Chapter 76 Burning

The Death Eaters hit three separate locations at the same time: The Burrow, Hogsmeade, and Diagon Alley. Diagon Alley had been nothing more than misdirection, as their first volley had achieved their objective: number 93, Diagon Alley and Fred Weasely had been eradicated. The fact that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been the first responders to the scene, had been icing on the cake: Each and every Auror had known that they marched to their doom, and nineteen Aurors and one department head had been slain in the brutal fighting. Seventy-seven Death Eaters were slain, and the Legion had increased the Death Eater body count to over a hundred with ease. But still, they were too late to do more than record the last words of Amelia Bones, to her daughter, "Tell Susan. I love her… tell her, I died… doing what was right, not what was easy."

The true targets that day were the Weasely family, which had been brutally decimated: Fred, George, Molly, and Arthur. Then there was Ginny, her fate still unknown.

The snow crunched underfoot, and it was the first official school visit to the rebuilt village. The Legion knew what to expect. The rest of Hogwarts did not. Indeed, Harry's covert buyout of the Daily Prophet and together with The Quibbler ensured him control of much of the mainstream media in Wizarding Britain. Indeed, the Prophet was fast becoming known as a Paragon of truth and justice. The Legionnaires that had responded to the call knew what to expect. But by the time Harry and his reinforcements had arrived, there was nothing they could do, but contain the blazes and rescue those they could. None of the papers had gone into the details except for the two numbers: Two hundred and forty-seven, Ninety-five.

Two hundred and forty-seven dead, ninety-five wounded.

Harry added another set of his own statistics: Fourteen. Twelve.One.

Fourteen children were left orphaned. Twelve Legion casualties. One Legion Core member missing presumed dead.

Indeed, many of those who had fought and participated in the abortive rescue efforts had been recalcitrant to speak of what they had seen. The few photos – black and white from the Prophet, and in color from the Quibbler," were mere shadows and light compared to the reality.

"Mon Dieu," she breathed as she looked around. While the village had been rebuilt, they had stopped at the memorial archway erected in remembrance. Two hundred and forty-seven names were carved in gold into the simple stone.

Beyond it, the ground was still scorched by the flames, giving off background magic that was powerful enough to melt whatever snow descended upon the ground. A number of plots were still charred ruins: Their owners had perished and there was nobody who wanted to invest or even buy the property in such dangerous times.

"It… looks like London, after the bombing during World War 2," whispered Colin. They made their way down the recently relined stone streets towards the town square. Harry paused before a burned-out ruin and knelt next to what looked like a splash of wine from a broken bottle. "It was here," he whispered quietly.

Fleur gently put her hand on his shoulder, "Qu est quis pas Mon Amour?"

"Elle… reste ici," he replied quietly, "She was here. A girl. Eight or nine years old, raven hair, piercing steel grey eyes. She looked like an angel…. Her voice…. It sounded like one too." He was swept back to the events of Halloween, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Harry arrived without a sound via apparition to find the village burning. Every building was ablaze. The flames rose into the sky like fingers of a death's hand: The ground floor was completely engulfed. Around him, Legionnaires battled the blaze using fire hose charms and flame freezing charms where they could. The problem was the Fyndfire: They had no way to counter that. Harry tapped his wand to his head and his Patronus departed. The answers came within minutes. Ginny and Neville were at the south end of the village – the localized snowstorm made that clear enough. Another Patronus–a giant bear - answered that reinforcements from Hogwarts were minutes away.

Harry had stared over low stone walls and iron fences: Bodies were strewn everywhere. Doors were broken, swinging from broken hinges. Glass tinkled and crunched underfoot. Dark Marks floated overhead, almost a dozen of the snake and skull emblems. The taste of death was bitter and acrid: the residue of so many killing curses cast.

A building burned and a whimper drew his gaze from the bright yellow and orange blaze that through leaping light and shadows over everything: there was a small form curled up on the cobblestones, barely ten feet from him.

She was barely half his age. She reminded him of Gabrielle Delacour.

Her green dress was dyed a violently dark emerald green because of her own blood. She was incredibly pale, she was shivering, and Harry was coated in her blood, "Hey stranger," he whispered quietly, "Can you hear me?"

Her eyelids had fluttered open, then closed and open again. She gripped his hand suddenly, the grip of someone who was fighting for their life. He could feel the chill in her body, "Mister?" her whisper had a melodic lilt to it, "I… can't find mommy or daddy." Harry looked a little way down the cobblestone path and saw them: He lay face down eyes staring vacantly towards his daughter. She was lying on her back, robes in tatters, eyes staring sightlessly into the night sky, her makeup marred by tears.

He turned and shifted slightly, reaching to his belt pouch for one of the single-use portkeys that would transport her to The Manor. "Mister… mister… I'm cold," she whispered. He cast a quick scanning and diagnostic charm: Two crushed femurs, broken left arm, compound rib fractures, dislocated left hip, ruptured liver and spleen. Intestinal perforation, and a collapsed lung.

He felt the acid sting of tears in his eyes as he knew that there was no magic in the world that could heal this kind of injury. He let the post-it note portkey flutter to the ground, "Co…cold," she stuttered. Even if the wounds could be treated, blood loss would kill her, so would magical shock.

He cast a warming charm, a simple piece of magic he had learned years ago, and then a series of numbing charms, before lowering her to the ground. Summoning a piece of wood, he transfigured it into a rough but soft pillow and laid it beneath her head before transfiguring an equally rough blanket which he gently draped over her, "There now, comfy?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, "Tired, wanna sleep, but wanna see mommy and daddy." Her head sunk down, eyes drifting shut as she struggled to stay awake.

"Go to sleep," his voice cracked, "go to sleep and you'll see mommy and daddy. Just be a… a good girl, and sleep." He ran his hand through her curls as she nodded a fraction. He took her still good hand in his own and held it. He could feel it. Her magic, her life, ebbing away, "You'll… feel better when you wake up."

"Another one, I could not save," he whispered bitterly, "I couldn't save her either." Nobody needed it explained, that the "her," was not the same as "the one."

"Commander, you alright?" called Terry Boot. He was standing with a Slytherin third year, and Cho Chang, who watched the scene with some concern.

"He's fine!" called Luna. Truth was, none of them were fine. None of them had been fine in weeks. Some of them, she thought bleakly, had not been fine for months. What was worse yet was that they knew that there was nothing they could really do to help each other.

"Come on mate," said Colin, "Three Broomsticks is just around the corner. Reckon we could all do with a Butterbeer before we start shopping for presents." There was no disagreement.

The Three Broomsticks had certainly seen better days. They reached the inn and walked inside. Most of the ground floor had been rebuilt using salvage timbers and stone, many of which still the telltale burn marks from the flames or the circular scorches from spellfire. Given that it sat on the Southside of the village square, it was the center of social life in the village. Small wonder it had been one of the first targets. The tavern was the second building in the village destroyed by the marauding Death Eaters. Their first target had been WWW and George Weasely. The walls showed signs of fresh paint; some of the wooden beams were also cracked and charred. There were a lot fewer tables than before, and the bar was still missing its trademark mirror and stocked less than a third of the usual number of bottles.

They picked a table close to the bar – indeed they were the only occupied table. Considering the carnage, that fourteen witches and wizards had perished here, they could understand that the taverns' reputation had been sullied. Hopefully, it would not stay that way.

Madame Rosemerta was as nimble and agile as ever, waiting at their table the moment they had seated themselves, leaning on a heavy wooden walking stick. "What'll it be?" she asked quietly, subdued. She knew wherever she treads in her own establishment was a spot where someone, possibly one of her regular breakfast rush customers had fallen and died.

"Butterbeer," replied Fleur.

She limped instead of sashaying as she normally did, forced to lean quite heavily on her walking stick. She refused the help of more than one person, and it was something that they could all relate to, understand. Few knew that Madame Rosemary Rosemerta had once been head mediwitch at St. Mungos during the Muggle Second World War, and then again on the front lines during the First Blood War. She had proven her courage and valor during what the survivors were calling, "The Blaze," treating the wounded, supporting the Legion's own corps of medics and goblins and Madame Pomfrey after she was pulled from the ruins of her business and home. She had stayed on scene until she passed out due to the limited attention she had paid to her own injuries.

Their companionable silence was interrupted by the return of Madam Rosemerta, who levitated a large tray of drinks in front of her, her other hand clutching the walking stick. There were four flagons of Butterbeer, along with five shot glasses and a bottle of rich amber liquid which glowed with an inner light. The drinks levitated their way around the table, as did the tray. "Here you go," she said.

The tray came to arrest on the table as Rosemerta expertly flicked the shot glasses, one-handed across the table so that they came to a rest in front of each of them, "The only bottle from my old stock," she announced, holding it up for them to inspect.

Harry's eyebrows rose a fraction as he read the label, "No wonder you wouldn't let it go that day."

She pulled the cork and the bottle itself seemed to gasp in pleasure as the golden fluid trickled into the glasses. Three more shot glasses remained on the tray, and they were filled. Nobody said anything about them. Everyone knew who they were for.

"Aren't we a little underage?" asked Colin hesitantly.

"After The Blaze," she said slowly, "You Legionnaires are the only people I would drink it with – and I don't feel like waiting." Suddenly, it was Rosemerta's turn to relive that day, all of it, in the flash of a moment…

She was amazed anyone had survived. In fact, she was amazed she had survived it this long. Flames spread from the walls and licked at the ceiling beams. The bodies were everywhere, killed by Avada Kedevra and other curses. Some had been blown apart. Proof enough was the blood and viscera upon the walls and ceiling, the cloying smell of copper and death was suffocating.

She was still behind the bar, somehow still alive as she kept extinguishing the flames around her. But it was only a matter of time: The alcohol from the broken bottles kept catching fire. And she could not remember the incantation for the bone mending charm so she could do something about her broken leg: Heal it and get out.

There was an ominous groan, and moments later the ceiling beam had come crashing down upon her already injured leg. She had screamed in pain, losing her grip on her wand which rolled out of her grip and across the floor.

She had resigned herself to her fate and hoped that the smoke would kill her, or least have her unconscious before the flames got to her. There had been the sounds of crashes, breaking bottles and glass. A bottle rolled off the counter and neatly fell into her hands. She looked at the label and laughed. Then coughed.

Then she heard voices, "Aquamenti!" a torrent of water doused the nearby flames and to her amazement, a column of stone had erupted from the ground to prop up the roof. Two wizards and witches leaped through what flames still burned and they were around her. She felt and recognized a diagnostic charm as it washed over her. "Leg's broken, crushed under the pillar," he said. She recognized the voice instantly: Harry Potter himself.

"Mr. Potter, I can't feel anything from the waist down," she said with a hint of fear and panic in her voice, "No sense in all of you dying here! Get out! Now!" she ordered. To her disbelief, they had ignored her, "Damnit! You shouldn't be in here trying to save me! Get out before the whole place comes down!" They began healing the minor wounds, applying numbing charms, and then lifting the beam off her leg before healing the broken bones.

"We don't do "try," said the other wizard, "We simply "Do." He turned and caught another falling beam with a wand wave and banished it aside, "But I do suggest not lingering here."

"It's a temporary fix, Rosie," said Harry, "But it's enough so you can walk out of here," He'd given her an almost cheeky smile together with a roughish wink, "Or would you rather I carry you?" With a hand up, she was back on her feet. Someone returned her wand.

"Thank you," she said.

"Legion ma'am," was the reply. Her face was blurred by a bubblehead charm to help keep the smoke at bay, "It's what we do."

They were forced to blow a hole in the wall to affect their departure, but considering that the wall was already ablaze, it was no loss. As they strode from the burning tavern, Harry had noticed the bottle, held by the neck in one hand.

She blinked, pulling herself back to the present, and hoisted her glass into the air, "A toast," she said, softly, her voice trembling with emotion. Harry's face was impassive, but his hand was clenched so tightly around the glass that his knuckles were white. "To rebuilding!" the base of her glass, clinked off the rims of each filled shot glass, still on the tray, still in the center of the table.

"To life!" added Colin, repeating the gesture.

"To surviving" added Luna softly as three more times the heavy crystal chimed.

"To healing," said Fleur, as her glass rang off the gathered shots.

"To revenge," whispered Neville quietly, as his glass kissed those gathered in the center, "To Fred. To George," his voice cracked, "To Ginny."

Harry looked around the table, the eyes of Rosemerta and his friends, "To peace."

It was a prayer, it was hope, in a single word, one they all echoes as their glasses crashed together, "To Peace."

Later that night, alone, in the Room of Requirement, Neville Longbottom stared out the window, on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He watched it all, over and over again, knowing that he should have done something different, done something right. If he had, Ginny would still be with him, instead of wherever she was. It was cruel but he prayed that wherever she was, she was dead as the scene threatened to unfold before his eyes. His trembling hand, reached for the bottle for the umpteenth time, as he sought to drown the nightmare before it unfurled like a banner before his eyes yet again.

The fact was that Neville was already drunker than Harry had ever been, and he still felt he was not drunk enough. He lunged across the Room of Requirement, desperately reaching for the bottle standing on the small table next to an armchair – all provided compliments of the Room of Requirement, he tripped over his own feet and crashed to the floor. His teeth came together with an incredibly harsh click, and he narrowly missed biting off his own tongue. Bleary, he struggled to right himself, only for the top of his head to crash into the table, before he slammed forehead first into the table. Almost as if adding insult to injury, the bottle teetered and then fell, landing with a resounding thud atop his head, knocking him unconscious, with no place to flee the horror, contained within his own mind, his hand clenched around the only thing he had of Ginnys: Her Legion Ring.

It had all happened so damned fast. One minute they had just emerged from the burning building. The house had been home to a family of five, and all of them were corpses, and there was no doubt they had all been tortured before their execution.

There were no Legionnaires guarding the perimeter as there should have been, instead, there were ten spaces of roughed up snow, marking where they fell before their portkeys activated, whisking them to safety.

The bludgeoning hex had caught him full in the chest and he been blasted back against a fence post, punching straight through it before landing in a heap in the garden's rose bushes. Even as he struggled to rise to his feet, Ginny was already in motion, a blur as spells leaped from her wand, cutting down the Effingus. She had dived. The cutting curses had missed, the piercing hex flashed through the open mailbox, taking it apart. The blasting hex blew three fence posts to pieces, sending wooden shrapnel lancing everywhere.

She had rolled, come back to her feet, a shield in front of her, deflecting curses, ready to unleash another spell chain. Neville had seen it, the silver masked Death Eater coming from her right flank, where she was completely exposed. He had raised his wand, bracketed the blurry outline with a trio of stunners – he dared use nothing stronger due to his compromised vision, and he had missed with all three. He tried to shout a warning but his chest was a mass of pain. He couldn't get words out past the pain. Whoever it was, behind the mask, he saw it: Red hair. Fiery red hair, the fiery red tresses of his Ginny, only much shorter.

The Death Eater had tackled her to the ground, using his shoulder as a battering ram. She never stopped fighting, bringing her elbows down hard upon the back of her attacker as they crashed to the ground. There was a series of flashes at close range, a deep red flash, then more red that was not magic: It was wet. It coated the grass. It was blood. And then the scream, that cut and tore at his soul, sundering it.

Stars, static, blackness filled his eyes as he clawed himself to his knees and raised his wand. He cast, and cast, and cast again. He couldn't see, he realized. He couldn't judge the distance. He couldn't hit a target… and he was capable of hitting his target at twenty meters, when it was moving, and no larger than a peanut. She had screamed as he launched himself from the ground, as he aimed his wand skywards, "Oriuntur Bellum Avis!" It would be a signal if nothing else. He managed to tackle the Death Eater off Ginny knocking his mask aside. He froze in shock, "Ron?"

Stars burst in front of his eyes as something smashed into the back of his head. He saw his Ginny, fear written across her face, and then he saw it, the blood splattered across the front of her chest armor, cradling her right hand, slashed apart, three of her fingers and a part of the palm severed before he slumped over. He reached out for her and managed to only grasp her leg. He smelled something sweet. Honeysuckle?Her shampoo?

When he next awoke, it was to the sound of feet, crunching through the snow, and then Harry turning him over, "Neville?" Harry didn't get a chance to ask the obvious question.

"Ginny," he coughed, stars and static, nausea sweeping through him, "They took Ginny." Harry pulled him to his feet, but he collapsed to his knees, "Ron!" he gasped, "It was Ron!"

That had only been a week before, but for Neville, it was an eternity of agony. But as the last traces of the nightmare vanished, Neville Longbottom, Scion of the House Longbottom, with a blood alcohol level high enough to sink a battleship slipped from the unconscious into a coma as the alcohol continue to mercilessly ravage his body and further pummel his mind….

Days before, she was not really sure how long ago, but it was in the basement of Malfoy Manor, pain-filled every fiber of her body, without mercy, tearing through muscle, screaming along her nerves, burning, until all she could see was in her mind was a sharp, white-hot light. She had fought down the urge to scream for as long as she could. Determined to remain strong, not to show the fear, the terror she felt to the monster that was enjoying causing her such agony.

Her resistance to screaming, had broken early on, and through the fog of torture, the blinding white light behind her eyes, she could feel her throat growing hoarse, her voice finally breaking after spending hours screaming until she could scream no more. It could have been days or hours. She could not tell. In reality, it had only been a scant minute under the Cruciatus Curse of Lord Voldemort himself.

She had slumped against the invisible bonds that bound her to the wall of her prison cell, too weak to even raise her head. She was well versed in the after-effects of the Cruciatus curse by this time. Her hand no longer hurt – the pain simple and bearable after what she had just been through. She stared down at her toes, taking deep breaths that hurt. She could not prevent herself from screaming perhaps, but she could still die, with dignity. It was all she could do.

She raised her head and stared up at the hairless, pasty white-faced, snake-faced abomination of Lord Voldemort. There was a trace of surprise, and then something akin to amusement. Of course, thought the Dark Lord. Given Harry's stubbornness, it only stood to reason that the rest of his Legion would be as stubborn and Gryffindorish as he was. No matter. He smiled, and the smile widened as he tasted Ginny's fear. He would have his amusement, and then his Death Eaters would have their fun. But first, he would have his, "Impressive indeed blood traitor. Your ability to withstand pain rivals that of the muggle-born Granger."

"What do you want?" she spat.

"Oh, so many things, Weasley," replied Voldemort, "But for now, a little personal entertainment is all I require: Crucio!"

The curse ripped through her again. She writhed and screamed, her mind blanking out everything but the all-encompassing pain of the curse. In desperation, she retreated, pulling her conscious mind inwards, almost as if she was mentally detaching herself from her body, from the pain. Voldemort abruptly ended the curse upon his plaything. He smiled, "Now, now Weasley," he admonished, "I can't have you taking a nap before you learn a few deliciously painful truths."

He grabbed a handful of her hair, and yanked her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze, "We start with your parents: Dead. Fred and George, those twin practical jokers: Dead. Percy: Also dead, but at least he died in my service. Your brothers Charlie and William on the other hand continue to elude me, but if they are not in Britain, then they are of no consequence. Your brother Ronald on the other hand," Voldemort trailed off almost speculatively, "Well, we both know what happened in Hogsmeade hmmm?"

She glared into the eyes of the Dark Lord who had caused her world, her family, and her so much pain, and though still in agony managed to spit out the words, "You won't succeed, you half-blood bastard!" She reveled in the expression of anger which creased Voldemort's face even if it was momentary, "Tom Riddle," she ground out, "should have been spanked a little more as a child. You might have then made something good of yourself."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," said Lord Voldemort, "But, I would like you to meet a few people who will be your… entertainers." He laughed, acold, animalistic sound, "Or perhaps more accurately, you shall be their entertainment."

Crabbe, Goyle, stepped out of the shadows wearing identical grins. In the dim light, she could just about make out the fourth figure, standing almost in shadow. But she recognized the blond hair of Draco Malfoy, with his wand raised. "Hello you little bitch," Sneered Malfoy, "I heard about you and Neville. I somehow doubt he'd be able to get it up and show you a good time. We're here to show exactly what a good time, with a real man or perhaps real men are all about. And you'll probably enjoy it because we won't give you a choice: Imperious!"

She resisted, and she fought, and she knew it was only a matter of time before the curse would overwhelm and wipe away her free will. There was no telling what they would make her do. But she would at least die, and die with dignity. It was something that Marinshka had shown her, so many months before when she had been learning the elemental magic of the Goblins. Goblin magic differs from wizard magic as the Goblins are fully in tune with their individual magical core, which allows them to cast spells both wandlessly – a wizard's crutch – and without incantation from a young age. Marinshka had demonstrated how someone in tune with their magical core could do two things: The first was fracturing their magical core in a desperate final tactic that would unleash magic in an uncontrollable explosion of destructive power. The second was to project their consciousness across time and space for as long as their magic could sustain them, before they would be forced to return to their body – provided that their magical core had not drained during the projection of their consciousness, causing death.

She made the decision, even as the Imperious Curse spread around her Occulumency barriers, infecting them like the most rabid of cancers imaginable. She had moments left as Ginerva Weasely, the seventh child and only daughter of the Weasely family and she succeeded: Her core fractured and she drew upon all of the magical energy within her and blasted her conscious mind through the wards surrounding the old house on the hill above the Little Haggleton, across the country to Hogwarts.

"Master?" whispered Draco, "What… what just happened?"

Voldemort stared at Draco, then at the two accompanying heads of cabbage, "She had great control over her magic," he finally said, "True control: She committed suicide using her own magic to kill herself." They believed him. But then again, he was the Dark Lord, their Dark Lord after all. "Draco, you will take her body and deposit it, somewhere appropriate within the castle for them to find, and ensure that you send it with an appropriate message."

"Yes, Master."

It would take her almost a week in her spirit form to find Neville, find him sprawled unconscious beneath a small table, next to a chair in the Room of Requirement. Her consciousness invaded his own, tethering him on the brink and plunging him into a coma.

He opened his eyes and found himself lying upon a field of grass. He could feel the heat and warmth of the sun against his skin. The air was clean, crisp, fresh, and new. He stared around him, and then caught the scent borne upon the wind: Honeysuckle. He was dressed in just simple white robes. No armor. No wand. He looked around wildly for a moment.

"She's here," said a voice, a strangely familiar one, "Just over the next hill, on the beach. She doesn't have a lot of time," He turned around to find himself staring at a shocking sight: Hermione Jane Granger.

"Her…Hermione?" he asked.

She nodded, "Welcome to that realm between life and death. You should not be here, and neither should she. You'd best hurry." Hermione pointed over the hill, "Quickly!" Neville opened his mouth to ask a question, "Merlin-damn-you! Ginny is over the next hill! Go!"

He trusted his instincts, all Legionnaires did, and he just knew whatever it was, was not lying as he broke into a full-out sprint. He ran and kept running. He realized suddenly he was not out of breath, he was not getting winded. He didn't care as he crested the hill. She was there! He would recognize the mane of fiery red hair anywhere.

He ran down the hill and lost his footing, but somehow, he managed to roll back to his feet, just in time to catch her, as she threw herself into his arms. The sun was moving across the sky above them, and it would not be long before it set, bringing night down upon them. "Gin," he whispered quietly, tears rolling down his cheeks, "Are you… real? Or is this another nightmare?"

"I'm real enough," she replied, talking into his chest, "But where we are, I don't have a lot of time."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Her eyes locked with his, the same dazzling deep brown that they had always been. It was the color that hypnotized him every chance she got. And he had never minded being hypnotized by her gaze, not before today at any rate, "I've seen it all Nev. All of it: Your drinking, your guilt, the pain." None of it, of this, is your fault. I hate saying it, but this is war. We are at war, and war means people die. You need to let go of the guilt. If you can do that, the pain will ease and you'll be able to move on with your life."

"Why does it have to be that way?" he asked quietly, "Why can't I stay with you?" Especially if you are real, and you're here."

"Because where we are, is between the worlds of the living and the dead," she answered, wiping away one of his tears with her forefinger, "You have to go back, and I have to go onwards."

"On…." He fell silent, "You… you're…." he hesitated to say it, to make it real and final.

"Say it, Neville," overhead the sun moved forward, casting long shadows of both of them, reaching almost halfway up the hill. "You knew, in your heart, when I died. You know, because that was the night you got Dobby to bring you a bottle." She didn't have to specify a bottle of what, "You knew, and you've been in denial. You can't go through life denying things, especially painful truths."

"I'm not…. Not strong enough to go through life alone. I need you," he didn't bother trying to hide his tears.

"You are stronger than you believe yourself to be Nev, you were my knight in shining armor. I want you to remember that night, and remember that you fought for me," the words were a rushing torrent, "You were wounded, you could barely see, yet you fought on. You summoned aid, you fought on." She put her hands on his shoulder and pushed him down onto the sand, and collapsed next to him, "You killed Bellatrix Lestrange in a duel to the death. You are a hero, to the wizarding world, you are my knight, and I will always love you." The shadows behind them lengthened and she looked towards the sun with trepidation in her eyes.

"How long do I have to wait before I can be with you again?" he asked finally.

"Too long, if you wait for me," she whispered, "But if you move on, you could find someone to help you pass the intervening years, or perhaps find someone else to love as you love me."

He shook his head, "I meant it when I said that I would love you, always and forever. Nothing in my life was going right before I met you." He shrugged and smiled weakly, "You remember the Neville Longbottom of before?"

"You mean the Neville Longbottom that used to be terrified of Snape in Potions? Had next to no self-confidence? Was quiet and timid outside of Herbology?" she smiled as she spoke, taking the sting out of her words. "I remember him. I also remember that he was thoughtful, polite, kind, and generous." She turned to face the sun, beginning to dip low over the horizon, "I remember the Neville I knew, before Harry Potter and The Legion built up your confidence, and made you in a warrior for the Light, who is still polite, thoughtful, kind and generous." She ran her hand through his hair, "What attracted you to me then, is what made me fall in love with you."

They lay side by side upon the sand, staring up towards the sky, and he instinctively pulled her close, unwilling to let her go, knowing, just knowing that she would have to go when the sun went down. "When I cross over, I'll be able to watch over you. My knight," she whispered, "There are more princesses than me out there."

"You will always be my only princess," he whispered back, taking her hands in his.

Even as he held her in his arms, she could feel her, shifting, changing. "Neville," she whispered, "Don't let them win. Don't let them hurt another as they did me. Fight and win. No mercy, no quarter, bring justice to the enemy."

She began to fade away, almost as if she were rose petals being drawn away on the wind, "Who?" he asked, making a silent vow that echoed her words.

"Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, Ronald," her voice whispered into his ear. He nodded, still holding her hands, "He was there, but it wasn't him. Do you understand? My brother Ron… has no soul. Just a shell. They used him for their own ends, and now use his shell."

Suddenly, her hands knotted in the front of his shirt as she pulled him in for a kiss, their last kiss. Their eyes locked and held each other, both of them knowing that they only had these few last precious moments as the clock ticked down. It was a kiss that Neville would savor for the rest of his days, one that would make all the pain relief potions in the world seem like nothing stronger than Butterbeer as he lost track of everything, even time. For those long minutes, nothing was more important than her entire being.

His mouth crushed hers and without thinking of the future, their tongues collided with each other, both wanting to feast on what they had denied because they both felt they were too young and not ready. She clung to him as her head twisted left, and then turned right. Each time she moved, she drove deeper inside him, almost as if she was welcoming home.

The last rays of the sun faded, their shadows vanished and darkness descended. They finally separated and their embrace tightened, as their lips met one last final time. Even as he held her in his arms, she could feel her, shifting, changing. "Neville," she whispered, "I love you." She vanished, leaving him lying alone in the sand, holding a single rose that was the same fiery red as her hair.

Her voice was the softest of whispers, borne upon the wind. It was the last thing he remembered before he woke up, lying in a puddle of firewhiskey. His head throbbed, but no more than he deserved as he rose unsteadily to his feet. His wand sprang into his hand from its dragon hide wrist holster and he cleaned himself up, quickly before calling for Dobby to bring him a hangover cure. He paced back and forth, wondering if everything he had just experienced could possibly be true, jamming his hands into his pocket as he did so. He felt it and pulled it out, and collapsed into the chair as he stared at the single rose petal that was the same color as the hair of Ginny Weasely. He knew. He knew it was all real. The only question that remained was how he was going to get the foursome responsible for taking the witch of his dreams away from him.

He would have his vengeance, he vowed. It took him almost sixteen years to get Bellatrix Lestrange. He could wait a few months to kill four Death Eaters. As Griphook had once said, "The patient, silent hunter catches his prey with minimal effort."

In the ensuing weeks, they mourned the death and loss of Ginnerva Molly Weasely and did their best to move on, moving between class, homework, and training sessions like automatons but gradually their lives returned to normal – or at least sufficient normalcy, were it not for an event that none of them were particularly looking forward to: The Trial of Lucius Malfoy. Given the rampant activity of the Death Eaters which few could now curtail, Harry was amazed when the Minister himself appeared at Hogwarts and personally asked for the six of them who had been at the Ministry to bear witness against Lucius before he was handed over to Azkaban and the Dementors.

There was no discussion amongst them. They unanimously agreed. For the moment at least, Azkaban remained beyond the reach of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, though it was double-edged at best: Removing the Dementors would drive them into the arms of Voldemort, despite the best efforts of the Ministry, they had only managed to cull only a few dozen of the creatures as they always attacked in groups of sufficient size to keep the now-defunct Department of Magical Law Enforcement at bay while they feasted before vanishing. "Our numbers are limited," Fudge had admitted frankly to Harry, "We have drafted everyone we can spare into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and there is barely the manpower to mount a guard over the Ministry and Diagon Alley now, and the Azkaban Guard are stretched more than they would like, but we can continue the fight."

Harry nodded, "I heard of your appeals to the foreign Ministries. Have any of them acquiesced to send you… well, the Ministry aid?"

"None as yet," replied the Minister with a shrug and a sigh, "The French and Germans are fearful of being Voldemort's next targets and much of Eastern Europe has rallied behind Voldemort. Indeed, Only the Russians remain truly opposed to Voldemort in the East. American and Australia are seeing to their own defenses and fortifications. They see this as a "European problem.""

Harry sighed as well, "There will come a time when they will need our aid. We'll see how they like being on the receiving end of the shaft," he thought savagely, "I presume that Mr. Malfoy," the words were spat with distaste, "trial is still set to proceed?"

The Minister nodded, "Rescheduled to eight in the morning on the 22nd of November. It's a Saturday so there should be no issues with all of you attending. I will ensure that Dumbledore is notified accordingly."

Their conversation meandered over several other topics, including certification for a number of the Legionnaires who had turned fifteen. Both knew that the parchment would be more useful as toilet paper: Amelia Bones had complicated matters endlessly when she had deputized the entire Legion. Even so, Harry would have deployed the Legion as he saw fit, ministry, and Dumbledore be damned anyway.

Their monthly meeting drew to a close a half-hour later and Harry departed via the Minister's Floo to the Leaky Cauldron, before making his way back to Hogwarts. They still had a war to fight, and win, and a trial in less than a week's time.