A/N: Welcome, dear reader, to my latest project. An all-new world of love, laughter, and above all, hardship. The story is, as the description states, post DH AU, set in a world where Voldemort emerged triumphant from the Battle of Hogwarts. As for the rest, I shall let you figure that yourselves...
Forty-seven. There were forty-seven individual cracks spiderwebbing across the low, dingy ceiling of the hovel that Harry Potter was now calling his home. He had counted them all, as they lay directly above the bed in which he pretended to sleep each night. He had counted them because they sat above the seat in which he wasted away the majority of his waking hours, and because they were directly overhead of the firepit in which he cooked meagre, scavenged meals for two.
He reached a grime-coated arm across the entire breadth of the room, jabbing his companion sharply in the ribs. The sun was rising, there were reports to receive.
''M up,' Ron Weasley groaned without moving.
The way his friend lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling made Harry wonder if he had slept either. Perhaps he, too, was aware of the mocking forty-seven. On today of all days, Harry didn't see how he couldn't be.
The vanguard of dawn cast a dappled, hazy light through the torn sheet hung over the only window. Both inhabitants of the room tucked knees to chest, non-verbally transfiguring meagre bedding into rigid chairs. A gentle breeze stirred a few motes from the dirt floor.
A whiplash crack chased away any remnant weariness as three figures split the air before the two. The newcomers, shoulders hunched and necks bowed, met the eyes of the residents. Seconds stretched between them. Harry sat as straight as he could. He twitched the corners of his mouth into what he hoped passed as a smile.
'Sit.' He gestured, and three seats coalesced. The five occupants of the room now sat knee-to-knee. Breath misted in the cold air, their curling tendrils met and mingled; the only thing passed between them for long moments.
'We've found one,' Neville Longbottom finally stated into the silence.
Both Harry and Ron perked up at that. Two pairs of eyes darted triumphantly around the room, found reassuring gazes in return.
'I didn't think there were any left in Britain. A Burrower? How did you coax them into such an overt show of support?'
The three shared a glance that was clearly private. A hook twisted in Harry's stomach.
'You see chap, it's not exactly a Burrower…' began Ernie MacMillan.
'And I wouldn't call their sentiment supportive,' Neville finished.
Ron shot a confused look at Harry, who was glaring, deadpan.
'No.'
'Harry please, it's our only option.' The third of three spoke. The only female gathered, Susan Bones looked even more gaunt than on her last visit, a week ago; they all did. Sunken, hollow cheeks, sallow skin, clothes than hung limp on their frames. Susan bore a ropy, rugged scar around her neck like a piece of goblin-wrought jewellery.
War wasn't easy on anyone.
'What did you do, press-gang him? Imperius him? Then we're no better than He is. You-'
'Did what we needed to,' Neville cut in, his voice a low growl. 'And it's a she, not a he-'
'Even worse!'
'Is it?' Susan asked, quietly. Her scar glistened softly in the morning light.
'Regardless,' Ernie interjected, 'we need you out of here. We've a Resistance to run, factions to coalesce, Burrowers to root out and Realign. Harry, there's a nation to lead to war. We can't do it, and you can't do it from in here.'
Forty-seven days.
'You can't find her-'
A low, menacing growl emanated from Ron's throat. Neville held up his hands defensively. 'We have leads Harry, witnesses. You know we haven't been idle, none of the true Faithful have. The DA remembers, Harry. Most of us- some of us are still here, waiting to follow you again.'
'It isn't the DA,' Harry snarled, 'not any more. This isn't what the DA was formed for. You – all of you – have done so much more than I…' he trailed off, lost for words. Angry tears stung the corners of his eyes.
'We'll find a new name,' Susan said soothingly, laying a hand on Harry's knee. 'Whatever we are, we are yours Harry. You died for us, or tried to. Through all the hellfire that came after, and through everything still to come, we're yours. 'Till the end.'
'That's what I'm afraid of.'
'Two days,' Neville pushed on. 'We'll be here in two days at sundown. It'll take that long to get a working Fidelius Charm out of her. We'll extract you straight to the location, Seal the Charm, and start bringing this war right back to Him.'
'The Order, the DA-'
'Will all be there, waiting for you Harry. We've been waiting for this day for as long as you have-'
'Forty-seven days.'
'That long?'
Harry and Ron shared a solemn nod. A look of understanding passed between the three guests.
'We'll find her. We-'
'Aren't doing enough,' Ron snapped.
Harry laid a placating arm on his friend's shoulder. Ron bristled, but backed down. Neville looked hurt.
'We know,' Harry assured them. 'Any other news?'
All five stood up, Ron and Neville especially hunched over beneath the low ceiling. The three hesitated barely a moment.
'Who-'
'Alicia Spinnett. Though it was hard to tell. Looked like Fiendfyre, and the Burrowers got to her first, took her wand, clothes, anything useful. Luna's doing what she can, but you know how Fiendfyre is… burns through to the soul. We might never know for sure.'
He could feel it building, the pressure from all sides. He squeezed his eyes shut. The lights came first. Greens and reds and yellows, and then more greens. Always greens. A rushing filled his ears, like a train. But where the Hogwarts Express brought the promise of new adventure, this brought only agony, and when the whistle sounded it was the voice of terror. It was a scream, female, now laughter. A face; honeyed skin and dark, tilted eyes. Raven hair and a ready smile. Alicia.
Doubled over, Harry knew nothing of his own screams, echoing mockingly around the tiny room. Honey skin now streaked grey, silvery burns marring an entire side of her face like a mocking premonition. The laughter gone from those tilted eyes, one now glazed and milky. A half-mocking salute in a crumbling corridor, a hopeless stand somehow survived. The three before him had spoken almost in awe of what the Chasers had salvaged that day from the Fall.
The touch on his wrist jerked him free of the cloying reverie. Blinking in the faded light, earnest faces surrounded him. This wasn't right, where was the screaming, the dying? Being forced to watch as dozens of his friends and loved ones fell in vain. The faces before him crowded his vision. This wasn't right, he tried to push them back. He hadn't paid his penance. His suffering wasn't complete. This was his failing, his alone, he needed to pay-
'Harry,' two firm hands gripped his shoulders. One forearm was ribboned with criss-crossed burn scars, poorly disguised beneath an ill-fitting robe. In spite of this, in spite of the malnutrition, the abuse her body had endured, Susan's eyes remained warm. In them, Harry felt the pain slipping away, his heart rate returning to normal. Beside him, Ron put his own wand away, as if these were demons that could be brought to heel by physical strength alone.
'We're not just pretty faces,' Ernie grinned wryly, patting the breast of his robe. There beneath a poorly-embroidered silver "DA" was a charred, faded Hufflepuff house emblem.
Either one was enough to get him killed on sight. Harry couldn't help himself, a smile crept forth, this time genuine.
'Two days at sundown,' Neville nodded.
'Stay strong Harry,' Susan whispered.
'There's a Butterbeer waiting for you,' assured Ernie.
Three cracks and they were gone.
'Huh,' Ron grunted. 'They broke the window.'
Harry looked over to the tattered sheet, drifting down lazily towards the bare earth floor. Where it had hung was simply bare, featureless rock. The only light in their dank cave now emanated from Ron's wand. They'd have to re-cast the dozen or so charms on that sheet to force it to mirror the daylight some fifty feet above them. Charms which they'd practiced and practiced, but could replicate only poorly. Charms which had been taught to them what seemed like a lifetime ago, on a different planet, a different life-or-death flight, where the stakes hadn't yet been understood, the accountability not yet realised. Charms that she had taught them…
Ron was holding the sheet up against the rock, seeking Harry's approval as to its position, but Harry's head had tilted back against the cold, stone wall, his eyes focused on the low, oppressive ceiling. Forty seven individual cracks, each one an expression of the immense pressures on the rock above their head, each one accommodating a tiny bit of the strain. How many more cracks could form before it all gave way? How much could the rock take before it all came down in one giant cascade, one blissful, final release?
Forty-seven individual cracks in the roof. When Ron finally hung the sheet, the magical daylight would indicate the forty-seventh day since the Fall of Hogwarts. The forty-seventh day since the beginning of the reign of Lord Voldemort. The forty seventh day since He took Hermione Granger.
