Lions of Valour

We cast away priceless time in dreams, born of imagination, fed upon illusion and put to death by reality...

Seamus Finnigan dropped his pen, and it landed with a load 'thump' upon his open leather-bound notebook. Sighing, he dropped his head into his sweaty palms. A million thoughts raced through his mind; like an oncoming train, they were unstoppable. They buzzed around in his head like a colony of bees in their hive and, like death, they both intrigued and frightened him.

Fifteen pages of his journal had been filled, back and front, in just two hours. Seamus' handwriting was small and neat, hosting nearly three-hundred-fifty words per side; which was a remarkable amount for longhand.

This journal was the one thing Seamus treasured above all others. It had been given to him as a gift from his mother just before he had departed on the Hogwarts Express for his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. That, of course, had been years ago; eleven years, in fact.

The front cover was just plain black leather, as was the back. Opening the book would lead to the an inscription made by his mother;

September 1st, 1991

Seamus Finnigan-

Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.

That the inscription was charmed to change different shades of green was merely one of the several charms placed upon the journal. The second was that only a person with Irish blood could read it, as to anyone else the writing would appear to be some sort of ancient runes language. The third was very useful in that it provided a never-ending amount of pages. Seamus treasured this journal more than any other possession he had. For in-between the pages rested a part of his soul; he had poured into it his thoughts, hopes, dreams, and fears for the last eleven years.

Through the release of his soul into the journal, Seamus had been able to keep himself sane for the past six months of his imprisonment. Writing gave him a sense of freedom that could not be restricted by the confinement of his cell.

Lifting his head up, Seamus let his tired, red-rimmed eyes roam the surroundings of his cell. Nothing new littered the floor or walls. It looked the same today as it had the first time he had laid eyes on it. The cold grey floor was made of rough, uneven stones that had torn apart the tender bottoms of his bare feet, leaving only blisters the size of sickles and chopped-up skin in its wake. The walls were made of the same cut of stone as the floors, only they were smooth and perfectly aligned; instead of rough and jagged.

Two cots lined the east wall of the cell. Both were utterly flat and hard as rocks. For the first few weeks Seamus had been unable to sleep well at all on them. Instead, he had lain awake half the night with his back feeling as if it were on fire and being stabbed with a hundred knives all at once. By now, of course, he had become accustomed enough to sleep moderately upon his. However, his tired eyes and haggard expression seemed to have become a fixture upon his face. It made him look older.

The glimmer of innocence that everyone possesses at one time or another in their lives had already been wiped away from Seamus' ice blue eyes. During the only battle he had been a part of he had seen his comrades (some new faces, others old friends), fall dead all around him. That battle had stripped him of all the innocence of youth.

Seamus heard footsteps approaching and hurriedly shoved his journal into the folds of his dirty and shredded navy blue robes, then ran a dirty hand through his equally dirty hair.

Tegyruis Nott appeared on the other side of the solid steel bars, looking rather prestigious in his long velvet green robes with claspings twisted in the shape of snakes. He had a face pale as death, with a stubby nose and deep-step brown eyes with a burning fire of hatred lying just behind them. Nott pulled his wand out and disarmed the protective charms that surrounded the cell. In normal wizarding jails, such a thing would be unnecessary, but this had been at one time an ordinary Muggle jail.

"Where's Telamon?" Nott barked. Seamus didn't so much as bat an eyelash,; he stayed frozen in place with his face cast down at the floor. He was convinced this was a sure way of provoking Nott. He wasn't wrong. He could feel Nott's malevolent glower burning a hole of hatred through him.

Nott had been a small, lanky Slytherin during his time at Hogwarts, in the same year as Seamus. The two of them had been arch nemeses in everything, especially in Quidditch. Seamus had taken over as Gryffindor Keeper and Nott had become a Slytherin Chaser during 5^th year. While Seamus never had anywhere near the perfect marks Nott received, he did have the upper hand when it came to actual magical abilities. Nott's magical attributes were weak, but his cunning mind and sly logic had allowed him favour with his fellow Slytherins, and was now what made him invaluable to Lord Voldmort.

Nott stormed forward, shaking with fury.

"Answer me!" Seamus said nothing, and the next moment Nott had angrily yanked him up by the front his robes, slamming him against the stone wall. Seamus just stared at him with an amused look plastered across face. Nott pulled his fist back and then, in a swift motion that totally caught Seamus off guard, he launched it forward, colliding with the flesh of his cheek. Seamus could have easily overpowered Nott, as he was several inches taller, but instead he only smirked. This only served to infuriate Nott more. He curled his fist up for another blow but Seamus was ready for it this time and lurched his head sharply to the right. Nott's first slammed the wall with all his weight behind it, and the loud cracking sound left no doubt that a few knuckles had been broken.

"Damn you, Finnigan!" he shrieked as he nursed his hand against his chest.

"Better luck next time, Nott," replied Seamus coolly.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Seamus crossed his arms as he stayed where he stood leaned against the wall. Nott turned around and stared at the wizard that had entered the cell, at a complete loss for words. "Well? Mr. Nott, I asked you a question."

"Prisoner attacked me, Sir," said Nott shortly, when he had finally found his voice.

"I see......you know what happens when you allow impure filth to lay a hand on you." The wizard with troll-like features had a twisted grin upon his thin lips. Nott shivered in fear as the other wizard raised his wand and whispered, "Crucio."

Nott fell withering to the floor as horrible screams escaped his lips. He twisted and jerked along the uneven floor and the jagged edges of the stone cut deep into his flesh, causing a flow of blood to stain the floor a dark crimson red.

As much as Seamus hated Nott, he found no comfort or enjoyment in his torture. The agony-filled cries served only to send shudders down his spine and created a pounding in his ears, but worst of all was the blood. The blood reminded him of his nightmares, nightmares of the battle he had survived. Seamus shut his eyes, a torrent of memories flooding his brain......

It was dark. Light came from the full moon that loomed overhead and the one thousand small dots all around him, which were results of the Lumos spell. All 1,000 of their number were dressed in navy blue robes. The colour of their cuffs, however, differed. Seamus' were baby yellow, signifying that he belonged in the 4^th unit under Jonathan Moon. All of the alliance had belts strapped around their waists, with sheaths threaded through them. Magical knives, one of the prime weapons of Wizard war, babysat their hips. Although bloodless curses and hexes would be preferred by the alliance, spell casting was slow compared to a quick thrust of a knife, and this was not duelling, it was war, and the quickest to the plunge would win. Seamus' blood pumped with adrenaline, pounding hard in his ears. His stomach did a number of nervous flip-flops, as he stood waiting with anticipation. Nothing happened then; nothing happened for a while. Seamus watched as two witches from another unit approached Harry Potter, the leader of the alliance. The intriguing expressions that lined their faces as the three talked, interested Seamus enough to move into hearing distance.

".........I have a bad feeling about this......" Harry said. The first witch, with red cuffs, shrugged.

"Boot thinks it's alright." Harry scowled; he had never liked Terry Boot. For all his claim to intelligence, Harry personally thought Neville Longbottom was smarter, but then again, Harry's opinions always differed greatly from the mainstream. He turned his gaze to the second, shorter witch.

"Terry does have a point....we could capture a great many Death Eaters this way." Harry sighed and, against his better judgment, gave them a wave of approval. The two witches hurried off to inform Boot of Harry's consent. Seamus moved forward; he had an easy time talking to the boy who lived. After all, they had spent seven years of their lives in the same dormitory.

"Cold night," Seamus commented lightly, despite the fear that stirred in his gut.

"Uh-hmm.." affirmed Harry.

"When do you think...."

"I'm surprised they haven't yet," Harry interrupted, answering the question before Seamus could finish it. "Something isn't right....."

Seamus didn't want to think about the implications of Harry's words. The Death Eaters were ruthless dark wizards who killed not only in the name of power but just for the sport of it. It was unlike them to ignore a rather large gathering of opposing wizards and do nothing. And when the Death Eaters did something uncharacteristic, it was not a matter to take lightly; it meant something was up, and that something was usually far worse than anyone could imagine.

"Maybe we send someone to check it out..." Seamus referred to the Death Eater camp just beyond the hill.

"No, I can't risk anyone's life for that."

"I'll do it." Seamus' offer sparked something in Harry.

"No," he began firmly, "I'll go." Before Seamus could protest Harry disappeared with only a slight popping sound in his wake. Harry didn't return for hours to come, and when he did, it seemed that the whole entire worldwide congregation of Death Eaters was on his heels. The battle had finally come, and Seamus took in one last sharp breath before the fighting began.

"Everyone, draw your weapons!" Moon's voice shouted harshly across the night sky. Seamus didn't need to be told twice as he violently shoved his hand into his robes, swiftly yanking out his knife. He gripped the handle so tightly that his fingers turned white as he braced himself for the avalanche of Death Eaters that topped the hill and came tumbling down it.

The young wizard to Seamus' right abruptly dropped over, dead. No marks were made on him, and his eyes stared wide open at the sky above.

Shit, thought Seamus, they are throwing the death curse as they rush down the hill!

Before he even gave himself time to think about his actions, Seamus shifted the blade to his left hand, so as to free up his wand hand. Pulling out his seven-inch wand, he pointed it towards the approaching cloud of black and yelled the first thing that came to mind,

"Avada Kevadra!" A brilliant flash of green light blasted from the tip of his wand. In the distance a still housed figure fell lifelessly to the ground. All Seamus could do was stare at the fallen lump hundreds of yards away, but he was quickly brought back to the battle around him as screams filled the air. The Death Eaters had clashed against the lines of the alliance. The bloody part of the fight had started.

Just to his left, a blood-curdling scream rented the air as a young witch, whom Seamus recognized as Eleanor Branstone, was stabbed brutally in the chest. Blood splattered everywhere, but the Death Eater didn't stop. He yanked the knife from her chest and stabbed her again, and again, and again. Each time he plunged the knife into her, her screams became louder with affliction until finally hey stopped altogether. This time when he pulled his knife from her body, she fell limply to the ground, her chest nothing more than an mat of blood. The Death Eater looked at Seamus and pushed his hood back, then lifted the knife to his blood-spattered face and exotically licked it. Seamus was so utterly disgusted that he didn't even pay attention as to who the man was, and he didn't have time afterward as the quickly advanced on him. The man leaped at Seamus, but he was able to sidestep it. He dropped his wand in the process of exchanging the knife into his right hand. The man let out a grunt as he came charging at Seamus once more, and this time as Seamus stepped aside he grabbed the back of the man's robes and heaved his knife into back of his neck, all the way to the hilt; the tip had gone all the way though and protruded though the front of his throat. The man was dead before Seamus even let go of his robes. Seamus bent down and violently yanked the knife out, then rolled him over...and was shocked at the man's identity. He was staring down into the vulture-like face of Viktor Krum. Krum had been widely accepted as the world's best Seeker, playing for Bulgaria. Seamus also remembered him as a Triwizard champion so many years ago. Hermione had also briefly dated him back then. If only he had watched the dead body of Krum a few moments longer, he would have seen something that would have saved much strife later on...but instead, Seamus stumbled off, sick to his stomach, and not caring about the battle around him.

He fell into a heap next to Eleanor and cursed himself for having done nothing to save her. She was so young; she was four years his junior, a Hufflepuff, and graduation from her 7^th year at Hogwarts was just next month. She would not be going. She was dead, and he was to fault; her death was upon his hands. As if to confirm this, Seamus placed his hands on her blood-soaked robes, and his immediately became covered in thick blood. Seamus wept silently before forcing himself up. He heard a vile swish as a sword cut across the open air and made a sound that was unmistakably that of steel colliding with flesh. A revolting noise of tearing flesh could be heard, and then something hit Seamus' shoe with a thud. He looked down. Ernie Macmillan's decapitated head lay in front of him......

-WACK- In surprise, Seamus let out a whisper of a yell. His hand shot straight to his cheek, and he looked up to see Clarence Telamon looking at him.

"Clarence? What was that for?" Seamus asked, still rubbing the pink spot on his cheek.

"Oh, damn, let me see... maybe the fact that you were staring straight ahead at nothing with an unfocused look in your eyes, plus the minor fact that you were unresponsive to any other attempts to rouse you from your half-absent state."

"Sorry......" It was at that moment that Seamus fully comprehended to whom he was talking, and that neither Nott nor Flint were still present. "Hey, when did you get back?"

"Flint brought me back.," Telamon said shortly.

"What happened?" Seamus was rather used to Telamon being taken from the cell once every three weeks or so, but he had never really taken the time to ask, as he was usually writing or staring off in one of his reflective moods.

"Nothing." There was a hard edge to his voice, and Seamus got the feeling that it must have been horrible if he didn't want to talk about it. Telamon was normally very open about himself and his feelings.

Despite his scraggly appearance of a long, matted and tangled grey beard, bald forehead, and prominent veins on his face from years of hard drinking, there was an indefinable emotion in his hawk-like yellow eyes that drew Seamus to trust and respect him. Which was all for the best, anyway, because if they hadn't gotten along it would have been even more miserable than it already had been the last six months. Loneliness mixed with a hated cellmate would probably have broken Seamus in two, like this prison and this war had already done so many others. Seamus had seen scores of witches and wizards walk in and out the doors, all with broken spirits, empty eyes, and forgotten dreams that had been smashed to pieces by the reality of a harsh war that the Ministry had foolishly tried to deny for years.

Seamus pulled out his journal from his scanty robes and opened it to the middle, where a single, pressed, emerald green shamrock rested. Picking it up, he pressed it to his face and breathed in deeply the sent of his beloved Ireland. Seamus had vowed to himself that he would see the rolling hills of Ireland one more time, and so the single shamrock had become a symbol of hope to him in a dark and sinister world that threatened to strangle everyone in it with despair.