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Chapter 1. Caught In A War

The shops were closed now, their doors securely locked for the night. Rain lashed down on the roofs, canopies, car parks and ground, an ominous warning to anyone who saw it, not only of the cold and wetness of that late autumn evening, but also of the battle raging in what should have been a deserted street. Nevertheless, the fighting continued, each of the two black-robed armies struggling fiercely to overcome the other. Red, green, white, orange and purple lights flew from their wands, momentarily illuminating a window or sign as they flew towards their targets. A small skinny dark-haired boy watched the two groups locked in combat, despair filling his heart and rain dripping down his round glasses, blurring his vision. It was becoming very difficult to distinguish friends from foes now, he realised, taking them off and wiping them yet again. They had to stop soon, he thought desperately as several people fell to the ground, never to rise again.

A whistle blew behind him. He ignored it, anger and sadness coursing through him like poison, numbing him, incapacitating him. He had no desire to listen to the barked orders of Sergeant Weasley now. He was a good man, but far too ambitious. He had failed to realise his manager had gone missing nine months ago, being too intent on enjoying his newfound power to investigate his absence. He had cut himself off from his family because they had disagreed with the Ministry of Magic on account of their legislation against werewolves. Now he was employed by Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, and following his orders to the letter.

The whistle blew again. He sighed and marched reluctantly forward, into the mass of destruction and death. Beside him, he felt Neville trembling and longed to comfort him. He glanced around him. The street was almost pitch-dark. If the streetlights had not been extinguished by Put Outers, he thought, it might have looked almost beautiful. Why had Cornelius Fudge staged the battle here, the boy wondered. Did he have no common sense at all? Twice he had threatened to expel him from school for using magic in a Muggle-inhabited area. Yet he had ordered the Swift Brigade, a regiment of his youngest troops, to fight this battle on a Muggle High Street! The Muggles were sure to notice something had been going on. If the noise of glass breaking, buildings being knocked to the ground and people dying in pain and terror did not arouse their suspicions, the wreckage of their High Street and the corpses lining it would.

Hastily, he pushed the matter from his mind. Incredulous as he was that anyone could possibly neglect to consider such details, it was not worth thinking about now. Whatever he thought about this war or the man planning it did not matter now. After four months of fighting against Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters, who never seemed to get tired or injured, it seemed to him that nothing mattered. This was their lot in life now. They were outnumbered, tired, cold and hungry. They stood no chance against their older, more experienced opponents.

With a sigh, he took his glasses off and began cleaning them of rainwater yet again, thinking of the worlds he had left behind. His parents were dead. They would never know he was now an underage soldier fighting against the most feared wizard of all time. He thought of last year, when he had been entered into the Triwizard Tournament and Rita Skeeter, a news reporter for the Daily Prophet, had asked him how they would feel about his competing in the Tournament. At the time, he had been too taken aback to answer, but now it returned to nag at his exhausted mind. How would his parents feel if they knew he was a soldier? Would they be proud of him? Or would they be ashamed of him for not signing up willingly to go into battle? His father had been a fearless man, from what his friends had told him. His godfather, Sirius Black, had often said he had always enjoyed a bit of danger. Was he disappointed in his godson? Was he, even now, staring moodily into the dining room fire in Grimmauld Place or writing a letter to him saying something along the lines of "You're less like your father than I thought. James would've been glad to fight for his friends"?

Or perhaps they and Sirius would be indignant that he had been taken out of school and conscripted into Cornelius Fudge's army. There was no need for him to wonder what Mrs Weasley thought of it. He still had her letter, in which she had promised, one way or another, to get him out of the army, sending Howlers if necessary. With a slight smile, he reached into his bag and touched the leather pouch in which he kept her and Hermione's letters.

Thinking of Hermione made him remember his time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the first place he could ever recall feeling happy. She would be there, he reminded himself, safe with the other students who hadn't been conscripted, under the protection of Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of the school and a very powerful wizard. Albus Dumbledore would protect the students and keep up their morale. He remembered his second year at Hogwarts when a Basilisk had roamed the school through the pipes, Petrifying students and spreading fear throughout the school. Even when he had been removed from the school by Lucius Malfoy, he had simply said "Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it." Knowing that Hermione was safe in his care was enough of a comfort that the boy was able to stand and rejoin the battle.

He thought of the letters she had written to him. Although she clearly missed him greatly, she was doing everything she could to help those fighting in and affected by the war. Her letters were full of news about her various campaigns. So far, she had organised Pastries For Peace, which involved selling homemade pastries to raise money for the improved education of wizards and other races, so that they would no longer feel the need to go to war, a sponsored silence in honour of fallen troops and a counselling service for those whose relatives had been killed or injured in battle. He admired her commitment and compassion and hoped these projects would be more successful than SPEW, a group she had tried to establish for the benefit of house elves, not realising it was in their nature to serve wizards.

He blinked. A hooded Death Eater was standing a few feet from him. The face of the man was covered by a mask. For several moments, neither the boy nor the man moved or spoke, each watching the other. The man began to speak, but the boy couldn't hear what he was saying. Hearing Neville cry out in pain, he turned to see him collapse, unconscious, a small bruise, the size of a fifty pence piece, on his forehead. Bending to examine him, he remembered how he had bent down and lifted his cousin Dudley and carried him home after his encounter with Dementors, blind, soul-sucking fiends which fed on humans' happy memories. Trying not to think about how the Dursleys had reacted when he had brought Dudley home to them, he Stunned the Death Eater as he raised his wand then, with some difficulty, lifted his friend and prepared to carry him back to their camp.

A stabbing pain in his gut made him double over. He heard a voice shout "Goyle, no!", felt a cold, fuzzy sensation engulf him, then was unaware of anything but swirling blackness which waited hungrily to pull him into its depths, like a group of Grindylows swarming around their victim and pulling the helpless human down into the murky waters they inhabited. The last thing he heard before slipping into unconsciousness was a group of young voices calling him, sounding panic-stricken as they shouted. He dimly recognised them as Cedric's, Fred's George's and Cho Chang's. "Harry!" they called urgently. "Stay with us! Harry!"