The professor stood on the little hill, oblivious to his surroundings and
yet, it seemed, so very aware. His eyes were closed, and Anthony wasn't
sure whether he should be there or not, because his teacher had not spoken
for the longest time; but something kept him right where he was. Perhaps it
was fear, perhaps intuition, but it felt more like... not curiosity, it was
so much stronger than that. I felt like he had no right not to know. The
professor had given him the impression that it was a sin to be ignorant of
this, and despite his misgivings (to put it very mildly), a small, hitherto
silent part of his mind said *yes, we must know*.
It felt very strangely like a betrayal not to, although Anthony couldn't for the life of him say why.
****
He remembered...
He'd never seen him scared before. He was always fierce, stubborn, unafraid. In hindsight, that really should have been a hint. But no matter. What mattered was the wall of beasts boiling up the hillside against the setting sun. Night was falling, in every way imaginable, and he was sitting behind a firewall, not because he was afraid to die but because he just did not know which side to fight for. So he simply watched.
The fight was not attractive. It was not organised. He had always thought that war would be a pretty thing, and for some reason, he always thought it would be one of the cleanest ways to die; simple Avada Kedavra from both sides, and all would fall. But hardly anyone used the killing curse here. He supposed that it must be too difficult to do for too long - instead, both sides hurled hexes for the most part, sometimes fireballs, and many even had... he winced in distaste... weapons. And so the battle was bloody, and hideous. There had been patches of snow on the ground contrasting with the new grass, but now all that was there was mud and a pink slush.
He could see Madam Pomfrey running ragged, the dead and the dying almost too many for her and the house-elf nurses to attend to. He saw many of the older children sitting with her, brewing healing potions and antiseptics. He looked detachedly at the mounting dead, wondering morbidly if there were any there he knew. Oh, look, it was Sinistra, she was gone. and Trelawney, she had fallen running away. Pansy was there, and he blinked, surprised at the indifference he felt. Many Slytherins had fallen, but there were even more Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. The Ravenclaws, unsurprisingly, were mostly the ones helping out with the impromptu infirmary. He could see Granger there, too, and that surprised him until he saw who she was tending to. Ah. Weasel, naturally. Potter would, obviously, be fighting like the good, pure little bastard he was.
He couldn't hear anything but screaming and sobbing, and the soft crackling of the protective flames. And then, as the dark creatures rose up, there was a sudden hush.
Everyone looked to the East.
That was the thing he remembered, afterwards. Everyone looked to the East.
And again, the spell was broken and he was brought crashing back to reality. His eyes snapped open, and he looked to the East now. Then he looked at the boy who stood at his side; Anthony looked at him with something burning in his eyes. It took him a moment to recognise it for what it was: a desire for knowledge.
He pointed a slender finger in the direction of his gaze.
"There, where the forest meets the horizon. The heads of house stood there, and the creatures of the forest came to stand with them. They wanted to fight for their home, after all."
It was one of the most vivid images he carried with him from that night: Dumbledore standing straight and tall in challenge, his professors at his sides. It was strange how all the animals seemed to gather to those most like them. All the winged creatures gathered to McGonagall, the raptor birds, the bats, the griffins, and the hippogriffs; for a moment, as she stood with an owl on her hand and her steel grey hair loose in the wind, she seemed so like her namesake that it was as if the very Gods of old presided over this day.
Flitwick gathered to him all the little creatures, the ones that never seemed to matter much until they were backed into a corner and bared their little teeth at last, refusing to back down no matter what the odds.
A great cracking sound rent the air - the trees themselves were moving! And they grew legs and heaved themselves out of the ground, and gathered around Sprout; and at her ankles gathered foxes, and badgers, and wolves, and all manner of creatures who would protect their warrens and holes to the very last.
And there he stood, glaring into the ranks of Death Eaters, challenging them with but a look. And at his heels there came the creeping things; the creatures that were named dark by those who did not understand. The Acromantulas came, furious at the death of their leader's great friend. The serpents came, too, the ones that had not flocked to the Dark Lord. All the things that had seemed evil were now going to prove themselves to be, if not on the side of light, then at least against the dark.
The Centaurs came with bows and arrows, lining up in ranks a hundred strong. Unicorns stood, heads lowered, ready to charge.
And then with a roar of challenge, the two sides sprang forward and met.
"The battle started anew, then. Many more were killed, and many creatures on both sides with them."
"How did we win, professor?"
He turned sharply to look at the boy, who looked at him with such an honest, innocent curiosity that he could not deny him an honest answer.
"We did not win, boy. They simply lost first."
It was bedlam. More than once a Death Eater or a dark creature crashed into the firewall, only to be consumed by the flames upon contact, dying with a horrible piercing shriek. It stank behind the firewall; it smelled of burning flesh, of blood, and of the reminder that not all the children had as strong or indifferent a countenance as he, and more than one had thrown up or pissed themselves in fear. It was a horrible reminder of what they were: children, nothing more. And out there were their teachers, fighting for their lives, and more than a few of their classmates.
Somewhere amidst the confusion, there was a sudden hush. Enemies, man and beast, stopped and turned. A ripple had passed over all those of darkness, as if they had suddenly stopped and almost been caught in a swoon.
There was laughter from the centre of the field. Not... evil laughter. Childish laughter. Hysterical laughter. And then there was a hush, in which all that could be heard was the ripple of flames, and the whisper of the wind, and the sobbing pant of an exhausted boy; and then there was silence.
The wind strengthened to a brief gust that went through the field, and blew up a great cloud of ash, and carried it away into the West.
Voldemort was gone.
And then a cry went up, and everything that was dark, instead of cowering and fleeing in terror, seemed to grow with the strength of fury and unleashed a new wave of wrath upon the ravaged field, and the teachers, who had barely managed to remain standing during the initial fight, were now too exhausted to resist on their own. They fled through the firewall, where they might be safe for a while. But the boy who watched could see that even keeping that up was draining them. Dumbledore looked exhausted and so old and frail that his heads of house rushed to his side to support him. McGonagall was bleeding from a long cut on her temple, and had several small injuries. Flitwick was still conscious despite the fact that he now resembled a bad of broken sticks; anyone could see that there was terrible internal damage. Sprout was dead. And Snape. Snape held up Dumbledore as if his own life depended upon the old man's. He was covered in blood, and obviously exhausted; he looked badly injured. He had been fighting with a reckless abandon that had shocked the boy who watched with its violence and ferocity.
He could see others, now - the ones who had fought along side the teachers. There were... many of the Weasleys; and dozens of people that he didn't recognise. Lupin, their old DADA teacher, the werewolf; he looked badly hurt, and the man holding him up was... Sirius Black? What the... of course, of course the boy knew that he hadn't been responsible for the crimes he was accused of - his name was spat with hatred by all the Death eaters - but he hadn't thought that they knew that. Only half the students that had gone through the wall had come back.
And there, through the firewall, carried limp in the arms of a palomino centaur, was Perfect Potter. But... he didn't look so perfect anymore. In fact, he... didn't look quite alive.
"But Harry Potter survived, didn't he, professor? He's a top auror, isn't he?"
"Yes, he lived. But many died, boy. That wasn't the end."
It felt very strangely like a betrayal not to, although Anthony couldn't for the life of him say why.
****
He remembered...
He'd never seen him scared before. He was always fierce, stubborn, unafraid. In hindsight, that really should have been a hint. But no matter. What mattered was the wall of beasts boiling up the hillside against the setting sun. Night was falling, in every way imaginable, and he was sitting behind a firewall, not because he was afraid to die but because he just did not know which side to fight for. So he simply watched.
The fight was not attractive. It was not organised. He had always thought that war would be a pretty thing, and for some reason, he always thought it would be one of the cleanest ways to die; simple Avada Kedavra from both sides, and all would fall. But hardly anyone used the killing curse here. He supposed that it must be too difficult to do for too long - instead, both sides hurled hexes for the most part, sometimes fireballs, and many even had... he winced in distaste... weapons. And so the battle was bloody, and hideous. There had been patches of snow on the ground contrasting with the new grass, but now all that was there was mud and a pink slush.
He could see Madam Pomfrey running ragged, the dead and the dying almost too many for her and the house-elf nurses to attend to. He saw many of the older children sitting with her, brewing healing potions and antiseptics. He looked detachedly at the mounting dead, wondering morbidly if there were any there he knew. Oh, look, it was Sinistra, she was gone. and Trelawney, she had fallen running away. Pansy was there, and he blinked, surprised at the indifference he felt. Many Slytherins had fallen, but there were even more Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. The Ravenclaws, unsurprisingly, were mostly the ones helping out with the impromptu infirmary. He could see Granger there, too, and that surprised him until he saw who she was tending to. Ah. Weasel, naturally. Potter would, obviously, be fighting like the good, pure little bastard he was.
He couldn't hear anything but screaming and sobbing, and the soft crackling of the protective flames. And then, as the dark creatures rose up, there was a sudden hush.
Everyone looked to the East.
That was the thing he remembered, afterwards. Everyone looked to the East.
And again, the spell was broken and he was brought crashing back to reality. His eyes snapped open, and he looked to the East now. Then he looked at the boy who stood at his side; Anthony looked at him with something burning in his eyes. It took him a moment to recognise it for what it was: a desire for knowledge.
He pointed a slender finger in the direction of his gaze.
"There, where the forest meets the horizon. The heads of house stood there, and the creatures of the forest came to stand with them. They wanted to fight for their home, after all."
It was one of the most vivid images he carried with him from that night: Dumbledore standing straight and tall in challenge, his professors at his sides. It was strange how all the animals seemed to gather to those most like them. All the winged creatures gathered to McGonagall, the raptor birds, the bats, the griffins, and the hippogriffs; for a moment, as she stood with an owl on her hand and her steel grey hair loose in the wind, she seemed so like her namesake that it was as if the very Gods of old presided over this day.
Flitwick gathered to him all the little creatures, the ones that never seemed to matter much until they were backed into a corner and bared their little teeth at last, refusing to back down no matter what the odds.
A great cracking sound rent the air - the trees themselves were moving! And they grew legs and heaved themselves out of the ground, and gathered around Sprout; and at her ankles gathered foxes, and badgers, and wolves, and all manner of creatures who would protect their warrens and holes to the very last.
And there he stood, glaring into the ranks of Death Eaters, challenging them with but a look. And at his heels there came the creeping things; the creatures that were named dark by those who did not understand. The Acromantulas came, furious at the death of their leader's great friend. The serpents came, too, the ones that had not flocked to the Dark Lord. All the things that had seemed evil were now going to prove themselves to be, if not on the side of light, then at least against the dark.
The Centaurs came with bows and arrows, lining up in ranks a hundred strong. Unicorns stood, heads lowered, ready to charge.
And then with a roar of challenge, the two sides sprang forward and met.
"The battle started anew, then. Many more were killed, and many creatures on both sides with them."
"How did we win, professor?"
He turned sharply to look at the boy, who looked at him with such an honest, innocent curiosity that he could not deny him an honest answer.
"We did not win, boy. They simply lost first."
It was bedlam. More than once a Death Eater or a dark creature crashed into the firewall, only to be consumed by the flames upon contact, dying with a horrible piercing shriek. It stank behind the firewall; it smelled of burning flesh, of blood, and of the reminder that not all the children had as strong or indifferent a countenance as he, and more than one had thrown up or pissed themselves in fear. It was a horrible reminder of what they were: children, nothing more. And out there were their teachers, fighting for their lives, and more than a few of their classmates.
Somewhere amidst the confusion, there was a sudden hush. Enemies, man and beast, stopped and turned. A ripple had passed over all those of darkness, as if they had suddenly stopped and almost been caught in a swoon.
There was laughter from the centre of the field. Not... evil laughter. Childish laughter. Hysterical laughter. And then there was a hush, in which all that could be heard was the ripple of flames, and the whisper of the wind, and the sobbing pant of an exhausted boy; and then there was silence.
The wind strengthened to a brief gust that went through the field, and blew up a great cloud of ash, and carried it away into the West.
Voldemort was gone.
And then a cry went up, and everything that was dark, instead of cowering and fleeing in terror, seemed to grow with the strength of fury and unleashed a new wave of wrath upon the ravaged field, and the teachers, who had barely managed to remain standing during the initial fight, were now too exhausted to resist on their own. They fled through the firewall, where they might be safe for a while. But the boy who watched could see that even keeping that up was draining them. Dumbledore looked exhausted and so old and frail that his heads of house rushed to his side to support him. McGonagall was bleeding from a long cut on her temple, and had several small injuries. Flitwick was still conscious despite the fact that he now resembled a bad of broken sticks; anyone could see that there was terrible internal damage. Sprout was dead. And Snape. Snape held up Dumbledore as if his own life depended upon the old man's. He was covered in blood, and obviously exhausted; he looked badly injured. He had been fighting with a reckless abandon that had shocked the boy who watched with its violence and ferocity.
He could see others, now - the ones who had fought along side the teachers. There were... many of the Weasleys; and dozens of people that he didn't recognise. Lupin, their old DADA teacher, the werewolf; he looked badly hurt, and the man holding him up was... Sirius Black? What the... of course, of course the boy knew that he hadn't been responsible for the crimes he was accused of - his name was spat with hatred by all the Death eaters - but he hadn't thought that they knew that. Only half the students that had gone through the wall had come back.
And there, through the firewall, carried limp in the arms of a palomino centaur, was Perfect Potter. But... he didn't look so perfect anymore. In fact, he... didn't look quite alive.
"But Harry Potter survived, didn't he, professor? He's a top auror, isn't he?"
"Yes, he lived. But many died, boy. That wasn't the end."