Dumbledore's Army and the Year of Darkness

Chapter 8: Dreams and Realities

Neville pressed back tightly against the cool stone wall, holding his breath as he listened for the sound of a footfall, the whisper of a cloak, anything but his own speeding heart. Every nerve was on edge, and he didn't dare let go of his wand long enough to wipe the sweat from his palms. They were out there, somewhere, hunting him, and a moment's distraction was all it would take. Allowing himself a deep, cautious breath, he eased silently around the corner, leading with his wand.

He could see a figure crumpled motionless on the floor ahead. The thick, glossy black plait told him the fallen was one of the Patil twins, but he spared no time to check whether the trim of her robes was crimson or blue. There would be time to tally their losses later. Now it was just the thin piece of wood in his hand and he didn't know how many Death Eaters somewhere out there. He had felled two already, his vivid green jets evening the odds against their own as much as he could.

A flash of motion caught the corner of his eye, and he spun, crouching low to reduce himself as a target as he steadied the wand in both hands. It was Michael, his handsome face shining with sweat over an ashen pallor, his eyes haunted. The Ravenclaw gasped as he snapped his own wand up to the ready, then let out a deep, shuddering breath as he recognized Neville. "Holy—Neville, I could have—"

"You could have nothing," Neville hissed in a furious whisper. "Keep your wand up, Corner! I could have killed you three times before you had it aimed!" His eyes flicked down the corridor. "Where's Terry?"

"They got him." He wiped one shaking hand across his forehead. "This is too much. We can't win... they just come out of nowhere, and they're out to kill! You can't block it!"

"Then duck it, or get them first, or keep them dueling until you have a clear shot. This is a battle, not a skirmish. A battle is always too much, I've been in two. Just stop thinking and keep your wand up!" He'd been in one place too long, his instincts were beginning to scream an alarm, and he didn't spare a glance back as he slipped away down the hall, leaving Michael behind in the dark halls with his advice and the young man's own fear.

There was the sound of movement from the Charms classroom ahead, but before he could reach the door, the faint rustles and footsteps erupted into the sizzles, cracks, and screams of an outright duel. There were at least two Death Eaters, their voices muffled beneath the masks, but Ernie's Scots burr was unmistakable, and the witch's voice made his heart freeze. It was Hannah, her voice tight, strained, clearly in pain as she fired off spell after spell in increasing desperation.

Without another thought, Neville sprinted down the corridor and threw open the door to the classroom. Hannah was on the floor, her legs useless beneath her in the misshapen knot of a Jelly-Legs Jinx as she fought to hold a Shield Charm against the Death Eater who towered over her, firing jinxes and hexes down against the silvery barrier. Across the room, Ernie crouched behind Flitwick's desk. He was dueling two at once, one side of his face twisted in a dark, ugly-looking burn.

Neville did not hesitate. Green light shot out towards the Death Eater attacking Hannah, and before the black-robed figure had hit the floor, he was at her side, scooping her up in his arms to get her out of there, get her somewhere safe to find out what had put the pain in her voice. One of the Death Eaters fighting Ernie turned, and he realized in horror that his wand was trapped in the hand now wrapped under Hannah's knees. She twisted in his arms, raising hers, but it was too late.

The world flared green, everything spun cold for a split second, and then he knew nothing at all.

OOO

"That was a complete effing disaster!" Neville yanked off his sweat-soaked robes and flung them to the floor in disgust. Ginny, still in her Death Eater's robes, offered him a glass of water with a rueful, wordless smile, but he waved it away, stripping out of his shirt and tie to throw them down in a pile on top of the robes. Down to his undershirt now, he sank into a crouch, bracing his elbows against his knees and running his fingers through his hair as he looked out across his exhausted troops.