The stone-cold air of the Great Hall pressed down on you, thick with smoke and the faint smell of scorched wood. The injured lay scattered around the room, their eyes filled with fear and hope, all of them watching you. The Weasleys’ were injured, some worse than others. Harry was helping Ron with the other students and professors.

Across the hall, Voldemort stood, his crimson eyes locked onto yours, a sinister smile curving his thin lips. His Death Eaters lingered in the shadows, waiting, their gazes sharp and hungry for blood. You were alone now, your wand a lifeline in your hand, every ounce of your strength focused on the figure before you. This was it—the final stand.