"Are they... dead?"
After the explosions died away, the room was filled only with a strong scorched smell and a desolate silence.
Harry slowly lowered his wand and stared blankly at the two Death Eaters rising and falling with the emerald-green waves.
"I think they're still alive—"
Luna's voice lacked its usual ethereal quality and carried a little more calmness.
"Look, the Tremorslimes are crawling onto them. Dad said they only eat the brains of living people—"
For the first time, Harry hoped Luna's nonsense was true.
He stood silently in the liquid, gazing at the two Death Eaters, Selwyn and Mulciber, before extending his gaze farther away.
The green liquid there was tinged with spreading threads of red. A huge branched chandelier had sunk beneath the water, pinning down a corpse.
He had killed someone. There was no denying it. They were Death Eaters, after all, and Harry was certain that neither he nor his friends would meet a good end if they fell into this group's hands.
But he had still killed someone.
That Death Eater named Gibbon had undoubtedly died by his hand. If he had stayed quietly at Hogwarts tonight, then—
"We should leave quickly, Harry. The commotion here will draw other Death Eaters, and we need to save the others—"
Luna's calmness confused Harry somewhat, but—
"You're right, Luna—"
Harry said, and his melancholy quickly faded.
They had unfortunately been born into an age of war.
During the Battle of Diagon Alley, the lives falling one after another before his eyes had made Harry understand just how easy death was.
He should not wallow in grief. He should be grateful—grateful that Professor Breen had given them the strength to protect themselves.
The Firebolt had become too slippery to control, even for Harry, much less while