Keep Holding On

by ChoCedric

AU. Albus Dumbledore told Sirius Black to lie low at Lupin's for a while, and then go and rally the old crowd. But Sirius, feeling more resolute than he ever had in his life, looked the Headmaster straight in the eye and said, "No. I'm staying with Harry. I'm not leaving him alone." A story of hardship and tragedy, but also of unconditional love.

54. Chapter 54

Disclaimer: Nope.

Author's Note: Phew! What a week! I'm sorry it took me longer to update this time around. There are times when real life doesn't allow me the time to update as frequently, but this time, it was honestly not because I was busy. This time, I was actually ill. Turns out my immune system had had enough and wanted to shut itself down for a while. After I'd been so busy with the wedding and honeymoon and everything, I think I needed a lot of rest. I got some kind of upper respiratory infection when I got home from England. I actually came home with it, but was feeling okay enough to still get some writing done. But by the end of last weekend, it was getting worse. I thought it was one of those things I would be able to shake off pretty quickly. I'm usually a very healthy person, but this time, I just couldn't shake it. I ended up going to the doctors on Monday.

Needless to say, I'm taking antibiotics now and am on the mend. But I was very, very tired for a while - this thing literally zapped all my energy and I had to go a few days without writing a single thing. I felt really unproductive while I was lying around waiting to get better. I'm sorry that had to be the reason why I was so slow in getting this chapter out. I'm just really glad it's all over with now and that I'm finally recuperating. I hope that this extra-long chapter helps to make up for all of that.

Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews! I'm so glad you all enjoyed the last chapter. It was definitely a raw, emotional one to write. And this one's going to be just the same.

I'm really glad you liked all three parts of it. This one, too, has three parts. September 1 is such an important day in the wizarding world, and unfortunately, Voldemort had to make this one memorable too, but for all the wrong reasons. Stupid, evil megolomaniac.

Yes, the weather was amazing in England for our honeymoon, and that's very rare. England is certainly NOT known for its good weather! Having lived there until I was eight, I can certainly remember it. I live around the Philadelphia, PA area now and have done so for almost thirty years.

By the way, Yellow 14, one of your characters is going to show up in this chapter, but not in the way you might think. I really, really hope you find what I do interesting.

I hope you all enjoy this chapter! I'm so glad to be writing again!

xxxxxxxxxx

Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody had seen a lot in his life. He'd been an Auror for decades, and had fought an endless amount of battles, it seemed. He'd locked up his fair share of dark wizards in Azkaban, and had seen things that had given him plenty of nightmare fodder and had turned him into the person he now was.

People called him paranoid. They called him a nutcase. They said he should be locked up in Saint Mungo's, and that he was only fit for the mental ward. They said he didn't know the difference between a handshake and attempted murder.

Well, maybe all of them were right, but Alastor Moody didn't let any of their opinions stop him from doing what he needed to do. People were going to think what they were going to think, and it wasn't like he could stop them from having their opinions. Damn, if they'd seen what he'd seen, if they'd done what he'd done ... they'd be just as paranoid and twitchy as he was.

Alastor never spoke of the nightmares he had now, as he was not going to burden anybody with something he thought he should be facing alone. The awful, claustrophobic, trapped feeling as he was stuck in his own magical trunk, unable to do anything while his captor leered down at him, taunting him as he wore his own face. Telling him there was nothing, nothing, nothing he could do, that the renowned, unstoppable Alastor Moody was finally defeated. The tiredness and weakness from the malnourishment and lack of physical activity during those months was still affecting the ex-Auror, even after all this time. Poppy Pomfrey had worked a miracle in healing him, but he knew he would never be the same again.

No one understood just how much guilt Moody had experienced since those days. When he had spoken to Harry during that Order meeting, he hadn't only been trying to convince him - he'd been attempting to convince himself, too, that he couldn't save everyone. Harry Potter certainly was not the only one who blamed himself for the death of seventeen-year-old Cedric Diggory. His life had held so much fresh promise, and it had been cruelly cut short because certain people - certain people who had decades of experience - had not been strong enough. Old Alastor Moody had let young Cedric Diggory down because he simply hadn't been strong enough to fight back against a man he had once had in his grasp.

Truly, of all the things he had experienced, the night the Longbottoms had been tortured was absolute hell. He'd taken a distinct pleasure in being one of the Aurors who had brought the three Lestranges and Crouch into custody. The memory of Bellatrix's cackling face as she gloated always had the power to enrage him as the Longbottoms lay on the ground, completely incoherent. He vividly recalled Crouch Jr., too - Merlin, he had been so young then. The time he had spent in Azkaban had aged him, and years under the Imperius Curse by his own father's hand had made him even more deranged. In his nightmares, Moody still heard some of the words and phrases Crouch had said to him while he lay, completely incapacitated, in his magical trunk.

Moody knew the guilt was always going to be there. But he also knew that he had to be productive with it - he would use it to become even stronger. He might not be an Auror anymore, but he was now relied upon more than ever to help the Order. To help them fight against the same monster that had destroyed so much of their lives last time around.

And Potter. Merlin, Moody had to help the boy. He didn't know precisely all of what the prophecy said - but he could guess. Alastor Moody could safely say that when he realized the incredible burden that had been put on Potter, he felt sick. And that was saying a lot, considering everything he'd seen in his life and the battles he had taken part in. And he knew with a bone-deep certainty that if he'd been given such a task at such a young age, the pressure would have been too much - he wouldn't have been able to handle it.

It wasn't fair. Alastor Moody honestly didn't believe in prophecies anyway. In his opinion, they were all bullshit. Just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo being foretold by some Seer who wouldn't even remember that they said anything at all. And the stock some witches and wizards put in them - bloody Voldemort was absolutely ridiculous. He had tried to kill a fifteen-month-old baby because he thought he would be defeated by him. If it wasn't so horrible, it would be laughable. A monster who professed to be unbeatable, afraid of a baby. How utterly ludicrous.

And as Moody sat in a chair in Grimmauld Place's drawing room, watching a wild-eyed Sirius Black pace back and forth, back and forth, he knew Voldemort was only setting himself up for his own damned downfall. Potter had so many people in his corner, people who would move Heaven and Earth themselves to make sure the boy survived this. Because as much as Moody thought the prophecy was bullshit, Voldemort didn't. And it was clear that he wouldn't stop coming after Harry and anyone who was protecting him. But Moody wasn't afraid, and he knew, as he watched Sirius, that the other man wasn't either. They would do what they had to - they'd walk through Fiendfyre itself to protect Harry.

Moody knew he wasn't a forgiving instructor. He knew that once he began to teach Potter how to truly survive an encounter with a Death Eater or Voldemort, he wouldn't go easy on the boy. And he'd tell him outright. He was going to work him hard, because the most important thing was that Potter survive this.

But Moody was no Severus Snape either. He wouldn't insult the boy needlessly. He bore no grudge against him. He did not hate him - if anything, it was the opposite. He hadn't felt such a thing in years, but he felt a surge of protectiveness envelop him whenever he thought of what the boy would be forced to endure.

Alastor Moody truly didn't mind if he ended up not surviving this fight - it was honestly a wonder he'd made it this far. He sure as hell wasn't young - he knew he was a paranoid, crotchety old thing, really. If he was going to go down fighting - well, he was perfectly okay with it.

But he would not allow Harry Potter to do so. If it was the last thing he did, even if his teaching style meant he would come into conflict with Sirius in the future ... he would do whatever it took to ensure Harry's survival, because he cared so much about the damned kid that it hurt him. No fifteen-year-old should have that amount of guilt in his eyes. No fifteen-year-old should be prepared to lay his life down in a struggle that his parents, too, had died in.

But old Mad-Eye was going to see to it that Harry Potter grew up to live a long, healthy life surrounded by loved ones. Damn it all, there would be bloody peace in Potter's future. Alastor would make sure of it.

"Did you hear me, Moody?" Sirius roared as he continued to pace back and forth in front of the ex-Auror. "We can't waste any more time! We have to find out what this scar connection is before ..." His voice caught. "Harry was him, Alastor! I had to convince my godson that he did not kill those people! I had to help him realize that he was feeling Voldemort's emotions, not his own! This can't go on, Moody! He can't suffer like this!"

What Sirius had just described was beyond Alastor's imagination. He could very well picture the sick emotions dark wizards felt when they tortured or murdered someone - he could remember Crouch's twisted, jubilant expression as he put him under the Cruciatus Curse with no remorse, leering down at Moody as he writhed in pain in his magical trunk. He knew very well what it was like to be held in captivity and be completely at Crouch's mercy.

But to experience Voldemort's emotions as though they were your own ... Moody literally couldn't wrap his mind around such horror. That poor kid - no wonder he was up in his room, fast asleep at two o'clock in the afternoon - Sirius had told Moody that as soon as he'd asked for him to come over.

"Sirius, please sit down," Moody growled; the man's constant pacing was agitating him too. "Wearing a hole in the floor isn't going to help the situation."

"Do you think I care?" Sirius shouted back at him. "You're supposed to be helping! You're supposed to be solving this problem! What have you found out? What do you know about curse scars? Why does Harry have to go through this? What in nine levels of Hell is this connection the two of them share?"

Finally, Sirius stopped pacing and collapsed into a chair. "Do something," he pleaded, looking right into Moody's wizened face, his heart in his eyes. "Please, do something about this. Do you have any idea what this is going to do to Harry if he keeps having dreams like this? I can't ... I can't ..." He put his head in his hands. "Why Harry?" he whispered brokenly. "He doesn't deserve this. Not any of it. What did he ever do?"

Moody's heart went out to Sirius. He was in no way offended by his harsh remarks - he understood that the man was reacting like any parent would to their child being hurt. Moody was supposed to be helping, and he was failing. He bore no grudge against Sirius for holding it against him.

"Look, Sirius." Moody laid a gnarled hand on the other man's shoulder. "Bill and I have been doing all we can. There honestly hasn't been much research done on curse scars because there hasn't been many cases of them over the centuries, and none of the small amount of written research on those cases suggests that they should act in the way Potter's does."

Sirius's smile was bitter. "So, once again, Harry's different in a way he doesn't want to be," he said viciously. "So what are you saying? That there's no hope? That I'll have to watch as, night after night, Harry dreams about everything Voldemort does and feels his joy and sick pleasure as he's doing it? Are you telling me that all I'll be able to do is whisper empty words in his ear when he wakes up shaking and vomiting because he thinks he's the murderer?" Sirius was shouting again by the end of his tirade. "Is that it, then?" he snarled.

"No." Moody remained calm. "No, Sirius. The moment you hear me saying there's no hope is the moment when the sun will no longer rise in the morning. Damn it, Sirius, of course there is hope. Just because we haven't found anything yet doesn't mean we never will. And while we're searching for a solution, there are still ways around this."

"Like what?" Sirius demanded. "Give me something to go on here!"

"Like Occlumency." Moody replied promptly. "Ever heard of it?"

That stopped Sirius short. Closing his eyes in thought, he said, "It's something to do with the mind, right?"

Moody gave Sirius a description of exactly what it entailed. "I do not know if Voldemort is using the connection on purpose to force Harry to witness this, but it's clear he knows about it," he added.

"Because he sent him that dream of the false memory of Cedric Diggory's murder," Sirius agreed. "But ... who knows Occlumency? Who would teach him?"

"Severus Snape does ..." Moody started.

"No. Absolutely not. I'm not letting that bastard anywhere near Harry's mind," Sirius snarled.

"I was suggesting no such thing," Moody retorted. "He'd be a rubbish teacher. I was only saying he was one of the people in the Order who knows it. And ... as a matter of fact, I know it, too. Bloody good thing I did, because Crouch would have gotten a hell of a lot more out of me if I didn't."

"Crouch is a Legilimens?" Sirius asked, horrified. "Do you know of any other Death Eaters who are?"

"Antonin Dolohov." Moody spat the name like it was poison. "Rodolphus Lestrange. Thankfully, they're both still in Azkaban, but we can't guarantee that'll remain the case."

"Rodolphus." Anger flashed in Sirius's eyes. "I should have guessed. That man is pure evil."

"Indeed," Moody agreed wholeheartedly. "And of course, Snape is, as well as Voldemort himself. And I couldn't trust Snape as far as I can throw him."

"Me neither," Sirius nodded. "I don't get why McGonagall lets him stay in the Order. And ... and Dumbledore ..."

It still hurt, to think of Albus. He and Alastor had been friends for decades, and Moody couldn't pretend that part of him wasn't extremely hurt by the fact that the other man hadn't been able to distinguish him from Crouch for an entire year. Maybe it was wrong of him to be hurt by such a thing, but he couldn't pretend that the feelings weren't there.

But what had happened to him now ... Moody knew that if being locked up in a magical trunk was horrible, being severely tortured by two people who called themselves Mind Healers must be a thousand times worse. It was only because Albus was such a good Occlumens that his mind's defenses had fought back so hard. Moody legitimately shuddered when thinking about Albus's fate. There was nothing more sacred to a human being than their own mind, and Albus had had his violated in such a heinous fashion that Moody had a hard time thinking about it without sheer insanity beginning to creep in. "I don't want to talk about Albus," he muttered, his voice quieter than usual.

"Then we won't," Sirius said, and Moody was greatly relieved by how the other man was respecting his wishes. "So, who's going to teach Harry?"

"I will." Moody said quietly. "I'll build Occlumency into our training schedule. Sturgis, Emmeline, and I will all have different styles when it comes to teaching the young lad how to survive what he's most likely to face." He didn't miss the pain that flashed through Sirius's eyes at that remark. "And I think it's high time he learned Occlumency. That boy needs to keep his sanity if he's going to live through this."

"Don't talk about Harry's mental health like that," Sirius snapped, staring Moody down.

"I'm only telling the truth," Moody said bluntly. "Because I know you know it's true, even if you don't want to acknowledge it. That boy is fifteen. Fifteen. I'm decades older and I couldn't handle having dreams like that, Sirius. Many people already think I'm insane. Maybe I am. Maybe I shouldn't be fighting for the Order anymore and I'm only fit for the loony bin. I suppose that's why Crouch was able to play his part so perfectly. He's completely unhinged, and yet he was able to be me with no issue at all."

"Don't talk about yourself like that either, Alastor." Sirius sounded rather angry now. "If you think you're anything like Crouch ..."

"There's no if about it," Moody snapped. "I AM like Crouch. Just like Crouch. Only 180 degrees in the opposite direction. This whole bloody year has made me come to terms with who I am, and it's not a pretty picture, Black. But I will assure you of this one thing - I will see to it that Potter bloody survives this, even if old Mad-Eye does not."

Sirius's eyes had always been so expressive, Moody thought as genuine sadness filled them. "Please." The whisper was of a man who would stop at nothing to protect the boy he loved. "Take care of my godson."

"Don't worry." Moody patted Sirius's shoulder. "I damn well will. I swear it."

xxx

"Good evening, everyone."

Minerva McGonagall looked around at the many, many faces staring at her. It was the end of another Welcoming Feast, but this was one Welcoming Feast she never wanted to experience again.

Hogwarts was subdued. It wasn't filled with the joyous cheer and laughter that usually accompanied September 1. Tonight, even the candles on each of the tables didn't seem to glow as brightly. The warmth they normally exuded was noticeably absent.

She should have guessed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would start his reign of terror last night. It was so typical of a monster like him. Things were already so uncertain, and Minerva had already been dreading this day more than she thought was possible.

And when she'd awoken this morning and stared at the headlines, her stomach sank. When she looked at the names of those who had died, she had gone into her quarters and shed tears for them all. Each and every one of them had been a student she had taught, a student she had watched pass through Hogwarts' halls, experiencing the joy, the heartbreak, the trials, the tribulations of youth. She'd watched as they worried over exams, as they received passing and failing grades, as puberty began to set in and they navigated through all the messy emotions it held, as they fell in love, got their hearts broken, fell in love again - all the things that teenagers go through. At the end of their time at Hogwarts, they had gone on to live promising, fulfilling lives. It was safe to say that Minerva had been proud of each and every one of them.

They'd all spoken out against You-Know-Who in some form or fashion, and they'd all paid for it with their lives - and if they had families, theirs as well. Minerva was sickened by all of it. She might be getting older, but her memory was as good as it ever was.

And one of those students had become a teacher. Maradith Crewer had truly been incredible - she'd been an inspiration to so many people, and she had kept morale going at Hogwarts while You-Know-Who's reign got worse and worse and fear was invading every nook and cranny, every alcove, every corridor. And now... now she was gone, too. One of the most beloved teachers Hogwarts had ever had was gone.

But, as was happening so often now, Minerva had to be strong when all she wanted to do was collapse with exhaustion. This might be a horrible, brutal day, but she had a school to run. She could see the stress on so many of the students and knew they were depending on her to keep it together. She had to stay brave, even though one of the students who was supposed to start her education today had been slaughtered the night before - her mother was one of those Ministry workers who had spoken out against You-Know-Who. Elizabeth Banner. She had been the eleven-year-old cousin of a Slytherin boy who was supposed to be starting his sixth year today. But now, Matthew Banner wouldn't return for a week because he was grieving the loss of his aunt, uncle, and cousin. And Elizabeth ... she would never start Hogwarts now. Minerva would never get to see her receive passing and failing grades. Never get to offer her a biscuit. Never get to see her go through puberty. Never get to reprimand her and whoever she would fall in love with for being out after curfew. Never get to share a secret smile about it with Filius, despite the fact that the girl had earned a detention - after all, people might not believe it, but Minerva McGonagall had been young once, too. And, worst of all, she'd never get to see her graduate, going on to live a life of promise. No, that was all gone because You-Know-Who had snuffed out her life last night, along with her parents.

Her eyes wandered to the Slytherin table, and she saw many a shocked face there. There were so many who subscribed to the stereotype that all Slytherins had it good with You-Know-Who - they were either on his side or were safe from him. One of their own losing their family in such a brutal fashion had robbed them of that notion. Minerva dearly hoped that if there was to be any tiny, miniscule silver lining to this horrific tragedy, it would be the loss of that illusion that every single Slytherin was a power-hungry, scheming, snivelling coward. Ambition did not have to mean kneeling at the feet of an evil megolomaniac.

It wasn't a good evening at all, but Minerva needed to do this for her students. She faced them with all the bravery she possessed, and began to speak. "For those of you who are returning to Hogwarts, welcome back. And to those of you who are starting this year, I am very happy to have you here," she said, looking around at all the House tables. "The house-elves did an excellent job on the feast, as they always do."

Merlin, Minerva felt so lost. One thing she had always admired about Albus was his ability to make a speech, no matter the situation. He seemed to do it so effortlessly, and he had this ... ability to make everyone listen. Minerva did not feel as though she possessed that ability, and especially on a night like this.

But she went on, because there was nothing else she could do. "Before we go on to all other start-of-term notices," she said, knowing she had to address the hippogriff in the room, "I must acknowledge the terrible events that occurred last night. As you all know, there are some students missing from our number today. Several of them will return sometime next week, and I ask you all to support and be there for them when they do. We are a community, and it is on all of us to show them that they aren't alone. I will now announce the students who lost members of their families to last night's attack - I ask you all to stand, and raise your glasses to them."

She watched as all the students did so, and for once, all the Houses were united. It was just incredibly sad that it had to be under these circumstances. "Eloise Midgen," she said quietly, and all the students repeated each name as she said it. "Hannah Abbott. Derrick Long. Katie Bell."

She watched the saddened faces around the hall, some of the students shedding tears for their friends who were supposed to be here right now, but weren't because they were grieving and helping to plan funerals for their loved ones. "And ... Matthew Banner," she said quietly, watching as the boy's Hufflepuff girlfriend, Rebecca Hardman, looked grief-stricken on his behalf as she wiped away tears. "Matthew's cousin, Elizabeth Banner, was supposed to be starting her first year tonight. There are no words of comfort I can give that will ever make this better. Elizabeth will no longer be able to be educated in these hallowed halls because her life was cut short by a regime that seeks to destroy all that we hold dear."

Her heart ached as she saw some other students succumb to tears at this. Older ones put their arms around younger ones, attempting to comfort them. At the Gryffindor table, Ron and Hermione were attempting to comfort two young first-years who were sobbing. A flame of righteous anger lit in Minerva - they were two Muggle-born first-years. How dare You-Know-Who allow them to be introduced to the wizarding world in such a way! This was the height of unfair - the cruelty almost stole away her breath.

Minerva sighed, took a deep breath, and continued. "There are two more people who aren't here tonight who I'd like to acknowledge," she said. "The first, of course, is Cedric Diggory. He would have been going into his seventh year this year."

It still sent a massive bolt of pain through Minerva's heart whenever she thought of Cedric. He had been one of the oldest students in his year - his birthday had been on September 21. That was why he was able to be champion last year and yet only be in sixth year. Looking around the room, she saw the faces of those that had been closest to Cedric - his best friends, his girlfriend, the many students he'd tutored. The pain of losing him was still incredibly raw.

"I understand how much his death has hurt you all," Minerva continued. "He is someone who will always be remembered, and always be missed."

Then, her eyes once again landed on the Gryffindor table, and she made eye contact with Ron and Hermione. "Lastly," she said solemnly, "I would like to acknowledge that Harry Potter is not with us this evening. You all know the truth about him now," she said, unable to keep the disappointment out of her tone as she surveyed the students who had doubted him, who had cast aspersions on his character, who had accused him of murdering Cedric.

"And however you might feel about him now," Minerva went on, "he is a student of this school, and he did not hurt anyone intentionally." She looked sternly around the room again. "I will not tolerate nasty comments from anyone concerning Mr. Potter," she said without preamble. "It is obviously up to you whether you agree with the governors' decision or not - I cannot change your mind. But be very mindful of those who are missing his presence here."

You could have heard a pin drop in the room; no one dared to contradict her. Sighing again, Minerva said one last thing about the current conditions. "Please, take care of one another," she said, her tone now gentler than normal. "These are difficult times we are living through, and we must all support one another. If any of you needs anything at all, my door is always open."

After several seconds of silence, Minerva went on with her announcements, although she felt it was hardly right to do so. How could she talk about new teachers, tell the students the Forbidden Forest was, well - forbidden - and talk about Quidditch practices at a time like this?

But she did, because it was her duty and she was the one trusted to keep Hogwarts going, and she wasn't about to betray that. "I have several other announcements to make," she said. "There are several new teachers who need to be introduced. First, a young lady who has come all the way here from the United States of America. She has agreed to help us through these challenging times, and I hope that you all can give her the respect she deserves. She will be our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher - Professor Fiona Giddens."

A very serious-looking woman with blond hair and blue eyes stood from her seat. She wasn't smiling, but considering the circumstances, it would be strange if she was. She did look welcoming, but the students, having dealt with many Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers in the past, didn't know what to make of her, and Minerva couldn't say she blamed them. She could only hope that they would change their minds once they had been taught by her.

"Why would she come all the way from America? There's no war there. Why would she put herself in danger like that?" one of the students whispered.

"Will she be like Lockhart? Or Quirrell? Maybe she's a vampire," someone else muttered.

"Please, give her a fair chance," Minerva said, not having it in her heart to reprimand them. Professor Giddens, who had heard about certain ... experiences with other teachers, didn't look offended in the least. She tried to send the students a look of reassurance, but only time would tell how they received her.

"Second, since I am now Headmistress, Professor Dillen Philand will be taking my place as Transfiguration professor," Minerva continued. As Dillen stood, she couldn't be prouder of him. He had graduated from Hogwarts in 1986, and Minerva could honestly say that he had been one of her best students in Transfiguration. James Potter wouldn't have been happy to hear it, she reflected, but Dillen Philand gave him a run for his money.

"Are you saying Professor Dumbledore's not coming back?" The speaker was a Gryffindor - Lee Jordan, in fact. "Is he not ever going to be Headmaster again?"

As much as Minerva didn't want to, she knew she needed to address this. "Mr. Jordan, Professor Dumbledore is still recovering from the ordeal he suffered," she said quietly, though her voice still carried through the room. "I have not heard from him, so we are not certain of what his situation is. Regardless, we need a Transfiguration professor while I am serving my duties as Headmistress of this school."

There were more stricken looks at this. Minerva fought against the slight hint of annoyance that tried to creep through - it was obvious that many of the students idolized Dumbledore and did not see him as the flawed human being she'd come to know him as. It wasn't fair of her to feel annoyed because - Merlin, she'd worshiped him like that too, and done it as an adult. It was damned painful when a hero fell off their pedestal in the way Albus had done.

Still, it hurt so much to think of him the way he was now - still recovering from being brutally attacked. Truthfully, there wasn't a day that went by when Minerva didn't wonder how he was doing or whether she would hear from him. It still felt wrong to stand where he should be standing, to be the one giving a speech when it should be him doing it. It didn't feel right to enter the office that had been his for so many years and call it hers. It was all so wrong, wrong, wrong.

And as Minerva finished her start-of-term notices and sent everyone to bed for the night, she couldn't be more relieved that today was finally over. It was September 1, 1995, and right now, Minerva would rather be anywhere else than Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

And that might just be the saddest thing of all.

xxx

It was 6:26 PM on September 1, 1995 when the world exploded.

Or, Dedalus Diggle thought, the window in his and Hestia's living room did. Yes, it was the window that had exploded, raining shards of glass down on the floor, but it might as well have been his world. Hestia was in a state he never wanted to see again and he didn't know what to do. Merlin, he didn't know what to do.

It had all started that morning, when they'd woken up and he'd been getting ready to go to work for the Department of Magical Transportation. They'd just been finishing breakfast when the owl delivering today's Daily Prophet had flown in, bringing with it the news that started the beginning of the downward spiral.

Professor Crewer. Professor Crewer was dead. The one person who had been instrumental in helping so many of the students through the death of their loved ones. The one professor who had spent hours upon hours talking with students, advising students, being a pillar of strength as they reacted to the horror of losing family members and friends to Voldemort's brutal regime.

"The one person," Hestia said, "who made me feel like I was still human. After my mum and Aaron died ... Dedalus, she was the only one I could spend time with and still come alive. Mum always used to say I'm too heavily dependent on people, and Dad agrees. And I reckon they're right. I let Professor Crewer have power over me, and she knew it. But she never told me to stop. She just accepted it when I always went to her and cried on her shoulder."

All of this had been said in a dull monotone as Hestia listlessly stared at her obituary in the Prophet, no expression on her face at all. There was no anger, no tears, no screaming about how this was just so unfair ... just numbness.

Dedalus knew Hestia's parents were right - she did depend upon people way too heavily, some of the time unhealthily. When she'd started to do it to him, he'd had to nip that in the bud really quickly. He wanted the relationship between them to work, but it couldn't if she was looking upon him as some perfect person who could do no wrong. And Hestia had listened to him - it was the reason why they'd come as far as they had without getting into blazing rows.

But Dedalus knew he had to be there for Hestia about Professor Crewer. Her eyes were so dull as she stared around the kitchen that it hurt him to see them. He remembered the woman, too - she'd been his teacher during his final year at Hogwarts, and Hestia's fourth. He hadn't been at all as close to her as Hestia had, but she would always be someone whom he remembered fondly.

"That day ... that day Aaron and my mum died, I went to her office to let her know I was going home for a week. She ... I think she was the only reason I was able to keep any semblance of sanity. That day was such a blur ... except her voice. And from that moment on, she never told me I couldn't come to her."

"She knew that was what you needed, Hestia," Dedalus said gently, taking her hand. "I ... I don't know what to say. I'm ... I'm so sorry."

Hestia just looked at him blankly. "I can't cry," she said, the emptiness of her voice scaring him. "The tears just won't come."

"You can't force them, darling. Just because you can't cry right now doesn't mean you're not feeling the sadness."

"No." Hestia shook her head. "I don't feel anything at all."

"You will." Dedalus hugged her. "It will come back, love. And I'll be here to help you when it does." He sighed sadly. "Listen, are you sure you want me to go to work today? I know you don't need to go into the Ministry unless they call you, and I can always tell my department I'm ill or something."

"No." Hestia shook her head again. "You'll do no such thing. You have no idea how much I appreciate it, but I'll be fine. You need to go to work today."

And so, with great reluctance, Dedalus did so. He knew Hestia's emotions would come back, but he didn't know the way in which they would manifest themselves. But for now, he had to put his trust in his girlfriend.

So, after spending a rather unproductive day at work where all anyone could, understandably, talk about was Voldemort truly making his presence known to everyone, Dedalus arrived home to a still emotionless Hestia at about 3:30 in the afternoon. Not knowing what else to do, he suggested they go and walk around the park that was located near their cute, quaint little home. Hestia needed the sun and sky, and in all honesty, Dedalus did, too. Hestia was much more of an outdoors person than him, but she didn't used to be. Dedalus remembered very well the days when Hestia's friends at Hogwarts would try to convince her to come outside in the sunshine and hang out by the lake when all she wanted to do was sit in the common room.

But ever since June 25, the horrible day when Harry had gone on the run and people were told in no uncertain terms that Harry Potter was a liar and not to believe any tripe about Voldemort, Hestia found that going out in the sun helped clear her head. She and Dedalus both knew that Harry Potter was no liar, and coming to terms with Voldemort's return was a heavy burden to bear.

So, today, they'd spent an hour walking around the park, then spent about an hour and a half just sitting on one of the benches, holding hands and saying nothing at all.

It was 6:26 PM when Hestia's numbness wore off in its entirety and the end result was much scarier than the numbness had been. They'd meant to get back about half an hour ago but they hadn't and everything had gone wrong. Merlin, who was he kidding? It would have gone wrong even if they'd gotten back at six o'clock because the wrongness was bloody waiting for them when they got inside their front door.

What had set Hestia off, what had ended the numbness and brought the pure, unadulterated rage on was a simple piece of paper sitting close to the fireplace - two of them, in fact. They'd both said exactly the same thing, but one was for Dedalus and one was for Hestia.

It was an announcement that the Ministry had sent out. You could receive them even if you weren't home. The people who were in charge of writing them would send them to all Ministry personnel through their Floo networks, and it would simply land on the floor wherever the fireplace was, waiting innocently for its recipient to receive it.

Merlin, Dedalus hated these things, but thankfully, it was rare to receive one. The last time had been ... oh Merlin, the emotions attached to that one were not pleasant either. The last time Dedalus saw one of these bloody things, Harry Potter had just been taken into hiding and the Ministry had sent one of these bulletins out, telling everyone that if they were to catch any glimpse of Harry, any at all, they should bring him into the Ministry in chains and handcuffs. It had been horrible, and Hestia and Dedalus had vowed to do no such thing.

When they'd come in from the park, they'd been planning to eat dinner and watch TV, a common thing they liked to do in the evenings. It would help relax them, and it brought them stability and security. It was one of those "normal" things people did. They were both magical, but their families were Muggles and both very much enjoyed many of the popular TV shows.

As soon as they'd arrived back at the house, Dedalus had gone to use the toilet, expecting that when he returned to the living room, Hestia would have the TV on and they'd have their chance to relax. In about an hour, they'd make dinner - cooking was another activity they enjoyed doing together. He'd return from the toilet, and all would be ... well, as well as could be expected, right?

Wrong.

He'd returned, all right, but the TV wasn't on. There was no sound in the room at all - well, no sound except for Hestia's panicked breathing.

"Hestia?" Dedalus asked softly as he ventured inside. "What - what is it?" He then saw that Hestia's expression was one of pure and utter horror as she held something in her hand.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Not now. Not today. Not one of those stupid bulletins. Merlin, not today. Not today. Not today.

"This says it got here about two hours ago," Hestia whispered, and Dedalus saw that her hands were shaking; he could hear it in her voice, too.

"What - what does it say?" Dedalus asked hesitantly because honestly, did he really want to know?

"I ... I haven't looked at it yet. I was waiting for you," Hestia said between panicked breaths, and Dedalus knew that a big part of her wanted to live in ignorance, too. "But I'll read it now."

The first three words of the bulletin were not promising - if anything, they told Dedalus exactly what he needed to know without saying anything at all.

Good afternoon, everyone.

Dedalus had once thought it was ridiculous, but after several instances of it happening, he'd known Hestia was right. She always said that whenever the Ministry started the bulletin with "good morning, afternoon, or evening, everyone", it was never a good sign. Whatever followed that simple salutation was not information anyone wanted to hear.

"But that's ludicrous. How can you get that from a simple salutation?" Dedalus had asked her once. "What's wrong with saying that? We say good morning and other stuff like that to each other all the time!"

"It's the Ministry," Hestia said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "It's because they're the one saying it. If you're saying it, it's not bad news. If they're saying it, it is. It always is."

And now, as Hestia said those words, the color drained from her face, and from Dedalus's own. Whoever had written this was not going to say something pleasant after that greeting.

And indeed, they hadn't. The rest of the bulletin was nothing more than an announcement stating that all Ministry personnel would have to adhere to new security checks whenever they entered the building. It was delivered in a very dry, boring manner, and it was as dull as dishwater to read. But it brought home, in no uncertain terms, that the war had truly begun and everything they'd seen in the Prophet today was real, real, real.

But it was the ending words that did Hestia in. Words that weren't insulting at all, but seemed so ... odd in the face of everything that the wizarding world was going through.

Thank you for your cooperation.

"For your cooperation?" Hestia's mouth couldn't be open in shock any wider if it tried to be. "Thank you for your cooperation? A war just started - all these people are dead - and this bulletin ends with THAT? They just say "thank you for your cooperation?" For the first time since they'd received the awful news this morning, her voice was starting to rise. "Professor Crewer is DEAD and all this bloody piece of paper can say is THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION?"

Hestia was shaking all over now and Dedalus didn't know what to do. He laid his hands on her shoulders and spoke to her softly. "Calm down," he said, knowing he was being just as unhelpful as that damned piece of paper lying there on the floor.

That did it. The wild, hunted look in Hestia's eyes told Dedalus exactly what was going to happen next. It was a good thing he had his wand in his pocket. Quickly whipping it out, he shouted, "Protego!" just as Hestia let out a heartwrenching scream of "NO!" while every window in the living room shattered into a million pieces, sending glass shards shattering everywhere. But Dedalus's shield was enough to protect him and Hestia from getting covered in wreckage.

It had been a long time since Hestia's accidental magic had gone haywire like this. Honestly, this kind of thing wasn't supposed to happen anymore - Hogwarts was meant to train your magic into not reacting like that. But Dedalus knew that Hestia suffered with major anxiety attacks that sent her magic all over the place at times. Rufus Scrimgeour knew about it, and it was a wonder it wasn't more of a problem with the Aurors.

Dedalus knew how harsh people could be, and desperately worried for her sometimes. Merlin, he loved this woman more than life itself, but was sometimes at his wits' end in knowing how to help her. Honestly, ever since June 25, they'd been balancing on a knife's edge - it was only a matter of time before one of these attacks occurred. And now, it had - and thank Merlin it had happened in the safety of their own home.

Hestia had her face in her hands now, muttering "no, no, no, no, no" while also repeating those dreaded words "thank you for your cooperation." What was it about those particular words that had sent Hestia into a tailspin? He supposed they seemed so ... cold for the situation at hand, but who said the writer had been in a good state of mind while writing them? Who said they weren't deeply affected by last night's events as well?

"Hestia, darling ..." Dedalus tried to get through to her, but she looked up at him through tear-stricken, anguished eyes that screamed out at him to help her.

But her words conveyed the opposite. Jumping up from the floor where she'd been sitting, she shrieked, "LEAVE ME ALONE!" She then fled the room, rushing upstairs to their bedroom, and the door slammed shut.

Dedalus wouldn't pretend her words didn't hurt, because they did. They stung like he'd been hit with a hex. Why was he not good enough? Why wouldn't she let him help her? Why was she shutting him out when she was in a state like this?

He'd been increasingly worried for her ever since that terrible June day. She was falling apart on him and he truly didn't know what to do. She went through the motions - she went to work as an Auror and attended Order meetings. It was obvious she was devoted to the cause and wanted to do anything to see Voldemort defeated.

But he was worried that she was losing herself along the way. It was bad enough that they'd been through this fourteen years ago - why should they have to do this again? He remembered her description of what it had been like to lose her mother and brother, and felt despair grip him. How in Merlin's name was he supposed to help her deal with all the flashbacks, plus help her handle everything that would happen this time around? Lately, there would be periods where she was so tired and lethargic that she didn't want to move. One evening in July, she hadn't even wanted to come downstairs for dinner. She'd put herself to bed, too depressed to eat until he told her he was making his world-famous pasta, and that was the only thing that brought her out.

They'd spent time after dinner listening to music, and she'd said he'd saved her that night. "Thank you for salvaging this evening for me." Those had been her words then. But this time, it looked like she wouldn't let him salvage anything at all.

Sighing dejectedly, he retrieved the piece of paper, that damned bulletin that had started it all, that was sitting on the floor. Reading through it, he doubled down on his conclusion that whoever had written this had been pretty distraught while doing so. It looked like it hadn't even been edited. There were words that were capitalized that didn't need to be, and exclamation points when there were supposed to be periods. There had even been spelling mistakes that hadn't been corrected. Dedalus read the words, "thank you for your cooperation" again, and realized that the writer truly hadn't known what else to say.

Dedalus made himself dinner that night. He wanted to rouse Hestia and tell her to come and eat with him, but in truth, her earlier words still stung him and the smell of the food was not bringing her out. If she came out here, he would be entirely willing to talk to her, but she did no such thing and Dedalus decided not to press his luck. He'd give her some time and then go and talk to her later.

At around 8:30, he couldn't take it anymore and went upstairs. She might have upset him, but he understood. He loved her and wanted to take care of her. She was grieving the loss of someone who had meant the world to her and she needed to know she wasn't alone, even if she thought she was.

He opened the door of their bedroom to find her lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. "Hi," he said gently as he sat on the edge of the bed.

Hestia turned to look at him, her face so incredibly sad. "I'm so sorry about the windows," she murmured. "Thanks for ... for saving us. I could have really hurt you."

"It's all right, love. It doesn't matter," Dedalus said, because the windows were not what he was truly worried about. "A quick Reparo fixed any damage."

"I'm an Auror," Hestia said in reply. "And a member of the Order. I need to learn to control myself better."

Dedalus didn't say anything to contradict her, because he knew it was true. Instead, he took her hand, squeezing it gently.

"I'm sorry," Hestia said then, tears choking her voice. "I know I hurt you by telling you to leave me alone. I just ... couldn't ... Professor Crewer ... that bulletin ..." Her words were becoming muffled by sobs that shook her body. "Please," she finally gasped out. "Please, come here. I need you."

Without any hesitation, Dedalus lay down and took her into his arms. It seemed as though the tears that Hestia wanted to shed for beloved Professor Crewer were finally making an appearance. "Shhhh," he said gently as he rubbed her back.

"I can't ... I can't do this. I can't." Her ragged breathing and her hopeless words broke his heart. "I can't do this again. I can't deal with the war and the Order and the Aurors and ..."

"You can." Dedalus lifted Hestia's chin so he could look into her eyes. "You can do this, love, because we can do this. We have each other - we can do this together."

Hestia clung to him like a drowning woman would grab onto a life preserver. "Why ... why did the end of that bulletin say ..."

Quietly, Dedalus told her of his observations while reading that paper. "Whoever wrote it wasn't thinking straight, love, and understandably so. They were just trying to be professional. Can you imagine what that must be like, having to write one of those things while dealing with all of this at the same time?"

He saw the cogs turn in Hestia's head, and thankfully, she nodded in understanding. "It was just ... I'm sorry I lost it like that."

"It's all right now," Dedalus reassured, holding her closely against him.

"I don't want you to leave me alone," Hestia told him quietly. "I need you here with me, through this. Because you're right. We can do this if we're together."

"That's my girl." Dedalus kissed the top of Hestia's head, right on her soft, curly hair. Feeling her shaking in his arms again, he let her cry into his shoulder for everything they had lost.

It was only minutes later when she fell asleep in his arms. Still feeling raw and heartsick and needing to hold her close, he continued to do so, knowing that he could, truthfully, never leave her alone. She could ask him a thousand times and he could never do so, because he loved her wholly and completely.

And he would be there for her through this war, every step of the way.

xxx

It was September 1, 1995. As darkness fell that night, many in the wizarding world were facing demons that they didn't want to try to conquer, because it was too difficult.

Lord Voldemort had brought the war to them, filling up the world with darkness. As the moon and stars decorated the sky that night, it all looked incredibly deceitful. How could anything hold such beauty when there was so much darkness and despair penetrating everything?

But maybe that was why the sky was so beautiful. Maybe it was trying to remind everyone that through the darkness, light shone - you only had to find it. It could be found through support and companionship, through compassion and empathy. Even when times seemed hopeless, you could find light in those you loved. Because no one should ever forget that in troubled times, there were still people to turn to, still arms to hold you and people to smile and laugh with.

And in only a matter of hours, dawn would break, and another day would begin. A day when you could wake up and feel stronger than yesterday. A day when you could pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and try again. You might succeed, and you might fail. But it was another day where you could try.

Lord Voldemort, in his decayed hole of a heart, could think he was winning all he wanted. But the monster truly didn't know what he'd set himself up for. He didn't think that those he had hurt so badly would come back stronger. He truly hadn't learned anything from his last reign of terror, and he never would.

It was September 1, 1995, and it had been a terrible day for the wizarding world. Tomorrow was a brand new day, and whether it would be as terrible as the day before ... only time would tell that.

But so many in the wizarding world had light and hope on their side. And that was truly what would carry them through.