Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: so this is just a bit that's been rolling around in my head for a while, thought I'd share. Feel free to review, but no flames please. Oh, and for everyone who doesn't know, Gideon and Fabian Prewett were Molly Weasley's brothers (her maiden name was Prewett).

Eulogy

It was done.

Harry, laboring for breath, stood in the midst of the aftermath. The Final Battle was over. He looked from his wand to the crumpled body before him, and an incongruous smile touched his lips, a sweet expression in the middle of the most horrific carnage. He looked upward; the sky was ash-white, shrouded by a thin veil of clouds, but in the distance, Harry could just see blue sky and sunlight. His smile widened.

There would be time for the pain later, he knew. There always was. Live in the moment, Dumbledore had counseled him one year ago. You never know when it will happen. So just enjoy the moments as they come, Harry.

And he would. Merlin's beard, he would enjoy this moment! He laughed, smiling savagely down at the corpse of the reborn Voldemort. "Moldy Voldy," he addressed the body. "It's been fun, but..."

But.

He looked up again, his smile gone. No longer did he see the end of a reign of terror, and coming clear skies—no, he saw death. And he smelled it. It lingered thick in his nostrils, a sickly sweet smell that made bile rise in his throat. He determinedly swallowed it down and started off for a group of wizards who were congregated around a hastily set-up mediwizard tent. Time to take inventory, he thought ruefully.

How he hated that. And he hated even more that he'd gotten used to 'taking inventory' of the losses and gains after every struggle. Pain jolted through his chest. He was sick of counting how many friends he had left and keeping a running tab of those who had died. He was sick of the smell of death, sick of the feeling of his wand in his hand, warmed by the magic that coursed through it, dealing death out—he was sick of it all.

He stumbled towards the group and breathed a sigh of relief. Ron was still alive—Luna was tenderly bandaging a wound on his leg as the seventeen-year-old gritted his teeth against the pain. Harry didn't stop to talk, just rested one hand on Ron's shoulder supportively for a moment, and moved on.

Mr. Weasley, Lupin, a gaunt Bill and a pale Charlie, McGonagall, Padma and Parvati, Flitwick, the Creeveys—Draco was murmuring encouragingly to Neville as the Gryffindor emptied his stomach a few feet away—Mrs. Weasley was tending to Kingsley Shacklebolt's wounds—Tonks was sitting silently to one side, bandaged and resting—and Dumbledore—

Harry stopped short. Professor Sinistra was wrapping gauze around the old man's head, and for the first time, Harry realized just how old the 'old' man really was. That, more than anything else, hurt. Though there was that annoying little pang in his chest—but that was fading.

Feeling a little dizzy, Harry sat down where he stood, ignoring the bodies of Death Eaters and Order members that surrounded him. "Headmaster," he called. Dumbledore didn't hear him, just answered Sinistra's anxious query. "Headmaster!"

Harry frowned and inched backward so that he could rest his weary back against one of the surrounding monoliths. He lifted his head and gazed at the huge pillars etched against the white sky—Stonehenge had a new meaning in the wizarding world, now. It wasn't just a mystery. It was a monument.

He coughed, then winced as warmth spread in his chest. Not pain—but warmth. It was a disconcerting feeling.

"Harry," he heard a voice call softly.

He whipped his head around so fast that abused muscles screamed in protest. Rubbing his neck, he scrambled to his feet. "'Mione," he gasped, hurrying forward to touch her, to make sure that she was real.

She smiled up at him, pressing one of his hands against her cheek. "It's really me, Harry." Her smile faded as she took in the blossoming stain on his shirt. She pressed one cool hand against it, and he nearly screamed with the pain. "Oh, Harry. I'd—I'd so hoped I'd interpreted the prophecy wrong—"

He grinned wanly. "That's the first time you've ever hoped you were wrong."

"And the last," she promised—but there was still a despairing solemnity in her eyes as she looked up at him. "Oh, Harry. I wanted you to come to me so badly—but not this way. Never this way."

He took her hands in his. "It's not my choice, or yours."

"I know," she whispered, tears trailing down her pale face.

Agony rocked him abruptly, and then fled, leaving him shaking and terrified. "'Mione—don't leave me," he pleaded, tears springing to his eyes.

"I won't. Never again, my love. I won't ever, ever leave you alone again," she promised, lowering him to the ground and kneeling beside him. He felt her lips against his forehead like a whisper.

"Harry!"

He distantly recognized the voice as Lupin's, and he tried to speak, but found his strength fast waning. A rush of cool air brushed over him as Lupin dropped to his knees at Harry's side out of a dead run, one hand pressed over the wound. "Oh, Merlin. Harry," Lupin whispered raggedly.

"It's all right, Harry," Hermione murmured to him. "It doesn't hurt once it's over. Not at all."

"Does it hurt?" Lupin asked dumbly, numbed by shock and grief.

Harry managed a small smile. "I've been better," he managed to rasp out. "Remus—" he coughed, and the bitter, metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth.

"Oh, God. Molly! Albus!"

As the new faces joined Remus's and 'Mione's in the halo above him, the pain started to ebb. His hands were sticky with blood—his wand was coated with it. Was it his own? He supposed it was.

Dumbledore was shouting for a mediwizard, and Mrs. Weasley was crying, repeating, "Not another one—oh, please, not another one, not Harry, please—"

'Mione leaned down and pressed her forehead against his, and he smiled, remembering how they used to stand, foreheads pressed together just so, arms wrapped around each other. "Come on, love. It's time to go. They're all waiting," she whispered as Ron knelt through her to grab at Harry's hand.

"Harry—"

But the seventeen-year-old surprised them all by smiling. And then laughing. Tears filled his eyes as he laughed helplessly. "Hear that, guys? They're waiting for me," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Ron's face crumpled, and Luna pulled him close, into a supportive embrace.

But Harry was numb—numb with joy. Taking Hermione's proffered hand, he stood shakily, brushing grass off of his baggy pants. He took one last look at the grieving, sitting around his body, and then stepped gingerly around Dumbledore and towards the other group, who were smiling at him as that promised sunlight spread like blood over the field.

"My boy!" Lily cried, pulling her son into her embrace after such a long time. James joined them, and soon Harry was surrounded by the people he'd had to put on the wrong side of his inventory list. Sirius ruffled his hair, laughing. Hermione, who had died protecting a Muggle-born first-year when the attacks resumed at Hogwarts in the beginning of their seventh year, kept one of his hands wrapped in hers. Fred and George cracked jokes—they'd followed the family tradition and died like their uncles—like heroes. And there were countless others, faces that Harry did and did not recognize, but heknew that he would soon.

Finally Harry broke free of the almost oppressive embrace. "But—what about—"

"They'll follow in their own time, Harry," James said, putting one hand on his son's shoulder. "Let's go home, now."

"All right," Harry agreed happily, one hand in that of his girlfriend and the other around his father's shoulders.

It hadn't been so bad, really.