2-May-98

Chapter 15

May 2, 1998

* * *

"They heard an uproar from the distant boundary of the school as what sounded like hundreds of people came swarming over the out-of-sight walls and pelted toward the castle, uttering loud war cries... And now there were more, even more people storming up the front steps, and Harry saw Charlie Weasley... [He and Slughorn] seemed to have returned at the head of what looked like the families and friends of every Hogwarts student who remained to fight, along with the shopkeepers and homeowners of Hogsmeade." – Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter 36

* * *

When the enchanted Galleon noisily came to life, vibrating on his bedside table, Charlie wasn't surprised. He'd inexplicably been bothered by a strange, nervy feeling throughout the day prior: an odd sort of anticipation tinged with dread. As he wasn't the sort of fellow to put much stock in premonitions, he tried to chalk it up to the pervasive jitteriness he'd felt for a few weeks now – ever since the owl from his father informing him the rest of his family had gone into hiding back in England. But he hadn't managed to shake the feeling before going to bed and slept only fitfully for an hour or two.

Fred had given him the counterfeit coin at Bill's wedding after boosting its range and tweaking its alert response, assuring him that when (not if) something happened, they'd let him know using George's identical coin. He wasn't exactly sure why he'd kept it in his trousers pocket every day or on the bedside table each night since. Charlie hadn't really expected it to work, but here it was making a racket at 1:30 in the bloody morning on the second day of May.

He sat upright in bed and grabbed his wand. By the light of its tip, he watched the serial numbers on the coin's face morph into a message, brief but clear: HARRY'S AT HOGWARTS! IT'S STARTING! He didn't bother trying to work out why the hell Harry Potter would be stupid enough to turn up at Hogwarts. Nor did he trouble himself worrying about the validity of the message. Despite the coin's association with Fred, Charlie highly doubted he'd ever joke about something like this.

He dressed quickly, donning the protective gear he usually reserved for working up close with dragons. Then, after hesitating only for a few moments, he crept into Sasha's room, just like he promised. "Sash," he whispered, gently shaking his shoulder.

Sasha came awake in an instant. It's not as if Charlie even tried to hide how worried he'd been lately about his family – therefore, Sasha immediately guessed the reason for being awakened. He sat up, blinked his eyes, then threw his legs over the side of the bed. "Give me a minute to get ready," he said without any further explanation from Charlie.

Charlie's love and adoration for him surged in that moment, tempered in equal measure by fear on his behalf. The thought of something happening to Sasha on his account made his gut churn. He perched lightly, anxiously on the bed, watching him dress for battle.

Sasha noticed his preoccupation. Once fully dressed, he knelt before Charlie, gripped his arms, and whispered, "Whatever may come, know that I love you always." He spoke in Russian, the language they reserved for sentimental exchanges between them because it was the one understood by the fewest keepers (besides themselves, only Fedir came anywhere close to fluency).

Charlie nodded, accepting a fervent kiss. He held Sasha close for a few seconds longer, praying that by some miracle, everyone would come out of this alive. That if they didn't win, they'd at least live to fight another day.

They parted, then stood. Tapping into a powerful happiness borne of their love for each other, buried yet nurtured deep within themselves, Charlie and Sasha conjured several Patronuses each (a small, misty herd of luminescent Welsh Greens and Ironbellies, respectively), sending them off to summon everyone on the rez to hut number nine. Fifteen minutes and a brewed pot of coffee later, all twenty Ridgebit keepers were crowded into the common room, dressed for battle and bristling with Goblin steel.

"Go on, Weasley," Ghenadie said, ceding the floor.

Standing at the focal point of the gathering, Charlie cleared his throat. "Well, most of you know the basic lay of things... How my family have sworn to fight against the cult that call themselves Death Eaters and the wicked maniac that leads them. Their grip on Wizarding England has tightened over the past months: they've taken over the government, and now hundreds of people, including my family, have gone into hiding or on the run to escape persecution."

Charlie paused. Every pair of eyes locked onto him. Several heads nodded with understanding – he'd shared this much of the story with many of them before. Then he dug into his pocket and extracted the charmed Galleon, holding it aloft. "I've just received word from my family that the most evil wizard this world's ever seen has attacked a school – my old school. There's no one there but children and teachers. They're not defenseless, but they need help. They need our help."

Grumblings rippled through the group at this news. "What sort of bastards attack children?" and, "Like to get my hands on a few of 'em," were muttered.

Ghenadie put his hands up for quiet. "Let me make something clear – this is a call for volunteers. There'll be no disciplinary consequences for those who choose to go, but there's no reward in it, either."

"Oh, I reckon it sounds like there's plenty of reward to be had," Viorel Iliescu growled eagerly, cracking his knuckles, then grinding his fist into his other palm.

Ghenadie smirked patiently. "Yes, yes, who doesn't love a good fight? But the fact remains we've got a reservation to run here. I can't afford to lose more than... a dozen–" The Head Keeper was cut off as the group rumbled their displeasure.

"Or I'll give you all the fight you'll want right here!" he barked sharply, and the group quieted down, though several disgruntled keepers shot him veiled glares. Satisfied with their acknowledgement of his authority, such as it was, Ghenadie continued. "Way I see it, as this thing's going down at that English school, those of you who've been there before get first dibs."

Skender Cojocaru, Dobry Dudek, Fisnik Hoxha, and Milos Kopecky all smiled happily, pleased that their tour of duty delivering the Horntail to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament had earned them this unexpected boon.

"Those of you who can speak halfway decent English ought to get the next spots. Weasley, I'll let you be the judge of that."

Charlie swallowed a bit nervously, faced with so many glinting pairs of eyes, some pleading, some confident, a few mildly resentful. "Erm... Romolo and Boian..." The partners high-fived each other; meanwhile, Flaviu looked disheartened, accurately assuming Charlie wouldn't risk both brothers in the same battle. "Fedir, you've come a long way," Charlie said with a half-hearted attempt at a light chuckle. The grieving fellow had used the task of bettering his English to distract him from the sadness of his partner's loss – or at least that's what Charlie suspected. He'd done an admirable job on both counts.

"And Nandru," Fedir said, urging Charlie to confirm the selection of his new partner.

Charlie paused thoughtfully. The truth was Nandru could barely understand twenty words of English, all of them dragon-related. But far be it from Charlie to split up a partnership, so he nodded. Fedir can translate for him, anyway.

Viorel grabbed his partner's arm, and the two of them stepped forward. "And us. That makes twelve," he insisted cockily.

"Holy shit, he can count," Romolo taunted him, and most of the rest laughed.

"A good group of men," Sasha murmured quietly next to Charlie.

Charlie nodded, grateful for both his counsel and support. Viorel and Leotrim knew only rudimentary English at best, but he reckoned their enthusiasm ought to count for something. Flaviu handed his brother Boian a dagger – Charlie knew it to be a family heirloom – as they said goodbye to one another. Those keepers who were staying behind clapped the backs and clasped the hands of those who would leave to fight, exchanging wishes for luck and promises to return.

Please, God, let them all come back home, Charlie prayed silently. After last summer, we can't afford any more losses.

Several pairs of keepers filed out the door of the hut then, and Charlie heard the quiet pops of Apparition as they returned to their huts for the remainder of the night. When only the Head Keeper and his partner were left, he bestowed a "Godspeed and see you soon," upon them all by way of benediction, then Apparated away.

Eleven pairs of eyes turned expectantly to him.

"We're yours to command, Charlie," Sasha announced, his mouth quirking with the faintest hint of a smile.

His heart pounding, Charlie fished Tonks' mokeskin pouch from his pocket, then pulled out two of the tiny brass rings. After enlarging them to the size of dinner plates, he replaced the pouch containing the rest of them back into his pocket. He checked his watch: it was nearly two a.m. here in Romania, which meant it was almost midnight at Hogwarts.

"When I activate these Portkeys, you'll be transported to the small village nearest the school. Unfortunately, I'm not entirely sure exactly where you'll be." Assuming I'm not sending you into a trap... But Charlie brushed that and all the other doubts that plagued him, for such fretting served no purpose now. The best they could do was get there as soon as possible, even if they had to fight their way into the battle.

"A few people in the villages here have promised to join us – Sasha and I must go collect them now. I'll be sending them to you using more of the same Portkeys, so..." Charlie shrugged. "Watch out for them, and watch out for yourselves. I'll join you as soon as I can."

"We can handle ourselves," Skender assured him with a confident smile. He reached out and took the Portkeys from Charlie. "You can count on us, Commandant Charlie!"

"We'll curse first and ask questions later," Viorel laughed.

A few excited laughs peppered the group, and Charlie was heartened by the fact they all wore similarly confident, eager smiles. He reminded himself that these men were dragon keepers, had proven themselves brave and clever and strong repeatedly over the nearly seven years he'd known them.

"Good luck!" Charlie called out as he activated the Portkeys. An instant later, he was alone again with Sasha in the silent hut. Charlie stared at the empty space where his colleagues stood seconds ago, agonizing over his part in their departure. Could he live with the consequences if anything happened to his friends? Or the consequences to his family if they didn't answer the call?

"They will be fine," Sasha reminded him.

"I hope so," Charlie whispered.

"They volunteered," Sasha pressed.

"Yes, but for what?" Charlie replied.

Sasha pressed his lips together. "Come on, then," he muttered. Taking Charlie by the arm, he Apparated them away.

A dizzying moment later, Charlie found himself on a darkened village street. Over the next hour, he and Sasha repeated the same routine: they roused the point person of the village, who quickly gathered the other sympathizers and mercenaries – averaging ten people each. Once assembled, Charlie delivered the same speech he'd given to his fellow keepers about You-Know-Who attacking Hogwarts, how time was of the essence, how the Portkeys would deliver them all to the same spot, where he'd be joining them soon. Piteşti, Rataciti, Nevazut: all proceeded without a hitch, and Charlie'd memorized his little spiel by the end.

In the fourth and final village – Comoara – everyone assembled in Ileana Bălan's pub. Nearly four years had passed since that night when Ileana had offered herself to Charlie, and he still felt a bit awkward around her. She hadn't verbally repeated the offer since, treating him with the same sassy friendliness, the same dubious smile she showed to the rest of the world, but neither had she failed to pin him with an intent look or pass up an opportunity to incidentally brush her body against his. She was one of the villagers who'd agreed to join the fight, but Charlie couldn't help but wonder at her motivation for doing so.

She stole an opportunity again that night – squeezing his hand for just a second when he passed her a Portkey and looking straight into his eyes – and Charlie felt a stab of guilt. What if she gets hurt... or worse? He thought of facing her father, Marku, with the devastating news afterward. Please, God, don't let anything happen to her.

An hour and a half after he'd sent his fellow keepers off, Charlie and Sasha used the second-to-last Portkey themselves. Several moments later, he found himself conveniently yet quite surprisingly in Hogsmeade Station. He had just enough of an instant to wonder why everyone around him immediately clamped their hands over their ears before a head-rending scream ripped through the night.

What the fuck is that!? Charlie wondered. When the noise died away a moment later, everyone dropped their hands.

"Some kind of alarm," Skender said, stepping up to deliver a report and answering the obvious question first. "It's happened now every time someone new's arrived. No one's responded yet."

A series of lightening-like flashes cast strobed shadows against the walls and floor of the station, followed by seismic booms that shook the earth even where they stood. While everyone else turned toward the castle, standing high on the rise above the lake, Charlie looked around the station, quickly confirming his heart-sinking tally. Fifty-four people... Not enough! It's not enough! He'd failed and failed miserably when it counted most.

Seemingly reading his mind, or perhaps simply sensing his mounting panic, Sasha laid a hand on his shoulder and gave it a light, brief squeeze. "We're ready, Charlie. Let's go help your family."

"We'll have to get there on foot," he announced to the group, reminding them all that Apparition onto Hogwarts grounds was impossible. "It's a bit of a hike around the lake and through the town to get to the castle. Once we're there, I'll try to find my father, or any Order member really, and things will go from there." The plan sounded so ridiculously simple and so improbably impossible, Charlie was embarrassed. The devil only knew what horrors the Death Eaters had in store for them, but if they didn't get moving, there might be no one left to reinforce.

"Wands out," he needlessly suggested. Taking his place on point, Sasha at his right, he led them out of the station.

They hadn't made it far – only to the edge of the village proper, in fact – before they were accosted by none other than Madam Rosmerta, proprietress of the Three Broomsticks, standing defiantly in the middle of the empty road. She was clad not in a nightdress, as would be expected considering the wee-ness of the morning hour, but in sturdy work clothes.

"What's this all about, eh? All these bloody alarms?" she snapped, angry and fearful in equal measure. "You lot lost? Or fancy a bit of looting?"

Charlie concluded her bravery – or bravado, as the case might well be – was bolstered by the fact none of his band of strangers wore the trademark hoods and masks of the enemy. Like many in Britain, Rosmerta had not officially declared a side in the conflict, preferring instead to exist quietly, keeping her head down and her boat steady to weather the storm, as it were. Still, she had slipped a few valuable tips along to a trusted Auror here and there over the past few months, according to his father.

Halting the group behind him, he approached her alone, slowly, with his wand down but ready. "I'm Charlie Weasley, Madam Rosmerta. Arthur and Molly's son. I've been away for a few years, but you might remember me from my school days." The English felt a bit strange on his tongue after so long, sounded equally strange to his ears.

She looked shocked for a moment, then peered a bit more closely at him. "Aye, I'll grant you're a Weasley, at any rate," she said, looking pointedly at his hair. "You say you're Arthur's son? That mean you're in the Order of the Phoenix, too?"

Shocked to hear her bandy about the name of the supposedly secret resistance organization, Charlie nevertheless nodded and smiled in a manner he hoped she'd find reassuring. "I've brought some mates with me... willing to do what we can to help the fight against You-Know-Who. Can you tell us anything about what's going on?"

Rosmerta's expression turned even more dour. "It's been awful, young Charlie – open season on anybody who can't prove their proper blood status. The wireless, the bloody Prophet – they own them all now, spewing out their rubbish with no one to say otherwise. We've been under this bloody dusk-to-dawn curfew for a month–"

"Is that what the screaming was about?" Charlie asked.

"Caterwauling Charm," she sneered. "I bloody hate it! And those bleedin' louts take whatever they want... haven't paid a bill in weeks, and my hospitality's not the only one they've taken advantage of."

A loud explosion from the direction of the castle interrupted them, and Charlie flinched. "Can you tell us what's going on there?"

Rosmerta cast an agonized look toward the towers of the castle silhouetted against flashing spells. "He's been here couple of hours now – You-Know-Who," she hissed, speaking the name under her breath. "Demanded they turn over the little Potter boy by midnight. Judging by all that–" she nodded toward the castle "–I'm guessing they didn't comply."

Charlie's eyes quickly scanned the dark and silent homes of the town. "Are all the rest of the town up there fighting?" he asked, his chest tightening at the thought.

Rosmerta snorted. "They're all hiding in their homes, same as they've done for months now!"

Sasha gave a low growl behind Charlie's shoulder at the news of such self-serving cowardice.

"But we've got to help them!" Charlie cried. "They'll need all of us, every single one, if they've a prayer of even holding their own!" Rosmerta looked a little cowed by his criticism. Reconsidering his tack, for his goal was not to shame but recruit and encourage, he added a pleading edge to his voice. "Please, Madam Rosmerta! Help us help them! Surely there are friends of yours, neighbors and colleagues who would be willing to help defend the school! To take a stand for what is right!"

She swallowed anxiously, but nodded all the same. "Yes, yes I think so," she whispered, her gaze drifting away from him as she pondered whom to approach. "We'll all go belly up if something's not done, and soon..."

"We need more people, more fighters," Charlie prodded her. The fifty or so I've brought will never be enough! "As many as you can – the entire town, if you can manage. I'll help you, if you think anyone will listen to me."

"Meanwhile, let us do what we came here to do," Sasha added in a quiet yet strong voice. "I'll take this lot up to the castle. I've been there before, and I know your father. I can translate whatever instructions are necessary. Trust me to deliver the help you promised."

Charlie gave Sasha a pained look – as if trusting him was ever an issue.

Rosmerta nodded. "And you'd better leave me to this, young Charlie. Folks here are jumpy enough as it is. Some young stranger bangin' on the door in the middle of the night isn't going to help the cause any."

"Can you think of anyone else to contact?" Charlie pressed Rosmerta, the prospect of one lone witch knocking door-to-door leaving him discouraged. "Any other way to get the word out about the fight?"

Rosmerta shook her head slightly and shrugged.

"What about your other keeper friends?" When Charlie shot Skender, who'd sneakily joined the conversation, a confused look, he elaborated. "You know – the blokes who delivered Norbert."

"Ddraig Cymry!" Charlie cried, the excitement of a new plan beginning to buoy his spirits a little. He hadn't been there for years, but he knew the Welsh reservation like the back of his hand, could name practically every keeper stationed there. "Of course! And Clan MacFusty as well might join!"

Charlie, Sasha, and Rosmerta gave each other significant looks, silently agreeing to shoulder the separate commands, understanding the dire consequences of failure or capture.

"I'll continue on up the road with this lot, then," Sasha said.

"I'll start on High Street, then move into the residential neighborhoods," Rosmerta offered. "I'll send everyone I can up after you, mister...?"

"Sasha Vasiliev, madam," he replied with a slight bow of his head. "But perhaps, as I am a stranger here, you might better give them Arthur Weasley's name."

Rosmerta nodded in agreement, then turned her back to them, marching determinedly toward the town.

"Good luck, Charlie," Sasha murmured softly. Then he added, "You know we can do this," by way of reassurance. Clapping Charlie on the arm, then turning and striding back to the Romanian contingent, Sasha began translating the latest plan for them in his booming voice.

There was nothing left for Charlie to do in Hogsmeade now that he'd delegated both reinforcement and recruitment. As strange as it felt to not be running up the hill toward where his family no doubt stood fighting against Death Eaters, Charlie instead watched his Romanian friends and coworkers head off into the battle instead. He glanced briefly at his watch and quickly calculated the local time – 1:49 a.m. – before Apparating away in the darkness.

Half an hour later, the entire staff of Ddraig Cymry had assembled before him. A few of the older gentlemen in his audience had known him since he was a snot-nosed little boy, lisping through a gap-toothed grin about how badly he wanted to become a dragon keeper when he grew up. He prayed they'd forgotten how annoying he must've been and would take him more seriously this time.

Standing in the visitors' center, surrounded by the memorial plaques (the names of which he could still recite to this day) and the interactive model of a Welsh Green dragon, he delivered the same speech he'd done now five times before, the only differences this time being it was in English rather than Romanian and included a mention of Harry Potter. He hadn't bothered with explaining the complicated and involved tale of prophecy and murder before this, and as a result, none of the Romanians fighting today knew (or gave a toss) about the Boy Who Lived. The thought of those fighting Romanians gave him pause, but he pushed through his lines anyway, sparing another quick, silent prayer for their safety.

The Welsh reservation's Benaig, Eiddig Morgan, stepped forward to stand beside Charlie, holding a tattered book in his hand.¹ He commanded it to open to a specific page, then held it aloft for all to see. There, in broad but shaky primary-school writing, Charlie read his own name on the "Junior Keeper" registry. He gulped, wondering what this could possibly signify.

"Despite this young man's departure for mountains distant and unknown, he is, and remains, one of us." Eiddig closed the book. "Hogwarts is our alma mater, and she needs defending." He turned and placed his hand firmly on Charlie's shoulder, looking him directly in the eye. "Ddraig Cymry will answer the call, son."

A cheer rose up from the keepers – all twenty five of them! – and Charlie's heart soared with new hopefulness. After instructing them to Apparate to the school's front gates and report to his father, if possible, he added a warning about the Caterwauling Charm.

"I'm off to court Clan MacFusty next," Charlie explained as the corps prepared to Apparate. "Any thoughts?"

"Give old Kenny MacFusty my compliments," Eiddig offered with a warm smile and a wink, naming the head of the dragon-keeping clan. "And tell 'im I'll either see 'im at Hogwarts, or I'll see 'im in hell."

"I will, sir," Charlie replied. "And thank you again."

"Well, we cannot let the Romanians have everything that's rightfully ours, including a decent aggro, can we?" Eiddig needled him genially. "Now, off with you to that godforsaken rock!"

And with that, Eiddig winked out; Charlie was left alone once more. After a quick check of his watch – 2:29 a.m. – he, too, Apparated away. But instead of arriving at a windswept, craggy village in the Scottish Highlands, he found himself on a windswept, craggy island in the North Atlantic. Lamenting it was far too dark to get even a peek at one of the majestic Hebridean Blacks that inhabited the remote reserve, Charlie strode up to the chief's home.

The MacFustys proved even easier to convince than the Welsh keepers. All it took was him saying, "You-Know-Who's attacking Hogwarts," for them to rise up in arms. Considering the action a threat to Scottish sovereignty as well as common decency, the clan unanimously declared war upon the Death Eaters, gathering another twenty witches and wizards for the cause.

That's near a hundred of us, not including whoever Rosmerta's rallied in Hogsmeade! he thought with mild relief, allowing himself to feel the tiniest bit optimistic about the situation.

Just before 3:00 a.m., Charlie and Clan MacFusty arrived in Hogsmeade. To his surprise, their arrival was not heralded this time by a scream, and he wondered who had managed to cancel the Caterwauling Charm. Did such a development bode well or ill? He'd just begun warily leading the Scots toward the castle when he noticed two figures hustling toward him from different directions.

The closer of the two turned out to be Madam Rosmerta. "I've got good news and bad. Which do you want first?"

She'd barely gotten the words out of her mouth when Charlie recognized the second figure. Sasha! His joy at seeing him alive and well was quickly tempered by the unhappy look on his face. He jogged over to where Rosmerta had waylaid him.

"Let me guess – you've got bad news, too," Rosmerta greeted him sourly.

Sasha gave Charlie a meaningful look. "Not bad news. Just disappointing and hopefully temporary. The gates are closed: we can't get in."

Can't get in!? Charlie swore under his breath. All this running about recruiting people, and we can't even bloody get inside?

"Yes, well, there are other ways to get into Hogwarts besides the front gates," Rosmerta quipped, snagging Charlie by the arm and marching off up the street, hauling him along at a brisk pace. "Honeydukes and Zonko's both have basement tunnels, and rumor has it the hillside caves are riddled with passageways leading onto the school grounds. I'll let Ambrosius fill you in on that bit."

"Mr. Flume's joined us?" Charlie asked eagerly. "How many others?"

"All the resident shopkeepers on High Street are in," Rosmerta reported proudly. "We're all keen to get back a little of what's owed us, either in coin or flesh. We've spent the past hour running through the streets, banging on doors, rousing the citizens. All told, I think we've raised about fifty more."

"Fifty!" Charlie cried, immensely pleased. That brings us to a hundred and fifty! "Well done! Really well done!"

"What's the bad news?" Sasha asked, tempering Charlie's jubilation.

"You'll see," Rosmerta said with a scowl as they approached her establishment's rival in town, the Hog's Head Inn. But instead of leading him to the front door, they crept over to a side window. Following Rosmerta's nod of the head, Charlie peered inside.

"Bloody hell," he groaned. The public room of the Hog's Head was jam-packed with... children!? Possibly a hundred of them, all wearing their school uniforms. Groups of them were huddled together, wand tips glowing shakily and illuminating faces looking perfectly terrified. He certainly understood the motivation to remove the underage witches and wizards from harm's way, but... "How did they get here?" he wondered aloud.

"Excellent question, that," Rosmerta retorted. "Let's remember to ask if we ever get them to open the bloody door." While Charlie pushed his magic forward, detecting a strong barrier between him and the occupants within, she informed him, "The entrances are warded – and no kid stuff, either, make no mistake. Someone else must be in there with them, but they won't answer the door, no matter what we've tried."

"Can't we just leave them where they are?" Sasha asked, voicing Charlie's own first thoughts, likely also impressed by the strength of the protective spell. "Surely here is safer than in the school."

"Their poor parents are likely worried sick," Rosmerta argued, wringing her hands. "And if... well, if things don't go the way we hope... We can't just leave them here to be held for ransom or... or–"

"We need to get them home," Charlie agreed, swiftly coming round to Rosmerta's point of view. Turning to Sasha, he bid him, "See if you can find a way through the wards. We'll try the entrance again."

Sasha nodded curtly. Then, with his wand drawn, he began probing the magical barrier encompassing the building. Meanwhile, Charlie and Rosmerta hustled back around to the front door. She began pounding vigorously on the thick wooden door, shouting, "Children, please! Let me in! I only want to help you!"

Nothing but silence answered them. Rosmerta gave him a pleading look.

"Please open the door," Charlie called out. "We promise we won't hurt you."

Several more minutes of pounding and pleading from both of them produced nothing new. Sasha stepped around the corner then, shaking his head as he approached. "The wards are solid. I could break through, but it will take something very Dark and cause much damage."

"Shit!" Charlie spat, pounding once more on the door in frustration.

"H-how do w-we know you're n-not Death Eaters?" a tiny voice on the other side, almost too quiet to be heard, stammered.

"I swear we're not!" Charlie bellowed.

"Tell 'em you're with the Order," Rosmerta hissed.

"How the hell would they know anything about that?" Charlie hissed back. The entire point of having a secret organization was to keep the bloody thing secret! It went against his natural instinct to state such a claim aloud.

"Just do it!" Rosmerta barked. "We've tried everything else!"

A little hesitant but unable to argue the point, he called out, "I'm a member of the Order of the Phoenix!"

"Prove it," an adult male voice, quavering with either age or fear – or possibly both – answered him. "Prove you're with the Order."

Charlie took a second to gather himself, then cast another Patronus. He sent the ephemeral little dragon into the pub with a message to deliver. "I am Charlie Weasley, son of Arthur and Molly, a dragon keeper in Romania. My family are members of the Order of the Phoenix, inducted by Albus Dumbledore himself. I vow to do everything in my power to guarantee these children safe passage."

Charlie felt a shimmery breeze waft over him as the wards fell. The door opened a moment later to reveal a short, rotund, bald man with an enormous moustache who he'd had never seen before. His light eyes were watery and his face rather flushed. "Forgive me, young man," he wheezed, "but are you by any chance related to a Miss Ginevra Weasley?"

"She's my little sister," Charlie replied hoarsely. Thank God she's safe and sound at Aunt Muriel's rather than stuck here with this great bloody moron!

"Ah, wonderful! What a lovely girl. A pleasure to make your acquaintance as well, my dear young man. Your distinguished Patronus certainly proclaims your worthiness. If Albus Dumbledore trusted you, rest his soul, then I–"

"Horace ruddy Slughorn!" Rosmerta cut him off with a furious screech. "You've known me for decades, you great wheezy git! I've been banging my knuckles bloody on this stupid door for nearly an hour. Why didn't you let me in?"

Slughorn swallowed nervously. "One can never be too careful, Madam," he spluttered. "I have been charged with the safety of these students. Why, why, you might've been an enemy using Polyjuice to impersonate someone I knew! Or Imperiused!"

Rosmerta looked like she'd been slapped by his accusations. But Charlie didn't have time to sort out what was undoubtedly a deeper story. Checking his watch – 3:30 already! – they simply had to hurry. Glancing around, taking a quick inventory of the children, he noticed something odd about their uniforms.

"Where are all the Slytherins?" he demanded.

Slughorn swallowed – his moustache twitching – and looked away guiltily. "Most of them Flooed to their homes. A few of them... oh, dear... a few of them..." He coughed, and Charlie thought he might throttle the old fool if he didn't just say what had happened, already. "Well, they went to join up, I'm afraid," he mumbled quietly.

"You let those children join the Death Eaters?" Rosmerta gasped, horrified.

"You must believe me, I tried to dissuade them!" Slughorn cried.

Bloody fucking hell, Charlie snarled inwardly. "Why didn't you Floo the rest of them home, then?" he spat through clenched teeth.

"I didn't think it was safe," Slughorn wailed.

"It was safe enough for the Slytherins!" Charlie shouted, and Slughorn cringed.

"Please, sir, but Professor Slughorn's right about the Floo not being safe for the rest of us," a young girl decked out in Ravenclaw colors bravely offered up.

"The Ministry's shut down a load of the connections already, and they watch the few that are still open like hellhounds," a tall, spindly Gryffindor boy added. "Slytherin purebloods popping home are no cause for alarm in their eyes. But if they saw all of us streaking through..." He shrugged as if no further explanation was necessary.

"If we can't use the Floo, how the hell are we going to get them home?" Charlie grumbled mostly to himself, thinking aloud. Even assuming the adults present knew where each child lived, they simply didn't have the resources to Apparate each one of them home.

"Perhaps... perhaps we might send owls?" the Ravenclaw girl dared to speak up again.

"Owls?" Slughorn, Rosmerta, Sasha, and Charlie echoed, startled.

"None of them have terribly far to go, and if we used the fastest ones down at the Owl Post Office–"

"Their parents could come fetch them," Rosmerta finished the girl's thought.

"Who'll babysit them until that happens?" Sasha asked. Another explosion from the castle rattled the windows of the pub, reminding them of the urgency of their task. "And where will they wait?"

Charlie thought for a moment. "We'll take them to the owl office and let them send the owls. Then we'll take them down to the station – it's beyond the Anti-Apparition boundary, and as far away from everything else as they can get. Odds are every parent will have been there before."

Rosmerta nodded in agreement. "I'll arrange for some guards," she offered. "Some of our older volunteers are quicker with their wands than they are on their feet, if you get my meaning."

"A-and me as well," Slughorn stammered. "I feel it is my duty to stay with the children. To make sure they get home safely."

"Rubbish!" Rosmerta snapped. "You're hiding behind them, you old coward! Your place, Professor Slughorn, is back in the castle defending the school!"

"Madam!" Slughorn spluttered. "I was charged with the duty of evacuating these children to safety by none other than Minerva McGonagall. I must insist on personally seeing to it that each and every one of these children–"

"Are now in the care of responsible adults who will ensure their safety until such time as their parents claim them!" Rosmerta argued, cutting him off. "Time for you to go and fight, Sluggy, old boy!"

"No!" Slughorn whined. "I must insist–"

"Enough!" Charlie barked, disgusted by their bickering. He stabbed his wand in Slughorn's direction. "How many children are here?"

Slughorn gulped, eyes focused on the wandpoint brandished in his direction. "Eighty-four."

"You, me, and Sasha will take the students to the owl office," he said, glaring at the old fool. Then Charlie turned to Rosmerta. "Send me five chaperones and anyone who knows anything about the tunnels into Hogwarts." He turned to the children. "Gather your things. We're leaving." When a few of the younger children dithered, looking to their professor for guidance (none of which was forthcoming), Charlie bellowed an impatient, "NOW!" at them.

Five minutes later, with Charlie at point, Slughorn taking center (surrounded by children, interestingly enough) and Sasha at the rear, the students were bustling down the otherwise empty High Street of Hogsmeade. As they neared the owl office building, Charlie walked backwards so as to better address them. "We need to do this as quickly as possible," he lectured them. "Older students and prefects help the youngers. Siblings: one owl per family. The fewer owls we send, the faster you all get out of here. Got it?"

Eighty-four wide-eyed, frightened faces nodded at him.

Within the owl office, Charlie was impressed by the students' comportment. All the petty bickering and status-grubbing that usually accompanied adolescent exchanges, all the teary blubbering expected from terrorized children was suspended in favor of diligent cooperation and genuine bravery. The Ravenclaw girl and Gryffindor boy that had spoken up earlier especially seemed to have found their strides, stepping into leadership roles and directing the other children, streamlining the process wherever they could.

"Don't you and Smithers live next door to each other in Swindon?" the girl questioned a little Ravenclaw boy standing beside a Hufflepuff with arms linked, who nodded. "Send one owl to your parents and instruct them to pass the message on to hers." Then she turned to the assembly. "All neighbors send one owl between them with instructions to share the information!"

Even so, it took the better part of an hour to send off fifty-odd owls. In the meantime, Rosmerta was as good as her word. Five elderly yet capable wizards and witches reported for chaperone duty: Pippa Puddifoot of tea house fame and Edeline Threading, longtime seamstress at Gladrags, looked determinedly protective if not ferocious, and the three cleverest tinkerers in town – Herbert Bangs, Will Dervish, and Albert Argyll – all looked flushed with excitement at the prospect of such an adventure. Charlie reviewed with them the strategy, such as it was: protect the students while they waited for their parents to come collect them at the station.

Additionally, Rosmerta had mustered Ambrosius Flume, owner of Honeydukes; Bram Lundy, formerly Zonko's' longest-tenured employee before they'd closed a year ago; and lifelong Hogsmeaders Nairne Baxter and Glenna Muirwish – all touted as leading experts on the secret tunnels connecting the village with the castle. Shortly after 4:00 a.m. – Four bloody a.m., already! – the last owl was sent and the group set off toward the station as quickly as they could manage. Along the way, just as Charlie and Sasha began putting their heads together regarding an alternate way into Hogwarts, a gruff voice distracted their attention.

"Look sharp, Phillips," Slughorn snipped at a chubby little firstie who had begun to lag.

"Oi, Slughorn," Charlie barked, suddenly remembering a question he'd been meaning to ask, "Join us over here."

With an oddly timorous manner for a great walrus of a man, Slughorn made his way toward Charlie. He looked monumentally reluctant to leave the company of the children – it hadn't escaped Charlie's notice how he tried to look busy amongst them.

"How did you lot get from the castle into the pub?" Charlie demanded in as polite a manner as he could manage.

"Oh, well, yes..." the fat, sweaty man verbally flailed about. "There was a... a room, you see... on the seventh floor. Never seen it before, myself. In all my years as student and professor, I'd never known such a room was there. Quite an amazing thing, that." When he caught Charlie's impatient glower, Slughorn cleared his throat nervously and continued in a more focused manner. "There was a door, and a tunnel led away from it. Nice and level, it was, with proper steps. A little narrow for my tastes, though, I must say."

"And it led to the pub?" Charlie pressed.

"It did. Yes."

"Then we can use it to get back to the castle!" Charlie cheered.

"Oh, well, not precisely," Slughorn hemmed.

"Not precisely?" Sasha growled, glaring at him.

Looking massively uncomfortable once again, Slughorn only hesitated a moment before explaining himself. "Yes, well... some of the more reckless youngsters in my charge insisted on trying to get back into the castle. Only, they couldn't..." Slughorn's voice drifted into silence.

"Why?" Charlie asked through gritted teeth. If this git did something to lock it up...

Slughorn gulped. "I don't know why!" he cried. "It's just a painting of a girl now! The doorway, the steps, the tunnel – all gone! Disappeared behind us, it did! Just imagine... what if we'd still been in the thing when it happened!"

Charlie nearly saw stars. Fury collided with frustration in a maddening storm. It seemed as though everywhere he turned, some new obstacle rose up in his path. Now that he'd miraculously gathered some semblance of an army, he couldn't even manage to join the fight!

"What about the other passageways?" he barked, turning to the Hogsmeaders in an effort not to blast Slughorn to smithereens.

"The one from Zonko's collapsed in the winter of ninety-two," Bram Lundy reported.

"Of course it did," Charlie snarled.

"I'm afraid we don't have much better news," old Ambrosius Flume added. "The one in my basement's been guarded by Death Eaters for a while now. As was the one that leads into Scrivenshaft's. They cursed mine six ways from Sunday before they left to join the fight at midnight, and I'll bet they've done the same to that one."

"The ones I know about are scattered in the hills beyond here," Nairne Baxter volunteered as Glenna Muirwish nodded. "They're guarded by Dementors."

They'd reached Hogsmeade Station then. As the chaperones took up sentry positions and the children settled themselves along the benches to wait for their parents, Charlie spun on his heels and marched several steps away from the group. "Is there no fucking way into the fucking castle then?" he fairly screamed, futilely punching the air with his fists, kicking out at nothing for good measure.

"Settle down now, boy!" Mr. Flume scolded him.

"Mind your filthy tongue in front of the wee bairns!" Ms. Muirwish cried, scandalized.

"Why aren't you asking Slughorn to open the gates for you?" Mr. Lundy asked. "He's Head of Slytherin House, after all."

Charlie froze. Slowly, he turned around. His eyes immediately found his portly quarry despite the man's attempt to make himself as small as possible – he still looked like a giant among the children.

"You. Are. A. Head?" Charlie asked softly, his voice dripping with fury.

Slughorn didn't deny it. He just gulped. Again.

Forcibly bringing his breathing and rage under control, Charlie walked toward the man with a measured pace. "Please come with me now to the front gates," he said, his voice still retaining a lethal edge despite its lack of volume. "I have a group of people... an army waiting to join the battle, but they can't get in."

"B-but... the children need me," Slughorn protested in a tiny voice.

"Not as much as those fighters do!" Mrs. Puddifoot cried, indignant.

"Do your duty, man!" Mr. Argyll prodded him.

"Show some spine, you great prig!" Mr. Baxter chimed in.

"M-Minerva said..." Slughorn blubbered.

Charlie watched Slughorn's face as shame and fear battled with each other within the man. "We can't do it without you, Professor," he pleaded, taking a softer tack in order to promote one over the other. Charlie took his arm and began gently leading him out of the station, away from the safety of the students. "Don't let all this effort go for naught. Help me to deliver these fighters to Minerva. Show her your worth."

"There's no other way?" he murmured, reluctantly allowing himself to be led.

"So many have given so much to get us to this point," Charlie coaxed, picking up their pace toward the castle. Sasha and the local tunnel experts fell into step behind them, sensing what to do without being told. "They all need you right now. All that Dumbledore worked for might be lost without your help. Harry Potter himself is relying on you..."

"Harry? Relying upon me?" Slughorn echoed, a glimmer of interest sparking his eyes. "I tried to help him. Last year... I tried..."

"You're Head of Slytherin House, Professor," Charlie bluffed his way through a pep talk, understanding well how much better a motivator was glory compared to anguish or guilt. Now that he'd shamed him away from hiding behind the children, it was time to incite a more positive frame of mind within the man. "Clever and powerful. A recognized expert in your field. How else would you be a distinguished professor at Hogwarts? The very pride of Slytherin?"

The snow job was working; Slughorn's interest was piqued by the flattery. They moved at a decent clip now, coming up onto town. Charlie saw Rosmerta there, standing at the head of another army of Hogsmeaders and MacFustys ready to join the fight.

"This is your chance to show the world that Slytherin is not just another word for greedy, self-serving bastard," Charlie cooed. "That Salazar's House can be as courageous and selfless as the rest. Use that cunning nature to bring a victory to the side of the Light. Be a rescuing hero, delivering all these reinforcements at the moment when they're needed most..."

Looking slightly mesmerized by what were no doubt delusions of heroic grandeur in his own mind, Slughorn nodded slightly. Rosmerta and her group fell in behind them. Charlie's arm protectively, leadingly linked with Slughorn's in a pretense of solidarity, they all marched quickly toward the gates.

The water of the lake was still as glass. Across it, the Forbidden Forest loomed blacker than the still-night sky. It suddenly dawned on Charlie that the noises of battle – the booms of explosions and flashes of light that had permeated the night since he'd arrived in Hogsmeade – had gone silent. Fear gripped him. Please, God, don't let us be too late.

They turned a corner in the road skirting the lake, and the gates loomed large up ahead. A group of people much larger than the fifty-two Romanians and twenty-five Welshmen he'd sent off to fight nearly three hours ago milled about in the road before the gates. Skender jogged forward to meet him on the road. "Please tell me you've brought a key," he called out in Romanian. "We didn't come here for pitch-side seats, you know."

"I might just have found a key, at that," Charlie answered in Romanian so Slughorn wouldn't understand him. "What's going on?"

Skender shrugged. "Been a bit noisy, but it all went quiet a little while ago. Haven't seen a soul – human or creature – on the other side of these bloody gates, and they're locked tighter than a virgin's knees. We've been trying everything we can think of to get in, but no luck."

Charlie also wondered what the silence signified, but now, so close to his goal, he pushed the thoughts away. They'd find out soon enough, with any luck. "Who are all these people?" Charlie asked as they closed the last few yards remaining between them and the gates.

"Parents of some kids still inside," Skender explained. "Older siblings, aunts, uncles. A few of them were already here when we arrived. The rest have showed up since as word of the attack spread."

Charlie looked around them. All told, considering his Romanian contingent, Ddraig Cymry, Clan MacFusty, the Hogsmeaders, and now the Hogwarts' students' families, they'd amassed more than two hundred people.

"Here's my army, just as I promised," Charlie purred temptingly in Slughorn's ear, switching back to English. The professor's eyes sparkled keenly, a marvelous, tempted smile pricking his mouth. "We'll join our forces together. You and I will lead them all to a glorious welcome. They'll sing your praises for a generation... but we've got to hurry."

"They need us," Slughorn murmured under his breath, staring at the closed gates before them. "The Army of the Light – they need me."

"Open the gates, Professor," Charlie urged him.

Slughorn nodded, then drew his wand. An anticipatory hush fell upon the assembly as the professor approached the imposing wrought iron gates. He began chanting and waving his wand in a complex choreography.

Come on! Come on! Nearly there! Charlie imagined the winged boars atop the gates were shivering with the same adrenalized excitement he felt.

Several moments later, Slughorn fell silent and, looking as though he simply didn't know what else to do, laid his hand on the gates and mumbled, "Please, please open." A metallic groan, the sound of gears clicking, and an unearthly rush of wind filled the air in response. Then, the gates swung inward.

A moment of silent astonishment was followed by a great cheer. Then, at the head of the mighty Army of the Light, Charlie Weasley and Horace Slughorn dashed through the gates toward the castle. Nothing stood between Charlie and his family any longer.

Hang on! I'm coming!

---

1. Benaig = "Chief" or "Boss" in Welsh, as per an online translation site. Intended here to be the official title of the Head Keeper.

Author's note: Regarding the Battle of Hogwarts per canon, Horace Slughorn is last seen when he is dismissed by McGonagall on page 602 (US Hardcover edition of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows"), chapter 30, charged with gathering the Slytherin students and bringing them to the Great Hall. The students arrive there (and Pansy shows her true colors) but Slughorn is not specifically mentioned again until page 734, chapter 36, when he reappears alongside Charlie Weasley (who hasn't been mentioned since standing up for Bill at the wedding in Chapter 8) leading a large group of reinforcements into the castle (as quoted at the head of this posting) just before "dead" Harry leaps up and duels Voldie for the final time. This little chapter was my guess as to how Charlie managed to muster up all those folks, and why the heck it took him so long to show up.

Approximately half the named Hogsmeaders are mine, the rest (with a bit of tweaking on my part) belong to JKR.

P.S. I can't tell you how many times I accidentally typed "Slugworth" instead of "Slughorn." Ha!