Fifteen

Fifteen leave the tower. Fifteen descend the stairs and pass through the beloved oak doors that for nearly two years has symbolized home. They leave behind security and their last desperate hope. They do this knowing they went to their deaths, knowing they would never return to their blessed tower; for them there was no choice. They would go to the field of battle and die as warriors, or they would die as victims and cowards, huddled in their tower and begging mercy from those who would not, could not, give it.

Fourteen went with no other purpose than to die under the sky and amid their comrades, but one went in the quiet hope that she could save as she had once been saved. Before the angry mob cuts her down with a terrible curse, she will repay what she owes. She will show him that he has not been ignored, that one out of thousands heard his voice...and understood.

The battlefield is thick with the smoke of countless hexes. They pass through rivers of blood, the hems of their robes leaving bloody trails. The smell of death, violent death, is everywhere. The screams of the wounded and dying are a macabre symphony. Some call to the passing fifteen, plead for help, beg them to ease the terrible suffering, but they do not stop. They cannot stop. They have come to die, yes, to die and join the funereal pyres, but there is something they must do before death claims them.

In a few more steps, they will be beyond protection, out of the reach of miracles. They pause in their march, and as one they draw their wands. They will be of little use, they know, but the feel of them in their hands is reassuring; in spite of their resolve, they are not above fear. Here, in a private cabal, they look at one another for the last time. There is no sadness now, only resignation.

One of the fifteen, the one who would save, the one whose iron will has brought them this far, speaks. "Do any wish to turn back? Speak now."

There is silence. All of them, even she who would save, wish to flee, to return once more to the temporary sanctuary of the stone tower from whence they have come, but none wishes to be the first to abandon. Love and loyalty have carried them through the blackest darkness, and now that love has bound them irrevocably to their death.

Hand clasps hand in fevered goodbye, and on each face tears shimmer like liquid pearl. In a few moments, it will all be finished. Their eyes will see only night. Wands will fall from numb, nerveless fingers, and their bodies will cool the scorched and blasted earth Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Release.

They do not scream or bellow when they rush out from their refuge. They move as shadows, hoping, by their silence, to buy a few precious moments with which to look upon the sinking sun. They are their own worst enemy, saddled as they are with warped and twisted bodies that were never meant to fight. They move as quickly as they can, knowing with every gained inch that it is not fast enough.

The slaughter they have been waiting for since they left the castle comes without mercy. The hexes rain down like stones. There is a scream, and fifteen become fourteen. They do not look to see who has fallen. They do not wish to know. It is enough to know that they will all be reunited in the end. Their relentless march never falters, never even breaks stride.

A red flash. Fourteen to thirteen, thirteen to twelve, and still they move. They weep, tears streaking their dusty faces. The march seems so long, though it has lasted mere minutes. A hand raises a wand, but it comes too late. Another life lost. Twelve, now eleven. There is a collective wail of misery as the body of their companion passes beneath their feet.

She who would save marches with the rest, wand raised. A curse comes to her, but she is lucky. She is fast enough. He taught her how, taught her without intent, loving her with his cruelty. He has, in a sense, saved her life again. Now she must not fail. The debt must be paid if her soul would rest when her body returns to the earth.

A gargle and a thud. Eleven becomes ten. A hex crackles by her ear. She feels its heat, wincing at the singed flesh of her ear. She curses God, robes trailing over the open, blind eyes of a twelve-year old girl maimed beyond recognition. Why has He let it come to this? Why had he cursed them with bodies too fragile for the business of life, given them the cast-off bodies of others, bodies unfinished or fashioned with a careless hand? And why does he grant his shadow children no protection now that they walk in the Valley of the Shadow? She closes her eyes and hurls a curse to the heavens, not from the wand clutched in her palsied hands, but from her heart.

They that were fifteen, now numbered ten, pass over the middle of the battlefield, and as they crest a small ridge, the destination they have been seeking comes into view through the lung-searing haze and stinging dust. She gives a small shout of joy, for it is where he is, where she must go. The crumbling little hut where she learned of nature's magical wonders. He is inside, trapped there by a mountain of rubble. She knows he waits, not for her, but for death. Death will not claim him today, will not snatch her dark mentor from her. Not today. She has lost too much already.

A scream rends the air, and hot, thick blood splashes her neck in grisly benediction. The companion behind her falls. The shot was not clean, and her ears ring with the agonized screaming. All the vows of dying with dignity have been forgotten now that God has smote His misbegotten child down. She turns a deaf ear to the sound of her name being called over the tumultuous cacophony of bloodshed. She knows what is wanted, and she cannot give it. Her robes, immaculately black when she put them on this morning are sodden and filthy with the remnants of other people's lives. In defiance of God, she staggers on, the Levitating Charm she is using to move wavering for an instant as exhaustion threatens.

Ten feet from where one of her companions lay shrieking, calling for God and mother, she comes across the body of the Groundskeeper, his giant form floating in a tepid lake of blood. Cradled to his chest is the body of a child he had tried in vain to save. Seeing him angers her more than all the deaths of her companions. He had been good and kind; he loved his animals, and he loved the children here as his own. He does not deserve this fate, to lie here in a pool of his own viscera while everything he loves is destroyed.

She raises her wand in fury and roars in impotent rage. She fires indiscriminately. It matters not who she strikes; they are all marked for slaughter on these killing fields. None shall walk away. Forms crumple and fall-whether friend or foe she knows not. More kindling for God's unholy pyre.

Blinding yellow light. Grinding roar. A powerful explosion knocks her to the ground. Through the glare, she sees two of her fellow warriors vaporized. Ten become eight. She is too tired now to reinstate the Levitating Charm. She rolls onto her stomach and digs her dirty, broken nails into the muddy earth and begins to pull herself across the ground, buying inches with her sweat.

Pain greater than she has ever known consumes her left leg. A Burning Curse is devouring her flesh. She flails upon the ground, using the cold, noisome muck to smother the fire. She grits her teeth and fights against the unconsciousness that threatens. If she succumbs to oblivion now, she will die. She will fail him.

Calling upon a god in whom she no longer believes, she drags herself toward the hut that is now so very near, clawing up tufts of withered grass. She is only dimly aware of the throttled howl signifying the loss of another. Seven remain. Fingers graze pocked stone. The hut.

Summoning the last of her will, she levitates to a standing position, raw, bloody hands gripping the window ledge as she peers inside. For a moment, she fears all has been in vain, but then a soft rustling reaches her ears. Hope, feeble but alive, flares in her chest.

"Sir?" she calls into the darkness.

A raspy breath. Then, "How did you get here?"

It is him. Her dark teacher. The one she has loved and hated for all these years. The one who made her strong, though she resisted. The one who expected more from her than he had any right to, and somehow got it. The one who made her cry with mutinous frustration. The one who, with his razor tongue and stone heart, had molded her into a person strong enough to drag herself across the battlefield to find him. The one for whom she would have died, for whom she will die.

"Professor, are you all right?"

She raises her wand and summons its light. By its soft glow, she sees what she must do. She does not believe she has strength enough to do it, but she must try. For him. If she does not succeed, he will die. Not on the battlefield, but in a stinking, dark lair where they will torment him and revel in his agony. He betrayed them, and for that they must have his flesh.

So she begins, knowing that there is not enough time, raising the wand and repeating the same spell. She and her few remaining companions chant working against time they do not have. Stone by stone, they move the rubble, uncovering the masters of the castle. It is too late for her and her companions, but perhaps they can save the others.

They fall as they work. Of course they do. Bent upon banishing the crumbled stone, they cannot defend themselves. One by one, they crumple. Six. An arm, still twitching strikes her in the face. Its owner convulses at her feet. She blinks through the mask of blood. Five. A scream and bright blue eyes running like wax. Four. A garbled prayer. Three. Three living casualties toil at the task they know they must complete.

The door of the hut disintegrates. The Headmaster has freed himself. He turns his wand to the others held captive by the rubble, and in an instant, they are free. When he emerges from the door, she sees that he is not unscathed. One arm dangles uselessly at his side. A shard of glass from his spectacles has lodged in his cheek. In his face, she sees numb disbelief. He moans when he catches sight of the fallen, twisted children stacked against the window like cordwood. Then his face becomes hard and terrible, and she knows that he will avenge his children before they spill his blood.

She sinks to the ground in a heap. Her job is done. She can rest now. The ravening pain in her leg is far away, and oblivion is descending. She doesn't mind. The darkness is welcome now. The others will be waiting for her now.

A slap slashes across her cheek, so hard her lip splits and her ears ring. She opens her eyes to see him standing over her, glowering as he has always done. Most of the flesh on his right arm is gone, flayed by a jagged piece of stone. His nose is broken again, smashed flat against his pale, blood-smeared face. She smiles up at him, relieved that he has not yet fallen victim to God's voracious pyre. His glittering black eyes are endless, guarded pools, and in them she sees dazed incredulity. Even he could not believe she and the others could have made it so far.

She wants to tell him that he has succeeded beyond his wildest dreams, but her tongue lies in her mouth like a dead serpent. Over his shoulder, she sees her Head of House, her normally tightly bunned hair streaming behind her like a tattered but undefeated banner. One eye had been punctured by a piece of splintered wood, but the other still blazes with unquenchable fury. There was no one else. Of the ten teachers who had sought refuge there, only three emerged. Their tithe had been steep.

He jerks her to her feet and drags her beside him, long tapered fingers ensnared in the unraveling collar of her robe. His other hand holds his lethal wand. She can smell him, spice and parchment dust and sweaty blood. Impulsively, she wraps her arms around him and presses her nose into the warm folds of his robe. She feels him stiffen; then, for the briefest of moments, his strong hand on her shoulders. It is a quick moment, but it is enough, and when he pushed her away, she feels only peace.

He moves quickly, unforgivingly. His shoulders hunch each time a curse crashes nearby, and she understands, though he does not say, that he is shielding her with himself. Even in war and chaos, he is still her teacher; he will still keep her safe. Her feet clatter and jounce over the blood-stained ground, sending bolts of agony through her burned leg, but she does not cry out. She knows, he will not, cannot stop. He has not yet resigned himself to death.

He crosses the battlefield rapidly, and in five minutes he has returned to the spot from which the fifteen set out forty minutes before. He drops her there without a word, then crouches in front of her. This close, she sees the strain on his face, the deep creases around his mouth. He clamps her shoulder in a vise grip. Another lesson.

"Stay here, stupid girl. No more heroics." It is the same voice he has used in the classroom, and she knows better than to argue.

Without a backward glance, he disappears into the battle again. She watches him go. It is all she can do. She is too weak, too tired to pursue him. With nothing to distract her, no noble purpose to engage her mind, the enormity of what has happened sinks in, and she begins to weep, her terrified sobs mingling with hoarse battle cries. Her steel nerves that have sustained her through all the horror of the day have collapsed. Even her mentor cannot change the fact that she is still a child, a child unprepared for war.

As she weeps, her chest heaving, she sees her Head of House stumbling across the field, stepping over the strewn corpses. In her arms, she cradles one of the remaining companions. Of the other left to her charge, there was no sign. Fallen. And then there were two. A blue flash, and two becomes one. McGonagall and the last of her comrades topple facedown into the mud. She is alone.

The last of the fifteen, she who had led them all to slaughter for his sake, watches with dispassionate eyes as the Headmaster wreaks his vengeance on the white-masked horde that has slaughtered his children. He does not know yet that the Deputy Headmistress has fallen, and she shudders to think what he will do when he finds her among the dead. She has never seen such power in those blue eyes before, and she turns her face away, unable to look.

A shadow, dark, as cold as January ice falls over her. She looks up into the face of a grinning devil with blue eyes. Blood soaks his hands and the end of his beautiful platinum hair. He has done well in his butchery. Death has come for her, and she is not surprised that he should be the one to deliver it. After all, his son has spent the years tormenting the fifteen dwellers of the tower simply because they dared to breathe. She lets her wand drop. She knows he will kill her before she can even think to raise it. There is nowhere to run. He will kill her quickly; there is bigger prey to be had.

He sees the defeat in her eyes and smiles his cold smile. The bloodless tip of his wand grazes her chest.

"Avada Kedavra!!" A green flash.

But she does not fall. One still remains. Instead it is her executioner who falls, eyes fading even as his glorious blonde mane fans over the ground. Then he is there, blood crusted beneath his pulverized nose. He lifts her in arms, and she is once more enveloped in his spicy scent. He has saved her life again. She thinks dreamily of the first time he saved her. She had fallen from the Great Staircase after it shifted beneath her, plummeting toward the floor like a wounded bird. Then he had caught her. His tongue had been a razor tinged with salt, but he had saved her.

"Just like the stairs, Professor," she murmurs.

He spits at the body before him and moves on. She is startled to see tears glistening on his cheeks. She has never seen him cry. She lifts a hand, heavy as stone, to brush the tears. A sound escapes him, and then he is stoic once more, gently shrugging her hand away. He has never been one for overtly emotional displays, and it is foolish of her to think even this calamity will change that. Nothing will change him, and for that she is glad.

For her, the battle is over. Unconsciousness is coming for her now, this time in earnest. Before it pulls her down into its healing embrace, she raises her head to see where he is taking her. Through her rapidly dimming vision, she sees it.

The tower. Fifteen left the tower.

Only one would ever return.