The End Has No End

The End Has No End

by

Hazel Whinlatter

"One by one, ticking time bombs won,

It's not the secrets of the government that's keeping you dumb,

Oh it's the other way around, wait, what's that sound?

One by one, baby, here they come."

Four heavy oak tables. They'd been the centre of centuries' worth of noise and cheer but now were gone - supplanted by an arrangement of foldaway beds hastily put up in the centre of the vast room.

A raised platform, standing aloof from the rest of the Great Hall but now barred from view. Black drapes shrouding away all but the very tips of the fingers on a pale, limp hand.

It hadn't always been like this.

Piles of blankets and freshly laundered sheets awaited use on the spot once occupied by students in yellow and black. They would often restrain giggles as their silver and green wearing neighbours suffered another comeuppance. Students in blue and bronze regarded such scenes with an air of resignation - their vantage point now a row of beds whose occupants were so weak that the faintest moans of pain were beyond them.

There had been party decorations. The tempting smells of feasts cooked by the army of faithful House Elves. Excited chatter on the morning of a Quidditch match. Nervous contemplation as exams approached.

Now they were all fighting for their lives.

How had it come to this?

The consequences of the Ministry's denial and incompetence surrounded her like a flood as she negotiated her way through the doomed and dying. In his war against the rest of the magical community, Voldemort had destroyed the lives of many people like these once they had proved to be of no value to him. Lying here were the ones lucky enough to escape immediate death or torture at his or his Death Eaters' hands. "Lucky enough to be holed up in Hogwarts to await an uncertain end? How could that be luck?" she cursed to herself.

The indignation Ginny Weasley felt at the sight of these people was a bitter pill to swallow. Since the withdrawal of many students from the school by their anxious parents the Order of the Phoenix had used the extra space to house the injured. So many injured. Ginny was bewildered at the thought of anyone being depraved enough to show such disregard for humanity, and her anger had driven her to do whatever she could to fight back.

She wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing. Yet once more, as it had almost done nearly two years previously when she had joined a rescue mission to save Sirius Black, her age held her back and she was restricted to helping the now ever-present Healers on their rounds. She told herself frequently that this was no less noble than being out there and fighting. The Order needed all the help it could get, and if there was no-one to help the injured recuperate, what kind of world would be left if those on the front line managed to save it?

Not to mention that the Ministry of Magic could never be of assistance again. It was weak, and the Minister himself was weaker because of his own stubborn refusals to trust the Order and its leaders.

Voldemort preyed on the weak.

Order members constantly patrolled the grounds now, protecting the students who had chosen to remain. Never alone - that was too dangerous - and never in pairs, but always in threes. That way, in the event of an attack, one could send for help while another defended themselves and a possible injured party.

The problem with this was that the witches and wizards of the Order had become somewhat jumpy. The slightest twitch of the undergrowth or ripple of breeze upon the surface of the lake was enough to convince the over-zealous amongst them to leap into action, resulting in more than one instance of frightened youngsters being accosted for crimes no more serious than a spot of hand holding. "They wandered away from the castle!" exclaimed their captors. "It looked suspicious, and anyway, we can't do our jobs when we lose sight of that lot instead of keeping sight!"

They may well have been right. Still, it was an ominous sign that even simple, innocent displays of affection had to be stopped because of higher things.

Ginny's restless steps finally brought her to the bedside of a Muggle girl no older than herself, who shared the same flag of red hair. Currently, however, strands of it were plastered to her face with cold sweat, and it bore more of a resemblance to one of Filch's mops. Surprisingly, even Filch had been roped in by McGonagall - the newly appointed Headmistress - to help the war effort. Hogwarts' station as an additional hospital meant that all available staff members were needed to care for the vulnerable in addition to their usual duties. Some things never changed, of course, and the cantankerous caretaker could often be heard roaming the corridors, muttering under his breath as he dragged around his bucket and sponge. Even he stopped his complaining as soon as he entered the Hall. There was something about the place now, a feeling of fear contaminating the air and tainting the happy memories of Hogwarts years past - a feeling ever more palpable to the youngest Weasley as she worked where her own house table had once stood. Shadows of maroon and gold, lingering shouts of joy at House Cup victories, both broke through the painful scenes being played out around her. There was nothing to be helped by complaining.

Moving closer to the patient, Ginny noticed the fresh beads of sweat on the girl's forehead, her slight body overcome with shivers. As she leaned down to take a damp cloth and wipe the skin, lines from the report taped to the side of the bed jumped from the page and caught her eye.

"Leg broken in fall when running away from Muggle house being attacked by Death Eaters. Pneumonia caused by twelve hours spent outside at night having been unable to reach shelter. Found by Aurors who arrived to search the scene. No surviving relatives."

No surviving relatives.

The words wounded Ginny deeply; pathos for the young girl tugged at her heart. Attacks like these were becoming more common as the followers of You Know Who grew bolder in their attempts to gain a hold on Britain. Perhaps the similarities between helper and patient were what pained the former so. They may have had different upbringings, but for a stroke of fate it could have been Ginny herself lying unconscious on a rickety camp-bed in a foreign place, unaware that she had been robbed of her family by people she had no hope of defending herself against. It made her weep.

Overwhelmed by a sudden onset of nausea, Ginny had to grab one of the cold metal supports to steady herself, and sat down on a low stool next to the bed in an attempt to hide away. Distressed as she was, it would have benefited no-one to see her cry.

She would never recall exactly what made her look up at that moment, her eyes stinging with bitter tears and her body shaken by grief. Yet something did. Meeting her agonised stare was another of the room's features; the walls of the Great Hall, which were now lined with gold-framed portraits. They were staggeringly beautiful, not just in the depictions of their subjects, but in what they represented. Upon her first sight of them, Ginny was unsure exactly why McGonagall had commissioned portraits of Voldemort's latest victims and hung them there for all to see...but she had a shrewd idea. She sat there, feeling helpless and pathetic, when up there were reminders of people whose lives had been lost to the most evil wizard there had ever been!

Yet these paintings were not sombre, funereal images that merely captured the looks of their subjects, placed there to depress onlookers. They were glimpses into joyous moments - couples on their wedding days, sporty youngsters in Quidditch uniforms preparing for their first games and siblings standing in front of the homes they had fought so hard to protect. They were paintings placed there to remind the viewer of good times that had been and hopes of more to come.

These paintings were to remind everyone of what they were fighting for.

Ginny stood, turned to the beginning of the nearest row, and read. Names, dates, occasions, and any other information she could glean from the portraits.

The Bones Family. Seventh year Hufflepuff Susan Bones' cousins, uncle and two of her aunts had been murdered because they were brave, true and would not submit to Voldemort's demands to join him.

Frank Bryce. An innocent elderly man and symbol of all Muggles caught in the crossfire during Voldemort's violent return to prominence. They deserved to be honoured.

Lily and James Potter. Ginny's heart swelled as she saw the picture of Harry's parents - parents of the boy she'd gone out with and fallen for - on the day of their marriage. A handsome, smartly dressed James kissed a glowing Lily's cheek, his face full of love. "That was what they died for," she thought to herself. Love for each other, for the son they vowed to protect... and why not? If dying is inevitable, it may as well be for love. It was a noble thing that Lily and James had done on that awful night, better than dying for hate as the fallen Death Eaters had done. If push came to shove, Ginny wanted to do the same, and protect the people she loved best or the values she held most highly.

Sirius Black. Godfather of the boy who'd now abandoned his education, and gone out into the world to try and save it. The time she had joined a mission to try and save Sirius, the night that had ultimately lead to his death, was the first encounter she'd had with Voldemort's followers. It had been her first taste of this new dangerous climate, and yet she would do it all again a million times if it meant she could save a life.

Stephanie Abbott. The mother of another seventh year who'd been found dead in her home, a place she'd obviously thought she'd be safe.

Emmeline Vance. A warrior on the front line who'd been murdered in a bloody battle to the death just yards from the seat of Muggle authority - the home of the Prime Minister.

Stepping back to get a wider view of the Vance portrait, Ginny realised that it was the last. Her deepest wish was that there would be no more.

The paintings meant three things above all else to Ginevra Weasley. The depiction of Lily and James Potter strengthened her own desire to come out of this mess alive and live a secure life with Harry, experiencing the same enduring love that his parents had shared. The Bones' had the same familial solidarity that she wanted the Weasleys to have for always. Frank Bryce was a reminder of the innocents who needed to be protected from the world's evil tyrants.

She would fight to achieve all those things in this new, hostile world.

She would carry on towards a better future.

She would remember them.