Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JKR.

AN: A big THANK YOU to my faithful beta Federer Rex


Madam Pomfrey left Daphne no time to dwell on Lisa's fate—or her own. She showed her the spells on how to check Tori's life signs, and how to transpose a Sleeping Potion and a Pain Potion into the stomach of a patient, and then told her to monitor her sister and another dozen students and adult wizards and witches who were in equally severe condition. Time passed in a blur as she bustled from bed to bed and cast the spells. Every few seconds, it seemed, the revolving doors would open, the noise of the battle would sweep into the room, together with more wounded. Morag would conjure more beds, and Madam Pomfrey would every so often add another one to the number of patients she had to supervise.

By now, she'd become inured to the sound of the battle outside, and whenever the floor boards rattled under her feet when another a spell or projectile impacted the castle walls, she managed to keep her flinch to a minimum. All that mattered was Tori's condition, and the conditions of her other charges.

The matron came up to her as she tapped the hovering board over Tori's bed with the tip of her wand. As the numbers changed, she glanced at the medi-witch and sighed. "Still no change. I suppose that's a good sign, given—"

A high, cold voice spoke so close to them that Daphne jumped and whirled around. Had He entered the ward?

"You have fought valiantly." The voice reverberated from the walls and floor, as clearly as if He stood beside them, his breath on the back of their necks. Peril had never felt so close.

"Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste."

Daphne clenched her teeth. How could He pretend to mourn that which he caused? The depth of His insanity was staggering. Did He think someone bought into his lies?

"Lord Voldemort is merciful." That got him a few ironic snorts and chuckles from around the room.

"I command my forces to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.

"I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour."

"What a sick bastard! He'll kill us, anyway. Hopefully, Potter is not so dumb to fall for that kind of blackmail!"

"I wouldn't count on that," Madam Pomfrey said.

Daphne realised that she had uttered her thoughts aloud. She turned to face the matron. "Why would you say that? You think he'd run towards his death?"

"Mr Potter is too noble and selfless for his own good." Madam Pomfrey said with a sad smile. "The number of times I had to patch him up after he jumped into another fight to save the day—"

"Are you telling me that all those silly rumours about Potter were true?" Daphne asked, her voice and brows raised in disbelief.

"Which ones?" the matron asked.

"That he fought the Dark Lord and recovered the Philosopher's Stone when he was first year, killed a Basilisk in his second year, and—"

"Every single one of them is true," Madam Pomfrey interrupted Daphne's enumeration. "However, now is not the time for that. We'll be swamped with even more patients presently, so prepare yourself." She jabbed her wand at one of the supply cabinets. Bandages, potion vials, and jars with salve flew towards her and stacked themselves into several neat piles. "I am going down to the Great Hall and tend to those who are walking wounded and will keep on fighting. Mr Hopkins and Miss Midgen, you will come with me, please. Miss Greengrass, you will stay here and continue monitoring the severe cases. Miss McDougal, you will assist Miss Greengrass." The matron turned and left the infirmary, her two assistants following her, and the stack of first aid material floated along in their wake.

Daphne returned to her duties, her thoughts whirling while she cast diagnostic spells and Summoned potion vials. As she grew up, The-Boy-Who-Lived had always been an object of derision in her parent's house, staunch supporters of The Dark Lord that they were. They had never bought that a toddler was able to defeat the most powerful wizard of their time. Even her Uncle Cygnus, who, albeit a Traditionalist, followed a moderate political agenda on the Wizengamot, didn't believe that and theorised that it was something Potter's parents had done to protect their child which must have set the chain of events in motion that destroyed the Dark Lord.

She had always thought that her uncle's theory seemed more likely, especially after she'd seen The-Boy-Who-Lived at Hogwarts. Not that she ever talked to him—he wasn't worth getting into trouble with Malfoy, Pansy, or her parents—but she had eyes to see. Scrawny, clueless, and a mediocre student, he didn't come across as the slayer of the Dark Lord. Nothing special.

Yet, something horrible happened during each of her Hogwarts years, and somehow Potter was always involved—

She shook the thoughts off. Madam Pomfrey was right, now was not the time to think about the enigma that was Harry Potter. Her sister and the other severely injured depended on her watching their state meticulously. She managed intermittent glimpses of the big clock that hung on the wall opposite the entrance as she moved from between beds.

Forty minutes left—

Then fifteen—

Five—

One—

The room was deadly quiet as Daphne and Morag watched the big arm of the clock slowly inch towards vertical.

The hour was up!

Nothing happened.

Daphne exhaled and exchanged a look with Morag. The eyes of the Hufflepuff showed the same unease and fear that was eating at her. "Why isn't he attacking? Do you think Harry surrendered ?" Morag asked.

She wouldn't put it past the noble fool. How he could believe for a second that He would keep his word and not kill them once he had killed Potter was beyond her.

"I don't know," she whispered, and resumed her duties.

The minutes trickled by as slow as molasses as she walked from bed to bed.

The castle was eerily silent. The defendants were holding their breath while they strained their ears for a sign of what He would do next.

"Harry Potter is dead." His voice reverberated over the grounds, high-pitched and filled with cruel glee.

Daphne's heart seemed to stop, a giant's fist hit her midriff, and ice spread through her body. Sweet Merlin, what would become of them now?

"No!"

"Harry!"

"He's lying!"

Cries of disbelief and dismay echoed through the castle and drowned out His next words.

"—as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him."

"Liar! I don't believe that for a second!" Morag spat.

"We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone."

The cold voice kept on talking. Daphne and Morag didn't listen any longer. As one, they rushed to the next window, Daphne brandishing her wand as they went. "Confringo!" she shouted halfway.

The impact of the spell blasted the wooden planks barricading the window outside. The young women leaned over the sill and looked out.

Daphne shivered. Was it from the cool night air that caressed her face, or from the shock of having lost their leader? Her eyes needed a few moments to adjust to the darkness after the stark light of the infirmary until she noticed movement at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. She grabbed Morag's arm. "There!" Her free hand pointed towards the moving spot.

"—and you will join me in the new world we shall build together," the Dark Lord finished his speech.

"Only over my dead body!" Morag hissed.

Daphne didn't answer, her head hung low so low that her chin brushed her chest. The ice that spread through her veins the moment the Dark Lord announced Potter's death now consumed her whole being. Their cause was lost. All that was left was the choice between death or a life under the reign of a despot. She had to make sure that Astoria died before her, she couldn't leave her without protection in the cruel new world that awaited them—

"What is he up to now?" Morag whispered into her desperate thoughts.

Daphne raised her head. The mass at the edge of the Forbidden Forest shifted, moving towards the castle. The unnaturally tall, slim figure of the Dark Lord emerged from the darkness. He carried an enormous snake across his shoulders, and his eyes glowed red in a harsh counterpoint to his pasty-white face, the snake-like features distorted into a travesty of a triumphant smile.

Behind him—

Daphne gasped, and her knees buckled. She reached out for Morag, who whispered "Harry!" in a voice that carried all the desperation in the world. The young women supported each other in a tight hug.

Until that moment Daphne had still held on to a last straw of hope that the Dark Lord was bluffing. The sight of Hagrid, with a lifeless rag doll in his arms, shattered that hope into thousands of tiny shards that pierced her heart. A whimper rose in her throat that was drowned out by the sound of a stampede of footsteps from the ground floor, rushing towards the Entrance Hall.

The big castle door flung open. A broad strip of golden light poured out onto the debris-covered front lawn, illuminating the Dark Lord, Hagrid, and a wall of Death Eaters behind them. Daphne's eyes rested on the prone figure in Hagrid's arms. Potter looked like an unreal mannequin in death, yet still clearly recognisable by the messy black hair and the glasses perched on his nose. Something hot welled up in her eyes.

"NO!"

Professor McGonagall's scream pierced the silence, thick with an emotion that broke Daphne's heart. She suppressed the sob that welled up inside of her. She couldn't give in to the despair and hopelessness that threatened to consume her. She still had to look out for Astoria until this was over—

The mocking laughter of a woman from the row of Death Eaters still mostly keeping in the dark answered Professor McGonagall's anguished scream.

More and more people streamed out of the castle and gathered on the front steps.

"No!"

"No!"

"Harry! HARRY!"

The voices of Potter's best friends and his girlfriend were even harder to bear than Professor McGonagall's.

Other voices joined them, screaming and yelling abuse at the Death Eaters.

"Wretchit bastard! I'll kick your fucking cunt in!" Morag yelled.

"Cowardly bastards who couldn't even do it unmasked!" another voice screamed. "Why don't you grow a pair of balls, you fucking pricks!" Daphne didn't realise it was hers before her voice cracked and she had to cough because of the sudden pain in her throat.

"SILENCE!" cried the Dark Lord, slashing his wand through the air. A bang and a flash of lightning followed, stopping the shouts and screams. Next to Daphne, Morag opened and shut her mouth like a fish on the dry: no sound came out, and Daphne's coughs had become soundless.

"It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!"

With more tenderness than Daphne would have thought possible in a man his size, Hagrid lowered Potter's body to the ground. The Dark Lord strutted up and down before the body, and launched into another speech.

Daphne tuned him out. Her first shock had abated enough that her survival instinct kicked in. Was there a way for Astoria and her to survive this? They had enough gold in their school vaults to make it to the Continent where they had relatives, and possibly finish their schooling there. If she hid Astoria and herself in a corner of the castle—The wards had broken, it should be possible to Apparate away—

She nodded to herself. Yes, that was a workable plan.

Astoria was stable for the moment, and she had confidence in her ability to keep her like that until she got adequate help—but help she would definitely need. Was St Mungo's still safe? Healers were bound by their oath, however, did that still count under the reign of the Dark Lord?

No, St Mungo's was too risky, they'd have to depend on the mercy of strangers. Better keep it in the family; as the head of their family and their voice in the Wizengamot, their uncle had connections everywhere. He'd be able to secure a discreet healer who would treat Astoria until she was well enough to leave the country. The farmhouse that was the seat of the family was big, and the farm had many out buildings where they could hide from Death Eaters that might be hunting them for their part in the battle—

There was a scuffle and a shout, another bang and a flash of bright light, startling Daphne out of her scheming.

Her heart slammed in her chest. Has the fighting started again? She cursed herself for not paying attention to her surroundings while her mind raced and returned her attention to the Dark Lord.

Someone was sprawled on the ground at his feet, Disarmed. The Dark Lord laughed and tossed their wand aside. "And who is this?" he hissed. "Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?"

A woman with a wild mane of black hair broke out in a cackling laughter that spoke of madness. "It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord!"

Daphne gasped as she recognised Bellatrix Lestrange. Poor Longbottom, his pure blood might save his life, but he was in for a lot of pain.

"But you are a pure-blood, aren't you, my brave boy?" The Dark Lord's words confirmed Daphne's thoughts.

"So what if I am?" Longbottom asked back. He had got back to his feet and stood in front of the Dark Lord, his head held high, his hands curled into fists by his side, and his voice loud and defiant, every inch the chivalrous Gryffindor.

"You show spirit, and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom."

"I'll join you when hell freezes over," Longbottom retorted. He turned around, his fist thrust in the air, and shouted, "Dumbledore's Army!"

What a courageous fool!

A massive cheer from the crowd was his response, and Daphne cheered alongside them, despite the Silencing Charms the Dark Lord had cast on them. How was that possible?

"Very well," the Dark Lord said in a silky voice that sent a shiver of foreboding down Daphne's spine. The punishment for Longbottom's insolence would be hard and cruel; the Dark Lord couldn't let him get away with this, not with so many witnesses around. She didn't want to watch, yet she couldn't tear her eyes away.

"If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head be it." The Dark Lord waved his wand. Seconds later, one of the castle's windows shattered outwards, something that looked like a misshapen bird flew through the half-light and landed in his hand.

Daphne looked to the east. The sky was a brighter grey there: it had to be close to sunrise. The first sunrise of an era of enslavement—

The Dark Lord shook the mildewed object by its pointed end, it dangled, empty and ragged: the Sorting Hat.

"There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School," he said. "There will be no more houses. The emblem, shield, and colour of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone, won't they, Neville Longbottom?"

He pointed his wand at Longbottom, who became rigid and still, then forced the hat on Longbottom's head, so that it slipped down to his eyes.

The crowd on the doorsteps of the castle moved and muttered. As one, the Death Eaters opposing them raised their wands, holding them at bay.

"Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to oppose me," the Dark Lord said. With a flick of his wand, the Sorting Hat burst into flames, and Longbottom stood, rooted to the spot, unable to move, and burnt alive.

The sight was unbearable, and Daphne's and Morag's screams echoed through the grey light of dawn, joining those of the crowd below them, until another noise drowned them out. It sounded as if hundreds of people, uttering loud war cries, came swarming over the out-of-sight walls and pelted towards the castle. A giant turned around the side of the castle and yelled, "HAGGAR!" The Dark Lord's giants left the ranks of the Death Eaters and ran to meet the newcomer, the ground vibrating under their feet, which was overtaken by the sound of hooves, and then the twangs of bows, and a swarm of arrows descended on the Death Eaters like enraged hornets.

The Death Eaters screamed and ran for their lives. Longbottom broke free of the Body-Bind curse upon him. The flaming Sorting Hat fell to the ground, and Longbottom pulled something long and silvery from it—

A sword?

Before Daphne had time to process that realisation, Longbottom twisted and lunged, the sword in both hands, and sliced off the head of the snake as it reared back from its position curled around the Dark Lord's shoulders. The head spun high into the air, the light flooding onto the grounds from the entrance hall illuminating it like a spotlight. It rotated around itself, sending a spray of silvery blood through the air that caught the light and drew the eyes, until the head bounced on the ground, the noise of the impact indistinct from the cacophony of renewed battle.

The Dark Lord opened his mouth in a scream of fury, also unheard over the thundering stamps of the fighting giants, the roar of the oncoming crowd, or the sound of the stampeding Centaurs, who sent a deadly hailstorm of arrows towards the Death Eaters running for their lives.

"HARRY!" Hagrid's yell drowned out all the other noises. "HARRY—WHERE'S HARRY?"

Daphne looked at the spot where Hagrid had put Potter's body.

It was empty.

She gasped. How was that possible? Could it be—? A tiny spark of hope ignited in her chest.

A swarm of great winged creatures soared out of the Forbidden Forest.

"Thestrals!" Morag shouted. "And a Hippogriff!"

The magical beasts crashed down on the fighting giants, screeching, and scratching at their eyes, while the giant who had been shouting for Hagrid pummelled them with his fists, and everybody ran not to get under their feet. The Defenders of Hogwarts and Death Eaters alike were forced back into the castle. Running Death Eaters fell to the ground, as if knocked down by an invisible force, and the crowd trampled over them. The noise of the fight that had broken out on the ground floor spilled into the infirmary.

Without another word to Daphne, Morag pushed herself away from the windowsill and ran out of the room, leaving the double doors wide open.

Daphne turned to follow her when her eyes fell on a tiny figure, almost invisible under the blanket that covered her.

Astoria!

Daphne looked at the clock on the wall. Almost twenty minutes had passed since her last check-up of her sister's vitals had been due. Was this the way she was keeping her promise to protect her sister? And what was about the other patients Madam Pomfrey had left in her care?

She pulled out her wand, straightened her shoulders, and cast the Monitoring Spell on the unconscious patient in the bed next to her. Thankfully, he hadn't taken a turn for the worse during her lapse of duty; Madam Pomfrey would have her hide otherwise. Although she'd be hard pressed to know what to do if the condition of one of her patients worsened. The matron had not yet returned from the Great Hall. A fierce battle was going on down there, going by the sounds of cries and explosions reaching the infirmary.

She silently prayed that Madam Pomfrey would make it out there unscathed, the many severe cases in the infirmary had low chances of survival without her. However, going by the sounds coming from downstairs, there was little hope for that. Daphne cast a sideway glance at Astoria's bed between her spells, and her heart sank. While still stable, her sister needed treatment in better equipped facilities soon, but there was no way to get her to St Mungo's as long as the fight continued.

Merlin only knew what the outcome would be. She had lost all hope when the Dark Lord proclaimed Potter dead and their cause failed, and had begun to plan their escape to the Continent. That was still an option, but the determination of the Defenders of Hogwarts to keep fighting had filled her with new hope—and shame, if she was honest with herself.

This fight wasn't for Potter. They fought for their freedom, whether or not he lived. Longbottom had reminded her of that, and she would stay on her post as long as she was needed, no matter how much the Slytherin inside of her screamed to run away.

So, she continued watching over the patients Madam Promfrey had left in her care and tried to ignore the sounds of the fierce battle taking place in the castle. Soon, the infirmary would be swept with a fresh wave of casualties.

The battle raged on, yet not once the defenders of Hogwarts carried in a wounded comrade.

Daphne straightened and frowned as she looked at the doors. That was strange; the battle going on downstairs seemed to be as hard as the fight they had fought before the ceasefire, and that had cost them dearly. So, why was no one being admitted to the infirmary?

She listened closer to the shouts and explosions down in the castle. They seemed to become less, as if only a few people were still fighting.

An icy hand grabbed her heart. Was it all over? Had their side lost?

"What will happen to your children when I've killed you?" a female voice cackled between the whizzing sounds of spells, "When Mummy's gone the same way as Freddie?"

"You - will - never - touch - our - children - again!" another woman screamed, and got a gleeful, mad cackle as an answer.

The laughter stopped, followed by the heavy thud of a body on the floor, and then there was a high-pitched scream and the blast of an explosion that shook the castle.

"Protego!" a familiar voice roared.

Daphne gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. Potter!

There were a few yells and shouts of "Harry!" and "He's alive!" that died down immediately and gave place to a silence that was harder to bear than anything that had happened that night. Daphne's gaze lingered on the door. Everything inside of her screamed to creep downstairs and find out what was going on.

She took a step forward.

One of her charges moaned in their potion-induced sleep. Daphne halted. She couldn't leave, there was nobody here to take care of them. She turned and hurried towards the bed the moan had come from. Her wand quivered in her hand, and she had to cast the Monitoring Spell twice until it showed a result.

"Fuck!" she said, staring at the rune that appeared. According to Madam Pomfrey's concise explanation, it meant that the patient was about to wake up. She snatched the card that hung over the head of the bed. Had Madam Pomfrey left any written advice on what to do? She read the card, stumbling over the Healer lingo, until she found what she was looking for, and hurried to the cabinet to get another vial of Sleeping Draught to spell it into the patient's stomach.

When the task was finished, she had managed to calm herself. Whatever was going on downstairs, she couldn't let it interfere with her duty—and she would find out soon enough, anyway.

Yet she couldn't help but listen to every sound that came from downstairs when she took up her rounds again. Potter and the Dark Lord were having a battle of words, it seemed. Their voices were distinct, but too low to understand what they were saying.

Her heart beat against her ribcage, and she dried her palm on her robe before she cast the next Monitoring Spell. Gods, couldn't they get it over with? This wait was unbearable!

"Accidents!" the Dark Lord screamed, and Daphne jumped. Potter's reply was indiscernible again. She sighed and transferred the result of her spell to the patient's card.

More muffled dialogue followed. Daphne tuned it out and was rather proud of herself—until the Dark Lord laughed. Her numb fingers lost their grip on her wand and it clattered on the floor, as her heart raced.

Why was the Dark Lord laughing? Had he killed Potter? She strained her ears to find out what was going on.

Someone talked.

That was Potter's voice. They were still battling with words. A strange weakness floated through her body. It was not yet over, they still had a chance—

She bent down to pick up her wand and cursed under her breath. The damned stick had rolled under the bed, away from her, and now lay close to the wall. With another silent expletive, she crouched down on all fours and wedged herself under the bed to retrieve her wand.

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Expelliarmus!"

The simultaneous yells and a bang like a cannon-blast that came with them startled her and she jerked her head up. The back of her head collided with the bed frame. Hot pain seared through her, her eyes watered, and she screamed.

It seemed like ages until initial pain gave way to a pulsating ache that threatened to split her head in halves.

Daphne groaned and grabbed for her wand. She'd better get out of here, grab a Pain Relief Potion, and then set her plan to get Astoria and herself out of the country. Only a noble idiot like Potter would think of countering the Killing Curse with a Disarming Spell—and pay for it with his life.

She scrambled to her feet and turned towards the Potions cabinet when the din downstairs stopped her in her tracks. Those were shouts of triumph, and they were too loud, too many, and too exuberant to be those of Death Eaters.

Something hot welled up inside of her. She stumbled to Astoria's bed, sunk down on the edge, and took her sister's hand.

"He did it, Tori. I don't know how it happened, but Potter defeated the Dark Lord." The lump in her throat almost choked out her words. Her eyes spilled over, she slumped down, buried her face in the cushion next to her sister's head, and let the fear and tension of the battle wash away in a torrent of tears.

t.b.c.


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