There she was, standing next to the bloody weasel of all people, proudly wearing a set of Gryffindor robes that were at least two sizes too large on her, hiding her hands and feet from view. Just from what he could see of her, she looked like she’d been through hell. Her hair was tousled and wild as ever, sticks and leaves were in the matted mess. She was bleeding from her head. Of course, she was bleeding. A large gouge on her forehead and a busted lip, and she was filthy, disgustingly so in fact. Dirt was smeared across her face, mixing with the blood making her look like Athena, the Greek Goddess of War, but he’d never seen a more beautiful sight. She was alive and within his reach. 