Callous rain, the sort that creeps through skin and numbs your bones, beat heavily and obstinately against the stained glass of Hogwarts castle. A wild eastern wind roared, lightening struck in deafening delight, doors all across the chambers rattled their own icy song, and hallways creaked their agonizing pain. There was no light to speak of, and the corridors had adopted an eerie sense of foreboding that seemed to enhance the ghastly experiences of the past, like a recorder projecting your worst memories; your worst fears. Little could be heard over the clapping thunder, littler still could be thought in its presence, and it was, in all regards, a reflection of the times.
Three students sat, huddled and reluctant, in a far corner of Madam Pomfrey’s infirmary. None dared to speak, for none had the nerve to even look one another in the eyes. Cradled in a blue, soft blanket of down, Hermione Granger narrowly escaped their gazes, focusing her attention on the smallest of insects crawling leisurely across the red tiled floor.
The second Dark war had arrived. They all knew it, they all felt it, the way you feel the heavy, methodical heartache coming on directly after you’ve discovered a cadaver in some inconspicuous location, it startling you, but not being completely unforeseen; because death has become standardized.
The first battled had already transpired, but the speculation and effect of it had not yet commenced their weary minds. It was gruesome, erratic in its pattern, frightening, and moreover, anticipated. None, not even Dumbledore, had seen it coming on this cold, dank day in December, but all, especially Dumbledore, felt it was fast approaching. It was Harry’s seventh and final year, and only adamant false hope or an exceedingly naïve wizard could conceive that he would get through Hogwarts without fulfilling the prophecy of ages. And the prophecy, it seemed, had begun.
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One could argue that the initial confrontation of the war occurred halfway through a Quidditch match: Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw. At first, those who noticed the tall, dark figures in the distance were shocked, and rightfully so; for they deemed them dementors. They would have been far worse off, however, to learn of their true nature as Death Eaters. It must have been well planned. Blatant evil on that level could not enter the castle itself on a whim, but the Quidditch Pitch was another story. They glided on air, as if being pulled on some sort of conveyer belt, and paused mere feet away from the stands. Though shrouded by their black veils and black souls, the presence of their evil grimace was evident in the air. Only a Dark wizard could harbor such arrogance, such disregard for life. Students and teachers alike hung their mouths wide open; stunned, appalled, and intolerably uncertain all at once. What was this? How could this be happening, at this moment, at this place?
Dumbledore rose, raised a steady hand, and the pitch was instantly illuminated by a translucent, pearly bubble that wavered like the sea, enclosing them all within. He ordered Madam Hooch and Hagrid to see the students indoors, with further orders for an immediate lockdown. As he spoke, his voice rang with strict fortitude and adamancy, as opposed to the expected unadulterated rage. The pearly bubble writhed and stretched itself out to form a tunnel along the path leading to the Great Hall. The students rushed through, some screaming, some crying, all petrified. The Death Eaters looked on in a mock, polite puzzlement. Not even a minute later, the tunnel closed as Dumbledore watched the last child scuttled through the door to the Entrance Hall.
Or, at least, the last student that meant to scuttle through the door.
Harry Potter had a personal agenda with the Death Eaters. He realized how risky his next move would be, how dangerous, even if he wasn’t caught by Macnair or perhaps Lestrange; for he’d always have McGonagall to contend with. But the penetrating vision of the parents he never knew, and the lingering heartache from the Godfather he loved and lost, perpetuated his agenda forward. He yelled at Ron and Hermione to leave him, but, as was typical, they refused.
Dumbledore’s silver beard seemed ablaze with quiet fury as it dashed about in the arctic wind. Taking a sudden, reviving breath, he warned the Death Eaters to disappear, to never show their silhouettes near Hogwarts again. He told them a true combatant of a cause would honor the rules of war, and leave innocent children out of it. They did not respond, through action or otherwise. And for a long moment that extended itself into an introspective lifetime, neither side said nothing, did nothing, until-
Several occurrences transpired in quick succession. Thunder roared and left a ringing in all their ears, temporarily distracting the Death Eaters. A bolt of lightening struck something nearby… The pearly bubble turned a deep, velvety blue, and seemed to swell in a menacing fashion… Dumbledore’s voice bellowed from his throat, the way one’s does when magnified through a megaphone. He warned once more, and Harry, Hermione and Ron noticed the Death Eaters retreat a few feet. And, with a whipping sound that could have cracked the sky itself in two, the bubble burst, leaving the Death Eaters twitching in midair, until finally collapsing onto the cold, hard earth hundreds of feet below them.
The professors rushed to restrain Voldemort’s warriors, but were too late. They were already getting to their feet, wands at the ready.
It was a sight that would never leave the three adolescents, nor, indeed, the six teachers. It was a sight for history books, one that could only be fully appreciated and articulated by the most skilled of writers with the highest demand of language.
Time had leant itself a new registration for how long a particular act took. Anxiety, passion, determination, and righteousness loitered the air like a thick haze of fog. It was mesmerizing. There, lined and spread across the Pitch, stood Minerva McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, Dumbledore, Moody, and Severus Snape: the manifestation of all that was good and right in the world, but by being so, also all that was vulnerable and beautifully, wittingly, exposed. The six of them faced eight Death Eaters, opposite their position, who represented the malevolence that resides in all mortals, but by being so, also representing the weakness that they can only prevail when good stands idle. On this fateful December night, that was not the case.
And it began.
Hot sparks of light streaked passed, bouncing off the stands, illuminating the Pitch in only the way offensive charms can. Rain continued to pour, lightening threatened to strike, yet Harry did not see any of them flinch once. Blue, red, white, purple, and green engulfed Harry’s, Ron’s and Hermione’s senses. The ironic beauty glued them to their spots, just to the left of the Gryffindor stands. One by one, the Death Eaters began to retreat, until only four were left. The battle suspended, Dumbledore asked why they had come, what purpose they found in such a haphazard duel executed at the most unlikely of places.
One gravelly voice answered, and it was distinctly Macnair’s. He responded that there were no rules in war, that Hogwarts was perfect because it was unpredicted, and that their purpose was obvious: a distraction. And as he finished his retort, a soaking, hooded Death Eater sprang from behind the line of teachers, and attacked McGonagall with the Crucio curse.
She writhed and convulsed in the mud, resembling a beached fish struggling for air. Snape turned about and hit the Death Eater with a spell, causing him to fumble, but the damage was done. The distraction of which Macnair had spoken succeeded, and the teachers no longer had the upper hand.
McGonagall lie on the ground, seemingly lifeless. Snape had just been hit, and Sprout was now battling two at once. Harry gave Hermione and Ron a knowing look that was not lost on them. The three jumped out, Harry single-handedly fighting off Sprout’s two attackers, as Ron and Hermione rushed to McGonagall’s and Snape’s aid. Rain slashed their faces like a thick leather whip, but they quickly magicked them into the air and pulled their unconscious bodies into safety bellow the stands. They ran to help Harry, and succeeded in causing the two to retreat. Moody yelled at them to run away, his eye swiveling madly, presumably on the lookout. But they couldn’t hear Moody if they had wanted to, the storm was so outrageously loud. It seemed to be growing to some sort of climax, the piercing water feeling more like solid metal bullets. Thunder rose, three Death Eaters lunged forward, their intent clear… Harry was blinded by the rain, where was Rona and Hermione? He heard a crunching sound, realized he had stepped on his glasses. Someone laid a forceful hand on his shoulder, and when he turned about to face Moody, he also saw another act playing out its ugly part mere feet away… Lestrange was gliding towards Hermione… Harry yelled, but Hermione was confounded in all the noise and action of the fight… Lestrange raised her wand… sparks flew from it as quick as darts… and suddenly-
Hermione was hit. She didn’t struggle or twitch, but lay motionless on the ground, oddly positioned. Ron rushed to her side, lifting her head, but trying to block the rain. Harry wheeled around, face contoured in rage as he made eye contact with Bellatrix Lestrange; the same woman who’d killed Sirius… and he hadn’t been this angry since Sirius’ death, and this time, he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to execute justice.
And as the hate rose in his chest like a tidal wave of energy, the rain, the whole storm blew out of focus. He pointed his wand, fully prepared to use an Unforgivable, his mind set on his goal. He raised it higher still, determination etched into every line on his young face… he was about to attack forward, when-
Darkness. A void so deep, he was lost in an eternal shadowy silence. No thoughts, no feelings, no cliché photo album of memories past; only the simple, innate emotion of trepidation endured. The lone, cognizant sensation was the sickening cold gripping his heart, and the unfathomable heat embracing his mind like a Python. A stinging seized his limbs, but he was only faintly aware of it… it eased into a return of the emptiness, and black surrounded his very soul. It was freezing, yet he did not recognize this notion any longer… And as his consciousness leaned into compliancy with the overbearing obscurity of shadow, he knew with all his being, that this is what it meant to die.