This was written for round 3 of the Quidditch League Challenge. The theme was a rare pair romance, with "rare pair" defined as a pairing of characters that, in the romance genre, had less than 2000 submissions.

My pairing had to include a Ravenclaw: Terry Boot/OC

I also chose three prompts: "'When a war ends, what does that look like exactly?' - Sleeping, Andrea Gibson", "Bruises", "'Chasing Rubies' by Hudson Taylor"

A big thank you to Chrystel Malfoy Potter for proofreading this piece!

Word Count: 1,923

Thirty-three.

That was the dead count after the Battle of Hogwarts, after the end of the war. The bodies were strewn out in the Great Hall, all on their backs so that they could peer up at the enchanted ceiling with their unseeing eyes, hands clutching their wand to their chest. Death had not discriminated in its pickings; walking among the life-less, one could point out Purebloods, Half-bloods, and Muggle-borns, rich and poor, young and old, parents, teachers, and students. One of the youngest amongst the fallen was Dennis.

Dennis Creevey: Muggle-born, 14 years, Gryffindor. Dead.

They had moved his body because it had seemed appropriate to allow him to lie next to his older brother, Colin.

Colin Creevey: Muggle-born, 17 years, Gryffindor. Dead.

Both brothers, dead. And someone would have to tell the family, the simple Muggle parents who wouldn't understand. They would just know that their children had been snatched from them. The Creeveys had lived in Brighton for years, only two blocks away from where the Boots resided. This was why Terry volunteered to break it to the Creeveys, because it may be easier, more comfortable, for the family to hear it from a familiar face, from a friend.

Terry Boot: Half-blood, 18 years, Ravenclaw. Alive.

Yes, Terry Boot was alive – wounded but alive. He wondered why as he stared down into the life-less form of Dennis Creevey. The hex that had knocked him back into the rubble had been the same that had taken Dennis's life. Only Dennis was not supposed to have been there; he ought to have left with the others students. Terry had chosen to stay; he was of age. He had thrown himself before Dennis, shielding the younger boy, to save him…he had failed.

As he turned to leave, eyes dull and not completely focused, he fancied he saw Dennis's hand twitch. Curious, he paused to peer at the boy. Was it his imagination or was his chest moving?

Alert now, Terry scrutinized the boy. He was certainly pale, though a gash on his head was caked with dirt and dried blood and made it hard to tell. Perhaps he was not quite as pallid as his companions. Drawing two fingers, Terry laid them on Dennis's throat, not even daring to breathe.

Thump…thump.

It was faint but unmistakable. Terry spluttered, then:

"Alive! He's alive! Oy, we got a wounded one here!"

There was a flurry of robes, a chorus of commands. Someone was shoving against his chest and Dennis was being carted away to the Hospital Wing.

He was alive. Dennis Creevey was alive. But Colin was still far, far away, and the family would have to know.

oOo OoO oOo

Colin Creevey lay before them, cleaned and dressed neatly with the emblem of Gryffindor pinned to his chest beside the gleaming Prefect badge. His wand had been folded within his hands. But he wasn't Colin Creevey: Muggle-born, sixth-year Gryffindor Prefect, chestnut and unicorn hair, 13 ½". Here he was just Colin: beloved son and brother, a seventeen year old boy who had passed prematurely. Mr. Creevey held his wife, whose hysterical wails racked her back, his face contorted so as to hold back the cries if not the tears. Beside them, dressed in dark garments, were their two remaining children. Dennis had a bandage about his head, a sling on his left arm, and a magical leg molded to fit his right hip. His mouth was open in a silent scream as he peered down at his brother, his hand clutching tightly to the only member of the party who was not weeping: a young woman, with long hair shining like gold, shoulders back and head held high, hazel eyes glittering like a ruby mounted on the hilt of a sword.

Avery Creevey: Muggle, 19 years. Alive.

No, more than alive. Thriving. Fighting.

Their eyes met across room, and Terry felt something stir within him.

The course of the summer found him spending an increasing amount of time with Avery Creevey. She had been surprised, of course, at the prospect of a wizard wanting to hang out with her. At first, he was just as surprised; why chase around a Muggle girl when there were so many girls his own age who could match him at his magical skill. But Avery was kind; Avery was patient. Avery was strong and stout-hearted, and when he was near her, the giant puzzle that was the Big Picture of Life was pieced together just a little bit more.

He was the first one to make a move. One hot day, sharing an ice cream, he gathered up the courage to lean across the table and kiss her, full on her lips. He flushed and she blushed. They had finished their ice cream, not really catching each other's eye but when he walked her home, their fingers had found each other. Terry was pleasantly satisfied with the contrast of their hands. Hers were free of any blemish, untouched by cruelty. Her fingers were pure and unmarred, delicate and long as they curled around his, so rough and striped with cuts. He was scarred; he was broken. She made him feel whole, helped him see that the war had bruised his exterior but not his soul. It was June, maybe July, when she moved into his little flat. It started off with just a forgotten shirt, shoe, or panty but sooner rather than later he had walked into his bathroom and had found her toothbrush sitting beside his. It had pleased him. Having her near pleased him. It did not matter to him that she was a Muggle girl; she was braver and more spectacular than any witch he had ever met. Avery had a heart of gold, and her soul was worth more than rubies. She was every bit a Gryffindor as her brothers.

He frequently wondered why she chose to be with him. They barely knew each other, still too young though far from naïve. They had been drawn together by a terrible strike of fate. He knew, if he allowed himself to be completely honest with himself, that she would be better off with a Muggle who would be able to offer her an unscarred love and untroubled promise of the future. But he was a Ravenclaw, and Ravenclaws were not noble nor were they just. They were logical and practical, and it was both logical and practical to have Avery around. She had become necessary for his existence.

So when he awoke one night to an uncomfortable chill and the low murmur of sobs, he was confused. Avery wasn't in his bed, nor was she in his room. A sense of foreboding swept over him as he made his way to the bathroom. The door was shut, hiding behind it a dark secret. He took the knob in his hand, turned until clicked, and then pushed it open. What met his eyes made his heart ache.

Avery was standing at the sink, palms pressing into the counter, trembling violently. When she sensed him hovering in the doorway, she glanced up, her long hair damp and cropping her face. The tearstains on her cheeks created silvery highways that crisscrossed the splotchy terrain. The redness crawling into her eyes was dimmed by the black despair he found there.

Her gold had melted down the drain; her rubies had spilled around her feet.

It dawned on him that she was just as bruised as he was. Her soul was a mosaic of blues, purples, and yellows. She had sought him out in as much in need of healing as he had been.

But she hadn't healed; she hadn't healed at all. Each morning meant a ripping away of a scab so that it leaked red regret anew. Each sunrise brought about new bruises that darkened and bloomed over the old ones, making it impossible to forget and move on. She had simply learned to cover it up, pasting on a toothy smile in much the same way the Healers had pasted medicated adhesive strips to his wounds. It didn't stop the problem – it just stopped people from worrying and asking their endless questions.

For the first time he let her cry. He stood there at the doorway and let her cry and scream and rage. She shouted at him; she threw things on the floor; she beat his chest with her fists. And he let her because he loved her, and she needed it.

Eventually the supply of adrenaline was used up, and her storming rage eased. She crumpled to the floor at his feet, exhausted, shoulders sagging and head dipped into her chest. Terry lowered himself onto the floor beside her, pressing in real close to her body. The white tiles were cool against the backs of his legs and when he leaned against the wall, he felt the nip of cold through his undershirt. It was a welcome contrast to the heated figure he pulled into his lap. Her head on his chest, and his arms around her, he could feel the thinness of her frame. She had lost weight – a lot of weight. She was losing the battle against herself, losing her body in the attempts to control her wayward emotions.

He took her hand, entwining their fingers and squeezing gently. He had expected her to grip his hand in return, to set up the balanced give-and-take that occurs between couples. Her limbs, however, remained limp and her digits unresponsive. If he wasn't careful, he would lose her to the skeletal ghost that was threatening to take over.

Terry wasn't sure how long they remained like that, him sprawled out on the bathroom floor with Avery curled into his embrace. It could have been just a few minutes but it could just have easily been a few hours, days, even years. But finally – finally – Avery stirred. Her fingers twitched and closed around Terry's with surprising strength, holding on to him as if could disappear at any moment; she clutched at him with obvious desperation, like a drowning perso will clutch to a flotation ring. Tentatively, he kissed her forehead, wondering if this was what she needed. She tilted her head up, and her eyes, red and puffy, bore into his. He kissed her again, this time on her lips. They were chapped and swollen and salty, coated in her tears. The kiss started off slow and reassuring, comforting, like a dog licking its wounds. Terry kissed her again and again, each time longer and more forceful until she was kissing him back, her hands sliding up into his hair, pulling him closer.

She had lost the battle but not the war. She wasn't giving up, not just yet.

"I love you," he croaked. Avery broke away to look at him. She didn't smile, just nodded stiffly.

"I love you, too," she admitted.

They remained like that, wrapped in each other's arms, huddled on the bathroom floor until the sunlight came streaming in through the window, announcing the start of a new day. Terry blinked against it, groggy and more than just a little reluctant to greet it. Out there, they would try to convince him that the war was over. The newspaper that was sure to be lying in wait for him at the door would proclaim, in all caps, that the war was over. He wasn't sure what that meant anymore, wasn't sure he could identify the difference.

Because there in his bathroom, the war continued to rage on.