Til The End

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`Til The End

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"Listen to us... obey. Do not think. Just follow. You have no thoughts. You have no will but ours." The voices were soothing, soporific; seductive in her head. It was a dangerous lullaby, a siren´s call. So tempting, so easy... but something about the way she was strangely unable to think for herself bothered a part of her.

The voices grew stronger, a persistent chant in her head, forcibly driving any thoughts that might have tried to spring out... down. "Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"

There was a knife in her hand. How did it get there?

Did it matter?

She brought her other hand up to the knife, and ran her finger along the blade, testing it. Her skin gave way under the sharpness, and she felt a twinge of pain as a drop of blood welled up.

Sharp. It would kill him in an instant. She would drive it in, and he would be dead.

"Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"

Yes... she would follow the directions... because she had no mind of her own... she would kill him.

Orla stepped closer, and glazed-over brown eyes met resigned blue ones for a moment. And then, something flashed in her brain.

Training. "Remember, Orla. No matter what... NO MATTER WHAT, NEVER give in to the Imperius Curse. Do anything but what you are asked to do."

"Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"

"Don´t give in! NEVER give in!"

"Kill him!"

"NEVER give in!"

"KILL HIM!!"

"NEVER GIVE IN!"

AHHHHHHHHH!!!!! The clamoring, contradictory screams in her head... let it be over! ANYTHING but this! She had to do something... and she had to do it now... to shut up the screaming voices... to make it stop. She lifted the knife with her shaking hand... Roger´s eyes widened, then shut.

There was a hissing sound, and a scream of pain. And it was not his.

The next moment, two voices screaming "STUPEFY!"

The Lestranges were down, and Hermione Granger and Percy Weasley stood behind their felled bodies. Percy freed Roger from his bonds, and then turned back to the battle. There was no more time to spend on him.

And Orla Quirke was lying on the ground, her eyes wide with shock and pain. One hand was still clutched around the handle of the dagger which protruded from her belly. The blood was seeping through the soiled Auror´s robes that she wore. And the red was staining her hand, seeping out.

Roger dropped like a stone, his face aghast, to his knees by her side. Gingerly, he pulled her hand away from the dagger, and she hissed in pain, more blood oozing out from the wound to stain his hands as well as hers. God... the blood... her blood, he had her blood on his hands...

Frantically, he pulled out the small vials of healing potion that he carried in his belt, his hands shaking so badly that the potion dripped erratically, some reaching the wound with a hiss, some missing entirely. More blood continued to flow, and she put her bloodstained hand over his, and faintly shook her head. There were beads of sweat on her forehead, matting her brown fringe down. But she was smiling a queer, still smile.

"It´s... no use," she gurgled out hoarsely. He shook his head like a broken rattle.

"Don´t say that, Orla. You were my best... you will be fine..." he muttered feverishly, still trying to pour healing potion onto the knife wound.

She shook her head again, and even that slight movement caused more blood to gush out, staining their hands even more. Roger dimly heard more curses, screams and spells all around him, but it seemed so... so far away. Orla opened her mouth to speak again, and a thin trail of blood flowed out from the corner of her mouth.

"You... taught me... never... to give... in. T-thank... you... I...... always wanted to... be... an Auror... " she wheezed out, more blood flowing out from the knife wound and from her mouth with every breath, every word. Roger felt himself shaking all over.

"No! You´re going to be fine... " he insisted, his breath coming in short, burning spurts, "You will survive this! You have to!"

She shook her head dully and smiled that strange, at-peace smile up at him again. The blood-splashed hand that covered his tightened, and she choked. She managed to get a loose, quivering grip on his hand, and brought the roughened, crimsoned appendage to her equally bloody lips.

"I... want you to... know... that I love you. I´ve... always... loved you," she whispered. And then, she kissed the fingers of his hand, tasting the acrid, bitter metallic tang of her own blood on his fingers, and closed her eyes forever.

And so it was, that Orla Quirke, Auror, aged 18, died on the field, doing what she had always wanted to do.

* * *

Roger Davies did not move from where he knelt next to Orla´s dead body until all the spells and screams had quieted, except his own internal shriek of torment.

The battle was over. The war was finished. And left behind, were the dead. And the living.

Harry Potter, who had been fighting Lord Voldemort, emerged, victorious.

The field, that earlier during the day had been a Quidditch pitch for children to watch and play games, was stained with blood and covered with the bodies of the dead.

Among the deceased and fallen... the benevolent, seemingly-omniscient wizard who had guided all of them. Albus Dumbledore lay, felled by a Killing Curse from a boy whom he used to teach.

There had been one anguished note of phoenix song when Dumbledore had fallen, and Voldemort´s wand had sprung out of his hand. And then, Harry Potter had uttered the two words that he´d never thought he´d say.

And Voldemort fell... killed by the same curse that he´d unsuccessfully tried to cast on the one who killed him.

But Roger was not aware of any of this. He was virtually oblivious to Jing-Li´s strong but gentle hands lifting him up from the ground. He did not notice Justin Finch-Fletchley and Douglas Montague conjuring up a stretcher, and putting him upon it. He vaguely saw, but did not perceive, Draco Malfoy´s hand hovering over his face, a vial over his lips.

A dreamless sleep potion, and he knew no more. And he did not see a small, beautiful Chinese woman, walking up to the stretcher, tears falling uncontrollably from her face to drip on his blood-stained hands, washing away the crimson in rivulets.

* * *

Tom shook his head with a sigh as the young man with the too-old eyes sat in the corner of the Leaky Cauldron, sipping his Firewhiskey wordlessly, looking and talking to no one. How many ones like him had come here to the Leaky Cauldron nowadays? Tom had lost count. The war... it was over at long last, ended two months ago, and the Dark Lord was no more...but at such an incredible cost! The final battle at Hogwarts... the students had been sent home early, and were still not called back, until the chaos could be all sorted out. Yes, Voldemort was dead. As were Lucius Malfoy, Wormtail, Macnair, Crabbe, Goyle (both Sr. and Jr.) and a whole lot of other Death Eaters. But, also among the dead were Albus Dumbledore, Amos Diggory, Mundungus Fletcher, Alastor Moody and countless others. The young man slowly but steadily drinking himself to unconsciousness in the corner wore the robes of an Auror. His face, had it not been so gaunt and haunted-looking, would have been classically handsome, with an aristocratic profile, deep blue eyes and an almost Byronic elegance. As it was, though...

Finally, after he was sufficiently sloshed, the young man got up, unsteadily sliding a handful of coins onto the table, and stumbled towards the stairs. Tom, busy serving another customer, did not notice the slender little woman sitting by the door also put her money on the table, then duck into the washroom. He did not notice the sleek, beautiful black cat with the liquid dark eyes softly padding its way up the stairs after the drunken young man. Not that any such a thing would be unusual. A lot of the ones who stayed at the Leaky Cauldron brought their familiars with them.

The young man certainly did not notice the cat following him until he had shut the door to his room and looked down to see its intelligent eyes gazing at him, a soft, strangely comforting purr resonating from its body.

He blinked stupidly, then grinned a lopsided grin. "Well, you're a beautiful feline. Who d'you belong to?" He reached out to pet the animal on its head, but because of his drunken state, overbalanced and fell to his knees, his wand tumbling out of a pocket. The cat strode over to the wand, rolling it over with its dainty black paws and causing ice blue sparks to shoot out. For some reason, the young man felt better. More sober and alert. He walked towards his bed in the corner of the room and lay down. The cat followed, leaping gracefully onto the bed and sprawling across the man's stomach, still purring that soothing purr. The man reached out one callused but still strong and graceful hand and stroked the feline's back. The purr grew louder.

"Have you come here to comfort me, cat?" he asked. The cat gave him a look with a pair of dark, velvety eyes, eyes that seemed oddly familiar, and nuzzled its head against his side.

"Do you have a name?" The young man seemed not to notice or care that he was holding a one-sided conversation with a cat. The cat shook its head, as if it had understood him. "Well, that's a shame. You've the softest, sleekest fur I´ve ever seen of any cat. I think I´ll call you Satin."

The cat purred in agreement, then moved towards the man's face, nuzzling his neck gently with its silken head. "Satin... if only you could understand... " he said, almost to himself. Satin's furry head lifted up, and cat and human once again found themselves eye to eye.

"Meow?" `What is troubling you?´ the cat seemed to ask. The young man sighed.

"Guilt. Depression. Regret. Frustration... you name it. And I know I shouldn´t be this way, but... Orla Quirke. I was her instructor for Auror training. I... I taught her how to let go of her fears, how to be reckless, a million different curses and countercurses. She was only bloody 18 years old! Just out of Hogwarts... same house as myself, smart, idealistic young woman wanting to make a difference! She listened to all I taught her, listened only too well! She adored me... I could tell. Kept on finding excuses to talk to me, to learn more, go beyond what was required to gain my notice... "

The cat looked at him with such a sympathetic, human-like expression that had he not still been partially drunk, he would have stopped and noticed something amiss immediately. As it was, he simply patted its head and continued.

"The day of the final battle, we were at the scene of a Death Eater attack on Hogwarts. The... Lestranges were there... they put the Imperius curse on her... at the same time... so that she would... kill me. She... she walked towards me with a knife in her hand." The young man´s voice began to shake somewhat, words husky with the awful remembrance, "But just before she could plunge that knife into my body...she stabbed herself. I... I had taught her... drilled it into her head to do anything but give in to the Imperius Curse! Then... then I remember Percy Weasley and Hermione Granger stunning the two Lestranges... but Orla fell to the ground... blood gushing out of the knife wound... She looked up at me and told me that she loved me... and then, she died! I couldn´t save her." The young man was suddenly furious, "I couldn´t save her! I couldn´t protect her, and most of all, I couldn´t love her back the way she loved me, even though she died for me! What type of bloody flaming Auror am I?"

The cat mewed plaintively, nuzzling the human´s face with its furry head, licking away the tears that fell from his eyes. The young man buried his face in its smooth fur for a moment, then looked up. "You´re a strange cat. You can´t possibly understand what I´m saying, but you comfort me. It´s unfortunate that there aren´t more humans like you. People give their blooming false sympathies, and condolences, but whisper behind your back. Humans can commit crimes of unspeakable evil without a flinch. We´re really a rather abominable species at times." Then, the young man lapsed into silence, stretched out on his bed. The cat cuddled up next to him, and he lay there, stroking its fur, listening to its restful purring, feeling the warmth of its body next to his. Gradually, the young man closed his eyes and fell asleep, one hand still resting on the cat´s back.

The moonlight streaming through the sheer curtains of the room illuminated the sleeping figures on the bed. The young man, his handsome face with a hint of a smile on his lips for the first time since the end of the war, lay with his arms around a fey-like girl with a cloak of black hair. The cat was nowhere to be seen, but both humans had tearstains on their faces. The moon beamed benevolently upon them, and they slept in peace.

The young man awoke the next morning at dawn with a horrible hangover. Running to the loo, he collapsed in front of the toilet and retched, feeling the bile surge up his throat and shutting his eyes against the nausea-inducing sunlight and the dizzying spinning of the room. He bent his sweaty dark head, leaning his forehead against the cool wall. This was a miserable existence. This... what a once-proud, brilliant, respected Auror was now reduced to.

And then, he dimly heard soft footsteps walking towards him. A slender wand pointed at him, a quiet, vaguely familiar voice muttering a sobering charm. A small, dainty hand pressing a cool cloth against his face, wiping his mouth and forehead. His eyes traveled from the black shoes with the slight heels, up the black robes, slim legs encased in khakis barely visible through the opening, to the petite torso, the cascade of waist-length black hair, all the way up to a naturally beautiful, delicate-featured, Asian face with sad dark eyes and drying tearstains on the cheeks. He knew her... they had been friends. Teammates... housemates...

"Cho Chang?!" he whispered incredulously. She nodded, and knelt down in front of him so that they were eye to eye. He stared at her, stupefied. How the world did she get in here?

"It's been a while, Roger. We've all gone our way... lost people. I´ve already lost two of the best friends I had ever had to the Death Eaters." she said softly. She continued to wipe his face with the cool cloth, and he felt refreshed, although still confused.

"H-how... how did you... ?"

Cho gave him a wry smile, "Transfiguration was always my best subject in school. You forgot... I'm an animagus." There was a small whoosh, and the black cat appeared in front of him. A moment later, it turned back into the girl.

"YOU'RE the CAT?!" Roger looked at her with wide, saucer-like eyes. "WHY?! Why did you come? Why?"

He might have been angry, but she was not sure. And she was not afraid. "Because you needed me." she put a slim hand on his shoulder, "I've been coming here for a week, and I've watched you get drunk every night. I wanted to help, to see if I could take away any of your pain. But I saw how you snapped and ordered everyone who talked to you away. You wouldn't have let me approach you as a human. But I needed to help you, somehow." All of the sudden, her eyes filled with tears, and she hastily blinked them away, although one lone tear slid like a drop of diamond down her cheek, "Roger... I have already lost too many to the war. Cedric, killed by Death Eaters at the end of my 5^th year... then, Charisse... she died in front of my eyes. They cast the Cruciatus curse upon her, and then killed her, and I was there and I, too, could do NOTHING! Whenever I sleep, I can still hear her screams. But... they´ve died, and we must live." She gently took one of his hands in both of hers, and said, in a heartbreakingly sincere, pleading voice, "Roger... I won´t... I CAN´T lose you too."

The effects of the sobering charm were now fully into place. Roger Davies was once again alert, and despite his haggard appearance, his mind was clear. For several minutes, or perhaps hours, he stared at the dark-haired angel in front of him. Who had listened to him genuinely, without ulterior motives. Who had warmed him. Followed him despite not knowing what to expect. He was a fully trained Auror, one who knew only too many ways to curse and kill someone, and yet, she had come to him without fear. And it seemed, from the tracks on those soft, faintly flushed cheeks, she had cried with him. Finally, he managed to speak. Once again, he asked her, "Why?"

She glanced at the ground for a moment, then looked up into his eyes. She leaned over and gently put her hands on his shoulders, then brushed her sweet lips against his bitter ones lightly before pulling away. "No reason really... but I don´t think that there really needs to be one."

And then, he pulled her into his arms, suddenly craving her warmth, the sweetness of her lips against his, the satiny softness of her hair under his fingers. For an indeterminable time they just crouched there, holding each other, in the loo of a room in the Leaky Cauldron, of all places, breathing each other, feeling each other's heartbeats, filling the emptiness within each other's souls. Finally, Roger pulled away, looking slightly dazed, but the blue eyes had lost some of their haunted look. Cho looked at him, feeling slightly breathless. It was like flying...and diving... like they used to when they were younger, impetuous, carefree children on the Quidditch pitch...

"No, there doesn't need to be any reason at all." he murmured, bringing up one hand and tracing the outline of her swollen lips. She smiled slightly, and he smiled back.

Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for him, yet.