A Series of Words

A muggleborn by the name of Dennis Creevey, apparently the brother of Collin, had been the last. He’d come with a note saying that sending more was unwise. The rest of the note was filled with what appeared to be jibberish and signed only with a symbol that Neville only knew of one person appreciating.

Luna stared out from the forest, a hand firm on her shoulder. “Child,” the cenauride spoke kindly. “We must away before my herd grows too restless. We can see things coming and this is not our place.”

A nod from the blonde girl, and then the thundering of hoof prints, and then nothing at all.

Neville stared at the note for a while longer, not making much sense of the scribbles. Then he started to see a pattern. He studied it for days, steadily moving the refugees out of his house. Finally, it was only himself and Dennis left.

Dennis, Neville learned, had no ability to shut up. His brother had nothing on him. The sheer impressive quantity of words was enough to drive him half-mad. Eventually, though, he got used to the boy’s mouth. When he left, the house was quieter than Neville could stand.

He stared at the note for hours every day before throwing it to the ground in frustration. He stared into the mirror, seeing stubble and fear. Then he saw cursive. Luna’s cursive, to be precise.

“I’m a bloody moron,” he muttered. His voice scared him, rough and raspy. He hadn’t so much as used it in days. He snatched the paper from the ground and read her note. She mentioned missing him and the future repeatedly.

She told him to be prepared and to be careful. Then she told him something strange: the snake must go. It was written in Latin, Greek, and English. There was no explanation. There wasn’t even any clarification.

“What the bloody hell does that mean?” he asked himself. He continued reading the note. It said something was tucked into the cackling stump. The only cackling stump he’d ever heard of was in a children’s book. The same one that held the story behind Luna’s symbol-signature.

He stared until he remembered an old conversation:

“I used to escape,” Luna told him. She was weaving flowers into a crown of sorts and her eyes were somewhere further than usual. “I would go to the creek and find these rocks. They made a cave that only I could fit in. I spent hours there. I made friends with nymphs and trolls and anything else I could find.”

He stayed silent for a moment, then apparently lost his bloody mind. “I hid out in the woods. My Gran had this tiny house with all these tiny rooms and I felt trapped. She was mourning her family and I was too young to do the same. So I ran to the woods. Stayed out there for days, once.

“My Gran had been talking about my parents. I asked when they’d be better, when they’d come home. I asked when they’d remember to come see me. She said when fairy tales came true, so would they. I found this old stump in the middle of the woods. I kept waiting for the stump to laugh. It never did.”

“Maybe once this war is over, it’ll laugh again,” Luna spoke serenely.

He stepped out of the tiny house and made his way to the tiny patch of woods on the property. He wandered through, trying to remember being small enough to think that this was a forest. He remembered running here every time he couldn’t stand the house any longer. He wandered some three hundred metres and saw something odd. A lump of cloth on a tree stump.

He picked up the Sorting Hat, which let out a faint cough.

“It’s been days, Longbottom. I am gladder and gladder that I had the mental fortitude to keep you from Ravenclaw.”

“Er, sorry,” Neville muttered.

“Tut, tut. Water under the bridge, my boy. I knew the house to which you belonged the moment I alit on your head. There was never a doubt that you were a Gryffindor through and through.”

“Begging your pardon, but you’re wrong,” Neville found himself saying.

“Pah!” the Hat scoffed. “Bravery is not fearlessness, fool! It is action despite fear. And you have courage in spades.”

A crashing sound broke their strange moment. It came from the direction of the house, and Neville was off in an instant. He saw two cloaked figures, one of whom was carrying an overlarge snake.

“Away, boy, away! This is no place for a Hat!” the Sorting Hat’s cries drew the attention of the two masked Death Eaters.

“Crucio!” one cried. Neville thought the voice sounded familiar. He deflected the curse easily.

“You think you can come here?” Neville cried angrily, sending hex after hex. “This is my home! This has been my home since just after my first birthday, and your kind can’t take it from me!”

Eventually, a nasty roping hex caught the masked figure carrying the snake. His falling scream distracted the second madman, who apperated away without hesitation.

“Coward!” Neville screamed, storming towards the remaining Death Eater. A glittering in the Hat distracted him briefly before the Sword of Gryffindor fully materialized. He pulled out the sword. Completely ignoring the cowering Death Eater, he cut off the head of the snake. He thought he could faintly hear a shriek in the distance, but he didn’t care.

He tore off the mask and revealed the sniveling face of Rodolphus Lestrange. He felt his face contort into a mask of rage. “You and your wife are the reason I grew up in this house. You’re the reason my parents don’t recognize the face of their only son. You’re the reason I can’t go to school and why my friends are on the run.”

“Don’t kill me,” the man begged. “Please, I’ll do whatever you want. Don’t kill me.”

“Shut up,” Neville spoke, instantly calm. This man was nothing. He realized that now. He was a pawn. His wife was the King. And Voldemort was the Queen. In this chess game, he saw the ending now. Harry would win, because Harry was a symbol of hope and peace and understanding.

A fluttering of wings distracted him from his realization. An owl perched on the old stair rail he’d never been allowed to slide. He grabbed a note from its talons and stroked under its chin. He opened the letter as it flew away.

Neville Longbottom’s face drained of color and he very nearly lost his tenuous grip on reality. France. He had to get to France.

A tall, lanky boy gripped a sword and held a bag hiked onto his shoulder. In the bag were a hat, changes in clothes, every medicinal potion he could find, all the plants he could carry, a letter, and a ring. Tucked into his pocket was a wand. In his other hand, he held the collar of a shirt. In the shirt was a cowering man.

The Resistance had been doing wonderful work in France and the surrounding countries. New recruits flooded to them daily while Death Eater enrollment steadily declined. And it was all Ron’s doing. He had started hijacking wizarding radio in short bursts with the help of Marie’s men.

He would publically denounce all of The Dark Lord’s shadier dealings while giving updates of the Resistance. In short, he helped hundreds of witches and wizards choose the right side.

Marie smiled as he spoke to her commanders, gesticulating wildly with his hands. He was good for them. He was surly often, but he generally hid that side from the ranks. He was frequently the first man in on secretive operations.

Marie shook her head once before returning her attention to the mail. She flipped through envelope after envelope of informant’s hauls for the week. A dainty hand-addressed envelope froze her hands. It was for Ron.

“Ron,” she called stiffly.

He instantly stopped discussion with her commanders and wandered over, gangly arms and legs looking more toned since his initiation into The Resistance.

“Alright, Marie?” he greeted with a grin.

“Letter for you,” she blurted. “From some girl named Fleur.”

“Shite,” his easy demeanor lost, Ron scrambled for the envelope. He snatched it with shaking hands and instantly was tearing ineffectively at the flap. He had it open in a matter of seconds and was instantly completely absorbed in its contents.

He relaxed after reading the first paragraph, but almost immediately tensed back up, his eyes darting through the words almost too fast for comprehension. Something was wrong, then.

“Ron,” Marie blurted finally. “Ron, what is it? Is everything alright?”

“Bloody hell,” he spoke robotically. “You-Know-Who’s decided if he takes over the schools of wizarding Europe, he’ll end any sort of resistance. He’s already got Hogwarts and Durmstrang, and now he’s going for Beauxbatons Academy. He’s sending a whole battalion of Death Eaters. They’ll have the school in a matter of days.”

“And what does Fleur have to do with that?”

“She’s my brother’s wife. Her kid sister is there. She’s a fourth year. If they get her…”

Marie nodded. “Then we’ll just have to be sure they don’t.”

“Wha—“ Ron began before Marie walked away.

“Resistance!” Marie bellowed. “Form ranks! We have an emergency! Death Eaters will be attempting to take Beauxbatons Academy today. We cannot allow this to happen.”

A growl went up through the ranks. Many of The Resistance had family attending Beauxbatons.

“Lock and load, everyone. I need you ready five minutes ago. We leave in ten.”

When they began to arrive at Beauxbatons, the battle was already raging. Ron’s eyes took in the scene of chaos before he spotted her.

Gabrielle Delacour was battling a man who could only be Goyle, Sr. He was throwing curse after curse at the girl, who was giving about as good as she got.

Ron was instantly sprinting through the chaos, roaring like a man deranged. Marie gave assignments as her people came through their portkeys.

“Protego! That’s my sister, you bastard,” Ron bellowed. Spell after spell flew from Ron’s wand. Goyle’s eyes widened as he realized who his new opponent was.

“You’re Ron Weasley,” he blurted stupidly. “The Dark Lord wants you captured so’s we can lure out Potter.”

“You bloody moron,” Ron roared back. “You’ve just told me his whole bloody plan before you caught me. Buggering idiot.”

“What?” Goyle managed while firing simple spells.

“Oh, bugger it,” Ron cursed. “Eat slugs!” and this time, his spell fired true. Goyle’s eyes widened as he felt the first unfortunate gurgle.

After Goyle fell, the rest of the Death Eaters quickly surrendered. Marie’s men snapped their wands and took apperated them back to their headquarters.

Marie had a brief conversation with Madame Maxime before joining Ron and Gabrielle. Gabrielle appeared to be angrily spewing French and jabbing Ron with a manicured blue nail.

Marie smirked at Ron before strutting over between him and Gabrielle. “Ron, I’m offended. You’ve not introduced me to this girl.”

“Uh, right,” Ron stammered. “Marie, this is Gabrielle. She’s my sister-in-law.”

“Ah, charmante,” Marie spoke smoothly, taking Gabrielle’s hand. “Je m'appelle Marie.”

Gabrielle got a devious smirk when she heard Marie’s introduction. “So this is the famous Marie. I feel as though we are already friends. Ronald here has told us all so much about you in his short letters.”

“Ria,” Ron whined. “I just said she was a brilliant leader, that’s all.”

“Oh honestly, Ron,” Gabrielle sighed. She glanced at Marie. “Look, she clearly fancies you as well, idiot.”

Marie blushed brightly and stammered her denials. Gabrielle’s smile was incandescent. “Oh, also, your sister wanted to let you know that you need not visit after all. She intends to join you here as soon as she can. She may have a few bits of information for your cause.”

With that, Gabrielle Delacour flounced off to speak with Madame Maxime. Marie and Ron stood awkwardly for a few moments.

“So headmistress Maxime has informed us that Beauxbatons is closing, and is available for us to use as our primary headquarters.” Marie blurted.

“That’s good,” Ron replied cautiously. She wouldn’t meet his eye. “I’m sorry about Ria. She’s a bit of a spitfire. You’ll have to have someone escort her home or she’ll stay. She’s underage and Fleur’ll kill me.”

“Bloody hell,” Marie blurted finally. She leaned up on tiptoe and yanked Ron’s face to her own. “You are an idiot, Weasley. I’ve been trying to flirt for weeks. I’m getting awfully tired waiting for—“

She was cut off when Ron grabbed her upper arms and pressed his lips to her own. They kissed frantically for several seconds before regaining their composure.

“Sorry,” he grinned lopsidedly. “You stole my catch phrase. I really couldn’t help it.”

 After he’d enlisted Potter’s help in rescuing Hermione, the idiot had assumed they were friends.

Admittedly, Draco didn’t hate Harry— damn it. He didn’t hate Potter anymore. But that didn’t mean they were friends. Draco was here because he didn’t like when he owed people things. And he owed Hermione an awful lot.

She’d sought him out when the chaos surrounding Dumbledore’s death began. Draco would never forget that night.

Bellatrix was screaming at him about how useless he was. Snape was staring impassively at him. And suddenly, a small hand had snagged his own and yanked him behind a tapestry.

“Draco,” Hermione whispered. “Draco, you don’t have to go with them. You aren’t worthless for wanting to avoid bloodshed. Slytherin doesn’t have to mean evil, Draco. You were chosen for Slytherin because you’re cunning and will always achieve what you set out to do.”

“Let me go, Mudblood,” Draco hissed violently. “Don’t you see it’s too late for that?” Draco shoved his left arm at her.

She stared into his eyes for a moment. Her hands crept gently to his sleeve. She carefully nudged up the sleeve of his robe. Her hands shook as she unbuttoned his cuffs.

She rolled the sleeve up to his elbow. She would run now, Draco knew. He turned his face so he wouldn’t have to watch hers crumple in disgust. He flinched when he felt small, soft fingertips brushing the black ink.

“You’re not evil, Draco. Stay safe,” she spoke softly, fervently. She froze for one moment, then pressed her lips to his cheek. He flinched away again, but she just squeezed his hand once more before ducking out from behind the curtain.

She didn’t know it, but he’d thought over those words nearly a million times while he was pacing the manor like a trapped animal. When Harry had shown up, Draco had taken it as a sign. So he saved Boy Wonder’s backside and joined their little group.

How that had devolved into himself, Harry, and Hermione leaving his childhood home with a pop and a horrible tug behind his navel, he had no clue. But now they were wandering along a path in what appeared to be the middle of bloody buggering nowhere.

“Granger, where in Godric’s name did you take us? I won’t die in the woods like some…some helpless…bunny rabbit or something. Granger!”

“A bunny? Really? Draco, do be a dear and shut up for a moment, would you?” Hermione asked calmly. “We’re in the Forest of Dean- protego totalem- and- cave inimicum- I’m going to make us- muffliato- a bit safer here. Salvio hexia, repello muggletum.”

“The Forest of what?” Draco blurted.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Draco, it’s a forest I camped in a few times. It’s away from all the action, so we could catch up on our rest. Now why don’t you let me take a look at those spell-scars. I might be able to do something about them.”

“Mione, I’m fine—“ Draco was cut off by Hermione prodding at his jaw. An instant later, she was yanking on the collar of his shirt, unbuttoning the top two buttons. She jerked the shirt away from the bit of scar that could be seen when the shirt was buttoned. In truth, the scar reached across his collarbone and down the first several inches of his chest.

“Merlin, Draco, that looks awful!” Hermione gaped.

“Hey! I’ll have you know that there’s a girl in France who worked terribly hard to heal them this well. Admittedly, she took care of my face first, and bloody brilliant, she was.”

Hermione stared at him for a moment, her fingertips brushing against the scar. She abruptly seemed to realize what she was doing and pulled her hand away with a fiery blush.

Draco’s hand seemed to move of its own accord, brushing the backs of his fingers against her red cheeks. “Well,” he murmured softly, “turns out you look brilliant in Gryffendor red, Granger.”

The blush deepened, then. Suddenly, she froze. Her hand wrapped around his wrist. “Draco, I meant to tell you earlier: I don’t hold it against you, you know. What you said in school? It doesn’t matter to me anymore, Draco. And I wanted to thank you for helping Harry in the Manor that first night…I just… I wanted you to know.”

“Mione,” Draco began, his pureblood oratory prowess failing him in his hour of need. “Hermione Granger, finest witch of our generation, I…” he trailed off again inconveniently. “Thank you,” he finally managed. Her brilliant smile in reply made him think that the blush creeping up his neck was worth it.

They stood there for a moment, the silence pressing in and Harry’s tent-building several meters away somehow making things worse.

“I’ve never—“

“I hope that—“

They both fell silent again.

“Oh bloody hell,” Harry groaned. “Just admit you fancy the pants off each other and snog already, yeah?”

Hermione turned to glare at Harry for a moment, but Draco had no such reservations. “For once, I think boy wonder got it right,” he muttered. He reached out to snag Hermione’s wrist in his hand, pulling her closer.

A yelp flew out of her mouth, but was quickly stopped as his free hand moved to the small of her back. He released her wrist and tangled his hand into her mane at the nape of her neck. He pulled her closer slowly, giving her time to push him away. When the opportunity was not taken, he pressed his lips to hers.