Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Thirty-Two — Blood of the Innocent

"Can you hear the voice of the children?

Softly pleading the silence in a shattered world?

Angry gods preach a gospel full of hate,

Blood of the innocent on their hands."

-Cantus, "Prayer of the Children"

Sunday, November 16

"I don’t think a sunrise has been more red," Ginny murmured, burying her face in Draco’s robes.

"What, no Shakespeare quotes? Look, love, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. I can’t remember act and scene, but that damned play gets more and more true to life with every passing moment." With a sigh, he pulled himself away from Ginny and started pacing the length of the nearly empty infirmary, waiting for Headmaster Snape to appear and call them to battle. The night had been far too short. No one had slept.

Ginny remained perched on the edge of one of the infirmary beds, her chin balanced on the heel of her hand. "Please, don’t quote any more from Romeo and Juliet. We’re getting too close to the end of the story."

He gave a snort, halting in his tracks to send a sneer in her direction. "Really, Ginny, it’s ridiculous to assume we’ll both come back alive. God only knows how many Death Eaters will be out there at Voldemort’s side, LEAST of all my mother! We’re not just talking about a blood feud between our families, Gin, we’re talking about full-fledged war! Sometimes there isn’t a happy ending!"

"So you’re going to walk out into battle assuming you’ll die!? That’s certainly conducive to a winning strategy, now isn’t it!" Ginny glared across the infirmary at him, taking her feet swiftly, face burning crimson in anger. "I’m not just going to stand at the back of the fight and pretend that I’m helping by guarding the doors of Hogwarts! I refuse to hang back just so you’ll feel better about it!"

"What do you want to do, die by my side? This isn’t a fucking romance novel, it’s war! Like it or not, Minerva McGonagall is dead and Remus Lupin is tucked away in the back room fighting to stay alive because of some sodding Muggle weapon! Because of that, I’ve got to throw myself in the middle of some damned fool spell which will make me a prime target for all Death Eaters — on top of the fact that I killed one of their lieutenants while trying to escape, AND I was a spy! The only person I’ll be standing nearby on the battlefield is Potter! The only thing that’ll draw more attention to him is a bloody flashing arrow!" He turned and kicked at the leg of a bed and missed, sending himself sprawling across the white linens. With a gruff snarl, he shoved himself up from the bed and turned to find himself eye to eye with Ginny.

"I don’t want to fight anymore, Draco." He could see it in her eyes — acceptance of the danger, the realization that neither of them would likely see Monday’s dawning, or even Sunday’s dusk.

Draco pulled her to him in a tight embrace. Over her shoulder, he saw Severus standing at the door, glancing away to give the couple a last moment of privacy. "I have to go, love. It’s time to do the spell. Please, Ginny, promise me... just don’t let them bury me in the Malfoy cemetery. I’m not one of them." He leaned down and kissed her cheek softly.

With a moan of despair, she threw her arms around his shoulders and lapsed back into the verses she loved most. "Farewell! I will omit no opportunity that may convey my greetings, love, to thee."

"O, think’st thou we shall ever meet again?" he whispered back, mindful of Snape’s watchful gaze.

And even though he knew the response, it brought a smile of hope. "I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve for sweet discourses in our times to come." She tipped her face up for a last kiss before stepping back to watch him go. "I love you."

"I love you, Ginny." He turned away and nodded to Headmaster Snape, following the dark man from the room. The task was ahead, but the only thing he could focus on was the next set of verses. O God, I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low, as one dead in the bottom of a tomb.

~

"I thought you were going to back out on us there, Malfoy," Harry joked, though the stiffness of his smile showed just how worried he’d been about his ex-rival’s participation. Hermione shared a nervous glance with George, but the decision had already been made. Either this worked and Harry had magic to use, or it didn’t and Voldemort was the victor.

"Are you ready, Harry?" Ron shot in, twirling his wand between his fingers. The goatee was shaved, the unnecessary glasses were probably in a wastebin somewhere between Ron’s temporary quarters and the meeting room the six heroes were currently clustered in, and he looked remarkably like the seventeen-year-old boy who’d stood beside Harry and Hermione on the last, terrible day of their Hogwarts schooling.

Hermione shook away the memories and tapped her wand against her leg nervously. "Harry... do you have enough magic to trigger the start of the spell? I mean, we haven’t really thought about that, have we?"

Very calmly, as if he’d anticipated the question, Harry pointed his wand at a bench in the corner of the room. "Accio parchment." And, though its trajectory was wobbly and slow, the little piece of paper made its way into Harry’s hand. "You see? Not a Squib. Can we get on with this? I’m not sure when Voldemort will make his attack..." He flickered a glance over to Snape, who was looming in the doorway.

If Snape was anything, he was good at looming menacingly. "One of the Aurors on watch thought he saw movement on the path from Hogsmeade. I’ve no doubt they’re massing for an immediate attack. There are half a dozen Aurors in the front hall awaiting the first wave of troops."

"What happens if Vo -" George tried to say it, but gave a wince and a sigh of resignation. "You-Know-Who doesn’t come forward? What if he lets the Death Eaters take out one of the Corners of the spell?"

Harry shook his head before Snape could make a sound. "Not a chance. He knows I’ve got no control over my magic, and he’ll expect I’m only there as a figurehead. He’ll be at the forefront the moment I show face. Or, rather, scar." He gave a tight, humorless smile to those assembled before raising his wand into the air. "Well, we’re ready?"

If Hermione had expected ceremony, there was none. After he’d met each of their eyes, Harry turned his wand on himself and murmured the words of the ancient spell. "Adligare amicitae." There was no spark of light, nothing to suggest that the spell had begun to take effect. But, Hermione mused, that might actually be a part of the spell — the corners had to trust that the center could do it.

One by one, the four corners moved over to stand before Harry, pressing his or her wand over the man’s heart and whispering the incantation. Hermione, last, stepped back and waited for a response. Finally, he pointed his wand over to the table in the corner again.

"Accio book." A nondescript spellbook came whizzing through the air as fast as he’d ever been able to do the trick. Hermione felt the slight drain on her magical reserve as the spell was cast, but grinned broadly anyways. It hadn’t all been for naught, then.

And then a shout echoed down the halls. "Headmaster! The first wave’s advancing down the road from Hogsmeade — twenty men or more!"

Snape turned and locked gazes with Harry, ignoring the other four fighters in the room. "This is it, Potter."

With a curt nod he stood, the Corners following in a nearly identical motion. Harry stepped forward and offered his hand to his least favourite ex-Professor, face as impassive as the new Headmaster’s. "It’s been a pleasure, sir."

Snape grasped his hand for a short moment. "Good luck, Harry. I... Black would be proud, you know."

"I know." The importance of the remark wasn’t lost on Hermione. She gaped silently at the professor, well aware of the rivalry which had existed between Snape and Harry’s deceased godfather. For just a moment, Hermione wondered if Snape was privy to some bit of information about the outcome of the fight, but she pushed the notion aside as the corner of Harry’s mouth quirked into a smile. "Good-bye, Severus. Don’t let them do anything silly."

Snape nodded and stood aside to let Harry pass. There seemed to be something almost — but not quite — compassionate in his eyes as he met Hermione’s. And then the meeting of their gazes was broken as George nudged her out into the hall and they fell into a formation around Harry. Severus knew. He’d Seen — of that, Hermione was certain.

~

Harry was barely aware of the formation the four Corners of the spell had taken to surround him protectively. Ron and Draco led — it was almost disturbing to watch the sworn enemies marching to battle, side by side. He could hear Hermione and George talking softly behind him, but pushed any notions of eavesdropping from his mind. They needed the next few moments together because only God knew if they’d get another.

Rachel hadn’t.

A man in the uniform of an Auror came hurrying up, shoving his way between Ron and Draco to speak to the hero of the hour himself. Harry wasn’t sure who’d died and made him general. The scar would only have set him apart more had it been glowing neon in the dark. "Mr. Potter, sir, we’ve sent out the first wing of attackers. They’re not trying to keep the battle on the Quidditch field, like Headmaster Snape suggested."

"How far out do the main protective wards extend? Are they just beyond the edges?" Harry glanced around to take stock of the witches and wizards crowded in the Great Hall and around the massive front doors of the school. No longer a school — a fortress. They looked frightened but determined and, like the presidents and generals he’d learned about as a fledgling American lawyer, Harry met the eyes of each, trying to instill the courage of Gryffindor. A few gave nervous smiles back. One haggard looking wizard saluted and a young woman blushed and looked away.

"Yes, sir," the Auror was saying. "Wards to where the Death Eaters are clustered. You’ll see when the second wave is sent out. I think HE’s out there." He didn’t have to be named to be understood.

Harry frowned and exchanged glances with Draco, who rubbed at his left arm and nodded his agreement with the Auror. "Mark’s been fine since I escaped the Manor, until just a moment ago. It’s burning terribly now."

"You’ll be alright?" Harry asked cautiously. Though no longer an enemy, and certainly trusted enough to make the friendship charm work, he still wasn’t sure how to address or how much to worry for Malfoy.

"Yeah," Draco murmured, dropping his arm and clutching his wand tightly. "You know me, the Slytherin with a Gryffindor streak for courageous stupidity."

Ron glowered darkly and Harry heard George and Hermione making protests behind him, but he merely gave a snort, a smirk, and clapped Draco on the shoulder. "That would make me the Gryffindor with a Slytherin streak for strategic retreat, then?"

Draco’s eyes widened in shock before his face split into a wide grin. "Why Potter, if I’d known you’d a sense of humour, maybe we would’ve gotten along for all those years!"

Harry gave a snort of disbelief but grinned back anyways before turning to address the Auror once more. "Let’s do it, then." The four and their Center moved forward to stand just behind the doors and, in a move carefully choreographed by Snape, dashed out into the fray the moment the doors were swung wide.

~

He’d never been in a wizarding battle before. His instincts were to shoot a curse at anyone who passed in front of him, but the need to preserve every drop of magical power for the final duel with Voldemort kept Harry from doing more than dodging the hexes shot in his direction. Ron, Draco, George, and Hermione formed a fairly neat shield as they rushed across the makeshift battlefield of the front lawn to find Voldemort.

Harry dodged a curse and tripped over a body, forcing himself to look away as George dashed up and dragged him back to his feet. The man’s face was unfamiliar to Harry — but it seemed at least the blood of one had been spilt on the grass of Hogwarts. Left without a moment to mourn, he retook his position in the center of the group and ran on.

And then, they seemed to be in the midst of the Death Eater masses. He heard the Corners shouting spells, saw the bodies dropping, but knew each of them to be safe. The precious extra magic was still there, within reach.

"My, my... Harry Potter... I was wondering when you’d deem yourself worthy to join our little battle..." The hiss, though soft, cut through the noises of battle. Harry took half a step back, but forced himself to remain steady as Lord Voldemort swept through the ranks of Death Eaters as Moses through the sea. His eyes glinted red as he sneered.

"We duel for the end. It’s been foretold," Harry responded. He stepped forward, trying to block the image of Rachel crumpling to the ground from his mind. As he passed between Ron and Draco, each reached out and clapped a hand on his shoulder in a silent wish for the end to come.

The rest of the battle seemed to have stopped to watch the Dark Lord and the Boy Who Lived face off for the last time. "A duel for Fate, then," Voldemort hissed. And it began, Harry dodging the "Expelliarmus!" without a moment’s thought.

Harry didn’t send back a curse, only kept his wand trained on Voldemort, waiting for him to utter the words. The magic had to be conserved. If the Dark Lord thought that Harry couldn’t fight back with magic, it was all for the better in the end.

The brevity of the duel shocked even Harry. Voldemort let out a sharp laugh and formed the words. "Avada Ked -"

Harry’s response was instantaneous. "Aedifico cavum!" he shouted, pushing the words out nearly simultaneous to the final "-avra" of Voldemort’s Killing Curse. And just as Dumbledore had promised in his pensieve, the two spells met in a clash of green and gold, twining and sparking.

The effect was magnificent, as the point of contact between the magics of the two wands slowly grew in size and moved closer to Voldemort. The Dark Lord was straining against it, but the force behind the Corners’ magic was more than even the Lord of Darkness could supply. The point widened and swirled, shifting forms into a man-sized opening which slowly and surely advanced on Voldemort until, finally, there was no place for him to dodge to. With a shriek of agony, the twining sparks of green and gold swirled around his form and held him firmly in place. The immense power of the spell sent sparks flying in all directions and a slight wind whipping leaves and dried grass to join Voldemort in his prison.

The Dark Lord was trapped. There was only one question left.

Harry glanced back at Hermione, panic etched into his face as he felt the magic of the spell being drained from the massive energy Dumbledore’s spell required to stay open. "Hermione... how do we close it?"