Harry is silent as he creeps out of his bed, careful not to wake Ron. The redhead gets so little sleep as it is, he doesn't deserve to be woken again by something other than nightmares.

His fingers lightly trail over the names engraved in the bedframes, legacies that will stay no matter their fate.

He remembers the night they decided to do it. It was dark, they weren't allowed to keep the lights on in fear that it would be a bright signal to the Death Eaters outside. They had huddled around the soft light of Dean's lighter, eyes glinting gold in the light of the fire.

Dean's hands were shaking. Seamus and him had been dating for four months when Seamus had gone to Hogsmeade two weeks before and never come back.

That had been the first casualty.

Neville was attempting to read in the soft light. He had been practicing wandless magic for a week now, and he was able to do simple things like lift a feather.

Every time he managed to do it, a bright, proud smile would cross his face before it was clouded with darkness, with the thoughts that lifting a feather wouldn't win a war, that it wasn't enough.

Harry was glad that it was dark, that he didn't have to acknowledge the tears on Neville's cheeks that he was trying to hide.

Professor Sprout had been the fifth person who had disappeared, and it had taken more of a toll on Neville than anyone else. She had been in the greenhouses a day before.

Ron was staring out the windows, not looking for anything in particular. The stars reflected in his dull blue eyes, twinkling with more energy than any of them had. He sat in an armchair a couple feet away from Harry, not speaking, his leg bouncing.

Hermione had broken up with him a week prior, saying a relationship was one of the worst things to maintain during war.

She had disappeared two days later, the third casualty, after she had attempted to go to her parents' home to Obliviate them and send them away.

Fred and George sat cross-legged on the floor, unconsciously leaning into each other. No jokes were on their tongues, no smiles on their faces. They seemed blank, stripped of their personalities, replaced with soldiers too soon.

Ginny had been the fourth casualty, disappearing after she had gone to the Quidditch pitch with tears in her eyes after Fred and George had teased her a bit too much about her braids.

They blamed themselves for her death.

Harry stared blankly at the fire, feeling tension build in his stomach, anger and spite and defiance. He refused to let this war break him.

Cedric had been the second casualty. He had approached Harry nervously, and asked him if he could meet him at the Great Lake, that he had something he needed to tell him.

Harry had gone, and Cedric wasn't there.

Harry stood up. "Fuck this," he hissed, irritated.

Dean jumped, and the lighter went out. Neville made a soft squeak.

The lighter flicked back on. "Harry, what are you doing?"

Harry dug around in his bag before he pulled out the knife. He dug it into the footboard of his bed, scratching his name into the wood.

"You could use your wand," Ron suggested softly.

"I don't want to." Harry finished the last letter and stood back, studying his own name carved into the wood.

Suddenly, a hand slipped into his, smoothly taking the knife. Neville moved forward to his own bed and carved his own name into his footboard.

"We'll stay here forever," he whispered.

Fred took it, and then George, carving their names twice, once on their own bed, and then the other's, so both beds said Fred and George.

"They won't forget us."

Ron took it with shaking hands, and carved his own name.

"We won't let them forget us," he replied, so softly Harry could barely hear him.

Dean quietly carved his name into his bed, before moving to the bed next to it and carving another name.

"No matter what happens to us," he muttered.

Harry's fingers tremble and pause as they trail over the name Seamus Finnegan, carved into the only empty bed in the dormitory.

He pushes open the door and walks down the stairs, not really sure of where he's going, but knowing that he needs out.

He finds himself walking to the kitchens, but he pauses when he enters and sees Draco Malfoy sitting at the table, staring blankly at the bowl on the table.

"Malfoy," he murmurs quietly, trying not to startle the boy.

It doesn't work. Malfoy jumps slightly, fingers twitching toward his wand before he realizes he is in no danger. He relaxes, leaning back into his chair.

"Potter."

Harry steps forward. "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to practice wandless magic."

"So is Neville." Harry sits down across from Malfoy. "He can lift a feather."

"Good for him." Malfoy's grey eyes go back to the bowl. He leans forward, staring intently at it.

Harry studied Malfoy. "Why are you learning wandless magic?"

Malfoy's eyes are irritated now as they dart up from the bowl, meeting Harry's. Harry finds himself breathless at the intensity. 

"If my wand is taken by Death Eaters, I still need to kill them somehow."

"Why don't you try defensive spells instead? Or disarming-" Harry tries to offer, but Malfoy cuts him off.

"Potter, we are in the middle of a damn war. They are aiming to kill, and we should too. This is not a time for petty defensive spells. This is a time for real action, and if you can't handle that, then don't drag the rest of us down with you." Malfoy's eyes are fierce and angry, steel fire directed at Harry, and Harry feels his own anger rise to the surface in return.

"So you're going to kill every person you see without asking them to surrender?"

"Potter." Malfoy completely seems to give up on the bowl, and instead focuses solely on Harry. "They're not going to surrender. You need to stop thinking that there's good in everyone."

"There is good in everyone," Harry replies firmly. 

The blonde opens his mouth as if about to respond, before it snaps shut again. He shakes his head. "The sooner you learn that's not true, the sooner we win this war."

Harry stares blankly at the bowl as Malfoy stands and leaves the kitchen.