Hogsmeade Battle Royale

Had they not possibly been dead by now.

Suppressing the distressing thought, Draco entered the Great Hall, devoid of adolescent chatter and magical sausages. He sat down at the head of the Slytherin table, for once in his life happy that he had no one to boss around. A moment’s peace was worth so much to him on a weekend where, he didn’t doubt, would be filled with suspicions and interrogations.

He picked up a fresh roll and plopped it down on his plate; he had not the least bit of appetite, but for sake of routine his stomach demanded to eat. But the empty hall proved to him that this was no routine morning, not when his schoolmates were dying in the streets; not when Harry Potter was to die before this was all over. No, Draco feared, nothing would ever be routine again.

“An early morning, Mr. Malfoy?” A voice from behind spoke clearly to the Head Boy. Draco’s head whipped around to face the slightly bemused face of Albus Dumbledore. The Slytherin’s eyes widened; the two were all alone in the Hall. Did Dumbledore know of Draco’s involvement? And just how much did he know...? “Anything...keeping you up at night?”

Draco could hear in Dumbledore’s voice that he knew something. But he wasn’t going to give himself away, not just yet. He had to act aloof, like his father instructed. He had to know nothing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said in the most innocent voice he could muster. “Professor.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled from behind his half-moon glasses, and a slow smirk that chilled Draco’s bones spread across his face. “Will you come join me in my office, Draco?” he asked, in the particular way Dumbledore had that you couldn’t refuse. “After lunch, of course. There are...circumstances we need to discuss.”

“Of course,” Draco squeaked in a very un-Malfoy like style. He tried to swallow down the lump of doubt forming in his throat, but it was impossible to escape it from Dumbledore’s gaze.

“After lunch, then.” Dumbledore retreated to the Head Table, where his breakfast of poached eggs and pudding was already set up for him. As he and Draco had been speaking, most of the teachers had entered the Hall, though Draco noted both Professors Snape and McGonagall were missing. Before any students entered the room – or any other teachers wished to question him – Draco made a beeline for the exit, towards the staircase to the library. It wasn’t his preferred brooding space, but on a Saturday morning, he would surely be left alone until his meeting with Dumbledore. It was there that he would show his loyalty to his father – or have his family revealed as supporters of Voldemort.

Draco sighed. It was a long way to lunch.

When they reached the crest of the hill, covered in oak trees and leafy bushes, Harry looked over to a struggling Hermione. “Do you need to stop at all?” he asked out of concern.

Hermione shook her head, her hand still clutching the wound on her arm. “I’ll be fine,” she said through gritted teeth. As with many of Hermione’s lies, Harry saw right through this and pressed again.

“I think you need to rest, Hermione,” he said. “We can take a short break, have some water if you need...”

“D’you think Ginny might be around here?” Hermione briskly changed the subject, as she often did when the conversation was not to her liking. “We should probably try to find Ginny in this; group together and be stronger.”

Harry opened his mouth to answer her – and to chide her for changing the topic – but suddenly, the leaves of a nearby bush stirred, and abruptly parted, and a hatchet pierced through the air. Harry ducked out of the way, narrowly missing the axe, and turned around quickly to see where the weapon came from.

A figure emerged from the bushes, brandishing the small axe in his equally small hand. Harry saw with shock and horror that it was Dennis Creevey, not nearly fifteen and with murder and fears intent in his eyes. He had fitted twigs and leaves to his robes, to blend in with the hill’s foliage, and his nervous gaze never left Harry. He breathed heavily, panting even, and he waved the axe wildly, but with such deadly purpose to make Hermione step back in apprehension.

Dennis waved the axe at Harry, his voice strained, his face wet with sweat and tears. “It’s your fault!” He cried. “It’s your fault Colin's dead...that they’re all dead!” Harry's eyes widened in realization; of course Dennis would blame him for his brother's death, but to go so far as to join in on this game...?

“I’ll kill you!” Dennis screamed. “I’ll kill you!” He rushed at Harry, but with his blinding rage he missed, and Harry dodged spryly out of the way. Dennis pushed on in his murderous anger, intent on killing the wizard responsible for his brother’s death. Harry’s quick Seeker reflexes kept him one step ahead of the Creevey boy’s weapon, but he know that one slip, one misstep and he could very well be done in.

Reaching into his sack, Harry clamped a hand onto his own weapon, useless as it were against an axe. He held it up against Dennis’s blow, acting as a shield; at least once in this game, Harry thought, did his apparently worthless pot lid come in handy.

Suddenly Harry felt the ground fall away beneath him; he heard Hermione scream, but could not see her in a swirling mass on green leaves and brush. Dennis had apparently pushed against Harry, tackling him towards the ground. They tumbled together down the hill, Harry conscious of nothing but keeping away from Dennis’s blade.

As they reached the bottom of the hill with a thud, Harry pushed away at Dennis, taking in huge gulps of morning air. His glasses fell away from him, and he searched around the ground for them. The adrenaline ringing through his head, he barely heard the two screams very close to him – one of a female, another bloodcurdling, from Dennis.

Quickly finding his glasses and returning his sight to his eyes, Harry immediately searched around for Dennis. What he saw before him left him reeling: Dennis, stumbling and blinded, bled freely from his head the dreaded axe finding home embedded deep in his skull. It traced a long red line from the top of his hairline down through his right eye, nearly obliterating the once-perfect orb. He whimpered in pain, unable to cry from his useless eyes. Harry almost thought he heard his name come out of the sounds from the Creevey boy’s mouth.

“D...Dennis?” Harry said hesitantly, disgusted to look upon the gory boy but had to help out of pity. “You all right?”

Gingerly touching the axe, fully erect in his head, Dennis began to wail. His innocence came rushing back, to a small boy peeking into his adolescence, now with a very little chance to live to the afternoon. “Harry,” he cried, blood oozing out of the socket of his eye. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...” Dennis reached out his hand, covered in his blood, in a twisted form of reconciliation. Were this a Muggle movie show, Harry could even find this ironic and comical, but as he had seen this past day, it was all very, very real.

Before Harry could take his hand, before he could try to help the poor, pitiful boy, Dennis’s body pitched forward, and he fell facedown to the leafy ground, the axe finally whittling the life out of him. Harry jumped back, stunned that this boy, youngest in the Battle Royale, innocent to the world merely a day ago, should lie dead in the backwoods of Hogsmeade. But who was at fault?

A rustling of the bushes was left unheeded by Harry, still too shocked by Dennis and this sudden death. But then a desperate voice from the side of the hill came to his ears that he could not ignore: Hermione, rushing down the hill as fast as her exhaustion could propel her, calling to Harry to see if he was all right. “Harry! Harry!” she exclaimed, out of breath. “Are you okay? Is Dennis –“

“He’s dead,” Harry called back to her, his eyes never leaving the gory site. “He...he pushed me, and...we fell down the hill together...and...and...”

Harry didn’t need to continue, as Hermione had just reached Dennis’s body and saw the rest of the details. She clamped her hands over her mouth and stifled a scream in horror. With hands shaking with guilt, she reached down next to the body and picked up something large and square: a heavy, and now tattered copy of Hogwarts, A History. Harry gasped, his eyes widening: Dennis hadn’t pushed him down the hill at all. Dennis had fell down the hill, to his death – aided by Hermione’s cherished book.

Then, it dawned on him: he didn’t kill Dennis Creevey. Hermione did.

“He was going to kill you, Harry,” she responded, seeing the realization on Harry’s face. “I...I had to do something, he was going to kill you! So I took out my text and...well, I couldn’t just let him murder you!” Hermione’s voice was exasperated, desperate to explain herself. She held on to the weighty book with a clutching grip. “I never meant for him to...” She shuddered, unable to even speak of what she had just done.

“We need to get out of here,” Harry said, trying to block out of his mind the idea that Hermione had held her word, she had almost killed to protect him. He looked around quickly and saw no one, but that didn’t mean they were safe. Harry would have never thought Dennis could attack him; anything could happen in this game.

Just as he spoke, a loud crack came from within the bushes, and Harry felt a hot rush of air sweep past his shoulder. Hermione screamed again, short and panicky, as a boy emerged from the brush, carrying in his trembling hands a revolver.

“Terry!” Hermione shouted out in shock at the nervous boy, recognizing him immediately as Ravenclaw’s usually shy male Prefect. But she had never seen him so wild, so frenzied, and she had certainly never seen him aiming a pistol at her head. She tread with caution, knowing that her Hogwarts, A History, thick as it was, wouldn’t stop a bullet from boring through her, or Harry. “Terry Boot, what on Earth –”

“Don’t say another word!” he shouted, shaking now more than ever. “Who are you to speak like that to me, Head Girl...hmph. ‘Head Girl Granger.’” Terry spat out these words, still holding onto his weapon. “Where is Head Boy Malfoy then, eh? I should have been Head Boy, you know that. I deserve Head boy, Granger!” he stomped his foot on the ground stubbornly, and the hands which held his gun shook even more.

Hermione held up her hands, very careful as to what exactly can be said to Terry, who looked madder than he had ever been. “Terry,” she said with an even tone. “There’s no need to bring this all up. You worked very had this year, but what’s done has been done –“

Terry laughed, a strange, desperate laugh that put Harry on edge. “Funny words you say, Granger: ‘What’s done is done.’ I’ll do what I need to do to survive, and make my way out of this blasted town!” He waved his gun wildly, first at Hermione, then at Harry. “I’ll kill you, and then him, and anyone else who gets in my way –“

“That’s enough!” Harry found his voice again, mustering the courage to a boy he hardly knew, armed and ready to kill without caring. Terry’s eyes, wild and enraged, caught Harry’s and with a maniacal laugh he raised his gun towards Harry’s face. His breath hitched in his throat, and he closed his eyes tight, waiting for the lead bullet to bring death, bring the end. He only wished he could make his last thoughts of Ron, instead of regretting his un-met vengeance upon Voldemort...

A shot rang out, and Harry flinched, but felt no pain, felt no rushing death upon him. Tentatively, he opened his eyes, and strangely didn’t see Terry Boot at all. He looked to Hermione for an answer, his nerves still shocked to alertness, but Hermione’s gaze was not where Terry had stood. She stood, mouth agape, staring at a new figure at the rest of the hill. Harry turned to look as well, and the man he saw before him made his blood freeze.

Bill Weasley stood, smoking shotgun in hand, and effortlessly cocked it to ready, his eyes dark, and aiming at Harry.

A rustling in the bushes below the eldest Weasley son distracted Harry’s attentions; Terry was still with them, and still enraged. He rose to his feet, but stumbling, and he held his weapon with only one hand, the other clutching at his side. A spot of dark, wet red spread through the fabric of his robes and peeked past his fingers. Terry’s face twisted in pain and rage; he had been shot, shot by Bill Weasley. Harry couldn’t believe it; was such a man capable of murder?

“Get out of my way!” Terry shouted at Bill, whose face was stoic, unfeeling of the Ravenclaw’s pain. With his finger on the revolver’s trigger, Terry ran towards Bill, in a maddened state of revenge on his own wounds. Unflinching, Bill aimed again quickly, let loose his shotgun, and tore through the belly of Terry Boot, bringing him this time to his death.

Harry and Hermione looked on in horror, as Bill, his face devoid of emotion, sped down the hill and turned the gun on them.

“Where are your weapons?” he demanded more than asked. Harry wanted to call out to him, to find the friend he had met so long ago in the warm company of family. But – was it fear? – he held his tongue, knowing to call out to the Bill Weasley he knew may bring his death, or Hermione’s.

Instead, he held up the pot lid with shaking hands, his mouth unable to form words. He felt so odd; he had faced the embodiment of evil itself, the Dark Lord Voldemort, without fear or hesitation to act, but now, in the presence of a once-friend, he couldn’t even find himself to speak. Bill, seeing Harry’s weapon, aimed the gun at Hermione, silently demanding the same. Never taking her eyes off the shotgun, Hermione rummaged through her day pack, and pulled out her binoculars.

Bill smiled; a cold, selfish smile, that made Hermione’s stomach sink and Harry realize that no help would come for them by Bill Weasley. He moved away from the two, his shotgun still within range to kill them very messily if they so much as spoke the wrong words to him. He walked first to Terry Boot’s body, prying his revolver from his still fingers, and then moved down the hill towards Dennis Creevey’s motionless form, to extract the axe embedded into his skull. Stuck as it was in Dennis’s poor head, Bill gave a mighty yank, and the axe gave way, taking more of Dennis’s head along with it. It made such sickening sounds Harry couldn’t bear to hear. Bill worked efficiently, but took his time to make sure all was cared for; he rummaged through Boot’s sack to find his extra cases of bullets, and even took the time to wipe off Dennis’s axe, its blade dripping with blood. Bill then turned back to Harry and Hermione, a monstrous sight, with his shotgun in one hand, the axe in the other, the revolver tucked safely into his belt.

Harry looked on, his eyes linking with Bill’s. There was a recognition of who they were, that they were so close to his brother Ron, now forever lost, but it didn’t seem to matter at all to Bill. Harry swallowed hard; were he and Hermione about to die by Bill’s hands?

“Everyone!” A shout was heard throughout the town, booming and loud, but very different from the voice of Tom Riddle nearly an hour ago. It startled all three Gryffindors, and they looked around, wondering where the voice came from.

“Please, stop fighting, and hear us out!” the voice continued. Hermione recognized that voice; it was Lavender Brown, her dorm mate, who (and she hated to think so trivially now!) was not one of her favorite people at Hogwarts. From the sound of Brown’s voice – loud, but unclear and distorted – she was using a Muggle megaphone; probably her weapon, as passive as Hermione’s, she thought, but at least Lavender was using hers. Harry could tell that the voice belonged to Lavender, but was too engrossed in what she had to say rather than how she was saying it. Bill Weasley knew nothing of this girl, but listened with strange fascination.

“This is Lavender Brown, with Parvati Patil, atop the clock tower of the Hogsmeade Inn!” Like a shot, all three heads turned in the direction of the Hogsmeade Inn. The old building was made of wood and the odd spell of magic, and stacked atop it, still glowing notoriously green, even in the May sunshine, was the clock tower of Hogsmeade, rivaled only by the tower above the Three Broomsticks pub near the lake. Hermione picked her binoculars up, and focused on the tower to see the two girls, frantically waving a scarf to gain attention.

“We want to figure a way out of this town – we need to work this out together!” Harry narrowed his eyes in confusion; just what were those girls thinking?

Lavender turned the megaphone over to Parvati. “Please, everyone come here! We can beat this game; we just have to group together!”

That’s exactly what we need to do, thought Harry, one eye on the faraway Gryffindors, the other on the dubious Bill Weasley. If Hermione and he could escape, and get to the inn, maybe somehow they could get their wands back and...

Before he realized it, Harry’s legs were moving on their own accord, towards the clock tower of the inn. He knew that he and Hermione had to get to the others, despite Hermione’s hesitations to do so. They had to all band together to fight against this cruel game, especially with murderers like Bill Weasley picking them off one by one. Who was to say Bill hadn’t killed Viktor last night, and poor Colin Creevey...

“Harry, no!” he heard Hermione scream, and suddenly Harry was confronted by a wall of cotton robes and muscle, stopping him in his tracks. Bill had rushed in front of him, and Harry instinctually flinched, thinking that trying to escape now cost him his life. But instead of meeting the barrel of Bill’s shotgun, two strong hands fell upon his shoulders; no harm was coming to Harry, yet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bill growled, keeping a firm grasp on Harry’s lean shoulders.

“They’ve got the right idea,” Harry said defiantly, the first words he was able to speak to Bill since they all arrived in Hogsmeade. He didn’t quite know what he was doing, but he knew he couldn’t stay fearful of Bill forever, not when everyone’s lives were at stake. “We need to form some sort of resistance. Those girls up there, they’re our friends...” Hermione gave a look in Harry’s direction that she clearly thought otherwise. Harry restated, “Well, they’re sort of, er, our friends...”

“Those girls,” Bill said in a very even tone. “Are going to die.”

Harry’s face reddened with suppressed anger. How did he know such a thing? Did Bill mean to kill the girls himself? “They’re bringing too much attention to themselves, and very soon, someone will come and kill them.” Bill looked deep into Harry’s eyes, dazzling green meeting icy blue, and he spoke with determination. “And if you go up there and join them, you will die as well.”

A silence emerged among the three: Hermione, awaiting the next words from her Housemates at the clock tower, yet never taking her eyes off the two men before her; Harry, smoldering with rage, yet unsure of what to do next; and Bill, daring the young students to make a move. Harry narrowed his eyes and pushed Bill to the side. He shouted out straight to the girls, with the hopes that they would heed his warning.

“Run!”

“Harry?”

Hearing the name from her best friend, Lavender lowered the megaphone in her hands. “Harry?” she questioned. “Harry Potter? Are you sure?”

“I know his voice when I hear it,” she reassured Lavender. There was a bit of uncertainty in her tone, but it wasn’t because of Lavender’s doubts. “And he told us to run. Do you think he meant it?”

Lavender scrunched up her nose in distrust. “He might not have been saying that to us,” she said. Why on Earth would Harry Potter try to warn them? Certainly they weren’t high on the list of Harry Potter’s favorite people, but just the same, Potter was the kind of person to help his worst enemies if they were in danger. But were Lavender and Parvati in danger...?

But in Parvati’s mind, Harry Potter was valiantly saving them, as he would always be the hero. Her mind raced with possibilities, now including the Boy Who Loved. “If we could get him here,” she said, thinking quickly on her feet. “Others would come, too! They would really believe we could beat this, if Harry were here to do it!” Her enthusiasm was stirring even the hopes of Lavender, and soon she was using the raising the megaphone up again, to once again call to their schoolmates for help, for a way out of the battle.

“Harry!” Lavender yelled through the megaphone, with a certain desperation in her voice that wasn’t there before. “Harry, here, come over here, please!”

Parvati’s smile grew wider, and her thoughts about Harry, wilder. “He’ll come help us, I know he will,” she stressed. All the attentions of the two girls were on the south side of the town, for any response from Harry whatsoever. “I sure would like to see him again. Always fancied him a bit, after fifth year and all. Pity he never flew that way, but –”

Lavender squealed in delight at the new, juicy gossip about her best friend. “I never knew any of that!” she shrieked, and immediately took it upon herself to inform the rest of seventh year – or what was left of it. “And you’ll never guess, Harry!” she cried out in glee. “Parvati says she’s always fancied you, and –”

“You sneaky little –!” Parvati squeaked, interrupting Parvati and snatching up the megaphone. The two girls wrestled with the weapon, giggling the whole time. It was in these few short moments of friendship and bliss, of shared secrets and memories of a more innocent time, that the two girls nearly forgot about the Battle Royale, about the death and destruction around them, and once again simply became just girls, wizards, friends.

Parvati was laughing so hard that she didn’t even notice the bullets rip through her body.

A volley of shots rang out from atop the clock tower, tearing mercilessly into the two girls, throwing them apart and shoving them to the floor. White pain coursed through Lavender’s veins as the bullets punctured skin, lungs, and bone, and she fell in a heap of blood and empty bullet shells.

Panting heavily – if only she could catch her breath, but it was so difficult! – Lavender took a look to her side, through her ever-hazy vision. Parvati was lying beside her, not faring any better. Her head was bleeding badly, and rivulets of blood and foam were dribbling out of her mouth. No matter how much pain Lavender felt, Parvati seemed much worse. Lavender tried to smile, but she couldn’t even tell if Parvati was conscious to see it.

Shaking, Lavender reached out a bloodied hand towards Parvati, who, with all her strength, lited her hand to do the same. Slowly, their fingers entwined, and Lavender broadened her genuine smile, trying desperately to push the blinding pain to the back of her mind.

“I’m so sorry, Parvati,” she said, regretting saying anything about Harry – about everything she said on the megaphone, especially their whereabouts. She never knew it would be one of the last things she would do.

Parvati returned the smile as best she could. “It’s...okay,” she gasped. She could barely see Lavender now; her vision was fading, she could feel the world slipping away from her...if she could only get out what she needed to say... “I’m just happy...that we’re....”

She never got to finish her thought. With a loud crack, Carey Douglas shot the final bullet into Parvati Patil’s head, finishing the job. Lavender’s eyes widened; Parvati still had her eyes open, but a piece of her head was missing, and her face was spattered with flecks of grey matter and blood.

Lavender didn’t have the time to scream. Her eyes wide and frantic, she looked up at her best friend’s killer, who seemed to take a painful and eerie fascination at her wounds. He cocked his head to the side, seeing Lavender’s panic-stricken face, and then turned his attentions to the bloodied megaphone lying next to her. He leaned over her broken body to retrieve it, and Lavender tried desperately to wriggle away, but her tired limbs were dead and couldn’t move. Lavender feared she would be dead next.

With a cold stare, Douglas switched on the megaphone and placed it near Lavender’s face. He said nothing, but the deadly look in his eyes bid her to speak. Weary and frightened, Lavender kept trying to escape death if only for a few more seconds. The Uzi resting at Douglas’s side, his finger readily on the trigger, was not helping.

She gave out a feeble whine, about to cry. What was she to do now?

With a quick pull of Carey Douglas’s trigger, she had to think no more.

Douglas’s bullets pierced through the young girl’s stomach, urging forward a ghastly death scream past her lips, spraying blood onto the megaphone before her face. Lavender’s body was destroyed, her mind dead, but her screams rang on, amplifying through the megaphone and projecting throughout Hogsmeade, all the way to Harry Potter’s ears.