Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
- 31
- 32
- 33
SUMMARY: Hold onto your popcorn, kids. The Dark Lord striketh.

WARNINGS: magical battle, violence, violent character death

DISCLAIMERS: “Woods” music and lyrics by by Justin Vernon, released by Jagjaguwar in 2008.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

WOODS

I'm up in the woods,

I'm down on my land.

I'm building a still

To slow down time.

“Woods”

Bon Iver

Try as he might, Harry was still crap at Occlumency.

He was improving by leaps and bounds—he still wasn't as accomplished as someone like Draco, steeped in the neutral magics since the he was in nappies, but he never expected to be. Moody still got into his mind, stealing snippets of Quidditch practices and snogging Ginny but nothing more. As soon as the old man touched on the last two weeks of August Harry snapped, bucking the seasoned Auror out of his mind with a barrage of nasty hexes, all cast non-verbally and in rapid succession. It was concluded that Harry's best line of defense would be an aggressive offense. While he couldn't repel the mental probe itself, he could make its caster miserable for every second the connection held. He could strike while Moody's own defenses were down, attention absorbed in casting the complex charm. Harry knew his strengths and wasn't afraid to use them. Their practice left them both sweaty and aching—the older gentleman actually conjuring a cane to help support his weight as he hobbled to the wall where Harry crouched, relying on his thighs to hold himself in a sitting position with his back flush to the cool stone wall. Rivulets of sweat coursed down his spine like a shower of sweat, his white tshirt soaked through and the pits already starting to yellow. He smelled ripe and couldn't care less. He lifted his wand to his parted, panting lips, casting Aguamenti. Drinking greedily, he watched Mad-Eye hobble his tired way over.

“Very good, boy,” Moody offered gruffly. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket, mopping his drenched, dripping brow. “Quite... excellent. That Malfoy chap been teaching yeh?”

Harry nodded absently. Then his head fell back to the chilled stone, eyes drifting closed. Rivers of sweat were diverted by his eyebrows, missing his eyelids by centimeters. Physically he was alright: he pushed himself so much harder than this on his morning jogs, it wasn't even funny. This was like a warm up. He was used to being fawn-legged and breathless. He'd learned to work through that place a long time ago, graduating to a plane where he could tolerate a great deal of gasping discomfort and keep right on going like it was nothing. It was the expulsion of so much magic that had him psychologically drained. He was ready for the nice big pitcher of sweetened tea he'd left in the icebox at Grimmauld place. He was ready to fall into bed like a dead man. If he didn't set multiple alarms, he was in danger of oversleeping tomorrow's run.

They were deep in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic, unofficial guests of the Auror's Office, strictly after-hours and off-the-record. The department had big rooms set up for combat training, the floors padded with a rubbery material spelled to prevent any serious injuries from trainees landing too hard or falling the wrong way. Those spells were a God-send, too. Some of the larger rooms had walls reinforced with the stuff. Normally these rooms were all booked for trainings or spell re-application but Harry and Moody found themselves in one of the larger rooms due mostly to the lateness of the hour. This one was a long rectangle like a shoe box, exposed stone walls and its own equipment closet. The dungeon-like smell was familiar but the rubber was not; it's sterilized, muggle-hospital-like smell juxtaposed against the scents of stone, age-old dust and so much reinforcing magic it made the insides of your cheeks tingle the second you set foot in the room.

The well-honed muscles of Harry's legs were solid, holding his sitting pose against the stone, trainers gripping the rubbery mat under his feet. His hair hurt. His skin hurt. It felt like all the curses and counter-curses were still lingering outside him, the magic buffeting his skin like a tide that refused to move with the moon, refused to recede no matter what he did. At least it wasn't in his head, in the fluid of his joints or the marrow of his bones. He could sleep this off. He would. There was just one more thing he wanted to ask Moody and then they could call it a night. The wizard already had some idea, having been in and out of Harry's head like a crowd of cigarette-smoking uni students on a pub crawl—except every pub had been his poor mind, memories drug out into the street, stolen like souvenir tankards. He summoned the strength to push himself away from the wall, standing upright with a hand in his back pocket as Moody stopped before him.

“Yeh wanted somethin' else?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “It's complicated and I can't tell you everything but... I think it has to do with the night my parents died,” Moody gave a simple, silent nod for him to go on. “I know my mum cast some kind of charm that protected me. I'm starting to think Voldemort lef—”

“You mustn't say The Name,” Moody growled, surging forward as though about to clamp a hand over Harry's insubordinate mouth. Harry quirked an eyebrow, stopping the older man in his tracks. The Auror elaborated. “There's trouble afoot. Things are 'appenin' on the other side, as yer no doubt aware. At one time there were powerful binding charms on tha' name. There may be again. It's best to be safe and alive than brave and dead.”

“I understand,” Harry conceded, bowing his head ever so slightly as a deferential “thank you.”

“Yeh think You-Know-Who left something on yeh? Somethin' tha' got past whatever yer mother did an' is still there after all this time?”

“Yes and no,” he shrugged one shoulder. “I know he's done this spell before. Always on inanimate objects, though—magical objects, sentimental objects. Things he finds important for one reason or another. I'm still debating whether or not he can do it to a living being. Dumbledore thought You-Know-Who did it to his snake, Nagini, which makes me think it's a possibility. Do the Aurors have a scanning spell for that, a way to detect Dark Arts inside a person used like a vessel for magic?”

“We do for inanimate objects, o' course,” Moody confirmed. “I'll teach it ter yeh if yer interested. Living things, especially magical beings like wizards—tha's difficult. There's no way ter distinguish between the cast magic and tha' of the host.”

“Could you try anyway?” Harry pushed. “Just to be sure? I've exhausted all my other resources on this one.” Hermione had speculated that having a Horcrux in a living thing would eventually corrupt the host, the Dark Magic of the splintered soul leaking into the being until it was consumed. It was a bleak scenario but one he was forced to consider. Her conclusion was based in part of the fact that, while the Tom Riddle of the diary and present-day Voldemort had possessed Ginny and Harry, respectively, the magic had had concrete housing—either the diary or Voldemort's own body. It seemed he could move his soul parts, shuffling them around quite liberally but he also tended to house them, tuck them somewhere safe when not in use. After much posturing and several feet of reasoned and researched parchment read out to him from the floo in McGonagall's office, Hermione offered her humble opinion that Harry couldn't have a Horcrux in him. It had to be some other type of spell or cruse, maybe just a strong magical connection to this primary spec of Voldemort's soul forged through the Killing Curse and housed in Harry's conspicuous bloody scar. He wanted Hermione to be right; he really, really did. But something in the back of his mind kept pushing for confirmation. Dumbledore had thought that Voldemort's snake familiar was something more. If Voldemort could wedge a piece of his soul in that snake, why not a squalling baby boy? And Voldemort was the kind of evil that would murder a happy young couple and then insert a part of himself in their defenseless child as a slimy sort of final retribution.

“I'll do my best, Harry,” Moody spoke slowly. He had his wand in hand but not raised just yet. “Yeh say it's a spell he cast on yeh when yeh were a baby? I'm lookin' fer residue, then?”

“No,” Harry shook his head, not wanting to explain more than he had to. “The scar is residue enough. This would be more than that. I think he left something... inside of me. For safe keeping.”

Harry would have elaborated—Lord knows with what, exactly—but Moody was already reacting. And not very well. Disbelief washed over his mangled face, lips puckering and then out-right pursing in poorly disguised amusement. He thought Harry was joking.

“Well, that's kind of a poofter idea, innit?” Moody replied. His face lit up, an obscene joke coming on. “I mean, how exactly do yeh propose he'd get it in yer?” He mimed taking something in his hands—a bundle or perhaps someone's ass—and thrust it into his crotch a few times. The Auror then exploded in hooting laughter. When Harry didn't laugh one bit he looked up, flush-faced from giggles and a hand heavily braced on his conjured cane. At the stony expression on Harry's face, he stilled completely. “'Ave I said somethin', Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. He was going to say it again. He took a deep, calming breath before pronouncing the foreign words. They still didn't feel real, didn't feel right, but it was a scrap of reality and he was sticking to it. “I am a poofter. Pillow biter, shirt lifter, faggott, uphill gardener—” At that, Moody cut him off with a wave of one gnarled hand. The expression on his face was ten types of uncomfortable.

“Okay! Dinna mean ter offend yeh. I had no idea!” He scratched the side of his head while his magical eye roved over Harry in a curious new light. “Yeh don't strike me as the type, is all. Yeh sure?”

“I haven't thought about it, honestly,” Harry shrugged. “I'm just... stuffing one.”

“Well!” Moody chortled again, glad to have Harry figured out. He gave his cane a good thump to the bouncy padded floor. “Yer not really a bender, then—the other bloke is.”

“Actually, I lied.” Harry gulped. Was it always going to be this awkward and difficult telling people? “He's the one doing the buggering. I might be the real fairy in our... relationship.”

“Then yer a poofter fer sure,” Moody said with finality. “No judgment or anythin'. I'm just sayin' yeh are.”

Harry nodded, still learning to accept the words assigned to what was going on with himself and Draco, what he was. Harry Potter involved with another man—he was getting used to the idea along with everyone else.

“Well, let's have a look-see,” Moody grumbled, raising his wand. “Hold still, then.” He ran his wand over Harry while muttering a complex incantation, occasionally frowning at things Harry couldn't see. His brows drew down and he observed the magic for several minutes before lowering his wand with a sigh.

“Defiantly somethin',” the Auror concluded. “Couldn't tell yeh what it is, though, an' I thought I'd seen just about everything. Yeh be careful.”

Harry nodded, his fears and suspicions confirmed.

“Will do. Whadaya say we get outta here?” he offered hopefully.

“Smartest thing yeh've said all evein',” the old wizard teased, voice raspy. He Summoned his cloak, slipping hands through the sleeves hovering in midair behind him. He withdrew a thick envelope from his breast pocket, already secured with his own wax and magic seals. “I jus' have ter wrangle a Ministry owl fer this on the way out. Former colleague o' mine is involved in some promising research—perhaps a little too experimental fer most folks these days,” Moody provided with a knowing smirk. “He's seen a lot a' support since leavin' the Ministry. I'd almost say gettin' sacked was the best thing what coulda happened to him.”

“And you think he'd be willing to help us?”

“The Order? Possibly,” Moody shifted his weight, testing his leg. “Ole boy won't touch the Ministry—really pulled the rug out from under 'em, they did. Takes an ocean between 'em ter keep the peace these days. Leon was always a wild card, though. Did amazin' things with a wand! One o' the best Aurors we had in the first war and a real decent man. Yer father was one a' his biggest supporters.”

Leon. Harry stored the name away. Moody didn't hand out praise regularly yet this man, Leon, had genuinely impressed him. His having been on good terms with James Potter actually made Harry more wary than comforted. Harry couldn't help but think of Peter Pettigrew, whom his parents had trusted with their lives only to have their faith betrayed. Harry would hang back and see what this “Leon” fellow put in his reply.

Harry dug his Invisibility cloak from his bag. It had belonged to Sirius, probably when he'd been at Hogwarts. The bag was a faded green canvas duffel with a thick, slightly fraying strap that went over his shoulder and across his chest. There were only a few things inside at present—his leather jacket, two books, spare parchment and an assortment of muggle pens because Harry was paranoid about ink bottles cracking inside the bag and staining everything. There was a big navy stain on the canvas that wouldn't come out despite many applications of spells and good old fashioned soap and water. Harry liked to imagine that his father or perhaps Remus had cast a charm at Sirius' retreating back during some stupid quarrel, rupturing an ink bottle and making the damage permanent. He stroked the splotch. With so few contents, the extra fabric of the bag hung limp, curling around his hip. It was a good bag, solid and sturdy. Harry settled the belt-like strap across his chest before flinging his Invisibility cloak over his shoulders.

Once securely hidden, Moody gestured for Harry to walk along beside him. They entered the warren of tunnels and passageways that dominated this part of the department, passing a few Aurors and cleaning staff as they walked the chilly underground halls. Soon, Moody muttered away his cane, walking with a purpose.

They were nearing the lift when the stone around them seemed to tremble. Harry imagined it was like being in a bomb shelter when missiles dropped above ground. Moody's hand shot out to his side, halting Harry in much the same way muggle car drivers would throw out a hand to brace their passenger at a particularly abrupt stop. Dust particles were loosened from gaps between the stone, drifting down from the ceiling's cracks in thin sheets like rain in the distance. They were too deep below ground to hear anything. It was just a flutter, a ripple. But stone shouldn't ripple, shouldn't quaver like a musical saw under an expert bow. Harry blinked rapidly, lashes warding off the stone dust that threatened to sneak through the fastenings of his cloak. The air was thick. Something wasn't right.

There came a second ripple followed quickly by a third, stronger. And then a booming gong sounded, amplified by magic to reach every nook and cranny, every corridor. After several deafening peals, a witch's voice came, breathless and equally magnified.

“Witches and Wizards, this is not a test. The Atrium has been breached. All Aurors to stations. Nonessential staff are to evacuate immediately. I repeat, this is not a test. Atrium Security ha—” her voice cut off abruptly.

Harry didn't realize he was running until she stopped; only then could he hear Moody huffing and puffing behind him, struggling to keep up.

“Boy!” the old Auror said, looking right at him with his magical eye. “I'm getting you out of here.”

“We're not gonna stay and fight?” Harry sputtered. “What—”

“No,” Moody took him by the shoulder to turn him down a hallway leading away from the lifts. Already the few Aurors they'd seen in the corridors were assembling, wands at the ready. Hurried off, Harry got his wand out beneath his cloak. When they were far enough down the hall, Moody whispered to him, still somewhere between a fast clip and an outright jog. “Yer my primary responsibility. We're going back to You-Know-Where an' contacting the tabis felis, yeah?”

Tabby cat... McGonagall. Harry nodded his understanding, rushing down the hall as fast as Moody's legs would go. The booming gong went off a few more times but it seemed the announcement witch was done for. They reached a designated Apparition area which Moody scanned for tampering. He soon decided it was too risky and moved on to a presumably more elite exit point. They encountered Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt spelling open the door of a restricted room. Seeing Alastor Moody approach and knowing his business at the Ministry this hour, Shacklebolt opened the door for him, knowing Harry was in tow but unable to see him. The door snicked closed behind them. Wands out, all three wizards cast nonverbal spells at the room's sole door.

“The Death Eaters?” Moody growled. Shacklebolt nodded, pushing up a sleeve of his deep purple robes. He wore an arm guard of silvery-blue dragon hide which holstered not one but two spare wands. If Harry had to guess, he'd say the bracer was made of Swedish Short-Snout—the best. There was a good chance the leather substitute was dripping with defensive spells, too. Shacklebolt drew one of the spare wands so that he held a weapon in each hand.

“More than we expected,” Shacklebolt said in a rush, his deep timbre rolling off the stone walls rather than echoing. “A hundred, at least. We're moving the Minister. You keep him safe,” he jutted his chin in the direction he presumed Harry to be in. Harry hadn't removed the Invisibility cloak. He was actually on Moody's other side, not that it made a difference.

Moody and Shacklebolt exchanged a slow, severe look. They were veterans of the first war. They knew what was coming.

Shacklebolt Apparated, not a moment to lose. Moody stuck his arm out to Harry.

“Wand at the ready,” he spoke the command in his typical gruff. The no-nonsense tone was oddly comforting. Moody was a constant, extended arm as steady as though he were reaching for one of Mrs. Weasley's gooey breakfast pastries instead of the boy who was expected to end the wars. Harry took the proffered arm with his free hand, Moody facing one direction and Harry the other in order to be covered from all angles when they arrived. Wands raised and jaws clenched, they Apparated away.

Harry recognized the dumpster, the dreary brick walls, even the familiar array of cars parked along one side of the street. They were three blocks from Grimmauld Place. This was the same alleyway he and Draco used. Moody had Apparated them through two Public Apparition Points before landing here, just in case the Ministry exit point had been tampered with. It was a standard precaution taken by the Auror Department during times of action. Harry couldn't pop between places with the blazing speed that Moody could. He'd only just gotten the hang of Apparition a few weeks ago when Draco had explained it, snapping between the kitchen, parlor and entry with lightning precision. Harry bet the blonde a blow job that he couldn't land one-footed on a knut: he lost that bet.

Alastor Moody sent out a series of probing spells, his body Disillusioned beside Harry.

“Clear,” he whispered. “Fer now. Hurry.”

They made their way up the shadowy street at a quick clip, each walking slightly sideways to keep a shoulder or elbow in contact as they scanned the street in every direction. How big was the run on the Ministry? Over a hundred, Shacklebolt had said. But Voldemort had more followers than that if you included other countries. Things were bad in France, Belgium and all through the Mediterranean. Just the other day The Prophet had run an article about an Italian witch recently widowed with two young children. Her body had been discovered by Aurors on her front lawn, brutally raped and murdered. Her kids were nowhere to be found. Her husband had been a prominent politician of muggle parentage while she was practically pureblood. It was a message—good blood wouldn't redeem a traitor in Voldemort's eyes. Harry tightened his grip on his wand, keeping his vision sharp and his senses on alert. The Death Eaters would do worse than that if they got hold of Draco.

Were Dementors moving on the Ministry, too? Werewolves? Remus was being secreted around almost as much as Harry. Persecuted by wizarding society and no longer trusted by his own kind after turning up at the end-of-term battle at Hogwarts, Remus had become the Secret Keeper for Grimmauld Place. Now the werewolf moved between safe houses, sequestered during the necessary moon phases. Harry had no idea who was brewing his Wolfsbane Potion now. As far as he knew, Professor Slughorn wasn't about to join the Order and lend a helping hand. Someone must be doing it, though, because Remus looked physically alright—though emotionally destroyed.

They were within sight of Grimmauld Place's steep front steps, no more than ten or twelve meters away. At the same moment, both Harry and Moody spotted movement in opposite directions. Harry could make out figures emerging from the shadows across the street. There were yet more hooded figures now visible fore and aft, all approaching the steps of Grimmauld Place without being able to see the house itself. Most of the muggle lights were out, leaving them in the patchy light of street lamps. The Death Eaters sensed Moody, perhaps Harry as well. There looked to be six or seven of them, maybe more. The darkness made it hard to say for sure.

“Yeh make a run fer it, Harry,” Moody said under his breath, squeezing Harry's wrist once—hard—before letting go completely. “I'll hold 'em off. Go.”

The Death Eaters were moving fast, wands raised and white masks faintly glowing in the weak yellow light. Even if Harry sprinted, the cloaked wizards would close in on them both before he reached the stairs.

“Is zat yoo, Potter?” called an arrogant male voice with a heavy accent. He spoke while crossing the street, his jog an elegant sort of glide despite his size. “Children shoold not be out so late at night, yoo know.”

Another Death Eater, similar height but slighter, shouldered the speaker out of the way.

“'Ee is mine,” the second man snarled.

Harry knew that second voice—it had featured in a few of his nightmares lately; that purring, seductive rumble. Even warped with anger, Harry knew. It was Philippe Didier. Harry continued edging away from Moody, one eye on Didier and the other on the Frenchman's closing companions, waiting for a break in the ranks large enough to slip through.

Didier aimed his wand at the Disillusioned form of Mad-Eye Moody, as did all his fellows. At least that meant they couldn't detect Harry. He and Moody had the element of surprise—and boy were these Death Eaters going to be shocked to find they didn't have The Boy Who Lived but one of England's most celebrated Aurors! Harry's fingers twitched beneath his cloak.

Moody threw the first curse, revealing himself. A bolt of twisting orange and white light shot from his wand, catching the large man beside Didier in the chest. The man let out a howl of pain just before the curses flew in earnest.

Moody cast an impressive Shielding Charm before Stupefying the howling man, diving out of the closing circle in the gap made by his falling body. The men all charged across the street after him.

“That's not Potter!” one declared in a London accent.

“Trou duc'! Get eem anyway!” Didier shouted.

Harry shot a jinx at Didier's back, knocking him down and giving Moody and his sore leg an extra second. When Harry turned back, the remaining Death Eaters were nearly on top of him. They were about to crash into him! Knowing his presence would be discovered no matter what he did, Harry screwed his eyes shut and concentrated. With a stiff pop, he reappeared in the parlor of Grimmauld Place. He whirled around, shoving the curtains aside to look out the window.

Three Death Eaters down, another five standing. Two were still looking around stupidly, probably shouting that they'd heard someone Disapparate. He heard Didier's shriek of fury, his pretty face to the pavement.

Harry was safe inside the house. He could stand on the front steps stark fucking naked and the Death Eaters wouldn't be able to see him because of the Fidelus Charm. Why wasn't Moody Apparating away? Had one of the Death Eaters set up an Anti-Apparition Jinx? Between the Fidelus Charm and the protection of his Invisibility cloak, Harry could help. He ran for the front door, wrenching it open.

There was a mighty flash of green light. Harry was momentarily blinded. When his vision returned it was to find Alastor Moody slumped dead in the middle of the street. His body was surrounded by Death Eaters.

“You think that was Potter with him?” asked a voice Harry recognized as Amycus Carrow.

“Of course,” Didier scoffed, healing palms scraped and bloodied from his fall. “'Ee is not at Hogwarts and zis is his house.”

One of the men on the ground was beginning to stir. The other was not and his comrades paid him no mind. He must've been dead. Carrow shrugged before taking a knee beside Moody, preparing to go through the corpse's pockets.

Fuck, the letter! Harry didn't have a second to loose. He raised his wand, thinking Accio letter to Leon with all his might. The letter flew out of Moody's breast pocket and into Harry's outstretched, invisible hand.

Carrow stiffened, body language betraying his confusion. All the Death Eaters turned in the direction of Grimmauld Place, having seen the letter fly off in that direction before disappearing into thin air. That meant they still couldn't see Grimmauld Place. Remus was the Secret Keeper so that meant, wherever he was, he was alive.

“Potter!” Didier shouted, his head whipping around so fast that the hood of his cloak fell back, showing his sandy hair. His hand was a white-knuckled fist around his wand as he advanced as far as the sidewalk. “Get out 'ere and face me like a man!” he taunted. He followed with something in French that had his burly companion guffawing. Harry was glad he didn't know any translation spells. Didier had probably said something about him and Draco—the name “Malfoy” was clearly involved. If Harry understood, he'd undoubtedly rush out into the street and get himself killed. No wizard stood a chance in a fight that was seven on one, even if he was invisible. Already the noise was drawing attention. Muggle lamps were lighting up windows, a few faces peering down at the street where three bodies lay, a crazy man in on the sidewalk waving a stick and screaming at nothing. It would only be precious seconds before someone called the police.

Harry went back into Grimmauld Place, slamming the door behind himself and locking it with every spell his overactive mind could provide. He put Moody's letter inside his bag before darting to the library room. He fire-called McGonagall but she wasn't in her office. The next person he tried was Viktor Krum with no answer there, either. He tried the Burrow and thankfully got Mrs. Weasley.

“Harry, Harry!” she cried, tears already on her face. “You're alright! We all thought you were at the Ministry!”

“Alastor Moody got me out okay,” Harry began. And then he choked. He didn't know how to tell Mrs. Weasley that the man was dead, had died protecting him. So he didn't. “My house is surrounded by Death Eaters, though, and I can't reach McGonagall.”

“She's at Shell Cottage,” Mrs. Weasley offered quickly. “We're supposed to have a Portkey over there soon. Come with us, Harry! Safety in numbers.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed. “Just let me grab a few things and I'll floo over.”

- - -

Harry sat in the Weasley's living room less than ten minutes later, his duffel bag hastily stuffed with a change of clothes, another couple books and Slytherin's Locket. He'd placed the locket in his wand case before sealing it with as many charms as he could think of. He even chalked Draco's containment field rune on the underside of the box. His toes wouldn't stop wiggling in his trainers as he sat, squirming on the comfortable old sofa. Knowing he was potentially transporting a live Horcrux all across England was more unnerving than comforting.

Fred and George stood by the fire, pacing alternate tracks across the rug. They had escaped attacks on Diagon Alley with only a few scrapes and bruises. Of course they'd booby trapped their shop before clearing out—they said you could hear the BOOMs and BANGs on the muggle side of London.

The Order was gathering at Shell Cottage, Bill and Fleur's home. From what Harry understood, the Ministry was all but overrun. The Floo Network could go down at any moment. Anyone there was presumed dead or captured. Mr. Weasley had been out on assignment in Diagon Alley when the attacks began; Fred and George Apparated home with him. Now Mr. Weasley sat in his favorite armchair nursing a cuppa with a bag of ice on his head and several empty potion bottles littering the end table beside him. They were waiting for the “all clear,” waiting for someone to arrive with the Portkey that would ferry them to Shell Cottage. The violence was spreading and McGonagall didn't want anyone accidentally Apparating into the middle of a fight on the front lawn.

Harry's toes continued to curl and uncurl in his socks. He hated waiting. It had been worse when he was alone in Grimmauld Place, though. Just him and Kreacher and the murderers outside. They'd killed the muggle police when they arrived; the female constable hadn't even had a chance to close the car door before the jet of eerie green light engulfed her. He could still hear Didier's throaty, purring laugh as the woman's lifeless body fell to the ground. They'd lit her patrol car on fire, trapping her partner inside. The man's dying screams had woken everyone on the street. Faces peered out, illuminated in the flickering light of the car fire. No one was stupid enough to come outside. They probably thought the Death Eaters were terrorists and this was the start of a war. They wouldn't be far off.

Harry had his usual stern words with Kreacher: no one in save me, no one out save me. The elf had operated under those orders for days but Harry felt the sudden need to repeat himself. Kreacher had nodded with a solemn, “yes, Master.” The elf knew to stay within the confines of Grimmauld Place unless called for specifically by Harry. Or Draco. He didn't think Draco would ever call the creature but he left it as an option, just in case. You never knew.

Mrs. Weasley bustled into the living room with a fresh bag of ice for her husband as well as another Pain Relieving Potion. She tutted over him for a few minutes before turning her attentions to Fred and George.

“Would you stop with that pacing, boys?” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “You'll wear a hole in the carpet if you keep going like that! And Harry dear, do you need anything?”

“I'm okay, Mrs. Weasley.”

Just then the fire lit up bright green. Fred and George jumped back, making room for the person emerging from the flames. It turned out to be Remus Lupin. He looked frantic, not bothering to brush the ash from his robes. Charlie and Bill were seconds behind him.

“DAD!” Charlie called out, rushing for his father slumped in that favorite old armchair. “We just heard. Are you okay?”

“Bill, Remus, what's going on?” Harry spoke in a calm, authoritative tone, rising to his feet. He could tell by their frazzled expressions that plans were about to change. Remus took in Harry, Fred and George rather sadly before speaking.

“We just received word there's a group of Death Eaters massing outside Ravenwood,” Remus said. Ravenwood was one of the Order's safe houses in Madrid. It was where Dima and his band of runaways were hiding out along with a few other witches and wizards the Order had rescued along the way. “Flemming must be dying somewhere in the Ministry because the Fidelus Charm is breaking down. They'll be sending the Inferi soon. We need defenders. They're talking about a complete evacuation.”

“We're in,” Fred and George offered in unison. Each had a rucksack of tricks from the joke shop and by the determined looks on their faces, they weren't afraid to use everything in their makeshift arsenal. Mrs. Weasley let out a little sob against Charlie's muscular chest. His brawny arms were the only thing keeping his mother upright.

“I'll go, too,” Harry piped up. If he went to Shell Cottage he'd only be sitting on his thumbs some more. He couldn't tolerate the thought. He hadn't been trained to sit around and do nothing; young though he was, his knowledge and experience could potentially save lives and he knew it. It was selfish not to go, not to help the people who believed in him and needed him the most right now.

“You'll do no such thing,” Remus insisted, giving Harry a stern once over. “I understand you've already been attacked tonight. You're a target, Harry. You'll go to Shell Cottage with the others. Minerva sent us with Portkeys. They're set to activate in five minutes, so everyone get ready.”

Harry sat back on the sofa with a huff, folding his arms across his chest. Charlie continued to offer calming words to his mother as Bill conversed with his father. Fred and George opened their rucksacks, reviewing the contents in hushed voices, deciding how to best utilize their supplies. Remus sat in a spare armchair, eying Harry. He seemed to know exactly what the Chosen One was thinking.

Five minutes passed quickly. Soon they were standing in two little circles around the Portkeys. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were going to Shell Cottage with Bill and Harry while the twins, Charlie and Remus went to Ravenwood. Harry stood with the twins at his back. They seemed to know what he was planning, too. Bill was counting down, one hand on the dinner plate Portkey and the other bringing his wristwatch closer to his face.

“Five, four, three, two....”

Harry felt a hand grab him by the back of the neck, pulling him around. Another snatched up his wrist, guiding his fingers to the leather bound novel that served as the second Portkey. Remus let out a growl and Mrs. Weasley squawked in alarm.

“One.”

It was too late. Fred and George had commandeered Harry at the last second. He felt the familiar, nauseating tug behind his navel and he was off to the Battle of Ravenwood.

They landed with a thud. Seconds later, Harry felt a pair of strong hands seize him by the upper arms, shaking him.

“You fool!” Remus screamed in his face. “What the hell do you think you're doing?! You can't be here—you'll be killed!”

Instead of panicking, Harry merely brushed a hand against the wand in his front pocket, casting a Light Shield strong enough to throw Remus stumbling back several steps. Fred and George balked at his sides. The spell wouldn't repel them but they didn't know that. Light Shields were dangerous magic because they functioned entirely on the caster's perception rather than reality. Harry was angry with Remus for grabbing him, yelling at him like a fucking child, and so the spell classified him as someone not to be trusted due to his emotional state despite the truth of the matter. Neutral magic like Light Shields wasn't so much as mentioned in the curriculum at Hogwarts. Only places like Durmstrang or the Salem Institute supported the notion that knowledge of such things was still necessary. Draco had learned from tutors—people like his father and Severus Snape, people who made it their business to know all sorts of old magic. And Draco turned around to teach Harry everything he knew.

Remus was gaping, shocked but still fuming from three meters away.

“Remus,” Charlie cautioned, one big hand curling around the werewolf's upper arm, gently drawing him back a bit more. “Let's not press the matter. Harry's an adult. We can't make his decisions for him.”

“Thank you,” Harry bowed his head in Charlie's direction. “I'm hardly defenseless, Remus. And this is where I need to be. I'm not going to end this by cowering in a safe-house. I know you think I'm running into danger without thinking,” he let that statement hang a moment, let the blatant reference to Sirius sink in. “But let me assure you that I've thought this through. Our best witches and wizards are massing here. I need to see what we've got as well as what we're up against. And I have my Invisibility Cloak. I'll be fine. It's the Death Eaters outside who should be worried.”

Fred and George gave a loud “huzzah” and that was that. Remus backed down, extending a defeated hand that Harry and the others should precede him out of the food pantry they'd Portkeyed into. Harry flipped on his cloak, following Fred and George into the kitchen of a large, rather beautiful manor house. The place retained many of its rustic qualities while still being modern and sophisticated. Whoever owned this home was a stylish person with enormous wealth and refined taste. The hall was decorated with tapestries and the occasional piece of antique furniture. It was a large and grand house. They passed through two salons before Harry heard the group of witches and wizards gathered in a large room up ahead.

They were assembled in what could only be described as an elegant and old fashioned ballroom decorated in shades of green and gold, large windows overlooking an impressive gardened courtyard. The house itself was a sort of horse shoe shape, the stately ballroom looking out over the courtyard and onto the lane where shapes swirled, darker than the darkness. Already, the Dementors seemed aware that there was something beyond the Fidelus Charm, the way their cloaked heads twisted toward the house, sensing the movement of warm, fearful bodies within. If the Secret Keeper really was dying at the Ministry, they had only an hour, perhaps minutes, until the Dementors and God knew what else broke through. Whatever attacked, it would be hell-bent on death and destruction.

Harry took in the crowd of people—Aurors, Order members and refugees, lots of them sporting ripped and dirtied robes from hard-fought skirmishes, a few injuries here and there and everyone looking drawn and panicked. Two people at the front of the ballroom stole Harry's attention. Minister Rufus Scrimgeour conversed in low tones with Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister's head wrapped in white bandages as he sipped from a bottle of Butterbeer. The Aurors closest to him all sported injuries of some sort. One bloke sat in a chair looking pale and positively boneless from the waist down, several of his colleagues working on his legs as a wheezened old wizard with a long white beard offered him a smoking potion vial. If Harry had to take a guess he'd say that wherever the Minister had removed himself to, the location hadn't been as secure as he'd thought. Now he and his security detail were under the protection of the Order of The Phoenix. Oh, how the tides had shifted.

Remus and Charlie approached Shacklebolt, passing information and instructions from McGonagall. The big man nodded solemnly before turning to the crowd, signaling for silence. It spoke volumes that he didn't turn to the Minister before issuing his battle orders.

“The Ministry has fallen,” he announced in his deep voice. Waves of shock rolled through those assembled. “The Ministries of countless other countries remain under siege; additionally, there have been attacks on Diagon Alley and Harry Potter's home. Potter is safe, as are Hogsmeade, Hogwarts and Beaubattons. At this point, it is impossible to speculate who or what is the intended target. For now, our strategy is to gather what we can and retreat, preserving as many allied lives as possible in order to fight another day. We have a team working on Portkeys to confirmed safe locations. We'll be moving an advance team to establish perimeters on these final destinations before ferrying over in groups. The wounded will go first, followed by our refugees. Auror Williamson will be taking volunteers for the rear guard,” he signaled a blonde wizard standing by a table stacked with Butterbeer and half empty bowls of fruit. “We have, at most, thirty minutes; however, the Dementors could breach our wards in as little as five. Portkeys will depart from the crypt and wine cellar, where the estate's ancestral seals are strongest. Healer Purlish, please see the injured escorted downstairs.”

The elderly wizard with the long beard nodded knowingly before returning to his collection of patients, several on magical stretchers and the rest huddled on the floor with blankets, nursing potions or small meals of Butterbeer and fruit.

Fred and George made a beeline for Auror Williamson, undoubtedly to offer their services and supplies toward the effort of staying the enemy until everyone had been evacuated.

Harry snuck toward Shacklebolt, who appeared to be in charge. Already a group of witches and wizards were gathering around him like a council, each preparing to offer a piece of strategy or advice. Under his Invisibility cloak, Harry ducked in easily before the circle closed its ranks. He listened to the group, not knowing anyone's name and recognizing only a few faces. These were mostly Aurors who either wouldn't ally with the Order before or couldn't be trusted with the knowledge Order members possessed. But now that everyone's backs were against the wall, a certain level of mutual trust had been established. The Order and the Ministry were working together to save lives.

The plan was to divide into three teams, one on the ground in the courtyard, the second on the upper floors and even the roof, and the third moving between the two on broomsticks, passing information and providing additional cover for the witches and wizards on the ground. Those on the upper floors would support the ground troops with cover fire as well as maintaining the Anti-Apparition Jinxes preventing the Death Eaters from getting further into the house. They would also need to ward against the Dementors as best they could so that those on the ground could keep fighting. The council was discussing ways of deflecting the Inferi when Harry felt the overwhelming need to speak up. The consensus was that there was no known spell to destroy Inferi and only fire could damage or dissuade them.

“What about Eptir Eldr?” Harry asked. “Has anyone ever tried it?”

Wands were drawn in quick succession, several people backing up or looking around for the source of the disembodied voice. Harry remembered he had the cloak on—idiot. He removed it, showing himself. People gasped. A few applauded upon seeing The Chosen One in their midst.

“Well?” Harry insisted. “It works remarkably well against Dark Magic. For all we know, it might even do some damage to the Dementors.”

“I've never even heard of that spell,” Scrimgeour admitted. He'd been the head of the Auror Office before becoming Minister, so that was saying something. Harry was feeling more and more as though he'd introduced a yellow spotted pygmy puff to the room as his wife and no one had the heart to tell him he was barmy.

“Where are the Ionescue brothers?” Harry inquired instead. “And the other guys from Durmstrang? They were supposed to be staying here. They might be able to do it, provided I can teach them in time.” Most of the assembled group shrugged, unaware there were such powerful wizards hiding amongst the refugees. It wasn't that the Durmstrang run-aways were powerful in the way that Voldemort was or Dumbledore had been—but knowledge was power. And between them, those guys held a wealth of forbidden knowledge.

A runner was sent and soon Dima and Misha were brought forward, Nebojsa between them. It looked as though the brothers had insisted on the third man's presence, the way they walked shoulder to shoulder, Misha's hand at Nebojsa's elbow, guiding him along like prison guards escorting a skittish charge. Their expressions were dark, surly and distrustful until they set eyes on Harry. Then the men were all smiles, shaking his hand and addressing him by first name, as he did them. Dmitry and Nebojsa each leaned forward, placing a hand to his shoulder and administering a whiskery kiss to his cheek. Dima got his right cheek, Nebojsa his left. Though their motives could have been political, their sincere faces and warm handshakes made him believe they intended the greeting in terms of friendship, as it was perceived and practiced back home—they were saying he was accepted, one of them.

Feeling the need for secrecy, Harry addressed Nebojsa.

“How good are you chaps with the Dark Arts?” he posed his query in a low hiss. The collection of older witches and wizards gave a collective start of surprise before outright staring, their own tactical discussion all but forgotten. Nebojsa's handsome face was unreadable, icy blue eyes narrowed to slits at either side of his long, bent nose, acknowledging the sudden attention with a wary mien. “Just ignore them,” Harry shrugged.

“I sssuppose it would depend on the sssspell,” he replied modestly.

People fell to gasping all over again. Parselmouths were extremely rare yet the Order had two in this very room. The general public hadn't heard the rumor that Harry Potter could speak snake tongue—and those who had heard overwhelmingly chose to dismiss it as fabrication and fiction, not wanting to believe such a thing of the great Harry potter. People didn't want to think their Golden Boy had a power like that, something Dark and seedy. But how else did they expect him to beat Voldemort? Run the bastard through with a lance of pure goodness and plucky, go-getter spirit? No. He needed power.

“It's a Norse fire spell, Eptir Eldr,” Harry explained. “Takes a lot of concentration and kinda knocks the wind out of you but I think it might do some damage to the Inferi, possibly the Dementors, too. You boys feel like fighting tonight?” It was a cocky way to ask for a favor but Nebojsa saw the humor. The Serb offered him a lopsided smile. Beside him, Dima gave Harry a firm nod. Harry did a double take.

“My love hasss been undersssstanding me of late. But he cannot ssspeak back. There are no ssspeakers in hisss family, yet he is undersssstanding just the ssssame,” they both cast sideways glances at Dima. The brunet made a fat-lip-biting, sandy-eyebrow-quirking face to say he was picking up every word.

“That's... odd,” Harry said dumbly.

“We will try your ssspell,” Nebojsa confirmed with a slow, somber nod. It looked like he'd shaved his head recently and the black fuzz was just starting to grow back. He smiled ruefully, thin mouth turning up in what wasn't quite a smile. “I cannot guarantee ressssultsss.”

“Of course,” Harry returned to English before Kingsley and his council shit themselves.

“Put us on zhe rear team, regardless,” Dima piped up, his voice almost as deep as Shacklebolt's. He had the quality of voice that reverberated pleasantly in your chest whenever he spoke. It was nice, almost comforting, that rumble of lyric basso profundo. Harry could understand why Dima was the front man of their little operation while Nebojsa was the mysterious man behind the curtain. “Mishenka and I vill be your flying targets.”

Misha's honey colored eyes went wide. His face said he couldn't believe what his brother was agreeing to—whatever it was, he was happy about it. Nebojsa looked far less pleased. He began speaking in rapid Serbo-Croatian, snapping something at Dima under his breath. Dima held up a hand, silencing him. Dima looked to his brother, giving a few quick instructions. The younger man took off at a run, probably to gather the rest of the crew and inform them.

“We'll need more than two men moving between,” Kingsley sighed.

“Oh, ve'll be vith them,” Nebojsa snapped, throwing an arm around Harry's shoulders. Into Harry's ear, he hissed, “I would trust Misha with my own life. You'll be in good hands. And he's the fastest there is.”

Utterly confused, Harry didn't have a chance to respond. Fred Weasley was approaching, calling out his name with George in tow. They each carried armloads of broomsticks and what could only be flying carpets. Either they were legal in Spain or the Ministry was willing to turn a blind eye. As it was, Shacklebolt and the Minister were deeply entrenched in conversation and paying the younger wizards little mind.

“Here, we snagged you a broom,” Fred announced.

“A Cleansweep 3,” George pulled a face, holding out said broomstick. The tail twigs were all horribly bent. It looked like the brooms in Fred and George's arms hadn't seen maintenance since the twins were in nappies. Secretly, Harry thought he might be better off with one of the flying carpets.

“Slow as hell but it's the best of the lot, mate,” Fred put in, seeing Harry's face.

“Hee vill not be needing zhat,” Dima scoffed. Fred and George squinted at the man's bruskness, making faces to communicate between themselves. They didn't like someone taking over, brother-ing Harry. That had been their territory since Hogwarts. “Harry can go vith me.”

“Ne!” Nebojsa shot back. He continued in Parseltongue; whether because he was just that angry or because he wanted Harry to understand, it was unclear. “I'm too heavy for Misha and you know it! Lassst time he nearly died!”

Dima started to talk back but Nebojsa spoke over him.

“Mischenka is not as sssstrong as you! He is sssmaller, fassster. Harry is sssmall. Put them together, Dima. I'll go with you.” With a groaning sigh, the brunet gave in.

“What exactly—” Harry began.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” Nebojsa said, his eyes narrowed and darting around the room distrustfully. “If Misha can find the necessssary potionsss, you will see.”

“Uh, Mr. Potter?” a voice cut in. It was Auror Williamson. “We have a place for you to teach us defenders that spell if you're ready. There isn't much time.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed. “Let's go.”
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Conscience