wand_wavers | Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.

The light is turning grey as the last of the village residents scurry through the front doors of Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; Rosmerta, heading up a straggling train of tenders and shopkeeps, most of whom - the reason for their tardiness - are laden down with bags. This doesn't endear them to anyone at first, until they're stopped on the castle steps and the contents are revealed to be not personal possessions, but flasks of butterbeer, simple rolls and scones from Puddifoot's, and as much Honeyduke's chocolate as could be carried.

They're waved inside with backslaps and slightly heartened grins, pointed towards the Room of Requirement (Dumbledore's express orders - anyone not fighting is to stay here, under guard).

Outside, the atmosphere soon tenses again, and it's not long in spreading through the castle, particularly anywhere there are north-facing windows. In the distance, nestled between the dark masses of two harsh Scottish hills, there is a faint red-orange glow against the dusk; that's where Hogsmeade used to be.

And between there and the castle - almost to the gates now, though with a long trek across the lawns afterwards - another glow. Except this one, this one is a sickly green, and comes not from one source, but from many, far too many wands, held aloft above a solid swarm of black robes. Behind these tight-serried ranks, a still larger horde crowds the narrow roadway, some figures slow and shambling, some switching freely between two feet and all fours, and some, silhouetted against the ghostly light, horrifyingly, stomach-clenchingly huge.

It seems strangely cold - colder than it should be, for a midsummer's evening. There are slow tendrils of mist sneaking and snaking their way out from the Forbidden Forest.

It's nearly night.

It's nearly time.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Lucius strides down the passageway, head held high. Charms muffle the footsteps of this small squad of soldiers in this most righteous war.

He's won his Lord's favor but he has much to prove.

If he doesn't succeed, the things he did to the mudbloods and muggleborns will look like child's play compared to what will happen to him.

And to his wife.

And to his son.

Of that he's been assured.

Wand out, he prepares himself for the skirmish to come - the detector charms round their wrists have sent out their vibrating alerts. Someone's coming.

The Death Eaters melt into the shadows.

Eleanor Haverford had wanted to be an Auror as long as she could remember. Unfortunately, her O.W.L. scores were just short of making the cut. However, they were high enough to be recruited into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and she loved her job.

But she still wished she could be Auror. When she'd been assigned this detail, it was as if her dream had come true.

She knew she'd likely die today. She didn't care.

They'd used charms to mask their progress, but she could feel the Dark magic in the air. Just because she'd served as an law enforcer dealing with the more mundane crimes of the Wizarding world didn't mean she wasn't aware of that.

She signalled to the rest of the group, and the split second she turned to do so was all it took for the hex to hit her. She crumpled to the floor and the battle was begun.

Every death has been a blow to him, and Eleanor's no more so than any other's. There will be time for grieving later. He strides into the fray, his wand casually flicking through the air to immobilize the misguided men attacking them.

He will kill no one. Not if he can help it.

Lucius will kill whoever gets in his way. It's odd, he thinks, as he casts a Blasting Hex, felling some Auror he's never seen before. The battle is utterly silent. It's as if the closeness of the tunnel has hushed them all.

There are no footfalls - both sides still have their charms on. The only sound is hexes hitting their marks and whimpers of pain.

And of bodies falling. There were ten of his fellows when they entered the tunnel.

Now there are six. He grits his teeth and takes what little cover there is to fire off another hex.

Remus fires and dodges, conjures cover and aims for the heart.

Things are going well, or as well as they'll ever go in war. They've only lost two of their own.

Then he feels the temperature drop. The dread creeps over him, and he knows what must be coming.

"Albus!"

Not nearly fast enough.

A hissed curse, and a flash of blueish-white magic rips down the narrow tunnel. It burns with cold blinding fire, blasting Death Eaters and non-Death Eaters back against the walls -- and strikes its intended target a glancing blow.

Voldemort's high, maniacal laugh rings out as Dumbledore staggers, and starts to pitch forward.

His breath is knocked out of him by the blast, and with it goes the last of his strength. He'd not been expecting Voldemort, nor the Dementors which follow in his wake.

That was stupid of him. Now as he slumps to the ground, unable to move, he realizes it could also be fatal. The Dementors aren't allowed to linger as they herd Voldemort's prisoner on - into Hogwarts, into my school, no, no - but they take the hopes of everyone still living in this part of the tunnel.

I've failed, I've lost, I've let them all down, oh, please no

But even in the thrall of the Dementors, he is still Albus Dumbledore. He reaches for the cartouche round his neck.

Tom, surrounded by the floating Dementors, is jerked along by the spell Voldemort set upon him. In the midst of all the darkness, Tom thinks he sees a bright white light. It's someone he knows, he feels.

"'Ziraphael?"

The hope that flickers in his mind makes the crushing despair that immediately takes its place that much worse.

He's there in a flash, the urgent summons of his own cartouche transporting him immediately. "What..."

Fuck. One minute he was there, and now he's here, and Albus looks...

"Fuck! What happened? Somebody, anybody. He needs help. What happened? I can't help him unless I know."

Please. No. You're not allowed to be hurt. You're not allowed.

"Albus. It's me, Bill. Can you hear me?"

Snape appears abruptly beside Bill, and for a moment looks extremely disoriented. "What--" Then he looks down at his hand where it clenches Bill's upper arm, and blinks. "...You had a Portkey. What is the meaning of this?"

No, Snape doesn't trust Bill.

But in a split second, his sharp eyes take in the situation, the wounded Headmaster, the Dark Lord--

The potions master freezes.

His head is swimming, but he manages to open his eyes. Moving would seem to be out of the question.

"It would seem we were surprised. There are Death Eaters about. Would you gentleman make sure they are no longer a danger to themselves or others?"

Severus and Bill take notice of the prone Death Eaters who are beginning to stir. They attend to their task, and after a few moments, Albus moves into a more upright position.

He must get moving soon; he has a good idea where Voldemort's gone. But for the moment, he'll have to
stay right where he is.

Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject