Dumbledore's Army and the Year of Darkness, page 22
It barely stirred as he carried it back to his bed, laying it carefully on the soft comforter as Seamus re-latched the window behind him. The owl looked to be on its very last legs. It was more than half-frozen, its beak and legs blue, its feathers caked with ice, and someone had clearly tried to stop it from reaching its destination, because its entire tail had been reduced to a charred mess of scorched feathers, and it was trembling with exhaustion, cold, and pain as he stroked it. "You poor thing," Neville murmured, "you shouldn't have tried to fly like that, not in this weather."
"Neville, look." Seamus was at his shoulder, and he was pointing to the bird's leg where the package was still attached. "It's Banded." Sure enough, a glossy black band was sealed magically around the bird's leg, unmistakably printed with the horribly familiar sign of the skull and serpent. The sandy brows above the blue eyes creased in worry. "Why would a Death Eater be sendin' an owl to Gryffindor tower?"
"We don't know for sure it's a Death Eater," Neville protested. "Maybe someone just used it to get past the security because they don't get checked?"
"Aye, of course. Because Banded owls are so easy to come by." Seamus' voice was rich with sarcasm as he used his wand to sever the strings that held the package to the battered bird. As he pulled it free, a small piece of parchment that had been tightly rolled beneath the strings fell loose and fluttered to the bed. He picked it up, and his ruddy face went pale beneath the freckles. "Oh, no...."
He passed the parchment to Neville, who had knelt to rummage in his trunk for the flask of Pepper-Up Potion he knew he had saved from Herbology homework earlier that year. Neville tried to wave it away, but Seamus leaned down and held it directly in his face, and he stopped as his eyes caught the jagged, thick, ink-blotted handwriting, the dark red finger-marks on the edges that could only be blood. Rocking back on his heels, he took the scrap and tilted it to the moonlight.
The handwriting was a rude scrawl at best, so blotted with ink that he had to squint to make out some of the words, blurred further still by the wide stains at the edges, but as he deciphered the hurried, desperate missive, his hands begin to shake, and he felt his face go pale.
Hurt me dad stoppd them but theyre killing him will get me next I know take thes maybe you can use them make him pay long live HP
T R
PS unband mercury theyll kill him too
He looked up, feeling dazed and heartsick, and he saw that Seamus had the package in his hands now, the brown paper wrapping torn open as he stared inside in stark disbelief. "Neville..." He knelt, holding out the bundle as he shook his head slowly. "Are these what I think they are?"
Carefully, Neville reached into the parcel and lifted out a heavy, wrinkled bundle of luxurious black cloth. As it unfolded, something clattered from within, something that gleamed a bright and terrible silver in the squares of moonlight on the floor. "Death Eater's robes," Neville whispered, awestruck, "and...one of their masks. They're...they're real. Blimey, they're thick." He fingered the embroidered Dark Mark that lay almost invisibly on the left sleeve, ebony thread on black; a detail he had never noticed before. "Do you think they were his Dad's?"
"Well, you can't buy those at Madame Malkin's!" Seamus retorted.
The owl on the bed gave a feeble hoot, and Neville shook himself, scooping the robes and mask into his trunk and burying them deeply as he snatched up the little flask and hurried to the injured bird. Carefully cradling the head in his hand, he raised the mouth of the flask to the beak. "Here you go...so you're Mercury, huh? Well, Mercury, let's get you warmed up a little, then we'll see what we can do about your tail and that nasty thing on your leg, okay?
"What are we goin' to do with the owl, Neville?" asked Seamus. "It's not gonna be easy explainin' where we got him, especially if they're lookin' for him, and those bands don't just come off without fuss. I don't think the poor little bloke knew that."
"We take him to the Room of Requirement, and we take care of him until he gets better," Neville declared fiercely. "Then if we can't get the band off his leg, we transfigure him a little, and Renny's given us an owl that won't be searched as well as the robes and mask."
"And what, pray tell, are we doin' with those?"
"I haven't really decided yet." The owl had managed a few swallows of the Potion, and steam was beginning to seep from the feathers where his ears were hidden as the ice on his wings began to melt and he slowly took on a slightly less frigid color. "But he sent us those as his last request, and I don't intend to take that lightly."
The blue eyes widened. "So you really think they killed him, then?"
"He wasn't the kind of kid to panic if it had just been a bunch of noise." Neville's jaw was set in determination, and though no tears came to his eyes, his heart ached for the young Slytherin. As much as he hated everything the boy had believed in, he had been brave and true to his own beliefs, even as he had done what most would have considered a betrayal of them, and he had paid the price willingly and courageously and far, far too soon. "I'm going to do what he asked. I'm going to find a way to make them pay."
OOO
Xenophilius Lovegood surpassed himself, getting out a special one-sheet edition of the Quibbler within twenty-four hours, and within a few hours more, the charmed grains were ready. Neville scooped them into the hands of each of the D.A. members in turn, his face solemn. "Make sure you get rid of every last one of these before they go off, but don't be careless about it. You can't let yourselves get caught. Whatever you might have thought of Runcorn as a person, or as a Slytherin, he was one of us, and we won't just let this go.
"He's the first the D.A. has lost, but he's not the first who's paid with their life. Susan, your aunt. Hannah, your Mum. Mike, your Dad. Cormac McLaggen, Cedric Diggory, Lynn Fawcett - not to mention half the Auror Department now - and we don't even know how many more of the ones who are out there running and hiding. This is the first strike, and the first strike only. The Lieutenants and I know that he gave us more than just that owl. We're still working out how to use the second gift, but the biggest thing he gave us was his life. Let's make sure people know that."
As the last of the grains were dolled out, Neville pocketed his own fistful and raised his wand to signal the start of the mission. The sparks that shot into the air were not solid silver this time, but a mixture of silver and the emerald green of Slytherin, and today, the rallying cry was different.
"For the Fallen!"
By dinner they were everywhere. Charmed sheets of parchment bearing the banner of the Quibbler, and beneath it, a picture of Runcorn that Camellia had gotten for them. It showed him in the Slytherin common room, dressed in green pajamas with a silver snake on the pocket as he lay sprawled upside down in a chair, playing Exploding Snap with a handful of other boys who had their backs to the camera, then laughing so hard when the cards erupted that he fell head-first into the remains of the game.
It was the only picture Camellia could find - most of Pansy's photo album was of her own year, most notably Draco, on whom she had a crush of epic proportions - and there had been a great deal of concern over whether it was heroic enough to be a fitting tribute to a fallen soldier. Neville thought it was perfect. He wasn't supposed to have been a soldier, none of them were, and it showed him as a boy, his house affiliation clear and unashamed, but in a picture that could have been taken in any common room in the school.
Below the photo, the headline blared in bold, black type, and below that, an article that had been written in combination between several of the Ravenclaws and Malcolm Braddock, who made it his own last act before tearfully confessing to Neville that he was leaving the D.A., too frightened for his own safety and family to continue. Neville had expected the move, but he discovered that as strange as it had been to have Slytherins in the D.A., it seemed even more so when the green banners disappeared from the hangings in the Room of Requirement, leaving red, yellow, and blue to stand alone.
The flyers were strictly banned, of course, but Neville didn't need to see them again to know what they said as he watched Filch laboriously piling them into the fireplaces of the Great Hall from under benches and tables, where they had to be burned by hand one at a time.
NO ONE SAFE! YOU-KNOW-WHO MURDERS OWN!
On Tuesday, during the evening of December 9th, Terrance Quincy Runcorn, 14, of Slytherin house, and his father, noted Death Eater and former member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Albert Runcorn, were murdered in their home by the followers of You-Know-Who.
Terrance, known as Renny to his many friends, had been selected to play Keeper on the Slytherin Quidditch team before their disbanding earlier this year, and was well-known for his athletic prowess. "I could see him having gone professional, certainly," says Professor Horace Slughorn, "he had a great deal of drive in everything he pursued. Excellent in Potions, always followed the instructions to the letter."
Following instructions, however, proved of little help in the face of You-Know-Who's increasingly deranged and paranoid anger. Renny was a Pureblood wizard for thirteen documented generations, from an unbroken line of Slytherins, with a family tradition of service as Enforcers that had been passed from father to son for seven. Albert was twice commended for service to the Ministry, distinguishing himself particularly in the capture of infamous forger Mortimer Luggfetter six years ago, and boasted a spotless record which his son had intended to emulate. The Runcorn family was also very vocal in their support of Pureblood Superiority, and Albert joined the Death Eaters within a few months of You-Know-Who's return, earning a name for himself there as well by reporting Muggle-Borns who had attempted to protect themselves by falsifying family documents.
All of this loyalty should have offered some protection to father and son, but You-Know-Who does not show such reasonable behavior. The public claims put out by the Ministry and by You-Know-Who directly say that anyone who is willing to cooperate with his efforts to oppress and attack Muggle-Borns and his violent reign over the wizarding world will be granted safety and protection, but he has proven with the horrific murders of the Runcorns that this is yet another lie!
If the Daily Prophet dares to print anything about this double homicide, they will undoubtedly try to paint it as an accident, or as the execution of traitors, but the public deserves to know the real truth! Here at the Quibbler, we have never been afraid of printing the unpopular, and we will now bring you the real, exclusive reason that You-Know-Who ordered their execution.
On September 2nd, Harry Potter - known to the Ministry as Undesirable #1, but to faithful thousands as The Chosen One or The Boy Who Lived - broke into the Ministry of Magic and freed dozens of Muggle-Borns who were awaiting mock 'trials' at the hands of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, as was previously reported in a Special Edition of the Quibbler. Polyjuice Potion was used in this brave infiltration, and Albert Runcorn was the unwilling provider of Potter's disguise, having been sent to St. Mungo's by a Nosebleed Nougat dropped surreptitiously into his morning coffee by an accomplice of Potter already disguised as a fellow Ministry employee. For nothing more than talking to a co-worker, Albert Runcorn was tortured extensively by his fellow Death Eaters.
This action showed young Renny the true nature of You-Know-Who, and he participated in efforts at Hogwarts School to open the eyes of the wizarding world. At no time did he in any way abandon his beliefs about Pureblood Superiority, or betray any member of his house, nor any of You-Know-Who's followers. He merely exercised what should have been his rights in any free society to express an opinion about his leaders. Nor was he caught in these actions. A copy of one of the leaflets like you now hold in your hand was simply found on his person during an unauthorized search, and for this alone, without recourse or trial, he was severely beaten, pulled from school the same day, and the following night, he and his father were murdered in cold blood.
No matter what your stance on Muggle Rights vs. Pureblood Superiority, let this stand as a lesson and a warning! If You-Know-Who is willing to wipe out an entire line of the pure wizarding blood he claims to hold so dear, and on such meager evidence, can anyone count themselves safe? Reliable sources tell us that the Malfoy family, among the most highly-esteemed and prominent of You-Know-Who's inner circle, are now living as prisoners on their family estate, Malfoy Manor, under frequent torture and constant threat of death at You-Know-Who's slightest whim, and Peter Pettigrew, the traitor who turned over the Potters sixteen years ago and who facilitated You-Know-Who's return to corporeal form by cutting off his own hand in a show of loyalty, is now being used as little more than a house-elf.
Are these the glorious rewards he promises his faithful? Is this why we are supposed to turn in our friends, betray our families, and turn against one another? Are murder, torture, slavery, and imprisonment what we are supposed to consider the benefits of his rule? Witches and wizards, consider your choices carefully, and remember the Runcorn family and all the other victims of You-Know-Who's bloody regime by joining the Quibbler in supporting Harry Potter at every opportunity!
Long live Harry Potter!
At the Staff Table, Snape's thin features showed all the rage Neville had come to expect after such acts of defiance, but gradually, he began to realize that the black eyes were not fixed on Gryffindor as usual. Instead, they were turned to the Ravenclaw table as he leaned towards the Carrows and exchanged a whispered conversation, gesturing at a copy of the flyer that lay on the table in front of them. Slowly, a pair of hideous smiles spread across the two doughy faces, mirrored in Snape's own satisfied smirk, and Neville felt his blood turn cold as he saw where the three sets of eyes had fallen.
Luna.
Chapter 8: Dreams and Realities
Neville pressed back tightly against the cool stone wall, holding his breath as he listened for the sound of a footfall, the whisper of a cloak, anything but his own speeding heart. Every nerve was on edge, and he didn't dare let go of his wand long enough to wipe the sweat from his palms. They were out there, somewhere, hunting him, and a moment's distraction was all it would take. Allowing himself a deep, cautious breath, he eased silently around the corner, leading with his wand.
He could see a figure crumpled motionless on the floor ahead. The thick, glossy black plait told him the fallen was one of the Patil twins, but he spared no time to check whether the trim of her robes was crimson or blue. There would be time to tally their losses later. Now it was just the thin piece of wood in his hand and he didn't know how many Death Eaters somewhere out there. He had felled two already, his vivid green jets evening the odds against their own as much as he could.
A flash of motion caught the corner of his eye, and he spun, crouching low to reduce himself as a target as he steadied the wand in both hands. It was Michael, his handsome face shining with sweat over an ashen pallor, his eyes haunted. The Ravenclaw gasped as he snapped his own wand up to the ready, then let out a deep, shuddering breath as he recognized Neville. "Holy - Neville, I could have -"
"You could have nothing," Neville hissed in a furious whisper. "Keep your wand up, Corner! I could have killed you three times before you had it aimed!" His eyes flicked down the corridor. "Where's Terry?"
"They got him." He wiped one shaking hand across his forehead. "This is too much. We can't win...they just come out of nowhere, and they're out to kill! You can't block it!"
"Then duck it, or get them first, or keep them dueling until you have a clear shot. This is a battle, not a skirmish. A battle is always too much, I've been in two. Just stop thinking and keep your wand up!" He'd been in one place too long, his instincts were beginning to scream an alarm, and he didn't spare a glance back as he slipped away down the hall, leaving Michael behind in the dark halls with his advice and the young man's own fear.
There was the sound of movement from the Charms classroom ahead, but before he could reach the door, the faint rustles and footsteps erupted into the sizzles, cracks, and screams of an outright duel. There were at least two Death Eaters, their voices muffled beneath the masks, but Ernie's Scots burr was unmistakable, and the witch's voice made his heart freeze. It was Hannah, her voice tight, strained, clearly in pain as she fired off spell after spell in increasing desperation.
Without another thought, Neville sprinted down the corridor and threw open the door to the classroom. Hannah was on the floor, her legs useless beneath her in the misshapen knot of a Jelly-Legs Jinx as she fought to hold a Shield Charm against the Death Eater who towered over her, firing jinxes and hexes down against the silvery barrier. Across the room, Ernie crouched behind Flitwick's desk. He was dueling two at once, one side of his face twisted in a dark, ugly-looking burn.
Neville did not hesitate. Green light shot out towards the Death Eater attacking Hannah, and before the black-robed figure had hit the floor, he was at her side, scooping her up in his arms to get her out of there, get her somewhere safe to find out what had put the pain in her voice. One of the Death Eaters fighting Ernie turned, and he realized in horror that his wand was trapped in the hand now wrapped under Hannah's knees. She twisted in his arms, raising hers, but it was too late.
The world flared green, everything spun cold for a split second, and then he knew nothing at all.
OOO
"That was a complete effing disaster!" Neville yanked off his sweat-soaked robes and flung them to the floor in disgust. Ginny, still in her Death Eater's robes, offered him a glass of water with a rueful, wordless smile, but he waved it away, stripping out of his shirt and tie to throw them down in a pile on top of the robes. Down to his undershirt now, he sank into a crouch, bracing his elbows against his knees and running his fingers through his hair as he looked out across his exhausted troops.
The Room of Requirement no longer looked anything like the halls and classrooms of the school beyond. Instead, it had transformed into an odd cross between a gymnasium and a meeting room. The floor was smooth golden wood, the walls were mirrored, except for the one Neville stood in front of, which sported a large blackboard in place of one of the mirrored panels. Large cushions on which most of the D.A. was now sprawled were scattered everywhere, a table beneath the blackboard set with water, tea, and various snacks being attentively presided over by Dobby.
