CHAPTER 24: THE ONCOMING STORM
SIX MONTHS LATER
Sweat soaked through Jimmy O'Bannon's green Boston Celtics T-shirt as he completed his arm curls and set down his dumbbells. He exhaled loudly, grabbed a towel draped over the top of his kitchenette chair, and wiped his damp face. He embraced the natural high he got after working out. Certainly a better way to wake up than by downing two or three cups of coffee. Push-ups, crunches, stretches, calisthenics, weights. That's how he usually spent his first waking hour. He wished he could get some running in as well, but that would be unwise early in the morning. Haypippil Square was usually deserted at this time. Running alone only invited an ambush by any Death Eaters that might be lurking in the shadows.
Oh well, he may not be able to run, but at least he could skate a lot at the Young Wizards and Witches Athletics and Activities Association. His hockey program had really taken off. It still surprised him how many young wizards and witches took an interest in learning Muggle games. He couldn't help but smile every time he took the ice with those kids, seeing their joy as they scored a goal or just simply raced up and down the rink. Another part of him took each hockey lesson as a way to stick it to You-Know-Who's bunch and their pureblood supremacist crap.
And again, skating was another way to help stay in shape. He needed to be in the best physical condition possible, being a soldier in the war. Too many witches and wizards didn't give a damn about exercising, feeling any fighting can be done with a wand. Those people forgot that casting offensive and defensive spells took a physical toll on the body. The better shape you were in, the longer you could last in a fight. That's what Rosa, her parents and Mrs. Diaz had told him.
He stretched his arms, tight from all the lifting, thinking about the war. Sure the Guild still had him checking the internet for news of "suspicious" accidents, "suspicious" meaning likely caused by Death Eaters. But he and his friends had been involved in more field work of late. Back in March, they teamed with Jared's father for a werewolf hunt along the North Carolina coast. After battling those mutated Chupacabra in England, taking down a werewolf seemed easy. In April, they joined Mr. and Mrs. Infante in sending a horde of Dementors packing from a wizarding community in the New Jersey Pine Barrens.
There hadn't been much going on since then. A lull in the fighting Mrs. Diaz had called it. She explained that happened sometimes in war.
O'Bannon wanted to be glad the Death Eaters stayed relatively quiet these past few weeks. It gave him a chance to actually have something of a normal life. But this uncomfortable feeling niggled at the back of his mind. Like this lull was the proverbial calm before the storm.
Or maybe you're just paranoid.
But these days, could anyone afford not to be paranoid?
He grabbed a jug of water from the ice box and took a couple gulps. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and scanned the moving photos that hung from the wall. One in particular caught his attention. Him and Mireet Miradeaux, taken the night of the Yule Ball. He'd kept it in his closet the entire time he'd been together with Talia Laribee. But after their break-up, which resulted in her moving back to Ohio where her family lived, he decided to hang it up.
He slowly scanned the glimmering silver dress that hugged Mireet's body. Memories of that night flashed through his head; kissing her hand in that cool European way, dancing with her, the feel of her body against his.
If things were different . . .
He sighed and stared at the floor. So many times over the past six months he'd thought about trying to develop a more serious relationship with Mireet. But just when he worked up the courage to broach the issue with her, he remembered how all his work with the Guild had ultimately doomed his relationship with Talia. He'd be damned if he'd become involved with another woman only to have the war come between them, especially one he deeply cared about like Mireet Miradeaux.
Even though he couldn't act on his true feelings for Mireet right now, he did love the fact that she was here in The States, and that they got to work together quite a bit, given her role in the magical communications network between the U.S. and Europe. She also helped provide him with news on how their friends in England were doing. Katie Bell had made a full recovery from touching that cursed necklace and returned to Hogwarts. Angelina Johnson made it onto the reserve squad for the Portsmouth Contrails. Fred and George's business was booming, thanks in large part to all the magical defense items they sold. Best of all, Gryffindor defeated Ravenclaw for the Quidditch Cup. Okay, he felt maybe a teeny, tiny bit of sympathy for his Ravenclaw buds Michael Corner, Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot. But hey, he was a proud Gryffindor, and all's fair in friendship and Quidditch.
On the soap opera front, Ron Weasley had broken up with Lavender Brown, and word was he and Hermione Granger had grown closer than ever, to the point some expected to hear shouts of, "Oh, Ron!" "Oh, Hermione," coming from a broom closet or empty classroom one day.
I still just can't see it. He shook his head.
On top of that, Ginny Weasley and Dean Thomas split up, and now Ginny was with Harry Potter!
Never even saw that one coming. Okay, he knew Ginny had hero worshipped Harry when she was little, a fact Fred and George teased her about. But during all his time at The Burrow, he never saw a single sign that those two had real feelings for one another. If anything, he thought Harry and Luna had more of a spark than Harry and Ginny.
Then again, what do I know about this stuff. Hell, for all he knew, the very studious Anthony Goldstein and the very giggly Parvati Patil had something going on.
He shook his head, vowing to stop trying to figure out the mysteries of Hogwarts relationships. He'd just accept whatever couples came out of that school and be done with it . . . unless it was one as revolting as – God forgive me for even thinking up this one – Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy!
Yeah. Talk about something that could never, eeeever happen.
Just thinking of the ferrety little bastard made him recall the most disturbing bit of news he'd received from Hogwarts. Malfoy and Harry had been dueling in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom when the prick tried to nail Harry with a Cruciatus Curse. Harry retaliated with some curse that slashed Malfoy's chest. Such an attack sounded extreme for someone like Harry. Still, Malfoy had tried to cast an Unforgivable Curse his way. Maybe that would make the jagoff think twice before trying something like that again.
It also made him wonder if a duel on that scale meant something rather bad could be boiling under the surface at Hogwarts. After all, Malfoy's old man was a Death Eater. Same with the parents of his lapdogs, Crabbe and Goyle. Same with a ton of other people in Slytherin. Could the junior Death Eaters be up to something inside the school?
Goosebumps sprouted on his arms. The back of his neck suddenly itched. He felt like the whole world was bracing for a huge explosion.
O'Bannon grunted. Amazing how a lull in the fighting could make someone so on edge.
Maybe I need to fight a Wendigo or another mutant Chupacabra to calm myself down. Ha-ha.
Or try something simple. Like a shower.
Putting his water jug on the kitchenette table and throwing his towel on the back of the chair, he headed for the bathroom.
Someone knocked on the door.
He froze, brow furrowed. It was barely eight o'clock. Who'd be coming to see him this early? He picked up his wand from his desk and moved toward the door. "Yes?"
"Jimmy. It's me, Mireet."
"Okay. Why did your sister Monica ask you to accompany her to meet me and my friends at Normandy last year?"
"My sister's name is Monique. And she did not ask me to come. I pestered her until she relented and took me along. Now, if the only two hockey teams you could play for were the Montreal Canadiens and the New York Rangers, which one would you pick?"
"Neither. I hate 'em both."
He opened the door. Mireet stood before him in very stylish blue and white robes that accentuated her curves. She had her blond hair tied in a ponytail.
Merlin's beard, she looked gorgeous.
"Hey. Come in. What brings you by . . . so . . . early?" He canted his head as he studied her face. She looked . . . stunned? Upset?
"Mireet? You okay?"
"No." She shook her head. "Something terrible has happened."
His chest clenched. "Come on. Have a seat."
He guided her over to the couch, where they both sat. Tension radiated from her face, like she was trying to fight down the urge to break down. It made his stomach twist into a knot.
"Mireet, what is it?"
She turned to him, flexing her jaw. More long, agonizing seconds of silence past before she spoke. "We received a message at the French Embassy a short while ago. There . . . there was an attack at Hogwarts. Death Eaters broke into the school. There was a huge battle and . . . and . . ."
Fear clawed his insides. Someone's dead. He braced himself for the name. Was it Ginny? Ron? Ernie? Luna? Michael? Hermione? Harry?
"Headmaster Dumbledore was killed."
He went numb. A cocoon of disbelief enveloped him. Headmaster Dumbledore? Killed? No way. Mireet couldn't have said that.
"Wha . . . Are . . . Are you sure?"
"Yes," she whispered, nodding emphatically.
O'Bannon's mouth fell open. He sat silently for nearly a minute. "No. I mean, he can't be dead. Come on, this has to be a mistake. This is . . . this is Albus Dumbledore we're talking about. He can't be dead."
"It's true, Jimmy. We confirmed it. I . . . I can scarcely believe it myself, but it is true. Headmaster Dumbledore is dead."
He fell back against the cushions, staring straight ahead. In his mind's eye he pictured himself seeing Dumbledore at meals, walking the corridors of Hogwarts and saying "hello" to students. He remembered all the stuff he read about him in his History of Magic class when he was younger, imagining him to be ten feet tall and surrounded by flashing lighting bolts. What he found instead when he came to Hogwarts was a kindly old wizard with more life in him than a lot of people decades younger. Yet beneath his friendly and witty demeanor lay a bottomless well of power and wisdom.
Now all that had been snuffed out.
"How?" he muttered.
"From what we can gather, Professor Snape confronted Dumbledore atop one of the battlements. He . . . he cast a Killing Curse and . . ." She bit her lip, unable to continue.
"Snape?" O'Bannon felt the color drain from his face. Anger and shock dueled within him. Snape. Friggin' Snape? Snape killed Dumbledore?
"Son-of-a-bitch." He leaned forward, arms resting on his legs. Snape. Yeah, he hated the guy. Yeah, he was a bitter asshole who got his rocks off making every non-Slytherin student at Hogwarts miserable. But . . . to kill Headmaster Dumbledore? Snape was in the Order of the Phoenix, for God's sake! He came up with the Pest Elimination Potion that helped defeat the mutated Chupacabra. And now he switched sides?
Did he really switch sides?
It was no secret Snape served You-Know-Who during the first war, and had supposedly "reformed" when that conflict ended.
Bullcrap he reformed. He betrayed Dumbledore. Betrayed them all.
Every muscle in him tightened. He clenched his fist, thinking back over a year ago to the Longathian Tunnel Affair. He had run into Snape in the corridors while trying to get away from a couple aurors. They struggled, during which time Snape was accidentally hit in the head with a Stunning Spell. He collapsed, dragging O'Bannon with him, and banged his skull on the floor.
Maybe if I'd fallen differently, fallen on him. Maybe he could have hit the floor harder. Cracked his skull and gone into a coma. Or broke his damn neck. Then none of this would have happened.
His head drooped. He felt Mireet's hand on his back.
"What . . . what's going to happen now?" she asked tentatively.
O'Bannon slowly worked his jaw back and forth. He remembered Harry and Ron telling him how Lord Voldemort feared Dumbledore, how that kept the madman from acting openly.
But Dumbledore was dead. Who did Voldemort have to fear now?
No one.
He sat back up, Mireet's hand still on his back. He stared blankly at the walls of his apartment. But instead of walls, he pictured an open field. In the horizon he imagined gray clouds appearing in the sky, merging, changing into an evil blend of black and gray. So much like a typical summer thunderstorm. You watched it build and build, getting darker and darker. You tensed, waiting, wondering when the sky would unleash the full fury of the storm.
But the storm that was building now would unleash something other than rain and thunder and lightning.
Something far worse.
Slowly, he turned to Mireet, staring into her worried face.
"I think things are about to get really, really bad."
- THE END –
AUTHOR'S NOTE: So ends "Midnight's Blood." Thanks to everyone who has read this, and special thanks to the ones who left reviews. As you can see, this chapter was a set up for my next epic story. What did Jimmy, Jared, Rosa and Artimus do during Book 7? Find out in the quartet's next adventure, "In The Grip Of Darkness," posted now on fanfiction-dot-net. Also, if you enjoyed this story, check out my original sci-fi adventure novel "Dark Wings," where otherworldly creatures that resemble Mothman and the Jersey Devil invade Earth. Available now in paperback from Amazon and as an e-book at smashwords-dot-com.