Disclaimer: I don't own any of it.
Chapter Fourteen
In the Midst of War
November 18 marked a small but significant victory for the light side. From that night onwards, Ron and his troops managed to secure a handsome supply of bodily excretions from various Death Eaters, as well as a time turner. Moreover, they managed to strike down Mulciber, a member of the Dark Lord's inner circle, but not before extracting vital information regarding the Dark Lord's plans and the current state of his resources. More importantly, they successfully staged the strike to look like a random muggle theft gone wrong, leaving only a muggle prostitute half alive at the time, so that she could relay the muggleness of the attack to the Death Eaters that would interrogate her hours later. The Death Eaters would, of course, kill her, before reporting their findings to the Dark Lord.
Now armed with the knowledge of events to come, the Phoenix Army began a campaign to discredit his own soldiers. Occasionally, one would go missing, never to appear again. The Phoenix Army would not kill the Death Eater, for they knew that the Dark Lord could tell if the individual had been slain, nor could they keep the Death Eater conscious, because messages could be transmitted wandlessly through the Dark Mark. As such, prisoners had their memories extracted into a pensive before they were poisoned with the draft of living death. This had the upshot of ensuring that if they wanted to revive the prisoner later and frame him for something, his memories wouldn't reveal the existence of the PA. It had become common knowledge that the Dark Lord was skilled at cracking memory charms, and had no regard for the mental well-being of his soldiers.
From time to time, Death Eaters would appear in compromising positions, or possessing incriminating evidence that would link them to the light side. It was the PA's sincere hope that the Dark Lord would kill them outright. Better yet, the PA, loathed as they were to use it, employed mind control techniques, including the Imperius Curse, to stage conversations between phoenix soldiers who were polyjuiced either to look like other Death Eaters or unknown muggles, which would hint at fabricated plans and locations, which could then be counter-booby-trapped in anticipation of a Death Eater response, assuming that the Dark Lord took the time to sift through the Death Eater's memories. The trick, of course, was to ensure that when the Death Eater's made moves based on the fictitious plans, the resulting disaster for the Dark Side would not appear to be pre-empted, but merely the result of the incompetence of his own Death Eaters. The coup de gras, however, was going to be when they finally reveal the orchestrators of the underground movement to be none other than corrupted inner circle members attempting to overthrow the Dark Lord and take his place. Ron hoped that they could put the vampires and werewolves in similarly incriminating positions, and that the Dark Lord would be prejudiced enough to paint the entirety of a species with the brush of treason. It could be sweet. If all went well, the Dark Lord's forces would crumble to dust without the Dark Lord ever having caught on to the existence of the Phoenix Army.
Neville surprised even himself when he spoke up to counter-argue a point, especially because it was a point made by a Ravenclaw, and he had to admit they were amongst the best strategists they had. "Going after Bellatrix will only serve to backfire on us," he said. "If you try to incriminate her as being a traitor to the Dark Lord, you may end up alerting him to our presence."
Lisa Turpin shook her head vehemently. "That's ridiculous, Neville. How would the Dark Lord even be able to come up with the thought that the Phoenix Army exists? There won't be any evidence. It will work just like our last two raids, only this time it will be one of his top lieutenants who take the hit."
"You're underestimating our opponent. He will not believe so readily that Bellatrix Lestrange has turned against him. Our tactics so far have been designed to demonstrate incompetence amongst his followers, not outright treachery, though I think we've done an excellent job sowing the first seeds of it, especially given his paranoid nature. Moreover, this isn't just any Death Eater we're talking about. This is Bellatrix Lestrange. I don't think you will so easily fool him into thinking she's a turncoat. She proclaimed her loyalty to him even after his downfall and went to Azkaban for him. Her faith has never wavered, and he will take this into account when evaluating her loyalty. I assure you, the Dark Lord will have already considered the possibility that other secret organizations are out there plotting against him. He would be a fool to think otherwise. Only by virtue of the fact that he doesn't think any of them are a threat to his power base does he not go after searching for them in earnest. Besides, it wouldn't be a cost-effective allocation of his resources to ferret out every potential threat. No, he will wait until the threats realize themselves in some tangible way, and this is one of them."
The others at the table nodded their assent at Neville's words.
"It is not as uncommon a strategy as some of us may think," Ron added. "Using decoys and subterfuge has been the hallmark of a good Slytherin plan. Making this plan airtight is critical. Therefore, we should always proceed with extreme caution."
"Yes, but how long is this plan going to take?" asked Katie. "I mean, it's been four months and we're still only setting up the pieces."
Ron nodded. "You're absolutely right, Katie. Unfortunately, our plan will take at least several more months of what must seem like a great deal of inactivity. Make no mistake, we're all qualified wizards and witches here, and there's quite a number of us. We know who many of the Death Eaters are and we could probably go after several of them, probably killing or capturing them and extracting enough information to render the Dark Lord's plans useless for the next several months. However, we will suffer casualties if we do this, and we will come no closer to killing the Dark Lord, or even bringing him out into the open where he is vulnerable. You're forgetting one thing about this war, one thing which makes it fundamentally different from every other war in existence. Our enemy can wait. He can wait a great, long time. The traditional rules of attrition do not apply here. We cannot simply waste away his soldiers and hope that, over time, he will grow weak and old and simply lose his will to fight. No, he will only grow stronger, finding more rituals, gathering more information on the dark arts. It does not hurt that he has key allies in the dementors and werewolves and vampires. The dementors are immortal, as far as anyone can tell. Already, they are running amuck in the muggle world, and they will only be stopped once the Dark Lord is defeated. Until then, they will always answer his call. And the werewolves, and vampires are both groups which, if unchecked, could grow their numbers simply by converting ordinary wizards and witches. It will take time breaking the Dark Lord's defenses, because, frankly, he's had decades to build them. Moreover, we've seen firsthand that he can be incredibly cautious and foresighted. he's good at reading people and he possesses what seems like an endless amount of patience. I can't say for sure that our plan, if executed, will break him. It would be reckless of me to promise that, but I assure you, it's the safest at the moment and it has a reasonable chance of success. It provides our fighters with an opportunity to gain valuable experience with minimum risk, which is important for a group as young as us. If we charge in now, we will lose the opportunity to execute this kind of strategy, so it only makes sense to attempt it first and foremost and only upon its failure should we move ahead. I promise though, when we hit an insurmountable wall in the efficacy of this endeavour, then we will switch to a more aggressive, open posture."
Ron's monologue seemed to be enough to satisfy the eight members of the executive council. From there, the group shifted their discussion to finalizing plans on a strike against the Dark Lord's werewolf soldiers, which meant infiltrating some of the werewolf underground, a feat never before having been done successfully. That was mostly because werewolves could tell their own kind from humans and because werewolves were seldom ever keen to rat out their brethren. Remus Lupin was pretty much a lone exception to the rule, which made him distinctly useful to the Order of the Phoenix.
It was mid-January and, while Neville had to admit they had come a long way in fighting the Dark Lord, whether it be from learning complex magics, developing advanced weaponry and uncovering and foiling the Dark Lord's plans, it still did not seem to be enough. He supposed that, on a rational level, it was far more than he could have hoped for. But on an emotional level, it was missing one key ingredient - the thrill of the fight. It was the thing that every good Gryffindor war-soldier thrived on in these sorts of situations. That was why, as he prepared for his part in the covert operation that evening, he reflected on the last time he had gotten in a true firefight - long ago back at the DOM with Harry. Little did he know, he would be in for the fight of his life that very evening.
Lord Voldemort was not a happy camper. He had expected his soldiers to have made greater headway in securing power in the wake of Dumbledore's untimely death. Instead, however, it seemed as though they had grown lax, or lazy or weak or... something. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was definitely a problem in the works. Just what kind of problem he did not know. Admittedly, he had been rather generous upon his return at the end of the Triwzard Tournament and, since then, he had maintained a low key profile. He had not even been the one to dispatch Dumbledore, and, now, months later, he was beginning to wonder if perhaps it had been a strategic mistake not to demonstrate shows of power to his subordinates. It was a simple managerial mistake that needed to be corrected, though he was not quite sure how to do that. All his plans required delicate maneuvers, precision-timing, and impeccable execution. Running around blowing things up was not exactly conducive to creating a muggle-free utopia, which would be overseen by him and his inner council.
Nagini slithered up next to her master, her sleek black head rising up to his shoulder and staring out the window overlooking the main roadway of the new pureblood fortress. Before them, spread out from that hotel room window on the eighteenth floor of the Four Seasons was a city made of concrete, glass and steel. It shone brilliantly under the sun, and was a marvel of the muggles, with electricity available at every turn, ATM machines for extracting muggle money, cars parked on the streets, muggles milling about oblivious to the horror that was above them, going about their daily routine, or at least, what they thought was their daily routine. In actuality, a mass muggle confundus charm had been affixed to the city, turning the muggles pliable and easy to maneuver, effectively making them sheep for the dementors, the vampires the purebloods and anyone else who enjoyed torturing and killing the wretched little things. Technoparc was a magical miracle in many ways.
The dementors were yet another problem. Specifically, the lack of them. It had not gone unnoticed to him that, over the course of October and November and December the ranks of his most feared allies had thinned considerably and were now non-existent. He had considered interrogating them, detaining them, forcing them to do his bidding, all of which was possible, sort of. However, it would have required constant supervision by him personally, for he knew his soldiers were not capable of handling them if it came down to it. Only he, who had taken steps to rid himself of human weakness could endure their presence with ease. As such, he let them be, forcing himself to accept whatever decision they made about their alliance with him. There were certain battles he was simply not prepared to invite. As it happened, they, for whatever reason, had abandoned him.
All in all, his plans were not going according to schedule, and this made him extremely concerned. It made Lord Voldemort ask the question, "Why?" and that question had many answers, none of them good. Had his Death Eaters grown lazy? Had fourteen years of peacetime made them dull? Complacent? Certainly he had expected a great deal more of his inner circle in obtaining the prophecy from a few dratted schoolchildren. They should have executed their plan with greater professionalism. Instead of appearing in front of their enemies and taunting them, they should have simply crept up under disillusionment and bound and stunned them, summoning the prophecy in the process with a simple summoning charm. The stupid children never should have even known what hit them. It was almost as if his Death Eaters permitted the children to have a fighting chance, either because they wanted to enjoy the moment of gloating, or because they weren't really all that interested in fulfilling the task. Maybe some of them were content to return to Azkaban, as it was no longer the feared prison it once was, now that the dementors had left it. Of course, he had chalked it up to the former. But now, he was not so sure. That same level of incompetence was rearing its ugly head once more, and two Death Eaters were even found to be sending suspicious messages to one another. Further investigation had uncovered that one of them was a traitor and the other hesitant. Worse yet, the former had alluded to others that may have been interested in defecting. Unfortunately, the worm knew very little about these others. Still, this apparent, burgeoning conspiracy did not explain everything and that both troubled him and gave him hope. Possibly, there was an elaborate ruse brewing. On the other hand, it could be a combination of treachery and incompetence.
Lord Voldemort briefly considered interrogating and dispatching his known enemies, like the remainder of Dumbledore's Order. In all likelihood, new threats would come from one of them attempting to regroup. Still, it did not seem to be there style.
There is something I am missing," hissed Voldemort. "There must be some piece of the puzzle that eludes me, Nagini, and I do not know how to go about uncovering it."
Nagini turned her burning eyes to her master and replied, "You stand at a crossroads, my lord. If you cannot place your trust in your key enforcers, then you will never stand a chance of taking control of Britain. Every good king needs followers. You will have more to lose if you distrust them than if you trust them and they choose to betray you. Select a cadre of your most loyal servants, outfit them with superior magical protections and send them out to investigate these odd coincidences that befall your children."
"Of course, of course, Nagini. You are correct. As always." Voldemort stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I will trust those who suffered Azkaban for me. As well, I will trust the Colonel. And I will trust Severus, of course, for he has rid me of Albus Dumbledore when the Malfoy child failed to."
"And what of your allies?" Nagini asked, flicking its tongue and turning its gaze down to Fenra, who was stalking the streets, eyeing his next victim.
Voldemort considered him and the others, including the vampires, Banshees and other dark creatures that had flocked to him. "No," he said finally. "I believe this is a task for purebloods. Please, go fetch me a servant and a communication mirror. There is much to do for this new year."
Crabbe Manor, January 18.
Neville briefly took a moment to wonder how things had gotten so fucked up. When he had first walked into Crabbe Manor, he had adopted the superior air of none other than Goyle Senior, intent on spreading a few simple innuendos about himself and Drusilla Knot, a horse-faced woman fixated on gossiping about purebloods. His only aim had been to cause a bit of malcontent within the Dark Lord's ranks, hopefully adding to the atmosphere of confusion and, more importantly, giving Ron and friends enough time to slip in undetected and plant some mild, incriminating evidence that would have traces of both Goyle's and Drusilla's signatures on them, hopefully inciting turf warfare between the Death Eater's and fueling the Dark Lord's paranoia.
Neville had been practicing the big, dumb and ugly look for some time, and had perfected the combination for this very event. He had greeted Mrs. Knot with a an extra long glance, a touch of the hands, a compliment about her hair; just enough to make people wonder a little bit. It was when he was talking to Crabbe, espousing the virtues of a woman in a tight little black dress, all the while making suggestive glances Drusilla's way that there was a really big explosion, causing the large, oak double-doors to the dining hall to shatter in a fit of splinters and dust.
Hermione dropped down from a dead oak, her bare feet silently striking the thick blanket of soft January snow, her now black eyes glistening with unrestrained power. Standing in the pitch black dark under a clouded, moonless sky, her unnatural black eyes caught sight of every movement in the impossible blackness. She felt the sting of the wards buzzing around her, trying to understand what manner of creature was she, what kind of blood was it that coursed through her veins. She was unlike anything that had ever existed before, or at least in the last two thousand years. She was a queen. With an idle flick of her arm, she cast a legilimantic wave, using it much like a sonar to ferret out the location of any living creature within a fifty metre radius. There was nothing, which satisfied her immensely. Briefly, she considered taking the time to dismantle the inner detection wards, which would surely alert the inhabitants of her imminent arrival, but she dismissed the thought after some consideration. It would be too easy if she killed them outright, when there was so much to be gained by testing her new skills in open battle. Unconsciously, her right hand formed a tight fist in anticipation, letting out loose waves of unfocused mind destroying energy.
Oh yes, she was going to have some fun.
Ron, disillusioned and obscured under a kevlar flak jacket, along with Katie and Terry, oozed their way silently through the halls of Crabbe Manor. Their target was Crabbe Senior's private study - the one not even his own family was supposed to know about, but which the Phoenix Army had gotten wind of through a seemingly innocuous reference stored in one of Goyle's memories. The halls were dark and quiet, the only sounds the occasional snore from a picture, the occasional candelabra coming to life in response to their passing. As they moved to the third floor, making their way to the far end of the hall where a secret stairwell brought them down back to the second floor, they heard the faint tinkling of wine glasses from somewhere down below.
"We must be just over the dining hall," Terry said speculatively. "Interesting. It may be that our resident Death Eater has some sort of spying ward which he can use to capture sounds and conversations playing out down below. This way, he can find out what all gossip is going on amongst the Death Eaters."
"What are you suggesting?" Ron asked, quirking an eyebrow in Terry's direction.
"Bug the bugger," Terry replied simply. "We can deploy our kevlar shielded transmitters. Not even the Dark Lord will be able to detect them, and it will afford us valuable information that we can use to further disrupt the inner circle."
"Go ahead with that," Ron said, conjuring several patroni to illuminate the office as he looked around. There were a myriad of important documents that Katie began copying using a charmed still camera. Duplication charms and other recording devices all had the drawback of leaving signatures that would alert any competent Death Eater to their intrusion. by using magical duplication methods that were indirect and integrated with muggle technology, they had discovered a way to do things that their enemies could not even begin to fathom. After thirty minutes of combing through Crabbe's belongings, and gleaning whatever information they could, the trio then began inserting innocuous items that were really spying devices. The coup de gras was the secret compartment they built into one of the walls, filling it with information about times and dates and people whose names were coded. Careful cross-checking and analysis of the data would uncover certain key patterns that would lead any forensic analyst to the conclusion that a small sub-ring of individuals had formed together and were holding secret communications. Even better, Goyle would be returned to the fray with a memory charm that was self-inflicted to protect him from the Dark Lord's legilimancy. It was hoped that, eventually, the Dark Lord would turn a scrutinizing gaze to the thug of a Death Eater, and, once uncovering the incriminating information within the memory charmed area, would then eventually be led to the documents in Crabbe Manor.
"All right," Ron said. "Looks like we're done here. Let's grab the crystals and extricate ourselves from the area before the ward displacement field collapses."
However, before they could move, there was the distinct sound of an explosion from below, causing all three of them to freeze in mid-stride, turning their attention to gleaning whatever information they could from the sounds emanating below. At first, all they could hear was a ringing silence as the pieces of the large oak doors settled against the plush carpet floor. It wasn't long before there was shouting, which turned to screaming, which turned to shrieking, sobbing, moaning, begging.
After a time, Katie simply turned to her companions and said, "What - the - fuck?"
"Ron shrugged. "I have no clue."
"Me neither," Terry said, but already his keen mind was constructing a solution. "Let's leave the crystals in place and try to activate the spying ward. It might give us a clue as to what is happening down there."
Within moments, they had managed to generate a television like screen that was showing them exactly what was going on, and, frankly, it wasn't pretty.
In the doorway stood a very peculiar sight. It was a woman; a young one with long, shining brown hair that seemed to cause the very light around it to dim or, possibly, shy away. She wore tight fitting muggle clothing, a black tank top with spaghetti straps that showcased her lean frame, her strong shoulders, her tanned skin, graceful arms, the seductive curve of her neck. She wore tight fitting black gloves that went all the way up to her elbows, a wand casually held in one hand. She wore tight fitting black pants and black boots. All in all, she cut a wicked sight, though to a pureblood, it was not very impressive.
Crabbe Senior rose to his feet, clearly being responsible for dealing with an intruder on his premises. "May I help you?" he inquired with a curt tone.
"I heard there was a party this evening," the stranger asked, apparently oblivious to the scrutiny of all the rich and powerful purebloods before her. She merely eyed them all with a look that said: You're all clearly lacking.
It took Neville a good long moment of staring before it finally dawned on him just who was in front of him. It couldn't be, he thought dismayed. She's taller, she's tanned, she's got hair that isn't bushy.
"I think that perhaps it's best if you leave," Crabbe said, narrowing his eyes. With a wave of his hand, he called to arms many of the guests sitting there, each of whom stood and drew their wands.
Hermione merely smiled. "I thought that perhaps I should introduce myself, at least. Perhaps then you will show me some respect."
"And who are you?" called a Death Eater.
Hermione smiled a beatific smile and said, "I am the Dark One."
Neville couldn't help but feel a terrible chill run down his spine at that pronouncement. He knew without a doubt that the buck-toothed, bushy-haired brunette from Gryffindor Tower was disturbingly brilliant, and that she wouldn't show up to such a place without an incredibly good plan in operation. The fact that the plan appeared to be nowhere in sight only disturbed Neville that much more.
"Sounds like a filthy mudblood," called another. There were titters amongst many of the other guests, who were clearly amused by the show that was unfolding.
Hermione simply continued to smile, again making Neville all the more concerned. You fools, he thought. You're signing your own death warrant. For God's sake beg for redemption now.
Instead, Hermione cocked her head to one side and suddenly, standing next to her was the most dangerous looking creature Neville had ever seen in his life. Even the Hungarian Horntail that Harry took on in the Triwizard Tournament didn't have the fearsome predatory presence that this creature had. It stood five feet tall with midnight black hair that had the same disturbing effect that Hermione's hair had. Moreover, it had the most intense eyes Neville had ever seen, and rippling muscles over every inch of its body.
Crabbe, having enough of this, aimed his wand and said two simple words. "Avada kedavra." Neville supposed, in that brief moment as the green light of death crossed the gap between Crabbe and Hermione, that it was not a surprising response. clearly, Crabbe had to assert authority, and casting a spell that the girl could block would simply be bad form and would invite questions about his skill and power. After all, she had clearly penetrated the wards without having alerted anyone. Or, on the other hand, she had simply tripped them and maimed the dozen or so attack dogs and acromantulas that Crabbe used to defend his ancestral home. At any rate, Neville was that much more surprised when Hermione did not move an inch to get out of the way of the deadliest curse known to wizarding kind. Instead, she simply looked bored, and waited, all the while her faithful familiar stepping in between to intervene in the killing curse. Funny that she should be so willing to sacrifice it, he mused. Except, of course, when the curse hit, it merely crackled and fragmented into a hundred tiny green sparks that fizzled out against its body, leaving a shocked silence in the wake, the creature all the while emitting a low growl that put Neville's nerves on edge.
Hermione laughed a musical, tinkling sort of laugh that did even less to ease Neville. And then, with a casual wave of her left hand, something seemed to pass through the air, and, before Neville knew what hit him, long forgotten memories of a crackling amber light bearing down on a young woman and young man came crashing into his mind's eye. And, as that terrible light connected with their bodies, a young and beautiful version of Bellatrix Lestrange standing silhouetted against the setting sun, their shrieks began to ring out in Neville's mind, causing him to clamp his hands over his ears in a futile attempt to block out those horrible memories, he no longer even being aware that he had fallen out of his seat and had slumped onto the floor like so many others around him. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, he heard Hermione say in a soft, caressing voice, "Go forth, Azrael, and kill them all."
Soon, in addition to the shrieks of torture in his mind, were the sounds of shouting and screaming and the ripping sound of bodies being torn apart by the powerful jaws and forearms of that hulking beast. Intermingled with that was the sound of spellfire, as some of the guests had somehow managed to evade or defend themselves against the legilimantic onslaught. Neville heard the sounds of all three unforgiveables being fired in rapid succession, and only by virtue of the fact that they were still being fired was Neville able to conclude that Hermione was still fighting back.
"Where is the boy?" Bellatrix asked, continuing the stream of energy that was inflicting terrible agony on Alice Longbottom. "Tell me, Frank, or your precious wife here will become just another casualty in the war."
Frank struggled to sit up, his entire body shaking with the effort from his own exposure to the Cruciatus, and from the knowledge that the woman he loved was being driven insane. He looked from his wife to Bellatrix before fixing his blue eyes on her violet ones. In a strangled voice he said, "Go to hell," all the while, blood dribbling down his chin, his breath ragged from the effort.
Neville struggled to his knees, his entire body racked with shudders as he tried to force the stream of words and images from his mind. He knew what this was; remembered it from the days back in third year when dementors had roamed free on Hogwarts grounds in search of the infamous escaped convict Sirius Black. While he didn't know how Hermione was causing this effect, or doing it with such force that it was incapacitating him in a way that the dementors in his third year couldn't even do, he did know that the only way to repel the effects was to cast the patronus, and so, squeezing his eyes shut to blot out the stream of tears, forcing the images of his parents out of his mind for just a brief moment, jus long enough to see Luna's smiling face, their first tentative kiss, the feeling of connectedness and of warmth, of purpose for existence on Earth, for a reason to fight the rising dark, for just that brief moment where Neville's will could overcome the otherwise engulfing despair, he managed to aim his trembling wand and whisper, "Expecto patronum." A silvery mist coalesced before his very eyes, taking the shape of a crumplehorn snorcack, its enormous, protuberant eyes looking up at him, waiting for instructions on how to proceed. With his patronus now between him and Hermione, Neville felt his mind clearing from the haze of repressed memories, images of his parents' torture dissipating back into that dark fog. He looked around, and saw that several dead bodies lay scattered about, many of them in varying states of mutilation. Five Death Eaters were left fending off attacks from Hermione, the others, presumably, had either apparated out or fled to other rooms in the Manor. Neville, not really sure how to proceed, simply edged his way towards one wall and elected to sit out of the fight. Frankly, he wasn't even sure which side he wanted to see win in this battle. He supposed that, at the end of the day, he would have sided with Hermione, for she had always been kind to him, minus that one exception where she cursed him towards the end of first year.
Still, she wasn't exactly herself.
Neville noted that Crabbe was still standing, along with Macnair and three Death Eaters that Neville did not recognize, though Crabbe's wife had not survived, her throat having been torn out by Azrael. One of them had had the sense to conjure a patronus, and it was now standing between the five of them and Hermione, who looked mildly irritated at the fact that her secret weapon had not been foolproof. Her familiar stood next to her, clearly prepared to act as a shield in the face of any damaging spells that were sent her way. Hermione seemed to eye them speculatively, as if wondering where to begin.
Eventually, she smiled and aimed her wand and said, "Avada kedavra." The green light scattered her opponents to either side, exposing them to her Dementor-hand, effectively crippling them. The other three were most likely competent occlumans, because it appeared that they did not need the assistance of the patronus to focus on the fight, though Neville noted that they were not moving with the practiced ease that they ought to have been.
The fighting started in earnest, spells flying back and forth at an alarming pace, Hermione firing off two or three spells at a time with one stroke of her wand, her body reacting with uncanny precision to oncoming spellfire. She was able to conjure a shield wandlessly while still throwing out numerous hexes, often times, banishing nearby objects at her opponents, sometimes transfiguring them into two separate objects so that the Death Eaters had to throw themselves out of the way. Before long, two were dead and only Crabbe remained, his wand arm a bloody stump, his breath coming in shallow rasps. Hermione walked up to him and aimed her wand and said without hesitating, "Avada kedavra."
And so, Crabbe Senior was no more.
That pretty much left Neville alone in the room with her and her familiar, and, realizing that he was pretty much in deep shit, decided to simply come out and face the music. He was a Gryffindor, after all.
Hermione turned to him and eyed him the same way she had eyed many of her foes that evening; in a speculative, calculating, appraising sort of way.
"So," Neville said. "How have you been, Hermione?"
She seemed amused by his words, though Neville couldn't quite understand why. Then she said, "I didn't think a Death Eater would deign to know my name. Especially given that I am a mudblood."
"Ah," Neville said. "Of course, of course. A Death Eater wouldn't. You should know that things are not always what they seem."
"So you're not a big fat oaf with about ten seconds to live?" Hermione asked.
Neville smiled. "I can't let you continue this, Hermione. It's wrong. I have no doubt you're a superior dueller, but the Gryffindor in me won't really back down."
Hermione nodded, thinking to herself and then, finally, looking up into his brown eyes and saying in a matter-of-fact tone, "You're Neville Longbottom."
Neville was surprised to say the least. He wasn't quite sure how she had managed to deduce that, but it didn't really matter, since it wasn't changing her attitude any. She only fixed her gaze on him more intently as she said, "So be it. Prepare yourself."
They dueled. It was, just as Neville had predicted a rather short affair. He sent off a simple stunner followed by the full body bind, after which he was forced to drop and roll to one side, avoiding a series of black beams of energy that caused whatever they touched to shrivel up, whether it be the carpet or wood or stone.
"Protago," Neville said, lifting up his shield to ward off the incoming spellfire. Within a second, however, his shield was collapsed and he was throwing himself out of the way of yet another onslaught of curses, using every magical charm he could think of to simply raise objects in defense, including chairs, tables, knives and other silverware and dishes, all the while his patronus was keeping the Dementor-wolf at bay. Before long, Neville was hit in the wrist with a red light that sliced clean through his skin and bone, severing his hand from his arm. He cried out in pain, reflexively clasping his bloody stump with his good hand, curling up on the floor, shutting his eyes out to the tears that were overflowing, the sudden rush of images of his parents' torture filling his mind's eye. You're going to die, he thought sadly, sorry that he had not yet mustered up the courage to tell Luna that he had loved her; sorry that he had not done more to avenge his parents.
Before the deathblow could come however, Neville's vision cleared and he found himself pressed up against two warm bodies. Blearily looking around, he saw Terry and Katie dragging him to one side, vanishing his remains, including his now useless hand. Absently, he noted that his wand had been snapped somewhere in the process.
"Come on, soldier," Katie whispered in his ear, taking care to keep Hermione in her sights at all times. "We're getting out of here right away." Before Neville knew it, the three of them were portkeyed clear out of Crabbe Manor and back to Hogwarts.
Ron spent a long time just staring at the magical viewscreen that showed them the slaughter that was going on down below. Ever since that fateful day in September when he had come upon Hermione's Dear John letter, he had resolved to put her out of his mind. Since then, she had only resurfaced in the dark of night, when his mind's defenses were slurred with drink, sometimes they were fantasies of love-making, romantic professions of eternal love, sometimes they were nightmares; all the time, a gnawing heartache. Now, however, he felt only a cold sort of distance, not because he didn't love Hermione, for he knew in his heart of hearts that he would always love her, but because this person who walked with that lithe grace, whose hair was sleek and curled around her shoulders, whose eyes were obsidian chips - that person was not Hermione.
Eventually he said, "We need to get down there ASAP." Ron peeled his eyes away from the viewscreen and captured the attention of both his lieutenants, making them aware through his gaze the import of the situation. Every second that passed, Neville drew that much closer to death.
"We'll need to double-back and take the back stairwell downward," Terry said. "At least five minutes."
"No, wait," Katie said, drawing her wand and aiming it at the floor. "To hell with that. Let's just blow a hole through the bloody ground and jump in. Neville doesn't have five minutes."
Peripherally, Ron could see that Neville was clearly losing the fight. No, Neville hardly had thirty seconds. Making a snap decision, Ron said, "Clear the center of the room and move to the far wall. Terry, you're going to have to erect a shield, while Katie and I pound a hole through the ground. Katie, we'll need to make our first hit good and hard, because we'll be alerting her to our presence almost immediately."
Without word, they got to work, clearing the center of the room and positioning themselves as Ron had instructed.
"Ready, boss," Katie and Terry asserted, their iron focus and determination a testament to just how far they had come in the last two weeks.
"All right," Ron said. "Just one more thing. When we get down there, you two go directly for Neville and extract him ASAP. Leave her to me."
Ron was aware that both Terry and Katie were hesitating at his last command. "But-" they began to protest, but he immediately waved their concern away.
"That's an order, lieutenants," Ron said, employing his most authoritative voice.
Still, they did not acknowledge his words. Instead, Katie and Terry exchanged a look, silently communicating something before Katie stepped forward and put a gentle hand on Ron's arm. "Captain," she said gently. "I think, maybe you're a little too close to this. maybe, one of us should stay behind. We have the pistols. One shot and she'll be down for the count. It's the right way to do this."
Ron stood motionless for a long time, various emotions struggling for dominance on his features. Deep down, he knew that Katie was right; that the being down there was as dark as they come, and if he let her go, all their work against the Dark Lord Voldemort could be for naught, for they may simply pave the way for her ascension to in his stead. Still, it seemed wrong somehow to kill her outright, without even asking her a few simple questions. You want to know why she left, a voice inside him whispered softly. That is what this is about. You want to hear it from her first; you want to give her that chance, a chance to help your broken heart heal. Your heart won't let you believe what your mind already knows. Such is the way of things.
"Please," Ron said finally, his voice soft and strangled. "Please."
Ron was barely aware that Katie and Terry were exchanging silent words with another, debating about whether to force Ron to stand down temporarily. In the end, however, they did not. Katie merely gave Ron a curt nod and got into position.
A crater-sized hole was blasted through the stone and carpet, sending debris into the dining hall below. From the viewscreen they could make out where the hole was situated relative to the combatants, and, without further hesitation, they silently dropped down into the fray.
The dining hall was a mess of blood and bodies and debris of all kinds, ranging from splintered chairs and tables to broken glass and twisted metal utensils. Despite the silencing charms on their boots, each of the three soldiers of the Phoenix Army made crunching sounds as they came into contact with the ground, effectively drawing Hermione's attention, and, thus, by extension, Azrael's.
Hermione quirked an eyebrow at the new arrivals, a smile playing across her lips, indicating that she was clearly unimpressed by her new adversaries. As such, she said in a clear, authoritative tone that brook no arguments, "Surrender your wands and I'll let you live."
Neither Katie nor Terry nor Ron took their eyes off either Hermione or Azrael, aware that the slightest degree of uncertainty could spell the end for them all. They simply remained motionless, keeping their hands on their wands, spells ready on their lips, occlumancy shields at high alert.
"Oh please," Hermione said, seeing that they were not prepared to surrender. "I just sent a hundred fully trained witches and wizards fleeing, many to their deaths, and I have your little friend here in my custody. Be serious now. This is not a game."
Terry and Katie spread out to either side, creating wider targets. Hermione merely rolled her eyes and raised her Dementor-hand to crush them. Ron, having watched Hermione do this in the battle earlier, anticipated her attack and silently summoned three patroni to guard himself and his two soldiers. A stag followed Katie, a wolf himself and a grim for Terry.
Surveying the three protectors, Hermione shrugged. "That is rather impressive, all things considered. Looks like you've been holding out on me, Ron."
"You don't have to do this," he replied. "We can talk it over, maybe-"
"Avada kedavra," she said, cutting him off. The green light sped towards Katie, and Ron wondered if perhaps Hermione recognized her as some sort of distant competition for Ron, because she was clearly a lesser target than Terry, who had an array of objects at his disposal around where he stood, which he could use to fight with. Also, Terry was aligned along her non-dominant hand, giving him a slightly better angle with which to fire.
Regardless, Ron's patronus jumped into the air and caught the killing curse, effectively annihilating itself in the process. Both Katie and Terry fired off stunners, which Hermione parried, sending them back at one another, who in turn raised shields to return them yet again to her, sending off yet more stunners all the while dodging to either side as Hermione discharged the cruciatus and a legilimantic wave at Katie, who was now unprotected.
Ron raised the Aegis shield, effectively repelling the wave, which broke against its surface like waves against the cliffs of Dover. he also conjured three saber-toothed tigers and sent them at Azrael, effectively pinning the creature in one corner, its golden eyes burning with unparalleled hatred at having been immobilized.
Hermione discovered to her rage that she had her hands full with Terry and Katie, who had grown to become accomplished duellers. Moreover, her added weaponry - Azrael, her Dementorhand and even the unforgiveables had been rendered useless so long as Ron was able to continue summoning patroni at will.
"Exsanguio," she cried out, switching from wordless to spoken spells as her patience wore thin. A jet of blood red light erupted from her wand and barely missed Terry as he maneuvered himself to one side. She sent a chorus of bone-shattering curses their way, all the while dodging stunners and body binds with her wolfen grace. Before long, Terry and Katie had sidled up next to Neville casting a patronus to help him overcome the effects of Hermione's Dementor attack and dragging him away. Without hesitation for their leader, who they were confident could survive an encounter with Hermione, they portkeyed away to safety. Ron, meanwhile, had been busy studying Azrael with academic interest. From what he could tell, the creature was a mutant - a hybrid of some sort, probably between a large wolf and a dark creature. Most likely something undead, since it withstood the killing curse. "Diffindo," Ron said, slicing into the creature's shoulder and watching curiously as a viscous black ichor oozed from the wound, which almost immediately healed itself. "Heightened regenerative capabilities," he said to himself. "Balks at the patronus, like dementors and lethifolds." Could she have crossbred a dementor or a lethifold with something else? Ron wasn't sure if they could even reproduce sexually.. No, he decided. She must have simply extracted their magic and transfused it into another creature. It must be dementors, he thought, for it would also explain her hand.
His musings were cut short when he felt the energy of a dark curse barreling towards him. Immediately he apparated out of the way, the Cruciatus annihilating one of his patroni. With only two left, Azrael, his strength magnified by his rage, broke free from them and charged towards his mistress to await her command.
"Bit of a deadlock we have here, don't you think?" Hermione called to Ron, who reappeared twenty feet from her. As if to exemplify the problem, she cast a black beam of energy right at Ron who parried it with a white shield. Hermione then went on speaking, "There aren't many people who can execute that spell." Ron wasn't sure whether she was referring to the Aegis shield he used or the strange black energy she discharged. Both, probably, he thought, having read that light magics embodied by white light are the antithesis of dark magics, which are embodied by black light.
I suppose you're thirsting for an explanation, aren't you?" she asked with disdain and contempt in her voice. "You were always such a sheltered sod, Ronald. If you'd had half the trials Harry had, maybe you would have learned to do a bit better in your life."
"I'm not sure who you're trying to fool here, Hermione," Ron said. "I know exactly who I am, and I'm sorry for you, because you chose the Dark over your friends. Over me."
"It really wasn't a choice," she said casually. "You have no clue what it is that the Dark can offer you. It's unlike anything else in the world.. It's the march of entropy. It's the reason time moves forward." After a moment, she added. "You can join me, you know. We could be together, ridding ourselves of the purebloods. I could overlook your heritage if you performed a test of loyalty. You could still have me, put your hands on my body, fuck me again and again. You've wanted that, haven't you? We are like two halves of a whole. I admit I'll never be immortal, or even the most powerful witch in the world. I have no illusions about it. But certainly, I will be powerful enough, and the time that I spend on this world will be one filled with the blessed energy of magic, rich and full and bountiful."
"I see," he said, furrowing his brow, forcing his mind to accept that she was a lost cause.
Hermione scrutinized him intently and then said, "It looks like you're not going to join me. No matter, I didn't really expect it of you, Ronald. You're a pureblood, after all, and you've bought into all that nonsense about the ways of things. You couldn't understand the way things truly are, mired in your traditions."
Ron discharged a beam of white light at Hermione, who parried it with a translucent black shield. "Just checking, are we?" she asked. "I suppose it's only fair, though you know neither of us will win like that. No, you're powerful, I know, and so am I. This will be won with applied spells, not displays of raw power."
"Fair enough," Ron replied, keeping his gaze fixed on her, prepared to adopt a dueling stance at any moment. Silently, he gathered the four remaining patroni to him, enfolding them about his body like the wings of a protecting angel.
"En garde."
They duelled.
The battle was long and fierce. Ron started by discharging a mixed throng of high-powered stunners and beams of raw light energy, forcing Hermione to maintain a constant shield to deflect the attacks, all the while Ron sending his patroni to charge Hermione at full speed. Not knowing what capabilities Ron's patroni had, she elected to throw herself to one side and apparate just as another stunner converged on her spot. Azrael took a running leap and sailed over the patroni, clearing them and making a dash for Ron, who had anticipated a pincer just as Hermione had disapparated, thus deciding to disapparate himself, causing a cruciatus to pass through the space he had just occupied and strike Azrael, who shrugged it off. Ron had moved to the far side of the room, appearing in a relatively empty spot in order to gauge his surroundings. Hermione had appeared relatively close to him, which he supposed was not surprising, since Azrael was expected to draw his attention momentarily. As such, his opponents stood in the center of the room while he and his patroni were at opposite ends. At this long range, he doubted he could do anything to harm her, and he didn't fancy apparating much closer. After a moment, he decided on a course of action, sending a reductor curse to a table, blowing it up into numerous shards that he then sent using a standard wind charm blowing in her direction. From there, he disapparated thirty feet into the air, snagging the chain of the hall's main chandelier with one hand and aiming several stunners down below where Hermione was shielding herself from the flying debris. It was a clever move, and it would have worked, except that the chandelier proved unstable, buckling under him and snapping from his weight, sending him flying off to one side while the large glass and metal object came crashing down on top of Azrael, who howled and bucked about. Ron fell neatly on top of his four patroni, who had all converged on one spot, forming a thick sort of buffer that broke his fall. He staggered to his feet and immediately erected a shield that only partly held, as a red beam clipped him in his arm, causing all the blood to drain from the limb, either partially clotting in his shoulder or bursting out of the skin and forming multiple bruises on his arm. Hermione was recovering from a stunner, which had pegged her clean in the head, causing dizziness but not Unconsciousness. Ron hit his arm with a mild healing spell that calmed the inflammations and recirculated the blood.
Azrael seemed to have grown a backbone, because he was now fighting full on with the patroni, tearing through them with his ferocious jaws, all the while suffering through the multitude of lacerations they were inflicting, lacerations which were healing rapidly due to the creature's regenerative abilities. Like a werewolf, he thought wonderingly before returning to his duel with Hermione.
She had charmed several knives to act as bludgers, homing in on Ron's signature and attempting to carve him like a roast. He cast a quick reductor at the nearest one before disapparating, avoiding another hit with the Exsanguination curse, aware that a full on strike would be lethal.
She's somehow immunized herself from stunners, he thought. Switching to body binds, discharging three of them before disapparating right behind her. Instead of discharging a curse, however, he erected a shield, taking a gamble that she wouldn't use an unforgiveable or that she wouldn't use raw energy. Whirling around with feral speed, she aimed a reductor curse right at him.
"Reducto!"
"Protago!"
Hermione's eyes widened as she realized that Ron had anticipated her move, intending to send her curse back at her. The reductor curse, bounced off his shield at an angle and hit Hermione in her non-dominant shoulder, blowing it apart and causing her to stagger back. Before Ron could take advantage of her distress, however, Azrael pounced, having shredded his patroni. Ron, not wanting to give up his quarry, cast a raw beam of energy at the creature, praying it would be enough to stop it in mid-flight. The white beam connected full on with the creature, causing it shriek in pain. However, it continued onward, carried forward by its own determination and by its momentum, barreling into Ron and throwing him down to the ground, his wand scattering to one side. The creature, shook himself from the pain, blood and fur spilling down its face from where the light energy had struck it. Ron, however, was prepared, pulling out his pistol and driving the magnum's barrel into the creatures neck and pulling the trigger, causing blood to explode all over himself and the surrounding floor. The creature roared with rage, stamping its feet down on Ron's body, cutting into his skin with its claws, bruising him repeatedly and fracturing a rib bone. Ron managed to wriggle out from underneath, lodging six more bullets in Azrael's body before staggering away and collapsing next to his wand. Hermione, seeing her familiar mangled by a pistol, crawled over to him and began applying healing charms. Ron dragged himself to a sitting position and reached for his wand. However, before he could, it was drawn forward by a summoning charm. Oh no you don't, he thought, lunging for it as he took the cruciatus curse. He collapsed on the floor writhing, his mouth clamped shut to instinctively keep from screaming, despite the fact that he was chewing through his own tongue to do so, his arms flailing about more and more wildly until his muscles, which were stretched taut, began to break and weaken, his body going limp and unable to express the agony of his flaming nerves. Vaguely, he realized he could feel his wand within arm's reach.
Oh God, please stop, he thought weakly, lamenting his own ineptitude praying for a quick death, like all Cruciatus victims do when they're in the throes of agony. Not able to summon enough energy to flail about, he instead turned to clawing at his own skin, running long jagged lacerations across his arms and body as if to cut apart his nerves, which felt as though they were stretched taut and being plucked with butter knives; as though his skin were covered in a thin film of glass and he was desperately trying to peel it off, not caring that his own skin was being peeled back along with it, letting blood leak out and soothe the burning sensation around the edges of the multiple wounds.
Finally, it stopped, but not because of any mercy bestowed upon him by his opponent. Hermione seemed unable to keep up the spell, blood still flowing freely from her mangled arm. She took a step back to reclaim her balance, shutting her eyes to regain focus, giving Ron just enough time to recover and clasp his wand.
Azrael was on the floor twisting about futilely, unable to extricate the ten or so bullets that were lodged in its body, preventing him from healing completely, probably causing all kinds of spasming of his muscles and all kinds of internal irritations and recuttings as they shifted about with each of his movements.
Ron, his hand trembling aimed another stunner. It was weak, to say the least, but it did have the effect of knocking Hermione off her feet. She fell to her knees, administering a charm on herself, which seemed to give her strength. She had somehow stopped the blood flow, and was peering at Ron as if seeing him for the first time. "Ronald," she said in a whisper.
"Hermione," he replied, his words coming out mangled as blood flowed from his half-chewed tongue.
"Avada kedavra," she whispered, green light flowing forward.
"Aegis," he said instantly, absorbing the curse.
"You're really amazing," she continued, as though she hadn't just tried to kill him a second earlier. "I'm sorry we're on opposite sides. I love you. I really do. I want you to know that, but I love the Dark more, and if I had to choose between it and you, then I choose the Dark. I'm sorry."
"I know," Ron said. "I can admit that I have cried for you, for having lost you, but I won't be so foolish as to throw away the light or the cause just because the woman I loved turned dark."
"Why not?" she asked curiously.
"The woman I loved wasn't dark. She was changed. You're not her. I'm sorry."
"Still, it's power," she went on. "Look at what I have done tonight. Who else as done as much as me? The Dark Lord could never stand a chance against us."
Ron laughed a sad, bitter laugh. "If you think that, you're a fool. If we turn Dark, then the Dark Lord will have already won. One day, he will own you, Hermione."
Ron's words rekindled her anger anew, and for the first time, Ron understood the driving emotion behind Hermione's darkness. It was not that she sought to build an empire, or to acquire as much wealth as humanly possible. It was not so that she could inflict pain on others, or that she wanted to live a life of ease. It was not that she wanted what others had, or that she was lustful. No, it was the same thing that had driven her all those years in school. The thing that had made her cheeks tinge with the colour of roses when McGonagall praised her, or she got points in Charms or when Snape looked over her potion and failed to find any failings. It was the satisfaction from her successes; it was her pride. The Dark was simply a challenge, and it had drawn her in.
Ron got to his feet, as did Hermione.
"Shall we continue then?" she asked in as nonchalant a voice as she could manage.
"I guess so," he agreed.
"Incendio."
"Fluvius."
Reducto."
"Obfusco."
"Exsanguio."
"Constrctus."
"Revello."
"Eviscero."
"Protago."
"Contortia."
"Excelsia."
"Impedimenta."
"Relashio."
"Razurra."
"Probitas."
"Feror."
"Veluti."
All around them spoons and dust and table legs flew about, whipped into the air in a frenzy of magical torrents, all the while Hermione and Ron limping about one another performing a macabre dance, transfiguring wood into walls and weapons, blowing things up, sparks flying, stone dust reigning down atop them from above. Glass slashed apart Ron's shirt and chest and arms and legs, burns formed on his body, blood dribbled down into his eyes. Hermione was faring no better. Her face was a mask of dried blood coated several times over. Her non-dominant arm had been further shredded to ribbons, her clothes torn, a rib broken, her hair cut apart and sticking to her body wherever there was still fresh blood spilling.
Still they fought on. A chunk of stone exploded from behind Hermione, pelting her exposed back with stone shrapnel. A table came to life next to Ron, a table leg winding around his ankle and breaking it before he could blow the thing apart and send its pieces flying at Hermione, all the while discharging multiple beams of light to keep her shields occupied. Splinters of wood slashed her face. "Reducto." Ron's broken ankle became a bloody stump.
"Incendio." Hermione's bloodied hair caught on fire.
"Flagrate." A burning x seared itself into Ron's chest.
"Brio." Hermione was blinded in one eye.
"Depilate." All the hair was ripped from Ron's arm.
Ron was then caught in the side with a blasting hex, blowing apart skin and bone. Hermione was hit with a reductor curse, shattering one knee. She summoned knives in her direction, many of them embedding themselves in Ron's back, pitching him forward, but not before he took control of the summons and continued the rest onward, many of them embedding themselves in Hermione's chest and legs, pitching her backwards.
Ron struggled to get to his feet, but found that he couldn't. Mostly because his body was screaming all over with wounds, and because he was lacking one foot, which had been blown apart earlier. Before long, he passed out; as did Hermione.
A/N: Of the twenty-two chapters that I have written thus far, this is my second favourite. Also, for those of you who are wondering, "Where in the world is Harry Potter?" Let me assure you, the story of our intrepid hero will commence in the chapter after next.
