One Death Too Far

Told through the eyes of Ryder Greyn, a 6th year Ravenclaw. One Death Too Far tries to show the true horrors of the battle of Hogwarts and the toll it took on those fighting.

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4. A hero

Before I knew it, Fenir had been sent flying and the trio rounded the corner. There they were, the heroes. People had died for them and yet in that moment they looked as broken and battered as any of us. There was a quiet silence as we all stood there staring at each other. It was Harry that broke it off, he gave me a quick nod and started down the hallway again. Ron left with him. Hermione lingered a little longer though, she gave me a tight lipped smile. Her soft eyes showing all her gratitude. Thank you, she said gently, almost in a whisper. I smiled back and she turned to Harry and Ron and ran to catch up with them. I walked over to the dead girl on the floor, whoever it was looked up at me with their glossed over eyes. I remember leaning down to her on one knee and closing her eyes. It made her look at peace. And so I left her, laying there. I was tempted to stay, to protect her body but I knew I had to move on.

 

It came as a surprise to us all. Hearing the Dark Lord's whispering voice telling his forces to retreat. Those of us that could gathered in the great hall and were told to look for any wounded or dead by Madam Pomfrey. Maisy and I went to the Charms classes, all still fairly intact. Though we still had to check. And in those classrooms was the 6th death, possibly the most gruesome of all. Dephic Barns, I knew him from my potions class. There he was, hanging from the ceiling. He'd killed himself, couldn't take it I guess. When Maisy saw him, she broke down. Me? Strangely enough I'd desensitised my self to death in mere hours. I held Maisy in my arms for what seemed like hours, we just stood there. Her face nestled in my chest. I could feel the tears mixing with the blood on my shirt. War really was hell. All for some Gryffindor. I'd heard all the stories of the 'Chosen One' I'd heard them from my parents, from my grandparents, from my brother, from the teachers, from random passer bys, from other students, from my friends, hell, even from Maisy. And yet, no matter how many different variations I'd heard about the boy who lived. None of them seemed to be about him. They were all imagining him as the one person that he was not. Because Harry Potter was not a hero.

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