The Carrows' Calling
Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me.
A/N: God, I am so, so, so sorry for not updating, in what, four months? Life has been really hectic, and though this is probably too late, I hope you're all having a great 2017! The next update will for sure be sooner, maybe not next week per say, but probably two weeks from now! Now onto Chapter Twenty-Seven!
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Neville's eyes cacked open to rays of bright, joyful sunbeams coming in through a window to his left. He blinked groggily as he took in his surroundings: red and gold wallpaper, painted Gryffindor emblems, and a chandelier hanging high above his head, the crystals sparkling and burning his eyes.
He frowned, then sprang up off the… what, couch? he was on, looked around some more, and gave a sigh of relief. He sank back down onto the loveseat, now knowing that he was perfectly safe and cozy in his Head of House's office—
Why was he in McGonagall's office?
Shit, he thought, she must've found me and saw what happened. Carrow must've taken him here, instead of his own office.
Then, a soft sigh came from in front of him. Neville jerked his head towards the noise, and saw that McGonagall had fallen asleep at her desk, while grading essays, it seemed like. He pondered a bit, then got up and pulled out his wand, levitating his professor onto the couch, where he originally slept. She gave no sign of waking up, or moving at all, and with what's been going on these day, Neville just had to check for a pulse. He gingerly placed two fingers on her wrist.
THUMP, THUMP.
A pulse was certainly there. Relieved, he draped a tartan blanket over her and then tiptoed towards the door, fulling planning on leaving, until an envelope, very much like the one he had spotted with Amycus, caught his eye. His eyes narrowed, and changed his directive, heading towards the desk.
As he skimmed it, he realised with horror that, despite his desperate grasp to the belief that it wasn't true, the contents of the letter corresponded with to the taunts of Amycus Carrow. His vision began to blur, and he begged that it was all a dream. His grandmother couldn't have been dead, she just can't be! He felt himself slide onto the floor, leaning against the desk as the tears took over.
"Neville?" a voice asked, and he twirled around, only to see Professor McGonagall standing before him—her hair a mess, and glasses crooked on her face, so unlike the usual Professor he knew that he almost didn't recognise her. He quickly stood up and dusted himself off, furiously flinging away his tears, trying to make the situation seem like nothing.
"Sorry, Professor, I didn't mean to—" he began hurriedly, but Professor McGonagall cut him off.
"Your grandmother isn't dead, Neville," she said softly, coming closer to him, her eyes soft and full of concern. He looked up at her, desperate clinging hope battling with dark pessimism.
"Sorry to discredit you Professor, but how do you know?" he stuttered, running a hand through his hair. The tears had not stopped, but had only come quicker with another surge of despair.
McGonagall walked up to him and sat him down.
"I know because your grandmother is at my house, in Hogsmeade," McGonagall said, softly. "I spoke with her just last night, after the letter came to me."
His hopeful side won over. Neville looked up at her, tears shining in his eyes.
"Really?"
She nodded and smiled at him.
"Really."
Then the tears started to come again, but this time, it was of relief, and joy.
Thump. Thump.
Logan's footsteps echoed in his ears as he paced back and forth outside of Headmaster Snape's office, the griffin gargoyle standing proudly. He had arranged a requested meeting with the Headmaster to ask for time to leave for his parents' funeral. His parents' funeral. No tears came this time at the thought; his mind was merely numb. He was numb. It was as though he was simply existing, with no purpose or need. He felt nothing anymore, nothing to any point.
Suddenly, the gargoyle spun with the stairs coming down. Logan let out a breath, expecting the Headmaster.
Rabastan Lestrange appeared, clad in all-too-familiar robes and a wicked smile. Logan's eyes widened, and he pulled out his wand.
"Well, well, well. Isn't it Logan Eduria?"
Logan didn't bother to correct him (oh, so he wasn't important enough for Rabastan to remember his bloody surname? Fine.) Instead he ignored him, clenched his jaw, and pushed past Rabastan, heading towards the stairs.
He was halfway up when he felt a slick, wet sensation on his arm, along with a twinge of pain that slowly spread throughout his entire arm. He felt it soak through his robes. A shiver went up his spine as he turned and saw Rabastan round the corner and disappear out of sight.
He lifted up his sleeve, and to his horror (though not to surprise), a long gash was slashed on his arm, and the blood was dripping down onto his hand, staining it red. The metal stench reached his nose, and he curled back, trying to get away from his own body. With his wand, he quickly conjured a wet cloth, and with a slight wince at the sting, cleaned out the wound and wound the cloth around it. That will have to do for now, he thought. Perhaps he could ask Professor Snape to heal it.
Wait.
Logan stared at the wet cloth that was slowly being soaked through, and laughed, despite the circumstances. What was his mind doing?
He grabbed his wand again, and muttered a healing charm.
After that short, albeit impractical, ordeal, he stood in front of the door again and knocked thrice.
"Come in," said a voice, and Logan placed his hand on the doorknob.
Suddenly, he felt a tugging sensation at his navel, and the tall, redwood door was the last thing he saw.
"Elizabeth!" Neville heard himself hiss. "What are you doing here?"
The young, blonde girl spun around, wand in hand, and glared. She stood up from her crouched position, haughtily, and stared him in the eye with an attempted scowl. Like a little kitten getting mad at you, Neville thought, first with amusement, then with guilt because of it.
"I'm here to join you," she said plainly. "Whether you want me to or not. I'm going to do it."
"Elizabeth," Neville said wearily, "I know you want to fight and all, I felt that, but you're just too young! You're eleven!" Neville exclaimed. He quickly silenced himself, however, looking around nervously. He made a noise of frustration, and soon he felt himself dragging the young girl by the arm into the Room of Requirement.
"We can talk here better," he said, once inside.
Previous traces of Elizabeth's anger was now replaced with amazement. "Where am I?" she asked, her voice filled with awe, as her eyes widened and tried to take in the magic of a singular room.
"The Room of Requirement," he replied with a smile. She looked quizzically at him, her eyebrow raised, and Neville couldn't help but think of McGonagall. A young, pigtailed McGonagall, that is.
"I'm going to join. I'm going to help," Elizabeth repeated matter-of-factly, as if a turndown was impossible.
"Elizabeth, you're too young!" he repeated with emphasis.
"And you're not?" she retorted, crossing her arms and smirking. Neville gave an exasperated sigh,
"I'm seventeen. I'm allowed to make whatever stupid decisions I want to make, because I'm of age. I can risk my life because it's my choice, because I'm old enough. Elizabeth, just think of the heart attack McGonagall would have if she knew," Neville said, trying to argue with the girl.
"Then McGonagall doesn't need to know."
"She'll find out. I'm sure of it. Elizabeth, you're just too young! This is your first year at Hogwarts! You are eleven! Eleven!" he said again, desperate to reason with her.
Elizabeth looked like she was restraining herself from doing something rash. "Why am I too young?" she debated hotly. "I have to fight! I have to do something! I can't just stand by and watch, as Hogwarts burns down!" Her voice raised into a shout, her fists curling up.
"I know how you feel. But you don't understand!" Neville reasoned. "People die! People get hurt! Are you ready for that?" he questioned harshly.
"I! I—" Elizabeth faltered. All of a sudden, all her energy seemed to fade away.
She tightened her lips and looked to her feet.
"I don't know," she finally said, quietly. "I don't know if I'm ready. I don't know if I can face death and pain and horror. But I want to be. I want to fight for Hogwarts. I need to fight for Hogwarts. So, please, Neville—" Elizabeth looked back up, bright blue watery eyes looking straight into Neville's. "Let me."
For a moment, all that could be heard was Elizabeth's quick, rapid breathing. Then, Neville shook his head and sighed.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," he said under his breath, and Elizabeth drew in a sharp bated breath. "Ginny's going to have my head."
Neville held out a hand and gave her a rueful smile. "Welcome to Dumbledore's Army."
Elizabeth's face lit up in brilliant joy, but it quickly faded into determination. She shook his hand firmly.
"Alright. What's first?" Neville, against his will, gave a small grin. He was starting to like this girl.
"About time," a deep, harsh voice murmured from his right.
Logan stirred and groaned. He shut his eyes tightly, despite the lack of light, and it took a moment for him to process what the hell had happened. His brow furrowed in concentration as his mind rewound its memory.
Suddenly he sat bolt upright, eyes wide and alert, staring with confusion, defiance, and fear at the man before him.
Silvery, platinum hair tumbled down to the man's shoulders, and his dreary grey eyes peered at Logan impassively. He looked tired and old, Logan concluded—the bags underneath seemed to go on for ages, and the silver hair didn't seem to help. Neither did the staff he held in his left hand, even though there was no appearance of him leaning on it.
His face was familiar, almost like deja-vu. Something about the defiant look in his eyes, the sharp yet muddled features—it took a moment for him to register his name.
"Lucius Malfoy," Logan said, cautious but polite, purposely addressing him by his first name instead of higher terms. If they were going to play this game, they were going to play it on even footing. They were going to play fair, no matter how reluctant the latter would be on that.
"Good evening," the man replied in the same air.
"You don't appear to be Professor Snape," said Logan with a faint smile, trying to edge the man towards honesty—using humor to "break the tension", as they say.
"No," the man said mildly. Hmm, Logan thought. Perhaps humor doesn't work with this kind of people.
Logan frowned. He tried to think of the best way to move the conversation further.
"I heard about your parents, Logan Erudia," another voice suddenly spoke up. This time, it came from the left. He squinted towards the source, but the face was much too shrouded in darkness for him to make anything out. "I'm very sorry for your loss."
Logan was surprised to hear emotion in the voice, though he concealed it well. Was that remorse he heard? Or was it an act?
"Rabastan Lestrange is a despicable creature," the stranger went on, coming closer to Logan now, and he could just slightly make out a silver mask in the harsh lighting, "the world would be a better place without him."
Logan smiled faintly. They had played their piece, it was time for his. "I assume that is relevant as to why I'm here?"
Malfoy clasped his hands in front of him and looked at Logan intensely. Logan matched him with a look just as strong. There would be no backing down, all or nothing. He was walking straight into this.
"We could do it together," he insisted. "Join us, Logan, and we'll protect you. You'll never need fear for yourself anymore. Join us, and we can destroy Rabastan once and for all."
The attempt to hide his shock was futile, for he thought he saw Lucius frown. However, his thoughts ran on high, as the pieces of glass gave a little "clink" and came together. The Death Eaters. Followers of Voldemort.
He steadied himself and, mind spinning a plan, took a little bow.
"It is an honour. The greatest of honors," he said, laying it on thick, though Lucius didn't seem to notice, for he was grinning with glee.
"This one is smart. I chose well, as I said I would," Lucius boasted, turning slightly to face the two men behind him.
"I never said you wouldn't," grumbled one of them, his voice laced and spun with bitterness and envy.
Lucius spun back around and faced Logan with a bedazzling smile, however fake it was.
"An agreement, I hear?"
"I'm honored. Very, very honored, and very blessed with this," Logan repeated, with just as much confidence as before, perhaps even more, buying time.
"Is that an agreement? A yes?" he asked again, this time with more force, and his voice continuously raised with each word.
Logan didn't reply.
"You would be able to defeat him. Rabastan. Vengeance for your parents," Lucius pressed, his voice getting quieter, but Logan had the impression that it wasn't exactly out of genuine feeling. More like… an effect he was going for. "We'll defeat Rabastan, together. No one will ever dare to hurt you again. I promise."
"Rabastan," Logan growled quietly, clenching his jaw and curling his hands into fists. He didn't need to pretend there.
"Yes," murmured Lucius. "Join us, Logan."
Logan thought about bowing and agreeing profusely, but that thought was quickly dismissed. Careful, he warned himself. Don't lay it on too thick now. Lucius isn't like the Carrows.
"I…" Logan frowned, and a faraway look appeared in his eyes. "I will consider your offer," he eventually said, after a long pause. "It sounds very, very important, and I would like to make sure that I am up to it, that I wouldn't disappoint anyone."
Lucius had a very small smirk on his face, but Logan pretended not to see.
"Very well," he said with a sigh. "We shall meet again very soon. You are an intelligent young man. It wouldn't do well for you to give up an opportunity like this one."
Logan nodded solemnly, taking care to keep the indecisive look in his eyes, and raised a hand in farewell. He then raised an eyebrow and cocked his head.
"Ah, yes," Lucius said, and gestured towards a door by the side. "Portkey. Farewell, Logan Erudia."
Logan headed towards the door and grasped the doorknob. His last thought before his mind faded into a whirl was that, at least, Lucius Malfoy said his name correctly.
Hushed whispering from beneath the stairs drew Ginny from her attempt to sleep. It was ironic, really—there were no homework, no assignments, no projects to be done, and yet, Ginny found her sleeping habits even more intermittent than her days at Hogwarts.
She had been trying, trying so hard. Potterwatch, letters, newspapers—everything. All night, searching for news of Dumbledore's Army, Hogwarts, and most of all—Harry. But there was near to nothing.
Ginny groaned in despair and buried her head into her pillow.
The voices continued. It was most likely her father returning home. She snuggled further into her duvet, and closed her eyes, trying once again to fall asleep.
But a second after, the murmurs grew into a incredulous shout, and then dwindled down, suddenly, quieter, as if frightened of awakening somebody.
This was normal, of course—her parents wouldn't be yelling at this time of night (or rather, day). But there was just something, a little nagging voice in her head. There was something off with their tone. Something off about everything, really. But was it just her overthinking it? Everything was off these days, they were in the middle of a bloody war, for Merlin's sake!
But Ginny had grown accustomed to listening to that instinctual voice, as it had served her well in the past, and all her senses were buzzing. So she made up her mind, squashed the little bud of guilt (for the greater good, she convinced herself), and got up.
Moving very, very slowly, Ginny crept out of her room, making sure to avoid that one creaking floorboard. She moved just far enough, so that the blend of incomprehensible words slowly arranged themselves into a string of knowledge.
With bated breath, Ginny pressed her ear against the wall and the murmurs formed themselves into words.
"We need to tell her," her father's voice said, persisting. The tone of his voice gave away the fact that he had persisted for quite a while now. From what, she didn't know, and it was already driving her crazy. Curiousity did really kill the cat. She strained her ears, the tension almost unbearable.
"We mustn't," her mother said firmly, almost coldly.
Pressing a hand to her mouth, Ginny took a step closer to the voices.
"Molly," her father said with a tint of exasperation, "she gets more worried every day. You see the bags under her eyes. You hear her tuning the radios all day, every day. This isn't helping. It's doing the opposite. We've got to do something. Anything," he added, out of pure desperation.
"No, no, we can't," her mother rushed out desperately, "that's exactly why we can't. We know our Ginny. Headstrong and reckless. She'd return to Hogwarts in a heartbeat. You know that."
"I'd rather have her alive and tired than—" her mother's voice quivered. "I'd rather have her tired and exhausted and sick, than dead! Arthur, don't you see? She's too young to be fighting in a war! She's too young!"
"The Order's already lost so much, and we don't need another young death adding to the numbers! Arthur, there was a reason we didn't join the Order the first time round—it was too dangerous!" Her voice turned shrill. "It's still too dangerous!"
Her mother sounded on the verge of tears, her tone becoming more and more fraught by the second.
"I do, my dear, but it's almost becoming cruel. We've been keeping this from her for, what, a week? Harry's practically her boyfriend, for Merlin's sake!"
And that was all it took.
Ginny, headstrong, reckless Ginny, barrelled down the stairs, words already spilling out of her mouth, tears of both accusation and hope, desperate hope, stringing her eyes.
"What," she hissed, glaring at the couple, wide eyed and terrified.
"Oh, Ginny, Ginny," her mother cried out, covering her face with her hands. Her father wrung his hands and began to shuffle on his feet.
"What—happened—to—Harry?" Ginny spat, eyes blazing.
"Harry…" her father forced out the word, and the rest tumbled down. "Harry Potter was spotted in Hogsmeade."
Ginny let out a cry of anger and joy. Then the anger overpowered and spilled out.
"One week. One goddamn week," she said, tears springing into her eyes. "Why?"
"You'll go back!" her mother suddenly burst, her voice borderline hysterical. "I knew it, you're going back aren't you, back to Hogwarts and back to the danger, oh, Ginny, you mustn't go back, you'll get hurt out there—"
"And what?!" Ginny yelled, flinging herself towards her mother. "I'm supposed to stay here, in our peaceful little cottage surrounded by charms, while Harry and Neville and Logan and Elizabeth and everyone else fights? You think I should do that? You think I'm going to do that?" Ginny didn't bother hearing her mother's answer, and continued to shout.
"There are already people being killed! This isn't helping! I'm supposed to fight for Dumbledore, I'm supposed to lead his army, I'm supposed to. You're not protecting me, you're killing others!"
"I know you're trying to protect me, but Mum, I'm not a kid anymore. And you shouldn't pretend that I am. Me, along with everyone else, has been thrust into this war, whether we'd like it or not. I'm not a child anymore. I've seen things. Horrible things, things I can't erase from my mind," she explained, her voice gentle, yet filled with passion.
"Mum, I grew up. I grew up a while ago," Ginny said, a little sad, and a little heartbroken, seeing the anguish and tears in her mother's eyes.
Her mother almost wailed. "Oh, Ginny."
Ginny almost stopped from the pure pain she saw and heard from her mother, but the thought of Harry made her forge on.
"It's not the same. I've just got to go back, I can't stand it, hiding away while the rest of you fight, what if you saw dad here getting hurt, wouldn't you save him? Wouldn't you give up your life?" she exclaimed, her tone quivering a little at the end, not wanting to imagine what would—no, what could—happen.
"I would Ginny, but Ginny—you are sixteen! Underage! This isn't your fight!"
"You're right, I am sixteen. But you're also wrong. It is my fight. It's my generation's fight. It's Harry's fight. And I've got to help him. Don't you get it? You can't expect to keep me all cozied up in your house when people are dying out there. Please!"
"You are underage!" her mother shrieked. "Ginny, you are sixteen! Sixteen! I can't let you go, I just can't!"
"Please mum! Please, just let me! Let me go! Let me fight!"
"Ginny, you are underage! You are young! Leave the fighting for the adults, we don't have much left! But you do! You have life left!" Molly exclaimed in desperation, as a last act to get Ginny to stay.
"Mum, I have to fight! Don't you get it? I have to!"
"I suppose I leave you with no choice then," her mother replied, her tone cold. She raised her wand and muttered a charm.
Ginny may have been the stronger debater, but this time her mother had the element of surprise on her side. Ginny was too shocked to move, she simply watched in horror as her wand floated down the stairs and into her mum's grasp.
She was grabbed by the hand and dragged up the stairs. Her bedroom door slammed in her face. The lock gave a tiny little tick.
Ginny's mouth fell open. Then her face darkened. With a snarl of frustration, she pounded a hand on the wood.
"Let me out!"
The response was brief, clipped, and cold.
"No."
A silence. Ginny slid down the door and leaned against the cool surface.
"Mum?" she said in a choked voice. "Please."
"I'm sorry, Ginny," her mother whispered. "I need to protect you."
Her ear pressed against the door, Ginny shut her eyes, tears streaming, as her mother's heavy, grieved footsteps echoed away.
Author's Note: To whoever is reading this: Thank you so much for sticking with us, and this fanfiction. I don't know why you are, but I am really glad you are. I'm very, very sorry about the infrequent updates, and I'll try my very best to update more. Thank you, and please review, it means a lot to us.
Until next time,
Zigostia