It was like he was encased in a bubble.

He would never forget the numb horror of the house falling on him, or his weak attempts to shield himself from the debris, but even then it had been useless. Voldemort had tainted Riddle Manor with so much magic, the place was near to immune to it, like Hogwarts almost, and it just broke through his pathetic attempts.

Yet he was alive.

How?

Gazing up with unsteady, green eyes, he found that a large beam had fallen across, getting caught in the fall, and had shielded him from the rest of the debris.

Damn, life was ironic, wasn’t it? Hardly predictable like he had declared it to be. Then again, he’d done that just to annoy Voldemort. Now, it was Voldemort’s very own house was the saving him.

Though he fought the urge to look around for Voldemort’s body.

In the fall, he had rolled off it, realizing that he was on a dead body and that wasn’t where he wanted to be. Yet, somehow, he was sure Voldemort’s body had been impaled by his own house—maybe he had been cruel to the house and this was its revenge.

Nutter. He was going to become a nutter.

Gasping for ragged breath, he kept on staring at the caught debris before him. He can’t do anything though. Voldemort’s wand had been snapped by a plank of wood that Harry had narrowly avoided in being beamed with, and his wand hand—well he’s wand hand wasn’t good.

He wasn’t sure he could even get it to twitch at the moment.

It’d been impaled. He was too far into all that happened, the rush, the adrenaline, and the fear of death to feel the pain, but he was sure it was going to come back and bite him on the arse. He was afraid of that.

Tears cupped the corners of his eyes.

He wanted to know how his friends were. He wanted to be reassured that killing Voldemort hadn’t been wrong. Well, he knew it hadn’t been wrong, just…murder—that was a lot.

But at the moment, all he really wanted to do was rub his itching nose, but he couldn’t. One hand was impaled and the other was definitely broken from his fall down the basement stairs. He hadn’t realized that when he was fighting, of course, but what did that matter?

Hadn’t stopped him then, but that wasn’t the case now.

And that itch was really terrible.

Yet, he was alive.

Alive…

888

So long…it felt like he had been there for so long. Overheard he thought he heard people shouting, but he couldn’t make anything out about it. Maybe they were still fighting? He hoped not.

Don’t wars end when the Leader dies?

Of course not. If they were really loyal to Voldemort’s cause…well, then they wouldn’t’ve just stopped, now isn’t that right?

His nose still itched though and that was distracting.

There wasn’t much to do, lying there, beside sleep—but Harry didn’t want to sleep lest he wake up to find Voldemort standing over him or something—so all he could do was remember.

Ron’s face, his hair flashing in the sun, and Harry was remembering so well at the moment he could almost count all of the boy’s freckles. Then, vaguely he remembered the first time he grasped a broom and flew. The feeling of being free, of flying beyond the boundaries of what muggles didn’t think possible.

The feeling of doing magic for the first time. Finding out he was wizard by a half-giant.

Everything. He remembered it all—the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful.

Snape—the first time he met the man.

Sigh.

Snape really did seem to hate him, yet that didn’t account for all the times he had saved Harry’s neck. So many times. Almost once every year, he was sure, and if he missed it a year, it was probably because he did it twice in the last year or something strange of the like.

Funny, he thought bored. Snape was it all—the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful.

Though not as much as Hogwarts. Hogwarts was truly it all. It was in her—yes a her—that he first became a wizard, first had friends, first did magic, and first flew. It was in first in her that he met his enemy, and remembered it, first time he had his real reckless adventure and survived, been seriously injured yet survived that too.

It was the first time he had met an enemy his own age that he could stand up too, or a professor that hated him—not just Snape—or learn dirty things that people had done with magic. The first time he got a glimpse of the dark side to the Wizarding world. The first time he heard of murdering prophecies.

Yet, it was her that brought him Sirius, then took him away—in the sense of Umbridge messing things up—and the first time he found a grandfather-like figure. It was where he had his first real Christmas, or schooling, his first real winter and summer days.

Yes, Hogwarts as it all: the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful.

Flutteringly, Harry closed his eyes somewhat, relishing in all the thoughts of what he was going to do when he got back to Hogwarts. He was going to bath in the Prefect bathroom—Ron would give him the password—he was going to go recline in the Common Room, basking in the homely feel, and then go to the Kitchen, to bask in the homely smell.

Then he would set up his life again. Doing homework, studying, playing Quidditch, laughing with friends. He was going to teach Ron poker—he and Ginny had endeavored to learn it over the summer and Remus had taught them, surprisingly—and he was going to mail the ol’ werewolf.

So much. He was going to do so much.

Up till then he had taken it granted. The boredom of Professor Binns classroom. He would’ve loved to have gone on an adventure then, but not this time. He will love to sit in that resolute boredom again.

He would have a lot to do, but he was definitely going to do that. All of that.

His eyes close more deeply, his breath hummed in his chest. He would definitely do that…

Maybe a few other things to involving people, but he couldn’t figure it out just then. Maybe another time.

Yet, he had to make up with McGonagall. He shouldn’t’ve shouted at her like that the day before last. Nope, nope.

Sighing, he reclined further back into his deadened state, eased with the world, uncaring what lay in the basement next to him, and let his eyes completely close.

999

“Professor,” Ginny dropped beside her Professor, her hands bleeding freely now, her forehead covered in grim, sweat, and more blood. She was wracked up, especially with her hood down, revealing her scraped up face, yet at the moment she was too busy fiddling with the man to care.

Ron and Hermione were still digging with their wands to get to Harry, though much more calmly now. Neville had cast a spell that showed that there was a weak spirit still alive down in the basement, and the way it ebbed—he had explained—it had to be Harry’s. He learned the spell from Madame Pomfrey one day when he had been bedridden for a day due to an exploding cauldron.

Luna was standing outlook in the front yard, waiting for the Order to come. They had just received a message from Fawkes that they were attempting to break the barriers and get inside. All and all, it was very calm, yet Snape knew, vaguely in the back of his mind, that if the students didn’t get medical attention soon—well it wouldn’t be pretty.

He wasn’t even thinking of himself.

Ginny was talking to him, quietly, but he hadn’t been listening too her until that moment. “…that spell really stabilized the blood, so you needed worry about any more blood loss.” She sighed, the motherly sense that all Weasley women get spilling out of her easily. “If I had a Blood Replenishing Potion, you’d be right okay to move about. Damnit.”

She glared at him, almost accusingly. “You should really carry one in your pocket you know? Suure, a calming draught is nice, ye-ah, for a stressed out Hufflepuff, but Jesus, start carrying a Blood Replenishing Potion too, you never know when you’ll need that.” Snape could read her stress easily, especially in the way she rambled.

He hid a smirk. She would’ve done well in a Slytherin.

“What’s so funny?” she suddenly snapped, having caught Snape’s twitch of the lips. If his mouth wasn’t so dry, he would’ve retorted. Instead, he gave her a level glare that clearly stated when he was capable, they were having words.

“Ron,” Hermione panted, exhausted. She was barely standing. “We have to stop, or we’ll kill ourselves.” Ron, however, kept on digging, pushing himself to the brink. He wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t blink. “Ron!”

“Ronald!” Ginny snapped herself. “Sit down, now. You’ll do Harry no good if you kill yourself trying to rescue him. What use is a dead best friend, eh?”

Ron wasn’t easily coxed though and it took all of Hermione’s strength to draw him away, and that was only by stumbling him into a ungraceful heap beside the lying Professor Snape. The red-headed shot a look at Snape, but remained silent.

“I hope he’s all right,” Ron mumbled dejectedly as Neville set beside him, succumbing to his wounds.

“Of co’rse he is,” the boy declared lopsidedly. “It’s Harry—he always survives.”

“Yeah, you know,” Ginny grinned feebly. “Just to annoy all his enemy he has to survive.” Ron gave her a weak smile in return while Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Still,” she murmured. “I can’t believe it was a trap.”

“Should’ve figured it was,” Ron growled. “You-Know-Who and only him would find it ironic to kill Harry on the sixteenth anniversary day of his parent’s death and his defeat.” The boy clenched his hands. “I hope it hurt…him dying.”

Hermione opened her mouth, to scold him, before falling silent. She hoped it hurt too.

Ginny offhandedly rubbed Professor Snape’s shoulder, keeping his quickly chilling body warm—though Snape wasn’t sure she realized she was doing that. He couldn’t point it out though nor could he very well escape the touch seeing how he was completely useless to moving anything but his neck at the moment.

So he had to let her rub his shoulder, giving him the much needed warmth, yet he was loathed in how he received it.

“I hope Harry’s doing OK,” she breathed.

“He’s living…”

“I meant mentally,” Ginny cut in. “He just killed someone…”

“You-Know-Who is a monster, not someone…” Ron snapped, eyes flashing.

“No,” Ginny snapped. “Tom was inevitably a human being. Maybe soulless, maybe not. He was still someone, and while everyone else in the effing Wizarding World and Muggle World might think like you, Harry Potter won’t. He was raised too nicely.”

“It’s a wonder at even that,” Neville grumbled. “If I was raised in a cupboard with an Uncle like that,” he flinched. “I’d be bitter I think.”

“Hmmm…I agree,” an old, aged voice suddenly said, giving them all a start. Flipping around—or in Snape’s case, lolling his head to the side—they found Dumbledore standing on the grounds behind them, the rest of the Order members swarming in through the front gates. “Then again Harry’s a special case.”

Suddenly Luna ran up to them, breathless, before stopping. “Oh, well, nevermind, you seem to already know.” Then, unable to stand for long bouts of time on her injured legs, she sat down, promptly.

Dumbledore looked at them all with a glint of pride, his eyes taking in the scene of Ginny and Snape with flickering amusement, before his frown creased upon his face. “Where’s…”

“Headmaster,” Ron blurted, regaining himself. “The house collapsed and ‘Arry’s done there!”

“Get him out!”

“Neville did a spell, says he’s alive!”

“He killed Voldemort but we don’t know his condition!”

“Dig him out, please!”

Chuckling, Albus stepped forward and without so much as a flicker of his wand, he vanished the wood from the fallen Manor away, or at least what needed to be vanished, and gazed into the basement proudly.

From where he stood, he could see the resting Harry Potter, eyes closed, oblivious to whatever pain he was in, while behind the old wizard the other seven survivors sighed in relief, slumping completely into their injuries while Order members rushed up.

“Headmaster?” Remus Lupin asked carefully. He had appeared alongside the old wizard and was looking down at the boy fondly. “May I get him?”

Dumbledore nodded. It was Remus’s job, no matter how much he wanted to do so. As Remus scrambled down into the revealed basement carefully, Dumbledore turned to see Ron and Ginny being gingerly lifted by Arthur and Bill Weasley.

Tonks was grabbing Hermione while Moody—though he couldn’t figure out why or who the hell she was—was picking up Luna. Kingsley was crouched over Snape, assessing his injuries with a worried frown.

“Take them back to Hogwarts,” he instructed. “I’ll deal with the Ministry and Tom.”

“What’s happened to You-Know-Who?” Tonks asked, squeaking slightly.

“Why, he’s dead.” And through the startled silence he pointed a finger down at the once claimed body of Voldemort, now breathless, soulless, and impaled by wood.