Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured – by their classmates –for having been born. Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure –īut imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.
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