Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

It was like the whole world had gone into slow motion.

Neville could only hear his own breath as he raced down—slowly, in his opinion—the deployed bridge atop the Black Lake. He could not even hear the sound of his men's footsteps behind him. Heck, he refused to even turn his head to make sure they were following. He had to keep looking straight ahead. Right ahead.

At the goal. At the objective. Between him and that was nothing. No cover, no enemies, nothing. Between him and the docks was a killing ground that most soldiers would die to have on their side.

If the enemy ever realized that thousands of troops were conveniently gathered on this one short piece of metal, then the whole assault could have very well been over in seconds. All they needed to do was to blow apart the bridge, and there went the flanking wing of the attack, leaving only Sulu's main body of attack to deal with.

It was fortunate, most fortunate indeed, that Staples had not deployed his fleet just yet. That would have been suicide. The roar of the cannons would have brought the enemy's attention on the Lake, and therefore the bridge. Of course, Neville had a device in his trench coat that essentially served as an "Oh, shit!" button in case the enemy ever wised up about the horde of Imperial soldiers crossing the Black Lake. It would deliver an impossible-to-confuse message to Staples' fleet that would get them topside immediately to provide covering fire.

'God, I hope they don't have dragons,' thought Neville briefly—the only coherent thought he'd had since he started this insane charge.

That was another morbid possibility. If the enemy had dragons, then the landlocked Imperial forces would be caught on the ground like sitting ducks, given that the Airfleet had been thus far unable to pierce the astoundingly strong wards surrounding Hogwarts airspace. In short, they were without any air support whatsoever.

But if the enemy had dragons within the wards…

The idea was a frightening prospect.

Neville squinted his eyes as he ran down the bridge, his combat boots tapping against the metallic frame beneath him. How much farther were the docks? It felt like an eternity since they began the assault. Looking around, it felt like they had only made it to the middle of the Black Lake.

Objectively, Neville should have known that crossing the Black Lake would be no easy sprint. The aforementioned body of water was called a lake for a damn good reason. Therefore, it stood to reason that they would need a few minutes to make it across.

But emotionally, Neville couldn't help but feel frustrated as he pressed onward and the goal only slowly came closer. His men would be exhausted by the end of this run.

Neville consciously diverted his attention towards the sounds of battle at the front gates of Hogwarts. Could it be possible for him to have his men take a break at the docks before rushing up? The longer he delayed the attack on the castle proper, the more casualties would appear at the front gate assault, he knew; but if he rushed the castle with his men in an exhausted state, the flanking move would be easily swept aside.

Neville made the split second decision there to let his men rest. It was the sound tactical thing to do, after all. Sulu wasn't a pushover, either; Neville had no doubts that the African general would successfully lead the main assault within adequate casualty parameters.

Neville kept up his run, but now began to steady it so that he would reach the docks with still just about enough energy to secure the area and then let his men rest. He kept this up for a few minutes before a chill went down his spine.

A warning shout was all the alert he got before the ear-splitting screech reached his ears.

"DRAGONS!" he roared back at his men.

Indeed, the absolute worst opponent for the flanking column was now descending on them with frightening speed, their leathery wings curled around their body as they dived down towards their prey—their handlers undoubtedly reporting back to the castle right at this moment about the incoming surprise invasion from the lake.

From the corner of his eye, Neville could see that little by little, more of his soldiers were stopping to raise their rifles in an attempt to take down the flying predators. This was a very bad idea, he knew.

"KEEP RUNNING!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, stopping himself to wave on his men. The more alert of them heeded his orders and rushed past him. Those who didn't, Neville had to go to them to shake into obedience. "DO NOT STOP. DO NOT FALTER. KEEP RUNNING!" he roared out.

The cliffs where the docks were had to be the only hope they had, at the moment, of surviving the dragon attacks. Nestled under the curved cliff and holding the entrance to the stairway going up to the castle grounds, they were the only sanctuary he could think of to keep his men from getting burned alive or eaten by the incoming winged reptiles.

That was when Neville remembered his panic button. Shooting his free hand into his coat, he quickly pulled out the small device and, glaring up at the dragons, firmly pressed down on it, transmitting the panic message to the fleet underwater.

For a moment—one horrible moment—Neville thought the signal had failed. The dragons were still lunging down at him and his men, their mouths wide open for what Neville assumed was to soon become an incoming torrent of flesh-scorching fire. Their handlers, though he could not see them, were probably wide-eyed with excitement as they led their mounts down towards easy prey.

And then the bridge shook.

Slowly and gently at first, then a little more roughly. It soon felt like an earthquake had hit the Black Lake, and Neville was hard pressed to secure his footing on the bridge—several of his men didn't, and went overboard. They had to be pulled back on quickly before they sunk to the bottom of the Lake from the heavy equipment and clothing.

Then the water broke.

Well, to be more specific, the water began to swell upwards, to the awe of the foot soldier of the Empire. The swells began to appear throughout the Black Lake, all of them great in size and intimidating to behold. In fact, even the dragons had taken notice, and were swinging back up to reassess the situation.

That was when the water broke, letting the water swells rush back into the lake proper and for the first time showing the metallic frames of the Imperial Navy's warships.

Proud, large, and incredibly over-gunned, the new toys of Staples' fleet, the Basilisk-class warships, broke the water surface with such a slow entrance to be labeled ceremonious. Its great guns on the decks of its fifteen-ship Battle Fleet shone in the morning daylight, even as they slowly whirred to life and rose up to face the sky.

Neville was momentarily breathless as he, for the first time, beheld the great ships. He had never had the privilege of seeing them before, as they had been only in production by the time of Empire's Helm, and had been completed only shortly before the current offensive. The docks had been off limits to damn near everyone until then.

Just then, he felt the familiar chill in his right arm of a communicator spell being targeted at him. Deftly pulling out his wand from its holster at his waist, he tapped his temple and activated the link.

"This is the H.M.S. Basilisk. Someone call for hellfire?"

Neville grinned. It was the first true smile of gratification he had felt since the charge began. "This is Brigadier Neville Longbottom," he answered back through the spell, the cheering of his relieved men also flooding the communication line. "Right in one, Basilisk. Enemy bogies topside!" he relayed, his eyes drifting skyward towards the group of hovering dragons. "Basilisk, shatter their sky!"

"Roger that, Brigadier. Basilisk warships opening fire."

As promised, every gun that could point upward on the decks of the fifteen-ship strong Battle Fleet opened up on the sky above them, taking the dragons completely by surprise with the deadly effectiveness of their highly compressed Reductor shells.

When the blasts finally came, it almost felt like the world had ended.

The resounding explosion damn near got Neville to instinctively hug the ground, safe though he was at this distance from the explosion. Instead, he let his eyes take in the catastrophic beauty of the Basilisk warships setting the sky on fire.

The dragons had no chance at all.

Caught in the open by the as-yet unseen cannons of the Imperial Navy, the dragon handlers had not judged the danger of the Naval bombardment until it was far too late to evade the incoming hail of metallic death. The timed explosions of the shells themselves did most of the damage to the dragon squadrons in the air, almost immediately consuming tens of them at a time within the fiery blast orbs.

Neville's own pleasure was voiced out loud by the deliriously relieved troops around him—their charge nearly forgotten in the happiness of the moment. The cheers around him were ear-shattering, and many were waving their helmets in salute to the great Imperial ships.

And that was when the first of them went down.

It was totally unexpected, and completely caught Neville off guard. The man next to him had been waving his helmet like a crazy person at the ships in thanks when he had just as suddenly dropped dead on the bridge, his face still plastered with a goofy smile. The signs were clear: Avada Kedavra.

Neville turned his attention towards the docks and the cliffs above and his eyes widened; both areas were swarming with enemy fighters, and jets of light were racing towards the bridge and the people on it.

"INCOMING!" screamed Neville, jolting his men out of their happy stupor. Not quickly enough, unfortunately, as a dozen more of his men collapsed either from Killing Curses or other deadly spells.

Neville's coat was now splashed with blood as another man near him dropped to the ground from taking a slashing curse to the leg, severing it entirely. The man was down screaming, but Neville could do little other than to cauterize the wound with his wand and so stop the blood flow. If he didn't get his men moving, on the other hand, they were all going to die on the bridge needlessly.

"MOVE OUT!" he yelled, waving his men forward. "TO THE DOCKS! GET TO THE DOCKS!"

Slowly, the column seemed to snap out of its temporary stupor and began their charge anew, the momentary stop serving to replenish their diminished energies. Emboldened by the mighty display of Naval firepower, the foot soldiers of the Imperial Army charged down the bridge towards the docks, weapons raised and adrenaline-fuelled battle cries ringing in the air.

It was almost like something out of a war movie. Had there been dust on the bridge, the furious charge would have kicked up quite the dust cloud as the Imperial vanguard stampeded down the metallic bridge, shouting all sorts of slogans and battle cries as they delved head first into the awaiting enemy ranks.

This time, Neville was not able to be at the front, given the fact that he had been forced to go back for the few that had stopped moving when the dragons had first appeared. Instead, the charge was led by the few sergeants and lieutenants that had obeyed his orders to keep moving.

The first of these was cruelly cut down as he set foot on the docks, his chest exploding violently as a blasting hex hit him square in the middle. The second and third soldiers on the docks fared little better, but by the fourth one, the Imperial soldiers began fighting back and taking down the enemy, all the while surviving the actual landing. By the time Neville had personally reached the docks, the fighting had grown fierce and pitched, with both sides furiously fighting over control of the small docks.

A loud series of roars also pierced the sounds of battle as Neville approached the docks. Apparently, despite the continuous firing of the massive Basilisk warships, the dragon squadrons had somehow managed to make it through the fire screen, diving straight for the crossing troops on the bridge.

Even as the deck Anti-Aircraft guns on the warships opened up on the incoming dragons, Neville knew that some would inevitably get through, and true to prediction, a couple of dragons swooped down on the bridge and, with fire breath and claw, tore a few gaps into the column. The bodies of the victimized soldiers flew clear of the bridge—many of them mangled or charred—and sunk into the depths of the Lake beyond rescue distance. On the decks of the Basilisk warships, Neville could see the frantic movement of the ships' sailors trying to point out and bring down the swooping dragons. Neville really wanted to go back and help his comrades, but he knew that by himself, the situation wouldn't rightly turn around just like that. Instead, he had to keep his men moving and get the docks cleared so that the whole column could take a break within the stairways inside the cliff that led up to the castle.

From the looks of it, his men at the front were also starting to really need him—for the first time ever, they were being held in place by the enemy, without moving forward so much as an inch, and this was causing a rising sense of insecurity within the front line ranks.

With all the grace of a seasoned soldier, Neville quickly jumped onto the docks and slid into safety behind a wooden box. Why there were boxes on the Hogwarts docks, he didn't know, but found their presence convenient. Next to him, a common private was currently trying to make himself smaller than possible by tucking his legs as close to himself as possible. From the looks of the man, he was slowly getting mentally overwhelmed by the pitched fighting, and Neville couldn't let that sort of thing pass.

"What's the situation?!" he shouted into the man's ear, hoping to distract him long enough from his fears to function like a soldier should.

It seemed to work. Almost immediately upon recognizing the war hero next to him, the man seemed to snap back into soldier mode. "We've barely got ourselves a foothold, sir!" shouted back the man over the sound of explosions and firearms going off. A couple of metallic rings later and two more explosions had gone off—Neville guessed they were someone's attempt to flush out the enemy via grenades.

A quick peek over the crate he was hiding behind told him it had done no such thing.

Neville instead turned his attention back to the man next to him, and only briefly acknowledged the fact that two more had joined them behind the crates. Whatever it was that was inside them seemed to be enough to hold back the enemy from blowing up their cover, for which Neville was thankful.

Taking advantage of his momentary safety, Neville tried to think of a plan to get them out of their current predicament. If he just ordered a charge, it was true that he might win through sheer numbers, but the casualty count would probably be horrendous. Plus, he had to assume that not all of the enemy was human, which left a good deal of humanoid magical creatures that could easily overpower his men.

Neville peeked over the crate again to gather enough information on the enemy positions for a plan, but had to keep ducking every few seconds from spell fire. Finally, when he got enough information to feel satisfied, he turned back to the men he was hiding with, which had grown from three to about ten without him noticing. Apparently he wasn't the only one noticing the enemy's reluctance to hit the crates.

Ten, however, meant better odds for the crazy stunt he was thinking of doing.

"Okay, I've seen enough," he told his men, who nodded and seemed to be eagerly awaiting for orders. Neville involuntarily glanced back towards the enemy positions behind his crate, but quickly turned back to his men. "As it stands, we are well and truly fucked if we stay here like this for much longer."

"We'd gathered that much, sir," noted one of the newcomers sardonically.

Neville nodded, going on as though he hadn't heard him. "The problem is, I'm too pretty to die," he had to work hard not to break his tough guy façade with the looks his men were giving him. "And because I am too pretty to die, we're going to go over there and kick their arses till they die."

A few of the men made guffaws at their leader's oddly-timed humour. Neville grinned at the reaction.

"How do we do that, sir?" asked one of the more level-headed soldiers, who was rolling his eyes at the whole attempt to lighten the mood, but had an appreciative smile nonetheless.

Neville pointed to all of them then. "One word: grenades," he told them. "Lob 'em right at the enemy, but don't take out the pin," he elaborated with a deadly serious look on his face. "I cannot stress that enough. Do not take out the safety pin."

The men were now looking at him in a bewildered fashion. Grenades with the pin still inside were essentially useless! No better than rocks!

Neville, however, ignored the looks and continued explaining his plan. "Who here is the best shot?" he asked quickly. He had to wait for a few seconds before a couple of them raised their hand. "Any awards or contests I should know about?"

One of the two shrugged. "The Ninth Legion had a shooting tournament a few months back. I won second place," he mentioned. When he looked at his fellow shot, the man raised his hands in a placating fashion.

"I haven't participated in any tournaments. The guys in my platoon just say I'm pretty good with a rifle," he explained.

Neville looked at the first soldier. "Who was in first place?" he asked, curious. The man shrugged.

"Doesn't matter. Dragon got him while we were crossing."

Neville cringed at the news, but quickly digressed back to the matter at hand. As he relayed his idea to his men, he had a mischievous grin on his face, while they looked progressively more and more horrified at the sheer insanity of the plan.

"Understand?" he asked, once he finished outlining his idea.

Some of the men were shaking their heads, and one had his head between his hands.

"Mad. He's gone mad!" mumbled that one. Neville rolled his eyes at the over-the-top display. It wasn't like he was asking them to do something particularly suicidal. It was just…unconventional. Extremely so.

But definitely not suicidal.

His men, on the other hand, seemed to object to this categorization, by the looks they were shooting him. Still, they had to assume that he knew what he was doing, given his rank and renown as a war hero. Therefore, although reluctantly, the group pulled out their Reductor grenades from their belts and held them ready to throw. Neville had told them exactly where to throw them, and although none of them believed this would work, they had to give their commander the benefit of the doubt, crazy though his plan was.

Neville, for his part, was almost giddy with excitement at seeing his plan carried out. "Ready?" he asked them, getting into a serious state of mind. All ten of his fellow soldiers nodded firmly. Neville looked at the tournament shooter with particular distinction.

"Remember. Place the shot five seconds after you hear the damn things land," he told him seriously. The man nodded once before getting ready to throw, and Neville simulated him by taking out his own grenade and getting into a similar position.

"Okay," started Neville. "On my mark. One…two…"

The group tensed, just as Neville shouted, "MARK!"

All of them shot up to their feet at the same time and lobbed the grenades right at the enemy throng that crowded the entrance to the spiral staircase inside the cliff—a carved out, round stone archway that seemed about as old as the rocks that surrounded it. To the disconcertion of their fellow Imperial troops, the ten grenades cleared the enemy's cover, but did not explode. Even stranger was when the enemy troops seemed to look at the grenades in confusion and then brought them up for closer inspection.

It was at this point that everyone seemed to hear someone give a muffled oath and the Brigadier's voice clearly rang out with a single-worded order.

"NOW!"

Faster than most were able to register, one of the men with the Brigadier seemed to shoot up to his feet at that point and, taking exceedingly little time to aim, fired off a couple of rounds in the general direction of the now-uncovered enemy.

His fellow Imperial soldiers at first thought that he was just trying to get a couple of easy kills, but that view changed immediately when they finally heard one of the shots scratch the casing of one of the held grenades. The resulting explosion decimated the immediate vicinity of the grenade, and the fact that the other such explosives had been thrown within the general proximity of the detonated one essentially set off a chain reaction of explosions that made quick work of the dock's present defenders. Cheers rang out from the Imperial lines as they watched the docks lose roughly half of its defenders.

Back at the crates, the tournament shot was still standing, his rifle only slightly bent down, and was wearing a shocked expression on his face.

"I can't believe that actually fucking worked," he mumbled.

Neville was cackling in satisfaction (an odd sight by itself), while the rest of the ten Imperial soldiers seemed to agree with the shooter's blunt comment. Yet, for all their misgivings, they had to admit that the plan had worked. The way into the cliff was open for now, and it seemed that everyone on their side realized this.

With a resounding cheer, the Imperial soldiers shot up to their feet and charged the archway, weapons held aloft and ready to spear anyone who charged right back. This time, Neville was right amongst them as they went through the charred archway, finding the first few dozen meters inside the cliff to be devoid of enemy opposition. Clearly, they had not expected the Imperials to succeed in driving past their defences. Either that, or Voldemort was seriously undermanned.

Finally, they reached the stairs' vestibule. Looking straight up, Neville could see the very top of the stairways in the distance, with the damn things circling up towards the granite ceiling. A little miffed that his men would have to move entirely up this highly vulnerable position, Neville nonetheless motioned for the ascent to begin.

"Two men at a time, double time!" he barked out as he raised his wand and sword. He would have switched out the wand for his pistol, but given the utter lack of Shielders in his detachment, he felt morally obligated to substitute for them in order to save his men from undue deaths. "We've got to get to the top as quick as possible so that the bastards don't pin us down in this death trap!" he yelled over the din of the troops moving past him and up the stairs as directed.

Once he was certain that the flow of troops into the cliff was steady, Neville began his own trek up the spiralling staircase, quickly and easily overtaking most of the men on his way up. All the while, he kept up his encouragements and prompts.

"Keep moving, lads!" he would call as he passed by his moving troops. "Victory is waiting for us at the very top!"

Past another group, he suddenly grabbed the back of a stumbling soldier's shirt and pulled him upright once again. "Eyes up front, my brothers! Let your only worry be the enemy! Do not allow anything else to take you out of the battle!"

Finally, when he reached the very front of the moving column, Neville brought up the battle cry of the defunct Third Legion.

"Onward, lads! No sacrifice!" he began.

The men seemed to understand exactly what he was aiming for, as the answering call was unanimous and deafening in intensity.

"NO VICTORY!"

While the original motto had been designated in Latin, Neville liked it best when his men said it in English. For some reason, he felt like it allowed him to connect with the message better if it was in his mother tongue rather than in another language. Thankfully, his men seemed to agree, as they renewed their efforts to escalate the staircase as quickly as possible.

Of course, the very idea that they would reach the top unchallenged was pure fantasy. Just the fact that they had managed to get passed the half-way point unchallenged had been nothing short of a miracle. Thus, when the enemy finally seemed to react and reached the column at about 60 percent up the staircase, the Imperial soldiers were waiting.

Focusing as much as possible to keep up with the constant spell fire, Neville conjured more shields in the opening volley than he could ever recall previous to that point in his life. They weren't like the Death Eaters; these soldiers of Voldemort's were packing an alarming punch, and their accuracy, while not perfect, was worrisome. If they had fought the pre-coup Imperial Army, Neville had a sinking feeling that even with the rotating fire techniques and all the training in the world, the Imperial forces would have lost handily.

Already, a dozen of his men had fallen from well aimed spell fire, of which about half of them were suffering from a lethal injury or were outright dead; the other half didn't look that well off either.

Neville quickly shot up a magical shield that barely formed in time to deflect a slashing curse that would have decapitated one of his men further down the staircase. Unfortunately, it was for naught, as a Killing Curse soon after crashed into the man, causing him to fall limply over the granite railing and down the middle towards the ground below, dead way before he crashed into the tiled floor.

"Shit!" hissed Neville as he watched the aforementioned soldier die, followed by two more who also fell to Killing Curses. "Shit, shit, shit!" His eyes were shooting between the enemy and his own men, who had stopped their ascent in favour of taking cover behind the granite railing to protect themselves from the accurate spell fire.

"Sir, we are getting killed out here!" shouted one of the lieutenants at Neville from his crouching position behind the solid, granite railing. "We have got to keep moving!"

Neville shot the man a look that plainly said, "No, really?" but had to admit that the guy had a point. Pinned down as they were in the spiral staircase, it was only a matter of time before either the granite railing was chipped away to nothingness or the enemy began shooting down at the coverless soldiers running up the stairs. As it stood, they were lucky that the vanguard was keeping their attention solely focused on the front lines.

Neville felt someone practically throw themselves next to him, and turned to see one of the men he'd hid with back at the docks. It was the tournament shooter. The man had a wary look as he glanced up and saw the scorch mark in the bedrock where his head had been not even a second ago, but then grinned at Neville.

"Brigadier, sir!" he greeted. "Any crazy ideas to get us out of this fine mess?"

Neville grimaced at the new reputation he seemed to be gaining, but said nothing in favour of thinking of a way out of this mess. He thought back to his basic training, trying to think what the manual said about these sorts of situations.

Then, he had an idea. It wasn't a crazy idea, by any means, but it was quite dangerous. But first, he had to check a few things. Motioning with his hands to the men behind him, he got a nod in return from the lieutenant nearby and got himself ready to spring up to his feet. Then, the signal came.

"COVERING FIRE!"

Neville shot up to his feet, wand raised, and cast several shields that saved a good dozen soldiers from getting killed. All the while, he was also scouting out the distance between their position and the staircase portion on the other side of the middle void (about ten meters), and the concentration of enemy troops on the other side (very dense). Once he got what he was looking for, he motioned with his hands once again, and quickly dropped back down, his men following a fraction of a second later.

Once again, the lieutenant and tournament shooter crept up to him and looked at him expectantly. "Well?" asked the lieutenant.

Neville nodded. "Pass the word that I need a Bombarda grenade," he told the man. Two pair of eyebrows rose high at the order. Bombarda grenades were usually handled by demolition squads; they made the Reductor grenades look like a firecracker by comparison.

"Are we even at a safe distance from the blast radius?" asked the tournament shooter sceptically.

Neville nodded. "If we toss it into the staircase proper and not the against the railing, the granite should be enough to dampen the impact blast a bit, and our own railing will protect us from the remaining force," he theorized. The truth was, he had no idea. Most of the time, Bombarda grenades were used to carve a way into a facility, like Sulu had done in Salt Lake City. This was different; here, he was trying to clear a staircase.

"Why not use a couple of Reductor grenades?" asked the lieutenant.

Neville shook his head. "The stairs will likely make them bounce out of the staircase with their rounded design," he reminded them. "The Bombarda grenades are better suited because of the fact that they stick to whatever they hit."

"They might also serve to blow a hole into the stair," mumbled the tournament shooter, who had once seen a Bombarda grenade used to blow a wide hole into a thick, concrete wall.

Neville grimaced. That was a possibility, unfortunately. "True, but it's the safer bet. And if the staircase does collapse, I'll repair it with my magic, right after making sure that the debris doesn't crush the lads below."

"That makes me feel so good about this plan..." muttered the lieutenant sarcastically. Neville glared at the man.

"You got a better idea, lieutenant?" he snapped irritably, stressing the man's rank to remind him that he was currently speaking to a senior officer. "No? Then we're going with this."

The lieutenant gave a curt nod before turning and hurriedly scurrying back down the stairs to find the requested heavy duty grenades, leaving Neville with the tournament shooter, who was looking at his superior officer somewhat warily.

"He has a point, sir," observed the man a few seconds after the lieutenant had left.

Neville grunted. "I know," he admitted. "But it's the best we got. And frankly," he continued, "if we don't get moving soon, Sulu's offensive is going to stagnate as well, and then we're all fucked."

Neville's companion said nothing at the bleak commentary, but the brown-haired commander could see the acknowledgement in the man's eyes. They both knew that, whatever their misgivings, this was the only feasible way for them to advance.

Neville paused in his thoughts.

Was it the only way left?

Hadn't he conceived of a spell that could work in this sort of situation to their advantage? Sure, it wasn't tested, but...

Apparently, his line of thinking showed up clearly on his face, as the tournament shooter looked at him expectantly and curiously.

"Something come up, sir?" he asked knowingly.

Neville grunted again. "Not sure. Maybe," he admitted.

"Care to share?"

Neville debated doing so for a few seconds before relenting. "I might have another way to clear the way."

The soldier said nothing, instead opting to raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

"You've heard of the Duke's fighting prowess, right?" asked Neville. The ironic snort from the soldier told him that he had. "Right. Well, part of his skill is based on a personal speed-increasing spell. It's actually quite easy to learn, but he Harry has the advantage that he's also naturally strong and fast—so much so that the spell just increases his skills way beyond human ability."

"Yeah, so?"

Neville took a deep breath. "Well, I wanted to try and even the playing field, so to speak, so I tried to make a spell that could impose the same effects on me," he explained. "But it's never been tested."

The soldier raised an eyebrow in pleasant surprise. "You made a spell?" he asked, just to be sure.

Neville shrugged. "I had Bill Weasley help me; he seemed eager to get another project, to be honest," he admitted. "But regardless, I think this might actually be a viable alternative to our current problem."

Scepticism was his reply. "How do you know it'll work, if it's never been tested? In fact, just how much could go wrong?" asked the shooter.

Neville gave a noncommittal shrug. "A lot," he stated bluntly. "Using magic to augment your physical abilities is one thing—to get them to superhuman levels is potentially deadly. One miscalculation and my heart could explode from over-stimulation."

The shooter grimaced. That didn't sound pretty. "I vote we call that plan D, sir, if that's all right with you," he suggested.

Neville nodded in agreement, just in time for the lieutenant to make his way back to him, a few other officers in tow.

"Gentlemen," greeted Neville with a nod, only slightly flinching when a red-tinged curse flew overhead and slammed into the granite without any real visible effect.

The other seemed to have followed in his flinch, as they were all looking upwards warily before looking back at their commanding officer.

"Sir," started one of the officers that the lieutenant had brought with him, a Major by the looks of his uniform tags. "Lieutenant Tomlinson tells us you intend to use Bombarda grenades on the enemy. Is this true?" he inquired politely.

Neville nodded solemnly. "I have thought long and hard on this, gentlemen; it is the only way to get the column back on the move."

Predictably, scepticism prevailed amongst his officers. He couldn't blame them—if he was on the other end of this argument, he would have been sceptical too.

"Would the granite even sustain such a blast?" asked one of the other officers, a Captain. "What's to say it won't just collapse on the men?"

Neville brought up his wand and showed it to them, absently twirling it amongst his fingers as he explained his reasoning. "If the granite seems to be in a state where collapse is imminent, I will personally place a repairing spell on the structure," he told them. "Believe me, gentlemen, I do not cherish the idea of putting my men through such risk."

The officers seemed unconvinced, but in the end, it was Neville's call. Whether or not it was the right one, they had to see it through. Silently, Lieutenant Tomlinson brought out the Bombarda grenades he had packed into his kit after finding them and passed them to Neville, while the rest of the officer corps left to return to their men to prepare for the impending charge.

Left by themselves once again, Neville, the tournament shooter, and Lieutenant Tomlinson all crowded around the debated grenade. It was a rectangular object of the brownish colour usually seen in paper bags. One side, however, was covered by a paper-like material of yellow colour, with one edge slightly peeled off. It was this that Neville grasped, but withheld from immediately taking it off. Doing so would have activated the heavy-duty grenade's countdown.

Instead, Neville looked at his two subordinates, and then gazed past them towards the crouching soldiers that lined up against the granite railing—seeing for the first time that their eyes were all fully aimed at him. Many of them seemed concerned, but there was also a sense of grim acceptance of what was to come.

Neville took a deep breath, his fingers clamping down on the peel tightly. "Here goes nothing," he mumbled, nodding at his two subordinates. The two quickly turned away and took cover, while Neville violently pulled off the safety peel and, barely giving himself time to process what he had just activated, shot to his feet, grenade in hand.

Predictably, the enemy started firing at him within milliseconds of him getting up. Whether it was his good fortune or just bad aim, none of the spells seemed to hit him for the few seconds he was up on his feet. Taking advantage of this seeming divine protection, Neville reared up his arm and, immediately finding his desired target, threw the grenade like a pro quarterback before quickly ducking once more and curling up into a protective ball.

The grenade flew in the air along Neville's desired trajectory and missed the enemy soldiers completely, sailing right by one's head as it then curved down and hit the wall just under the line of sight of the top of the granite railing.

Neville had just enough time to hear Lieutenant Tomlinson whimper once before the grenade detonated.

Gates of Hogwarts Grounds

The battle at the front gates of Hogwarts had descended into a stalemate after hours of battling. The Imperial forces, initially holding the advantage of momentum, had driven the defenders from the front of the gate back into the grounds, but in failing to keep moving at this speed, they allowed enough time for the enemy to retreat through the gates and close the massive doors to the enemy, allowing the protective enchantments on the gates to slam down and turn the Imperial attack ineffective.

This wasn't to say that the Imperials were in a mood to give up, though. Tenaciously, the Imperials launched wave after wave of attacks on the gates, using their overwhelming numbers and vast quantities of siege equipment to try and take the gates the old fashioned way. Unfortunately, these attempts, too, failed. The end result was about two thousand Imperial soldiers dead, many more wounded, and the gates still in enemy hands.

At the back of the offensive, yet within eyesight of the offensive, John Sulu was getting increasingly frustrated and angered at the lack of progress in the siege. The enemy, it seemed, was far more capable than he had given them credit for. As such, part of that anger was directed at himself for not taking Harry's advice to proceed with caution. He had thought that, with the Death Eaters eliminated, the only people who would feasibly work for Voldemort were weaklings that had not managed to stand out under the Death Eater regime. Instead, he found that his enemy was not just magically strong, but also quite the capable soldiers. It reminded him of the Terracotta soldiers, quite frankly, and yet he knew those to have been wiped off the face of the planet.

At the moment, his exhausted troops were taking cover in the assault trenches they had managed to dig up during one of the failed assaults. The network of trenches webbed out back towards their camp, where the Imperial artillery kept firing shells at the magical barriers that protected the gate.

In the middle of the trench network, along with most of his staff, Sulu was attempting to coordinate another offensive, alternating between pointing things out on a map, giving orders, and looking at the enemy positions and his own via field binoculars. He was about to give another spate of orders when he suddenly felt the earth shake beneath him, and struggled to keep himself standing. Yet, as soon as it had begun, it was over, leaving Sulu and the rest of the main Imperial offensive very confused.

"What was that?" demanded Sulu as he ducked when he noticed a stray spell go right for him. The spell hit the ground before the trench and only served to kick up a little earth.

None of his staff seemed to know, but one of them pointed out a rising pillar of smoke from behind the gates.

"How far is that?" asked Sulu as he finally noticed the column of smoke. He narrowed his eyes in contemplation. 'That's not enough to the right for it to be the ships in the lake...' he realised.

One of his field staff seemed to be an ace at mental calculations, because he was soon rewarded with a distance estimate. "Looks to be on the castle cliff, sir," guessed the aide.

Sulu felt like cursing at the guess. If that was true, then that smoke was either the work of Neville, or the enemy fighting the Brigadier. Either way, he had to find out what had happened to his support column. With a flick of his hand, one of the wizards on his staff brought out his wand and tapped it to the Imperial commander's temple, murmuring under his breath the spell. Almost immediately, Sulu felt the spell start to work, and he quickly broadcasted out his message to all the magical signatures he could find, not worrying about the enemy tapping into the connection; even if they knew he was communicating with Neville, once the Brigadier activated the two-way connection, it would be impossible to tap into.

"This is General Sulu calling Brigadier Longbottom," he broadcasted. "Please advise, what is your status and position?"

Sulu then stopped and waited for an answer. He stayed that way for about five minutes before repeating his request, and was again rewarded with five minutes of silence. Sulu began to sweat now, becoming increasingly worried about the flanking column's status. He was about to relay orders for the Navy to drop a few Marine squads to ascertain the status of Neville's column when he felt a two-way connection open.

"This is Brigadier Longbottom reporting in to General Sulu," he heard in his mind. "We are a-okay. Repeat, a-okay. Over."

"...repeat, a-okay. Over," repeated Neville, before letting loose a hacking cough. Dust was everywhere.

The Bombarda grenade had done its work masterfully, but Neville had forgotten one thing: it was not typically used in closed environments, and even then, never in window-less areas. The closed conditions of the staircase room had essentially fed into the explosion and caused the devastation to multiply several times over. It was only the fact that he had, at the last second, realised his mistake that had saved them.

Pouring everything he had into it, he conjured up a magical shield that blanketed the entire area where he and his men were and so prevented the explosion from annihilating them as well. The problem was, with the way down sealed off, the explosion multiplied several times over again, this time in an upwards direction. The result was that the staircase was essentially disintegrated for a good forty meters up.

"You know, I hate to say I told you so..." Neville heard behind him. The brunette commander groaned. He was so not in the mood for this.

"Not now, Tomlinson," he growled, though his heart just wasn't in it—he was way too exhausted as it was. Keeping that explosion at bay had basically sapped any strength he had left after the Lake crossing. "Merlin's balls I feel tired," he complained to no one in particular.

Someone coughed behind him, but Neville felt it too tiring to move his head around to have a look. "Well, sir, it's not like we'll be able to move along anyway," commented the person, who Neville recognised as the tournament shooter.

Looking up, Neville saw that the man was right. The staircase up to about forty meters above them were simply gone. The granite had been rendered into dust from the magnitude of the explosion, and there was simply no way to keep moving. On the flip side, the enemy would no longer be able to rain down spells onto the column, seeing as how the entrance seemed to have caved in from the blast. Still, that left the problem of getting the column into position.

Placing his wand on his left temple, Neville quietly activated the communication spell and sought out Sulu. Not finding him, he then sought out the nearest magical signature, and locked onto it.

"This is Brigadier Longbottom, please respond," he broadcasted.

"Brigadier Longbottom, this is Major Davis. What's the matter, sir?"

Neville sighed. "Unfortunately, it seems that in our haste to clear the enemy from the stairwell at the docks, the last forty or so meters in stairs have been evaporated. We cannot, I repeat, cannot continue our advance for now."

Silence greeted Neville for a while, until the brown-haired man started to feel uneasy. What would Sulu say?

"Brigadier Longbottom, General Sulu has advised that you stand your men down for today. No progress has been made on the front gates either. We must regroup and try again tomorrow," replied Davis at last. "Admiral Staples and our own artillery will continue harassing the enemy until our next offensive. Until then, try to find an alternate way up to the castle and we will attempt to get the gates open. Over and out."

With that, the connection broke, and Neville was left to his men. Neville was silent for a few seconds, dropping his wand arm to rest on his legs. He then sighed and looked tiredly at Tomlinson.

"Pass the word: we're standing down for today. The attack will resume tomorrow," he relayed the general orders. He then gave another sigh. "The plan failed."

Elsewhere, two figures were hunched over a strange chessboard. It was strange in that the board itself was not imprinted with the usual dual-coloured squares that showed where the pieces would be placed. Instead, it looked like a map of a particular area.

On the board itself were several figures. Two of them were of miniature versions of Imperial soldiers. Three more of them looked like typical robed wizards. Two more were dragons, and the last piece was a ship.

Currently, one of the wizard pieces was knocked down onto its side, while the Imperial soldier figure next to it remained standing. Unfortunately, the wizard's player had placed down a small block between them, which served to annoy the figure's opponent. Elsewhere on the board, the wizard figure that the other Imperial soldier piece had been attacking was still standing, as was the Imperial soldier; yet, it was undeniable that the offensive had been a failure.

"I believe this is my win," said the first figure, his voice silky and smooth.

The other figure gave him a cold, if silent glare. "Dumb luck."

A soft, hiss-like chuckle emanated from the man's opponent. "Perhaps so, but it is my win nonetheless."

His opponent said nothing, but then gave a smirk as he brought out a curious little piece and placed it on the edge of the board. "Maybe, but this battle's just begun."

It was an Airship.

AN: Like I said before; updates will be slow in coming, since I have to essentially rewrite all of the battle and thereafter. Please be patient, and as always, reviews and feedback are highly appreciated.

Oh, also, kudos to whoever can guess the few references to popular culture I've added in this chapter.