Valley Forge

Dean kept his head down, eyes fixed on the book in his lap, fingers idly skimming the pages. Despite his attempts to appear engrossed in the novel, he wasn’t actually reading. 

Kingsley stood at the fireplace a few feet away, arms crossed, face illuminated by the flickering green flames. Across the Floo connection, Sturgis Podmore’s face hovered in the embers, slightly distorted but still wearing that same unbothered smirk Dean had learned to associate with him.

“I’m telling you, Sturgis, it’s not secure,” Kingsley said, voice low and edged with frustration.

Podmore let out a chuckle, shaking his head. “Kingsley, I’ve survived two wars. I know how to protect myself.”

Kingsley was unimpressed. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I’ve got it covered, mate, really.”

Dean flicked a page in his book, keeping his expression neutral. He knew Kingsley knew he was listening, but the auror hadn’t asked him to leave, so he kept up the weak pretense.

Kingsley rubbed at his temples. “You’re a stubborn son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“So I’ve heard,” Sturgis said easily. Then his expression sobered. “You didn’t just call to nag me about security, did you?”

Kingsley grimaced. “No.”

Dean gripped the book at its edges.

Podmore sighed deeply. “Flitwick?”

Kingsley nodded, grim.

Podmore was uncharacteristically silent for a moment, the humor draining from him. “Not good,” he admitted. “Even with what Poppy’s been having me do, I don’t think he’ll last the night.”

A tense silence stretched between them.

Dean swallowed. He thought of the Charms classroom, of the small professor who had always been sharper and stronger than people gave him credit for. He thought of Hogwarts, of the battle, of Flitwick’s protection of him and his classmates until the very end. And now…

Kingsley sighed. “Alright,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “Keep me updated. When—if it happens, send word.”

Sturgis nodded, his face flickering in the green flames. “Yeah. Will do.”

They exchanged a few closing pleasantries, and then Sturgis cut the connection. The fire settled back to its usual glow.

Kingsley didn’t even turn. “You can stop pretending now.”

Dean huffed a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t think I was doing a great job of it anyway.”

Kingsley sat down heavily in the chair across from him, rubbing his hands over his face. “Didn’t have to.”

Dean hesitated. “Is there… anything we can do?”

Kingsley looked at him, tired but steady. “Not for him.”

Dean nodded slowly, throat tight. “Right.”

Buried in the middle of the Quibbler amidst speculation about the St. Mungos attack, was a small article:

HOG’S HEAD INN UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT—LUCIAN BOLE ANNOUNCES BOLD NEW PLAN

Neville frowned at the name. He remembered Bole from school—he had been a Slytherin a few years ahead of him, a Beater on the Quidditch team. Brutal player. Not particularly bright.

The fact that he was suddenly running Hog’s Head didn’t sit right.

The inn had been a safe haven during the Carrows’ occupation of Hogwarts. Dumbledore’s brother, Aberforth, had looked after people when nobody else would. It hit hard in a different sort of way, knowing that things had gotten to such a point that even Aberforth had fled. 

He folded the paper and set it aside, a heavy weight settling in his chest.

Seated beside him for breakfast, his mother pressed a gum wrapper into his hand.

It was something she always did, a ritual of sorts. A small scrap of something placed into his palm as if it meant the world.

Neville had never known what to do with them. He used to collect them in a box, as if one day they might form a picture, a story, a message—something that made sense.

Now, he simply stared at the crinkled paper between his fingers.

His mother’s hands were thinner than he remembered, her skin papery and fragile. She was looking at him, but not at him. His father sat beside her, absently turning a teacup in his hands. He hadn’t spoken a word. Neville hadn’t remembered him ever speaking a word. Numbly, he wondered if he sounded at all like him.

Neville had spent most of his life visiting them in St. Mungo’s, seeing them behind sterile white walls, being told by Healers that there was no progress, no change. They were frozen in time, remnants of a war most people had tried to forget.

But now, they were here. In his house. Alive, yet still so incredibly far away. A reminder of everything he’d lost. Shadows of the life he could’ve had.

Neville exhaled shakily.

Did they known? Had they heard what happened to the others?

Could they even understand that they had almost died last night?

He wished he could talk to them, that he could explain everything that had happened while they were locked in their own minds. That he could tell them about Hogwarts, about the war, about standing up and fighting, about the boy he had become, and they'd understand.

Instead, he curled his fingers around the gum wrapper and whispered, “Thanks, Mum.”

She blinked slowly, then looked away.

Neville tried not to let it hurt.

Oliver sat stiffly on the edge of a worn-out armchair in Shell Cottage’s sitting room, fingers curled loosely around the ceramic of his cup of tea, eyes flicking between Percy and the soft glow of the fireplace. He still didn’t know how he could properly thank the man for giving him safe haven. This was probably the most peaceful he’d felt since he’d fled River Piddle nearly a week ago.

Percy was silent beside him, hands folded primly in his lap, looking not at Oliver but at the coffee table before them. There was an air of tension about him, but that wasn’t new. Percy had been locked in this quiet, haunted state since Oliver had arrived, and Oliver wasn’t sure how to reach him. If he even should.

It had been peaceful. Uncomfortable, but peaceful.

Then Charlie muttered something, and the whole world went to hell.

Molly’s voice was the first to rise, sharp and immediate. “You’re what?”

Oliver barely had time to process the shift in atmosphere before Ginny was shouting too, loud enough to drown out whatever response Charlie had tried to give.

He realized, from the verbal barrage that ensued, that Charlie had just said he was leaving. Not for a few days, but indefinitely. He was returning to Romania.

Oliver kept his eyes on his tea, jaw tight, listening as the argument erupted into something enormous and vicious, like it had been sitting just beneath the surface, waiting for an excuse to tear free. He felt distinctly as though he shouldn’t be here for this.

“You selfish bastard!” Ginny was screaming furiously. “You’re actually just going to run off now? When Fred is dead? When George is gone and—and not talking to us and now you’re just going to disappear too?”

“Ginny—” Charlie tried, but she wasn’t done.

“You always do this! You’re never here! You just drop in when it’s convenient for you and then you vanish, and now you’re doing it again!”

Charlie’s voice was hard when he spoke again. “I’m more use in Romania.”

Molly’s was firm, her eyes blazing. “We need you here.”

Oliver risked a glance at Percy.

His arms were wrapped around himself, subtly. He stared at the coffee table like if he looked hard enough, he could ignore what was happening.

Oliver wasn’t sure what to do with that.

The fight raged on.

“—can’t just stay here and do nothing—”

“Fuck recruitment, Charlie!” Ginny shouted, her voice cracking.

Oliver shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t belong in this fight. Didn’t belong in this house, really. But he was here now, and Percy was—

Well.

He took a breath, set his untouched tea aside, and said, carefully, “Percy. Let’s go upstairs.”

No response.

Oliver exhaled through his nose and reached out, setting a hand on Percy’s shoulder. The contact made him stiffen, just barely, but he didn’t look up.

“C’mon,” Oliver murmured. “No point sitting through this.”

He didn’t wait for Percy to agree. Just gently guided him to his feet and steered him out of the room, up the creaky wooden stairs, and into an empty bedroom where the shouting was muffled by thick walls and distance.

Percy sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

Oliver hovered awkwardly near the door, feeling out of his depth.

He wasn’t good at… whatever this was. At helping a friend he had barely seen in years through the grief and guilt of losing his brother. At dealing with the collapse of a family that wasn’t his.

He let Percy sit, doubled over his knees. He pretended he couldn’t see the way the redheads chest heaved with silent sobs. He turned his back, trying to afford him privacy, and walked over to a small wooden bookcase near the window. He ran his fingers along the spines, and pulled out a worn tombe on the history of English Quidditch, noting Bill’s name scrawled in the inside cover. Then he sat on the floor, leaned back against the bookcase, and started flipping through it, trying to pretend he couldn’t still hear screaming.

"Good evening, listeners. This is River, bringing you the truth, because Merlin knows you won’t hear it anywhere else. Once again, my fellow host, Tentacula is ill, so it’s just me tonight. Sorry in advance.”

"We begin this broadcast with grim news. The ‘retribution’ attacks carried out by Death Eaters continue, targeting those who stood against them, as well as their families. It is with a heavy heart that we report the murder of Stephen Cornfoot and his parents, Nigel and Melissa."

"Arabella Figg, a longtime friend to the Order, was also killed. Arabella was a Squib, but she spent her life doing everything she could to help the cause, long before many of us even knew there was a war to fight. Her bravery will not be forgotten."

"Anna and Danny Peakes were slaughtered in their home. We don’t know the status of their son, Jimmy. If you’re listening, mate, know that we mourn with you."

"Jean Boot, wife of David Boot and mother of Terry Boot, was killed for her sympathies toward muggles. Our heart goes out to her family. Additionally, Muriel Weasley, aged though she was, went down fighting last Tuesday. And Garrick Ollivander, who serviced generations of witches and wizards with his wandmaking skills, was unfortunately found dead yesterday.”

“The Ministry will call these deaths 'unfortunate accidents' or 'unrelated crimes,' but we know the truth. This is revenge, pure and simple. This is a message."

"And now, to another loss—one that many of us will feel personally. Filius Flitwick, longtime Charms professor and head of Ravenclaw House, has succumbed to his injuries. Those of us who studied under him knew him as a brilliant teacher, a patient mentor, and a formidable duelist. Those who fought beside him knew him as a warrior who never hesitated, never wavered. Hogwarts will never be the same without him."

"The names are piling up, folks. Each day, we lose more, and each day, the world grows a little darker. But remember this: we are still here. We are still fighting. And for every name they try to erase, we will say it louder. We will remember."

Susan had been curled up on the couch, a book balanced in her lap, when the sitting rooms’ fireplace roared to life. She barely had time to gather herself before Roger Davies stormed out of the coals and past her, his shoulders tense and coiled. 

“Roger?” she asked, confused. She hadn’t even known he was out.

He didn’t even look at her. “Bugger off, kid.”

He made for the stairs, his heavy footfalls echoing in the otherwise silent house.

Susan stared after him. She could have left it at that. She should have. 

Instead, she moved carefully, following his path up the stairs, her heart hammering in her chest. Outside his door, she hesitated. The air here felt thick, the weight of something unsaid pressing down on her. She didn’t knock. Didn’t call out his name again. Instead, she simply pressed her ear against the wood, listening.

At first, there was nothing but silence. Then, the sound of shuddering breath. A sharp inhale. A muffled curse.

And then—deep, heaving sobs.

Susan’s breath caught in her throat. 

The Hufflepuff in her wanted to barge in, do her best to comfort him. But she checked herself. She barely knew him. He thought of her as a kid. Entering could only go poorly. Still she couldn’t bring herself to pull away completely. Instead, she brought herself to the floor, sitting on the carpet with her back against the door. Grief was starting to become as familiar as happiness. She leaned against the oak and numbly listened as the sobs worsened. The sound was almost comforting.

Katie sat, curled in an armchair, her legs pulled close to her chest. Her mother was near her, sunken into the couch. Recently, she’d been consuming an abundance of calming droughts, her anxiety too debilitating to function without them. The effects left her tired and slow, but Katie preferred that to the mess of nerves she’d been before. Across from them, Jimmy Peakes, who'd recently come into their care after his family had been killed, sat stiffly in the chair closest to the radio, his face illuminated by flashes of their candles’ orange and shadow. Her father, silent as ever during these broadcasts, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together.

Katie had been dreading tonight’s Potterwatch. She always dreaded it, truth be told. The list of the dead was neverending. The attacks were growing bolder. Every time Lee Jordan’s voice crackled over the airwaves, it felt like the war was reaching into their home, pulling them closer to the inevitable. Pulling them farther and farther from the illusion of safety her parents tried so hard to project. Nevermind that that sense of safety had been shattered in her seventh year when she’d been hospitalized for six months, the recipient of a curse that hadn’t been meant for her. It was nice to pretend it still existed, but these broadcasts always destroyed any fantasy's they still held onto.

“This is River,” Lee said, his voice tinged with frustration. “And it’s just me today. My cohost is feeling under the weather…. again…” There was a pause, and then, quietly, “Not that he’s been on a single bloody episode since we’ve come back.”

Katie’s mother shifted slightly, glancing at her.

“Anyways, I do have two guests,” Lee continued, “You’ll recognize them.”

There was a crackle, a breath, and then—

“Hello,” Hermione Granger’s voice came through, soft but firm. “It’s Hermione.”

Ron Weasley’s voice followed, subdued. “And Ron.”

It was jarring to hear anyone on Potterwatch use their real names, but, Katie supposed, they had nothing to lose at this point. Now that Harry had passed, they were the most wanted Undesirables in Britain. 

“We know many of you are hurting,” Hermione continued. “We are too. We know intimately how difficult these past few weeks have been.But there’s something you need to know—something we should have said sooner.”

Katie had never heard Hermione sound like this before. It wasn’t the anxious, know-it-all voice she remembered from school. There was grief in her voice, but also certainty and purpose.

“Harry didn’t die in vain,” she said.

The room stilled.

“You-Know-Who… he’s always been careful,” Hermione said. Even through the radio static, Katie could hear the utter repugnance in her voice at the mention of the Dark Lord. “Many of you may have wondered why he didn’t just die the first time when the killing curse rebounded. The answer is simple. He made sure he couldn’t.”

Beside Katie, her mother inhaled sharply. Perhaps not enough calming drought for this particular broadcast,Katie thought mildly.

“He split his soul,” Hermione continued. “Into pieces. And he hid them. He created Horcruxes—objects that kept him tethered to life, even when his body was destroyed.”

Horcruxes, Katie thought curiously, turning the word over in her mind. It was unfamiliar.

“It’s dark magic. Very, very dark. We—Harry, Ron, and I—spent the last year searching for them ,” Hermione went on. “ Destroying them. It’s why we were gone for so long. It’s why so many things happened the way they did…” Something rustled in the background. She cleared her throat. “As far as we know… we succeeded.”

Jimmy sat up straighter.

Blood rushed in Katie’s ears. She turned the words over in her head over and over, certain she’d heard them wrong. Because if she was understanding correctly, it meant—

“For the first time since he started this war, Voldemort is vulnerable.”

Her father sat back, exhaling slowly. Jimmy, though, was still tense. He stared at the radio, something unreadable in his expression.

“Of course,” Hermione added, more cautious now, “he will try again. He will need time, resources, dark magic beyond even what he’s done before. He hasn’t got much of a soul left to split. But that will take months—if not years. Right now, he's human. Right now, he can be killed. ”

Hope.

Katie realized, with a jolt, that was what the feeling in her chest was. It startled her how unfamiliar it had become.

Hope.

She could see it in her mother’s face too, her eyes wide and bright in a way Katie hadn’t seen in months.

“So now is the time,” Hermione said firmly. “I know many of you are afraid. I know we’ve all lost so much. But if there was ever a moment to strike, it’s now. We may never get a better chance.”

There was silence.

Then Ron, who had barely spoken, muttered, “Yeah. What she said.”

Lee cleared his throat. “You heard them, folks,” he said, sounding shaken. “I… Take that however you will. We’ll be back on Thursday night. Next week’s password is Percival. Until then—stay safe. This is River, signing off.”

No one spoke for a long moment.

Katie was the first to break the quiet. “Mum…”

Her mother blinked, snapping out of her thoughts. She turned to Katie, reaching across the space between their seats to rest a hand on her arm. “I know, honey,” she murmured.

Jimmy, shocked, suddenly let out a singular sob and, embarrassed, immediately clasped a hand to his mouth. He flushed red. “I’m sorry.” he croaked out, “I just…”

“It’s a shock.” Katie’s mum said sympathetically.

He let out a deep breath. 

“Yeah…” Katie muttered, head spinning, “A shock.”