Chapter Text
Charlie huddled into his coat, pulling his hood up against the icy rain. He kept his eyes fixed on the clearing a short distance away, wand in hand, alert to any unusual noises in the dark forest. He was tense, his muscles poised ready for a quick escape.
He checked his watch in the dim light of his wand; ten minutes left.
In ten minutes a portkey would arrive from Vienna, bringing six Muggleborns witches and wizards. It would then be his job to deliver them to the safehouse in nearby Cluj-Napoca, from where they would be squirreled away to the highly-warded and Fidelius Charmed homes of the dozen or so allies Charlie had helped to identify.
Out here in Romania, the war was shaped differently. Back home (though he supposed that England wasn't really home now he'd been in Romania for seven years), it was full of identification checks, propaganda broadcasts, small-scale scuffles and Death Eaters raiding businesses to flush out so-called Blood Traitors. That, and violent attacks on Muggles.
Over in Europe everything was much more subtle. Conversations were held in dingy pubs and on street corners, full of oblique references to equality and freedom, turning into secret meetings and swearing of loyalties and support when the time arose.
It was lonely work; unable to share the nature of his work for the Order, Charlie hadn't had a truly meaningful conversation for months. He wasn't usually one for maudlin thoughts, and he'd seen his family only five months ago, but they were under surveillance for suspected contact with Harry Potter, so he'd not had a single letter from any of them in that time.
He sighed, pushing longing thoughts of the Burrow and his loud and loving family out of his head, and checked his watch again. It was time.
His head snapped up in time to see a dim glow light the clearing, and then six figures materialised into view. A couple of them staggered, clearly feeling the effects of travelling over 500 miles by Portkey.
Charlie walked out from under the tree cover, wand alight to warn the group of his approach. One by one they turned to face him, looking wary.
“The Nifflers are scarce this evening,” he said when he reached them, using the agreed passphrase.
One of the wizards stepped forward, nodding.
“The cold weather drives them abroad,” he answered.
Charlie felt a little of the tension in his chest release. It was the correct response.
“Welcome to Romania,” he said, offering the group a reassuring smile. “I trust your journey here wasn't too unpleasant?”
“Our safehouse in Stuttgart was found,” a tall man said. “We barely made it out.”
“But we're here now,” a woman rested her hand on the man’s arm.
He nodded curtly.
“Well, we'd better get moving,” Charlie said. “You'll be able to rest when we arrive.”
He raised his wand light and looked around at the group. One of the men looked somewhat familiar. Charlie paused for a moment, unsure. None of the group seemed alarmed, and they knew the passphrase. He supposed it wasn't that much of a coincidence that he might recognise someone; the Wizarding community is really not all that large. But he kept an eye on the man and a tight grip on his wand as he led the group into the woods to the Portkey waiting for them.
In the shadows of the trees it was more difficult to make out the faces of the group. Charlie pondered the man's familiarity, glancing round, and suddenly it clicked. It was Marcus Nott, a year above him at Hogwarts and widely known in the school as one of the nastier Slytherins. Oh shit.
He saw rapid movement out of the corner of his eye and dived to the side as a jet of green light shot past him.
“Now!” roared Marcus, and suddenly several cloaked figures appeared among the trees, death masks clear beneath their hoods.
One of the Muggleborns screamed, and Charlie dove into action.
“Defend yourselves!” he yelled, shooting a Stunning spell towards the nearest cloaked figure.
The figure dodged and his cloak fell down, revealing the unpleasant face of Antonin Dolohov. Rage filled Charlie and he hurled himself towards him, sending ropes flying out of his wand to bind the man. Dolohov set them aflame wordlessly and fired back a red jet.
Charlie dodged, hitting back with a Bodybind Curse that missed and ricocheted off a nearby tree. Dolohov grinned and disapparated, reappearing on the other side of the mêlée. Charlie swore, glancing round at the fight. One by one they were falling, stunned or wrapped in inescapable ropes. They were outnumbered. This was no time to chase a personal vendetta.
A sharp pain tore across his arm and he looked down to see blood soaking rapidly into his sleeve. He staggered, spinning around to fire a Stunning spell at the attacker. The Death Eater fell and Charlie advanced towards the rest of his group, the few that remained fighting.
He joined them, casting a Shield charm to stop a curse heading right for the woman next to him. A howl of fury came from a shorter Death Eater and Charlie was hit full in the chest with a beam of red light.
Instantly agony ripped through him, tearing into his muscles; bone-cracking pain that left him on his knees, gasping desperately for breath. He cast about for his wand and reared up again, staggering to his feet as the woman beside him was knocked to the ground. He wheeled around. It was just him left to face four Death Eaters. There was no way out.
He took a deep breath, summoning courage from some distant place within him and fought. Spell after spell came his way and he blocked and retaliated as best he could. But it was impossible, he was growing weaker, blood dripping down his arm.
It was almost a relief when he was hit, finally, with a Bodybind Curse. He fell to the ground, and the mocking face of Dolohov appeared above him.
“Take them away,” the Death Eater said, a grim smile on his face.
He raised his wand over Charlie and then everything went black.