wand_wavers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wand_wavers) wrote2006-06-18 01:10 am
wand_wavers) wrote2006-06-18 01:10 am
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.
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.