Birds of a Feather (Stick Together)

The Great Hall was unrecognizable. Once filled with laughter and the warm glow of candles, it now echoed with the groans of the wounded and the grim murmur of whispered prayers. Makeshift cots lined the long tables where students used to feast, and the enchanted ceiling was dark, reflecting the storm outside. Harry stood near the ruined entrance, staring at the surrounding chaos.

Ron's broken wand lay abandoned on a nearby cot, the splintered wood stained with blood. Hermione's scarf, which she wore even in summer, was clutched in his hand. He didn't even remember picking it up. He just knew that there wouldn't be a bushy-haired woman wearing it anymore.

They were gone, after all.

The realization that once hit him in waves when it happened—sharp, cold, and unrelenting—now only answers back with a numbness that Hermione would most likely call not healthy at all.

He tightened his grip on the scarf, letting the fabric bite into his palm. There wasn't time for grief, not now, maybe never, at least not for him.

"You've got to move on," he muttered to himself. His voice cracked, a faint sound drowned out by the distant echoes of cries inside the castle walls.

He remained for an unknown amount of time in that state, only recognized the passing of time when Neville appeared at his side, his face pale but determined, the hilt of Gryffindor's sword strapped across his back. He looked older somehow, the boyish roundness of his face replaced by a sharpness that only war could bring.

"She's the last one, Neville," Harry said quietly, not looking at him. "Nagini. She's the only thing keeping him tethered now."

Neville nodded, gripping the sword tightly. "I'll do it, Harry. I promise."

"Even if I fall," Harry said, his voice harder this time, "you have to finish it. No hesitation."

Neville's eyes flickered with emotion, but he swallowed it down and nodded. "You won't fall."

Harry wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that he'd see the end of this, that he'd live to rebuild what Voldemort had destroyed. But the weight of the Elder Wand in his pocket was a reminder of the truth. He wasn't meant to survive this.

Luna appeared as silently as ever, her presence a calm ripple in the storm of Harry's thoughts. Her wide, pale eyes seemed to look through him, as if she already knew what he was about to do.

"You've decided, haven't you?" she asked dreamily.

Harry managed a weak smile. "You always know."

She tilted her head, the faintest of smiles on her lips. "It's the stars. They're never wrong. And neither are you."

Her words didn't comfort him, but there was something about her voice—a lilt of certainty—that steadied his resolve.

"What are they saying?" Harry asked.

"That your story doesn't end here." She reached out, gently touching the scarf in his hand. "The stars will follow you, Harry. Even when they look different, they'll still be yours."

Harry frowned, confused by her cryptic words, but before he could ask, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Goodbye, Harry," she whispered. "For now."

Harry tried to smile, but he didn't think he managed it. He wanted to apologize to them, for not being able to help rebuild Hogwarts afterwards, maybe. For leaving them behind.

He did not do so, just as he didn't cry and rage at the injustice of everything. Harry just left the Great Hall without another word. He could feel the wards being tampered with, so he walked to meet his destiny, the weight of silence pressing down on him. The castle's stones were cold beneath his feet, and the distant roar of Voldemort's forces seemed to echo inside his chest.

As he walked, he thought of Ron's laughter, Hermione's clever smile, the way they had stood beside him through every trial. They were gone, but their purpose wasn't.

At the castle's shattered gates, Harry stopped, taking in the scene. Fires burned in the distance, and the screams of the dying filled the air. He could see the Death Eaters trying to destroy the barrier that kept the school safe. He knew it would last against their shoddy attempts, just as he knew the others needed the respite from their last fight.

Though unlike the other times, in the middle of the chaos, a figure stood waiting, his pale face twisted into something between triumph and fury.

Voldemort.

Harry drew the Elder Wand, his knuckles white as he raised it. He felt a faint pulse of magic, an echo of the lives lost to reach this moment. He didn't flinch.

"He's here," Harry whispered, his voice carrying across the battlefield. He saw the students looking at him from where they stood near, searching for bodies to help, to bury, saw them glance back, to look at what had made him so serious. They found the Dark Lord approaching the barrier. Harry saw their terror.

"Tell the others to prepare," he said to a girl gaping next to him. "Now."

She scurried to the inside of the castle, her eyes filled with panic as she screamed for the others to be ready.

Harry didn't run to his demise, but he also didn't cower. He simply walked, his march one of determination, trying to hide the resignation that wanted to show in his posture with sheer stubbornness.

The battlefield seemed to hold its breath as Harry approached. Voldemort stood in the center of the ruined courtyard, his robes billowing in the wind like the tattered wings of a vulture. His crimson eyes glinted with malice, his pale hand gripping the yew wand that had claimed so many lives. Around them, Death Eaters circled like wolves, their jeers and spells silenced as their master raised a single hand.

"Harry Potter," the dark lord said as the barrier flickered, a web of shimmering light cracking as Voldemort's magic pressed against it. Each strike sent ripples of power through the air, a physical force that made the stones beneath Harry's feet tremble. "Come to die at last? How many more lives will you trade for your own?"

Harry didn't answer as he stepped past the broken gates and into the open courtyard, the weight of the Elder Wand heavy in his hand. The flickering barrier stood between them, but it wouldn't last. He knew it, and so did Voldemort. However, he didn't have the energy for Voldemort's taunts or the empty promises of survival that had haunted his every step since he was eleven. There was no time for anger now, no space for regret. Only determination.

He raised the wand. "You're right about one thing," Harry said. His voice was steady, carrying across the battlefield. "This ends tonight."