The Fire in Which We Burn

It was old, run down, and quite frankly, not attractive in the least. But this was the fort Harry Potter was to defend. “Fort” was a very loose term for this compound. An American wizard, obsessed with the history of his Muggle counterparts, had built it to resemble Mission Valero de Bexar, better know as the Alamo. Now Harry found himself in the same position as men like David Crockett, and James Bowie. He was stuck in this damn place with 183 of his most loyal men, under siege by nearly 4,000 strong. Voldemort had launched a surprise attack against Harry, wiping out most of his force. Harry had retreated from Ottery St. Catchpole, and had positioned himself here. In the chapel his wife, Hermione, his baby boy, James, and his friend, Ginny, were huddling, hoping not to get hit by the next artillery barrage. Harry gritted his teeth and ordered his own artillery to open fire on Voldemort’s position. “Harry, Harry,” Neville Longbottom ran towards Harry, out of breath. “They’re trying to knock down the north wall.”

“Damn it!”

“ It’s our weakest spot, sir.”

“ I know. Neville, get men to that wall as quick as you can.”

“Yes sir.”

Neville rushed off, tripping over his feet in his fear and excitement. Harry sighed, wishing once again that Ron could be here with, fighting at his side. The siege had lasted for thirteen days, and now it seemed Voldemort was making his last big offensive push.

Harry ran towards the wall, when he herd Colin Creevy following him.

“Colin, follow me. I’m going to the north wall.”

Colin followed Harry up the ramp and onto the wall. Colin had to throw himself down to avoid getting hit by spells of every caliber. He saw Harry talking to Fred Weasley. Fred nodded and leapt off the wall, heading for one of the cannons. Colin scuttled over to Harry.

“There you are, Colin,” Harry gave him a small, weak smile, leaned over the wall to cast a spell at the advancing line of Death Eaters, and died.

Colin watched in horror as the bullet from a Muggle gun hit Harry’s face. The back of his head exploded outward, and as he fell backwards, Colin nearly puked at the look of contentment on his friends dead face. The cause, the cause was lost. Everything was lost. Within minutes the wall was breached and Voldemort’s men swarmed into the plaza. Colin ran back towards the chapel. Maybe not all was lost. Harry’s son James was still alive, and so was Hermione.

“Everyone to the chapel!” he shouted.

Men lined up in front of the doors of the chapel and began to claw and bite the attackers. Colin knew he had to get to Hermione, get her and James as far away as possible. Perhaps the U.S. would be a good place to hide. As Colin entered the chapel a cool air hit his face, and sent a chill down his spine. It was not a natural coolness, but one that you get when something bad is about to happen. And then he heard the low, menacing hiss of the one everyone feared.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Creevy,” Voldemort hissed.

A surge of hate swept through him. Voldemort had killed his brother, his friend and idol, and everyone he had ever cared for. Colin raised his wand, ready to kill this monster who had taken so much from him, and the entire world. But he was to late. Voldemort was faster, and the next instant Colin was dead. His last thought was that he would never be the hero he had always wished to become. The Alamo had fallen, but some how the cause survived. James was still alive. And Hermione was ready to teach him how to fight his father’s killer and rid the world of his evil, forever.