Risk

She had followed the others to the place of evacuation, yet she had not left with them. She had lingered back, pressed herself into the shadows, edged towards the door, and finally slipped away unnoticed. The castle was already in turmoil, and would soon be overwhelmed with chaos, and no one would pay her too much attention – until of course someone did. Then she would fight, and perhaps die. She would become one of them, and remain so for the rest of her life – all the years to come, or all the minutes to follow. She was old enough to choose her death.

Once out of the room, she had fled down the hallways, yet not so much in fear of being discovered and called back – because she did have every right to stay and fight – but because she was terrified, absolutely terrified of what she'd decided to do. She needed to get away as far as possible from the doorway to safety, lest she would let the terror cripple her mind, and go back. She tried not to think about what might have been, and definitely not about what would be; in fact, she tried not to think at all. The walls around her contained many memories, and spoke of the world that once was and would soon come to an end, whichever kind of end it may be, and whether she lived to see it or not.

She didn't want to die, and quite probably her staying here tonight would have no impact whatsoever on the events to follow. She might save a life or two, and end a life or two, but the final result she had no power to alter; so did it really matter so much whether she stayed or not? It did matter to her; but the thought that had made her stop, and stay, and shake with fright yet still remain – was that if things did go wrong, she wanted it all to end here and tonight. She didn't want to live and see what would happen next – her nightmares of it had been more than enough.

"Daphne!"

She barely heard the call and ignored it, until someone grabbed hold of her arm and forced her to stop; she looked and saw her friend Theodore – his usually pale face was rather red, and bore the expression of panic mixed with relief.

"Daphne, why the devil are you still here? Everybody else has already left. They're about to seal the exit."

In lack of anything better to say, she threw the question back at him, "Why are you still here?"

"I've been looking for you," he said, and she wanted to melt under his gaze that spoke of so much more. But there was no time for it now, and little chance of a future possibility. Little chance of a future.

"Let's go," he said, urgently pulling her forward. She resisted with all her might, both his physical force and her secret wish to stay at his side for ever.

"No," she told him. "No, I'm not coming."

"What do you mean you're not coming?" he demanded. "There's a war going on here. You cannot stay."

"Lots of people are staying here," she pointed out.

"Let those fools do what they want," he growled, dragging her along. She took a few steps after him, feeling how easy it was to follow – she had tried, it hadn't worked, could anyone really blame her? Some would, some wouldn't, though no one had probably expected her to stay. She hadn't expected to stay, or to want to stay. But she did, and she had to fight harder, otherwise she might never forgive herself.

"I'm just a fool like the rest of them, Theo," she said, stopping and trying to pull her arm free. "Let me do what I want. Let me help."

"Help! You want to help!" he cried out and spun round to face her – and his expression was so terrifying that she almost yelped in fear – but then she yelped in pain, because he had hurled her against the wall, and his hands held her as vices, hurting, bruising her skin.

It had never occurred to her that he was enemy – but he was, wasn't he? Here and now, at the end of the day, and at the end of all things.

"What can you possibly do to help?" he growled, his face inches away from hers, "You are nothing but a little girl, little frail useless girl. You cannot fight properly! You never get your spells right! You make a mess of everything! And you think that you could somehow help the Dark Lord? He doesn't want you! He'll never want a weakling like you!"

She didn't understand why he'd said such things – hurtful, spiteful, untrue – but she didn't stop to ponder about it. She decided to prove him wrong instead, so she wriggled one hand free of his grasp, whipped out her wand, and held it against his neck, matching his terrible stare with her own, no less harsh. Her voice when she spoke was much steadier than she'd expected – it was a welcome surprise.

"It's not the Dark Lord I'm going to help."

They had gone to school together, studied together, grown up together, been friends, laughed, even flirted a bit, gone to Hogsmeade together, given each other Christmas presents, practiced spells together, talked about all kinds of things, opened up and shared secrets, comforted each other, been happy together, done mischief together, studied for their exams, talked about their hopes and dreams for the future, once almost kissed, exchanged letters during summer, hugged, missed each other, fought and made up, been angry and forgiven, split up and reunited, lived together – and none of it mattered now when the world as they knew it was coming to an end, and she had left his side once and for all.

He let go of her and stepped away, glancing briefly at her wand then returning his hard stare to her face. He looked furious. Of course he would – she had betrayed him and everything they had done together.

"Is this it?" he hissed. "You want to stay, and fight, and die for Potter?"

He spat these words with such utter contempt that her hand shook – but only once. Her voice was still as steady as ever,

"Not for him. But I've been thinking about it, and I do not want to live in a world ruled by the Dark Lord."

"Oh, but you will," he said. "You are going to live in it, and you're going to love it, because he'll know if you don't, and then he'll destroy everything and everyone you once loved. He'll rip your family apart – he'll torture your mother, your father, your little sister before your eyes until you beg him to stop, until you hear them to beg for their death, until you scratch out your eyes and cover your ears to stop seeing their faces and stop hearing their cries, but he'll make you watch it, and it will never stop, and he will never stop— and he will not kill you before he has killed them in a more terrible way you could ever imagine, and perhaps he will not kill you even then, but keep you as a favourite toy, and your days would be filled with your cries of pain, and your dreams would be filled with the cries of all those you held dear, all those now gone, tortured and killed, and all that because of you! Because you were a fool who believed that goodness would triumph evil and wanted to help to make the world a better place."

Now her hand was shaking real bad, and tears were streaming down her face, and she wanted to howl in pain and misery, as if his words had already come true. She didn't stop him as he closed down upon her and snatched her wand away – she was trembling all over, and her vision had gone misty, and it was only a matter of time before her legs could no longer carry her – the world tilted before her eyes, and the dim light around her was growing darker still.

And then it passed, almost as suddenly as it had come to happen. She regained full consciousness and awareness – someone was holding her up; no, someone was holding her, holding her gently, and whispering words of comfort into her ear. She closed her eyes, laid her head down upon his shoulder, and pretended that none of this was happening. That it was not the end of the world as they knew and loved it.

But there was no time to pretend, and he knew it, and she knew it as well.

"Daphne," he said, soft yet urgent, "We have to go now."

She stood up a little straighter and steadier, and wiped her tears away, carefully avoiding his gaze.

"I really want to stay here and help," she said.

He gently turned her face towards him and kissed her forehead. When she didn't raise her eyes and look at him, he kissed it again and rested his own against it, "I know you want to. But you cannot, you cannot risk it, and I cannot— risk you doing it."

He moved his head to whisper straight into her ear, because his words were very dangerous, and would do much harm when heard by the wrong kind of people.

"If it were sure that Potter would win, if I could be sure that his chances were good, and if our presence would truly make a difference – I'd let you stay, and I would stand right beside you, and together we would fight, or perish, if the fates would have it that way – but we'd stand together and fight for a better world. But I cannot be sure of this, and I cannot risk you losing your life in such a meaningless way, or worse, survive to face the punishment. I cannot risk him hurting you for your disobedience, and you know that he can and will do all that I spoke of, if he should like it."

She trembled in his embrace at the memory of those terrible words, and he pressed her closer to him.

"So you may choose your death, you may choose to stay and fight, but if you do choose it, I will curse you and take you away. You may still risk it all, if you wish to, but I will not risk you."

He released her then, and even gave her back her wand, and then stood there, looking at her, waiting for her to make the choice. Why was he willing to waste the time for it, she didn't know. After all, it wouldn't make much difference – he had made it clear to her. She glanced along the hallway towards death and destruction, and considered making a run for it. But he would curse her, or worse yet – perhaps he would not curse her. Perhaps he would let her go to die, or suffer consequences far worse.

Yet there were people who stayed – to fight for a better world, and die for it, if the fates would have it that way, or survive and face the consequences. They stayed. They all believed that Potter could win, that they could win, that goodness could win – and they stayed.

And what did she believe? Really believe, not wish and hope and pray.

She raised her gaze and her hand – she looked at him, looked him in the eye, looked through him and into him, looked at him as if it would be her last chance in this world. She wanted to do more than look, much more – to talk, to say things, to do things – but this was not the time or the place for it.

"I'm sorry," she said, crying once more. "I'm sorry."

And then she lowered her wand, turned, and started walking. He quickly came to her side, and put his arm around her, prompting her to go a little faster.

She knew it would be a long time before she was able to forgive herself. But at least she'd have a long time trying to forgive herself, and he would stand at her side, and right now there was still time to wish and hope and pray that everything would end well.