The sky was almost red over him, with a sullen sun resting behind those twisted, rusted clouds. He flew above the deserted pitch, gripping the broom handle in worn hands. Even the thick air smelled like blood. He soared to the stands, not daring to land on the rotting, charred wood. The whole thing might collapse under him. This place . . . he couldn't stand being here. He turned away, glided to the lake.
No better. The waters, so deeply blue when last he had flown over them, now reflected a different sky. The expanse of water oozed and rippled like fresh blood. He shuddered, and wondered what he would find if he were to dive under the hideous waves. At the sight of a pale form floating just beneath the water, the man's control faltered, and his broom began to dip. He swallowed his disgust and regained control, flying away from this scene of death. The castle would be intact . . . it must be . . . nothing could ever happen there . . ..
The stone edifice jutted against the sky, still a proud bastion against decay. Still alive? No. The place was dead, but preserved. Preserved, fossilized and made into a lifeless replica of its former glory. The man landed by the main gates, leaned his broom against the massive doorframe, and entered what had been Hogwarts Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
The empty Great Hall echoed with each footfall. Banners, or what remained of them, hung on the walls. Three of them; the red-and-gold Gryffindor banner existed only as a blackened rectangle. The blue and yellow banners, though scorched and slashed, were more or less intact. But the Slytherin banner was strangely untouched. Even time had not worked its slow destruction on the poison-green cloth.
A huge pile of bones commanded attention in the center of the Hall. Children's bones, cracked skulls and shattered femurs, all thrown together haphazardly . . . and these were the only things in this place of death and fire that had not been burned. The man shivered again, drawing his cloak closer around his body.
He trudged the long-familiar route to Gryffindor Tower, noting the shredded paintings along the way. Destroyed for fun, not to win a war, but out of a wanton desire for destruction. At last, he was standing before the painting of the Fat Lady . . . or what had once been the Fat Lady's painting. Now, an empty frame allowed easy access to the common room.
He swallowed, shoving his hands into his pockets. He knew what he would find . . . he had been here. Once, forever ago, he had watched in horror as they had come, but he hadn't been killed. No, he was still alive. Alive because he had saved one of them when no one else would or could . . . they had spared him. And everyone else had been massacred.
The ashes and blackened bones mutely added their testimonial.
He crossed over to the window, peering at over the once-beautiful Hogwarts lawns. The man he was supposed to be meeting . . . where was he? Then he sighted the figure, flying over the grounds, and waved at his approaching correspondent.
The man sighted him, and altered his course to arrive at the window. He looked in, shook his head, and allowed himself to be pulled into the burned-out husk of a room.
"I never thought I'd come back here," Draco Malfoy whispered, pulling his broom in after him. "My people . . . we're all being killed off by our own."
Neville Longbottom studied the other man, with his gashes and blood-encrusted blond hair. "I know."
Both were silent. Draco traced a finger through the ash on the windowsill. "So I've come to help you, the way you helped me."
"No. It's not the same. I only saved your life. You will help me save my people."
Draco and Neville contemplated the room in which they stood. Both wondered what chance they had to save anyone. Or, indeed, whether there was anyone left to save.