Retreat - Act I: Occupation

5. No Shining Armour

Hermione was the first to get down to the common room, and thus also the first to see three intruders moving deliberately towards the dorm stairs. One looked like a medieval knight in full armour, and thus decidedly more stylish than his two comrades who merely looked like lumbering illustrations of the term 'dead man walking'. Though she thought it a silly term, Hermione could find no better word for them than zombies. She shuddered, and not just because of questionable vocabulary. It only took a quick glance at the zombies to see that your defeat and, quite possibly, death was right there at the top of their to-do list.

There was an outbreak of terrified screams behind her. The others had arrived, apparently drawing much the same conclusions about the intruders' evil intent as Hermione had. And it didn't take her long to figure out what happens when a congregation of junior wizards and witches are presented with a rapidly advancing foe.

She threw herself onto the floor as a great number of aggressive spells streaked over her and slammed into the three visitors, the surrounding furniture, and some very puzzled potted plants. As expected by exactly one dust-sniffing person in the room, these spells had no effect whatsoever. The zombies sped up.

'GET BACK,' Hermione moved into a crouch and turned a glare towards the others, 'TO THE DORMS! NOW!'

A grey hand clasped her shoulder. Gripping her sword with both hands, Hermione heaved the blade back over her shoulder, and felt it come to a slow stop in what was presumably her attacker's shoulder. She felt sickened; but better his shoulder than hers.

The grip slackened. Hermione tore herself free and rose to face her foe.

The zombie's other hand crashed into the side of her skull, sending her flying into an armchair that promptly tipped over backwards. The sword flew out of her hands, clanging onto the floor behind her. Her vision blurred. Upside-down students hurried towards her, anxious to help. They had no weapons. She had to keep them safe. Somehow.

She opened her mouth to order them back, but as a hand grabbed her left ankle and hauled her back over the armchair, all that came out was an incoherent scream. A scream begun in fear but quickly transformed into one of rage.

Bending her left leg while straightening her right, Hermione kicked the zombie's head hard. It cracked backwards, and Hermione was promptly dropped to the floor where she rolled over and scuttled to where the sword lay waiting. The zombie's presence, just behind her, was so tangible she was sure she wouldn't reach the sword in time.

Books suddenly flew overhead, thudding loudly against her pursuer. She reached for the sword, grabbed the hilt, swung around, and was hit by a book in the back of her head.

'Don't hit HER!' Dean exclaimed behind her.

'Sorry,' came the muttered reply from what Hermione guessed was Lavender Brown.

The zombie lunged at her, about to completely disregard Dean's order to Not Hit Hermione. And it sure didn't intend to say 'sorry'.

Hermione, for her part, wasn't about to apologise for slicing off one piece of zombie head with her newly adopted steel broadsword.

Well, not completely off. And 'slice' suggests a type of stylish sword-fighting not mastered by Hermione Granger, resident Hogwarts bookworm. She was glad Nearly Headless Nick wasn't around. Had he seen her botched attempt at decapitation, he would probably never have spoken to her again.

There was a shriek and a thud behind her.

Yes, definitely Lavender.

Hermione turned to the second zombie and was raising her sword again as she felt another book swish past behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something she had previously failed to notice, on account of its being perfectly implausible:

The first zombie was still standing, its head dangling from the remnants of its neck. It battled against a flying current of books, chess pieces, flowerpots, and miscellaneous Gryffindor memorabilia. It was heading for the others, who didn't have a sword between them.

Distracted, Hermione turned back, leaving herself wide open for the blow the second zombie immediately dealt her. She staggered backwards and toppled over a footstool. The zombie loomed over her.

Turning her head, she saw Dean Thomas and Parvati Patil swing brass pokers at the other zombie. It didn't seem particularly effective. She needed to finish this one off. Shocked by her determination to 'finish someone off', Hermione's brain once again snapped into strategic overdrive, fuelled by pure fear.

She kicked the footstool harshly into the zombie's shins. She raised her sword. The zombie fell. Empty black eyes stared into hers. The hilt of her sword pressed sharply against her ribcage. One rib felt broken. The blue-coloured energy surged around them - prey and hunter, victor and victim, alive and dead.

Hermione turned away from the dead creature on top of her just in time to see Parvati pierce the second zombie with her poker. That should take care of that one.

Or not.

The zombie seized Parvati by the throat and hoisted her up into the air. Dean's poker joined its twin straight through what ought to have been the zombie's stomach.

Dean's feet dangled in the air. Neville's feet made contact with zombie legs, over and over and over again, to no avail.

Hermione realised that she was just staring detachedly at the events in front of her, trying to figure out what on Earth was going on. Springing, with some difficulty, into action, she pushed away the dead zombie. She pulled her sword from the fallen body and extended the motion until she had it aimed at the second zombie's back.

She struck.

The blue lightning made its third appearance for the night.

Parvati and Dean fell gasping to the floor.

Hermione let out a shaky breath, leaning on her sword. There were whimpers, frightened gasps, and crying all around her, but none of it really seemed to register. There was something her mind was insisting she had--

'Utterly pathetic,' said a muffled male voice behind her.

--forgotten.

The knight.

And it was no shining armour.

~~~*~~~

Feeling more on top of things - not least his broom - Ron zoomed back towards the Tower. He had no plan more complex than that of getting there as quickly as possible and rescue Hermione. Because he was quite sure she needed rescuing, what with the loud screaming and all.

The closer he got to the Tower, the more worried he got, and the more confused his thoughts became, trains of them derailing all over the place. Worrying about Hermione was nothing new, but these worries mainly concerned their relationship, as it were, and his inability to take it to the next level. He rarely had to worry about her getting killed. Sure, it had happened before - they were friends with The Boy Who Attracts Trouble after all - but he was usually there with her - able to do something.

The only thing he could do now, was make sure he was there with her as soon as--

--as soon as he'd dodged that bloody great beam of blue light blasting through one of the common room windows.

~~~*~~~

Well, that was new.

At least the zombies had only lumbered, leapt, and loomed.

Hermione was personally partial to two other L's: Lying Low, which was what she now did behind the overturned armchair, and had been doing behind a table before it turned into so much non-protective ash.

Her back pressed against the armchair's underside, Hermione repeated the order the others just would not heed: 'GET UPSTAIRS!'

Though terrified, the other Gryffindors - all crouching behind various pieces of furniture - kept looking around in desperate search for some solution, some weapon. At least they had all been sorted into the right House - foolishly brave and noble . . . to the end?

Neville, nearest to Hermione, shook his head at her. 'We're not leaving you down here with that--that thing!'

'You have to, Neville! There's only one sword and--and I'm using it.' It was a lame reason, she knew that. But she felt that, as a prefect, it was her duty to protect all Gryffindors. Especially the young ones. Thankfully most of the youngsters had heeded her, retreating to their dorms. Not that they would be safer there, should she fail to stop the knight.

Another blast hit the far wall, grazing a number of other items, including Dean's robes, on its way.

That was ENOUGH.

Slamming her sword down on the floor, Hermione pulled out the wand previously pilfered from McGonagall's desk. She raised the wand and looked around. All the others had stayed close to the dorm stairs, or had retreated rapidly once blue lightning started streaking about the place.

Wishing she had had a copy of Herbet Skydd's Charming Defence with her to check that she got the wording right, Hermione leapt to her feet and performed the spell while running across the room, sweeping her wand from side to side.

In sparkling bursts of magic, a semi-transparent shield sprouted along the path Hermione had sketched with her wand. Once she was satisfied the others were safely on the other side, Hermione summoned the broadsword, letting her wand clatter to the floor, knowing full well she would have to wield steel, not wood, to vanquish the knight.

The hilt of the sword found her hands.

'Hermione, no!' shouted Dean. Hermione barely registered the muffled sound as carrying meaning. The knight stood silent in the centre of the room, observing the magical shield.

'Impressive, milady,' he said, 'But thou hast taken from me all my little playthings, hast thou not?' He turned his faceless visor towards Hermione. 'It mightily vexes me to have but thee alone left to entertain me, as entertaining as indeed thou art.' He chuckled.

At that moment, Hermione realised that this was the most frightening monster of all. Not a bloodthirsty animal, nor a lumbering mindless zombie, but a cold, calculating, heartless man of steel. A hunter not going for the quick kill but the prolonged sadistic pleasure of witnessing his prey's suffering and pain.

Hermione suddenly felt a terrifying urge to kill. The ruthlessness of her foe forced an equal response in her. Morals and civilised behaviour trickled away through the floorboards beneath her feet whilst bile and loathing rose in their place. Her high and lofty ideals were dragged down until they rolled around in the filth spewing from the abominable steel-clad vision in front of her. A concession to the lowest common denominator of some twisted equation of hate.

Clang, cling, clang, cling, clang--

The knight sauntered towards her - certain of his advantage, his steel-coated upper hand. Infuriatingly calm.

'Quelle jolie jeune fille, hm?' the knight purred.

Hermione felt an urge to hiss and arch her back in defiance. 'Save your poor French for someone who fancies a night with a creep in a can.' Her voice trembled far more than she had intended. What on Earth was she on about? She felt as though there was someone reciting a poorly scripted action movie through her empty, shell-shocked skull.

The chuckle sounded more lecherous the second time. And thrice as terrifying.

The knight reached up to touch her face. Cold metal stung her cheek.

'Such a sweet, pretty little lass.'

'I AM--' Her sword gonged into the knight's helmet. He staggered. '--NOT--' The sword made a return swing and smashed into the helmet's other side. '--SWEET--' Clang. The hand dropped from her cheek. '--OR--' CLONG. '--LITTLE--' CLANG. '--AND I'M COVERED IN BLOOD!'

She lowered her sword, panting. At a loss for what to do next, she simply watched as the knight swayed from side to side with both hands on his helmet.

He had on full body-armour. How could she kill him when she couldn't even get to him?

The knight steadied. She could see narrowed eyes staring at her through the thin slit in his visor.

'I might have spared thee.' He wouldn't have. 'But now... Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos.' He glanced at her frightened friends beyond the shield. 'But of course, you are all Gryffindors - I should have known.' He turned back to her, his voice low and hissing. '"Death, as the psalmist saith, is certain to all: all shall die", and thou, wench, shalt do so now!'

With the strength and speed of joint human and cat survival instincts, Hermione threw herself out of harm's way milliseconds before another blue blast widened the fireplace behind her. A wide range of knick-knacks and older, more stylish ornaments clattered, thunked, smashed, and clanged onto the floor. One miniature flagpole toppled over and plunged, Chuddle Cannons banner first, into the hardwood floor. Hermione stared at the softly reverberating little metal pole, mesmerized. It was as though the sound spoke directly to the strategizing part of her brain. She only had to figure out what it was it was trying to tell her. Which was easier thought than done, what with an ignoble knight aiming to blast her into oblivion, and her schoolmates screaming in terror nearby. Nearby, yet far away - for both her and the mad knight.

It hit her like a bolt of lightning, just in time for her to catch up with current events and avoid a non-proverbial one heading her way. The blasts were coming at shorter intervals. The knight was furious. Just the way she wanted him.

Scuttling across the floor, keeping behind pieces of furniture that were rapidly ascending to furniture heaven, Hermione searched for the wand she had dropped before. She found it lying just inside the shield, and as she crouched down to take it, Dean Thomas mirrored her position on the other side. 'Let us help.'

'Try to think of a way to get to the Hall,' she said, disregarding his plea, 'other than disapparating - there are too many who can't.' The knight was clanging towards her. She gazed into Dean's eyes, trying to convey a strength she feared might merely be a figment of her imagination. 'I'll manage.'

Then a quotation emerged from the dark, expansive library of her mind, and suddenly she realised, with something approaching childish glee, that her bookishness could benefit her even now. If only for the gratification of vexing that damned knight even further. She grinned at Dean. 'If he fancies Virgil, I'll give him Virgil!' She turned, standing tall to once again face the dreaded knight from behind the overturned old armchair.

The knight raised his arms. Everyone was silent. Many held their breaths. They waited for the knight to say something, along the lines of 'Now you die' or 'Farewell, milady'. At the very least he ought to have cackled viciously. He ought to show some signs of madness. Ought to behave like the insane Dark Lord few of them had seen but all had heard stories about. He ought not be allowed to perform a silent execution, a perfunctory murder without a final display of mordant wit, as madmen were wont to do in stories such as this.

That was how it felt, that night, to those allegedly fearless Gryffindors - as if they had all been dragged into some strange story, the happy ending of which they now awaited with bated breath. But the knight wasn't following the script. Without some final words of intended farewell or a prolonged cackle, no Rescue Plan could be concocted, no solution found.

Only one person knew that a Plan was already at hand. And, luckily, that one person was Hermione Granger. She smiled abruptly at the knight. An angry, challenging smile.

'Audentes fortuna juvat!' she hissed. Then she leapt onto the armchair, pointed her wand at herself and said 'Wingardium leviosa!' She pushed off and soared into the air. The knight raised his arms, finding his aim just as Hermione passed directly over him. Doing half a wobbling somersault in midair, she saw the blast of energy pass mere inches from her face, singeing the robes blossoming out in a topsy-turvy, and highly inappropriate, imitation of Marilyn Monroe.

The blast was immense, punching a hole straight through the ceiling and up through the tower. Hermione fervently hoped it hadn't struck any unsuspecting students in the dorms above.

Debris poured into the room. A wooden block knocked Hermione to the floor, leaving her lying sprawled at the feet of the knight with no weapon save an ineffectual wand. Exposed and defenceless.

Maybe her plan wasn't so great after all.

Trembling with rage, the knight brought his arms about to aim at the insolent girl before him. But before he could unleash his wrath in a shower of blue, a chair shattered against his back. He turned around, and saw red. A broomstick slammed into the back of his helmet. He spun around again--

--and saw red there too.

Though he did not know their names, the knight was being attacked by irate Weasleys on two fronts.

And he was quite upset about it.

Using the last leg of the chair she had picked up on her way from her hiding-place behind the red sofa, Ginny Weasley used the knight's helmet as a poorly tuned gong. 'STAY AWAY FROM MY BROTHER!' She punctuated the shout by a swift kick at the knight's steel-encased leg, finishing off the physical expression of her anger with a rather more timid whimpering noise.

The knight turned again to find a redheaded girl hopping about on one leg, and a broom once more sweeping painfully across his back.

'DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!' roared protective older brother Ron, who had zoomed in through the window a few seconds earlier after finally managing to not hit the wall surrounding it.

'ENOUGH!' screamed the fuming knight.

And in all the commotion, none of the combatants heard the muttered 'Wingardium Leviosa' rising from the floor. Nor did they notice the other thing rising into the air, and up through the hole in the roof.

Those on the other side of the shield noticed. They watched Hermione get to her feet as both Weasleys ducked blue lightning. They saw her advance on the knight. And they knew.

Knew what her plan was.

Knew that it might work.

And that it very well might not.

The knight had moved too far from bull's-eye.

And now, they had no weapons. The knight had an unstoppable weapon, and thrice the chance of hitting something living. And turn it to dead ashes. Ashes and dirt.

Someone would get irrevocably hurt.

It might be the knight.

It very well might not.

It might well be that what Hermione told the knight (and which had some of the older girls searching for younger ears to cover) to make him turn around was just a bit too vile. Instead of charging towards her, he simply sent a miniature supernova expanding in her general direction.

If possible, the New Hermione Granger (which had already succeeded in thoroughly freaking out all the first-, second-, and third-year Gryffindors) looked even more devilishly dangerous having had the outer fringes of her expansive hair set aglow, rolling through dust and rubble to rise like some fuming feminist phoenix on the other side of a knight she looked about ready to unseam like the unseemly canned male pig he was.

Lavender Brown shook herself out of her reveries, very much regretting that extra feminist course.

Hermione Granger, for her part, had already shaken off extraneous thought, so much so that she hardly felt like herself anymore. All that was left was a shining core of preservation instinct - and the Plan. On the whole, she felt, the fact that she didn't feel like herself was a Good Thing, seeing as she would personally have objected strongly to herself doing what that shining core of wossname was now about to do.

Vocabulary was something else she had shrugged off, making room for the emotionally eloquent war cry she now hurled at the knight alongside her much more physical self, knocking him several feet backwards, and almost knocking herself unconscious against his steel plating in the process.

Hermione bent backwards and tried to focus on the ceiling. The reason for its being out of focus was that the ceiling in question was several floors up.

Bull's-eye.

She had to act quickly. Turning around, she hooked one leg around the knight's. The steel man fell - pulling Hermione with him.

Lying with her back to the swearing knight, Hermione looked up again, at the shining weapon poised in flight high, high above them. 'Finite. Incantatem.' The spell-terminator had never sounded more grimly fatalistic, its final syllables punctuated by the knight's hands locking Hermione's arms down in a vice-like grip.

The sword plummeted.

The screams of those beyond the shield merged into one mighty chorus of shock, fear, and despair. The knight's hands dug deep as Hermione struggled to free herself from the vicious weight beneath her. To Ron Weasley, paralysed with shock and incomprehension, the two combatants looked like a huge steel-and-flesh beetle, flailing its limbs in the air in an attempt to turn over.

And over, the beetle turned, with a cry of exertion from its flesh and one of anger from its steel shell. The sight of a broadsword accelerating towards her seemed to have given Hermione strength beyond all she had wasted earlier that night. Pinned beneath the heavy weight of the knight, she concluded that she had now used up so much strength she didn't have in the first place that, after this night, she would be surprised if she could even get out of bed, or eat, or breathe.

Then the sword hit and all her breath fled her lungs. Her ribs squeezed together. Her breasts felt ready to burst like overripe tomatoes, and the tip of the sword penetrated her robes and breached her skin. She could feel it between her shoulder blades; sinking, expanding--

--stopping.

'HERMIONE!'

There was a flash of darkness. A moment of silence.

When she opened her eyes again, she felt the dead weight of the knight being lifted from her back, a light pressure against her wrist, and saw Ginny's wide eyes staring at her, questioning.

'She's alive!'

The only response was a collective sigh from beyond the shield and Ron's hand resting on her back, trembling but not shaking. Shaken but reassured.

Ginny forced a smile. 'Don't you ever complain about me being wild and reckless again, okay?' The answering wry smile from Hermione brought an unforced but slightly guilty grin to the face of the youngest Weasley. Hermione would still be around to chastise her about going to wild parties and indulging in dangerous pastimes. And that was all that mattered.

Ron had his wand out, trying to heal the wounds on Hermione's back.

'They're not healing right!' He shook his wand, as if that would make it work better.

'They're healing,' said Hermione wearily. 'I can feel it. It's just a bit slow.'

Ginny leaned forward, watching Ron work on the wounds.

'Why?' she said.

Hermione tried to push herself up, and failed miserably. 'I don't know.' She sighed. 'Help me?'

Ginny took hold of Hermione's arm and pulled her up, ignoring Ron's insisting that Hermione wasn't in a fit state to be anything but horizontal.

'We need to contact the teachers, or an Auror. Get help,' Hermione muttered, sorting through the torrent of thought returning to her in her post-shock, post-amazon, post-wossname state. She needed to focus.

'Ehm,' Ginny began, 'Actually, there's one here already. An Auror.'

Hermione stared at her. 'What? Here? But why--'

Ginny shut her eyes. 'Behind the sofa.'

Hermione hobbled over to the sofa, looked behind it, and saw the Auror.

Or rather, part of the Auror. About half, though she didn't care to take measurements.

She turned away from the ghastliness, slumping into the sofa. Ron moved to take a look behind her but she held up a shaking hand. 'He--got splinched,' she said. Short and succinct. And all she could manage. Further words would clear a path for vomit, and she could do without that taste sensation, all things considered.

Ron's face was alight with incomprehension. 'He--he got--,' he willed the word out of his mouth, 'split?' There were gasps of horror from those who heard him. 'But Aurors Apparate all the time!'

'I don't think,' said Hermione, 'it would be wise to Disapparate at the moment.' It was a simple statement but the implications, the intimations, were terrifying. Anyone of them could have become the victim of a botched Apparation - half of them here, half of them there, the whole of them nowhere and never again.

'Um. Could someone... ehm...?' The voice was low and timid, almost afraid to be heard. Afraid to bring more trouble to those with piles of it bending their backs.

Ron heard, and brought up his wand. 'Finite incantatem!'

The shield remained intact.

Hermione turned her head slowly, as if watching from inside, or outside, a dream. A nightmare. 'It's a defensive spell, Ron. Only the caster can end it.' She got up and limped towards him. 'Give me the--' With a POP, the shield vanished. '--wand?'

No spell had been spoken. But the shield was gone.

Ron's jaw dropped, making way for his famous goldfish impression, mirrored by those beyond the shield. Hermione took the wand from his limp hand.

'Wingardium leviosa.' That very first spell of her Hogwarts career had served her well that night. It brought her a soothing sense of coming full circle. What better spell to test if her fears were justified?

The vase, miraculously unscathed by the turmoil around it, floated through the air like a tiny ship of glass.

It wobbled.

It spread out over the floor, its glittering shards illustrating a reality of broken magic.

'It doesn't work,' said Hermione, eyes locked on the wreckage. 'Magic. Doesn't. Work.'

~~~*~~~

The Bowtruckle knew little of water and nothing of whirlpools. If it had, it would no doubt have felt caught up in one. As it were, it merely experienced a pulling, dizzying sensation as the darkness approached. On the whole, Bowtruckles were not known for their rich metaphorical reasoning. If asked, it would probably have described the weakening of its magical aura as sappin' wossname pulling wossname in wossname circles out of its blooming wossname.

However one were to describe it, the draining feeling peaked as black scaly skin grated the side of the Bowtruckle's precious tree. The tiny tree-guardian couldn't even muster the energy for a foolhardy attack against the massive tree-wrecker. It simply clung to the stem it called home as the old tree snapped and crashed towards the ground. The little creature had no tears to shed but the wailing lament that rose from its miniscule mouth could have made a heart of steel weep liquid ore.

The tree that had grown and been groomed by the Bowtruckle for over two centuries lay broken on the forest floor, cut off from nourishment. Beyond repair. Dying.

The Bowtruckle dug its sharp fingers into the thick bark and laid its head down to rest. It would not leave. They would both return to the earth.

In time.

The darkness continued towards Hogwarts, utterly unconcerned with the destruction it left in its wake.