Writer's Notes: --walks into her fanfiction and hears only echoing silence--
I am going to post the remaining chapters of Losing Faith, and the first chapter of Book II of Losing Faith (that was written just this spring, yay!) and, depending on if my muse left me, I will decide if I will continue this. I hope I do, I hope she isn't too mad that I was gone from her for so many years.
Enjoy.
Chapter Thirty-Nine : Chosen Few
We're not warriors. We weren't bred for battle but we've come through . . .
Sirius Black stares from the highest balcony over the torch-lit back gardens of the Delacour Manor. His hands clasp the silver railing until his knuckles fade to the colour of fresh snow, and his breathing deepens steadily. The dark sky holds only stars tonight; the new moon is a black hole over a bleaker existence. It is the night before their assault on the Death Eaters, and everyone is preparing in their own special way.
Sirius winces, gritting his teeth as a creature from the grounds below him howls, which turns into a piercing scream of agony. He jerks his hands from the railing, mentally cursing Remus Lupin's idiocy to attempt a Change during the three nights of the new moon.
In all the years Sirius has known about werewolves, he has never heard of one daring a Change during these nights for the pain would be insufferable. Werewolves draw their power from the lunar rays and magic, if there is no moon in the sky to aid in their Change, then the Change alone depends upon the human's magickal and mental strength. It's not uncommon for a werewolf to become stuck between Changes during the time of the new moon.
Casting his violet eyes down towards the gardens, Sirius notices for the first time the amount of blood that sticks to the grey marble stones, the numerous tangles of light brown hair littering the ground that the unrecognisable creature rests upon.
His eyes fight independence of their own, wanting desperately to rip away from the sight below or gouge out his eyes so he doesn't have to witness the atrocity below. But his hands find the railing and his grip tightens until his hands are white, numb of all feeling. His teeth grind together and bite down hard upon his tongue, forcing a silent moan of reluctance from Sirius.
Remus howls as his spine continues to shatter and reform.
Sirius mutters beneath his breath, yanks his sore hands from the balcony's rail, and finally caves. His eyes rip away from Remus, back towards the Manor. They may be going into battle tomorrow, they may knock on death's door or throw someone else through the threshold. This might be the biggest mistake of their campaign, or it may prove quite the opposite.
But for Sirius, it cannot be worse than watching Remus suffer between Changes.
"Moony!" Sirius bellows, his voice begging.
Remus's only reply is a triumphant howl.
. . . We wear our battle scars with pride, and we have fought for our lives and won. We've won against all odds. And over my dead body will we be kneeling before Lucius Malfoy and his bloody Death Eaters. So this is where you make a choice--to live or to die. We could wait for the Death Eaters to invade France, Germany, and all other countries. We could wait for the International Ministry to help us for all the right reasons. We could let those people--our family and friends--rot in those camps while their hope burns away. Or we could take up arms and fight for ourselves, for them. I may not know much but I do know right from wrong. What the Death Eaters are doing is wrong. What we will do is right . . .
Charlie Weasley removes his head from the icebox and along with it an armful of breads, cheeses, and sliced meats. He turns, kicks the icebox closed with his foot and drops the makings of his midnight snack onto the granite counter in the middle of the Delacours' kitchen.
Charlie rubs his hands together--he's a true Weasley at heart, food being the one thing that matters. His tongue runs along his bottom lip, tasting the sought after sandwich, leaving a glistening trail of salvia. Cracking his knuckles, Charlie takes his new ebony wand and aims it directly at the unprepared food. He pauses.
"Bloody hell," he mumbles, realising he cannot remember the spell.
With a sigh simply out of laziness, Charlie replaces his wand into the folds of his robes and takes a step towards the island, having to prepare his snack the time-consuming, Muggle way. It is now that Charlie realises that this may be his last meal.
. . . Death follows Adrian Pucey, and if he falls, our quest will fail.
We will Apparate to the shores of the North Channel, near Belfast of Northern Ireland. Hagrid and his dragons will be waiting there to fly us over. Norbert and Prince Flameskin the Green-Scaled will take us as far as the outer borders of the Forbidden Forest, where we will have to continue on foot. I don't wish the dragons to be spotted and reveal our position. This is a rescue mission only! Our first priority is Adrian, then Roger, Ron, Fred and George, and any others who can join us . . .
Igor Karkaroff sits alone in the poorly lit library, bent over a thick, heavy tome written in the ancient days. Strong purple bags hang ominously beneath Igor's eagle eyes as they rake against the antediluvian language shining beneath the light of one candle. His mind races with verbs and nouns, and he questions if that particular symbol really meant "magick" rather than "animagus" in the context it were scripted. Igor groans, tiredly grabs for another sheave of parchment, and dips his quill into a fountain of blood-red ink. One symbol can change everything--the heir of Ravenclaw might not possess the hereditary animagi gene as Igor once thought. Then that also means that "incompetent" might not refer to the heir of Hufflepuff.
Igor stretches his arms towards the high ceiling, the muscles in his back burning at the unwanted movement. Letting his eyes drift closed, the ancient symbols waltz across his eyelids, and he immediate flashes them open. Closing the book gently, he takes instead his notes on the many translations he's been working on, finishing his night with revisions. Flipping back a few pages, he comes across scratchy handwriting:
The father
will kill
the son.
He tears the paper from its metal bindings, throwing it into the rubbish bin--where it belongs. Of everything Igor has translated over the past years, nothing supports that theorised prophecy. And even if Igor is wrong and the baby heir dies, Adrian would still be alive. There is no problem that Igor can see. Knowing this, he peacefully falls asleep at the table.
. . . I once told you that we were Britain's last hope. I didn't lie. I only told you what I knew. I once told you that I refuse to sing each other's death songs. I did not lie there either. Everything might be against us in this world--we're not just battling the Death Eaters, we're waging war against destiny. Because I refuse to have everyone I have ever loved die just because some Gods who refuse to dirty their hands prewrite it.
Severus Snape sits cross-legged before the fireplace of his chambers, watching the orange and red flames battle each other for dominance of the hearth. Above, the clock chimes three times and Severus awaits the remaining seven hours in silent musing.
. . . We are not just some amateur fighters, we're not just the thorn in Malfoy's side. We're the whole enema. We will show him that we are a real threat, an approaching storm, Britain's salvation. We are not just a few wizards with dishonourable blood. There is no such thing as division by blood! We are more honourable than they are, than they ever could be. We have the potential to change the world, to rewrite history and fix the mistakes of the past. And we are going to. We have ancient elven magicks, knowledge that no one else on this earth has. We are not weak. We will not be defeated . . .
Fleur cannot say that the cold shiver of fright hasn't crept up her spine and froze her in place. She cannot say that she has never shed tears at night over loved ones who she has lost. She cannot say that blood has never washed her tongue or roses have smelt sickly of death and decay.
Fleur Delacour is veela but she no longer feels it.
She's come to understand that things that really mattered in life, no veela would otherwise think of. War, death, disease, famine. These touched every other race on Earth, never the veela.
Fleur stands nude before a full-bodied mirror, fresh from a fragranced bath of flowers. In a few hours, the symbolic trumpets will sound and they will be called to arms. Another special occasion, a new uniform. The Last Alliance will hide behind white robes with phoenix, gargoyle, and dragon emblems. They will wear dragon-hide boots and gloves and belts, which will hold their wand, dagger, and possibly sword.
They will fight, they may die. But no one will give them medals for their sacrifices, they will be lucky if they are remembered. If they lose, no one can console them, pat them on their backs and tell them that they can succeed next time.
For the Last Alliance, a next time doesn't exist.
They all know this.
And that is why they fight.
Why hair, nails, and whom is seeing whom, no longer matter to Fleur.
. . . Take a look around you. We are brothers-in-arms. We are an army!
