Author's Notes: So plot bunnies hit me hard earlier today, this is the result. Inspired by Gone, by Ioanna Gika, named after one of the verses.
A what if scenario in the Battle of Hogwarts. Enjoy
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Gone their Master, Gone Their Son
They didn't run.
They didn't fight.
They stayed.
They didn't die. Even if it was the only thing left for them to do.
To die. Like the others.
Their son was on the other side. He didn't come forward when their Master extended his cold hands, offering freedom and glory to those who yielded. He did take a step forward, coming into sight. But he moved no further.
His eyes remained on the boy held by the giant and he did not move. No more steps. Not even under the glare of his Master. Not even under the scowl of his aunt.
Another boy walked away from the crowd of students.
Students. Children. Boys and girls. Sons and daughters. My child, my son, my boy. How am I supposed to fight them?
Her boy's eyes locked on hers. The other boy was talking but none of them listened. There was only the two of them for a brief moment, for an eternity, so that she could convey all of her pride, all of her love. All of her sorrow. An end was coming, inevitable, and they would be pulled apart no matter what happened now. He had chosen.
He was going to fight for what was right. How she envied that he had been given a choice after all this time. Hers had never come. She was born into a family that aligned with the Dark. She married into a family that aligned with the Dark. No one had ever asked her. No one had ever thought of it. The preposterous thing it was to ask. Dark was the way and path of the Blacks. Dark was the way and path of the Malfoys. So Dark had been hers too.
I was never like Andromeda, I could never rebel. I was never like Regulus, to desert the cause. I was never like Sirius, to never join it in the first place.
I was never like Bellatrix either. Never embraced it like she did, never fought my own family in any way.
That realization sank deep in her. Her decision was made, her choice had come.
I will not fight my family.
The other boy talked. Then the Dark Lord decided enough had been said and the other boy burned. His screams brought her back to reality. Her husband had held her elbow, stopping her body from flinching. He kept her shielded from it all for years. When he no longer could, he kept her strong through it all. She didn't have the right kind of strength to endure this war, but he kept her from showing weakness, for he had suffered punishment for it at the hands of their Master. The man made monster that despised all weakness, who had no qualm about rooting it out of his followers through pain. Physical or otherwise.
She realized that was what recruiting her son was about. Eliminating one more weakness from his followers, one way or another. And hated him for it. For the first time, she felt something else than fear regarding her Master. She hated the cruel creature enough not to comply to his orders anymore. But the fear was still there, too powerful for her to turn on him. It kept her firmly in place, chained to the ground where she stood, even when all she wanted to do was run across that yard and stand with her son.
When the boy slid off the giant's hold and chaos ensued, she didn't fight. Didn't run. Did nothing but stay, where her fear chained her.
But she dared hope.
xxxxxXxxxxx
They didn't run.
They didn't fight.
They stayed.
They didn't die. Even if it was the only thing left for them to do.
To die. Like the others.
Their son on the other side, not budging. Listening to some sentimental rant about Potter living in all of them.
Come to us, my son. Come. Just move and I will protect you. I'll stand in front of you; the spells can hit me all they like. Be my boy, be a Slytherin now, be cunning and not brave, boy. Come home.
How he wished to retrieve him from the other side. How his chest ached from the pain that distance created. The imposing force within him that seemed bent on pushing his ribs apart, bent on baring his heart to him. He wished his boy a coward like him, he wished he would save himself and throw the others to the wind, and he was proud that he was nothing like him. His son was not him, his son was better, much better. His son had defiance in him.
To think he had never told him how proud he was. To think he had always found it so much easier to point out his faults. To never praise him but in his mind. He was like his Father, his son was not.
For the briefest moment, their eyes had met. The eyes of the son mirroring those of the father. The same colour, the same hurt of things unsaid, the same desire to retrieve the other. He nodded at his son and in that nod he told him everything, all seventeen years of love unmentioned, of praise buried deep inside him.
His son nodded back and he knew. He had made his peace with his decision. They both knew this was a severing of ties that bound them deep, that would carve out flesh upon ripping.
All that was left for him to do was to steady his flower. Shield her from harm once more. So he held her in place, kept her by his side. Because she would run towards their son, she would be capable of such choice. She had a strength in her, a bravery, awaken at any sign of danger coming to her family. She would challenge the Dark Lord and risk her life to cover that distance. He knew she would. He knew he would shield her from the hexes, but he also knew he would fall at the hands of his Master, at the hands of her sister, and both of them would turn their wands on her after. On them. And that he could not bear. Would not bear. So he stood there, holding her elbow. Shielding his flower. Armouring her. Keeping the monster at bay.
When the boy slid off the giant's hold and chaos ensued, he didn't fight. Didn't run. Did nothing but stay, where his fear kept him.
But he dared hope.
xxxxxXxxxxx
They didn't run.
They didn't fight.
They stayed.
They didn't die. Even if it was the only thing left for them to do.
To die. Like the others.
In the midst of chaos they stood. Watching their valiant boy raise his wand and fight for what they would not.
They could not fight, but neither could they leave their boy.
They raised their wands only to shield themselves. At some point the fight moved on inside the castle. No one was pointing their wands at them. Some Death Eaters, those who had not cut and ran the moment the boy lived, looked at them, despised them for their weakness, but did nothing. They followed their Master inside and fought for what was wrong.
They heard it all from there. Not daring approach it. They heard the boy who lived at some point, but could not make out his words. They heard the manic cackle and the resounding fury when it ceased. When the spells stopped flying, she moved. He held her, she pulled him forward. Her bravery conquering his cowardice.
They hoped. Walking towards the remnants of the castle, they hoped.
There was wailing over loved ones, rushing over injuries, running for friends and siblings. Children lying on the floor. They saw their Master dead. They saw his most faithful fallen not far from him.
They shattered. Walking inside, they shattered.
For on the stairs there was a boy, draped across the steps. Eyes open but unseeing. Wand fallen from his hand. Blood exiting his body from wounds unseen. Hair hanging from his forehead. A girl kneeling on the steps not far from him, eyes made of water, longing for what would never be.
Then they hoped again.
Hoped not to feel. Hoped someone would point their wands and end their misery in a flash of cold green light. Hoped that boy would move. Hoped.
To die. Like the others.