Author's Note: I'm glad you all enjoyed the last Plot Bunny. Here's another one, or rather the first of a two part plot bunny.
I want to do something I never have before. I want to challenge everyone of my readers. The challenge is simple. Start writing. Write a story, any story. Add your creativity to the world. Now, I know many of you will say that you're no good at writing. Let me tell you something, my first attempts at writing (which are no longer on this site) were terrible. They had bad grammar, poor spelling, worse punctuation and I had little concept of a coherent plot. My point? Only a very rare few individuals actually start out as good solid writers. Most of us have to work and scrape and exhaust ourselves to become even halfway decent writers. But we'd never have gotten even that far if we didn't try. So again, I challenge you to do just that. Try your hand at writing. Tell your stories, send your messages, and show the world how you feel. And I know some of you will be afraid to show your work, a justifiable fear considering how harsh some people can be. If you can't show it to the internet I'd encourage you to show it to someone you trust not to belittle you. But for those of you who can stand to post it where others can see it, keep going, even when people criticize, ESPECIALLY when people criticize. Don't let them snuff out that creative spark in you. Keep writing, if only to spite those mean spirited people who tell you to stop, to not even bother. And when you are eventually writing good solid stories, that people are enjoying, rejoice in the fact that you proved all those idiots wrong. Then keep going. Keep creating.
I know, I got a little long winded there, but I feel it was an important message for me to give. I may post it again in some of my other stories as time permits.
Otherwise. I hope you all enjoy this plot bunny.
An interesting…quirk of the human psyche is that one can know something to be an incontrovertible fact and yet at the very same time not truly believe it in spite of it. For example, when you hear an explosion, particularly if you are adapted to an environment in which such things are common, you might understand how a person might come to be in the habit of believing an explosion always results in death.
Harry James Potter knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that just because he'd heard an explosion didn't mean someone had necessarily died. This did not however stop him from wincing slightly in sympathy every time he heard one.
He'd come to be something of a macabre connoisseur when it came to eardrum shattering detonations. He recognized the telltale muffled "crump" sound of a grenade, or the deep "thoom" of a rocket strike, he'd even become acquainted with the scream and thunder of an explosive curse or the distinctive "pop, pop, pop" of a Kalashnikov rifle.
Years of fighting all manner of enemies had indelibly imprinted these things into his mind, never to be forgotten.
Had you asked him about this phenomena in the past, he likely would have assumed, like most people, that given enough time he would get used to it and that after a while it would no longer really touch him. Unfortunately it seemed this wasn't the case. He felt a pang of grief with each death he witnessed. Just as he always had.
He rolled over on his cot, trying to block out the noise echoing in from the distance when a bone jarring thump was heard through the walls of his quarters.
That was undoubtedly the L30A1 120mm rifled cannon mounted on his detachment's aging Challenger II, the Beast as the men under his command had christened it. Judging by the sound of that shot, the Tank was about a block away at most. Likely assisting that platoon he'd dispatched across the bridge to dig out that nest of holdouts on the opposite bank of the Thames.
He was trying to get some sleep in his quarters deep within the field HQ of the King's First Magical Fusiliers. Trying being the operative word.
The First, as he thought of them, was his personal division of the combined armed forces. It's current HQ was nestled in the crater and ruins of the Palace of West Minster. He tried not to think about how many engineers he had working to try and keep Big Ben from crashing down on their encampment.
The King himself, and what remained of the Royal family was hunkered down with a full mechanized division at Buckingham Fortress.* It wasn't all that far away from his current position really when it came down to it.
He tried to shake off these musings as he lay there on his cot. He couldn't seem to help himself though, he would probably always think like a tactician he supposed. In terms of strongholds, supply depots, redoubts, patrol routes and ammo dumps.
It was still a foreign thought that soon, quite possibly within twenty four hours actually, he might not need to think like that anymore. It was hard to believe.
He'd finally done it. He'd won, it was over, he had beaten the unholy bastard known as Voldemort.
He rolled his eyes at that, Victory had only come only forty years too late. Such a damn waste. He thought to himself.
Harry had fought his nemesis, less than twelve hours ago, for the final time in the heart of Hyde Park. It was the largest single engagement he'd taken part in many years.
Voldemort and his few remaining elite guardsmen, the much hated Death Eaters, his army of followers, and close to two hundred mercenaries. Against him, a half company of exhausted Royal Army Riflemen and a squad of resistance Aurors.
They'd been lured out of cover to chase down an enemy patrol. It had been a trap, no two ways about it, and he'd fallen for it. The way those hostiles had led them out into the open like that, it should have been obvious. But he supposed, looking back, that in all likelihood exhaustion had been getting to him just as much as it had been to his troops.
Still, we fought like tigers, he reflected proudly to himself.
In the end Voldemort couldn't resist the chance to try his luck and once again they had faced each other. For the first time in years.
He'd taunted him, he remembered, Voldemort that was. "The years have not been kind to you Harry Potter. Feeling a little tired, a little old?"
Tom never had understood the benefit associated with growing older, he feared death too much for it to be otherwise. With age, and the understanding of mortality came a different outlook on life.
War had ravaged Harry's body, he wasn't the same person he had been a few years ago. Tom had not counted on the changes in his long time foe's demeanour.
Harry was no innocent any longer. He'd delved into magics long forgotten, into libraries even Tom had never heard of. In his battle against Voldemort, here at the end of things, he'd wielded magics his enemy could not imagine the old Harry Potter would dare use.
And in the end it had cost him. Voldemort had lost, Harry Potter had unmade the greatest villain in Britain's history. Burning him away leaving nothing but a smoking husk of glowing ash and embers.
All too late… He supposed, as he lay there staring at the ceiling. It would always be far too late. He had a book, a small black leather bound journal, in which he wrote the names of those who he had personally known, who died in this horrific conflict
The book was only half full. Names not taking up much space on a page generally.
Except for the last few pages which he'd devoted to those he would miss most of all. Hermione Granger, Ron, Ginny, Fred, George, Bill, Charlie, Arthur and Molly Weasley, Luna and Xenophilius Lovegood, Susan Bones, Hannah Abbot, Daphne Greengrass, Neville Longbottom, Minerva Mcgonagall, Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin, Filius Flitwick….The list went on and on by his reckoning.
The Weasleys, his second family, had died in the various early conflicts, or in the second battle for the Burrow. The ministry provided wards crumbling and allowing the Death Eaters to catch them before they could escape. Relatively merciful deaths in comparison to some in the war. Killed by curse fire in the defence of their home.
Luna…She'd died helping to protect a group of muggle children caught in the crossfire during the evacuation of London. The children had escaped, but she had not.
Xeno had passed a week later, in a battle, attempting to avenge his daughter. Harry always had underestimated the man. But he would always remember that Xenophilius had taken six Death Eaters with him into the beyond.
Susan and Hannah had been lost in the battle for Manchester. Holding a position so the rest of their company could retreat and dig in. Successfully preventing the enemy from gaining a foothold in that region of the city.
Daphne and her sister Astoria…there deaths had been less merciful. They'd been captured by Death Eaters. Neville, Daphne's boyfriend had died trying to rescue her, even though it was already too late.
Mcgonagall, she'd died in the second battle for Hogwarts. Taking a great number of Death Eaters with her.
Tonks and Lupin were slain in the battle that ended Greyback's pack of werewolves near Birmingham.
Flitwick had been lost only two years ago, in the Death Eater's abortive attempt to seize Gringotts and it's vast stores of mineral and fiscal wealth. He and nearly five hundred Goblin warriors and enchanters had given their lives in defence of their kingdom. The enemy had paid twice as dearly.
Hermione Granger…The most painful loss of all by his reckoning. His best friend. And nearly so much more when it came down to it. He'd intended to finally tell her how he felt, only for her to be killed later that same day. In a skirmish over a lousy supply drop. She'd been his best friend, his closest confidant for years, and the subject of his dreams for time immemorial.
He'd have confessed how he felt sooner but had been afraid, so he'd held off. Until it was too late.
So much could have been different, had he gotten the courage to speak with her sooner about how he felt…he could have had years with her, maybe decades. But in the end he truly had been too late. She had died in his arms. There was no going back now—
He was shaken from these maudlin thoughts by a polite cough from the doorway. He looked over to see it was Lieutenant Sarah Markland. A dutiful and tactically talented woman. His liaison with the British SAS and probably the best executive officer he'd had in decades. Despite her relatively low rank. The war effort was short of high ranking officers these days.
He rolled upright, brushing his hand through the stubble on his head. "Yes Lieutenant?
She saluted, "Lord Major, you have visitors. They've been cleared by High Comm."
He sighed, no rest for the wicked it seems. He nodded to the Lieutenant. "Very well. I'll be out in a minute." He said in dismissal. She nodded and stepped out.
His quarters, such as they were, had once been a janitors office. That was back before the palace had been largely destroyed in the war.
He stumbled over to the old wash basin and splashed some water in his face, in the hopes it would wake him up somewhat. In times past he'd have just used a pepper up potion and been done with it. But he couldn't do that anymore.
It was for two reasons really. First, the potions ingredients market was all but non-existent in Great Britain these days. There being no truly intact herboligist organizations or growers associations. Therefore what materials they could get their hands on were reserved for more vital draughts and such.
The second reason was because it turned out chronic use of the stuff was harder on your system than you might think. His doctors had recommended avoiding the stuff some time ago, unless he wanted to risk his heart exploding in his chest. What irony that would be, kill Voldemort, only to die of a heart attack the next day….
He looked himself over in the small, dingy and cracked mirror above the basin. Merlin, I look like crap. He reflected sourly. At least to his own estimations. Some of the more positive or possibly sycophantic officers in his command insisted he was a dead ringer for Clint Eastwood…
Which upon reflection might not actually have been a compliment, given what he remembered of the actor from back in the day and the fact the man had been far older than he. All of it, the result of a little over nine years of shite road.
He'd turned twenty four a couple months back. Honestly he'd all but forgotten how old he actually was, things like birthdays becoming inconsequential.
Time had done anything but fly by in all that time. He stood a little straighter as he dried his face off and decided against shaving today.
He shook his head looking away from his ugly scarred mug reflected in the glass and headed for the door. I don't just look like crap, I feel like it too. He noted soberly rolling his shoulders to encourage various aches and such to depart.
His bones ached, his muscles weren't much better, and he had a permanent limp. The consequence of living a goodly portion of his life in a state of total war. Still, better a limp and some aches and pains to being dead he supposed. He'd outlasted his enemy, that was something right?
Not that any of it mattered now. His mission was complete. Theoretically he could go home and relax now. Problem was he no longer knew what relaxation really felt like, and any place he had considered calling home had long since been blasted to splinters in one battle or another.
He stumped his way into the war room, what had at one time been one of the palace's smaller lunch rooms.
Lieutenant Markland was standing by one of the tables, across from a quartet of people in surprisingly immaculate suits.
He couldn't help but snort a little at this, someone had decided to sic the bureaucrats on him had they? He'd faced worse.
He made his way over to the table and snagged the cup of coffee the lieutenant held out to him. He surveyed those across from his as he waited expectantly for a greeting.
The first three had the air of former soldiers about them, something in the way they stood and presented themselves. None appeared truly comfortable in business attire, maybe not bureaucrats after all…Spooks? At least the woman in front was, grey eyes dark hair, maybe the other three were operatives then? Those jackets could certainly conceal weapons.
The final one, a woman, and apparently the spokesperson, was different. Clearly not a warrior, and honestly she reminded him a bit painfully of Luna Lovegood. Back in her early years. Wild fly away hair, though in this case it was dark instead of blonde. Wide expressive eyes, and an awkward almost sheepish smile. He knew if he had been more inclined towards such things he might have dwelt on her being something of a looker.
He finally broke the silence, grumbling a greeting and setting down his mug of coffee on the table a touch less gently than was necessary. She nodded, clearly getting his message loud and clear, stepping forward and almost tripping in her enthusiasm. "Yes good day, Lord Major Potter correct?" Harry was interested to note her accent. It wasn't of any variety he recognized at first blush.
He nodded easily. "Yeah, that'd be me." he agreed pleasantly enough.
She bobbed her head happily, smiling all the while. "We just need a moment of your time sir, and then we'll be on our way."
"Well, you've got my attention what do you want?" He winced a bit at sounding sharper than he'd intended.
The woman gave that sheepish grin again. If the other woman was a spook, this woman's person screamed analyst with every fibre of her being. "Er—As certain as I am that your division is trustworthy sir. What we have to discuss is strictly confidential. For your ears only." She apologized.
He considered them. He knew of the three it was the other two who were dangerous, not her. Still he knew how to fight, so the threat was likely fairly minimal. And if it wasn't. So what? What did he care anymore?
He nodded to Lieutenant Markland. "Give us the room for a minute."
She saluted and began wrangling the others in the room and guiding them out the door. He noted the way the woman across from him eased a bit as the soldiers left. "You going to tell me who you are?"
She chuckled grinning again, "Not just yet sir."
She moved around the table as the door closed behind his staff. It was odd, again it struck him how similar she was to Luna as she all but skipped around the table coming to a stop in front of him. "Just one thing to take care of before we begin. A reminder if you will." She assured him smiling enigmatically. "Nothing comes without a cost. Just remember that when you get back and it'll make sense soon enough. We'll be waiting."
Then quite to his surprise she reached out with a single finger, he tried not to wince at the familiarity of her posture. But she was quick. Ever so gently her finger made the barest of contact with the flesh between his eyes as he attempted to flinch away. "Boop!"
The world went dark.
*Yes I am aware Buckingham is a palace, with negligible features that could be considered "Fortifications" in the traditional sense. At this point in time, Buckingham palace has been fortified by the Royal Army. Bunkers, pillboxes, razor wire, wards, guard trolls—the works.
Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed that! Please review and comment.