No Rest for the Innocent
By Lord Raine
A part of Harry James Potter died that night, and was reborn as an unshakable, manic determination. A determination that would change the tides of war, and seal the fates of the guilty. There is no rest for the innocent. There is no mercy for the damned.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, the characters, or the premises involved. J.K. Rowling does.
Harry slammed into the ground and tasted grass in his mouth. A deep, rumbling roar of hundreds of shouting voices washed over him, and he instinctively tightened his grip on Cedric and the cup. His mind was running a thousand miles an hour in circles, refusing to process what had just happened. It couldn't have been real. It couldn't have been real.
A torrent of sound deafened and confused him; there were voices everywhere, footsteps, screams. He remained where he was, lost in a daze, his face screwed up against the howling noise. Suddenly, a pair of hands seized him roughly and turned him over.
"Harry! Harry!"
He opened his eyes. His vision was blurred, his glasses having slipped off his face, but he could make out the face of Albus Dumbledore crouched over him. The dark shadows of a crowd pressed in around him. Harry could feel the ground vibrating with their footsteps. Behind them, in the distance, he could make out the blurry, boiling mass that must have been the stands.
Harry gasped and let go of the cup, which rolled away. He reached up and grasped Dumbledore's wrist, while Dumbledore's face swam in and out of focus.
"He's back," Harry whispered. "Voldemort. He's back."
Harry groaned and leaned back against one of the many beds lining the walls of the infirmary. He was nursing a throbbing headache that wasn't helped in the slightest by the dull roar coming from outside. The sound of numerous feet pounding along mixed with the noise of hundreds of voices managed to filter through in spite of the silence and privacy wards surrounding the hospital wing. Harry had been lead here after being rescued from the all-too-eager company of one Bartemius Crouch.
Harry was still in something of a daze over that. A Death Eater, a real honest-to-god Death Eater, had been hiding and scheming in the castle the entire time! It sent a shiver up his spine thinking about the lessons he had taught. The times he and Harry had been alone together. The interest he had shown in Neville, he, who personally helped put Nevile's parents where they were today. If McGonagall, Dumbledore, and Snape had been even a few seconds later, he'd probably be dead. Dead, or Portkey'd back to the graveyard.
In any case, Dumbledore had taken Harry to the hospital wing, only to be intercepted on the way by a small congregation from the Ministry, lead by Fudge himself. After a hurried exchange between the three professors, both McGonagall and Snape had Flooed away, and Dumbledore had dove into a deep, frenzied discussion with the officials over what exactly should be done, and how to go about it. Under normal circumstances, Harry would have been deeply curious as to what they were discussing and exactly where McGonagall and Snape had gone off to, but he was so mentally and physically exhausted that he didn't even care that Madam Pomphrey had stripped his shirt off of him in front of some of the most powerful men and women in Magical Britain. He hardly even felt the pokes and prods of her wand.
His efforts to give into the daze and numbness of the evening, though, were broken by a familiar, blustering voice laced with panic that came from somewhere in the cluster of officials. "-absolute disaster! Two deaths! TWO! Champions kidnapped off the grounds, Death Eaters running amok killing students! Heads are going to roll, Albus!"
Something cold clenched in Harry's gut. 'Two deaths? Death Eaters?'
"Calm yourself, Cornelius. We must put forth a united front to control the situation, and we must act swiftly. I have Flooed the Weasleys and the Grangers. They will be arriving shortly."
A prim, clipped voice cut in. "They just got through checking everything over, Minister, Albus. There were traces of Animagi magic in the area and the residuum of an outbound Portkey, destination unknown."
The voice Harry assumed was Fudge swore explosively. Harry was about to beg off of Madam Pomphrey and go back to Gryffindor Tower when a strong hand settled on his shoulder and began steering him towards the large hearth in the center of the infirmary.
"Forgive me, Cornelius, but I'm afraid I must leave for a moment. Harry needs to be taken to a secure location to recover from tonight's ordeals, and after what has just happened, I fear for his safety."
A harried, rumpled Fudge looked up from his own discussion and nodded. "What? Oh! God yes, Albus. By all means. The boy has certainly dealt with more than enough nonsense for one evening, and Merlin knows he's not liable to get much rest in the castle tonight. Do hurry back though. The French and Bulgarian Ministers are supposed to be arriving any time now."
Dumbledore nodded and guided Harry to the front of the crackling fireplace. Glancing back at the officials, Harry saw a tall, stern looking witch with a square jaw, steel-gray hair, and a monocle examining him. Their eyes met, and she nodded once before turning back to her discussion. The fireplace roared a rainbow of green hues as Dumbledore scattered a fistful of powder into it. Dumbledore muttered a destination Harry couldn't make out under his breath, and they stepped into the flames, whirling away in a hurricane of heat and motion.
Albus Dumbledore strode purposefully out of the fire, a strong grip preventing his charge from doing worse than stumbling. They were in what appeared to be a large kitchen of sorts. Pots, pans, knives, and various other metal cooking implements lined the walls above large, antique stoves of cast iron. The room was dominated by a massive, thick oak table with the rough, polished surface that can only come from decades of use. The only light in the room was from the large, flickering fire between the stoves and a handful of gas-lamps embedded in the walls.
Harry had no idea where he was, and to be honest, he didn't much care. It was quiet, and far far away from anywhere that mattered. That was more than enough for him at the moment as he collapsed bonelessly into a straight-backed wooden chair.
"Welcome to Grimmauld Place, Harry. This mansion is one of the ancestral homes of the Blacks, and is owned by your godfather, who has generously loaned it to us as a base and headquarters."
Harry nodded once, showing that he was listening. He was curious as to who exactly the 'us' was that Dumbledore was referring to, and why they would need a headquarters in the first place, but didn't question it. He was too tired and emotionally drained to ask questions or deal with discussions. Dumbledore seemed to notice this, as he pressed on.
"While I would like nothing better than to leave you here and allow you to rest in a proper bed with some peace and quiet, I'm afraid I cannot. Certain events transpired tonight that you must be made aware of, and it is my duty and obligation to inform you of them."
Harry looked up from his seat warily. He didn't like the sound of this.
"While Bartey Crouch was busy interrogating you, another Death Eater took advantage of the confusion and chaos to infiltrate the castle. We believe he was attempting to break into my office, for purposes we have yet to divine. However, he was discovered by Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley, who were on their way to the hospital wing, presumably to see you. A fight ensued, and the Death Eater was forced to withdraw."
A deep, cold feeling of utter dread was welling up inside Harry's chest. "H-how are they? Are they alright?"
"Miss Granger was exposed to the Cruciatus Curse and a botched Entrail Expulsion Curse. She is currently in critical condition and being treated in the emergency spell damage ward in Saint Mungos."
The feeling of dread was building to a head, threatening to swallow him whole. Harry was begging it not to be, Fudge's words of two deaths were echoing in his mind. He couldn't ask, he couldn't. But he had no choice. He had to know, needed to know.
"A-and Ron? What happened to Ron?"
"Harry. . . I'm so sorry, Harry. Mr. Weasley did not make it."
His hands were shaking, his teeth clenched so hard he thought they might crack. White hot tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He wanted to scream, to rage, to cry, to deny. It couldn't be true. It couldn't be true. But there were no lies in Dumbledore's face. Only weariness, age, and regret.
"Who was it?" Harry asked, his voice deathly quiet.
"The Ministry has no suspects at this time, but given the knowledge we possess that the Ministry does not, it was almost certainly the work of Peter Pettigrew."
Harry nodded once. Weariness dragged his head down, a deep, painful tiredness that soaked him to the bones. It was too much. This couldn't be real. This wasn't happening. Cedric was dead. Ron was dead. Hermione was hurt and might be dying. Voldemort had returned.
His head hit the worn, polished wood of the kitchen table, and darkness mercifully took him, silent tears running down his cheeks.
Harry sat up with a start. Blinking blearily, he noted that it was considerably darker than he last remembered. He must have fallen asleep at the table. How long had he been out? It must have been hours. Sensing that he was not alone, Harry looked up. There, across from him, were two familiar figures. His godfather, Sirius Black, and his former Defense professor, Remus Lupin.
In the light thrown by the flickering fireplace, Sirius's eyes seemed darker and more sunken than Harry had ever seen them. His face had a deathly look about it, from the disheveled, uneven hair to the sharp cheekbones and Sirius's still painfully gaunt frame. Lupin looked little better, with dark stains under his eyes from a lack of sleep, pasty pale skin, and the dancing light of the fire throwing his appearance into a disturbingly feral relief.
The hair on the back of Harry's neck stood up at the sight and the stark reminder of another, similar scene not one year ago in the Shrieking Shack. Here in the firelight, Remus Lupin looked like the monster Harry knew was lurking inside him, so much so that he would not have been surprised to learn that the full moon had just happened, or was just about to happen. And though he was painfully aware of his godfather's innocence, tonight Sirius looked every inch the man most believed him to be. An insane, deranged killer and Dark wizard of the highest order. In that moment, Harry could have believed it. He could have believed that this man had really done those things. Even though he had only seen her picture once, the resemblance he bore to his deranged cousin was incredibly unsettling.
"We heard, Harry," Sirius croaked, looking at him with dark eyes. "We came as soon as we could."
Harry said nothing. What could he say? He had fought so hard to protect Peter, to save him. The two men in front of him had really, genuinely wanted to murder him, and Harry, in spite of everything he knew, saw that as wrong. And now here he was, shattered over the death of one friend and the hospitalization of another, caused by the man he had saved. Peter Pettigrew. Harry hadn't understood, even in retrospect, exactly why Sirius had acted the way he had. When the chips were down, when fire met water, Sirius hadn't gone to protect Harry or take care of him. He hadn't tried to clear his own name, even when given the opportunity, clearly telling Harry to his face that he was responsible for the deaths of Lily and James. He hadn't even bothered to explain himself to Remus, who would have understood better than any. No. All he had cared about was getting to Pettigrew. Getting to him, and doing whatever it took to kill him, regardless of cost or boundaries broken, regardless of what would happen afterwards. At the time, and even later looking back, Harry had resented them both for it. He hadn't understood.
Now he did.
His own words echoed back at him from across the gulf of his memories, an almost mocking tone to them. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it because I don't reckon my dad would've wanted his best friends to become killers- just for you."
"But you'll never know, now will you?" a quiet voice said in the back of Harry's mind. "You'll never know what he would have wanted. . . because he was murdered." Harry knew why Sirius had acted the way he had. Harry knew he would have done the same. At the time, he hadn't thought what Sirius must have felt, locked in a hellhole with mad Dark wizards and hungry Dementors, finally given a shot at revenge. He hadn't thought what Remus must have felt, having found out that everything he had believed about his best friends had been completely wrong, and that the man responsible for it all was, at the last, in front of him, all alone and his for the taking.
"Harry," Remus said softly, though there was a hoarseness to his voice that Harry had only ever heard once before, that night in the Shrieking Shack. "Do you want our help?"
The boy looked up at them, but there was no boy behind those eyes. Something cold and sharp, something dark and hot, burned there. Something that had no place in the eyes of a child, or even in the eyes of the sane. Contrasted by firelight against his pale skin and hair as black as jet, anyone who might have walked into the room at that moment would have seen three of a kind.
"Yes."