Dead or Gone
Missing Moment set during the DH battle
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Ron felt his composure slipping the longer he stood with his family, who were huddled around Fred’s unmoving body.
Grief rose in his chest like a tide, swelling until it was all he could do to breathe. The world blurred around him; all that remained was the ache—raw and unrelenting. It pressed against his ribs, clawed at his throat, and finally broke free in a shuddering breath.
He wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. His mother’s sobs filled the air, harsh and broken, while George knelt motionless beside Fred, staring at his twin’s face as if waiting for a punchline that would never come.
Ron’s heart twisted. He couldn’t bear to look any longer. He turned to tell Harry that time was running out—that they needed to regroup, that there had to be something left they could do.
Harry wasn’t there.
Ron frowned, scanning the shattered hall. For a moment, he thought Harry might be kneeling behind one of the fallen, helping someone—but there was no sign of that messy black hair anywhere. Panic began to stir low in his gut.
“Where is he?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Where’s Harry?”
No one answered. His words barely carried above the noise—the cries, the movement, the chaos of the wounded and the grieving.
He took a step forward. “Where’s Harry?” he said again, louder now, panic cracking through. “He was just here—he… he was just here!”
Hermione’s head snapped up, her face pale and streaked with ash and tears, her eyes wide and unfocused. When their gazes met, he saw his own fear reflected there.
“Ron,” she whispered, shaking her head slightly, as if she already knew what he was about to say but couldn’t bring herself to believe it.
“Harry?” Ron called, shouting this time, the word echoing through the Great Hall. Heads turned. People stared.
“Has anyone seen Harry?” he demanded, his voice breaking. “Harry Potter—where is he?”
No one answered. The world felt suddenly too quiet, too still. Somewhere outside, thunder rumbled—or maybe it was another explosion from the battle still raging beyond the walls.
Hermione moved closer, her hand finding his arm. “Ron,” she said again, barely audible. “I think he’s gone.”
He stared at her. “Gone where?”
But the look in her eyes told him she didn’t mean gone as in away. She meant something else entirely. Something final.
And the air around them seemed to tighten, heavy with the dread of what Harry might have done.
Ron stared at Hermione, words forming and dying in his throat. Around them, the Great Hall pulsed with quiet sobs and whispers, the wounded being tended, the dead being counted—but all of it had receded into a dull roar.
Hermione’s grip on his arm tightened. “He’s gone,” she said again, her voice trembling. “Ron, don’t you see? He’s gone to face him.”
For a heartbeat, Ron didn’t understand. Then the meaning hit him like a curse to the chest.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, he wouldn’t—not alone. He wouldn’t just—”
But he stopped. Because of course Harry would. He always had.
Hermione’s eyes filled with tears she didn’t bother to hide. “He knows something. He has to do it… he has to finish this.”
Ron’s stomach turned to ice. “You mean—? You mean—?”
She nodded once, quickly, as if saying it aloud would make it real. “He’s going to face Voldemort.” Her voice cracked.
Ron looked around wildly, as though Harry might appear at any moment, grinning, saying it was all a misunderstanding. But the space where he should have been remained empty.
“He can’t,” Ron muttered. “Not like this. Not after everything. He can’t just—”
He stopped again. The weight of it settled over him, heavy as stone.
Hermione wiped at her face with shaking hands. “We have to find him.”
'I'll help' He heard rather than saw Ginny say as he was already moving.
His heart hammered in his chest as they pushed through the hall—past the bodies, the wounded, the frightened, towards the entrance hall.
Voldermorts voice echoed once again through the hall. All three of them stopped in their tracks.
“Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.''
Then a scream cut through the air, raw and terrible. Minerva McGonagall’s voice echoed through the walls, sharp and full of dread. Every head turned. The sound froze the blood in their veins.
Ginny’s face went pale. She stepped forward, her hand tightening around her wand. “I—I’ll go look for him,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. She moved toward the source of the scream.
Ron grabbed Hermione’s hand. “We have to—” he started, but his words faltered. Then, almost together, their voices tore out:
“No, No! Harry! HARRY!”