Hogsmeade Battle Royale

Chapter Six - The First Night

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The students waited nervously in the Hogsmeade Inn, for Voldemort to call the next combatant in his deadly Battle Royale. Tom Riddle, his youth restored, stood next to the old hologram of Voldemort, as it bared serpentine teeth and spoke:

"Brocklehurst, Mandy."

A squeak came from a small seventh year, near the windows of the old inn. Mandy Brocklehurst, a small, mousey Ravenclaw, stood on wavering legs as both Voldemorts stared her down. She started to run towards the waiting Death Eaters at the door to be given her weapon and start the Battle Royale. She didn't get far when a hand grabbed her wrist from behind.

It was Lisa Turpin, a seventh year Ravenclaw that Harry was somewhat friendly with. She had rushed up to Mandy, her pale complexion darkened by tears. "You're still my friend!" she cried to Mandy. The two young witches had gone through seven years of friendship, of potions exams and prefect badges. No one, not even the monster Voldemort, was going to come between them.

Mandy nodded, now also near tears. "I know," she said. She looked towards the dual Voldemorts; Tom was rolling his eyes in impatience. Mandy gave one look back in Lisa's direction, and reluctantly let go. She left the inn at a run, and never returned.

Voldemort was already ready with the next combatant's name. "Zabini, Blaise."

Blaise Zabini was a seventh year Slytherin who thought he was Merlin's gift to Hogwarts. Always cocky, Blaise prided himself on his magical, as well as sexual, prowess, and commonly bragged that he could charm any witch or wizard that he desired. There were rumors that he and Seamus Finnigan had a few quick shags in the dungeons before Christmas holiday. But Seamus squashed those rumors with his Gryffindor friends, saying confidently, "Blaise only wishes he could have a bloke as good as me."

He stood with ease, proud to be the first Slytherin called into the game. Blaise broke away from the other Slytherins left in the inn, and grabbed the sack given to him. Before he left the inn, he turned around and gave a sly wink in Seamus's direction. Seamus tensed, and glared in Blaise's direction until he left into the night. Harry was about to ask Seamus what that was about but the next name called made him absolutely freeze.

"Weasley, Ginny."

Harry looked in Ginny's direction. She had a stern, determined look on her face. She had been tormented by Tom Riddle, and she was traumatized by seeing her brother die before her eyes, but she was not beaten yet. Standing amid her wailing friends, begging her not to go, Ginny walked up to Tom Riddle, almost with no fear. The worst he could do was kill her, just like he had killed Ron, and from the looks of the Battle Royale, they were all fated to die anyway. She no longer feared a death by Tom Riddle's hands.

Tom raised an eyebrow, curious as to Ginny's rather brave stance. She approached Riddle, and when she stood before him, she spat at his feet. She students gasped, and Harry turned away, certain that the next time he looked, another Weasley would be dead on the floor. But, to everyone's surprise, Tom did not kill Ginny; on the contrary, he had not moved from his position.

Ginny moved in to Tom's face and whispered bravely, "I don't fear you." Tom still gave no response. His eyes were the only things that moved following Ginny as she received her sack from the Death Eaters, and as she left, waving to her friends and to Harry, into the battle.

"Creevey, Dennis."

The poor fourth year was not so brave or graceful as Ginny when he left the room. He cried out and held his brother when his name was called, and when he finally did get up to leave, he tripped and fell when getting his weapon bag. Colin watched his brother leave with a terrible feeling of sympathy - what ever will their parents do? - but he did not have to wait long before having to join him.

"Creevey, Colin."

Clutching his new instant camera, Colin stood somberly, and walked towards the waiting Death Eaters, fear mounting with every step. As he was thrown his weapons beg, Colin looked sadly in Harry's direction. Harry could see his eyes filled with tears, and he knew he saw fear in those eyes as well. Finally, Colin left the room, joining his brother in the night.

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin."

Harry remembered Justin fondly; he was one of the few Hufflepuffs to break the strong Hogwarts House barriers and befriend Harry, Hermione and Ron. He had been made prefect in fifth year, and was getting the top grades in his House. He was strangely brave for a Hufflepuff; he could have just as easily been sorted into Gryffindor.

Justin was showing his courage now, more than ever before, as he ran up to the Death Eaters to get his weapon. Harry hoped that he would have an extra advantage by being a Muggle-born wizard; he might know how to handle a gun, while some cocky purebloods might not. Justin took his sack, and faced the students with it, raising it high over his head. With a triumphant nod to his friends, Justin left the room, determined to survive in the Battle Royale.

"Abbott, Hannah."

Hannah Abbott, Justin's fellow Hufflepuff, was not as resilient nor as accepting of the students’ grim situation. She had sat holding Ernie Macmillan's hand tightly, and when her name was called by the holographic Voldemort, she gripped it tighter out of fear. She stood up; Ernie looked up at her and shook his head, whispering "No" to his doomed girlfriend. She looked back at him, her eyes apologetic, but she and he both knew there was no way to escape this fate.

When Hannah reached the inn's door, the Death Eaters shoved a weapons bag at her. She caught it, but the moment it touched her hands she spun around and threw the bag back at the Voldemorts. It passed right through the holographic Voldemort, but Tom Riddle caught the bag as it sailed towards him, his face emotionless. The students gasped again, certain that this time Tom would kill poor Hannah Abbott. But Hannah ran out of the inn, without sack or weapon, before Tom could get to her. Tom handed the bag over to a Death Eater and took out his wand, but he did not go after the Hufflepuff. She would probably be dead by morning, especially without a weapon. No, he had more important measures to deal with.

"Weasley...William."

Like his next combatant, for one.

William Weasley sat in the corner, away from the rest of the crowd. His eyes looked glazed, and he did not respond at all to the sound of his name. Harry and Hermione turned around and saw the man behind them; Harry saw him slump over, and he didn't look like the jovial, exciting oldest member of the Weasley brood. He hadn't stood up in protest when Tom harassed Ginny, and he didn't even move when Tom viciously took Ron's life. Harry couldn't understand what had changed this man to much, from an adventurous man full of excitement and intrigue, was now apathetic to his sibling's own death?

Tom took the wand in his hand and pointed it as Bill. "Ennervate," he said, and suddenly, Harry knew that Bill was under some kind of spell, put under by Voldemort. It had to be the only explanation Harry could think of that would explain why Bill would sit idly by as his brother and sister were tortured by Voldemort. Bill twitched, and moved his head; he seemed to be coming out of Tom's spell.

"Little William Weasley," said Tom teasingly. Bill tensed at the sound of his full name. No one called him William, not even his mother. No one had, not since... "Get up," he ordered. "NOW."

Bill's head snapped to the front of the room, and he glared at Tom, who stood with a stern look on his face. In a flash, Bill was on his feet and running towards the front of the room. He grabbed a sack from the waiting Death Eaters and stormed out of the inn. He never gave one look in Harry or Hermione's directions.

"Perks, Sally-Anne."

Sally-Anne Perks, a rather quiet Slytherin that never gave Harry, Ron or Hermione any trouble, stood up straight and straightened out her robes before approaching a waiting Death Eater with her sack. She took it silently, and as she reached the door she looked back at her fellow Slytherins and nodded, once. She might not have been as impossible as Draco Malfoy to the Gryffindors, but she and her housemates weren't going to go down without a fight.

"Douglas, Carey."

The name struck Harry. It was not one he had ever heard before; no one in his year had that name, and he didn't believe any of the younger students went by that name, either. Perhaps Tom had made a mistake; perhaps someone from an even younger year than Ginny's friends had mistakenly gotten mixed up in the deadly Battle Royale. But then a lone wizard stood, and all of Harry's questions about the mysterious man in the corner of the room were answered.

Carey Douglas was a tall, thin man, but there was nothing about him that made him seem fragile, or harmless. He looked older, much older than any student at Hogwarts today; a hardened jaw and a tell-tale broken nose proved he had seen his share of war during Voldemort's first age of power. His blond hair fell into his long face, but nothing could shield the intensity of his dark, bloodthirsty eyes. Douglas stared straight ahead, not looking at any of the Hogwarts students. He wore a long black cloak, which he took off with an unceremonious flourish as he stood. The Muggle clothes he wore underneath were black as well, dark enough to match his stare. A glint of silver revealed to Harry a metal collar around Douglas's neck; he was a part of this game, too.

Douglas began walking slowly to the Death Eaters in the inn. "On the double!" One of the hooded wizards barked at him, displeased that he wasn't going nearly fast enough. Carey ignored the order, and kept at his pace. All eyes were on the mysterious man as he was thrown a weapons bag. Suddenly, the inn's door came bursting open; it was Bill, returning, a dark scowl on his face. He threw the weapons bag back at Riddle, who caught it, frowning.

Bill pointed to the bag. "That's not my bag," he said. They were the first words Harry heard out of Bill's mouth since they arrived at that treacherous inn, and even now, his words were robotic and cold, nothing like the Bill Weasley Harry met on all those summers at the Burrow. What was it about Tom Riddle - and the Battle Royale - that had made Bill change so much?

The Death Eaters scowled at the redhead, but Tom only chuckled in response. "So precocious," the hologram noted. It looked over at Tom with a knowing smile. "Hasn't changed a bit, has he." Harry didn't know what the hologram was talking about; Harry wouldn't call himself an expert on the Weasley clan, but it seemed that Bill was becoming more and more like a mystery by the second.

Tom pointed to Bill and to Carey Douglas, and raised his voice so that all the inn could hear him. "You better watch out for these two," he shouted, as Bill was given a different pack. He looked inside it, and was pleased with its contents. "They're a little dangerous."

Bill left the inn again, brushing past Douglas none-too-gently in the process. Douglas scowled, and followed, his steady pace never faltering. Many names were soon called, and Harry's schoolmates were quickly diminishing. Seamus Finnigan had run out at top speed; Dean Thomas was close behind him. Pansy Parkinson left quickly, without ever looking back at her Slytherin housemates. Padma Patil left her weeping twin behind as her name was called, but Parvati soon followed, and then Lavender Brown ran out the door, searching for her friend. There weren't many students left in the inn now, and Harry and Hermione were the only Gryffindors that remained. Hermione quickly moved over towards Harry as Susan Bones was called into the battle. She gave Harry a reassuring pat on his shoulder; her other hand still clutching her wounded arm.

"Potter, Harry."

Hermione gasped as she heard Harry's name spoken by the ghostly apparition of Voldemort. Tom grinned. "You heard the hologram, Potter," he said. "On your feet. I can't wait to see you die."

Harry narrowed his eyes at Riddle, and held in his rage for the Heir of Slytherin. With one last, longing look at Ron, Harry leaned over towards Hermione and dropped something into her lap. "Wait behind the inn," he whispered, low enough so that no one else would follow him. Hermione nodded, and Harry stood up, approaching the front of the room. He stood in front of Tom, his jaw set in anger. "I won't die yet, Riddle," he said defiantly, and ran out of the inn, taking a weapons pack and his own bag with him.

Hermione didn't see Harry leave, nor did she want to. Her head was down, looking at what Harry had dropped into her lap only seconds before. It was the photograph, taken on the carriage in what seemed like a lifetime ago. She picked it up carefully; it was still covered in Ron's blood, but Harry had tried his best to wipe the photo clean of that carnage. Taking one last look at her and Harry's smiling faces, with Ron, tragically cut out of the picture, she tucked the photograph away in the pocket of her cloak, right before the next name, "Granger, Hermione," would be heard.

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Harry waited in the back of the Hogsmeade Inn for Hermione to arrive. He was crouched next to an empty barrel labeled "Butterbeer" so as not to be seen. Looking around nervously, he noticed no one near - the coast was clear. Harry reached for his weapons bag. He didn't want to look inside, didn't want to see a blade or a gun inside and make this Battle Royale more real than it already was, but if he took out the flashlight from the pack, perhaps it would all be a little clearer...

"H-harry?" Just as Harry's fingers gripped the flashlight in his pack, he whipped around quickly to see who had recognized him in this dark. He shone the light on Susan Bones, who was stumbling towards him very awkwardly.

"Susan," he said in a low voice. He didn't know who else might have been listening. "What happened?"

"What am I going to do?" She sobbed. Her shaking hand went to her neck. "What is this...?" Harry shone the light onto her neck; an arrow, shot clean through her throat, glistened slick with Susan's blood. With one last startling cry, Susan Bones fell beside Harry and crumpled, dead, to the floor.

An arrow whizzed by and lodged itself in Susan's leg, only inches from Harry. Whoever killed Susan was still shooting.

Harry turned off his flashlight quickly and looked around, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness around him. His gaze caught motion up on a hill; it was Neville Longbottom, a crossbow in hand. He must have waited up on that hill the whole time, mustering up the courage to shoot one of his schoolmates with his weapon. Neville looked nervous, and his hands shook as he reloaded the crossbow, but, as poor Susan Bones learned too late, nervous did not mean Neville wasn't deadly.

Acting quick on his feet, Harry threw his flashlight at Neville, hitting him right on target. Neville cried out, and fell down the hill, losing his weapon in the process. Harry rounded the corner of the Hogsmeade Inn, and saw Hermione emerging, a bewildered look on her face.

"Hermione, don't!" Harry yelled, and before Hermione could even ask what had happened, Harry had taken hold of her and led them both quickly away from the scene, before Neville could recover. The two friends ran down the alleyways of Hogsmeade, away from the imminent danger of a boy they used to call friend...

Neville finally found ground at the foot of the hill, but his crossbow did not land with him. "Shit! What am I doing?" he screamed. Frantic, he searched the ground for his lost weapon.

"What are you doing, man?" asked a voice behind him. Neville wasn't the only one with an agenda; Blaise Zabini had been lying in wait as well, waiting for Neville to make a wrong move. Zabini was furious when he found only a wire coat hanger in his weapons bag, and vowed revenge on any and all wizards - particularly Gryffindors - that crossed his path. Neville turned around, and saw Blaise holding his crossbow. His eyes widened in terror. Blaise held it up; it was still loaded. "Isn't this yours?"

Scrambling to his feet, Neville let out a guttural scream, a carnal force within him triggered in this battle for survival. He charged Zabini, but he didn't get far. Blaise was ready for him, and shot an arrow straight into Neville's chest. It stopped him in his tracks, and the Gryffindor fell to the ground with a thud.

"One Gryffindor down," Blaise said, standing over Neville's body as he reloaded the crossbow. He thought of Seamus Finnigan, and the business between the two that needed to be settled. "Six to go."

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"Harry, what is this?!" Hermione asked, frantically, as she and Harry weaved through backstreet and alley. "What's going on?"

"Neville." Harry said simply. He was holding Hermione's wrist tightly, pressing to lead them away from the danger. "He's shooting arrows. Susan Bones is dead already."

"Neville?" Hermione was dumbfounded. They turned and stepped in a narrow alleyway that looked deserted. "That's impossible."

Harry's face took on a grim expression, though Hermione could not see it. He thought of Ron, dying by Voldemort's hands, and knew that nothing was impossible anymore.

Slinking down into the shadows of the alleyway, Hermione pulled out the flashlight from her weapons pack, the only flashlight the two had now. She shone it on Harry's face, the only light in a torrent of darkness. "Is your arm all right?" Harry asked. Hermione nodded.

"I think so," she said. Harry took the light from her and shined it on her wound. It was still bleeding, but the blood only made it look worse than it really was. Hermione cringed slightly - she had never said she was completely tolerant of blood, especially her own - and said, "We'll need to clean it, and dress it. Harry, could you get some water..."

Harry was already on top of it. He searched in his bag for a bottle of water the Death Eaters were supposed to provide them with, but he found something else first: his weapon. He pulled it out, though reluctant to see what it was. It was a pot lid: round, metal and large. It looked like it could fare very well if one were making a stew, but it was almost useless against guns and crossbows, in a deadly game like this.

"What is this?" he said, examining it. Surely this couldn't be his weapon... "Fight with a lid?"

Hermione rummaged into her pack, and pulled out a pair of binoculars - another frivolous weapon. "Bloody hell!" she exclaimed, shoving it back into her bag. "My copy of Hogwarts, A History will do us better good than these."

Harry shook his head. He still couldn't believe the weapons he and Hermione received. Voldemort had probably purposefully done this, so that he and Hermione would be the first to die. "Maybe we could escape," he said. "With Dean, and Seamus. We could all escape together, alert Professor Dumbledore -"

"Don't you remember?" Hermione interrupted. "Voldemort said he put a border spell around Hogsmeade. We can't escape." She sighed. "Besides, I don't know if we should trust Dean and Seamus. Or any of the other Gryffindors, for that matter."

"You mean like Lavender and Parvati?"

Hermione's mind went back to March of that year, when Lavender and Parvati had locked her in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom stall, calling her an ugly nit. She had taken twenty-five points from Gryffindor for that, and she had never felt the same sleeping in the dormitory room again. "Yes," she said finally. "They could all turn on us, like Neville. I don't trust any of them."

"Well, how about me?" Hermione looked up, and saw Harry smiling weakly. "Do you trust me?"

Hermione patted Harry's hand assuringly, and gave a bright, albeit sad, smile. "I'd follow you and Ron to the depths of hell..." She looked around the two, surrounded by darkness and deadly schoolmates. "...but it looks like we're already there."

Harry looked away from his friend, feeling tears come to his eyes. "Ron," he whispered, remembering what had happened in the Hogsmeade Inn. It was supposed to be such a wonderful weekend, a celebration of his and Ron's love for each other. How could things have gone so wrong? How did it all turn into this hell that Hermione spoke of, when all but six months ago, only Ron was on Harry's mind...

"Hey, Harry?"

Ron asked the question timidly to Harry in the boys' dormitory room. They were alone in the room; Seamus and Dean were playing Exploding Snap in the Gryffindor Common Room, and Neville was serving a detention with Professor Snape, after he had mistakenly brewed a potion that spewed all over Snape and caused his greasy hair to fall out. Ron had been lying on his bed, staring at the top of the curtained four-posts, while Harry was polishing his Firebolt broomstick after a particularly muddy match against Hufflepuff.

"Yeah?" Harry looked up from his Firebolt. The cool November sky was quickly departing from dusk, and it was the perfect end to a wonderful victory, and a wonderful day. But the creases in Ron's forehead told otherwise; they spoke of troubles in Ron's life, and perhaps his mind.

The redhead looked over to Harry, his face frowning with worry. "Do you fancy anyone right now?" He asked, his voice sounding oddly smaller than usual.

Smiling, Harry answered, "Why? Do you?" He thought it was strange that Ron would ask such a question. He had never seemed to show any romantic interest in any of the girls at Hogwarts, except for Fleur Delacour, the new assistant Professor of Transfigurations. Harry suspected that was only because of Fleur's magical powers as a Veela, for whenever Ron is near her he forgets to form complete sentences and tries to transfigure Pigwidgeon into a bouquet of roses - leaving disastrous results. No, Harry didn't believe Ron had any genuine feelings for any wizard or witch in Hogwarts - though, the raven haired boy mused, it would feel so wonderful if his best friend would have feelings for him.

Ron sat up, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress tightly. "Well, maybe I...kinda like someone..." He seemed very nervous, and Harry couldn't understand why. He gave a fleeting look in the direction of his pillow; Harry saw a peek of shiny metal beneath Ron's pillow. He wondered what it was, and why it was there...and why it was so important to Ron.

Sensing that Ron wanted to talk, and that this was an important juncture of his teenage life, Harry put the Firebolt aside and focused his full attentions on Ron. "Who?" He asked eagerly.

Taking in a deep breath, Ron stood up, and crossed the short distance between his bed and Harry's. His eyes were determined, and Harry stood as well, looking in awe of Ron. And then, Ron said softly, his worry and apprehension quickly falling away, "You."

And then he kissed him, soft and sensuous. Ron's lips tasted like sweet peppermint toads, and his arms soon wrapped themselves around Harry's frame. All first kisses should be as beautiful and perfect as this one.

Harry's hands inched up to Ron's face, touching the soft skin as if it were the first time. And in some ways, it was the first time, for now that skin held desire, those playful freckles dancing upon Ron's nose were longing for Harry, wanting him in body, mind and soul. He wanted to touch every inch of his skin as if it were a mile, make love to every individual freckle.

Their lips pulled away from each other, yet Ron still held on firmly to Harry's waist, and Harry's fingers had weaved themselves into Ron's copper hair. "I've wanted to tell you this for a long time," Ron said, pressing his forehead gently against Harry's. His heart was beating so fast, he feared that the intensity of another kiss might kill him completely. "I just didn't know how to say it..."

"Ron." Harry's voice was firm, and as he pulled away from the redhead, his voice took on a serious tone. He shook his head slightly. "I don't like you." Ron's face dropped, and it looked like he had stopped breathing. He was holding his breath, praying in his mind that this couldn't be true. But before his heart could be broken, before Ron would assume anything more, Harry put a gentle finger to his best friend's lips. "I love you."

Ron's face lit up, and he hugged Harry tighter, professing muffled "I love you"s into his shoulder. Harry held onto Ron as well, and he thought about how beautiful and perfect life could be - how life would be - with Ron, his best friend, and his new love. "To be with you, forever...this is what true love must be like."

"Harry? Harry? Are you okay?" Harry was snapped out of his reverie by Hermione, who had a concerned look on her face. "I'm so sorry...I didn't mean to bring him up."

"It's our six month anniversary," Harry said, still thinking about Ron. He hardly heard Hermione's voice. "We've supposed to be in the inn right now, having the time of our lives. Instead..." he trailed off; he didn't want to think that, instead of being with his love in their hotel room, Ron's body was lying on the floor of the Hogsmeade Inn, never to rise again. Harry didn't know how he would go on in this deadly game without him, but he just had to; he couldn't let Voldemort win, wouldn't let himself give up when that was exactly what Tom Riddle wanted him to do.

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. "How did this all happen?" she asked, more to herself than to Harry.

"It's all my fault," Harry said. And it was: just as Tom had said in the Hogsmeade Inn before, none of this would have happened if Voldemort had succeeded in killing Harry sixteen years ago. Was Harry fated to see all of his friends die because of him?

"Don't blame yourself," Hermione said soothingly. She knew how much guilt Harry was capable of putting on himself, and right now she needed him to be strong to survive. "You could do nothing to stop this." She placed her hand on his shoulder, and said in a softer voice," You could do nothing to help Ron, either."

Harry's eyes misted again; he felt near tears at the thought of his best friend. "Ron..."

"He would have died to protect you," Hermione continued, thinking fondly on their brave friend. Her voice became strong, and determined. "And I will do the same. I'll protect you till the end...just as Ron would have done."

Instead of looking relieved and grateful, Harry scowled at Hermione, offended. "I don't need protection," he snapped. Did Hermione think of him as incapable of protecting himself? For sixteen years he had been able to take care of himself; he would be able to do the same for three more days.

Hermione stuck her ground. She wasn't going to let Harry give up now, not when there was so much at stake. "Voldemort is after you. You're the one he wants. It is so important that you stay alive now. So you need all the protection you can get, whether you like it or not." She sighed. "For Ron's sake...I'll protect you, Harry."

Harry took Hermione's hand, and smiled gratefully. He knew what she was saying was right. He was Voldemort's main target, and if he died, what would happen then? Harry had to survive; the fate of the wizarding world might depend on it. "Thank you, Hermione," he said sincerely. She smiled back as another fleeting thought crossed Harry's mind. It was of his own gift to Ron for their anniversary: the handmade cookies that mysteriously disappeared when the students were taken from the carriage to the inn. "You know," he mused. "What had happened to those cookies I made for Ron?"

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Tom Riddle chewed happily as he popped another bite-sized cookie into his mouth.

Potter sure made good cookies.

"Theodore Nott and some other Slytherins are approaching Douglas," a cloaked Death Eater reported. He looked expectantly at Riddle for praise of a prompt report, but his expression did not change. Instead, the Dark Lord asked a question, that he had wanted the answer of for a very long time.

"Tell me, Macnair," he addressed the Death Eater with his real name - Lord Voldemort was serious. "Where is Lucius Malfoy...and that son of his...Draco." Voldemort had been keeping records of Lucius Malfoy ever since he had been returned to his body, and he remembered a conversation he had many years ago, about the fears of a younger Lucius Malfoy. "Why is Draco Malfoy not in this Battle Royale? I would have loved to see how well he would fare..."

"Lucius did not return to the Gathering, my Lord," Macnair answered warily; he knew Voldemort would not be pleased with this news, and hoped he would not shoot the messenger. "And his son did not arrive on the first carriage. Lucius might have gotten to him, informed him of the Battle Royale -"

Voldemort sneered. His mood was now spoiled. "Lucius," he seethed. "He has defied me, gone against my will. I am not happy." He sighed, and slumped in to his chair. Nagini slithered over to her master, pleased in the knowledge that she was the most faithful servant of Lord Voldemort once more. "He was such a good minion. Now I'll have to destroy him." He turned his attentions back to Macnair. "I need some good news, Macnair."

"There are two dead already," he reported. "A Gryffindor, and a Hufflepuff. And I believe a Slytherin is responsible for the Gryffindor's death - a boy by the name of Blaise Zabini."

Tom's spirits perked slightly. He reached for Harry Potter's cookies and took another. Perhaps this Battle Royale wouldn't be a complete wash. "That is good news."

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Theodore Nott smiled as he and his fellow Slytherins cornered the mysterious man dressed in black Muggle clothes, the one that was meant to kill them all. He smiled as he held up his weapon: it was some type of Muggle gun, Nott knew far enough, but he had never really paid attention to the kinds of weaponry Muggles created to destroy themselves. Anyone who couldn't use a Killing Curse like a normal wizard to do away with someone just wasn't worth Theodore Nott's time. He held the gun over his head, in the customary wizard's duel pose taught to him by Professor Snape in second year, but he never thought he would have to use it like this.

Holding a Muggle gun much larger than Nott's, Goyle grabbed the stranger and held him with Crabbe while Nott snatched his supplies pack and rummaged through it, searching for the man's weapon. Goyle held the gun menacingly against Carey Douglas's temple, but Douglas didn't look intimidated at all; Goyle thought he was holding the blasted thing right, but in all of his years at Hogwarts he had never even seen the weapon he was handling, the one that Montague said was a "machine gun" that spit out steel bullets faster than you could say "Stupefy." He held the grip tightly in his hand, but failed to keep his finger on the trigger, not even noticing why it was there or what it was for. If he needed to use the gun, Goyle supposed, he would just yell, "Shoot," as he would with a spell and his wand. It seemed so easy; no wonder Muggles had come up with it.

Nott pulled out Douglas's weapon from the sack triumphantly, and inspected it. "What's this?" he asked. It was a delicate oriental-style fan, one like his mother used on hot summer nights that was more for decoration than function. She had charmed it to ward away pesky insects, but that was all Nott knew the fan to be good for, and since Voldemort had said that there was no magic involved in the Battle Royale, the fan was seemingly harmless. Nott smirked. "You got a good one," he joked, and as Crabbe and Goyle were still holding onto Douglas, Nott took the fan and hit him over the head with it. The fan was so lightweight and useless, even that did nothing to faze the dark stranger.

Sally-Anne Perks, who had backed away during the whole incident, approached Douglas with an odd bravery, now that he was carefully restrained. "You're no transfer student!" She accused, shaking a fist at him. In her hands she held two grenades, though none of the pureblood Slytherins around could decipher what they were. Perhaps they had some magical properties, some rudimentary form of Muggle technology that wizards were far above by now... "You're one of Voldemort's agents, aren't you?"

Montague spoke up as well. Slytherins were intelligent in that they knew when to be brave: when your enemy has no chance of retaliating. "You're supposed to kill us, aren't you?" he asked, brandishing a dagger. He needn't be a Muggle to know how to use one of these. "You're supposed to make us kill each other!"

"None of us is killing anyone!" Crabbe grunted, shaking Douglas roughly.

Goyle starting shaking him as well. "You better come clean, now!"

Throughout all of this, Carey Douglas stared the young Slytherins down, his expressionless face never faltering. Nothing the students said, no matter what weapon was shoved into his face menacingly, Douglas seemed to be unaltered by the group's scare tactics. Nott, seeing that nothing was getting through to Douglas, decided that it was time to get a little more serious. With quick strides over to Douglas, Theodore Nott pointed his weapon into his face. "Are you listening?" he demanded, his patience with the man wearing thin.

Douglas looked at Nott, and then at his weapon. He, like Goyle, did not have his finger on the trigger. None of these Slytherins, who believed themselves to be so superior, even knew how to operate a Muggle firearm. And Perks, the female of the gang, seemed to know even less about the dangerous grenades she was carelessly banging together, hoping they would do something useful. He glanced over at Goyle again, who had loosened his grip on the machine gun in order to get a better hold on Douglas. Now was his chance.

Moving sharply and spry, Douglas elbowed Goyle in the gut roughly. Goyle let down his guard and released Douglas, one hand going to his stomach, the other still holding onto the Uzi. Douglas grabbed the gun out of Goyle's grasp. Unlike the Slytherin students, who had been sheltered all their lives from Muggle contraptions deemed to be beneath them, Carey Douglas knew his way around a Muggle firearm...and he wasn't afraid to use it.

He pulled the trigger of the Uzi. Just as Montague had told Goyle, the bullets flew out of the gun at incredible speeds. It only took a few bursts of ammunition, and Douglas's good aim, for every bullet to find a victim. Douglas shot Goyle and Montague; he whirled around, and shot Crabbe, then Perks. And he let a few extra bullets shoot through Theodore Nott...for daring to point a gun in his face. In a matter of seconds, the gang of five Slytherins - the ones who had all the hope of winning the Battle Royale - were dead.

But Carey Douglas's work was not done. He went over to each of the bodies, and grabbed the useful weapons for himself. He took the rest of Goyle's ammunition, and grabbed Nott's small pistol. He picked up the grenades dropped by Perks, but left Montague's dagger, and Crabbe's penknife; neither of those would give him any advantage over the other combatants. He left his own weapon, the fan, next to Nott's bloody body.

Just as he was about to leave, a subtle movement came from one of the bodies. He spun around, gun at the ready. Sally-Anne Perks, alive but badly wounded, was straining for breath, and trying to pull herself up on her bloodstained hands. She looked up at Douglas; tears streaked her face. "Why..." she asked, her face filled with pain of her own, as well as the pain of watching her Housemates die. She shook her head slowly, pleading with the crazed man. "Stop...stop..."

Before Sally-Anne Perks could move another inch, Douglas pulled the trigger again, and watched as another load of bullets penetrated Perks. She cried out, and slumped to the ground, never to rise again.

Douglas looked at the carnage he inflicted, and for the first time since arriving in Hogsmeade, he smiled.

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Hannah Abbott and Ernie MacMillan walked carefully up the steep hill on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. They had run far past the stretch of High Street in Hogsmeade, up to the large mountain that lay on Hogsmeade's borders. The bald face of the mountain echoed as gunshots were heard in the town; Hannah and Ernie took their journey faster.

Luck was on their side when they finally reached a high landing on the mountain; the Border Spell on Hogsmeade included a portion of the mountain, so that their arrival on the cliff did not set off those vicious collars. They had witnessed what could happen with them and those collars if they stepped out of line, with Ron in the Inn - and they were not planning to die that way. The couple looked out at the country houses and shops of Hogsmeade. They couldn't see anyone in the darkness of night, but they knew that their fellow students were there, some as scared as they were, and some that were out for blood.

Ernie spoke up, the fierce mountain winds stinging his eyes. "I'm sorry it had to be like this," he said to Hannah, still looking out onto the town.

Hannah smiled, and took Ernie's hand. "I'm grateful you're here with me," she said sincerely.

Ever since first year, Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott had been an inseparable pair. They became fast friends and Housemates, and throughout their years at Hogwarts there was hardly a time when one was seen without the other. Every student knew - as well as some of the professors, for no wizard is impervious to gossip - that it was only a matter of time before the two Hufflepuffs became a couple. So it was no surprise when Ernie asked Hannah to the Yule Ball in fourth year, and it was even less of a surprise that she accepted. The two had been inseparable in other ways since. Hannah smiled lovingly at her boyfriend; there were many days in seventh year where she couldn't wait to be known as "Mrs. Macmillan."

Hannah shook these thoughts out of her head. She would never be Mrs. Macmillan. All that hope was gone now.

Feeling Ernie's hand wrap around her waist, Hannah turned to him, and melted into his embrace. "I love you," he whispered into the wind, holding his girlfriend tightly. Hannah hugged him back.

"I love you, too." She looked into his eyes, and then out onto the town. She sighed. "But I'm never going to play this game." She took a step out towards the ledge of the landing.

Pushing Hannah out of his embrace in a fit of helplessness, Ernie cried out to the rooftops of the town. "Can't anyone help us!?"

A soft hand fell upon his shoulder. Hannah looked into his eyes sadly. "Nobody can," she whispered. Taking his hand in hers, she motioned towards the edge of the cliff. They both knew what they had to do.

For as long as anyone could remember, Hannah Abbott and Ernie Macmillan were perfectly in love. They were the best of friends throughout their years at Hogwarts, and had planned to live a long and happy life together. And, as they flung themselves from the mountain looming over Hogsmeade, they knew that no Battle Royale would ever force them to be apart.

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Colin Creevey sat on the dingy floor of an abandoned cottage, trying his best to keep out of sight. He knew that he should look for his brother Dennis, knew with every bit of his moral fiber that it was important to find his brother, who he knew wouldn't survive without him, and they could go through this Battle Royale together. But there was something deep inside of Colin that kept him rooted to that cottage, hiding underneath a bare kitchen table. It was something that was forcing him to go against everything he believed in, go against his heart and find his little brother. It was something inside of him that would have made him throw Dennis to the lions without a second thought. It was fear, fear of death. Fear of his fellow students; fear of his friends.

All Colin had now, all he had to cherish of his incredible years at Hogwarts, was his collection of photographs that he always kept with him. He had them, even now, and although it might prove deadly to keep his flashlight shining in the cottage, it was a little comforting to thumb through the loose photos and remember days past. He had many pictures of him and his friends, and his brother, and all of the pictures smiled and waved at him from their suspended state of bliss. Colin sighed as he watched Ginny Weasley give Dennis "rabbit ears" behind his head in one picture. He didn't even know if they were still alive.

Placing those photos aside, Colin took out his very special collection of photographs; the collection that Dennis always joked about, that no one knew about. It was his photos of Harry Potter: ones that the Boy Who Lived grudgingly posed for, ones that Colin snapped when Harry wasn't looking, all photos that Colin greatly admired. He took a long time examining each one of them, noticing the little nuances in Harry's smile, how his unruly hair framed his face just so. Colin's favorite pictures of Harry were taken during Quidditch games, when Harry had such concentration, and took such pride in his effort as Gryffindor Seeker. Harry simply looked perfect in those pictures: he wasn't trying to pose, and he wasn't caught in an awkward position or facial expression. Harry's second nature was being on a broomstick, and Colin captured this perfectly in every shot. Colin's least favorite shots were the ones where Ron insisted on being in the picture as well, the two being the absolute picture of companionship; he tried to give these away as much as possible.

"Harry..." Colin whispered, as he traced Harry's jawline on a still photo; when he tried to touch moving photos, Harry always ducked out of the way, much to Colin's disappointment. Even in his photographs, the sixth year was rejected.

A noise came from the direction of the back door; Colin jumped, and quickly flipped off the flashlight. He scrambled to get out his weapon from his sack - a stun gun - and held it up in front of him protectively as the door opened. "Who's there?!" he demanded.

A bright light shone onto Colin, and a female voice responded. "A Gryffindor..." she observed. Colin didn't recognize the voice. Upon further inspection, the girl said, "You're a Creevey brother, aren't you?"

Colin didn't like that whoever this was, she knew who he was, but he didn't know the same. "Who are you?" he asked, still holding the stun gun defensively.

The girl took the light off of Colin, and shone it on her own face. Her features danced in the light, of a squashed, pug nose, curly blond hair, and thin, smiling lips. Colin recognized her face, but more than that, he recognized the Slytherin badge on her school robes. "Pansy Parkinson," he said, narrowing his eyes. He tried to muster some amount of courage in him, but everything coming out of his mouth sounded timid, and cowardly. "Why don't you get lost?"

Pansy looked at the stun gun in Colin's hand. She tried not to sound too snide. "Are you gonna scare me away with that stun gun?" she joked. Colin obviously didn't find her funny; he still held onto his stun gun, a stern yet scared look forming on his face. She sighed; Gryffindors could be so stubborn...and so stupid. "Relax, Creevey, I'm not going to kill you," she assured him. Colin still didn't look convinced.

"Why should I believe you?" His voice was shaky, and the hand that held the stun gun up was trembling. "Harry says -"

"Harry...Potter?" This startled Pansy. She thought that, despite how bland and insufferably good Harry Potter was, even he wouldn't hang out with a sniveling brat like Creevey. "Listen...Colin, is it? Don't believe everything you hear about Slytherins. Even if it comes from the great Harry Potter." She smiled warmly - or as warmly as she could - and cocked her head, as if she were examining something. "You're holding that stun gun all wrong, you know." Colin looked at the stun gun; he didn't know that there was a right way to hold it. He wasn't quite sure how to use it, anyway, and he only still had it in the hopes that, if he held it up menacingly, he could scare others away. That was no such luck. "I could teach you how to use it..." Pansy smiled, hoping that, if she offered to teach Colin how to defend himself, he would let her into the cottage, and perhaps she would be spared death, just for tonight...

Colin thought about the offer for a second. He wasn't sure if he should let Parkinson in; she might be trying to trick him, and she was a Slytherin, after all. But then again, didn't she say that not everything about Slytherins was true? Perhaps she really did want to help him. Besides, Pansy Parkinson looked harmless, for the most part. Was she going to insult him to death? "I...guess you can come in," he finally said, lowering the stun gun.

Pansy smirked. "Good," she only said, and entered the small cottage, the door slamming shut behind her.

Quickly looking towards the small, dirty windows of the cottage, Pansy scanned the darkness with keen eyes, hoping that no one had seen her enter the cottage. Sensing that no one was around, she cast her light upon Creevey again as she sat down beside him. Colin seemed to be stuffing some small squares of paper quickly yet messily into the pockets of his school robes. He obviously didn't want Pansy to see them. One of the sheets fell out of his hands and fluttered to the ground; Pansy picked it up, and was surprised to see the face of Harry Potter staring back at her.

"A picture of Harry Potter?" she questioned. The face in the photo did not move, did not blink or wave...she found this disgustingly Muggle, and handed it back to Colin as quickly as possible. She peered at the other pictures in Colin's hands; they were all of Harry, too. She smiled, a crooked smile that Colin didn't seem to trust. "All pictures of Harry..." Pansy noted. "You fancy him?"

Colin blushed, and nodded. "A little..." he admitted. He couldn't believe that he was admitting his deepest, most insecure feelings about Harry to another person, especially Pansy Parkinson. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't ever give a Slytherin the time of day; he never understood how Ginny Weasley could tolerate the Slytherin Emma Dobbs, one of the fourth years Ginny was friends with. But, he reminded himself, these were not normal circumstances. On the contrary, Colin needed to find as many allies as he could, even if they were Slytherin. Would he be able to find an ally in Pansy Parkinson?

Much to Colin's surprise, Pansy smiled at him, with what looked to be a genuine smile. "It's always nice to feel that way..." She drifted off, as if she were talking to herself, and not to Colin at all. Her eyes seemed to be focused on something far away.

"Don't you fancy Draco Malfoy?" Colin's enthusiastic question snapped Pansy out of her reverie. She seemed quite startled by his question; she didn't think that a sixth year Gryffindor would be that observant of her love life, especially when Draco had given no signs of fondness back. Colin's energetic grin faded, as he thought of how alike their situations were. Both he and Pansy had fallen for boys that would never feel the same way, never love them the way they wanted them to. "But he doesn't like you, does he?" he asked, in a quiet voice. They were more alike than he thought.

An audible huff was heard from Pansy. Her mood changed dramatically, after Colin mentioned Draco Malfoy. Her voice became harsh, and the warm smile she had had iced into a tolerable scowl. "Let's see that stun gun, eh?"

Whatever had changed in Parkinson's tone, Colin hadn't noticed. He looked at the stun gun he had set down beside him and sighed. "Not much use, huh..." he said.

"Not necessarily." Pansy picked it up gingerly and examined it. Her hand wrapped around the gun expertly, her finger immediately laying upon the trigger. It seemed she had practice with Muggle weapons before. "One zap at somebody with a bad heart, and he's pretty much a goner." Pansy hit the trigger, and watched the bright electric spark light up the room in an eerie, ghostly glow.

Colin stuttered, in apprehension. "How do you know how to use a stun gun, Parkinson?" He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

Pansy gave Colin a smile, but it wasn't the warm one she gave when weaseling her way into the cottage. This was a cold, vindictive smile; Colin had tried to find an ally within Pansy Parkinson, but his trust in her was his fatal mistake. It was then that Colin knew exactly what Pansy's motives were.

But it was too late.

With lightning-quick reflexes, Pansy grabbed at Colin's wrist with her left hand. With her right hand, she pulled out something from beneath her school robes; it was dark, and Colin could only spy a glint of metal in the Slytherin's hand. Colin writhed away from Pansy's grasp. He shouted out to the night for help...but he knew that there would be no help for him now.

He scrambled to his feet, desperate to get away, but Pansy was quicker. She grabbed him again, but with more force this time, and tackled him to the ground. Colin screamed in surprise; Pansy was strong, much stronger than she looked. She held him firm in her grasp on the ground. He couldn't escape.

Colin saw the glint of metal again in Pansy's right hand. Moonlight from the cottage window danced shadows over her hands; it was a sickle, a sharp, hand-held scythe that had no resemblance to the silver wizarding coins of the same name. The blade was stained red with blood; it had already been used to kill someone else. Pansy obviously knew the difference between the Muggle and the wizard's sickle.

"This is my weapon," Pansy said, her tone changing dramatically from the friendly voice Colin had heard only moments before. She was now cold, unemotional...a heartless killing machine. "I thought it was so-so...but at least it's better than yours." She raised the blade to Colin's throat; it fit perfectly underneath Voldemort's metal collar. Colin tried to wrestle away from Parkinson, but with every movement he made the sickle dug into the skin of his throat, causing him to wince in pain. Blood was already trickling down his neck onto his robes.

Now that she had quite a captive audience, Pansy began to speak more freely to the Gryffindor. It wasn't like he would be able to divulge her secrets to anyone. "Found those stupid teacher's pets, Krum and Delacour next door," she said, malice evident in her voice. "They were acting quite cozy together...wonder what Granger would have done if she saw that." Pansy smirked. "You know, for Triwizard champions, they didn't put up much of a fight." Colin's eyes bulged in realization: the blood on Pansy's blade, was the blood of none other than Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour, the new assistant professors and former Triwizard Tournament champions. If Fleur and Viktor, who were the best wizards from both of their magic schools, were murdered by Pansy Parkinson with only a sickle and a vengeance, what chance did he have against surviving? "That French whore snapped like a twig, and Krum won't be playing Quidditch for a long time." Pansy smiled evilly, like she was getting pleasure from recounting her murderous exploits. Her grip on the sickle grew tighter with every word.

Pansy giggled, unnaturally cold, and whispered to Colin, "I'll give Potter your regards." Colin hurt, from the immense pain at his throat and from Parkinson's harsh words. He wheezed in air, as Pansy dug the sickle deeper into his flesh...he could hardly breathe...

"I'm going to survive, Creevey," Pansy declared. She planned not to die this night, nor any other night; she would win this Battle Royale, to prove she was strong, to secure a place for her in Voldemort's Inner Circle, and most importantly, to be the one to finally kill Harry Potter. Her rage was rising, the thought of more bloodshed becoming more and more appealing to her... "Because you see, I'm not weak like you!"

Pansy sliced the sickle across Colin's neck, and slit his throat down to the quick. He slumped over to the side, blood spurting out of his neck, and in a matter of seconds, Colin Creevey was dead.