Re: BATTLE-Hugo (Open)
Hugo's strength had always been Potions. He'd worked out a holy water concoction meant to spread to anyone who touched anyone the water had touched. It was minor but it was the best he could do in a short amount of time with limited ingredients. And, of course, there was his usual work. Spells, enchantments, curses, jinxes. Short of using Unspeakables, he was throwing out everything he had.
When he saw the familiar shock of frizzy brown hair so like his own, his heart sank. That was his mum out there. All of thirteen, still just a kid. His brave, strong, talented mother. The one who didn't put up with his attention seeking crap as a kid, even when Ron did. The one who'd taught him so much more than school ever could. The one who'd indulged his love of reading with every book she could get her hands on, new and classic both.
She was thirteen. She shouldn't even have been out there.
He slipped over to tell her so and the closer he got, the more he overheard. She was brilliant. Completely brilliant. Throwing out curses most witches her age shouldn't even know. Despite his worry over her, he swelled with pride as the brains of the Golden Trio met her attackers smoothly.
He saw the approaching demon a split second before she did. It wasn't enough time. His wand at the ready, he yelled "stupefy!" but it was too late. The damage was done. The pipe... Oh, Merlin. No. "No!" He'd meant to shout the word, but it came out weak. Afraid.
Rushing to his mother's side, he pulled her into his arms. It was too late. What little healing magic he did know already wouldn't save her. He could ease her suffering a bit, ease her into an unconscious state but...he couldn't save her. He hadn't even started his training yet.
It was useless, he knew, and he could only wait for her to breathe her final breath. And then he no longer cared. Almost nineteen years old, cocky and confident, Hugo Weasley broke down into tears. Gently, he stroked her brown curls off of her face, ignoring the blood that covered her. He no longer cared that he was a target, breaking down in the middle of a battlefield. What did it matter anymore?
His mother, young as she might have been, was dead.