There's something about very large fires most people don't consider: they blind you.

Whenever a flame gets that hot in that high of a quantity, it turns a stark white, disorienting everything and making you wish you could turn away, except that it always surrounds you.

Or at least the light does. I can never tell.

I've dealt with heat. Heat is tangible. Escapable. Burning always hurts, but it always tees you up to get cooler. Pain and relief. It's a complete rise and fall, as most things are. There is no hot without a cold.

But blind is blind. Blindness follows you. When your eyes are your only window into reality, anything that messes with your eyes is crippling. Blindness and sight are not opposites. They are two separate realities.

I wasn't burning. I should have been on fire, and maybe I was, there was too much white to tell. But the pain seemed to fade, and my body felt like it was bathing in ice. And every inch of my skin felt alive.

It was almost comforting.

If, again, it weren't for my eyes.

I still wouldn't close them, though. It felt disrespectful.

They crashed the train. They set it alight.

Seven children died.

Seven. One in each year.

Was that some poor attempt at irony?

I noticed that quite a few Slytherins inexplicably chose not to return home for the holidays. In all of my six years at Hogwarts so far, this was the only time any of the snakes decided to remain at Hogwarts.

They were warned.

Were they? That makes sense. This attack was planned, so parents probably warned their children.

They told no one.

That's right. They knew such an attack was coming, and they knew children would die from it.

I wonder if they took bets on which seven would perish. I wonder if they turned war into a game?

How kind of the Death Eaters to wilfully gather them all up in one place.

They attacked a school. They attacked children. But they were stupid enough to leave their own in our territory.

You must send a message.

Yes, I should, shouldn't I? But how?

Seven.

Right, the number that seems to hold so much significance. Seven it is.

I woke up.

Strange. I didn't even realise I was asleep. Interesting how that happens sometimes, yes?

Merlin, I was thirsty.

I tilted my head to find the pitcher of water.

Everything screamed.

I ignored it.

Pain is a state of mind. It's useful in most endeavours to let you know not to use damaged tissue.

I knew.

I did anyway.

I stepped out of bed, and promptly fell over, my legs choosing they would rather give up then support me.

That wasn't acceptable. What is magic good for if I was to crawl pathetically like any man?

I couldn't walk, clearly. Pain may not be physical, but my legs were.

I needed to send my message, though, and it didn't seem practical to crawl.

Ron's voice echoed in my head. "Are you a wizard or not?"

I forced the sobs that tried to break free from my chest back down. Later.

I couldn't walk.

I didn't need to.

CRACK!

I landed on my feet, and then crumpled to the ground.

More pain. I swatted it aside.

Later.

I stood back up. Kind of.

My legs turned into smoke, and I seemed to be floating. That worked.

Swirling around, I recognised the room. The specific layout of the Slytherin Common Room wasn't something I was ever likely to forget. Plus ethereal green light still flooded the room. It was the dead of night. The light must be artificially enchanted then. Interesting.

I flew over to the two sets of staircases. I assumed that, like Gryffindor, one led to the boys half and the other the girls.

I reached into my pocket for a spare sickle. I wouldn't choose. Fate could decide. The Death Eaters set the model. One from each year. But randomised. They didn't pick and choose. Just so long as it was one. I wonder how they pulled that off? Did they have some kind of smart fire? Maybe a ward set in place so that only one child born per year would burn? Maybe a more specific time stamp than that. Dates were arbitrary, of course.

I'd figure it out later.

I flipped the silver coin into the air. The green light may have been faked, but bouncing off the sickle is was rather pretty.

…

Tails.

A girl first, then.

I never touched the first step, and so the stairs never changed. That's convenient.

I flew all the way up until I reached a door labeled "First Year".

It opened without a whisper.

There were two children there. Twins.

Flora and Hestia Carrow. They were the twin daughters of Amycus Carrow.

Only one.

I reached back into my pocket for my trusty sickle. Heads; left. Tails; right.

It spun in the air, and it seemed to stay up for an unnaturally long time before it slapped down into my palm.

Tails, again. I couldn't tell which was which, but I figured that I was giving her more consideration the Death Eaters did. More than she deserved.

I raised my wand.

"Petrificus Totalus!" I whispered.

One.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Two.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

"Petrificus Totalus!"

"Petrificus Totalus!"

"Petrificus Totalus!"

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven.

I ended up with five boys and two girls. The other female coming from the sixth years.

Seven children of Death Eaters were neatly laid down on the carpet of the Slytherin Common Room. Seven children were safely tucked away under the fabled safe haven of Hogwarts. Voldemort's troops must have found that delightful. That we were protecting their children while they slaughtered ours. They were about to meet a rude awakening.

I walked among the bodies, stopping briefly over a mop of platinum bleached hair. I admit, that choice wasn't entirely random. I reached down and pushed up Malfoy's left sleeve, exposing an ugly black tattoo marring his inside forearm.

Looks like I was right, Hermione.

Grey eyes glared at me with no small amount of hatred, but I could see it, fringing on the corners of his irises.

He was scared.

Good. Their last moments shouldn't be peaceful. The Death Eaters didn't offer such mercy to the children.

"Mobilicorpus!" Seven plank-like children, still dressed in their pyjamas, all floated up in tandem behind me. I was kind of reminded of dutiful baby ducklings following after their mother and chuckled darkly at the thought.

My little groupies all trailed after me as I waltzed right up to the main doors. They were, thankfully, ajar, the winter-dawn breeze doing much to slow my pounding heart and soothe my injuries.

It appeared the castle understood what I was doing, and approved.

I floated over the frost-tipped grass, making the leisurely trek to my destination. Finally, I stopped in front of my towering target, complete with heavy snow draped over its boughs like frosting, occasionally being shaken off by a sudden movement from the imposing tree.

The Whomping Willow.

I finally chose to speak to the new seven.

"The Train home from school today was attacked. Death Eaters used a special magical fire to single out seven random children, one from each year. Before they did this, they sent off missives to their own children, warning them away from the Express during the time of this preplanned attack."

I looked deep into the eyes of each one. "You all were sent such warnings. You were told ahead of time that the train would be attacked. That children would die. You told no one. Seven children were killed.

"Melanie Fawcett. Stanley Jones. Dennis Creevy. Romilda Vane. Katherine Bonet. R-Ron Weasley." I choked on the name of my best friend, his joyful laughter echoing in my head, but ventured forward anyway. Later. "… And Marietta Edgecombe. I know for a fact that some of you were actually pleased with their fate, and laughing at Dumbledore for housing you away while this was happening. None of you deserve last words. You sent children to their deaths. You could have prevented this tragedy, but instead, you revelled in it."

I met eyes with the terrified first-year fate had chosen. I almost felt bad for her, but she had her chance.

They all did.

"Dumbledore may refuse to see the tactical advantage the Death Eaters were so happy to give us, trusting in our humanity and sense of right and wrong. A sense which they lack. In war, it is quite foolish to assume your enemy will ever act towards your favour, especially because of morality, but in the case of our Headmaster, they were correct."

I basked in the hope filling their eyes, before continuing. "I am not Dumbledore."

And there it went. "Incarcerous!"

A strange thing about the Hogtying Jinx: it's actually a simple form of conjuration. The spell itself simply conjures a rope of strength proportional of the strength of the spell cast. The caster's intent is what wraps the rope around the victim.

I didn't intend to simply wrap them like a mummy.

Seven loose nooses hung from seven necks, the macabre pseudo-jewellery doing little to quell their horror.

My smile must have been unnerving, as tears were freely streaming from three faces by the time I turned back to my prisoners.

"Depulso!" A small stone rose up and shot off towards the knot at the base of the active tree. The Willow stilled, the swaying of its branches entirely from wind rather than its own volition.

My holly wand turned towards the first floating victim. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

Hermione stepped into the makeshift Breakfast Hall that the Teachers had converted overnight. Her eyes were raw red from crying, but no one said anything. How could they, when their eyes were exactly the same?

Students able to move unassisted, as well as the few who chose to remain behind during the holidays, all gathered in an unused classroom near the Great Hall, which at the time was being used as a makeshift hospital. It was rather large, and a single long table dominated the lecturing floor.

She couldn't believe he was gone.

That stupid, wonderful idiot.

When the train came to a sudden stop, Hermione knew something was wrong. She was reminded of her Third Year when Dementors came to search the train by order of Fudge. As a prefect, she had done her best to guide the younger students to safety, and for the first time since receiving the position, Ron had done the same.

He paid for his newfound sense of responsibility.

Hermione felt her eyes burning again. She thought she was all cried out, but apparently not. Her eyes shining with unshed tears, she sat down in a free spot directly across from a large decorative window looking out over the grounds.

In her opinion, the scene was entirely too peaceful for the occasion, as if the castle didn't care that seven of its charges perished. The snow was far too white and fresh; the sparkling ice was almost blinding to her from certain angles. The lake was frozen over, glittering all the same. It was disrespectfully beautiful. It seemed as if the season didn't care about all they had lost. Hermione knew such bitter thoughts were ridiculous, but she needed someone to blame. Hell, someone even made a poor attempt at decorating the Whomping Willow…

Her screams caused everyone in the room to jump; poor Seamus Finnegan cried out as his knees banged against the table.

A/N: Rowling once remarked in an interview that she considered killing off Ron because she felt like it. Thankfully, as Ron is one of my favourite characters after Luna and Dobby, she didn't.

I also later read a fic (can't remember the name) where Harry talks about how Death Eaters attacked Hogsmeade and pretended to keep a store with DE children in it hostage, while the children were wise to the situation. Harry, in turn, took them out one by one every thirty minutes and killed them.

This is my combination of those two ideas. I hope I wrote a mentally unstable Harry well.

(Newly Edited, instead of written in the dead of night while half-asleep.)