Perdition Mods (perdition_mods) wrote in perdition_rpg, @ 2009-05-01 22:31:00 |
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Horace Slughorn was no longer the strapping man of his youth. Now pleasantly round, mustached and bespectacled, he had spent the last several hours contemplating his fate were he to return to Hogwarts to help. In that time, he had developed a steely resolve and was determined to do what he could to fight -- in Albus Dumbledore's honour. Of course, his knowing that Harry Potter would be there didn't harm anything; if and when they succeeded, all of them would be famous. Why, he might even hold a record for having met the most famous people of all wizards! Surely, they'd write about him in books -- not that they hadn't already, but more mentions in more books couldn't hurt anything. From the front of the promenade, Professor Slughorn had to stand up on his toes to see over the heads of all the students he'd brought with him -- they seemed to get taller every year he got older. And older he certainly was getting. Years ago, he'd been a very impressive duelist, but now that he'd spent so much time trying to merely get by in Hogwarts, he was worried that he'd grown soft and let his wits get dull as they went without much use. He'd just have to wait and see just how rusty he'd grown, but the prospect of dusting himself off for one last chance at redemption, sticking it to the Death Eaters of whom he'd been living in fear all this time, had added a bit of enthusiasm to his gait. "Come along," he shouted, almost merrily, waving the reinforcements onward. Now was not the time for hesitance or cowardice, with which Professor Slughorn himself had grown very familiar over the years. Now was his chance to prove himself. And meet some potentially very famous people! "Onward, you lot!" he said, striking the air with his fist. They were almost there. William Cresswell was a mess of emotion; a ball of excited and angry energy tied up in a seething hate (which was mostly focused between the girls, Abby for obvious reasons and Hortense because she refused to listen to his reasons why she should go home) and sick with fear and worry. He had very little dueling experience, only what foolish nonsense he and Derek had tried over the Christmas hols once Will had come of age, and now he was headed into battle. He desperately wanted to say more to Hortense, to plead with her some more, to get her to leave with Grayson and Gus, to just leave but with the arrival of Derek and him bringing along some of his yearmates and coworkers, Will was distracted, trying to understand his brother's insane babbling about ducking and weaving and something about wand-grip but William wasn't really listening. "Derek, please." Will said, swallowing thickly and trying to get his brother to stop yammering about defensive skills that Will couldn't possibly absorb in the next two minutes. "It's time to go," he said, turning to grab his brother into a tight hug. Derek looked torn, as if he wanted to tell William to leave, but there was no way they could not help. They wanted to honour their father, they wanted to do right by the name they carried. There was no way either of them were going to turn back now. Derek pulled back and gripped the side of Will's face with both hands, looking him straight in the eyes. "Don't die." It was serious, but Will gave a nervous laugh, shoving at his brother's shoulder. He couldn't do this, it pushed against every Slytherin value he carried, but now was not a time for any of that. "Let's go," Will said, nodding seriously at his brother and looking over his shoulder to find Hortense as they headed into battle. The decision to return had been made for some time and Hortense wasn't backing away from it. It weighed heavily on Hortense's mind until the moment she'd relinquished it to others. She was a Slytherin and a girl. She didn't have to do this. She wasn't much of a fighter despite all the arguments she had a tendency to get herself into. She was electing to fight for her friends not because of them though. They weren't going to be able to convince her otherwise. She'd had nearly a month to think about this very possibility and the cruel realities of the world. She didn't want to live in a world where this was the reality. She wanted a future where bloodlines and houses meant less and a person's character meant more. That didn't mean she wasn't scared. Hortense was terrified and it showed. She'd held it together as best as she could in the presence of Ruby and the others but her emotional defenses were starting to falter now. She had too much to live for. She had too much to say and too many things to do. This was just one more battle in a war she'd been fighting since the day she was born. They'd win and it would be all over. A nervous energy had her unable to stand still or keep from fidgeting as she completely abandoned the last of her goodbyes and joined the ranks of the reinforcements. She came up from behind Will, a blur of blond and dark robes. She wasn't surprised to see Derek there. It made her miss her own brother. Max had his morals but he wouldn't be coming. She hadn't had time to tell him what was going on and she certainly wouldn't have been able to explain to him that she was going into a battle. He would have used binding spell and forced her stay with the others if he had. The thought made her smile even if only momentarily. She let her mind flood to other happier things like mum's Yorkshire Pudding, holidays past, practicing human transfiguration on Will, reading good books, late night hair braiding in the Slytherin dormitory involving listening to the others talk about 'appropriate mates', endless ballet lessons and viewings of the nutcracker, unicorns, taking the mickey out of Gus, watching the stars, her future wedding day and how she'd look in her mother's old dress, long walks outside with Ruby, baking and then eating all day, and Grayson. Gods, she wanted to live for all of those things! If she could just focus on those, she could be okay. She had to open her eyes and stop daydreaming about happy things for a moment though. This was real and even if they did calm her they weren't going to save her neck. Thoughts and memories couldn't save her. Only actions could do that for her now. She might not be the best or the strongest but she was going to go in there and give it everything that she had. It was just a matter of getting there first. She pushed people telling her to turn back out of her head and focused on moving one foot after the other. Forward. Forward. This was only way for her move. Once this was over, she could do whatever she wanted. "Looks like you'll get to meet my father sooner than this summer," she offered in a light-natured tease directed toward Will. Her tone shook slightly but she was obviously trying to make the forward move less effortless. Her father was probably on the way to St. Mungo's to prepare for the incoming injuries. It was just like her to go and say something like that at a time like this. It was inappropriate conversation but fitting at the same time. It was far easier to get that out than say goodbye or argue about why she was doing this. "We can compare scars when this whole mess is over," she offered with a nod. She'd come back. She kept telling herself that. She gave Derek an arm pat before adding, "Be careful ... you two." In the same group, but decidedly avoiding William, Hortense and Derek, Abigail Runcorn walked quietly. Despite the excitement of marching forth into battle and all of that, she really couldn't bring herself to chatter as much, particularly not with the Cresswell boys, even though they were part of the reason she was here to begin with, or more specifically, William's response to her attempt at an apology was part of the reason she was here to begin with. During the weeks that followed her ill-fated attempt at apologizing, Abby had come to realize that aligning herself with the rest of Slytherin (and their power-crazed ways, as she had discussed with Tracey not a month before) would likely not end well for anyone. Well. This much had become apparent long before that incident, but what the incident brought to light was how little words on paper and in print really meant. One could apologize and apologize and plead for clemency, but the world would still judge her by her actions, by her inactions, and worst of all, by the actions of her associates. Already, William at least blamed her for the actions of her father (which was honestly more than ludicrous...she'd had nothing to do with her father's choices, nor would she ever have done so), and she couldn't imagine the fallout, had she continued with the rest of her house in fleeing the scene. Well. That wasn't exactly true. She could begin to imagine the fallout, as Pansy had so kindly provided an illustration of it earlier that night. When that high, terrible voice had rung out over the school grounds, demanding that Harry Potter be, essentially, thrown to the wolves, Abby had seen the exact reaction to those who weren't willing to fight against that voice. As long as she'd live, she would never forget Pansy shrieking about "Potter's there!" with the implication that he should be thrown out...and the fact that the entire school rose to their feet with their wands pointed at Pansy after her shrieks. That was enough to make Abby's decision for her. It may very well have been that the current battle would do nothing more than to kill Potter (at some point) and make his supporters rue the day they chose to stand against You-Know-Who, but even if that was the case, it would likely only be a matter of time before the majority of the wizarding world (who clearly were not in agreement with the unspoken sentiment that throwing Potter out to save themselves was a good idea) rose up again. And again. And again. If there was anything that history taught a person, it was that when enough people decide to rise up in rebellion, particularly when their cause is arguably just, it's only a matter of time until they succeed, and those against whom they are rebelling (and the associates of those against whom they are rebelling) are not treated kindly. Despite the incline and despite the length of their march from Hogsmeade, Abby picked up her pace, wanting to get to the front of the pack with Professor Slughorn and away from people who might talk and shake her resolve. This was her decision, her final decision, and she knew that she couldn't afford to waver in it, not anymore. As Stephen watched the rest of the crowd, he realized that their march felt more and more like a death march than anything else, despite Professor Slughorn's attempts at encouragement and battle-like war cries. No, they might not all perish, not right away at any rate, but missing was any excitement, any sense of hope, the passion that supposedly went along with adventure and risk. Though the rest of the crowd might have felt some hope, Stephen couldn't recognise it. Instead, he saw only fear, the result of his own emotions clouding what he saw. He wished he had Anthony's ability to detach his emotions from everything. He might have been able to stop his hands from shaking and make his heart stop racing with adrenaline if he'd been a smidgen more like Anthony. 'This,' Stephen thought, 'has to be the stupidest thing I've ever done.' More so than the time he claimed to have damaged the Hospital Wing. It wasn't too late to change his mind, but Stephen didn't think he could live with himself if he fled twice. Once had been bad enough. He had realised his mistake the moment he arrived safe at home with his sister. Why couldn't he help too? No, he wasn't the most skilled wizard. No, he wasn't well-versed in offensive and defensive magic - at least not in practice, but he wasn't completely incompetent. He could help. He had to try. The words of Ginny Weasley had been repeating in his head since he left his home to join Slughorn, a chant, his own personal mantra. Take a stand, take a stand, fight back, take a stand. Each step brought him closer to what might be the end of everything - his life, this war, both. Each step brought him closer to redeeming himself for not standing up to the Carrows earlier, for not getting more involved, for leaving when so many of his friends remained behind. In truth, the decision to return had been a very selfish one, but it wasn't one-dimensional either. He could do both: redeem himself and do something good for the world. "Take a fucking stand," he muttered under his breath, digging in his heels and picking up his pace as Abigail Runcorn had, nearly leaving his father in the dust as the older Cornfoot attempted to keep up with his son's pace. "It is definitely time to take a fucking stand. It is past time." Vicky had been silently debating with herself the entire time the prefects had been leading the younger students out of the school and out of harm's way as to if she should go back and help fight. True, she wasn't much looking forward to watching as her schoolmates inevitably were slaughtered by those who had a much better idea as to what they were up against, and Vicky had walked all the way here already, and was starting to get tired. It would be a total waste if they got back to the castle and the death eaters had already creamed everybody. Then again, they probably needed Vicky's help. She doubted there was any way they could possibly accomplish this without her, what with her vast breadth of knowledge as far as epic battles went. She owned basically every book with an intense fighting sequence ever, and had read them more than anyone else ever, she was sure. If they had, wouldn't they have quoted them as much as she did? Vicky had been working harder than anyone all year to make sure that Hogwarts was safe and up to her standards, and this was going to ruin everything. She certainly didn't want her 7th year (where she would, no doubt, be made Head Girl) to be spent in a school that was half-way fallen apart. Besides, Vicky didn't want stupid Ginny Weasley spending the rest of her life trying to convince people that she had ran away. If there was potential eternal glory to be found at the school, Vicky wanted that. She was so much braver than the rest of them who had stayed anyway. Plus, it would probably be good to see things first hand for when she wrote her book about the battle. "HEY, WAIT UP," Vicky scurried to catch up with the rest of the people who were returning. Though he wasn't slowing his pace by much, Slughorn always managed to allow enough time for students to catch up -- it wouldn't do for them to get lost when there were Death Eaters roaming the Hogwarts ground. Either he would end up with their deaths on his already endlessly guilty conscience or he'd have to share the spotlight with them in the end, assuming there was any possibility of them winning at all. He wanted to be optimistic, brave, but he was a coward by nature and terrified of the Dark Lord. Facing him would be facing his own fear, the reminder of the mistakes he'd made in the past and the cost of his egotistical dealings with his students. This was a chance to make up for all that, though. Horace needed to grab the snake by its bloody throat and squeeze with all his strength. If he was going to die here, it would be valiently. Of course, he didn't plan on dying, because being around to see one's own legacy would be far more gratifying than death. But he realized that there was a possibility he'd never brew a potion or recruit anyone to the Slug Club ever again -- he had to be honest with himself about that much, though if the Dark Lord won this war, he'd rather have been dead than alive to witness it anyway. He dragged himself away from his morbid thoughts as he approached the castle with the reinforcements. He was the Calvary to their wounded foot soldiers; the ice to their room temperature drink; the armadillo bile to their Wit-Sharpening Potion. Horace Slughorn had arrived! They were both unconscious, Narcissa Malfoy realized, Harry Potter and the Dark Lord. For a moment, she wondered if they could be dead... but no, the Dark Lord was stirring and of course, Bella was fawning at his side. Bellatrix was not worth the attention, though, and lips pressed together, she turned away and kept scanning the border of the clearing for Draco. He simply could not have have remained in the castle, not when it was likely being blasted apart from within, not when they were terrified and could do absolutely nothing to find him. "I wonder if-" she began in a low voice to Lucius, stopping short and letting out a cry as a stinging hex hit her. "Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead." Of course he was dead - he was lying there in a crumpled heap on the ground. Concealing a sigh, Narcissa knelt down on the ground by the corpse of the Boy Who Lived (and it was not amusing in the slightest, honestly). She touched his face gingerly, wondering for a moment if Draco was lying somewhere, as perfectly still. No, she told herself, that is impossible. I absolutely refuse to think like that. There was yet another test to appease the crowd behind her, and Narcissa leaned forward slid a hand under the collar of his shirt, where she was certain it would be still and cold and that would be that. Instead, she felt the steady thump of a heartbeat and froze. Harry Potter was apparently still alive. Had Harry not been pretending to be a corpse on the ground in the Forbidden Forest, he would have smirked at Voldemort's hesitation to approach him and at his own ability to give the supposed Dark Lord pause even when he was meant to be dead. Unfortunately, he had far more pressing matters to consider, such as the fact that he was meant to be dead and Voldemort had just sent someone to check his pulse. He kept his breaths shallow and waited, hoping no one would notice the slight rise and fall of his chest or that whoever this was wouldn't notice the heart that still thumped in his chest. Though he expected the touch, the woman's soft hands still caught him off guard and fought to keep himself perfectly still as her fingers brushed over him and her hair tickled his face. The sensation of being touched was strange to him and it would have caused him to flush with embarrassment had it not been for the severity of the situation. He was uncomfortable not knowing what would come next. He knew what he needed, of course. He needed for this woman to lie for him. But how could he possibly count on a servant of Voldemort to lie for him? He tensed ever so slightly as her hand found his beating heart and waited again, sending silent prayers to no one in particular. Alive. All Narcissa needed to do was say so, and then... well, she had no idea. They would repeat the process until he died, most likely. But the Dark Lord had just shot a killing curse at the Potter boy, and he was still here. That had never happened. His heart was still beating under her hand - a loud thumping, and her mouth formed the words 'alive.' He had been in the castle with Draco, though, had he not? Perhaps he had seen her son. There was a crowd behind her, watching and listening, but they were more concerned with their own thoughts. Even so, she was careful as she leaned forward to murmur, mouth barely an inch from his ear. "Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?" It wasn't easy for Harry to listen to logic over pride. Malfoy had behaved like a complete arse the entire night and now his mother had her hand on his heart, literally and figuratively holding his life in her hands. Telling her the truth would give her more incentive to help him, he knew that, but he still had trouble believing he could count on her. He mentally steeled himself for the possibility that he would have to duel right there in that clearing, mindful of the wand still pressing into his chest. "Yes," he whispered back, breathing his affirmative in an attempt to keep his mouth as still as possible. He hoped he was doing the right thing. Narcissa inhaled sharply, her nails digging into his chest as her eyes stung with tears. Would it work, she wondered, to stand up now, call Lucius, and simply race towards the castle? Of course that was impossible and she had never been a fast runner. It did not matter, though, because Draco was alive. Her son was waiting somewhere in that massive pile of crumbling of rock that was called a school, and she needed very much to get there right now. Which meant there really was no choice at all. Slowly and deliberately, she withdrew her hand from under the Potter boy's shirt. "He is dead!" Narcissa's haughty voice carried througout the crowd, and years of practice ensured that it did not shake at all. Cheers erupted all around, as did a sudden burst of fireworks - it was the Death Eaters' long-awaited moment of triumph. Narcissa felt a smile stretch across her own face as well, though the reason for it was entirely different. Draco was alive. Draco was alive. Draco was alive. The Dark Lord was marching at the front of his victorious procession, the oaf Hagrid carrying the limp and lifeless body of Harry Potter in his arms. His last enemy, his mortal enemy, was dead, and Voldemort was triumphant. Nothing, he thought, could stop him now. At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, they stopped, so that he could deliver the first message of his New World Order to the resisters of Hogwarts. His voice amplified, he spoke. "Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone." Lord Voldemort smiled, though, of course, on his snake's face the expression was merely unpleasant. Surely none of them dare resist him now. With Harry Potter dead, their hopes were, too, dashed upon jagged rocks. They had been foolish to put their faith in him; as Lord Voldemort knew, you could put your faith only in yourself. "The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together." Would they really dare continue to fight now, Voldemort wondered. Surely not. With Potter dead, there was nothing to fight for, only corpses, and if they had any sense, they would bow before him, lest they join the broken bodies of their family and friends. No, none of them would be so foolish, and if they were, they would be dealt with. Fear was a powerful motivator. More powerful than any deluded morality that they held near to their bleeding hearts. They may be the champions of mudbloods and half-breeds, these fighters, but Voldemort knew that, in the end, the only thing worth protecting was oneself. At his behest, the Death Eaters continued across the grounds, that giant sobbing like a tiny girl, as though he had lost something of worth. Lord Voldemort ignored it; the sound irritated him. The gloating of the Death Eaters was perhaps unnecessary, but he could not blame them for their joy. They had fought for him, and valiantly, and each and every one of them would be rewarded beyond their wildest imaginations. "Stop," he commanded, and they did, at the steps that led up to the school. His school, the only home that he had ever known. Voldemort had loved Hogwarts in his time there, but there were improvements to be made. The fool Dumbledore had left much work to be undone. They were rushing out now, and the Dark Lord delighted in their screams of anguish, the defeat carved upon their faces. Potter's friends, only children, shrieked in protest, and he only found their noise amusing for a moment. A flick of the Elder Wand and a shout of "Silence!" was all that was needed to force a hush over the crowd, though through the red slits of his eyes he saw that some of them, though soundless, were crying. They could not, perhaps, believe their eyes, that Harry Potter lay lifeless in the grass. He was common in death. "You see? Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!" Lord Voldemort began to pace, his cloak swishing past the body of his defeated enemy. And it was true. When it was Potter, only Potter, against he, Lord Voldemort, the greatest wizard who ever lived, he had tumbled down like a house of cards. "He beat you!" shrieked Potter's ginger friend, and with an icy glare and another bang from the Elder Wand, they were silenced again. They were very persistent. This could become an irritant, but Ron Weasley was a worthless maggot. He would be disposed of if this continued. "He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds -- " he began to explain, though this was not, of course, true. Harry Potter had come to Lord Voldemort to die, as Lord Voldemort would have expected, and his friends were not even kind enough to honour his sacrifice. Instead, they were trying even harder to get themselves killed -- As if to prove his point, a boy broke free of the crowd (how had he done that -- the Dark Lord's wards were meant to be unassailable), but he was Disarmed with another bang, and lay in a crumpled heap on the ground. A high, cold laugh escaped from Voldemort's chest, one that made even the Death Eaters shudder in fear. "And who is this? Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?" This pesky little fly of a boy, at least, could have his uses. He would be made example of. It was Bellatrix who answered him. "It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?" Of course she would know that. Bellatrix, delightful and useful as she was, had had something of a preoccupation with the Longbottom family since her return from Azkaban. Neville, though, was not paying much attention to Voldemort's questions. His goal, instead, was pulling himself to his feet, because it was impossible to make a stand lying in the dew-wet grass. Whatever Voldemort had hit him with, it hurt, awfully, but Neville fought against the pain. If Harry was dead (and Neville could not quite believe that Harry was dead, because this was not the way that it was supposed to happen), then someone else had to keep on fighting. He knew that Harry never would have run away -- not the Harry Potter he knew, and admired, and loved as his friend. Perhaps Voldemort had caught him doing whatever it was Harry had been meant to do, but he never would have wanted everyone to stop fighting. Never. If Harry was dead, they would continue on without him. He stood, a little shakily, and faced the Dark Lord, his face set and resolute. He was beyond terror. All he felt was a firm determination in his gut. "Ah, yes, I remember," Voldemort said, contemplating Bellatrix's answer. Perhaps, if the boy was a Longbottom, it wouldn't do to kill him. If he could be molded, changed, and reshaped, his brashness and bravery would make for a good Death Eater. One of the best. He could sire pure children, continue a line which might have been polluted. "But you are a pureblood, aren't you, my brave boy?" This, of course, was the boy's escape. All he had to do was embrace his blood, what he had been given at his birth, and no more harm would come to him. It was not the true nature of a wizard to protect Muggles. To serve Lord Voldemort was in his bones. Neville felt a surge of anger flood his chest and spat the words, "So what if I am?" If Voldemort intended to spare him because of some accident of his birth, Neville wouldn't have it. If those who fought Voldemort were meant to die for resisting him, then he would die, regardless of whether or not both his parents had been pure. After all, his blood ran as warm and red as anyone else's, the same colour and consistency as Colin's or Hermione's or any other Muggleborn's he knew. "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." Voldemort's words fell on Neville's deaf ears. The very idea that he would join the Death Eaters was so preposterous that, if not for the severity of the situation, he would have laughed. "I'll join you when hell freezes over!" he told the half-man in front of him, and meaning every word of it. With a pump of his fist into the air, he shouted, "DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY!" Lord Voldemort was mildly surprised by the roar of cheers that erupted from the crowd, which was supposed to be charmed silent as the grave. What surprised him even more was surprising was the idea that even with their false hero dead before them, they continued to resist. How were they all so deluded and foolish? But no matter. If the Longbottom boy would not join him, he would be made example of. There were more purebloods where that came from. "Very well. If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head be it." He flicked his wrist. There was a moment's unease and anticipation, but it took only a few seconds for the tattered Sorting Hat to fly from the castle into Voldemort's long, spindly fingers. He had always wondered why the school didn't bother clean the thing up. Lord Voldemort honoured tradition, it was the grounds upon which everything was laid… But some of the more quaint traditions of Hogwarts would have to go. With another flick of his wrist, Neville Longbottom stood motionless in front of him. "There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School. There will be no more Houses. The emblem, sheild and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice everyone. Won't they, Neville Longbottom?" Neville, unable to move, could only give his best glare at Voldemort, expressing his utter hatred, contempt, and continued rebellion through his eyes. Though the rest of his body was still, his heartbeat was quickening, and a shred of fear was beginning to enter his mind. What, exactly, did Voldemort have in mind for him? But he was helpless now, in a Full Body Bind and it was too late to turn back. Neville did not want to turn back, despite his fear. Being courageous did not mean being fearless, he reminded himself. It meant acting in spite of his fear. Voldemort jammed the Sorting Hat down on his head and over his eyes, and suddenly, Neville could no longer see, but he still heard a faint voice in his head… Ah, Neville Longbottom, it is! A difficult Sorting, you were, but I think I chose the right House -- you have grown much in Gryff -- But its tiny voice was cut off by the booming, shrill shouts of Voldemort. "Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me." Neville couldn't see the Dark Lord swish his wand, but suddenly, everything was extremely hot, and he smelled smoke, and then he could feel flames licking his scalp and he screamed though he could not open his mouth and then… "HAGGER!" The giants were roaring at each other, and Neville could hear the twangs of bows and arrows and suddenly, he was free, he could move, and something came thudding onto his head so hard he saw stars as the burning Sorting Hat fell off of his head. Neville knew what he had to do. From the depths of the Sorting Hat, he pulled a sword, silver and glinting with rubies in the dawn light. It was much lighter than it looked, the sword that Harry had used to kill the basilisk in their second year. And suddenly, Neville heard Harry's voice in his head. Kill the snake. Harry's parting wish. As his vision came back to him, he saw it, floating in the air, looking almost peaceful amidst the disorder. Neville didn't know why he had to kill it, only that he did, and with one fell swoop he raised his arms and Nagini's head sailed through the air, landing with a dull thud at Voldemort's feet. He moved to attack Neville, letting out a horrible scream of shock, horror, and fury, but his spell bounced back and knowing not to test his luck again, Neville ran through the chaos. Vicky Frobisher vs Edward Goyle (8) Now that Vicky was back, the fighting could really start. Sure, from the looks of things, the battle had been a little bit on the gory side before Vicky had returned (and, of course, seeing that she was coming back, Slughorn and the Slytherins and the reinforcements had followed suit), but they weren't getting anything accomplished. Oooh, big deal, Neville stabbed a snake. Whoopie. Not that Vicky had really been doing any fighting during the interim while He Who Must Not Be Named was talking, (not because she was scared of course but because it's rude to interrupt someone who bald and angry and a powerful speaker), but now that everyone else had started fighting again, she supposed she could give a few death eaters the "ol' One-Two." At the present, though, she was just going to... hang out sort of out of the way, where she was somewhat blocked behind a half-demolished stone wall. She needed to get a good view of everything if she wanted to properly reproduce the battle in the epic novel she was going to write about this when it was over. Goyle had been selecting his targets much more carefully during the second half of the battle, given the injuries he'd sustained in the first. He was loathe to be hurt any more by one of these stupid Mudblood-lovers trying to defend the stupid school. Couldn't they just kill Harry Potter and get this all over with? He was hungry and wanted to get this over with so he could go home and have a midnight snack. So, when he saw some girl hiding behind a rock, he figured she'd be the perfect and preferably harmless victim of his wrath. With a brandish of his wand, he sent a blasting spell right at the rock, smirking to himself as he waited for her reaction, which he hoped would be tears or screams or something equally amusing. And Goyle definitely got what he wanted. The rock exploded into hundreds of sharp shards of stone, the blast throwing Vicky over and causing one of the rocks to hit her in the eye, which hurt a LOT! Vicky shrieked and backed herself into a corner, keeping her wand out and aimed at the Death Eater... not that she would have been able to concentrate on a spell in that state. "Stop! Oh god please don't hurt me I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!" Vicky sobbed, wiping her eyes with her sleeve and hoping that somewhere along the line she'd mastered the ability to do sympathetic puppydog eyes, and that the death eater would care about her mastering this and wouldn't kill her. She had so much left to do and so much left to live for! What would it say about her if she was just another nameless statistic talked about in the battle as a whole who got killed while huddled in a weeping heap by some ugly fat Death Eater? If she was going to die, couldn't it have at least been someone attractive and evil who did it? Pausing when he heard Vicky's pleas, Goyle simply moved to stand over her, looking down with a bemused expression on his face. He wasn't very good at guessing peoples' ages, but wasn't she a bit too old to be crying like a baby? Once he'd seen enough, he threw his head back and shook with laughter, pointing his wand absently at her. He didn't have any particular curse in mind when he mumbled some jumbled up incantation, which produced a bright yellow light that stopped his laughter and made him look curiously at the tip of his wand. "Huh," he said. "Guess you got lucky with that one. Ha ha." But she wouldn't be as lucky the next time -- he'd be sure of that. Oh Merlin, she was going to be murdered by someone who jiggled when he laughed. Maybe she had gotten lucky that time, and Vicky didn't want to give him another chance to try to kill her. "No no no wait stop listen!" Vicky sputtered, sliding back up the wall into a standing position. "No seriously, I'm on your side, I was on the Inquisitorial Squad, it was our job to hunt down those uh, those stupid mudblood lovers who were causing trouble in our school, I swear!" she promised, quickly working to loosen and take off the house tie she was wearing. "See this? Absolutely not mine, it was from some snot nosed Gryffindor I bested back a few minutes ago; you should've seen it; it was glorious." Tossing her tie onto the ground, Vicky spat on it and dug her toe into the fabric before looking back up at the bloody-covered Death Eater with a desperate, terrified smile. "See? I'm on your side! I CAN HELP YOU. I'm the best dueler in all of Hogwarts, and am Charms Club President, which obviously means that I am more than qualified to do whatever you want me to do, because really, I'll do anything I promise just don't hurt me please?" Edward spent most of the time Vicky was speaking playing with his eyebrows -- seeing how high he could raise them or how angrily he could furrow them, and when he got ambitious, he even attempted moving one up and one down with little success. After growing frustrated with that, he finally started paying attention to what she was saying, which was unfortunate because it just confused him -- if she was on their side, why had she been hiding and not fighting? He didn't even know what the Inquisitorial Squad was, let alone why it might have mattered to him. He didn't know what to say or do, since he didn't want to hurt some one who might actually be on their side, so he just stared at her while scratching his head. "Huh?" Was he ignoring her? Vicky's fear very quickly was melting into anger and annoyance; she was going to have to edit the hell out of this chapter of her novel to make it anything worth reading. Huh. All he'd said was huh. Where was the evil monologuing? Where was the icy cold-hearted stare that only she could melt? He was taking all the poetry out of being a victim. "Are you retarded or something? I just promised to do anything and you are making Groucho Marx eyebrow faces at me. Or do you just have lice or something?" she asked, referencing the head-scratching. "Because that's disgusting." Pulling his hand away to consider it, Edward's confusion only multiplied. What were lice and why on earth would he have them? And who was Groucho Marx? What kind of a name was that, anyway? It didn't really matter, but Goyle hated being confused. In fact, it made him angry. Who did this girl think she was, confusing him? No one got away with confusing Edward Goyle! "Listen here, little girl! I ain't retarded," he said, scowling down at her. He was going to make her pay for insulting him! "Reducto!" That was more like it. Or, well, it seemed that way for the brief moment when Goyle was only talking big rather than shooting hexes at Vicky, because getting Reductoed back into the wall hurt like hell. "You know, "ain't" isn't a word. You're not doing a very good job of proving your case here, sir," she replied, her tone completely matter of fact as her hand moved to the back of her head where it had smacked against the rock. There was blood on her hand when she brought it back out to where she could see it, and Vicky's eyes went wide. Merlin, was that his plan? Concuss her until she was just as stupid as he was? "Alas, woe was the downfall of Victoria Frobisher: she died quiet and alone by the hand of a giant," she whispered to herself, devastated that she was going to have such a pathetic epitaph. "A giant who makes his eyebrows tango in the twilight air. Ugh." With a she shot a hex up at the Death Eater's face, hoping to make his stupid eyebrows grow until they were big enough that he couldn't see anymore. Edward hadn't been prepared for his eyebrows to begin growing thicker and longer, but it didn't take long for them to completely obscure his vision. Now he was confused and angry and blind. He tried using a severing charm to chop them off, but it was no use -- they simply grew back again, even thicker than before. Flailing about, he bellowed and groped for her with his hands outstretched, pumping into debris with each step and even stumbling several times. One thing he knew for sure is that there was no way that this girl was on his side! So, it wouldn't matter if he inflicted a little more damage, assuming that he had enough luck to aim his wand at her without being able to see. "Stupefy! Incendio! Diffindo! Deprimo!" Vicky made a mental note for herself that increasing the length of a person's eyebrows didn't quite give them the big-haired, rock-star appeal that she'd been hoping for. She saw the Death Eater start stumbling towards her, though, and immediately began backing out of the way of what Vicky would call his "infected, corroding fingers" in her narrative. Her search for further adjectives was interrupted when one of Goyle's hands landed on Vicky's chest, and without a second's though, Vicky's hand slapped hard across the death eater's flabby face. That wasn't even enjoyable. Vicky ducked away before he could grope at her further, casting a shield spell around herself that the first two spells shattered against. The slicing spell hit her full on, though, leaving tears in the sleeve of her shirt and leaving cuts on the surface of her skin. The pain of that, though, in no way compared to how much getting a hole blasted clean through the edge of her shoulder felt, and Vicky immediately began screaming in agony, slumping to the ground against the wall. This wasn't supposed to happen to her. She was Victoria Anne Frobisher. "You IDIOT. What the hell is the MATTER WITH YOU?" This was going to make the summer swimsuit season unbearable. "Stupefy! Glacius! Confringo!" Still stumbling around blindly, Edward had no idea what was happening. He recoiled when Vicky struck him, but had no idea why she'd done so in the first place. Why was this happening to him? Why wouldn't his stupid eyebrows stop growing? It occurred to him that there was a much easier way to put a stop to it, and paused his lumbering to cast Finite Incantatem on his brows. The growing finally stopped and he was able to sever away much of the excess, finally allowing him to see. But it was completely useless, because just as Vicky's face came into view, the stunning spell hit him and he began falling backward, unconscious. However, Edward's fate would not be so simple -- the freezing charm hit him in the chest as he descended, spreading throughout his torso and slowly into each of his thick, trunk-like limbs. The blasting curse that followed would be his bitter end, shattering his iced body and propelling him to rest several feet away, where he broke into hundreds of tiny ice shards, leaving little doubt that he was dead. Vicky's wand was still point at the place that Edward Goyle had been standing only moments earlier, large and lurking and alive. Her jaw hung gaping and open as her arm remained suspended and frozen in the air -- or, at least, metaphorically frozen, unlike the pieces of the Death Eater that had shattered and been scattered like broken chunks of glass. He was dead. Oh god, she had killed him. And this wasn't just like killing the spiders in Dark Arts class, this was some serious carnage. Vicky couldn't think about how she'd just ended someone's life, though. She was distracted by thoughts of Humpty Dumpty not being put-back-together-againable and a hope that maybe at least in Goyle's final few seconds, he'd been happy that he'd gotten some first-base level action. Finally after what had felt like an eternity, Vicky lowered her arm and pushed herself to her feet, accidentally stepping on and smashing what she was pretty sure had once been one of Goyle's ears in the process. "Um," she said to herself, for the first time in her life finding herself struck speechless. What was she supposed to do now? Would they put her on trial for murder? What was she supposed to tell people? ...And then it occurred to Vicky that even if she told them the complete and total truth, no one would believe a word of it. At the moment, she was okay with that. "Uh. Scourgify," she whispered, gathering what was left of Edward into a dazzling heap of icy rubble at Vicky's feet. After a glance over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Vicky cast "Evanesco," with a shaking hand, the remains vanishing into nothingness. Spotting the Death Eater's wand laying caught between two rocks on the ground, Vicky nabbed it quickly, shoved the wand in the robes of her pocket, and dashed off in the opposite direction to find somewhere else to hide. She didn't look back. |