Post by TartanPhoenix on Oct 1, 2006 23:52:35 GMT -5
Disclaimer: I don't own much, and Harry Potter is certainly not in that small grouping. He, and all his friends, belong to J.K. Rowling.
Rating: I'm going to say T for a few images and situations.
Summary: Not much is known about the direct aftermath of the Gindelwald era. The few people who were there to live it are unwilling to discuss it, for a good reason.
AN: This one's been bouncing around in my mind for awhile. I hope everyone enjoys it.
The War
The familiar pressure gave way, and reflexively she took a breath. The putrid air around her froze in her chest, and the tea from lunch fought its way back up. She didn’t stop as she stumbled forward, wiping her mouth with the hand not clutching her wand. The young woman stumbled her way across the cratered ground, sliding through mud, blood, and almost threw up again as her boot became tangled in poor sod’s bowels.
They had been sent in as clean up; the war was over. Albus had managed to kill Peter Gindelwald, and now all that was left was to collect the dead and treat the wounded. A thick gurgling noise startled her and she turned to the right, picking through a pile of parts that used to make what appeared to be several people.
She gasped as a wet hand shot out and wrapped itself around her wrist, the metallic smell assaulting her senses. “Hilf mir!” His voice was rough, but he couldn’t have been more than sixteen as grey eyes pleaded with her.
Without a word she pulled her arm away and stood up. She had her orders, and he wasn’t it, wasn’t one of theirs. “Bitte! Bitte!” She simply kept moving.
“McGonagall!” Her head snapped up as Alastor made his way toward her; his gate was still uneven. He hadn’t gotten used to his new leg yet. “The West side has been cleared, but we still haven’t found Dumbledore yet. I want you to finish the South and make you way up the East. See if you can find him. I’m going to head up the North with a group of Aurors. Some of the wounded Germans are kicking up a fuss.”
“Be careful Alastor; we can’t have you getting killed now. Poppy would use me for her anatomy revision.”
He nodded and turned to hobble away. She watched him go before returning to the job at hand. She could hear the moans and screams of the wounded everywhere as well as the soothing voices of the other field medics. Their white armbands stood out as a beacon in the pitch black, another reason they had to remain behind while the fighting was going on. A bright target is an easy target, as many of her friends had found out.
“No,” she said, shaking her head before dropping to her knees beside a young woman. A wide gash ran across her thigh, and her right arm was broken, an equally broken wand only inches away.
With practiced movements, Minerva loosely closed the wound and re-set the bones, placing the arm in a temporary bind for transport. This one had a chance. She reached into her side back and pulled out one of the rusted bottle caps and put it on her chest. “You’re going to be just fine. Close your eyes; I’m going to transport you to the field hospital.” Straining fingers gratefully wrapped themselves around the broken handle just before the portkey was activated.
She went on this way, moving from one body to the next, loosing one for every one saved. She was tired, filthy, and nauseous, but she kept moving. The din of voices was finally thinning, completely falling silent as she crested a hill along the Eastern edge of the field. Her breath hitched as she saw it. A crater ten feet wide sat where the fortification had been.
She could vaguely make out a sliver of what could have been the outer wall in the background, but everything else was simply smoke. She had heard the final confrontation had been epic in its scope, but nothing prepared her for the sickening awe of the sight.
She stumbled as the loose gravel crumbled under her feet, and she was forced to run to keep her balance at all. Her eyes darted back and forth across the landscape, her ears straining to hear even the faintest of sounds. There was nothing.
The hairs along the back of her neck rose up; something wasn’t right. She could feel her stomach begin to knot as she took in the utter devastation. He hadn’t been seen since entering the front gates of the non-existent building. Fear began to well up within her, but she quickly shoved it down again. She would know if he hadn’t survived; she would know. A small trickling noise caught her attention as she rounded a bend. A lake spread about before her, beautiful and calm despite the chaos around it.
She worked her way forward, stepping over the guards that would forever guard their delusional master. There was a single tree, undamaged, not far from her position. She would be able to climb up, and hopefully the added height would give her a better view as well.
She approached slowly, weary of any survivors. She found one that would make the tree irrelevant. He was moving slowly with his arms handing at his sides. She could see his wand, stray sparks still popping in the air, but there was something in his other hand as well. She just couldn’t make it out. His head was up, but even though she was carefully walking right in front of him, he didn’t seem to see her. “Albus,” she called out as she continued moving, relief flooding through her as she failed to see any injuries.
He looked up at the voice just as he stepped beside a burning piece of rubble, casting his form in shadow. That sense of relief turned to horror as she finally saw him in the light, and she couldn’t hold back the scream that passed her lips. No one could doubt that Peter Gindelwald was dead. The contorted head in his hand and the blood caking the outside of Albus’ robes would see to that.
She covered the remaining distance between them slowly, almost afraid of what he would do if startled. Steeling herself, she reached out and put a gentle hand on his arm. The warm was still there, despite the freezing skin beneath her fingers. “Let him go Albus; please, just let him go.”
Blue eyes widened as the head landed in the muck, and the freed hand clamped around her arm. Her fear only grew as she watched him begin to shake. Without another word or thought, she wrapped her fingers around another bottle cap, only stopping long enough to change the destination.
It only took a whispered, “Portus,” and they left the dead and the filth behind them. If only they could have left the war.
Rating: I'm going to say T for a few images and situations.
Summary: Not much is known about the direct aftermath of the Gindelwald era. The few people who were there to live it are unwilling to discuss it, for a good reason.
AN: This one's been bouncing around in my mind for awhile. I hope everyone enjoys it.
The War
The familiar pressure gave way, and reflexively she took a breath. The putrid air around her froze in her chest, and the tea from lunch fought its way back up. She didn’t stop as she stumbled forward, wiping her mouth with the hand not clutching her wand. The young woman stumbled her way across the cratered ground, sliding through mud, blood, and almost threw up again as her boot became tangled in poor sod’s bowels.
They had been sent in as clean up; the war was over. Albus had managed to kill Peter Gindelwald, and now all that was left was to collect the dead and treat the wounded. A thick gurgling noise startled her and she turned to the right, picking through a pile of parts that used to make what appeared to be several people.
She gasped as a wet hand shot out and wrapped itself around her wrist, the metallic smell assaulting her senses. “Hilf mir!” His voice was rough, but he couldn’t have been more than sixteen as grey eyes pleaded with her.
Without a word she pulled her arm away and stood up. She had her orders, and he wasn’t it, wasn’t one of theirs. “Bitte! Bitte!” She simply kept moving.
“McGonagall!” Her head snapped up as Alastor made his way toward her; his gate was still uneven. He hadn’t gotten used to his new leg yet. “The West side has been cleared, but we still haven’t found Dumbledore yet. I want you to finish the South and make you way up the East. See if you can find him. I’m going to head up the North with a group of Aurors. Some of the wounded Germans are kicking up a fuss.”
“Be careful Alastor; we can’t have you getting killed now. Poppy would use me for her anatomy revision.”
He nodded and turned to hobble away. She watched him go before returning to the job at hand. She could hear the moans and screams of the wounded everywhere as well as the soothing voices of the other field medics. Their white armbands stood out as a beacon in the pitch black, another reason they had to remain behind while the fighting was going on. A bright target is an easy target, as many of her friends had found out.
“No,” she said, shaking her head before dropping to her knees beside a young woman. A wide gash ran across her thigh, and her right arm was broken, an equally broken wand only inches away.
With practiced movements, Minerva loosely closed the wound and re-set the bones, placing the arm in a temporary bind for transport. This one had a chance. She reached into her side back and pulled out one of the rusted bottle caps and put it on her chest. “You’re going to be just fine. Close your eyes; I’m going to transport you to the field hospital.” Straining fingers gratefully wrapped themselves around the broken handle just before the portkey was activated.
She went on this way, moving from one body to the next, loosing one for every one saved. She was tired, filthy, and nauseous, but she kept moving. The din of voices was finally thinning, completely falling silent as she crested a hill along the Eastern edge of the field. Her breath hitched as she saw it. A crater ten feet wide sat where the fortification had been.
She could vaguely make out a sliver of what could have been the outer wall in the background, but everything else was simply smoke. She had heard the final confrontation had been epic in its scope, but nothing prepared her for the sickening awe of the sight.
She stumbled as the loose gravel crumbled under her feet, and she was forced to run to keep her balance at all. Her eyes darted back and forth across the landscape, her ears straining to hear even the faintest of sounds. There was nothing.
The hairs along the back of her neck rose up; something wasn’t right. She could feel her stomach begin to knot as she took in the utter devastation. He hadn’t been seen since entering the front gates of the non-existent building. Fear began to well up within her, but she quickly shoved it down again. She would know if he hadn’t survived; she would know. A small trickling noise caught her attention as she rounded a bend. A lake spread about before her, beautiful and calm despite the chaos around it.
She worked her way forward, stepping over the guards that would forever guard their delusional master. There was a single tree, undamaged, not far from her position. She would be able to climb up, and hopefully the added height would give her a better view as well.
She approached slowly, weary of any survivors. She found one that would make the tree irrelevant. He was moving slowly with his arms handing at his sides. She could see his wand, stray sparks still popping in the air, but there was something in his other hand as well. She just couldn’t make it out. His head was up, but even though she was carefully walking right in front of him, he didn’t seem to see her. “Albus,” she called out as she continued moving, relief flooding through her as she failed to see any injuries.
He looked up at the voice just as he stepped beside a burning piece of rubble, casting his form in shadow. That sense of relief turned to horror as she finally saw him in the light, and she couldn’t hold back the scream that passed her lips. No one could doubt that Peter Gindelwald was dead. The contorted head in his hand and the blood caking the outside of Albus’ robes would see to that.
She covered the remaining distance between them slowly, almost afraid of what he would do if startled. Steeling herself, she reached out and put a gentle hand on his arm. The warm was still there, despite the freezing skin beneath her fingers. “Let him go Albus; please, just let him go.”
Blue eyes widened as the head landed in the muck, and the freed hand clamped around her arm. Her fear only grew as she watched him begin to shake. Without another word or thought, she wrapped her fingers around another bottle cap, only stopping long enough to change the destination.
It only took a whispered, “Portus,” and they left the dead and the filth behind them. If only they could have left the war.
Oh how awful. For that to happen I mean not your story 
Your story was wonderful and it really made me feel for them. Poor Albus and Min, it's going to be so difficult to get over this. Are you continuing?
