nekare

I have a flamenco presentation today, and I's so excited and happy about it. It's always fun running around backstage struggling into the next change of clothes and screaming at everyone you can find whether they've seen you're earings and castañuelas. And well, then there's the adrenaline of having everyone watching you dance and the pure rush it brings. I can't wait!

I woke up with plot bunnies today! Now if I could only write as much for my original stories... Just a little drabble about the end of the war that also matches hp500's first promt Genesis.

Title: Afterwards
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 549
Summary: Harry, after the war.


The air is fresh and clear the morning after Voldemort’s death, a cold wind from the north carrying away the bitter smell of carnage and leaving instead a taste of ironic sweet pine.

Harry stands alone in the middle of the battlefield, eyes unfocused as he refuses to move, refuses to acknowledge the pain in his chest form a too strong curse, refuses to look at Voldemort’s body some feet away. One of the lenses of his glasses is broken in the shape of a spider web, and his knuckles are white from the tight grip he has on his wand.

His name is shouted behind him in a shrill voice, and Harry turns to see Ron and Hermione running towards him, jumping debris and bodies on their way. Hermione is limping, and Ron’s sleeve is soaked with blood, but neither seems to care as they run anxiously to him.

Harry’s internal turmoil shuts down as soon as he sees them, moving and scared and breathing. When Hermione is in his reach he pulls her into a bone crushing hug, and she yelps a bit with surprise. Ron stops abruptly when he sees that, and before he can say anything Harry curls his fingers in Ron’s shirt and hugs him too, an arm for each one. Harry falls to his knees, pulling them along and he stays there, trembling and eyes bright with tears.

He can feel more than see the confused looks Ron and Hermione share over his shoulder, but he stops caring when they wrap their arms around him, Hermione sobbing slightly and Ron wincing from the wound in his arm but holding on tightly nevertheless. They’re alive, Harry thinks as the terror that had haunted him since the beginning of the battle lifts off from his shoulders. We’re all alive and well. He lies to himself as he knows the casualties from the war will be too many to count, but he’s willing to pretend right now for the sake of his sanity.

The three of them stay in there for more than two hours, holding the others close and crying and laughing in turns, whispering each other’s part of the battle. When they finally separate it’s only because of the arrival of the Weasleys, dirty and with tear streaked faces but with Percy among them, and Ron entangles himself to hug briefly the brother he had thought to be lost.

Molly fusses over them, and when she moves forward to continue to fuss over her family (His family, Harry tries to convince himself with Molly’s words just before the attack.) he founds himself once again with the two people he loves most in the world, looking around the battlefield and seeing the way the world has gone the color of ashes. The sun still shines, though, and he knows it will soon recover the explosion of lively magentas and blues and greens the children deserve.

A new beginning.

He feels Hermione wiping some of blood that dripped from his scar into his eyes with her sleeve, her other hand inside Ron’s and his other one resting on Harry’s shoulder with the only comfort he knows how to give; the three points of the triangle that constitutes his life.

They’re together, and that’s all that matters.