oakstone730

Title: Death Be Not Proud

Warnings: Melancholy?

Word Count: 740
Summary: Harry's reflections on the Battle of Hogwarts fifty years later.

I wrote this last year in honor of the literary anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Title comes from John Donne's Sonnet X

He stands on the ramparts of the Astronomy Tower. Below he can see the crowds gathered to honor those who had fallen at the Battle of Hogwarts fifty years ago today. He has come every year, witnessing the crowds go from thousands to mere hundreds. Today, there are easily three thousand wizards and witches spread throughout the grounds.

Fifty years. A half of a century. That is likely why so many have come to this year's celebration. The weather, as well, looking up at the sky he sees the deep blue of the sky with ethereal clouds. That has brought even more people, eager to visit the Hogwarts grounds, to picnic under the shade of the trees. Those who come now and enjoy the sunshine are young pups who hadn't even been a glint in their parents eyes when the battle was fought and won. Their parents, grandparents memories have faded. Perhaps it is for the best. Life is for the living. For laughing, rejoicing, indulging. Today is a sad day only for those who remember too well what was lost so long ago.

For him, it isn't a day for picnics, or for strolling happy arm in arm around the lake, or even to cry tears for those who had been lost so long ago. Others often want to know what it felt like: how did Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, feel about the day that changed his life forever. Over the decades he had given up trying to explain to others what the second of May meant to him. Those who know him best let him be, let him make this day his own, and no one else's.

On this one day, he comes to walk the grounds before dawn. From the Headmaster's office, down the passageway to the entrance hall. Here he can still see the bodies lying there, being gathered by students who had seen far too much horror at too young an age. For those students who survived, many went on to raise families of their own. Some still travel back here to remember, some have found it best to forget.

He moves across the grounds. Passing the spot where he had seen Ginny. He can hear her still, giving comfort to the wounded.

Finally, he enters the forest. Where those final steps were taken.

He knows the path by heart, having traveled it so many times. In the year following the battle he had traveled it in his head, in his dreams, every step that his feet had taken that pre-dawn morning. And so he had made his first pilgrimage, that first anniversary, not knowing that it would be one that would be repeated each year. McGonagall had not questioned his appearance that first time or any since. Nor had the headmasters that had followed her. They accepted his presence, as he accepted theirs.

He passes the spot where his parents had joined him in his walk. Lupin and Sirius, too. Giving him comfort, strength. He braces his shoulders and walks on. And then he is there. That spot. That spot where he had fallen silently to the ground.

He stares down at what some, if they knew where this place was, would call hallowed ground. For him it was just one more stop in a journey that he never truly understood. He can still remember the peace that had followed him here that day. Surrounded by those who loved him. Who comforted him. Who had found a way to help through all of the trials that had haunted him up until the spot. Who help him still.

Sonnet X

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die.
-John Donne