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His head bowed with the weight of a crown crafted from the bones of his students as manacles bound thin wrists, chaining him to the inevitable fate that he'd chosen for himself. Yet, if given the opportunity - he would choose the same path again, without hesitation. He would take the inevitable end: the sleepless nights, the bloodshot eyes, the fingers cramping around cold wood that creaked with the weight of the world - demanded of it from such high stakes, only hope for lives too young to fight for themselves - too young that they shouldn't be asked to, should be spared this pain, and the soul-draining liquid magic that offered a pathetic excuse for defense - all he could offer, despite being the most accomplished at his art. His soul, poured out with the vain attempt to protect those who stood behind him... only to be broken down by a single creature shrouded in darkness... all of these efforts, all of this pain, all in a desperate, failed attempt to protect those that he considers his students - his children.
Why would he do it, when his own race refused to join the fight? Because these were his students - he'd seen them grow throughout the years, maturing from children who played with wooden swords and fake spells in their backyard to young adults who raised real wands to stand up for what they believed in and protected those younger than themselves - and it broke his heart. That their childish spirits were shattered by reality, that their innocent hearts were tainted by dementor's darkness, that they were not allowed another moment of childhood before it was robbed of them - and it infuriated him.
They were kind and compassionate children, driven and intelligent children, wise and humorous children, competitive and loyal and loving and brave bright souls who each had a future ahead of them, a dream, a hope - who each had it all robbed of them when they were dragged into their parents' war. Children whose minds had been forced to grow into adults when their bodies, hearts and souls were still those of a child.
These were his students, who he had nurtured from naive, unknowing magicians to talented, practiced, graceful young witches and wizards. He was proud of them - each and every student that sat in his class. Each and every one of them, regardless of the colors that they wore - just as he imagined he would be had he ever had his own child.
These were his students, who he had taught the charms of magic, the nuances and graces of words, the poetry behind spells, the laughter behind maturity - his students, who he had given a piece of himself to each and every one who was willing to offer him a sliver of their attention. He had devoted himself to teaching them, nurturing their magical growth regardless of red or gold, blue or green - house colors were like eye colors, they could easily be forgotten should you turn your attention to what was more important - who they were as individuals - and the colors mattered very little in the end.
He'd shown them the charms of magic. The lightheartedness to be found in the serious. The kindness in the darkness. Compassion in the madness. Usefulness in the most simple, mundane of things. He'd taught them not to take for granted the smallest of things, as those things could often be the deciding factor, the final ingredient, in their journey. He'd watched somber eyes of young children who had known far too much darkness for their age morph into eyes sparkling with laughter and amusement in his classroom.
He'd tried his best to reverse the pain that the world had caused them, all the while preparing them for what more pain may potentially come.
He'd watched them surpass who they were told to be by others, surpass the expectations placed on them by others, surpass the expectations that they placed on themselves, and become their own people.
He'd watched. He'd watched with fondness, with a smile hovering at the corners of his lips even when irked. These students, that he had watched grow over the years - these were his students. Troublesome, kind students. Whether they liked him or not. Whether they respected him or not. Whether they appreciated his teachings or not. Whether they took his work for granted or found its use, underestimated him or looked past his exterior. Whether they accepted his offered hand to help them when they struggled, his open door to talk if something was bothering him - regardless of whether it was related to his class or not, regardless of the color they donned.
Regardless of whether he had come to know them on a personal level, or simply on a level found through coursework as their professor - these were his students.
Many others may have forgotten who they actually were - how young they were, blinded by their age near maturity, blinded by the colors that they wore, but he did not. These were his students - he could picture them as first years just as clearly as he could see the terrified first years now. Regardless of how long he had been teaching these students, they were his students. First year or seventh year, eleven or eighteen - they were children.
The weight of the world wasn't meant for them just yet. They should have a minute longer to appreciate their youth before it was stolen from their clutches.
A lifetime longer, if he could help it. What he wouldn't give for them not to lose the childish innocence that resided within their hearts, even the darkest of them - children who had not yet been forced to adulthood. And even those who had... they had time yet (or would, if he succeeded) to reclaim childhood. Rediscover themselves, before the world tried to steal it away from them.
It was not too late for them - he refused to believe it was. They had faith in him to do the right thing, to protect them, defend them, stand up for them - he, who had stood at the front of their classroom for so many years, trying to impart his knowledge onto them. For better or for worse, like or dislike, he had been a solid figure in their lives. An unmoving mentor whom they returned to each and every year. He had been reliable. Unshakable. Always there.
He would not abandon them now. He would not step down from the front only to watch them step up to take his place. He would continue guiding them, as he had always done. He'd fought for them - fought against them, trying to teach them, trying to ensure that their grades matched up with what they wanted for their future, that they did not allow themselves to hinder their own progress. He had found himself quite often fighting their demons, fighting alongside and against them in their struggle to survive the responsibility of school, learn who they were and find deeper meaning to everyday activities - and if it was the last thing he did, he would fight for them now.
And he would do whatever was asked of him to protect them. Would give all of himself - all of his knowledge, all of his skill, all of his soul, pouring out of such a small body in the form of his magic - just to spare them a single moment longer of life. In the attempt to protect even a sliver of their kind hearts.
He would give himself for them, because these students were more than simply students to him.