Summary: There are no muggles in foxholes. An account of the 2nd great wizarding war, of battles still to be won, and the love of a young bookworm for the man, the cause, the friends and the life she was forced to abandon.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters, their world or their toys. And damn I'm tired…I'm going to bed now!
Sacred Bonds
By Rebecca
Flight
"You're what?"
"I'm going to find him," he repeated, not much caring about the gaping expression on Ernie's face as he turned and reached under his bunk. A small carpet bag lay backed up against the base of the headboard, and he pulled it out, dusting off cobwebs and tiny mites angrily crawling over its flowery pattern, shuddering reminders of how long he'd been on the base. How long he'd gone without seeing his wife. '5 months.' he thought, disgusted. 5 months since the victory celebration at Azkaban, a stolen night beneath the stars before she rejoined the march to Surrey. And almost 6 months before that! But he shook his head, chasing the thought away. That didn't matter now. Couldn't matter now. Because as long as it was since he'd seen Hermione, it was going on three years since anyone had seen Harry.
Harry Potter. From almost the instant Dumbledore was killed, Ron had heard Harry's name raised and hailed among a hierarchy of messianic legends on par with Merlin himself. The Scarred One, the Boy Who Lived, the Heir of Gryffindor. But to Ron, he would always just be Harry. His best mate. A bloody awful chess player who much preferred an afternoon of Quidditch at the Burrow to fulfilling duties prescribed in prophecy and bound by blood. Harry often longed for the anonymity Ron's family enjoyed, and it wasn't until the summer after his 5th year at Hogwarts that he finally understood why Harry hated…hated being famous. The price was simply too high. What he'd already endured...and what he must endure still. Ron never looked at his shabby second-hand possessions quite the same way after Sirius was killed.
"The Sentinels will tell us if—"
"Bollocks," Ron spat as he crammed various essentials into the carpet bag. Quills, ink, spare parchment, a few bags of floo powder. He strapped it all together and tied the leather straps with a swift tug. "They wouldn't say a damn word and you know it. Anything to keep the Order believing there's a chance in hell of defeating Voldemort."
"You don't believe that," Ernie folded his arms over his chest, trying hard not to contemplate the very real possibility that Ron might be right. "Your own brother—"
"My brother is doing his job," he finished with the straps and sheathed his wand. "And I have to do mine." He turned around and watched as Ernie struggled with indecision. As if the poor wizard knew that his was a role of almost spousal opposition here, but Ernie MacMillan just didn't have it in him. It didn't matter anyway. Ron's mind was made up.
Ron sighed and grabbed a heavy set of thestral reigns hanging on the tent wall and tossed them over. "Here," he said. "Take care of Chudley for me. And don't let that nutter girlfriend of yours ride him."
Ernie caught the reigns and ran his hand over its rusty buckles, chuckling in spite of himself. Ron always had been a bit peculiar about his pets. Chudley was no exception.
"You leaving right now then?" Ernie asked, not looking up.
Ron paused, about ready to mount his Cleansweep and fly right through Ernie if he had to, but he just sighed. "There's something I have to do first. After that, I'll go." Ernie's shoulders heaved, knowing full well what that implied. But he didn't object. Ron reached inside his jeans pocket and pulled out a small round coin. At first glance, it appeared to be an ordinary Galleon. But Ernie knew better. It was a DA coin, probably an original from the old days. Handed out in school to alert the first DA members of their meetings, the coins were now distributed to the leaders of each base. Ron extended his hand. "Good luck, Mac."
Ernie offered a weak smile. "You too."
"Take care of 'em." They shook hands and the coin shimmered, glowed brightly and then fell into Ernie's palm. Ernie nodded, and left the tent.
Ron stared at the empty doorway and shoved both hands back in his pockets, wishing for mere seconds that Hermione were here to talk him out of it. 'Don't be stupid, Ron,' she'd say in that special way of hers that made him want to kiss her just to shut her up. But Hermione was still wrapping up her operation in Surrey. There had been no word from George or the others…and Ron was tired of waiting.
With a hint of resignation, as if it would be his last, he dropped his bag at the foot of his bunk and sat at the small wooden desk to compose the letter.
Dear Hermione,
This will probably be my last letter for a while. I wish there was more time to say all the things I need to say. You know I've always been a right idiot about that stuff. So I'll leave the fancy writing to prats like Krum.
Of course, a quick trip to the pub and enough pints of Goblin ale and I could spew enough sweet nothings to make Gilderoy Lockhart ill.
Ron paused and considered scratching it out. But it might make her laugh. And the thought of her laughing was enough to move mountains.
I love you. I always have. Married you and everything. But I can't just sit on my arse anymore. He's been gone too long. We both know it. And I have to find out why. I have to know he's alive.
I know you're angry. You should be. It's a bloody awful plan and I know it. But I never was the clever one. Just know that I love you. I love you, love you, love you and I'll be back as soon as I can.
Yours always,
Ron
When Ron replaced the quill on the desk and sealed the letter, tears spilled down his freckled cheeks. There were no owls around. He would find one along the way. But he had to leave now before he changed his mind. Tucking the note in his breast pocket, close to a heart that hadn't ever ached so much in his life, Ron quietly slipped away and began his search for Harry.
He folded up the letter and returned it gingerly to his pocket, afraid if he handled it too long, it might completely crumble apart. Ron never did deliver the message. Hermione learned of Ron's disappearance the same way everyone else did: when Phoenix spies sent word that he'd been captured. It was just as well, really. Reading it now helped Ron remember things. Details about the camp. Spells he'd forgotten. The effects of the Cruciatus curse still weighed heavily on his jumbled mind, but slowly…very slowly, things had started piecing themselves together. He remembered where they had captured him. Just south of London, near Pirate's Creek. It had been raining…no, not raining. A dull mist, like the one that settled over the Enchanted Lake at Hogwarts every November. He'd been reading the letter then too. One last glance before he tied it to the baby owl he'd happened upon near the creek. Just before they grabbed him. Hello Weasel, long time no see.
Even now, Ron didn't know for sure who found him. The voice was certainly Goyle's, but he didn't act alone. Ron had taken on dozens of wizards, 4 or 5 at a time even. This was something else. Something sickeningly familiar. Buried memories poised just on the edge of recollection begging to be unearthed.
But not quite.
Not yet.
As if suddenly aware he was still a fugitive, Ron dusted himself off and straightened up, determined to press on until he simply couldn't walk anymore. 22...23...24... As ever, he continued counting, starting over each time he reached 100, trudging through an endless stretch of wood without any real idea of where he was or where he was headed. Had Ron been perfectly healed of course, he would have remembered to use the amplification charm to contact nearby Phoenix spies and apparate home. More importantly, he could've remembered how to apparate at all. Still, a single thought drove him forward, moved him past abandoned forts and scarred battlefields. Hermione. If he could just get home to Hermione...
45...46...47...We can't have a baby...62...63...64...Ron, come home. It's Ginny...
A dense haze had settled over the woods just after dawn, cascading over pines and rotting oaks, a fog rolling low to the ground as thick as the mess in his head. Hardly picturesque to be sure…but it should have tipped him off when he came upon the clearing, the massive forest surrounding him suddenly chopped short at the peek of a hill. A valley spread before him, bathed in sunshine.
Now Ron wasn't completely inept. Hours beforehand, he'd rested a few moments inside the hollowed shell of a fallen tree crawling with tiny larvae-like creatures fighting for space. Upon his tiny fire, he'd killed and cooked a rat and mixed it with nearby fungi roots and murky water squeezed from a nearly dried brook. So as he now gazed upon the vast landscape, brilliant in light and color, free of ugliness and despair, it was on a full stomach of rat soup and a cruel handle on reality that he emerged from the wall of trees into vast open land and stepped out onto a lush green carpet of grass.
Ron inhaled the scents of springtime, and he struggled to restrain his elation. Birds. Real birds. Chirping and singing to the melodies of a gentle breeze that grazed his bruised shoulder. A small stream, lovelier than Earth's bluest ocean traveled its happy path down from the forest atop the valley's other slope. It was a sliver of paradise, this place. Waterfalls of wildflowers cascaded over the hills, and Ron wondered for a moment if he had climbed Olypmus itself.
He knew it was too good to be true. He knew such places didn't exist anymore. He even knew...deep down, he would regret it. But he couldn't help imagining himself stretched out on his back, baking in the sun...with Hermione cuddled into the crook of his arm, reading beside the stream.
Suddenly, as if he could almost touch her brown bushy hair blowing in the wind, Ron launched himself into this slice of perfection, and nearly toppled down the slope.
Water! He could have fresh water, he thought happily and as eager as a 1st Year on Christmas morning. But the bliss didn't last. He never made it to the brook.
At another time, Ron Weasley would have thought it a bit dodgy that he'd met opposition from Goyle and only one other guard since his escape. Just as he would have immediately noticed that the rushing stream below made no sound, and the environment's only visible evidence of wildlife had been the dead rat meat he'd brewed into his lunch. He would have recognized the patterns of the concealment charm and identified the façade immediately as a falsehood. But mostly, Ron would have remembered that the Dark Army rarely left key members of the Order—"Hello Ronald,"—in the hands of idiots.
He came to a dead halt, too tired for fear or regret. Ron simply turned…and sighed. "Bloody hell."
A slow smile curved across the sultry face of one Pansy Parkinson-Malfoy and two of her minions. Her black hair was not nearly as sleek and shiny as it had once been when she lived in splendor with her husband, exploiting muggle-borns in varying displays of farce and derision for their own perverted pleasure. But that sickening grin was unmistakable. It was Pansy, the wife of Ron's worst enemy. The woman whose husband he'd slain in battle. The one who had captured him in a fit of revenge...and brought him here to watch as Goyle slowly ripped him apart.
Pansy looked toward the sky, cackling like the Slytherin she was and circled her wand above her head. At once, gray clouds painted themselves across the sun. His soft stream, the stream he could picture Hermione so perfectly and peacefully beside, warped itself into the green and black moat bubbling around stone and iron spires that only seemed to touch the sky because the clouds hung so low. The façade had lifted. Ron glanced over his shoulder and gripped his stomach, nauseous as he beheld the magnificence of the Malfoy mansion, standing right where it had always been. Right where he never really left.
...
"Bring them about, Cho!" Wood screamed inside her head, the amplification charm barely finding its way across the violent winds. Cho veered Thunder off to the left and motioned for her group to follow. Several riders fell in line as ordered, but a few lost control of the reigns. Her stomach flipped over as she caught a peripheral glimpse of Lee Jordan blown clear off his horse. And before she could shift course to assist, the winds and clouds consumed him in a fog too thick to see the wand in her hand.
"Lumos!" she cried and a faint glow shown dimly through the mist. Not enough. She clenched her teeth together and forced herself to concentrate. "LUMOS SOLARUM!" And her wand shot out a brilliant ray of light, cutting through the clouds. She could see Lee now. He had levitated down to safety and was moving to rejoin his thestral. She barely had time for relief before another Guard member whipped by, so close that its wing clipped Thunder's and Cho was rocked upward. Holding tightly to the reigns, she yanked herself back to the saddle and pulled back. "Easy, easy boy," she soothed as best she could. But Thunder could tell she was scared.
Panicked, she shined her sunlit wand down to the shore. Hundreds of Order members were screaming, running from…nothing. As far as she could tell, there were no Death Eaters around. Usually the mark foretold of an invasion, an arrogant foreshadowing of the tyranny to which they were about to succumb. Even after three years, some Death Eaters were still too thick to realize that the mark merely gave away their position and only allowed the D.A. more time to prepare.
But this was something different. There were no cloaked figures moving in. Not even a stray hex or a green spark flying across the courtyard. Just an unbelievably violent storm. And the only way a mortal could conjure one of those would be if… "Cho! Cho help!"…Cho blinked. Death Eaters approaching from all directions … closing in fast. "Cho!" she whirled around…Marietta…Marietta being dragged down Knockturn Alley. NO! she thought. She started after them, determined not to lose sight… They'd already taken her Aunt Emma. They would not get her best friend too. "I'm coming Mari!" … She raced toward the Death Eater dragging the terrified red-head behind him…"Mari! Fight him!" But Marietta Edgecombe had never been terribly clever…If she could just get in range..A little closer and—green sparks flew ahead of her and a deafening scream pierced through the abandoned alleyways of Hogsmeade. "Nooooooooooooooo! Mari!"…
"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" she heard in the distance. Cho struggled to stay on her mount, but the vision was as dark and disorienting as the sky. "EXPECTO PATRONUM!" she heard again. And a glorious white lion charged from behind her, driving the dementor away.
"Cho, you all right?"
Cho shook her head and grasped her reigns, the leather now completely soaked through. Can't fall. Don't fall, Cho, she told herself as the dementor's effects started wearing off. She turned around and saw Oliver, treading unsteadily atop Beowulf in the air, his face as white as his patronus had been. "Y-yeah," she shouted, struggling once again to keep balanced. Oliver flew down to her level and grabbed Thunder's front harness. His control calmed the mount. Cho moaned.
"W-when uh," she stammered, determined to ignore the fact that this was the second time Wood had seen her lose control of her thestral, "when did the dementors learn to fly?"
Wood let go, hoping she'd steadied Thunder enough, and looked around. "I think they're using the winds. This storm is insane," he yelled. " The storm! Cho thought. Suddenly, she remembered. "Looks to be about 5 or 6 divisions. All dementor. Guess they're running out of Death Eaters—"
"It's a trick," she said quickly, confidently.
"What?" Oliver asked, trying to shield his eyes from the rain.
"A trick, Wood. The dementors. They're a diversion."
Wood cocked an eyebrow down at the commotion below. A couple dozen patronuses lighting up the fog as they charged their hooded foes. Screams. Chaos. And he was fairly certain a few unprepared souls had already been kissed. He looked back to Cho, "Er…well…it's working."
But she wasn't paying attention. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon. "Wood, you'd need a pretty powerful wizard to conjure up this storm, right?" Bolts of lighting struck close and Thunder shook beneath her as his namesake clapped loudly in the sky.
"Right," Wood answered impatiently.
"What else would you need?"
…
"The water!" Lupin yelled as he pushed his way into the wind of the storm. "EXPECTO PATRONUM!" he shouted at a nearby dementor honing in on Shacklebolt. The black hooded demons that once dominated this fortress swept right through Flitwick's invisible barriers and knocked down the Guard's charms. As far as Lupin could tell, the grim-reaper like figures had been sent from all directions but so far, there weren't many. His patronus swept one away and Lupin felt that brief moment of glory he did every time he faced the old guardians of Azkaban. For one moment, he could pretend he had avenged Sirius.
"Professor! The water!" he yelled, reaching McGonagall, who was busy fighting off her own dementor.
"Quite right, Remus," she yelled as a giant white feline emerged from her wand and freed Seamus near the prison ward. She turned back. "There aren't nearly enough dementors here to make a stand. They've gone under."
Seamus made his way up to the group, panting and soaked. But his eyes merely seethed with anger. "Simply corking of the Ministry to negotiate with the mermaids when they had the chance!"
"Not now, Mr. Finnigan," McGonagall waved her hands impatiently. "Whatever they're planning, I think it's obvious they don't have enough for a—"
"A fair fight, Professor?" Moody growled behind them. "No such thing when you deal with scum."
"Yes, thank you Alastor," she said with the same impatient wave. She surveyed the Order through the mist that thinned considerably once at ground level. "Seamus," she turned, "how many Unregistereds do we have with us today?"
Seamus ticked off the total in his head. "Almost all of them. 26 I think?"
"Any that fancy the sea, lad?" Moody winked his good eye, catching on.
Seamus grinned and pulled out his wand, tapping his throat. "Tonks you there?"
Nymphadora Tonks answered with a grunt, "A little busy, Finnigan. EXPECTO PATRONUM!"
"Nevermind that, now. Where are you?" he asked, scanning the crowd for her himself.
"I'm at the south end….of…the…" she trailed off. The witch sounded extremely weak.
Seamus panicked, finally catching sight of her cornered against one of Azkaban's few remaining walls. "Bollocks!" Seamus tapped his throat again, "Davies, Towler! Help Tonks, she's at the south end!"
The group watched as two wizards converged on the sight. Two patronus birds, one eagle and one hawk, shot out from their wands and drove away Tonks's dementor.
"Blimey!" she blurted out, unaware her voice was still amplified. Seamus shook his head, his ears ringing.
"Tonks, listen to me. We think the Death Eaters have gone under water and we need to find out why. Any on that team of yours who can handle it?" And Seamus swore he could hear her smile.
Tonks had spent virtually the entire war training her elite team for intelligence gathering and covert operations. A rare breed of witch, gifted with the ability to alter her appearance at will, Tonks had been the ideal candidate for the leader of the Unregistereds, an entire division of illegal animagi who were sent to spy in animal form on Voldemort's regime.
Inspired by his father's legendary band of Marauders, Harry Potter knew that animagi, witches and wizards who could transfigure themselves into animal form at will, could be pivotal to the Order in sending and retrieving information. 6 of Tonks's tiny birds migrated through the enchanted forest from Windsor and informed Arthur Weasley of the ambush at Hogsmeade. 3 black dogs ran cross country to warn the Ministry Conference of the Bristol council spy…and two of her team swam the Baltic to reach Madame Hooch before the Dark Army spread beyond Europe.
"Brilliantly, luv," she answered Seamus. "But unless you fancy scraping dolphin meat off the shore, we'll need a dive point further off the island."
The group collectively cringed at Tonks's off color remark while Seamus re-tapped the air with his wand.
"Wood, we need assistance at—"
"Way ahead of you, Finnigan."
They whirled around to find Wood and Cho hovering above them.
Seamus grinned. "Right then," he said, "we're a go."
...
"I've uh, never been good at this sort of thing!" Roger Davies yelled behind her over the whipping wind, still rocking the seas. His arms were wrapped tightly around her waste as Cho drove Thunder off shore.
At another time, in another life when Cho was a giggling schoolgirl, fawned over by every hapless bloke who owned a wand, Cho might have laughed at the irony of Roger's hold on her now. After all, she had used him to make Harry jealous at one point.
But the thought didn't even occur to her now as Thunder pumped his heavy, rain-soaked wings just above the ocean surface.
"What? Undersea intelligence?"
Roger shook his head, flinging his floppy drenched hair from his eyes. "No," he answered, "flying!"
"Don't worry Rog," she said, glancing to her right. Wood flew just ahead of her, sharing his saddle with Tonks and a second Unregistered, Jacob Smith. "We'll take care of you."
Roger gave her a squeeze in gratitude and gulped. Whatever the Death Eaters were up to, it was fair to assume it wasn't good, for the storm continued to worsen.
"This looks good!" Wood called out. Cho yanked on her reigns and Thunder neighed resentfully before they stopped to tread.
"Ready?" Wood asked, and Cho felt Roger repositioning himself behind her for the dive. He must have been scared because her poor thestral continued to fret. He jerked his head down, and Cho, still strapped tightly to the reigns, jerked with him.
"Easy!" she called again, and then she paused. Perhaps it was chance, or maybe the horse really did wield a magic beyond that of flight, but Thunder's fussing altered Cho's line of vision. And right before the Unregistereds jumped, she stopped them. "Wait!" she yelled. Cho lit her wand with the same sun spell as before and aimed her beam about 50 meters north.
Rain continued to hammer into their faces and she gulped away the wind, violently shaking her head as she strained to see what she'd sworn Thunder was showing her. But the storm had grown so brutal, one could almost see the wind lifting waves off the surface, crashing into protruding plateaus as if intent on tearing them apart.
Finally, her wand hit at the right angle, Cho knew she'd been right. "There!" she yelled and they turned. A whirlpool, about 12 or 13 meters in diameter swirling, almost hovering above the ocean's rolling surface. The place from which morsmordre was unearthed. She was sure of it. The whole ocean seemed to stink of blood and decay.
"Good eye, Chang!" Wood was saying as he moved their small contingent closer to the anomaly. Again, Roger shifted in the saddle and Cho looked to Beowulf and his passengers, watching Tonks pull a caretaker's whistle from her coat.
"Oi! Remember," she shouted, "just observe. Come back to the surface when you've found the target." She fiddled the whistle in front of her, "I'll be listening."
Cho strained a look behind her and watched as Roger nodded, extending his arms straight up in perfect formation. And even amidst the wicked tempest, Cho couldn't help but marvel at the sight of Roger and Jacob, her old classmates, descending in unison toward the vicious waves with swan-like graces, their animagi skins slipping over them like satin gloves. And before she could blink, Cho saw two radiant silver dolphins slide beneath the surface without even the smallest splash.
"Hope this doesn't take long, Tonks!" Wood yelled, turning his face into the wind, gulping down air as he spoke. "I don't know how long we can stay here!"
"No worries, luv," Tonks waved her hand as if she'd just sent her men to fetch her tea. But neither Cho nor Wood were fooled. Her hawk-like eyes were glued to the exact place they'd disappeared. For several minutes in fact, the three of them remained, steadily hovering above the water, waiting for the slightest indication that this off shore excursion would not end in the futile loss of Tonks's two best animagi.
Occasionally, Cho would catch stray communications being shuffled between wizards in the air. Partial phrases, cries for help. Through the storm, Cho could see Wood close his eyes and she knew he was also listening; thinking what everyone was thinking. It didn't matter how many or how few dementors her comrades faced in Azkaban. There simply wasn't enough true happiness left in the ranks of the Order. And eventually, the magnificent patronuses that soared through the courtyard when the mark first appeared would cease to be anything more than fading whispering echoes of themselves, ill-equipped to battle a boggart, let alone a dementor.
"Tonks!" Wood shouted, startling her from reflection. Cho looked over and saw Wood pointing toward the water. Jacob and Roger had returned, and were waiting for the signal to transform and regroup. Tonks blew a sea-shell flute from her whistle and for one fleeting instant, Cho wished for the storm to cease, if only to inhale the scents that could call a dolphin. Beowulf threw himself into a strop as Wood took them into a steep dive, Cho and Thunder close behind. By the time they reached sea level, the Unregistereds had transformed and were helped back into their saddles.
"D-death Eaters…" Roger shivered, hitching his damp coat up to his neck, "Three of them."
Wood almost looked disappointed as he scooted forward on Beowulf, letting his second passenger mount. "Three?"
Jacob wrung out the water from the hem of his trousers, steadying himself behind Tonks. "Just three, mate," he nodded. "And about 50 mermaids."
Cho groaned as her earlier suspicions were confirmed. Nothing except her unwavering trust in Professor Dumbledore convinced her that she had indeed been perfectly safe that afternoon during her fifth year when she was taken out of herbology and turned into bait for the second Goblet of Fire tournament task. Plunged into an un-wakeable sleep, she'd been strapped to the bottom of the enchanted lake, surrounded by mermaids who had agreed to watch for the right contestant to rescue her. Cedric…Cedric had come to rescue her…Cho hated mermaids.
"Looks like the bloody fish are controlling the storm," Jacob continued as Tonks handed him back his wand.
"Except for the few that are maintaining the bubble around Montague and his buddies. They're keeping the mark in the air." Roger went on, "It's one massive charade, Wood. The dark army doesn't know that practically the entire Order is gathered at Azkaban. Concealment charms prevent that. Buggers are probably hoping to scare us away so they can take it back with minimal troops."
Tonks nodded, almost disgusted, "A wicked storm, couple dementors, the dark mark?" She shook her head, "Almost worked didn't it?"
Wood whipped his head around and glared toward the sea. "Almost?" he growled.
...
Ron struggled in his petrified state, unable to move. It couldn't end like this. He didn't endure months of torture to be walloped by an over-dressed self-absorbed minx, thick enough to marry Malfoy. But he couldn't prevent it. The curse was iron clad. All he could do was watch...and endure.
"10 years, Weasley," she said with all the importance and arrogance that Goyle had been fond of flaunting. "10 years watching you and your little girlfriend and that Muggle-lover you all worship like a God, stepping all over my Draco." Ron nearly wished for just enough mobility to snort. My Draco? The wench wasn't fooling anybody. Draco had hated Pansy almost as much as he'd hated Harry. But that didn't seem to make a difference now. "You really think I would have left you in the hands of Gregory Goyle? Denied myself the pleasure of watching you writhe in pain and beg a Slytherin for mercy? Beg for your Mudblood?"
Ron felt himself splitting apart inside. If she kept this up, he might actually live to be the first wizard to ever break the Totalis curse with pure anger.
Pansy clicked her tongue against the roof her mouth, as if pondering what to have for supper that night. She paced around him just as Goyle had done, eyeing her thugs to make sure he was well-guarded. "Although I must commend you on your escape. Masterful Ronald, really. Moody trained you well."
Suddenly, she was beside him, crouched down near his ear. "Tell me, do all Muggle-lovers walk around the woods in circles for three days eating rats and lured in by charms even Longbottom could detect?"
Ron's mouth went dry. Three days? He'd been out here for three days already? That couldn't be right. She was lying. Lying to make him feel even more idiotic than he felt already. It was working.
Pansy gave a dramatic sigh and pushed herself off the ground. "Ah well. I had hoped to watch you go completely insane. Bring your crazed, babbling arse to the Mudblood's doorstep and watch as the mere sight of you drove her mad...but I'm bored with you now, Weasley."
She said it as if she'd grown tired of a book, and his stomach flipped over as he realized he was just as disposable to her. No, he screamed in his head, suddenly clearer than it had been since his escape. It couldn't end this way. Wouldn't end this way. Hermione, he thought desperately. I have to see Hermione! One more time...But he was out of moves. The match was over. Pansy raised her wand and aimed for his heart. And Ron closed his eyes.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
A brilliant green flash lit up the graying sky and a scream pierced through the air as the earth trembled beneath the most unforgivable of curses…and then all was still…and quiet. And Ron blinked, the Totalis curse lifted. He could move
…he was alive.
He struggled to push himself up, but managed only to twist himself around and gasp. Pansy's lifeless body lay in a heap on the ground, her bodyguards crumpled like over-stuffed rag dolls beside her. Surely it couldn't have backfired . She didn't cast it on herself. Pansy wasn't that thick—
And then he knew. Even before he could see, he knew. His eyes fell first on a man's silhouette behind a dying willow. His face was hidden, and he stood a good 20 meters away. But even after all this time, Ron recognized the stance. The resigned slump of the shoulders, the sweep of a hand through disheveled black hair, then a sign of nervousness, now just habit. The man walked towards him and Ron's eyes grew wide before they rolled back into his head, "Harry…"
...
Mum?...M-mommy?...M-nooooooooooooooo! "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"
Is he…surely he isn't…h-he can't be…dead? "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"
Seamus! Seamus help me!... "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"
Minerva…it's Albus… "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"
The echoes of terrors past rang louder than the screams below as they returned to shore, Wood careening his party down to the ground. The Order still held their ground fairly well. There were over 100 DA members fighting. Still, Cho felt her stomach tie itself in knots as her eyes fell on a dozen or so witches and wizards spread across the courtyard. Some had already suffered the dementor's kiss. Some just passed out, lying in puddles 2 inches deep. A sight hardly helpful to those who remained, conjuring patronuses bound with moments of complete happiness yet untainted.
Wood slowed the party to a trot upon the shale and dismounted, rushing past and ducking from dementors who at once glided toward fresh meat. Up ahead, through the ever persistent rain, Wood could see the head contingent, still at work. Still alive. Professor Lupin leading the charge.
"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" he heard Lupin yell. The professor turned, half expecting Wood to be another dementor and aimed his wand.
"Just me, Professor." Wood held his hands up in surrender.
Lupin lowered his wand, glancing behind him. McGonagall, Moody, Shacklebolt. They remained strong, firm. Determined not to succumb to despair. "So what is it Oliver?" he asked, only half paying attention.
"An ill-conceived ambush. A few death eaters teamed up with mermaids beneath the ocean." The stocky Scottish athlete looked around. "I can get my team in position, but we need a few of the DA on perimeter…and loads o' gillyweed. Where's Sprout?"
"Nevermind that now," Lupin coughed, his voice weakened.
Wood glanced behind the professor and withdrew his wand, "Expecto Patronum!" he yelled, but his white lion didn't fetch much happiness this time, and dissolved mere inches from the tip of his wand. Oliver's thoughts were far from happy at the moment. He took a deep breath and concentrated. 'We'd like you to be Captain of Puddlemere'…Captain of Puddlemere, he thought and he tried again. "EXPECTO PATRONUM!" he shouted. And the dementor retreated.
Lupin's hand splayed over his chest, catching his breath. "Thank you. Now help Flitwick near the—"
"Professor, we have to stop this storm!" Wood yelled in disbelief. As if the outcome of the entire war depended on it.
"Look around you Mr. Wood!" he shouted above the rain. And for the first time, Wood seemed to understand the severity of the Dark Army's plot. He glanced behind him. Roger, Jacob and Cho were busily attending to fallen wizards, fighting off dementors. It didn't matter how many or how few Death Eaters were behind it. There wasn't enough happiness left in their ranks to make a stand against the old Azkaban reapers. And caught all together, gathered in one place...Wood for a split second, begrudged an opportunity, forever lost, to tell Moody 'I told you so.'
"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" he called out, joining in the fight, abandoning his plight to catch Montague and his friends. It didn't matter now. This was the end. And he would fight with the rest of them. Fight and die.
And about the time Wood and the rest were preparing to give up, Lupin looked toward the sky. Now...he thought...now, please...before it's too late...
For years and decades to come, many would argue about what exactly happened next. Some simply remembered the caw, gentle in tone and timbre but strong, almost deafening against the storm. Others swore by a symphony, harmonious melodies played on instruments unlike those in a normal orchestra, but pulled instead from the very sounds of nature...wind, thunder, rain, breath. But no one, not a single witch or wizard still standing in the end, disputed or denied its source. The storm may have camouflaged the dementors. But not even the darkest clouds could conceal Fawkes.
Albus Dumbledore's magnificent phoenix, the last of its kind in the wizarding world. Singing his phoenix song as he soared across ocean, unafraid of the hooded predators that had turned on him. Scarlett wings seemed to span miles, their golden tips glimmering even in the absence of sun. Time seemed to stop on the island as fatigued witches and wizards of the Order of the Phoenix suddenly remembered why they were here.
Who they were.
What they were called...
And as if rehearsed, a chorus of EXPECTO PATRONUM joined in with Fawkes's song as he circled the Order, gathering together every blinding white eagle, lion, dove, wolf and stallion that had been conjured, and charged the dementors from all sides. An army of patronuses fused with the power and love built and stored in Fawkes. A phoenix. The purest form of magic.