Halfway to Hell

It is the wartime, and I am afraid. I fear for my life and the lives of my friends for what is to come, and what will be left when this is all over. I have to keep reminding myself that it will be all over, one day. Six months of hell and I can't remember anything else.

Hogwarts is the centre of the resistance, of course. The Ministry is riven by faction and infighting, and as such is little use at all. Fudge's death way back in February was what kicked it all off, when the Death Eaters showed that they felt strong enough to come out in public and attempt a coup. There was a week when no-one really knew what was happening - studies continued as usual at Hogwarts, and apparently Diagon Alley was still open, although a little quieter. Then the floodgates broke loose - the Daily Prophet finally managed to break the wards preventing it from going to press and a thousand owls flew the news all round the country, and panic took hold.

One might have hoped that dear Ms. Skeeter might have stuck to the facts, in such an important situation. Instead the integrity of the wizarding press sunk to a new low, and they played on our fears for all they were worth. "FUDGE DEATH SCANDAL - DID HE BETRAY THE MINISTRY?" and "MIRANDA FUDGE: LUCIUS MALFOY'S MISTRESS?! EXCLUSIVE REPORT". The headlines blazed in red and white letters three inches high. He was not a good man, but that was a step too far. On page three, the customary 'witch without her britches', as Fred Weasley used to call them. And then, on pages four through to twenty, the editorial. "We must vote Malfoy - the only man who can save the wizarding community from being overrun by Muggles... has to be done... reasonable policies really..." Filth - pervasive, poisonous filth - and not a fact in it.

Many people agreed with the Prophet, patted themselves on their backs for their brave rationalism in making the tough decision to do what was necessary for the good of wizard-kind. Lucius Malfoy's smug face smiled on the cover of the weekend paper, and I knew that one institution had fallen.

Even Dumbledore didn't quite know what to do in those times when no-one knew which way was up. There hadn't been even a whisper of Voldemort's name, just his known minions fighting for control. The Headmaster wanted to keep things as normal as possible for us pupils - overreacting would have been admitting fear - but after a fortnight in which no contact could be made with the Ministry he took action. The school went into lockdown. No-one could leave the building, and only prefects and staff were allowed to walk alone in corridors. Normal lessons were suspended and intensive classes in duelling, healing, preparing for battle and the political strategy were put on for all pupils.

I don't like criticising the man, but I don't know why he didn't send the lower years away immediately. We older ones were ok, but the first and second years were terrified and didn't know what to make of it. One chilly morning in March, I came down to breakfast to find a near-deserted castle - everyone fifth year and under had been smuggled out overnight, the Muggle-born to their families and the junior members of the prominent pureblood families to Beauxbatons. In the previous weeks, almost half of Slytherin House and even a couple of Ravenclaws had left, and we all knew we might not see them again.

Draco Malfoy stayed, and no-one knew why. Ron was furious with him, the anger from both years of antagonism and also his fear for his father, whom no-one had heard from in weeks. He was convinced that Malfoy was spying on us, and refused to accept that Dumbledore wasn't that stupid. I tried to comfort him as best I could, but it was little use. In the end, after weeks of us living on knife-edges, a note came in from Arthur by an exhausted Pigwidgeon, saying he was alive and in hiding with other ex-Ministry members. I think they were trying to act as a provisional government, although it wasn't really the time for it. Finally Ron listened to me, and we both devoted ourselves to our new lessons as the only way we could help.

There were attacks. Little, isolated events - a pub brawl got out of hand in Edinburgh (two magically splinched, six in St Mungos), a fire in a house in Hogsmeade (three dead, one severely wounded), a rogue basilisk in Chestershire (five dead, seventeen temporarily petrified). No apparent pattern, no apparent reason. The Ministry was still in crisis, with reports on the radio telling of a different situation each night. Many staff were missing, but we all thought they were with Arthur Weasley, and besides, Lucius Malfoy and his followers hadn't actually done anything directly significant.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore kept preparing. We students worked with the members of the Order of the Phoenix, whose identities were all finally revealed to us. I'd known that Remus and Sirius were members, of course, but Harry's neighbour Arabella Figg? Professor Trelawney's sister? They turned out to be quite the useful allies. I was put into a team with Professors Vector and Sinistra, Lisa Turpin, two other sixth year Ravenclaws, and Draco Malfoy. We were set the task of correlating what little intelligence Dumbledore had received, and trying to work out what was going to happen how. It was impossible. Our work was hindered by the Divination team of Trelawney, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who kept on sending cryptic messages and gory forebodings over to us. I never believed a word of them, but they were right about the blood.

Harry and Ron concentrated on combat training, as much physical as mental. Some research just finished in Germany had shown that the maxim "healthy body, strong mind" actually had some truth in it, and that physical fitness might give a wizard an extra edge in a duel. With the school two thirds empty, half the hall could have the tables taken out and be turned into a gymnasium. They did circuit training, martial arts - it turned out that we had a Japanese Order member with the resistance in Hogwarts, and she led a lot of classes in meditation and focusing the mind. We felt so prepared, and the fact that we didn't know what was going to happen next, didn't seem to matter so much for a moment. Then they attacked Diagon Alley.

The street had been quiet for a couple of months, but slowly people were returning as fears subsided and the need for new potion ingredients or more books to read whilst holed up at home became too strong to ignore. It was lunchtime, the sun was shining, Florean Fortescue's was open at last, and eleven dragons Apparated into the sky above the Alley and burnt the whole lot down.

We still don't know how many died. None of the tradespeople are thought to have survived, apart from a few in Knockturn Alley (of course), and everyone in the school has lost someone close to them. Molly Weasley died, but in the days Ron needed me most I could be of no use - he hated the fact that my parents were still alive, and probably not at much risk. Besides, there wasn't the time. Diamanda Vector and I had to work with the Muggle government to explain why the smell of burning hung over central London. The invisibility spells on the street meant that at the Muggles saw no smoke, but the stench was everywhere.

Harry went to pieces as well. I think it was something about the fact that he didn't stop the attack, when he was supposed to be the saviour of the wizarding world. He didn't talk about it, couldn't. The Daily Prophet wrote an article calling him The Boy Who Lived As Others Died, and I can only pray that he never saw it.

I don't want to dwell on the last four months. Harry, Sirius and three others are on a mission to locate Voldemort's base and destroy him, as every day the monster grows in strength. They left three weeks ago, and it's probably too late. Arthur Weasley led a counter coup on the Ministry, and was captured by Lucius' lot. We know he's still alive because Ron received his left ear by owl last Monday, the blood barely even clotted. I'm so proud of him for withstanding the blackmail attempts, but he can't hold out forever, and let his father die. Draco started hearing voices, and although Trelawney's convinced they mean something, I can recognise schizophrenia when I see it. Dumbledore is old, and Voldemort is immortal.

At some point it has got to end. When you're stuck halfway to hell like this, the certainty of death looks far too inviting. The world's in purgatory and I know which way the scales are going to tip. I should be thankful. I'm alive. Hogwarts is still whole. Precious little else is.