Hagrid’s arms, his glasses crooked on his pale face.

Dead.

Then—he moved.

Barely. But it was enough.

And then everything was chaos.

Every spell she cast was sharp, controlled, vicious. You didn’t duel like a Gryffindor—honourably. You fought like a Slytherin—dirty, clever, unflinching. Your shield charm deflected a killing curse back into the rafters; her retaliatory hex shattered a Death Eater’s wand and sent him screaming from the hall.

Voldemort was screaming. Power poured off him in waves. Harry stepped out of the crowd. Alive.

He stood across from Voldemort like it was destiny. And maybe it was.

And when the spell hit—when Expelliarmus met Avada Kedavra, and Voldemort’s body crumpled—

You walked to Harry. Slow. Controlled. People surged toward him, but you didn’t rush. You didn’t throw yourself into his arms.

You stopped in front of him, eyes wide and unblinking.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure you were real.

"You—" he started.

You raised your hand—and slapped his shoulder, hard.