Elemental Warfare: Air
"MOVE!"
The ground smacked her ass before she figured out that he meant heads up! Propping her head and chest off the ground with her elbows, the sting of swirling grit bit into her skin. Pushing her weight against her legs, she was upright just in time to see a dark blur come hurtling down at her. What the hell?
"Damn it - GET DOWN!" Neville fired off a curse with his wand arm; the other hand was flung in her direction. Wandless magic jerked her backwards a good fifteen feet and landed her on her ass - again. Scrambling to her feet again, the thump of a body falling out of the sky and striking the same ground where her ass hit the ground the first time did not spare Longbottom from a getting a dirty look. "What - owl too slow?"
"Susan - get up here!"
Summoning her dropped wand, Susan hurried back into position. Hold the line. That was imperative. Weasley said it was. So it will be, she vowed.
Dodging to the left, a Sectumsempra curse struck someone behind and to the left of her. Aggressively twirling out of the way, a jet of purple light narrowly missed her cheek and fluttered her eyelashes as it flew towards enemy lines. Coming out of the spin, she fired off a rapid series of spells in the direction of the furthest sounding voices. Anyone near her would be a victim of friendly fire, which was acceptable. They had told her so. It was war and this was battle. To her left was Terry Boot. On the other side of Longbottom was Daphne Greengrass. So went the line: Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor and Slytherin, all fighting side by side. Didn't matter if they all graduated years ago, House identities did not end because Hogwarts was a charred ruin.
"Susan!" Terry Boot yelled. Squinting through the haze, his shout was diminished by the din of spell casting, exploding earth, expletive hurling, the bellowing of Grawp somewhere behind her and the counter-cries of the fighting injured.
"I need - "
The sight of a vampire, teeth bared, heading straight for her, meant Terry would have to wait. Stepping up, a snarl of her own formed behind her teeth at the immediate collision. Grunting with satisfaction at how the vamp bounced backwards - Inertia 101 blood-sucker - did not mean she had time to play. Artistry was traded for efficiency. Pivoting on her heel, putting her back to the vamp, she tossed her wand into her left hand and slammed the blunt end of her wand into the heart cavity of the charging vampire. Driving through flesh and sinew, she pushed harder as the momentum of her initial thrust slowed. Tucking her head, letting her hair fall around her face as a protective screen, her elbow was suddenly pushing against nothingness. A shower of dust coating her back was the `all clear' sign that put Terry back at the top of her list.
Vampire ash spread from head to heel, the back of her hand lifted the long layers of her hair away from her face. Flinging fingerfulls of hair over her shoulders, she looked to where Terry was supposed to be standing - not grappling in a clash of leverage with some Death Eater that had four inches and seventy-five pounds more mass to his frame. Not smart, Ravenclaw.
Twirling her wand so that the handle was nestled in the fold of her palm, she lifted her elbow to shoulder height and locked her wrist. Susan was momentarily grossed out when she saw Terry spit at the larger man's face and watched the Death Eater - literally - eat up Terry's defiance. The Death Eater had both of Terry's arms extended above his head. His eyes were lit with the anticipation of pushing the younger man to the ground. Cocking her head, she created a line-of-sight. Her aim had to be perfect.
Calling out the word Sonorus in her mind, hollering, "Dissendium!" with her voice, she fired two bursts of magic. Eat this!
Catching a snippet of Terry squealing like a girl when he realized he was fisting a pair of newly severed Death Eater's hands was all the thanks she needed. The Death Eater, pain and hatred dominated his features. Grasping what happened to him, he focused glittering eyes on Susan. An ugly smirk of her own answered his silent accusation. "Like the taste of that, bitch?" was all the insult she had time for before he was cut down by one of his own. Stepping up to take on another opponent, she yelled at the Ravenclaw. "Hold the fucking line, Boot!"
Somehow, through the din, the sound of alarm was heard from Daphne. Swaying, the earth beneath her feet began to tremble and shift. Dirt and clumps of earth were rising around them and converging overhead. Sight was becoming impossible. She heard choking sounds coming from those nearby. Shallow panting was a poor substitute for regular respiration.
War-cries whooped by voices descending from above was the precursor to seeing Hell on Earth. A great roaring filled the battle zone. Never before seen projections of fire, marbled with blue, red and orange veins of intensity spewed from the sky and ignited enemy lines. Wall after wall of thundering heat plastered their clothes against their bodies and stole their breaths. Dragon-fire was a double edged sword realized too late: it decimated the enemy and burned the oxygen Susan and her comrades needed to breathe.
From her ears to Neville's mouth, Ron Weasley's edict echoed in her mind. The line has to hold. Tell your people that they have to hold the line. The edges of her vision began to blur, each gasping breath made possible by her mantra: the line has to hold. The line has to hold.
Raising her wand, strength leaching from her being with every passing second, she angled her chin towards Neville. Eyes streaming, she made him watch her mouth four syllables. Seeing him nod in acknowledgement and turn to Daphne, it was up to her to get Terry's attention. Conjuring an orb of blue fire tapped her reserve strength. Lobbing it at Boot's feet had her bracing her hands on her knees and nearly pissing herself with a series of rib-popping coughs. Looking in the direction that the ball of fire came from, Terry leaned forward and grasped what she was teaching him. Comprehension had him wiping his eyes and standing straight up. A resolute grimness spread across his face as he spaced his legs hip-wide.
Resettling her wand at chest level, balancing her weight just above her knees, she took up her own `now or never' stance. Tracing small circles in the air, she chanted the same word over and over. Her voice became stronger as fine dust, ash, and small particles were pulled from her body, letting much needed oxygen replenish her failing muscles and thought-processes. Every repetition translated to a larger circle being drawn in the air more quickly.
"Anapneo!" Daphne chanted, her hair whipping in every direction.
"Anapneo!" Casting his spell, Neville picked up where Daphne left off. His garments billowed and snapped as wildly as Daphne's hair.
"Anapneo!" Timing her voice so that her first syllable immediately followed Neville's last, her mantra channelled her magic. Centring her gravity was the only thing that kept her vertical.
"Anapneo!" Terry anchored the rhythm and finished just as Daphne began again, his own struggle to not to topple over evident in his face.
Blending and melding into one another, four vortexes of swirling, dirty, debris filled air were flung as a single force against the enemy.
Colliding with the subsiding flames, a fresh conflagration violently exploded. The defensive aspect of the magic kicked in; the spell kept the vicious heat within the ranks of Voldemort's supporters. Death Eater masks melted against faces, the smell of singed werewolf tainted the wind and a pocket of Dark allies fell dead.
Lowering her wand when the bulk of the danger passed, she braced her hands on her hips. In front of her, fresh hordes of undesirables were rallying, filling in the gaps left by the dead. The realization that the climax of the battle had yet to occur steeled her spine. Pushing her tiredness aside and ignoring the light-headedness that threatened her balance, she squeezed the last of the gritty water from her eyes. Looking up and down the line she saw that Terry, Daphne and Neville and those beyond them were still up-right and already fighting.
.The line will hold, Aunt Amelia. Chancing a look at the sky, eight dragons flew overhead and out of sight. A distant school memory whispered to her inner warrior: Weasley was a strategist.
Picking her next opponent with a well-placed jeer and letting it come to her, she renewed her vow. The line will hold until all your pieces are in place, Weasley.
The line will hold.
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