Fighting Against the End
I move low and quickly through no-man's land— the eerily still space between battlefronts- the expectant, dark quiet of a church preceding a funeral.
I hear my own voice in my head:
Be smart. Conserve energy. Use stealth.
I switch seamlessly to a more efficient shield charm, a physically invisible one with magical vibrations so low only a master aura-reader could sense it. I seek a semblance of rest, just for a moment, so I can be stronger later.
My greed costs me dearly.
If my opponent had been in motion, I'd have surely heard him, beaten him, but lying in wait gives him the gift of surprise. He notices I appear shield-less, realizes I can't be that stupid, and infers my defensive choice. It's an old spell, lightweight but strong, guarding against all manner of Dark and blatantly offensive spells.
Unfortunately, Expelliarmus fails to fall into either of these categories.
I think of Harry when the spell hits me. I recall my advice to him that the time for disarming was over. The irony is not lost on me as I put forth a mental prayer to any deity that may be listening— keep him safe.
A brief, heavy thud of pain alights in my chest when my wand is broken, and I imagine it's my neck. It may as well be; I may as well be armless.
I can only dodge the Crucio once before it connects.
Every nerve in my body screams in fire, and all my air is stolen from me. My mouth opens wide, but no scream comes forward— only small, choked, helpless sounds. Stars explode in my vision to blind me. I cannot feel the ground below me. I writhe, unsure which way is up. My eyes roll back, but with practiced timing the Deatheater extinguishes the curse just before I'm freed from the torture by blacking out.
A sharp, belated shout bursts from me, as even the curse lifting comes as a shock to my system. Hateful laughter fills the air. Shaking as if from hypothermia, I struggle unto my hands and knees.
The Deatheater speaks as if he knows me, or at least of my affliction. Hiding behind a faux plague doctor mask, he attempts to belittle me— something about being sub-human, having filthy blood. These insults mean nothing. I've heard them all, both from others and from within my own mind.
Perhaps the Sorting Hat was right about me, because I expect fear, yet find none. I feel only hate, only anger. I push myself unto my knees and glare up at the Deatheater even as I sway in dizziness.
He calls me worthless and vile and I remain stoic, but when he says no one will miss me when I'm dead, something in my head concaves.
Severus.
He won't miss me. He no longer loves me, or so he said.
I'd nearly laughed when he'd first said it, because suddenly he was a different person- the one he used to be when we were both in denial of our true hearts.
His stony face and narrowed eyes were so obviously a mask that I couldn't help but mistrust him. I felt like a child who'd seen where the white rabbit was hidden.
I tried to reason with him, and he laughed- a deep, slightly manic sound with so many components that it only confused me further. I couldn't decipher it, and that disturbed me. I was accustomed to being able to read him, this man who'd been my partner for well over two years.
When I reached for his shoulder, he flinched away violently and that was when I started to think he was serious. The aversion to being touched was a stark reminder of my past, of loved ones suddenly fearful, disgusted. I felt very small, and dirty, and yet in my stubborn disbelief I reached out again, this time for his hand.
Severus knocked my arm away and drew his wand, pointing it squarely at my heart.
"You certainly are a pathetic little creature, aren't you?" He'd said, pulling the words slowly across the air like taffy.
That is what convinced me he didn't care for me anymore.
Relatively early in our relationship we'd had a few drinks, and the resulting relaxation in our minds and tongues allowed the most intimate conversation we'd had up until that point.
The subject of my condition came up, and I found myself rambling about minutia never mentioned before, things that somehow weighed on me nearly as much as the more obvious downfalls of my disease.
I spoke of the various labels I'd been given, and how 'creature' was by far the most hurtful. I remember being taken aback by Severus' tone when he'd asked why. We were both still working to dismantle the old walls between us, the bitterness and suspicion, and at this delicate time the sincerity in his simple question spoke volumes.
That he was interested, that he seemed to actually care was a marvel to me. I'd been feeling deeply embarrassed by my ranting, but there was no need. Severus wanted to know more, so I told him.
I told him how the word 'creature' was horrible in its vagueness, how it felt like a throwaway word, meant for something so useless, stupid, ugly, and chillingly inconsequential that it'd be better off dead. A creature was a thing, something lower than an insect, lower even than dirt because at least dirt knew what it was and had a place on this earth, a purpose.
I told him how the word 'beast', at least in my own mind, implied a kind of feral nobility, and even the word 'monster' wasn't as bad as it seemed, in its suggestion of strength.
I trailed off, looking away, and suddenly Severus reached over and laid his hand at the back of my neck, massaging my scalp at the base of my skull. My head tilted back and my eyes closed. He hummed thoughtfully in my ear.
"I think I understand. Beast, monster... wolf. These words each allude to a kind of fire— a fighting spirit."
A single word escaped from me in a low sigh, "Yes."
I felt almost sedated at the relief of being understood.
"Look at me," Severus said gently.
Our eyes met, and for the life of me I had no idea what would come next.
He'd said, "I can see it, that spirit. It leaves me awestruck."
I realize now why I feel no fear. It's not because I'm strong, brave, or ready to die. It's because there's no room for fear among all the caustic regret.
The Deatheater finishes his speech. I'm angry that within all this time no one has discovered us to intervene, but I suppose maybe that's for the best. If someone found us there's no telling whose side they'd be on, and besides, I'd hate for someone to get hurt or killed on my account.
Upon facing death, I refuse to close my eyes.
Just as the Deatheater starts to raise his wand, he cries out and doubles over in pain. He clutches his forearm where the Dark Mark brands him.
Overcome by an animalistic jolt of energy, I lunge forward and wrench his wand away, performing the killing curse without a second's thought.
I don't know if his wand's design made it exceedingly loyal to its owner, or its components just clashed powerfully against my specific magical makeup, but the damn thing kicks back at me, hard. I fly back a few feet, landing sideways on a piece of jagged debris.
A heavy pressure constricts my chest, and nausea washes over me. I long more than anything to breathe deeply, but it hurts too much.
Somehow I make myself upright, but when I take a step the ground seems to fall away from me. I stumble, realizing in the process that I must have injured my leg when I collapsed from the Crucio. I fall forward, and I don't feel able to move.
My body shudders harshly, struggling to regulate my heart and breath—and a sudden clarity assaults my mind.
Just one week after saying he'd never cared for me, Severus killed Dumbledore. The timing had always confused me, but now I saw the truth. Severus' leaving had been a ruse meant to protect me. He'd been trying to earn my hatred so his betrayal would hurt less.
I hadn't known how to react to Severus' betrayal, so soon after he abandoned me.
Dumbledore's trust in the Potion's Master alone would have made it hard to believe, but after becoming so close and learning the depth of Severus' respect and gratitude towards the Headmaster— part of me thought surely what happened on the astronomy tower was part of some larger plan. As horrible as it was to think, it must have been for some greater good.
However, a heartache such that I'd never experienced clouded my logic. I'd only felt this betrayed once before, and similarly I'd only once felt so foolish, hurt, and alone. As history repeated itself, I felt truly trapped in some sick game designed to break me.
Mourning the loss of my relationship, grieving the loss of Dumbledore, and dreading the outcome of the war, all mental resolve was stripped from me. Weakened, backed into the darkest corner of my mind, I lashed out with anger just as Severus had planned. After all, hatred hurt so much less than sorrow. I truly believe it kept me alive.
The disconnection I felt from myself caused me to forget the look of my love's haunted eyes, the shame that dulled his spirit whenever his Dark Mark was visible.
Of course he remained loyal to the Order. Of course he would never go back to serve the one who took Lily from him.
How could I have allowed the truth to become so terribly distorted?
Had I not soothed Severus' nightmares enough times to know the man's true nature?
Still prone on the ground, deep anger churns in my gut, pulling me back from the edge of oblivion. Stinging tears crouch behind my eyes.
I imagine how Severus must have felt to be tasked with killing his mentor, his father figure, one of his rare, true friends. I think of how helpless he must have felt. I realize what selflessness he'd shown, as the time for his task drew near, to distance himself to lessen my pain- which in turn left him utterly alone to face what was no doubt the most difficult thing he'd ever done.
His laughter from our last conversation rings in my head, and the layers are clear to me now- disbelief, fear, regret.
Fists form of my hands.
He hadn't wanted to leave.
I see him clearly in my mind's eye, and it gives me the strength to rise.
It's painful, beautiful, and somehow terrifying to draw breath, to take a step after you're certain your life is over. It feels like being reborn.
I have tunnel vision, and I can't tell if it's from my focus, or because I'm nearing unconsciousness yet again.
For the first time that I can recall, I thank the gods for my lycanthropy. Without it, finding Severus would have been impossible, but his scent leads me— fire and flowers, tangled roots and little skittering bugs.
As if from a distance, I realize I've never felt more connected to my wolf. I can almost hear it howl in my blood. I can almost see it pulling me forward by crimson strings. It tells me before sight or even smell that there are two men blocking my path. I realize they can't see me.
For the first time in my life I sing praise the waxing moon because without its energy I would not have had the strength or speed to kill them. I crouch, and to accommodate my injured leg I break into an odd, crooked gallop. The silence of my motion amazes me. I suddenly feel empowered, outside my body as I move with unnatural grace.
Armed with just my hands and my anger, I break a neck, smash a skull. I'm aware enough to realize I may feel horrid later, but in that moment, I believe any price I pay to reach Severus is worth it.
The moment I see him, the wolf recedes, leaving me cold and empty.
I skid, stumble, fall to my knees beside my love. My hands are almost blurry, they're shaking with so much adrenaline and fear as I turn him over. Half-red face— head wound, large, but shallow. His brow is furrowed and I almost laugh out loud. If he's in pain, he's alive.
Of course, I need to make sure, and when I find a pulse tears come to further blur my darkened vision. I choke on my emotion; I cough and blood is in my mouth. I spit it to the side as I grope wildly around and by some miracle find a wand.
I have the presence of mind to channel a small amount of my magic through it to test for compatibility, as I feel another kick back would surely kill me.
I find this wand does not feel terribly different from my own. Its energy is quiet and dark, bringing to mind a cold night river flowing so smoothly, so quickly it looks like glass or a mirror. I realize this weapon must belong to the one I love.
Wordlessly I send an orange stream of light into the air to hover over us, signal for help.
I close my eyes and lift my head and suddenly I'm outside under the sun— but that's wrong, isn't it? … Is it suddenly summer?
I'm deeply confused… halfway floating, or maybe sinking into the ground. A small, instinctual part of my brain is terrified that I can't tell the difference, but a larger part of me is made apathetic from pure exhaustion.
I look down and away from the light as a guttural cough claws its way from my throat.
My breaths are erratic and shallow as I stare transfixed at my bloodied hands. I shudder violently as fresh pain crashes down on every inch of my body. My hands convulsively form fists, and in my failing vision they look like paws, claws.
Did the moon just rise, or set?
Is this how it feels when a body shuts down?
Footfalls sound behind me; a shadow looms.
With the last of my strength I throw myself over Severus to shield him.
I don't realize it's Minerva.
I don't realize we're safe.
I grasp weakly at his robe.
"Please," I whisper. "Please."
I feel his heart beat— one, two, three...
Darkness spirits me away.
Author's Note: The idea for this story came upon me quite suddenly when I was listening to a song by Linkin Park called Waiting for the End. I realize some people don't like ambiguous endings, but I think it's cool for the reader to decide for themselves how things turn out. Whether or not you feel this way, I very much appreciate you taking the time to read.