Sainted
by Corvidae9



Challenge: Written for ociwen's new community, arth_hp: Create a fic or art based on St. Eulalia, by J.W. Waterhouse; one of my personal favorite artists/pieces of all time.
Warnings: Angst, Character death; implied H/R/Hr; run-on sentences as a plot device. :D
Notes: Owie owie owie. Boy did this hurt to write.


*****


Harry and Ron hadn't had time to miss her. She'd kissed them goodnight and gone to her room; they'd come to collect her for breakfast and found a crowd. The watching, red-rimmed eyes of the students followed them closely as they made their way through what seemed to be an eternally parting sea of distressed faces, Ron clinging to Harry's arm fighting an urge to vomit. No one said anything directly to them, but it was abundantly clear that Something Very Bad had occurred. Something obviously worthy of pity and horror, judging from the crying girl being led away by a young man who flinched visibly when he caught sight of Ron and Harry.

Finally at the front of the slow-motion sludge of gathered students, they saw It. Robes strewn on the ground, a pile of black fabric; dark stains on the flagstones; an unnatural expanse of creamy skin...

Her.

Chestnut hair once so alive, now a matted halo streaming out around her face... She who was so modest in public, she couldn't bring herself to wear the robes Molly Weasley had helped her pick out for the Leaving Ball until she'd charmed the neckline up an inch or two; now lying bare-chested in the chill morning air, exposed to all who gawked, torn robes draped low across her rounded, bruised hips. She, who had refused to wear makeup, now forced to endure blue fingernails and lips. She who traced Harry's scar with her cool fingers and whispered encouragement and support now sported a matching gash over her heart; one which would never heal over to form a scar.

It was Ron who ran forward first, slamming bodily into an invisible barrier that left him half-stunned and shaking violently in a heap, although there was no telling whether either was a result of the spelled wards. Harry pulled his wand and screamed spells at the barrier, sending riotously colored sparks bouncing in all directions before being bodily restrained by bystanders. Bystanders, who not a moment later were thrown in all directions as Harry broke free and found himself now clinging to Ron, arm thrown across his chest. Someone was keening some incoherent Celtic battle cry; some long lost song of sorrow, as they held fast to each other not ten feet from the body of their beloved.

An authority figure arrived on the scene, as ridiculous as the concept seemed; a teacher, obviously female, given the high-pitched cry of shock and sobs she choked back as she ordered the crowd back to their houses. When no one moved, she became thunderously loud, her orders to retreat rebounding from every available surface, sending the students scattering away.

Ron was now hoarsely repeating "Finite Incatatem" as a mantra of sorts, white-knuckled hands gripping Harry's arm, blurred gaze riveted to the little star-shaped scar on the outside of her left ankle, because he couldn't bring himself to look at anything else. Harry stared at her unmoving body and face in turns, unable to rip his eyes away; unable to believe she would never brush her teeth or plait her hair or tell him off again.

The authority figure probed the wards, trying to find a weakness, to suss out a counterspell. She magnified her voice and called for the students to gather immediately in the Great Hall; for the Headmaster and faculty to report to the Head Girl's room, her usual brogue stiff and broken. She struggled not to look at the two boys tangled around each other at the edge of the wards, or the girl (the body; the body) lying in a boneless heap on the other side. Standing straight, she attempted to work through the complicated wards until the moment she felt the Headmaster's hand on her shoulder, whereupon she turned and fell against him, sobbing openly for perhaps the first time ever in her tenure at Hogwarts.


###


A collective gasp, followed by a wide range of fearful reactions, echoed through the Great Hall as the enchanted ceiling suddenly reflected the great and glowing Mosmordre that currently hung above the castle. The house elves scrambled to suspend the enchantment and cause tea and biscuits to materialize on the tables above, but the damage had been done. The students clustered together in fear and shock, news of the events traveling quickly throughout the assembled student body. Several fled back to their common room deep in the cool bowels of the castle to wait out the scare.

The over-arrogant Head Boy could not afford this luxury, and leaned against the head table, surveying the scene with curiosity in the name of keeping the peace. A small red-headed girl with swollen eyes crossed the hall to confront him. As he pulled his insincere smile into place, she punched him in the face, sending him sprawling over the table, the whole time babbling about 'his kind' and 'paying for it'. As he stood, he held a hand to his bleeding nose and felt a momentary pang of uncharacteristic sympathy before deducting ten points from Gryffindor with a completely neutral expression. She kicked the table and swore at him as she backed into the arms of a fellow Gryffindor, who pulled her away to their table crammed full of students from all houses.

His fine eyebrow arched in surprise at a few in green and silver ties gathered mutely at the foot of the Gryffindor table in silent solidarity. Mudblood or not, he could see how an event like this could disturb some of the younger members of even his house. But honestly, anyone could see that Saint Potter's cronies were first on the list for elimination; they had no one to blame but themselves when it was time to pay the price for that association. The only surprise remaining in his mind was that it had taken this long for one of the golden-haired children to get it.

Frowning slightly, he took careful mental note of names and years for the offending Slytherins. They would obviously require a stern talking-to.


###


A low, smooth voice broke into Harry's consciousness; his arm long numb in Ron's grip. "Mister Potter. Mister Weasley. Dammit, Potter-- look at me.." A cold hand on his chin forced his head to turn towards the voice, and Harry found himself staring directly at the Potions Master, seemingly as hateful as ever.

"Potter. You and Weasley need to back away. We need room around the wards."

Harry tried and failed to wrench his face from the vice-like grip that held him. "Fuck you, Professor."

Eyes tight, the professor snarled, "Potter, I don't have time to coddle you. Either of you. Move yourself at once or be moved".

Wrenching one arm free, Harry brought his wand up with lightning speed to the offending throat. Standing, he used the arm still around Ron to pull him upright along with him; Ron who was still mumbling thickly through his tears finally looked up to see Harry holding his wand on the professor, and was unable to process the scene. Had nothing to say and no reaction at hand but to stare.

The Potions Master, for his part, did the only courteous thing he had ever done for Potter and remained silent as the two moved away only slightly, just enough for him to pass between them and the wards. Ron placed a hand on his shaking, outstretched hand, clenched tightly around his wand, forcing it downward slowly before turning and laying his head atop Harry's.

Watching them intently, the Headmaster shook his head when the School Nurse asked if she should sedate and remove them.

They stood or sat unmoving for the better part of that day and the next and all of those following while the faculty worked to take down the wards. The thought had been voiced that they should be forced away before decomposition set in, but the body remained intact and they maintained their vigil, as the rest of the student body left the school for the summer and experts and cursebreakers brought in from all corners of the wizarding world.

The families of the three were called in, and two came. No one could convince Ron and Harry to move, much less speak or eat. They sat against the low stone railing, leaning on each other by turns and keeping watch.

Two weeks from the morning she had been found, as Harry lay on the stone floor, head cradled in Ron's lap, the wards came down thanks to a combination of no less than fourteen counterspells in thirteen different languages, rendering all of the wizards and witches involved unconscious and shattering windows in a jagged line down the entire side of the castle.

As the previously confined air wafted out, the scent of roses permeated the corridor, sending a ripple of confusion among those still conscious. Ron shook Harry awake, and no one moved, barely breathing as they slowly stood and finally made their way to her side.


*****


{Companion art} {Authors} {Home}