I am a survivor;

And so it is that once more I sit alone on the battlefield. I see the bodies that once lay here. I know where each man, woman and child fell. And I wish that I had fallen with them. Perhaps, in a story book, there would be others with me. And perhaps there, we would laugh, smile, and dance in joy and celebration. For perhaps there, we won.

The stories never tell of the hurt, and of the pain of loss. You don’t hear of the empty holes in your heart, and in your life. Holes that were once filled with people you loved, people you hated, people you barely even knew. And this is why I sit here, alone; the simple fact that there is no one else to sit here with me. There is no one else who shares my pain.

I carefully collect a bundle of poppies into my arms, the cloying sweetness of so many makes me feel ill. I spin, and apparate to a place I cannot live without. It is perhaps symbolic that I bring these flowers to remember the fallen, these flowers that grew on the soiled ground.

I look up at the gate in front of me. I can still remember when it was first erected; it stood proud, tall and strong. Now it is rusted, and a simple Alohomora charm from my wand renders it useless. I place my hand on the worn iron handle, and push. It creaks as it opens, long and low.

I’ve only stepped just inside the gate, but already there are chills on the back of my neck, and I can’t quite get enough air into my lungs to be comfortable. It smells like a musty old cellar, and when it’s dark, like now, I can almost believe that I’m really in one, despite the stars that shine above me.

The flowers clutched in my hands are the only bright things I can see, bar the moon. I raise my eyes to the stars, as I reach the first grouping of graves. I hate this time of year. When I was younger, I loved the winter, but now it just brings dark memories. Now it stands for the death of my joy, and the end of my life.

My eyes swim with tears as they take in the space that encloses me. There are thirty-two graves here. Thirty-two people that were once some of the most important people in the world. To me, at least. And thirty-two flowers to remember them by. Thirty-two people who had lived, and died for the light. Thirty-two people who will never know that they are mourned, albeit only by me.

Their headstones are all exactly the same, completely bare but for the emblem of a phoenix. When a wand is touched to one, the name of the deceased appears. Some even have short eulogies.

I place flowers at the four headstones that face me. Three are close together, one is a small distance apart. I tap my wand on each headstone, and four names appear. The three together; Filius Flitwick, Pomona Sprout, Poppy Pomfrey. The farther stone bears the name of Rubeus Hagrid. The last of  the Hogwarts staff, who died in an attempt to protect their school.

Filius had charmed everything he could in the school to attack whosoever attempted to take over the castle. He had been hit by a Killing Curse from the elder Crabbe whilst attempting to strengthen the wards around the castle. Later in the battle, one of his charmed tapestries had suffocated Crabbe, the rest of the Death Eaters having the foresight to stay shielded.

My eyes flutter at the loss of such a brilliant wizard. I can still remember my first Charms lesson, where nearly every student sniggered at his diminutive height. He offered to duel anyone who joked about it. A sad smile flicks across my face. I had always loved Charms.

I turn my eyes to the women’s resting place. I could almost laugh at the irony of Pomona’s death. She had been hexed into a Devil’s Snare plant, Poppy Pomfrey had tried to pull her free, but she too had been dragged into the plant. Their bodies were never retrieved, their graves symbolic.

I don’t blame Poppy for trying to save Pomona, after all it was her job. No, not a job, her vocation. Healing. The amount of times we, as students would end up in her infirmary, always receiving her amazing care. Then, after Hogwarts, when we came back from Order missions, she was there for us. I wonder, if there is an afterlife, will she patch me up there too?

My feet take me to the next tombstone of their own accord. Dear old Hagrid. Nobody could be as kind, and sweet as he. His heart broke at every death he heard of, and there were so many. He died at the hands of a giant. An imperuised giant. His half-brother, Grawp. Hagrid couldn’t raise a hand to his only family; he gave himself up so that his brother might live.

A sob escapes me, and I try to breathe deeply, knowing that I still have many to see. The scratchy wool of my jumper rubs at my eyes as  I move on to the next set of graves.

Most of the Aurory were laid to rest on the other side of the country. But those two Aurors who were buried here are special. A flower, at the base of the first stone, and a tap of my wand reveals the man laid to rest here. Kingsley Shacklebolt. He fought to the bitter end, taking several Death Eaters out with him, as he fell to a slicing hex. He used his considerable magical power, and exploded his own body. Those slow to shield were killed instantly by the sheer intensity of magic that hit them. Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, along with Yaxley and MacNair. Blaise Zabini got half his shield up. He’s disfigured now.

My next poppy I place with a tear, for this grave holds a dear friend of mine. I take a moment to think of her, before I tap my wand to the stone. No matter what was going on around her, she always had a smile, and a joke. We worked together on several order missions.

My wand finally hits the stonework. Nymphadora Tonks. A small grin crosses my face, as I imagine what she’d say if she knew her first name was on her grave. It quickly vanishes, as I imagine exactly what she’d say if she could see me now.

With that sobering thought in mind, I head over to the largest group of graves; those dear children of Dumbledore’s Army. Another flower is placed at the base of the first grave, my wand taps the stone and a name appears. Justin Finch-Fletchley. I remember him, from Hogwarts. He was in the DA, a Hufflepuff. He was always loyal to the light. How shameful that none but I am left to mourn his passing? I, who knew him so little.

More tears gather, as I remember his death, by Bellatrix Lestrange. A curse, to rip out his innards, through his mouth. No other curse compares, the boy couldn’t even scream as his life was torn from him.

I pass on, to the next graves. I place poppies at four, and tap my wand, revealing their names. Cho Chang, Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell. The Quidditch girls. The memory of our name tugs at my heartstrings, and I fall to my knees in front of them. They were all older than me, but in war, one clings to those who are there.

We had been in charge with a lot of mundane things at first, before the elder Order members had realised our talents could be utilized. We ran air raids, like in muggle wars. We flew over battles, shooting hexes and curses at the enemy.

That’s what we had done in the final battle. But none of them had managed to evade the counter-curses. Katie and Cho had been hit with stunners, and had died from injuries pertaining to the long fall. Angelina had died in much the same manner, but she had been caught by a full-body-bind hex. Alicia had managed to dodge all but the most feared green flash of the killing curse.

I struggle back up to my feet, my breath shallow, tears once more streaming down my face, as I stumbled over to the next grave. A flower, and a touch of my wand. Yet another friend, although this one from my Hogwarts days. Dean Thomas. Unlike others, he hadn’t joined the order as soon as he graduated. He had thought to hide in the muggle world, protecting his family. I can still remember the day he turned up at Grimmauld Place, his face desolate.

The Death Eaters had struck while he had been at work. He had arrived home to the dead bodies of his mother, father and sister, and a dark mark above his house. Then he had apparated to us, to the fight. It would be difficult to find another that fought as fiercely. He had been killed by Rookwood. A curse burnt off all of his skin, before attacking his innards. Lavender Brown tried to save him, casting Augumenti time and time again, but there was no fire to put out. As she pressed her hand to his cheek, an attempt to give him some modicum of comfort, the curse spread to her.

I tap the headstone next to Dean’s. A name appears as I lay down a flower. Lavender Brown. Even as the curse took hold, she composed herself enough to put a shielding charm around them both, preventing anyone else from repeating her mistake.

Unlike Dean, Lavender had joined the Order straight out of Hogwarts. She had apprenticed under Poppy Pomfrey, mostly. She had learnt more than most qualified mediwitches would ever need in their lifetime, yet it was still not enough to save herself.

As I move to the next two graves, a tear runs down my face. A flower each, and I touch my wand, gently to their headstones. Ernie Macmillan, and Zacharias Smith. The two best friends from Hufflepuff, fiercely loyal to one another. Both of their families had been killed before the battle, they clung to each other with singular purpose.

In the end, they died together too. Back to back, surrounded by Death Eaters, until Ernie fell, leaving Zach’s back open to the killing curse. It pains me to see their graves more than it should. These friends were willing to die for each other. So why couldn’t I die for my friends? Why do I still live now they are gone?

I shake my head in fury at myself. What right do I have to feel sorry for myself, when I have others to mourn? I stand back from the graves, and look back at the brave DA fighters. Children, still. Yet they fought bravely, until the end. I doubt many knew what had happened when the curses struck them. I hope none of them knew.

From here, I pass to the next row of graves, to the Weasley family. A flower, a touch, a name. Fleur Weasley.

Fleur was the first of the Weasley clan to leave this world. It is perhaps fitting that Bill Weasley followed her. They were only just married, truly in love. For all that I disliked her, she loved him. It wasn’t Fleur’s fault; at Beauxbatons little defensive magic is taught. Her shield wasn’t strong enough, a slicing hex went through it. It cut straight through her silken robes, and slashed her pregnant stomach wide. And Bill, poor Bill, saw it all. Fleur was dead before she hit the floor, but Bill could never have believed that she were gone. He bent to her, looked her in the eyes, and then, as he made to pronounce his love, and his revenge, Antonin Dolohov struck him down too. Fitting, that he should take them both.

I tap at his grave too. His name appears in front of me, I trace its letters. William Weasley. He would have hated that. He was Bill, not William, he always said. He lies next to her, as close in death as he was in life. I can still recall their wedding; Fleur dressed more simply than I had ever seen her, yet appearing so much more beautiful for it. Her radiance had lit up the room, even Bill’s scars had faded in her luminescence. And yet they lived scarcely a year after that day.

I tap the next grave without thinking, and as I mechanically read the name, I freeze. Molly Weasley. My mind flies back to her in the kitchen, cooking up an enormous feast, for one occasion or another. Her howlers, and her scolding at anyone who didn’t immediately obey her! Molly Weasley had always been a force to reckon with.

I tap the two stones next to her, revealing the names of Charlie Weasley, and Arthur Weasley. The Burrow had always been a happy place, nowadays, it has been burnt to the ground. Secretly, I am glad. It could never be a true home to anyone but the Weasleys. There was no other family like them.

Molly stepped in front of a curse meant for Charlie, who fell to his knees by her side, cradling her face and crying. Dolohov shot the killing curse at his back. Arthur died protecting their bodies. Loyal, even till death. I place my poppies on the ground for them, solemnly soldiering on to the last of the graves here.

These final two graves are so close, I can almost imagine they are one. As I tap them, and place my flowers, a small smile turns at the corner of my lips. I can barely imagine what sort of eulogy they would have come up with by themselves. In a way, I feel sorry for those stuck up in heaven with them; after all, who’d like to have practical jokes foisted upon them for the rest of eternity?

The names are wrong. They read, Fred Weasley, and George Weasley, but they should be Gred Weasley, and Forge Weasley. I sigh, and attempt to correct it with my wand, but the stones are charmed against this; I have tried before. I never knew how they fell, but I imagine they did it together; they always were inseparable.

Ten more left, I think to myself, as I reach the next row. The final ten, who had stayed alive until the last moments of the battle. Those who had been there when Lord Voldemort had arrived.

I look up to the moon as I reach the first headstone. It’s full tonight, he always hated full moons. I can understand his hatred of it, after all, it had been a symbol of his curse since he was but a young boy. I place the flower at the base of the unmarked stone, my fingers trail upwards to caress the rough figure carved into it.

A memory stirs, in my mind he is laughing, and joking. In my mind, he is teaching me of Grindylows, and the Protego charm. His body placed in front of mine, I am safe. But he is no more. Killed by the beast who made him what he was; Fenrir Greyback.

Riddle’s prize wolf had needed to fight the Alpha of the Phoenix pack, to gain leadership of the wolves. Fenrir had attacked ruthlessly once his prey had been sighted. Always a kind-hearted soul, my wolf, never wishing to hurt another, even when all was lost. It was a simple fight, Fenrir ripped out his throat, with both still in human form. A shudder runs through me at the memory of the blood dripping from his jaw…

I tap my wand on the stone in front of me. A name appears. Remus Lupin. My breath hitches, tears form in my eyes. But I still have many to remember tonight, and time is fast running out for me to do so.

I drag the rough wool sleeve of my jumper over my eyes, as I cross to the next marker. I remember the boy whose body lies here. My perceptions of him are so different now than that which they were. Foolish prejudices kept me from knowing him. And I remember the death.

Lucius Malfoy, faithful Death Eater, driven to death by his son, Draco. It seems odd, to think that Draco was one of us, but he was. His father had beaten him, day, after day, after day. And however could a Malfoy stand for that? Draco had been a proud man, proud and cruel enough to use a slow-acting curse on his father. Lucius was not as proud, he merely shot Avada Kedavra back at him, even as he himself lay dying in the mud. And Draco Malfoy was no more.

My wand, tapping at the gravestone reveals his name, Draco Malfoy, and a short eulogy from his mother; Son of none. I had always known Narcissa Malfoy was cold, but as a widow she surpassed the title of ‘Ice Queen’. I attempt to smooth some of the frost-come-snow over the cruel words, but it falls away. My poppy sits on his grave, the fragile reminder that he is not alone.

I hiss in frustration at the next two headstones. Both, in the heat of the battle. Both could have been prevented, had any of us thought. A quick tap of my wand reveal the names; Minerva McGonagall, and Neville Longbottom. I can imagine how it must have happened, from the descriptions I received. If only we had worked more on shielding from the magic of our friends… But we had been foolish.

The Lestranges battled back to back. Rodolphus against Minerva McGonagall, Bellatrix for the last of the Longbottoms. Ah yes, weak little Neville. The spirits of his parents must have been with him that day, for Bellatrix fell to his wand. The first unforgivable cast by an Order member. But it was not the last from Neville. He fired the killing curse twice, in quick succession. One hit Bella, the other, aimed at her husband missed, only to hit Minerva.

Neville fell to the floor, unable to take who he had just killed. Rodolphus was quick on the draw. Neville never saw the hex coming for him. His head was never found. The grave at my feet holds only his body. I press the flowers to the tombstones, hoping that Minerva can forgive, and that Neville can be forgiven.

I wish I had a camera, or a photograph, as I lay a poppy at the foot of the marker in front of me. It seems almost sacrilege to visit this energetic young boy, when I have no energy of my own. A name is spelled out on the stonework. Colin Creevy.

He should never have been there, he was too young to fight. But the brave little Gryffindor had snuck his way to the front lines, and indeed fought well. But the young boy had been too young to learn to shield his back. A well aimed slicing hex across his shoulder blades, and Colin was gone from this life.

The thought of who is in the next plot makes me smile. Who knows what strange graveyard tale she would have told me. Perhaps Nargles haunt the dead too. A flower, and a name, for my only true friend from my years at Hogwarts, despite the difference in houses. Luna Lovegood.

Who would have thought that the strange, ethereal creature that was Luna could become so vicious? After fighting her way out from captivity, when she had been kidnapped on her way to her final year at Hogwarts, Luna had changed irrevocably. Her bouts of indifference to the world soon changed to her fighting stance.

When we had practiced duelling, we had all learnt to stay well away from Luna. Anything in her vision that moved was prey. I wipe away yet another tear, and move on to the next. Dawn is coming, I must be quick.

I tap my wand against the marker, a name appears. My last forlorn hope. The only friend I had, though for many years I knew nothing of him. I remember the last time I saw him, on his knees, kissing the robes of a master he hated. That is not the man he was. The poison poured down his throat, used to humiliate him, as his peers laughed and jeered. He was never one of them.

But I wish I had known, whose side he had been on. I wish I could have had just one more conversation with him. Learnt about him, about how he had survived in this world for so long, hated by so many. Severus Snape. Potions Master, Professor, bat of the dungeons. Proud, fearless, loyal to the light. The word beneath his name tells of why he died; Traitor.

 But he never was, his last words, a taunt, to the self-proclaimed ruler of the wizarding world. Facing death, by a poison of his own invention. Humiliated, pain coursing through his body, he stood tall. He stood for his beliefs, as he had never done before. He died for showing them.

My legs protest at the movement, as my feet crunch on frosted grass to the next stone. I pluck a flower from the few in my hands, and gently place it on the grass in front of the headstone.

My eyes close, and tears streak from underneath the lids. My wand rises, and a name appears. Ronald Weasley. The last of his family to live, or perhaps just the last to die. My breath catches as I think of all the things he never got to do.

He was never Quidditch captain, nor Head boy. Both had been abolished in favour of more defence lessons, by the time he had reached seventh year. No Auror training, no catching the bad guys. No chance to show the love he felt for the woman who lies next to him. Only the opportunity to die for her.

I remember him at Hogwarts, constantly eating, always in detentions for not doing his work, or sneaking out and doing stupid things with his two best friends.

The final three, the Golden Trio. The cruciatus curse from Voldemort himself, then a levitated rock smashing open his skull. His last scream was to tell Hermione he loved her.

I turn to Hermione’s grave. I raise my wand, to show the name that I already know is hidden there. Hermione Granger. She loved Ron too, I know she did. I could see it in the way she looked at him, but it was war, it was too dangerous. It was never to be.

She died fighting, throwing every jinx, hex, charm and curse she knew at Voldemort. Finally, it took the help of Rodolphus Lestrange, and Narcissa Malfoy, for the Dark Lord to best her shields. And so the spark that was the brightest witch of her age faded to naught. My penultimate poppy rests on the ground in front of the stone.

And finally, I am here. The last stone. The largest stone. The stone that will always haunt my nightmares. For here lies the boy, no the man, that I loved, and will always love.

That brave soul, who would have given his life in place of any of the others that lie around him, if he had for one instant thought he could truly save them. The boy on whose shoulders the fate of the entire wizarding world had rested, for his entire life.

The boy who had never known a moments rest, who had never truly learnt to receive love, only how to give. The boy who put his dreams, his wants, his needs on hold, for the greater good. The boy who will never pick them up again.

I collapse, sobbing onto the grave. My arms scrabble around the cold stone. When I compose myself enough to raise my eyes, the sun has risen, but I am still in shadow.

“Ahem.” A polite cough behind me. A hand on my shoulder. “Why are you here?” I gracelessly stumble to my feet, treating the man who has disturbed me with disdain.

“I come to remember the fallen.” I tell him coldly, chin high in the air.

“You come to disrespect the living.” He counters, tone just as cold as mine, if a little nasal.

“Perhaps I do.” I acquiesce, with a small nod.

“You should not.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t.”

“But you will return.”

“Perhaps I will.” His hands grasp my arms, and turn me to face the grave I have only just released. The words on the stone are so impersonal, I can scarcely bare to read them, but read them I do. Harry James Potter - The boy-who-died. The man stands closely behind me, and presses a kiss to the back of my neck.

“He is gone. Come home, wife.” I draw shuddering breath. “After all, you are mine now, are you not?”

“Yes, love. I am yours, always.” He knows I lie, but he is vain enough to want to hear that I can change nothing. That I will do what I must. He turns me towards him, and presses a chaste kiss to my lips. My eyes are closed; I don’t want to see his face, but I can still feel it as he presses against me.

Thin, lumpy lips, a flat space above. I don’t know what happened to his nose, I have never dared to ask. The skin is stretched thin over his cheekbones, giving him an eerie pallor across his gaunt face. And then his eyes… His eyes scare me, sometimes. They burn fiercely, and bore into my very soul. Those pools of molten red haunt my nightmares.

I turn my face away from his, and think on what my friends would say if they could be here now. They would tell me that it is okay to live. They would tell me they forgive me for what I have done. And even if they would not condone my actions, I will imagine that they would.

For this is who I am now;

A child, yet in a woman’s body.

A lone Phoenix, surrounded by Snakes.

Ginny Weasley, and Lady Voldemort.

I am a survivor - I have survived.