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

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.

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Not all the flashing lights are green.

Most, yes, most by far, but there are red lights too, and yellow, and if you could see the show from afar, not knowing what the lights meant, you would think it beautiful.

Kingsley tries to keep track of Tonks, but it's harder than you'd think to track one head of bright pink hair on this battlefield, and soon he gives up and just keeps fighting, tossing off spells with all the speed he can muster - and occasionally knocking heads if a Death Eater gets too close.

There are advantages to being his size.

There are so many of them.

Panic rises up in her throat, but Nymphadora tamps it down, letting her training take over. Use the emotion. Channel it, let it--

Thunk.

With a sickening noise, the person next to her -- Who was that? Was it one of ours? -- is tossed into the air by an enormous club, and Nymphadora tilts her head up to gaze at the giant holding it. He hasn't noticed her yet.

Lucky me.

Skirting the tree-like legs, the witch aims her wand carefully. "Incendio!" His ragged tunic bursts into flame, and the giant stops mid-swing (just short of hitting Petra Hollings), letting out an almighty roar. She takes advantage of his distraction to strike the final blow, and watches as a slash at his throat mimics the motion of her wand. The wound gushes thick red blood, and the giant's eyes widen with surprise.

Nymphadora moves on before he has time to fall.

He almost isn't ready for it when it comes; the first thing to hit him is a hoarse Relashio! from behind the nearest mask, and a sudden, searing heat that knocks him back a step before he shrugs it off.

Crowley's knuckles turn white around his tyre iron.

After that, the Death Eaters skirt him if they can. The melée is not yet so thick so as to force them into Crowley's reach, not when they can snipe with spells from twenty paces - and they have problems of their own to deal with.

The werewolves, however.

(Weight on his heel as he leans back and then forward again, like a bow, one smooth movement, and doesn't the crunch of bone sound familiar?)

The werewolves have to come right up close.

(He's faster than when they go for his wings, and his heartbeat in his ears is louder than the sudden cut-off yelps.)

And that suits Crowley just fine.

Professor McGonagall is angry.

But more than that, she's affronted. She educated these white-masked brutes; she gave herself to them and now they are repaying her, and this school, with death and destruction.

It gives her no pleasure to fire hexes at eyes she recognizes, through the masks. But she does it.

Then a searingly hot curse catches her in the side, and McGonagall gasps, staggering.

Keeping going, Minerva, if you know what's good for you--

For Fleur. I have to survive this for Fleur. For the babies. For my brothers, for my sister. For Mum, for Dad. Mostly, he has to survive it because he promised Fleur a long time ago he wouldn't die, and he means to stand by his word.

Breaking curses is one thing. Fighting against a manticore or outfoxing a Sphinx... those things are one-on-one. They can be calculated, they can be made to fit what one curse-breaker needs to do. This, though... this is the worst nightmare he's ever been in: worse by far than what happened at St Paul's because there are so many of them. So many. To his left, his former Head of House stumbles. To his right, a giant topples over, legless. It's horrifying.

Focus, Bill. Focus.

With glaring intensity, stream after stream of red issues from the end of his wand. Here, a masked foe, there something far too ugly to be alive. There's no stopping to tally who he's hit or who he's missed: his only focus is forward movement. Forward movement.

In the back of his mind, however, is a head of pink hair somewhere further away. They've been in battle together before and he will do whatever he can to make sure Anthony gets his mum back.

This is for the children. For the future of their world.

There's light and movement and noise all around him, a confusion of dark robes and white masks and hex after hex bellowed -

(Bill. That's Bill's voice)

- and a bewilderment of shapes and he wonders if the shapes are people too. Where the line is drawn.

Something stings his side but it's glancing and easily shrugged off; they're focusing on those that appear a threat, on Kingsley's wand and Bill's voice and 'Dora's set expression, not on him standing here with a sword by his side.

His jaw firms and he hefts the weapon, because decisions must be made and stands must be taken, and when a werewolf comes towards him he barely hesitates (sidestepping her headlong rush, faster than he should be and more graceful) before knocking her to the ground with the hilt of his sword, far more strength in the blow than his size would suggest.

She has a tarnished crucifix around her neck.

Gold, of course.

As it turns out, Snape's ambiguous loyalties are a boon in the fight, as well. For a few long moments, all parties give him a wide-berth; he's an unknown quantity, an unstable element.

Growling with frustration, eager for an outlet, Snape plunges ahead into the fray. Then there's a half-familiar voice to his left, and the wizard turns instinctively. The Death Eater fires off a hex in Tonks' direction, hailing Snape almost cheerfully, congratulating him for concealing his true identity from that Mudblood-loving headmaster, and--

"Avada Kedavra!"

Snape has no time for sycophants. Particularly unintelligent ones.

A quick glance reveals that Tonks has no severe injuries, and then Snape disappears into the roiling crowd.

Kingsley has not escaped entirely unscathed. Nor did he expect to.
those cats were fast as lightning
But the injuries he's gotten are minor, and he's ignoring them, concentrating on the fight, on doing his best to protect his fellows.
in fact it was a little bit frightening
"Diffindo," he hears, from behind him, and moves, so the spell that was aimed to take his head off does no more than cut his cheek - annoying, but not enough to slow him down.
but they fought with expert timing
He retaliates with a close-range stunner that knocks the Death Eater back, then wipes his cheek before turning to the next.

Nymphadora doesn't let her eyes follow Snape's retreating back. She'll have to thank him later.

It's hard to see who's got the upper hand, now, and there are bodies littering the beautiful grounds of her school. Grimly, she keeps on, firing one hex after the other, and takes a hit to the shoulder that rips a pained cry from her throat.

Then something flickers at the corner of her eye, and the sight raises her spirits more than anything else could have, at that moment.

The bright, red flare of an exploding bomb.

Suddenly grinning madly, Nymphadora Tonks lets out a whoop.

There's a sudden upswell in noise from the other side as well - not the ragged cheering of the Hogwarts defenders, but a rush of figures, those near enough to the edges of the explosion, trying to put out the flames licking at their clothing by whatever means available.

Those who weren't near enough to the edges - Inferi, largely, and susceptible to fire above all - well. They don't have to worry about it, anymore.

The bomb struck far to the eastern end of the battle, abbreviating the enemy line; it's a few minutes before troops spread back over the scorched and blasted earth. And it's a weakness, yes, thinning their lines and prompting sudden fierce grins from the defenders, until more of Voldemort's fighters flow eastwards, and then more again.

To the west, black shapes are appearing from between the trees.

He double-takes, when he stoves in a pale mask with his tyre iron and then looks around to see another dark hood with none.

Oh.

"Don't," he says.

                   l e t
m a k e m e        g o

               d a r k
i t ' s s o            f a r             d o w n
                                h o m e
            I c a n ' t g o

(hush now)

One werewolf goes down, and then another. Crowley trips over a third as he turns to run.

It's harder and harder to ignore the pain in her side, but she does.

She loves this school, has since the day she set foot in it as first year.

Professor McGonagall will not see this school fall, not to these people, not while she is still alive to defend it.

So there's no pause, no celebration of success or concern for losses and failures, not even a moment to push her glasses back up to the proper place at the bridge of her nose. Just hex after curse after hex fired at her former students.

There's determination, yes, but there are also distractions: flashes and noises, growls and hisses, spells and screams. Bill's no battle veteran; he hardly knows where to turn. There are no moments of true recognition right now, just pointers in his mind: Professor McGonagall. Aziraphael -- so good to have an angel on their side. Snape... Snape? Later. Tonks, and he sees her pump a fist into the air as something explodes and for the first time it all makes sense: explosives.

Later, he'll remind himself to give Bernard the biggest pat on the back he can and still have it be a manly thing. But now he turns this way and that: werewolves are on the prowl, more than one. Much as he might have hated to do this in the past, it's now a chance to exorcise some personal demons and he takes it as a measure of strength and pride and everything that makes him who he is to mow these bloody mishaps of nature down. No one else will suffer what he did; no one else will have to see a loved one looking like he did after the nonsense in London. He turns to the flank where they're crawling and running and growling in: he's on the attack.

There's a wave of cold spreading over the fighters, slowly advancing, and it's strange to think of cold in specific terms rather than general but to Aziraphael this is - this is high altitudes and -

(a precipice)

- great heights. Air just a little too thin to catch your breath.

With it comes a darkness, gliding black robes and rattling breaths that pull the life from the air and make wand light seem thin. Fighters start to falter and fall back, the line uncertain.

It's not the first time Aziraphael has faced the darkness.

The angel holds up the sword -
The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light:
- and there's a muffled noise as it suddenly flames like a bar of magnesium.
they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.
The edges of the flame shine silver.

The sight of the explosion is enough to bring a feral, toothy smile to Kingsley's face - a smile that makes the Death Eater he's facing falter, just long enough for the Auror to take him down.

Aziraphael's Smitey Sharp Patronus-Sword Of Flame-y Pointy Doom provokes another grin.

But the pleasure is short-lived, as Voldemort's forces begin to push Hogwarts' defenders slowly back toward the castle.

Kingsley can't help noting, as they retreat, that the familiar pink head of hair is still moving, and something tight and cold inside him relaxes, just a little.

Good girl, Nymphadora. Give the bastards Hell.

The euphoria at the sight of one of her husband's bombs is short-lived, but the adrenaline remains. She spies Crowley's stumble with apprehension, and sees her fellow fighters faltering at the encroaching Dementors and Inferi. A few whispy Patroni dot the battlefields, and Tonks raises her wand, summoning the image of her family, her home, her life.

"Expecto Patronum!" she cries, and a bird with enormous, pearly-grey wings explodes from the tip of her wand, swooping low over the crowds and driving back some of the dark creatures. The Dementors advancing on Crowley retreat a short ways, leaving the demon with enough of a lead time to escape. "Crowley! Crowley! Over here!"

For a spinning moment, when Crowley opens his eyes, it's black, all black, and his throat clenches in terror -

- he doesn't like that, he doesn't, he can see in the dark -

- but he's lying face-down in the mud and blood, and it's alright, it's alright, and that's the Dementors, so he needs to get up and he needs to not panic.

He feels heavier than he should, but the weight and cold that brought him crashing down is lifting, a little - enough for him to drag himself to his knees, and then, unsteadily, to his feet. And it's still black around the edges, but there's a great silvery glow up ahead and that seems as good a target as any.

(He sees the pink when he gets closer, and that works, too.)

He's not the only one running - Crowley's just a figure amongst many - and by the time he slips and slides his way onto the great stone steps in front of the castle door, there's not a whole lot of room there. He tries to breathe around the icy burn in his chest, and finds his head briefly against a shoulder that smells familiar.

"Vienna," he tells it intently, because it seems an important thing to say. "'S a good season for the Staatsoper."

"We'll go somewhere warm," the angel tells him, finding the faintest traces of a smile. "Wherever you'd like."

He ducks his head, tries to catch his eyes, but Crowley barely seems aware of the ground they're losing, of red and green and the faintest wisps of silver outlining the panels of the doors Aziraphael's virtually backed up against.

Snape isn't to the steps, yet. He's enjoying himself rather a lot, as it happens, even though the Death Eaters and their various hench-beings are slowly pushing them back into the castle. Finally it's no good, there's too many, and those bloody Inferi are getting closer, and shite so are the Dementors. His sense of self-preservation motivates him to turn, but then he runs into something tall and solid, and flamingly red-headed.

Damned Weasleys.

"Weasley," he hisses, grabbing Bill's arm to remove him from his path, "Move."

"Fuck... off." He tries to wrench his arm away -- it's his wand arm, what the bloody hell is Snape playing at? -- when his chest suddenly feels too warm.

Looking down, aghast, he wonders what spell hit him: he hears himself telling Snape he's going to kill him, but there's no wound, no pain.

Just heat.

"Oh, fuck! It's Dumbl--"

There's an unexpected pull tugging at his stomach from behind; Snape's still got him by the arm and he can't shake him off.

Too late.

Too late.

For they have pressed close now, the pale-masked Death Eaters, and the carnage they cause is easily matched by the werewolves on ther flanks, the towering, vicious giants, and the Inferi - slow, but implacable, and stronger than they look when their hands are gripping limb and limb and pulling.

They have pressed close, and the defenders of the castle have nowhere left to run; some, more resistant than others to the gliding swarm of Dementors fringing the battle, are still fighting, tooth and nail. Some are not so fortunate.

And some - more than a few - are driven to beating against the very doors with their fists, because they have nowhere left to run, and for a long moment, it seems they are not going to open.

But then they do.

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

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