Disclaimer: Nothing out of Harry Potter or Fantastic Beasts belongs to me - only my OCs do.

A/N: I thank everyone who takes the time to give this story the time of day. If you do, I would really appreciate some feedback, positive or negative. It's the only way a writer can grow.

The End

It's not night. It's not raining. There's no ominous thunder. No, it's broad daylight when it all happens, but even if it were the blackest of starless, moonless nights, it would make no difference. There's so much blinding radiance, it eclipses the sun. Bright lights sparking out of wands hit each other hit their targets blast stone and metal and wood concrete bringing down walls and roofs cracking asphalt bending lampposts crashing windows there's glass flying stones shards shrapnel people scream run vehicles crash fire smoke death.

Death is everywhere.

The opponents attack each other mercilessly with curses, hexes, anything that might damage break rip tear crack slash split kill.

It's all about the kill count now.

Human casualties are piling up, but it's unavoidable. This is war. In war, people die. Innocents die. It cannot be helped.

But Celestia doesn't care about any of it right now. The opinions the debates the press the conflicts the skirmishes the dead the destruction the palpable fear like lead on the tongue the horrors not anything no. She runs, apparates, bounces off an energy shield cast by whoever, falls on her back, hits her head, sees stars. Clenching her teeth and groaning, she pushes herself to her feet, wipes a sweat-and-blood soaked strand of hair out of her forehead with a slippery, shaky hand. She totters, breathes, blinks blindly in the haze of all that smoke listens takes in the cacophony of curses screams horns honking windows exploding the wounded weeping orders being shouted names called sirens approaching dear God.

A curse hits her in the side. Pain explodes in her entire body. Agony. Fire. Torture. Oh God oh no what is this it's hell it's death it's oh God oh God like having a hole drilled into her ribcage filled with molten gold lava fire. She can't even scream as she goes down on her face, hits her forehead, thrashes gasps gags vomits oh no is this the end it can't be she has to find it has to make it has to succeed can't stop can't give up can't die.

No. No!

Barely realising that she's weeping, she props herself up on one elbow, mops blood out of her eyes, spits bile, crawls forward, broken and ignored. So many important people here. So many fates being decided. A lone Prewett daughter doesn't catch anyone's eye. Even if, she's between the battle lines, inching forward painfully, clawing at pieces of broken asphalt with her torn fingernails and dragging herself ahead bit by bit, trying desperately to stomp down the growing dread that she is about to fail her mission.

Celestia Prewett is dying, and nobody cares. She doesn't care all that much, either, not the way things are going, but she needs to find it. If she doesn't, she'll fail, and if she fails, everything that ever mattered to her will be lost.