You sit at their graves.

The cold earth beneath you is damp, soaking through the knees of your trousers, but you don’t move. You don’t care. The night air wraps around you like a shroud, heavy with the scent of wet soil and ash. Somewhere far away, a single crow calls, its voice hoarse, almost mocking, and the sound echoes in the silence that has swallowed the grounds of Hogwarts.

The war is over. That’s what they keep telling you. But looking at the line of stone markers in front of you, each etched with names you once called out in crowded corridors or whispered to in the dim glow of the common room fire, you can’t help but think — no, the war isn’t over. Not for you. Your fingers brush over the first headstone.

Draco Malfoy. The letters are sharp and clean, as if carved just hours ago. You close your eyes and the image comes unbidden — Draco, smirking in that irritatingly smug way, leaning back in a green-upholstered chair in the Slytherin common room, drawling something sarcastic about Gryffindors. You used to roll your eyes, but secretly, you loved it. He had that way of making even the bleakest days seem… less heavy. Until the Battle. Until you saw him fall. You swallow hard and move to the next stone.

Theodore Nott. Theo, quiet but razor-sharp, always watching from the corner of the room, eyes glittering with thoughts he’d never share with the rest. He was the one who always seemed to know when you were lying about being “fine.” You remember the way he’d slide a chocolate frog your way without a word, like he knew exactly what you needed. And then, during the battle, you saw him fight — fierce, almost unrecognizable, until the moment a flash of green took him from you.

You don’t realize you’re crying until your hand trembles against the stone. The tears fall onto the carved letters and vanish instantly into the cold granite.

Blaise Zabini. God, Blaise. Charming, infuriating, and so damn proud of it. The life of every party, even if the “party” was just the six of you sitting in the common room, swapping insults that were more affection than malice. He’d told you once — in that casual, offhand way — that he’d always survive, that he was too good-looking for death to bother with. You believed him. You wish you still could. You shift to the next, your breath hitching.

Lorenzo Berkshire (enzo). You remember his laugh most — loud, unapologetic, echoing off the dungeon walls. You remember how he always claimed he’d leave Hogwarts the moment he could, that the world was too big to waste in one castle. And yet, when the fight came to your home, he stayed. He stayed for all of you.

The next grave nearly breaks you. Pansy Parkinson. Her name hits you like a blow. You’d fought with her — Merlin knows you did. She could be sharp-tongued, vain, impossible to please. But she was also fiercely loyal, and she never let anyone hurt her friends without tasting her wrath. You remember the way she shoved you behind her when a curse came flying during the battle, screaming at you to move. You did. She didn’t.

And finally…

Mattheo Riddle. You rest your palm against the stone for longer this time. His death was the worst to witness — not because you were closer to him than the others, but because you’d seen it happen right in front of you. You’d screamed his name until your throat tore, but the noise was drowned in the chaos of the fight. He’d looked back at you one last time before the spell struck him, and you swear there was no fear in his eyes — just regret.

Now, here they all are. Six stones. Six names. Six empty spaces in your life that nothing will ever fill.

You pull your knees to your chest, the grass cold and wet beneath you, and stare at them in a crooked line. The moonlight catches on the granite, making the letters gleam like fresh cuts. Your breath fogs the air, mingling with the mist that rolls across the grounds. Somewhere behind you, the castle looms — scarred, silent, and strange without their laughter echoing in its halls.