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wand_waversThe 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
Date: 2006-06-29 09:12 am (UTC)Is not what Rabastan needed, not when stealth was more important than oxygen for survival.
Amongst the group was a new recruit from France, who'd been all-too-eager to join this particular group in order to prove himself. Some curly-haired boy who for all intents looked like he'd only barely graduated from Beauxbatons, and as was to be expected, knew nothing about Hogwarts castle itself, as, when Rabastan turned to look behind him, had noticed that the youth had fallen behind the group and had become stuck in one of the trick steps along the staircase.
He'd let out a shout of surprise and at the moment was cursing a little too fluently and too loudly in his native tongue while he tried to pry his foot from the step he'd taken.
That's when Rabastan heard a new sound: one from the floor above them. Somebody had heard the young man's noise and if Rabastan's guess was correct, the person or persons who'd heard the commotion were more likely to be guards than to be students roaming the halls after hours.
"Wands out," he hissed, not bothering with stealth any more, not now that the entire castle seemed to be awake. "And Talbot would you help out Monsieur Tremblay and get him unstuck? We're about to have company."
no subject
Date: 2006-06-29 06:27 pm (UTC)What he has got are seven wonderful children, and an amazing wife, and a pair of grandchildren on the way. He sneaks a worried look at Fleur; as insistent that she'd been that she was more than capable of taking care of herself, he'd feel better if she were inside with Ginny and Molly.
He starts-- along with everyone else-- at the sound of muffled cursing from the floor below.
Here they come.
"All right, girls," he says, in what he hopes is a confident and authoritative kind of voice. ("Girls" may very well include Professor Sprout.)
"Just-- remember what you've practiced. Watch out for the Killing Curse ... but don't rule out the other Unforgivables, either. And look out for each other."
He looks around at his little group (too little-- but then, it isn't supposed to look as if they're guarding anything important), praying that they won't have to face Death Eaters that are too numerous, too experienced, too anything.
Arthur looks grimly towards the stairwell, fingers tightening over his wand.
All right, old chap-- time to prove why you're in the Order.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-29 06:50 pm (UTC)She's been running through situations in her head-- if he uses this spell, I'll use that one-- and ruling out various techniques as being too slow or unwieldy for duel-type situations, but there's only so long she can go before the moves and the tactics start to blur.
Of course, there are always hypothetical farewell letters.
Dear George,
I'm thinking I'm about to be in a lot of trouble. I just want you to know that I really, really, REALLY regret not having snogged you before I left--
A noise on the stairs; her breath catches in her throat.
I don't want to be here. I want to be home--
Closer. Louder.
Expelliarmus.
Whatever happens, just *use it.*
They're only men in stupid masks, after all.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-30 12:31 am (UTC)Unless they're Crabbe and Goyle, who arguably could be outsmarted by the masks they wear while carrying out their duties, of course, but neither is with this particular group.
No. Voldemort knew they were too clumsy and stupid to pull off this mission, so they were assigned elsewhere, where it wouldn't matter how many brain cells they had between them to rub together.
Tremblay's swearing was soon accompanied by Talbot's, who, in his efforts to pry Tremblay's foot out of the step had only succeeded in getting himself stuck thanks to a frantic Tremblay who was more hindrance than help.
Possibly because Tremblay barely spoke English and Talbot's knowledge of French couldn't even make up a full sentence including adverbs.
Which meant that Rabastan would have to intervene, being the only one who knew any French at all.
"Monsieur Tremblay," he began, irritated by the young man's idiocy as well as the fact that there was going to be a skirmish between the Order and the Death Eaters. "Stop thrashing and let Talbot pull out your foot. If you don't I'll let those Phoenixes have you as their first target."
And to the rest of the others? He'd have to put on his proverbial brave face.
"They won't be taking prisoners, men, so we won't be either. Up the stairs!
Mulciber! Locke! You're to take point!"
Well. That sounded braver than I really felt.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-30 03:55 am (UTC)