a short prologue, I don't own the characters, settings, spells, or anything else that's so obviously brill. This is an "After the Battle/Seventh Year" fic.
Enjoy.
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A tale of loyalists and rekindling.
Prologue – An Act of Valor
She twisted about the hall she hat sat in so often, dodging what she could and blocking the rest. This was a place for laughing with friends, last minute charms work, pranks, life. Her hall.
Now, a warzone.
This is madness, she realized. The world is turning and we're turning with it and they've chosen to spend their precious turning time killing people.
They're killing. Their goal is to kill. Kill or be killed.
She couldn't take it. The world was turning and she was turning with it. Kill or be killed. Be killed or kill.
This world is a hell. This world is on fire. Turning.
Turning around. She only needed to see the mad witch's mad eyes to know what was to happen. She was going to die. The world was a hell, this hall was a hell, and she was going to die. One inch.
The maniacal black of Bellatrix Lestrange's eyes was luring her in, almost sensual in their magnetism. You're here to fight. You're here to die.
No. She resolved herself. Resolved her thoughts. You haven't come here to be killed; you've come here to kill.
The light came to here, was coming at her. She turned, the world turned, the hall turned, and her words came tumbling out.
You can do both; kill and be killed.
"Avada Kedavra"
She could only recall one time she had meant a string of words more, and the thought of them lifted her mind up. The older women's shot flew between the younger's legs, but the second thrown hit it's target perfectly, the outstretched left forearm, bearing the symbol of everything Ginevra hated. She hated that mark, hated how many times she had seen it. Hated what it evoked, the fear, the bravery, the valor, the hate.
She did not think. She only barely registered a Shield Charm being yelled, and even then it took her a few moments to realize. She knew that protego. She had heard it said in so many different settings at so many different times.
She hadn't thought of him. Not when she'd done it, not when she'd justified it. Not since the gamekeeper had walked through those beloved doors, her doors, carrying the body of the boy who lived, the boy who loved. Thoughts of him rushed in. She had known it would happen, if not now, then when? He had left to fight and that was what her had done. He was a warrior. She was a warrior. She hadn't thought of him. Hadn't.
