A Squib's Story

Chapter Eleven

Snowflakes land on her eyelashes and dot the countryside, giving her the impression of standing in a snow globe. Please, she feels herself pray, let it keep falling; let it blanket what has happened here today. But they must be cold... so very cold... why doesn't she feel anything? Why is everything still but the lightly falling snow? Why is she all alone?

Black shapes fading under white. Quiet that would be peaceful were it not screaming. Afterimages of green light, bodies falling; some crying out, some silent. And that laugh, that laugh of lifeless triumph, as if Death itself had won...

NO!

Try again. The laugh... a swish of black... gone. Concentrate! What is happening? How can she prevent it? And why can't it stop snowing stop SNOWING, damnit! If she could only see... maybe she could...

See. She understands. She goes to a place in her mind that sees more clearly than her eyes, a place unclouded by snow or dark or anything but... but what?

Her own resistance. Concentrate, now! She hears the laugh. "Turn around!" she yells. "Or are you afraid?"

The woman rounds on her, and she Sees. But she feels no relief, only a growing sense of terror. Why haven't the lights stopped flashing? Why are people still screaming? Why is everything the bloody SAME?

She sees Violet coming toward her and calls out, "Did you bring your wand?"

"Yes," Violet says, and though she is suddenly beside her it sounds like she's half a world away.

"Use it!" she shrieks.

Violet stares, wide-eyed, and the carnage goes on... PARVATI! NO! Why is she powerless to stop this? What use is this bloody great Gift if all her friends are going to die, anyway?

There is a flash of light, and someone falling, in slow-motion...

"NOOOOOOOO!"

Lavender wakes up, screaming.

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Parvati, Hermione, and Violet, who has been staying in the Gryffindor dorm since the night of the Yule Ball, stare concernedly at their pale, sweaty, sleep-soaked friend.

"It was just a bad dream," Lavender tries to reassure them. "I seem to be prone to them."

The three girls exchange glances. Parvati and Hermione suspect she is lying; Violet knows she is. Lavender takes a moment before she speaks. "Don't worry, I'm all right," she says. "I need to talk to Violet alone."

Hermione nods, but Parvati shoots Violet an icy stare. Great, Violet thinks. Just when I'd convinced her I was no competition for Lavender's friendship! Of course, I am family; that ought to count for something.

The two girls return to their beds, and Violet sits beside Lavender. Lavender takes Violet's hand and squeezes it, clearly more from nerves than affection. "I saw her," she whispers.

"Who... oh!"

Lavender nods. "I think I understand now, what I need to do."

"Who is it?" Violet whispers.

Lavender shakes her head. "I can't tell you. I can't tell anyone, even Dumbledore. Especially Dumbledore. It would change the course of the future, and who knows what would happen then?"

Violet frowns. "But... you can change the future?"

"No," she whispers. "I already have."

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They awake next morning to a light snowfall, and news that the Ministry of Magic has been "compromised."

The Gryffindors and Violet are breakfasting in the common room, the brightly-dressed house-elves having used their magic to bring great trays of food up to the tower as though they weighed no more than a feather. Hermione smiles briefly at the elves, and they smile, a bit bashfully, back at her. One bows and exclaims, "My greetings to you, Miss!"

"Greetings, Lummy, and you don't need to bow. I didn't do anything that shouldn't have been done centuries ago!"

Lummy smiles. "Lummy is just expressing his thanks, Miss Hermione. Lummy loves his job and his pension plan and his brand new socks!" He starts to bow again, then catches himself mid-bend.

"How's your wife's cold been since I gave her that scarf, Lummy?"

"Oh, Muzzy is much better, Miss, much better, thank you for asking!"

The other elf, wearing a red sweater with a moose knitted on the front, finishes setting up the food and fire. He taps Lummy on the shoulder. "Gilly and Lummy mustn't be bothering the wizards anymore..."

"Don't be silly, Gilly," Hermione says. "You aren't bothering us at all. Thank you for bringing breakfast, it looks delicious."

Lummy and Gilly grin broadly (Gilly is rather sweet on Hermione), thank her again for nothing in particular, and back out of the room. Gilly can't resist one more bow.

Hermione shakes her head with a fond smile, and starts to say something. Ron cuts in. "I know, I know. SPEW!" He rolls his eyes.

"It isn't 'SPEW', Ron, it's..."

"We know!" half of Gryffindor choruses.

"Well, honestly, don't you prefer the house-elves this way?" Hermione asks.

There is mumbled agreement that house-elves in moose sweaters are, indeed, slightly less scary than house-elves in dirty tea-towels. The students pile food on their plates and settle in various spots around the room, taking in the cosy fire Gilly had set in the hearth and making nervous chatter. Clearly, everyone is thinking about the traitor and clearly, it's the last thing anyone wants to be thinking about.

Except Hermione, of course. The elves had brought Daily Prophets to everyone who subscribed, and Hermione had grabbed hers as though it contained winning lottery numbers.

Ron looks over her shoulder as she reads. "Compromised!" he exclaims through a mouthful of cakes. "What does that bloody mean, compromised? Why can't they just speak English?"

"It means," Hermione says, "that something is wrong at the Ministry, and they're not going to tell us what it is."

"Well, I could have thought of that," he mumbles.

"I'll ask Professor McGonagall when she comes by with our assignments," Hermione says primly.

Gradually, the chatter turns to speculation. "It is *not* Professor Snape," Hermione says with a sharp glance at Harry. "Think of all the times he's tried to save your life! And all the times you probably don't even know about!"

"Calm down, Hermione, or someone's going to think you're sweet on him." Hermione looks around and catches a mischievous smile on Dean Thomas' face. She raises a brief eyebrow before returning to her reading. Beside Dean on the sofa are Parvati, Lavender and Seamus, all balancing plates of food on their knees. Violet sits in an armchair, eating quietly and watching. She watches Lavender as the conversation about the traitor proceeds, but Lavender's face shows nothing. No recognition. One name after another goes by, with "Snape" registering as little emotion as "Hedwig." (There had been a loud, nervous round of laughter when Ron had tried to implicate Harry's owl).

Violet feels a strong rush of love, and pride, as she watches her sister. How brave and strong she must be, at her core, to have borne all this for so long. She knows that she, herself, would have fallen apart long ago. What Lavender's face, always beautiful, has lost in innocence, it has gained in character. She looks as secure she always has. Violet can't help but feel comforted by this. It's true, she thinks, what the Sorting Hat had said: Lavender was a Gryffindor to the end.

"Constant vigilance!" Violet is snapped back to reality by Harry's Mad-Eye Moody impression, which elicits more hoots of laughter. Violet sighs softly. It's obvious why everyone is laughing: because absolutely nothing is funny. The cabin fever that has already set in does nothing to quell the tension.

When Professor McGonagall stops by with their assignments, she is disappointedly tight-lipped about the outside world. "Let me remind you," she says, "that our first priority at Hogwarts is still your education. The Daily Prophet is not included in our curriculum, and for good reason. A quality education consists of facts and ideas, not rumour-mongering." She pauses, and her expression softens. "Of course, if we learn anything relevant we will most certainly tell you. We are not educating you in order to lock you behind doors. But as of now, your safety must come first." She half-turns to go, then faces her students again. "Your families would want it this way."

When she is gone, several students burst into, "MY family wouldn't bloody well want it this way!" and the like. The forced laughter is suddenly replaced with forced bravado; no one seems able to express what they are really feeling. No one really knows what is happening, though almost everyone knows what's *going* to happen. They don't know, except for a rare few, what part they will play in it all.

Violet stares into the roaring fire, unwilling to rest her gaze anywhere else. Far across the room, Neville sits quietly. What is he thinking about, in this time of fear? She knows, she thinks, all too well, and it is an answer that few would arrive at or understand: revenge. Above all, she worries about him. No - above all, she misses him. No - above all, she has just about every feeling for him that a human being can possibly have, and she is bloody sick and tired of holding them all in. She stands decisively, not quite looking in Neville's direction but already seeing him in her mind's eye. She sees the worry on his face, and the underlying rage, and the tenderness that lies beneath, even still. She understands that no one will ever understand him like she does. As she starts to go to him, her hand unwittingly caresses the lifeless wand she'd tucked into her jeans pocket. That's odd, she thinks. She'd put it there without even thinking...

Before she is halfway to Neville, every light in the room flickers and dies.

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There is a great whooshing sound, as if a hundred thousand generators have all been turned on (or off) at once. There is an unspeakable darkness, then an unspeakable light. A light that illuminates Hogwarts with the concentration of lightning, yet there is no accompanying crash of thunder. There is no sound at all. Then all is still.

Except for the screaming. There is screaming from the kitchens, from the staff room, from the Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff common rooms, and even a bit of dismayed shrieking from Slytherin (which turned out to be from Pansy Parkinson, who had stuck her mascara wand in her eye).

The doors to each locked room open simultaneously. The students look around in panic; no one seems to know whether to stay or flee. In each house but Slytherin, the members of Dumbledore's Army cluster together to formulate a plan. This is the moment they've been both awaiting and dreading. Without thinking, Lavender takes Violet's arm and pulls her into the conference.

Violet fleetingly wonders if she is to be the Water-bearer in this Army. It would be all too fitting. But no one asks her what she, a Squib, is doing amongst them; Lavender's hand melds her to them as good as gold. She merely stands there, breathing, and not hearing a word anyone says. Dean and Parvati, who'd been assigned to look after the younger students, take their leave and attempt to form the mass of trembling first and second years into something cohesive and safe.

And they wait.

Before long, figures rush in with candles. Everyone readies their wands until they spot Dumbledore's beard and McGonagall's tartan scarf in the dim glow. "Everyone, come with us! Quickly, there is no time to spare!" Dumbledore shouts.

The Gryffindors file out in amazingly organised ranks, and McGonagall flashes Harry, Hermione and Ron a small, grateful smile.

The Gryffindors march side-by-side, holding the hand of the person beside them and keeping their wand ready with the other. They, along with Professor McGonagall, are left in a very large room while Dumbledore repeats this process with the other Houses.

"What is this place?" Violet whispers to Lavender.

"The Room of Requirement," Lavender whispers back. "It changes into whatever suits your purpose. We usually hold our D.A. meetings here."

Violet nods. The Room has turned into a magical War Room of sorts, lined with charmed shields and body armour, frightening-looking spiked wands, books on magical combat and, in the very farthest corner, a closed, dusty cabinet.

"Excuse me," Harry says softly, disentangling his hand from Ginny's. He gets up and walks over to the cabinet, and by the time he returns, so has Dumbledore with the Hufflepuffs. The Room accommodates them unquestioningly.

Violet's heart pounds in her throat. She is still thinking about Neville, though perhaps partly because she doesn't know what to think about anything else. Lavender has her eyes closed and clearly doesn't want to talk, and Violet is certain that no one else wishes to discuss matters of life and death with a Squib. At the most important time of her life, she alone is unimportant.

No! she thinks. I want to fight, too, not sit here feeling sorry for myself. She glances around, desperately trying to catch the eye of someone who might talk to her. Hermione, perhaps... no, talking animatedly with Harry Potter, best not interrupt... Having scanned the heads in front of her, she turns around...

... and meets the deceivingly calm eyes of Neville Longbottom. Their gazes lock, much as they did on the first day they met, and there is no escaping it now. Violet opens her mouth to speak and finds that nothing comes out. What do you say to someone when you want to help fight a war with them, but they've broken up with you?

"I'm sorry," Neville says softly.

Well, that's a start. Violet wonders what sort of apology this is going to be. It could be an "I'm sorry, and I want you back" apology, or it could be an "I'm sorry I was such a prat" apology, or it could be an "I'm sorry I'm such a prat, but I'm going to continue being a prat and I just thought you'd like to know" apology. She waits.

"I have a world of things to say to you, Violet," he whispers.

"Better hurry then, before the world ends." Violet bites her lip. She hadn't realised such anger had been coiled inside her throat.

"Right," Neville says. "Well..."

The doors burst open and a stricken-looking Dumbledore storms in, followed by a group of students that includes Luna Lovegood, Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot. This must be the Ravenclaws, but...

Dumbledore stands before the assembled students, flanked by McGonagall and the stunned-looking Ravenclaws. "I have some..." Dumbledore's voice breaks and he looks down, twisting his robes between his fingers. "I have some very unfortunate news."

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The professor who had caused the virtual storm by removing, with the help of several dedicated Slytherins, some of the protective wards around Hogwarts, stands in a corridor in a cold, limp sweat. "What have I done?" the professor thinks. "And why?"

The professor feels dulled once more and has no desire to analyse, only to... what? A vague sensation that lurks, seemingly always, in the back of the professor's mind takes hold. "Oh yes, of course. Kill Harry Potter." What an odd thing to forget...

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The news that three Ravenclaws, along with their Head of House, had been struck down in their own common room, slowly sinks into the minds of the horrorstruck students. Several, including Parvati, weep as random hands squeeze their shoulders dutifully. Those who haven't experienced personal loss seem merely dumbstruck. They know a War is going on, but...

Hermione Granger, a tear streaming down her cheek, raises her hand. "Professor, how on earth did they get in?"

"Whoever is responsible had inside assistance." He glances downward, in the direction of Slytherin. "Several protective wards that have been around Hogwarts since nearly the day of it's founding have been destroyed. I don't know how they did it; *I* couldn't have done it." He sighs heavily, running a hand through his long grey hair. The room swells with panic, and he holds up a hand to try to suppress it. "As long as we are in this room," he continues, "we are safe, merely because we need it to be so. I don't know who the traitor is, but I would bet my very life that he or she is not present in this room."

The students look around eagerly. The only other professor in the room is McGonagall. "It pains me to say this," he continues, "but I ask that you not trust anybody outside of this room. Except for Professor Snape, of course, who is occupied... elsewhere." He clears his throat. The room seems to cry out in disbelief. He *still* believes in Snape, even now?

"Where is everyone else?" Hermione asks.

"I assigned the other..." here his throat catches again... "the remaining other professors to stand watch at various points around the school. I know now that one has likely betrayed me. Betrayed us. But that person has carried out their assignment, and I doubt they'll be inviting any more trouble just yet."

Where are the Slytherins?" Hermione asks.

Dumbledore sighs. "They're gone. I imagine many of them have joined the group outside."

"Outside?" This time, Hermione is not the only one who asks.

"Yes," Dumbledore says calmly. "There is a very large group of Death Eaters assembling around Hogwarts as we speak."

Beside her, Violet hears Lavender give a little gasp. And she realises that up to this moment, none of this has seemed completely real. Even after Becky's death, Voldemort had been something far away, something that happened to other people. But it seems it's all really happening: Lavender can See, there's going to be a terrible bloody war, there is such a thing as magic, and there might even be a Santa Claus.

And all Violet can think is, What the hell am I doing here?

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It is the Gryffindors, of course, who lead the charge, in a moment that is nothing less than tailor-made. Even lacking swords, rushing out into the snow without gloves, hats or boots to face the mortal enemy is what Gryffindor is all about.

And Violet finds herself smack in the middle of them. She sees the bloodlust in the eyes of those closest to her, Lavender, Neville, and Parvati, and wonders if it might in any way be mirrored in her own. The glistening, half-frozen tear on Parvati's cheek reminds her that Parvati has lost her twin sister. She will never see her again, and all she has to find comfort in is this battle. For Violet sees that in their eyes, too: an odd contentment. She is certain hers do not reflect that.

The Death Eaters, emerging slowly from the Forest, wear thick dark robes, and masks that look suspiciously furry. The smugness their warmth affords them is almost palpable in the chill air. But the shivering Gryffindors are unaffected. Flanked by Dumbledore, McGonagall and about half the members of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff House, they advance as if fulfilling their destiny.

The battle starts slowly. Violet tries to hide in plain sight between Lavender and Parvati, hoping that the girls will do their best to shield her, and wondering why the hell she'd been pushed into the fray in the first place. Not that she'd resisted, she admits to herself. Would she rather die a hero's death on the field than live the rest of her life knowing she'd done nothing? But how can she die a hero's death when she can't even use her wand? And, perhaps most importantly, why does she even *have* a wand? Such are the thoughts of a Squib during times of crisis.

And so it goes that Violet stands in the middle of the greatest battle the Wizarding world will ever know, feeling incurably silly.

As the battle intensifies, she eventually stops feeling silly or cold or much of anything at all. While her group is doing quite well, as are the advance flank of Harry, Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore and McGonagall, she finds that dodging and hiding are perhaps every bit as tiring as actually fighting. She wonders if anyone would blame her, or even notice, if she ran back into the castle and closed the door behind her. Of course, whoever had murdered those Ravenclaws had to still be in there. Such a person probably wouldn't think twice about cutting down a Squib, so she feels safer on the battlefield in the midst of her friends.

Curses are yelled, lights flash, smoke erupts from wands, and a Death Eater falls to the ground. Violet knows he isn't dead. She knows about the Unforgivables, and that no one on her side would use one. As the warring bodies begin to encroach on one another, the air is so thick with spells that no one can even tell who is hexing who. People on either side continue to fall, some stunned, some petrified. Wands are lost, robes are scorched and in a few cases, odd appendages appear. Violet notices that Lavender keeps looking around wildly. None of the other professors are anywhere to be seen, including Snape; nor, Violet guesses, is Voldemort. She wonders where the great Dark Lord is while his minions are out in the snow fighting for him (though admittedly, in cosy fur-lined War gear).

And then it happens. A black-robed figure appears in the doorway of Hogwarts, and begins making its way toward the field. No one notices, not even Lavender, as a particularly cruel Death Eater has chosen the moment to hang Colin Creevey upside down in midair. Ginny Weasley stuns the Death Eater, releasing the spell, and Colin drops unceremoniously to the ground. The figure advances.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lavender sees. "No!" she screams, and gets her wand blasted from her hand in reply. The figure laughs, a throaty, mirthless laugh, and turns away with a swish of her robes. And still no one, engaged in their own skirmishes, notices.

Not even when the figure trains her deadly wand on the back of Harry Potter.

Lavender stands alone, trying in vain to locate her lost wand. She can't yell, no one will hear her. She doesn't see Colin Creevey fall to the ground once more, followed by Seamus Finnegan. She doesn't know that the Death Eaters are closing in, and that they have begun using Unforgivables. Her only focus is preventing their final moment of victory.

When Violet appears beside her, she isn't surprised, not really. So it comes to pass, she thinks; a thought she will have many more times in her long life. "Violet!" she screams above the din, pointing. "Use your wand!" Violet's eyes follow Lavender's finger. "Point your wand at that woman and yell, as loud as you can, 'Expelliarmus!'"

Violet looks at her like she's lost her mind, but readies her wand anyway. She looks tentatively at her sister. "It's okay, now do it fast!" Lavender yells.

Violet points her homemade cherry wand at the poised figure and yells, "Expelliarmus!" The wand flies from the would-be killer's hand just as she'd begun reciting "Avad-", and lands high in the foliage of a majestic Sleeping Maple. The tree, which keeps its leaves all year round by hibernating, opens its eyes, yawns, and goes back to sleep.

The woman is sent to the ground by a Stunning curse, from none other than Neville. Her hood slips from her face, which is twisted in rage and confusion. "Oh, Professor, I'm so sorry!" exclaims Neville.

"Don't be," says Lavender. Having recovered her wand from underneath a bush, she rushes up to Neville with Violet and Parvati in tow. "She was trying to kill Harry."

Neville frowns. "Why would Professor Sinistra want to kill Harry?"

"I don't know," Lavender says. "But perhaps it would be better if we discussed it late - PETRIFICUS TOTALICUS!" An invading Death Eater falls stiffly into a snowbank.

During a quiet moment, Lavender whispers to Violet, "Put your wand away. It won't work again."

"But how...?"

"I don't know. I just know that if you try using it again, you'll probably get killed."

Violet tucks the wand back into her pocket.

And the air around them seems to freeze. Not out of cold, though it is that, too. The air seems frozen in expectation, and maybe even a little fear.

A figure glides from the forest, a figure who exudes a crude sort of grace. A figure whom everyone is immediately aware of, regardless of what they were engaged in. In short, a figure wearing particularly dark, thick, furry robes. Voldemort.

And everything stops. In the stillness, it's suddenly very easy to tell the living from the dead. The living respond innately to the Dark Lord, even those lying motionless on the ground. He commands worshipful praise, or grudging respect, or fear, disgust and anger, all of which emanate from those still able to feel. The latter three swirl around Violet's group until they're nearly as visible as their breath in the frosty air.

Violet hopes that Lavender doesn't realise Seamus isn't moving. Not now....not yet.

It seems everyone knows their role in this scene. The Dark Lord has come to face one opponent, and any interlopers will be swatted like unfortunate flies. Violet glances around at Lavender, Parvati and Neville. The four smile ever so slightly at one another, eyes blurring. Lavender takes Parvati's hand, and Neville takes Violet's.

Harry Potter walks out to meet Voldemort.

Voldemort pulls back his robe, and there is a collective gasp. They'd heard he no longer appeared human, but nothing could have prepared them for this. Neville squeezes Violet's hand. Violet promises herself to think about that later, and probably for a very long time. Or maybe, she just won't let go at all. She squeezes back.

"Well then, Harry," Voldemort says, addressing him as though they're old mates. "As my assistant has failed me-" he glares at the still-Stunned Professor Sinistra - "it appears I'm going to have to kill you myself."

"Awfully sure of yourself, aren't you, my Lord?" Harry spits the title mockingly into his face.

Voldemort pulls a wand from his robes. Yew, thirteen-and-a-half inches, with a phoenix feather core. Harry pulls a sword from his. Gleaming silver, with huge glittering rubies on the handle. And big. Really, really big.

Something in Voldemort's eyes says he's seen this sword before.

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