Irredeemable

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Harry asked quietly shutting the door to Dumbledore's office behind him. The old man was seated placidly behind his desk, scratching at a piece of parchment with a quill.

"Yes, Harry. I hope you had a pleasant holiday?" Dumbledore's smile was amiable and open, but a hidden fear lurked behind his eyes. He gestured to one of the pair of chairs before his desk and Harry perched lightly on the edge, spine straight and posture tense.

Harry merely shrugged. "About as well as could be expected. I'm glad to be back at Hogwarts." Like he was about to tell anyone, much less Dumbledore, of how his summer had really been.

"Hogwarts is a magical place, full of wonders and surprises. It is an exciting place, even for an old man like me." Dumbledore popped a sherbet lemon into his mouth, offering the dish to Harry.

Harry declined, not feeling as if he could stomach the sweet.

"And how was your health? No headaches or odd pains?"

"No, professor," Harry answered quickly. "Everything was wonderful." He could not quite stop a bitter trace of sarcasm from slipping into his tone. Dumbledore appeared not to notice.

"Any... visions?" Dumbledore asked, leaning forward slightly as Harry's brow furrowed in concentration.

"I don't know. None that I can remember. If anything had happened I would have written to you."

"Of course," Dumbledore responded with a mollifying smile, but Harry sensed some doubt in his words.

Harry sighed. Dumbledore was fishing for something. Why couldn't he just straight out ask?

Because I probably wouldn't answer, he told himself, at least not honestly.

"Was Voldemort up to anything?" Harry said, deciding to do some probing of his own.

"Not anything more than the usual," Dumbledore answered calmly.

"The usual? Muggles being tortured and killed is just usual? What about the rapes of women, or the deaths of children? That's just the usual?" Harry rose from the plush velvet chair, fists clenched in rage and eyes narrowed.

"I thought you didn't have any visions this summer?"

"I didn't! But that doesn't mean I'm stupid! I know what goes on, I've seen it before! People are dying out there, and it doesn't mean anything to you?"

"I mourn their loss, Harry, but there is nothing I can-"

"Their loss? This isn't their loss. It's our loss. Every death is a failure on our part, something that we could have better, or shouldn't have done. We're losing, Dumbleore. I can feel it. The people have lost hope. Have you been in Diagon Alley lately? There's almost nobody there. Half the shops or closed, or require you to surrender your wand before entering. They're not putting their faith in you or your Order. You're too distant. If you want to win this war, you're going to have to get the people involved. Instead, you've created an elite group that are the only ones aware of what's going on.

"You have your Order and Voldemort has his Death Eaters. What about the people in the middle? What about the ones who don't want to get involved? What happens to them?"

Dumbledore removed his half-moon spectacles and set them down gently on his desk, rubbing his eyes with his thumbs. "They don't have the option to pick one side or the other. This is a war, and sooner or later, whether or not they want, they will be involved."

"What about the Muggles?"

"They support us, of course. Why would they support a man who wants them all dead?"

"They don't even know about us! They can't make their choice! You treat them like children, keep them sheltered from the larger world. But you're not doing it for their benefit. You're doing it for your own selfish gain!"

"Harry, my boy, all of this is irrelevant. Voldemort will not be able to continue forever. He himself is Muggle-born. His Death Eaters will not follow him after they learn that he is what they seek to destroy."

"Hitler."

"Hitler? I'm afraid I don't understand-"

"Hitler strove to create a master race. All others were inferior. He wanted everyone to be blonde, blue-eyed, and physically strong. He was none of these. He was a physically weak man addicted to various drugs and he had unprepossessing features. And look at the following he gathered."

"I'm quite aware of the Muggle World Wars and their causes and effects, but Voldemort is quite different."

"No he's not. He wants genocide. So did Hitler. Millions died. And the war was only won because everyone fought against him. It wasn't just France or Poland or Russia or the colonies. Everyone had to work together in order to defeat him. The common people were involved too, those who weren't Jewish or who didn't even live in Europe. That's what we have to do if we want to win."

"I agree, Harry, but these sort of things do not happen overnight."

"You've had over a year; how much more time do you need?"

"We're doing the best we can."

"Somehow I doubt that, Dumbledore. And whatever you're doing, it isn't good enough!"

Harry stalked out of the room and made it halfway to the Gryffindor dormitories before collapsing from a combination of exhaustion, both emotional and physical.

"What am I doing?" he asked the tapestry opposite him, half-expecting a response. This was Hogwarts, after all.

Was it possible that Voldemort was still influencing him through their connection? But why now, why all of a sudden? Voldemort had been quiet over the summer; his scar had not so much as twinged.

Besides, that did not fit. Everything he had said had seemed so right, so complete. He had been speaking from his heart, not having someone else whisper the words in his ear.

"Maybe it's me. Maybe I've finally begun to crack."

It was simply insane, to have an entire world expect a mere sixteen year old boy whose only real talents were finding trouble and playing Quidditch to save them. What was he supposed to do, challenge the Death Eaters to a Quidditch ?

He snorted at his own foolishness. He could see the scene now.

"So, Voldemort, how 'bout a Quidditch ? If I win, you and your Death Eaters will dress up as clowns and go around to Muggle orphanages with teddy bears and toffee. And if you win, I'll become your sex slave. How does that sound to you?"

It was so twisted and yet beautiful. But mostly beautiful. Harry just took that as a sign of how far he had fallen, wondering briefly how much farther he had left to go.

A sea of black on a background of ebony and crimson. Darkness and shadows, wrapped up so closely that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

The ocean of Death Eaters seemed to pulsate in time with Voldemort's words, nodding masked heads fervently with glittering eyes.

"This is the day that we have long been waiting for. The day when the Wizarding World will fall beneath us. The day when we take back what is rightfully ours!"

Cheers greeted her pronouncement, wild throaty growls that spoke of savage hunger for blood and destruction. Voldemort smirked at the hold he possessed on his followers, the utter and complete control. They were his and his alone. If he told them to , they would, with relish. They lived to serve.

He knew that there were some few who were not completely loyal- Lucius Malfoy and others too proud of their blood to bow completely before anyone- but they were a minority, and one that could be easily controlled. Even together they did not make a large enough percentage to be a real threat to his reign.

Besides, such individuals were easily... disposed of.

Voldemort waited for the thunderous whoops and hollers to die down to a low, rumbling beat before continuing. "You see before you Harry Potter, a wizard of incredible power. But more importantly, he was raised to hate us. To loathe us. To abhor us. But where is he now? He is mine, and mine alone. Dumbledore has lost him. Why? Because of the senile man's manipulations? Partially. But more importantly, because We. Are. Right!"

The moor was filled with sounds so raucous and unholy that Satan himself must have been disturbed.

Dumbledore stood quietly before the crowded Great Hall, hands placed on the table to either side of him. His azure eyes were darkened with sorrow and strife, his face appearing older with each passing moment.

"The Darkness will wait no longer. But it must still be kept at bay."

Silence greeted his words, terrified stares and sinking despair. "We have lost much in this war: friends, family, homes, possessions. But we have not lost hope."

Almost, the crowd seemed to whisper to him. We're so close that it hardly matters any more. Our Saviour is gone. Our once-bright light has been nearly extinguished. So close to being done. Dead. Gone. An empty void. That's what we'll be soon.

But Dumbledore refused to surrender. "The Darkness can not win. Without Light, the Darkness can not exist."

The thought seemed to linger unsaid in the back of everyone's minds: the Light can not exist without the Darkness.

"Soon, the Death Eaters will come. They will be ready to kill and murder and rape and commit other unmentionable acts of violence. But we Must. Not. Let. Them. Win. This is imperative to our very survival."

"Plans have been made, emergencies prepared for. You know what to do and where to go."

Hermione, sitting as close to the Slytherins as she dared (and as far away as possible from Ron), could not help but snort. "And that's the best you can give us, isn't it? You offer up false hopes and securities and leave the rest of it up to us. Mere children."

A few of the Slytherins looked at her askance, but Hermione did not blush. Instead, she merely lifted her chin and met their guarded gazes with cool eyes.

Harry watched Lord Voldemort with awe. Never before had he truly understood how the man had commanded such a following. Sure, he himself zealously obeyed the man, but only because of what Voldemort had done for him. Voldemort had opened his eyes to the greater world and torn away the blinds that Dumbledore had closed over him.

But it seemed impossible that Voldemort could have saved everyone like he had saved Harry.

Now, though, he understood. Despite the man's repulsive appearance, he was charismatic and compelling. You almost had to listen. You were drawn in, slowly at first, so as not to alarm you, but then quickly until you were in so deep that you could not even see the path back.

Voldemort's Death Eaters would follow him to Hell (which, Harry mused, they were probably doing right now).

He felt honoured to stand at Voldemort's right hand. He did not care about what would be written about him in the history books nor what others thought of him. His only thoughts were for revenge.

And it was about to be his.

Ron sat on a bench with the tattered remnants of his family. Mum, dad, and older brother. Fred and George were gone. Ginny was gone. Percy had likely been killed in the attempt to reclaim the Ministry, though they had received no official word of his death. The communication lines were so disrupted that they did not think they ever would.

No one quite knew where Bill was. He had been there with the family to mourn at Ginny's funeral, but afterwards had withdrawn. He had not been seen nor heard from. Somehow, Ron had the bleak idea that Bill had joined the majority of his family.

Only Ron, Charlie, and their parents were left. And out of the four, how many of them would survive the battle to come?

Somehow, he could not imagine any life after the battle. He could not think of a life of slavery. He could not conceive any notion of rebuilding the government after Voldemort was destroyed.

All of his life was this moment, right now. Everything else was lost to him.

Not only his family, but his friends were gone. Potter was gone. He was dead. Hermione had vanished not long after. He could make out her curly hair from across the crowded room. She sat, to his utter disgust, near the Slytherins, and did not look at all uncomfortable there.

She was always ambitious, an insidious voice inside his head whispered, she's a Slytherin at heart. They all are. Even Neville. Not even a year after Ginny's died and he's already set on stealing my girlfriend away from me.

He had seen the looks they traded. Those of companionship and a damnable shared knowledge that infuriated him to no end. There were likely plotting to help the Death Eaters into the castle. They had followed Harry. They were gone.

So Ron sat and fumed, hardly hearing a word anyone else said and slipping further into his crazed rage.

Draco's attention was not focused on the Dark Lord. Instead, it was focused on Harry.

Harry, who had been through so much. Been orphaned, and then treated as a slave by his family. His entire life had been manipulated until he was little more than a glorified symbol.

But now, that was all about to change.

Hogwarts would fall. There was no other way about it in Draco's mind. And then Harry would stop having his nightmares and the world would be peaceful and orderly once more.

But first Hogwarts had to fall.

And he would see to it.

Neville Longbottom was considered by most to be a weakling, a little insipid fool too stupid to know one end of his wand from the other. He was no Gryffindor, the others whispered, but a Hufflepuff. And even then he was more like a Squib.

They never even considered how strong he must be to bear under the incredible pressure of such merciless teasing. Never even thought about how, now that Harry was gone, he was expected to carry the weight of the Prophecy now that Harry refused to.

And Neville was by no means stupid.

He had seen Dumbledore's ploy for just that, and had acted accordingly. Dumbledore had paid him no heed before Harry had disappeared, and yet suddenly he was lavished with attention. Not because Dumbledore trusted him or believed in his abilities.

But because Dumbledore needed a symbol.

A living, breathing, larger than life symbol. That was what Harry had been. Well, he still was, in a way, although now he was a symbol for Lord Voldemort instead.

But what Dumbledore needed was someone to thrust into the critical eye of the public, someone who would save them all. He needed a victim, a pawn.

Neville was determined to be neither.

He was beginning to understand why Harry might have turned. There was so much pressure, pushing him down and up and side to side until he was quite sure he had reached a rather impossible state of zero mass. He was trapped in the middle of a black hold of the unrealistic, unfeasible expectations of others.

Everyone wanted a hero. But they wanted it to be someone else. Someone they could place on a golden pedestal when it was convenient and shove away like Christmas decorations during the rest of the year. They did not want a hero at all, really.

They just wanted for the war to be someone else's problem.

Well, he's the one who has to kill You-Know-Who. I can't do anything about it. So I'll just sit back and wait for it all to happen. It won't possibly affect me. And he'll always be there to save the day. I'm in no danger. He'll take care of everything.

They did not understand- perhaps were incapable of understanding- that in order to win the war or at least take a good shot at it there would be more than one person involved. Yes, Harry might be the only one who could kill the Dark Lord. But that meant precisely nothing, really.

After all, what about all the other Death Eaters? What about the new Dark Lord that would inevitably spring up after Voldemort's fall?

No one wanted to think of that.

They did not want to think of the future.

They were not willing to entertain possibilities.

After all, it was not their problem.

Deep within the hidden recesses of their minds, all the wizards and witches knew what was about to happen. Their souls cried out in anguish at the future, at the events about to send them spiraling down into death and darkness.

Muggle-born babies cried, leaving their parents confused. After all, the children were warm and safe and well-fed and had nothing to fear but being denied a bit of candy.

But they did not scream for the present.

They screamed for their future. For the world they had been born into was one that was about to be filled with unresolvable conflict. It was a battle that had been waging since before the beginning of time and would continue to be fought when nothing existed, but it was reaching a spike.

For them, there might not be any Hogwarts. There might not be any birthday parties, or first dates, or marriage, or children.

For them, there might not be any life.

No one with magic in them, however small, slept. They stared at the ceiling or huddled under down blankets and tried counting sheep. Their interconnected minds- held together by the undeniable link of magic- were a seething web of doubts and fears. None could sleep, for none knew whether or not they would ever have the chance to be awake again.

And yet they had no comprehension as to why their sudden panic had occurred.

They told themselves they were being silly, or had read one too many horror novels, or were letting their imagination run away with them.

But still, the doubt remained beneath, well hidden in the shadows, evanescent and everlasting.

They fretted and made up long, detailed stories to comfort themselves. They crooned half-forgotten lullabies from childhood, whispered reassurances that did nothing to assuage their fear.

For in the end, their fear was well founded.

The morrow would bring with it change, whether good or bad. Those more in tune with their instincts could tell that the world was at a crossroads. But then, the world is often at such points, and who could say that this moment was any more crucial than the last?

Perhaps nothing would happen after all, perhaps they were all safe.

Perhaps they were not really awake and had merely been dreaming of the past years of battles and bloodshed.

Perhaps...

But the thought could not form, and they were left bereft of hope.

The angels and demons looked upon the world that they had pulled one way or another for countless millennia. Each side determined to win, equally sure that they were in the right and the other would suffer.

They did not take into account the lives of the mortals whom they were toying with. Gods seldom do, really. For the most part they do not see themselves as creations of the mortals, built to serve their intrinsic need for faith, but instead as some superior race.

If asked, neither side could say what the battle was really about. "For peace", some said, or "to prove that we were right". But neither had any real reason. Their explanations had been lost so long ago that it was unlikely that any of them even remembered if there were any to begin with.

They watched the mortals arm themselves with wands and talismans and spells of protection. They looked on as rallies were held, speeches were given, and attempts to bolster morale utterly failed. They observed the frenzy and the fear and the frantic fuss.

But they did not really see.

They were blinded by their own immortality. For them, life would go on. They could not understand that those far below would have an end. It was unthinkable, and a bit blasphemous.

And yet, they were quite similar to their mortal counterparts. For they held their contradictions: they could not believe in their own end, but whole-heartedly and fervently cleaved to the future end of the other.

In the end, there was little difference between the two.

Angels and demons were the same.

Good and bad, dark and light.

Everything conformed to a pattern that no one had set; they forced themselves into it and suffered because of it.

Collectively, the world held its breath, afraid to exhale and speed the destruction. Any action, however miniscule, could tip the carefully balanced scales in one direction or the other, upsetting everything.

Behind their tightly clenched eyes and fervent prayers, a deep certainty lurked. Somehow, things would never be the same again.

And yet it would never change.

Such is the way the human mind works, and it bends its reality according to its perceptions, false and imagined alike.

In the pre-dawn chill preceding the last day of the year, the forces of Darkness assembled on the edges of the Hogwarts grounds. Werewolves, vampires, ogres, hags, wizards, witches, demons, and creatures without names were joined together in a single cause.

If that cause had not been death, it might have been a miracle.

But enemies are united by death and blood above all else, and such were the bonds between the troops gathered to destroy the castle.

As one entity they marched forward, single-minded of purpose and intent.

And though it may seem trite to use such a cliched phrase, all Hell broke loose.

Quickly and violently.

This was it. This was really it. Harry felt himself shivering with excitement as Hogwarts materialized into view before him. Draco appeared next to him but a half second after, silver eyes shining with glee.

In the pre-dawn gloom the castle appeared like a black silhouette against a backdrop of grays of varying shades: steely, misty, charcoal, and granite.

As the Death Eaters materialized behind him, Harry could not help but surge forward a bit before restraining himself. They all wore their characteristic inky black cloaks, whipping around them in the chilly breeze. They were a writhing mass, full of sound and fury, ready to attack the last remaining stronghold in all of Great Britain.

Voldemort raised on skeletal arm slowly, drawing the attention of all his followers. He whispered an incantation and the Dark Mark shot out of his wand, sickly green, illuminating the night sky. All of the Death Eaters raced forward like a giant wave, dew drops splattering behind them.

Harry himself led a legion of werewolves. He was, after all, one of them, and Voldemort had precious few lieutenants that he could trust with such a volatile group. Even though it was not the full moon, they had the strength and the fury to tear through any lesser wizards who stood in their way.

The troops spread out like the moon eclipsing the sun, completely covering the last blades of forest green grass peeking through the layer of snow.

They were almost to the castle.

Charlie Weasley leaned out the window, elbow propped on the sill and eyes half closed. He hated drawing the early morning shift. He had become used to the schedules of the dragons, who were most active at dusk. By this time, he was normally sound asleep.

His freckled forehead slid forward and thumped against the frosted glass pane. Rubbing his temples wearily, he looked out through the glass. He only had half an hour left and then he could go find a bed.

What he saw, though, promised that there would be no sleep.

Thousands of creatures, some he could not even put names to, were rushing towards the school.

Suddenly wide awake, he fumbled for his wand inside the deep pocket of his robes, digging through bits of random trash until he gripped the scratched ash handle. He yelled out an incantation, sending a klaxon alarm blaring throughout the entire school.

The Death Eaters were coming.

Ron woke cursing and swearing, rubbing his bruised forehead furiously. "Who the hell set the alarm so loud?" he demanded of no one in particular, rising up from the floor where he had fallen. He pulled on a set of robes hurriedly, grabbing his wand and sticking it in the back pocket of his tattered jeans (wrinkled from days of sleeping in), before heading out through the Common Room portrait hole.

He joined the flow of students, parents, and Order members rushing towards the Great Hall. He was too busy to look for anyone in particular, focusing with single-minded intent on the battle.

Tonight was the night.

The night Potter would die.

He would kill him himself.

Secretly, so as not to be caught, Ron had been practising his curses, especially the Dark ones. The Room of Requirement served his purpose nicely, providing him with small animals a-plenty to practise on.

He was not evil, however. No, he definitely was not. He was just going to rid the world of the worst evil it had ever seen, the betrayer, the ultimate Judas.

The ends justified the means.

Draco attempted to keep up with Harry, but the rush of the mob was too fast. Besides, he had his own legion to lead (some of the younger Death Eaters), and he really should have been seeing to them. So he turned around and yelled for his troops to follow, pulling out his wand and charging forward.

He had been in battle before of course, had even led the attack on the Ministry of Magic himself, but there was something about this particular fight that made the blood- completely Pure of course- sing in his veins.

Many people were going to die. He could not ignore that. Some would be friends, or distant relations, some would be those he had never before met and would never again. But, in the end, it was all worth it.

But Harry could die, an insidious voice in the rear of his head commented slyly.

It was true. Harry could die. Draco could die. It could happen.

But it would not.

He hoped.

Dumbledore closed his eyes at the sight of the streams of people rushing into the Great Hall. When he opened them again, the faces automatically resolved themselves into several categories.

First of all (and the vast majority of people, which he took as a rather negative sign) were the youth. They were unblooded, inexperienced, green, and naive. They had never seen battle before, really, never dueled anyone other than their peers, and even then never seriously. Their faces shone with the glory that was about to come. He could see hopes of heroisism lighting in their round faces, see their cheeks flush red with excitement.

They did not know what they were getting into. Not at all.

Then there were those of the elder generation. Those who had fought in the first war, who had seen friends, children, parents, and other loved ones slaughtered mercilessly, who still shivered at the mere hint of the Dark Mark.

They knew what this was about. They knew what was at stake.

Lastly, there were those who did not really fit into either category. Ronald Weasley, or Neville Longbottom. They had suffered much in their young lives, losing a friend to the Dark side and parents to insanity respectively. They knew what they were fighting for.

But, in the end, he feared their rage would destroy them. Or, at least it would in Ron's case.

Neville had grown up with loss. In a way, he was accustomed to it. Even Ginny's death had been but a glancing blow to him; he had soon recovered and moved on with his life. Dumbledore knew exactly where he stood; at the very least he would make a good symbol, similar to the way Harry had.

Ron, on the other hand, was a very privileged child. Oh, the Weasleys might not have had as much money as they wished, but their children were clothed and fed and had a roof over their heads. And most of all, they had the love that comes from such a tight-knit family.

But Ron's world had been torn apart.

And, judging by the look on Ron's face, he was planning to tear apart the worlds of several others tonight.

"Out of the gates," Dumbledore commanded. "We shall meet them head on."

They were almost to the set of stairs surrounding the school when the wide double doors burst open, revealing their enemies. Most looked haggard and exhausted, but they still held their wands resolutely.

Harry grinned widely, motioning for his fellow werewolves to surge forward. They complied eagerly, ready to avenge the death and persecution of their race.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the head of the group, wand drawn and eyes a steely blue.

Harry's smug expression of satisfaction grew even wider. "Come out to play, O Master Manipulator?" he snickered, still sprinting forward.

"Attack!" Dumbledore screeched, sending a wave of spells rushing towards the approaching Dark forces.

All was lost in the sudden fury of the battle.

Harry had been in plenty of duels before; he'd led battles both for the Dumbledore and Voldemort. This, though, was something completely different.

Flashes of coloured lights from spells flashed all around him, nearly blinding his vision. Incantations were yelled out, a multitude of voices rising together for the common goal of destruction.

Parvati lost sight of Padma almost as soon as the battle had begun. One moment her twin was beside her, and the next she was gone. There was no time to look for her sister either; the Death Eaters were pressing in and she had to fight.

She spun, ducking a burst of electric blue light and turned, coming face to face with a well of shadows.

The creature was so dark it made the oppressive night sky seem brilliantly bright in contrast. It had no definite form, oozing through the air slowly. Padma held her wand before her, unsure of which spell to use. She'd never encountered anything like this before.

"Stupefy!" she tried, frowning as the spell had no effect. If anything, the shadow-thing seemed to grow larger, until she could no longer see it's edges. "Accio! Stupefy! Lumos! Nox! Lumos solem! Expecto patronum!"

Her wand fizzled, growing warm in her hand. With a cry she flung it from her, watching in horror as it exploded, the shrapnel grazing her cheek.

"Help!" she cried, hoping that someone could save her.

Her voice echoed endlessly. She turned around, expecting to see battling figures behind her, but there was only the terrible darkness.

She ran, sprinting forward into the black abyss, hoping that she could pierce through somehow.

She glanced over her shoulder, but there was no landmarks she could use to track her progress. There was simply nothing, a never-ending stretch of darkness.

Tears streaking down her cheeks, she sank to the ground, screaming.

Charlie knocked down a Death Eater with a swing of his fist, a sickening thud sounding from the man's skull. His wand had been pulled from his grasp early in the battle, and he had not found one he could grab for a replacement. As soon as his body had hit the ground, however, another had moved to take his place. "Why it's the dragon boy!" a cold voice sneered behind the plain mask.

In response, Charlie gave a roundhouse kick to the side of the Death Eater's head. The man ducked quickly, responding with a binding hex. Charlie leapt to one side, landing crouched on both feet. He used his hand to push himself forward, throwing himself at the man full-tilt.

"Why don't you go back to your dragons?" Charlie was suddenly stopped by silver light, arresting his motion. "They could burn you alive. Or better yet, impale yourself on that snail of a broom you have." The Death Eater circled in close, taunting him.

"I'd rather kill you," Charlie grunted, punching at the man's midsection, or trying to. His fist moved three centimeters as if through setting concrete before stopping. "You filthy Slytherin."

"You'll never rise above such common behaviours, will you dragon boy? You fought like a Muggle in school and you still do. Despicable from a Pureblood."

Charlie growled. "At least I've the courage to show my face."

"At least I've the brains to pick the winning side." Charlie glared at his opponent, still unable to move. "Do you think your mother will cry over your grave, dragon boy? I don't think she will. She won't have the chance; she'll be raped and killed before the day's done."

The Death Eater paused and Charlie could feel the smug assurance radiating from him. "Or not. No one would want a filthy whore of a Weasley."

"Go eff yourself!" Charlie roared, struggling against his invisible restraints.

"After I off you."

There was a bright flash of emerald light.

Macnair grinned as the corpse fell before him, already cooling in the winter air. He kicked the young girl until she rolled over, still smirking. Dumbledore thought that he could stop them with a handful of teenagers, it seemed. This one certainly hadn't gotten far.

He hurled a Cruciatus Curse at a young man, laughing in terrible delight as he fell to the frozen ground, shrieking in pain. "Poor little one," he crooned, his voice sickly sweet. "Too bad you picked the wrong side."

"Stupefy!" More out of instinct than anything else, Macnair leaped to one side, letting the curse through. It hit the boy, but he was already so far gone from the pain that sleep made little difference.

"You can't take me down with a mere stupefy!" he crowed, delighted. His opponent was that giant oaf Hagrid, the one whose rabid hippogriff he had almost killed. He still had an odd feeling about that incident.

"Death Eater scum!" Hagrid yelled in response, clutching at a pink umbrella with both enormous hands. He swung the umbrella over his head, and brought it down again. "Avada Kedavra!"

"Like a half-breed could pull off a spell like that," Macnair scoffed, pleased at the popping sound the umbrella made. "You don't even have a proper wand."

"Bleeding Death Eater!"

Hagrid raised one gigantic fist, knocking Macnair to the ground. "This is fer Harry! And this is fer his parents! And this is fer makin' everyone hate 'im! And this is fer turnin' 'im evil!"

Each blow was accompanied by a reason, so many that Macnair lost track of them all. Of course, that could have had something to do with the fact that he was suffering a mild concussion.

"And this is for Buckbeak!" Hagrid kicked at the fallen form of the Death Eater with one gigantic foot, cracking his spine. Macnair's last thought was that he should have killed both the beast and its master.

Aiden huddled in a corner of the Great Hall, trying to pretend that the booms of battle were just in his imagination. His parents were out there, and his older brother. They were fighting the bad guys, in order to protect Aiden and the other kids.

The Great Hall was stuffed with children ranging from newborns to twelve year olds. A small group of adults patrolled the entrance, exchanging nervous glances and whispering quietly so as not to alarm the children.

Aiden was scared anyway.

He hadn't even realized anything was wrong until mummy had hauled him out of bed in the middle of the night. He was cranky from his interrupted sleep and struggled against her. Frantically he had been told to be quiet. He continued to whine, not understanding what his mother was doing.

"Be quiet!" she had whispered venomously, slapping his cheek. "Be quiet, or they'll find us."

And the Death Eaters had found him. He hadn't known who they were at first; his dad was an Auror and lost of weird people came to visit them all the time. These men had been scary though. They had cackled and shot off spells.

Aiden and his mother had barely made it to the Floo in time, landing in a pile of dust inside Hogwarts. Ever since his brother had gone away, Aiden had wanted to visit the castle. Now he just wished he were back home with his teddy bear.

A girl a few years younger than Aiden began to cry, tears streaming down his pudgy cheeks. He remembered what his mummy had told him before she rushed outside. "Be a brave boy, Aiden, and help with the little ones."

Obediently he crawled over to the girl, patting her head awkwardly. "Don't cry. Your mummy and daddy will be back soon."

"They're dead!" she bawled, flinging her small frame at Aiden's chest. "The bad men killed them!"

"You can share mine," Aiden offered with youthful exuberance. "I don't have a sister."

"Weally?" the girl asked, looking up through her blonde bangs.

"Yeah! And I'll teach you how to play Qwiditch. Have you ever played before?" The girl shook her head, the tears gradually coming to a stop. "It's loads of fun! You get a bunch of people and brooms and these balls and-" He continued talking about his favourite subject for some time, momentarily able to forget his fears.

"Clan traitor!" the werewolf called, rushing towards Remus Lupin with ferocious speed. "Clan traitor!"

The graying werewolf looked as haggard as ever, certainly nothing like a warrior on the field of battle. The only reason he was out here fighting was to find Harry and convince him- somehow- to stop.

"I didn't betray anyone, Joshua," he answered, meeting the gray eyes of his kin with his golden ones. "Voldemort has offered you an empty promise; he has no reason to fulfill it."

"Better an empty promise than none at all!" another werewolf disagreed, coming up alongside Joshua.

"Harry Potter fights at his side, and he is a werewolf!" a third added, joining his fellows.

"You are a clan traitor, Remus Lupin! The clan decided that it was for the best to side with Voldemort, yet you disobeyed. The pack offered you comfort and safety when no one else would, yet you spurned us."

"There were always humans, Joshua, always humans who didn't hate us. And yet here you are killing off the few who worked to help us."

A feral grin split Joshua's broad, dark-skinned face. "We wolves have to stick together, but you betrayed that trust. You chose the goals of humans over the goals of the pack. You are a traitor. And we will kill you."

"You are not the pack leader; you have no right to make that decision."

"We've a new pack now, with a new leader. You no longer hold that position, Lupin."

"Whoever it is has not followed the ancient rules set down by the first of our kind. He has not challenged me for the right to lead."

Joshua smirked. "I trust you'll find Harry Potter a decent enough leader of our pack, won't you? He was, after all, almost your cub."

Remus' heart sank heavily as if attached to lead weights.

"Harry does not want me killed," Remus attempted, pleased to see the smile on Joshua's face recede.

"He has given no orders concerning you." Joshua sounded extremely reluctant to admit this.

"Then you can't kill me, now can you?"

"I will stand above your rotting corpse, Remus Lupin," Joshua promised, backing away with his small gang of werewolves, "and when I do, not even Harry Potter will try to save you."

Remus rushed off to find Harry, more desperate than ever to change his mind.

The battle for Hogwarts, for the Wizarding world, for the Muggles and the Muggle-borns and the world raged on.

Countless people fell to spells or fists or daggers, their blood staining the ground red. The defenders were hopelessly outmatched, yet they fought on, hoping that somehow something would come to help them. The Death Eaters and their allies pressed their advantage, pushing the defenders back towards the stone walls of the ancient castle.

The battle was not one large attack but rather small groups of warring individuals. Duels had been the mainstay of Wizarding society for so long that even in the midst of a battle that would decide the fate of the world there was no large scale strategy.

Ron had been hoping for something like a chess game; the pawns had their clear positions, just as the king and queen of each side were obvious. What he found though, was something much closer to the whole fiasco at the Department of Mysteries.

He had attributed the chaos and confusion of that battle to their youth and inexperience, but now he was beginning to understand that that was exactly what war was.

He cast his Dark curses quickly, pleased to see that they worked as well on humans as they did on lesser forms. He didn't think anyone noticed; there were so many spells being flung this way and that that nothing short of a Priori Incantum would prove what he himself had been using.

But all the Death Eaters he struck down, all surprised that a mere schoolboy, especially a Gryffindor Weasley, could kill them so effectively, meant nothing to him. Even had he killed Voldemort himself there would have been very little joy or grim satisfaction for Ron.

He was out here to kill Potter, and every fallen Death Eater was just one small blow to his former friend.

Lucius Malfoy looked at the girl, a Ravenclaw by the badge on her robes, he had just killed with disdain. There was nothing to this battle; he was just slaughtering a bunch of idiotic, half-educated children.

Of course, he still took pleasure in their deaths, especially when a student with a lion on their robes fell before his curses.

He glided forward smoothly and calmly, acting as if he were strolling through Diagon Alley rather than pacing through a hectic battlefield. He was a Malfoy after all, and Malfoy's were not moved by mere things such as battles.

"Avada Kedavra!" he uttered, sending a blinding flash of light towards a muscular man running towards him. Immediately the man crumpled, wand falling from his limp hand.

"Pathetic," he sneered, moving on to his next victim.

At least this would all be over soon; his son and the Potter boy dead at his hand and his rightful place by the Dark Lord restored once more.

The Death Eaters were getting too close to the castle, Dumbledore noticed with narrowed eyes. Soon they would break through and the war would be lost. He turned away from his view of the school grounds from the stairs next to the main entrance. He would fight if he needed to, but right now he needed to save his strength and allow the others to fight.

His wand, in his hand just in case, was raised and whipped around in an intricate motion, ending with a heavy jab forwards. Instantly, a golden phoenix appeared in the sky, contrasting with the sickly Dark Marks hovering above the battlefield.

McGonagall and Flitwick moved from behind him, entering the castle in order to assist with moving the children down to the dungeons. Dumbledore focused his eyes on the North Tower where a group of powerful wizards and witches were waiting for this signal.

A brilliant blue glow shone from the tower, spreading slowly until it enveloped all of the Hogwarts grounds in it's eerie metallic glow.

Some of the duels below stopped, their participants looking about them wildly.

Dumbledore smiled, pleased with the confused look on Harry Potter's face. Swiftly, comprehension overtook his confusion, followed by anger and a certain sense of having been right.

"It's the wards!" the boy shouted, garnering the attention of everyone. "They've turned on the wards!"