Madness 14

Near Durmstrang, undisclosed location in Northern Russia. July 16th. 2:00 p.m.

There are few sayings (among the million witticisms, anecdotes, and quotes that permeate human history) which sum up true things, which were true when they were spoken and will be true until the end of time. One such saying about sums up the value of courage in one poignant sentence: "Cowards die many times before the final death; the truly brave taste of death but once." A true saying, one proven by the lives and deaths of millions throughout history, some having felt death many times before the finally.

Daedalus Diggle, a coward of a man, was just about to prove the saying all over again. From his position in the relative safety of the convoy's middle, he hoped fervently that if things went wrong, he could remember his way back across these frozen wastes. A blizzard had been blowing for the past hour, and Daedulus had lost track of their current position long ago. The snow wiped out their tracks almost as soon as they were made, and it turned all the world into a vast whiteness that seemed evil to him. Daedulus could barely see the soldiers in front of him, and after fifteen feet, lost his visibility completely. Snow was a complex substance, and it required special training to see through it. Leading this armored division, a group of Snow Hawks- the Ministry Special Forces whose job it was to work in snow and tundra conditions- led the way, their specialized sight piercing the snow. The rest of the group was reduced to blindly playing follow the leader.

This made Daedalus even more nervous than he usually was. A longtime dealer in shady ventures, he was a man whose major plan of action in any engagement was "run like hell". At times, variations like "use someone as a human shield" or "backstab then run" were added, but running was the basic idea. He was a sniveling man, and more and more was coming to regret his initial decision to lead an early-strike force against the White Shore. What had made him come up with the idea in the first place? Maybe it was just his habit of backstabbing his friends and allies alike whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Two days ago, almost at the same time the Writ of Law was being written in Oceania, Daedalus had conceived of what had then seemed a bold, daring plan. The White Shore had broken off from its alliance with the Ministry. So it was obvious they were going to be no help in future military battles, and once the war was over, they would probably become a government all their own if not stopped. So, why not crush them now? With all the Beast-keeper problems and such, it would be a good morale and public opinion raiser to finish off the White Shore. Using his contacts in the Ministry, he'd whipped up government support for the attack, and been granted nine thousand troops. The White Shore had about sixteen thousand troops, but they were kids. Hell, it wouldn't be that hard to beat them, would it? Give them a spanking and send them home. Simple or so he had thought.

But, for the past few miles, dread had been eating at his heart. Something was wrong... he could feel it. Having lived his life on a razor edge for years, Daedalus had a mongrel dog's acute sense for trouble. It had saved his life more often than not, and he'd learned to trust it.

If he could only slip away and get back to the boats.

Ahead of him, the soldiers stopped. He stopped as well, and over the howling wind he heard some of them murmuring, wondering what the hold up was. Daedalus clutched his knife and drew back. His sense of danger was on red alert.

He had to get out of here.

Front of the convoy. Same time.

Robin Cassan, using the special sight, called winter sight, he'd trained for, viewed the surrounding area.

Except for the two kids before him, he saw no one.

He returned his gaze to them, his eyes glowing white with the power that effectively cut the snow out of his sight. He wondered if it scared these kids in front of him. In his own mind, he thought the kids saw him as a towering figure, a scary giant with glowing eyes. He smiled underneath his fur-padded mask at the image. Oh yeah. This was going to be an easy mission, all right.

The two soldiers before him found him neither mystical nor mighty, just an annoyance.

And a harbinger of worse things.

"This is White Shore territory," one of them said, and despite the scarf wrapped around the bottom of her face and the wind shrieking around them, her voice was loud and clear. "You are trespassing. Leave now"

"Listen," Robin said, feeling magnaminous, "you kids have no idea what you're doing. Now, I'll let you two surrender peacefully and we'll forget this whole thing." Spreading his arms in an attempt to show how kind he was being, he said, "You can all go home"

"Idiot," the soldier said, disgust clear in her voice, "this is home. I want no part of the foul Ministry. Last warning. Leave now or die here"

Rage twisting his mouth into a snarl at the rejection of his kind (or so he thought) offer, he said, "Like you two can stop us. Men! Kill"

A knife, pulled and thrown with an expert's ease, buried itself in his throat. Robin gasped, choking, blood dripping out of the edges separating his esophagus. The soldier who'd thrown the dagger stepped forward.

"Actually, we can," she said calmly. In front of her, the other Snow Hawks gaped dumbly at their fallen commander. "And we shall"

Her voice rose in song, not lifting above the winds but seeming to become part of them. Snow swirled about the two guards, obscuring them even from the sight of the Snow Hawks. When it cleared, they were gone.

And the wolves were upon them.

Ministry's Convoy, near Durmstrang. Same time.

The song the White Shore's guard sung was the cue that set the very dogs of war loose upon the Ministry. It was the death song of the nine thousand, as it were.

Wolves came in like mists, and some were just that, and went back just as fast. To the bewildered, completely off-guard soldiers, they seemed like ghosts, silent as sin and just as deadly as the cardinals. Teeth flashed. Claws rend. Before the men even knew what had happened, the soldiers were dead and the wolves were gone.

Within the first fifteen minutes, all the Snow Hawks were dead.

Within the first half hour, over a thousand had died.

And it was just the beginning.

At the end of the hour over a third of the forces had died.

The Beast-keepers had come to the White Shore expecting nothing. These teenagers who had saved their leader, who had invited one and all to join them in the north, seemed to demand the expectation of nothingness, were such a new thing that to expect anything at all would have been the most horrible of presumptions. The one thing they had expected was a better deal- not an equal deal, no, they'd learned enough to know that they'd never have that- but a better deal, nonetheless.

And they had received so much more.

When the White Shore had broken from the Ministry, the act had surprised them more than anyone else. They'd always expected to become part of the Ministry again, as soon as Harry Potter was killed. And yet the new values that they'd been building into themselves (completely unaware they were doing so), values won from hard days of labor and battle, had cried out against the Ministry, all it's petty little hates and injustices. The honor, nobility, and beauty of life in the harsh north had changed them. They'd determined to make something better of themselves, to do what no one, Wizard or Muggle, had ever done before.

They sought to become a society of the truly equal.

When the Beast-keepers arrived, they were treated as no different from any White Shore member. Not a vestige of residual hatred had greeted them. In matters of housing, food, lodging, everything- equality, blessed equality was what they received. To the Beast-keepers, it was a dream coming true.

And so, when the White Shore asked for help to guard their new home, the Beastkeepers had went above and beyond the call of duty. They took it on themselves to guard Durmstrang, by themselves and their companions. They refused to let ordinary White Shore members help- this was the least they could do, to repay them for their kindness.

And so it was that a pack of hundreds of dire wolves and mist wolves attacked the convoy. In terms of numbers and power, the convoy had a far greater advantage; but that didn't matter. After all, the wolves were just there to harass them.

It was the wastes of snow and ice that were the real killers here.

An hour and a half later, somewhere in the frozen wastes of Northern Russia.

The men staggered on, their energy gone. Most of them were bleeding from one wound or the other. It was so cold that the blood froze on their skin. They no longer noticed. Each man blindly followed the one in front of him, shambling onward like mindless drones. Men fell, struggled to move, shivered, and then died to the cold. Wolves came, as they always did, as they had for the last two hours. Mouths open, eyes gleaming with a feral intelligence and unknown cruelty.

Sergeants too weary to shout commands died under their gleaming teeth, thankful for the deliverance of a quick death. Some men fought them, those with a coward's or strong wills. Many no longer cared. Death, any death, was better than this hellish wandering. With the Snow Hawks gone, the men had no sense of direction, no clear idea of where to go. They were all slowly succumbing to madness and pain; unknowingly feed a certain Jesters even from so far away. In their round-about wandering, fighting the wolves and the cold, they'd traveled north and not south to the ships. They were now on a straight course towards the North Pole.

Daedalus, body torn on the arms and legs where wolves had bit him, gazed at the ruin about him, blood freezing on his clothes or skin. The blizzard had eased up some, perhaps to mock the men by showing what a vast wasteland lay all about them. He saw dead Ministry soldiers, with their accompanying equipment, everywhere, an overturned wagon there, a dead horse here, so much death.

A wolf howl cut through his thoughts, and he clutched at his bloodied, near frozen, dagger, eyes wide with fear; the wolves, by all the gods, devils, and demons how he hated them. They tormented and harassed, and mocked with those eyes, those terrifying eyes of theirs.

He shivered, his rent clothes losing their magic, the protective warmth beginning to disappear. He felt tears in his eyes. They froze as they left his eyes. No. It could not end like this. Not in some godforsaken land, killed by a bunch of kids and their pet wolves.

"Come out and fight me!" he cried to the winds, shouting and crying at the same time. His eyes were squeezed shut, as all the force of his coward's anguish emitted out from him. "Fight me like a man! Don't just let your wolf pets do the killing for you! Come and fight me"

His false bravado screeched to the winds, he turned around, to continue following the soldier he'd been behind. But when he looked, he saw no one. In fact, the blizzard had grown so bad in the short time he'd had his eyes closed that he could see nothing at all.

From behind him he heard growling. He turned around, knife at the ready, more scared now than he'd ever been in his life. A wolf stepped out of the snow. Soon another came with it, and another. Daedalus glanced around frantically, praying for a way out. There was none.

When the wolves descended on him, he died for the last time, throat ripped out. His body fell to the ground, and his head lolled to the side, dead eyes gazing out on an endless plain of snow. Soon, their view was obscured by the drifts of snow.

White Shore War Room, third floor of the castle of Durmstrang, Same time.

Walter Andrews nodded to the envoy, who snapped off a proud salute before leaving. He turned towards Ron and Hermione, face grim.

"And so it begins," he said.

"Indeed it does," Hermione said, shaking her noble head. "Indeed it does"

Ron, looking every bit the Old Grim his soldiers called him, said, "Nine thousand... they're not beating around the bush"

"What are we going to do?" Hermione said, looking at him. "We can't fight both the Ministry and Harry. What are we going to do? What can we do?"

"All we can do, we fight." Ron said, touching the pommel of Godric Gryffindor's sword. "We fight with all we have."

Durmstrang, undisclosed location in Russia. July 17th. 4:00 p.m.

Hermione looked over the crowd, from where she stood beside Ron on the podium, and a small, unlooked for smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. So, this was the army she would fashion into a force for Good. It was either funny or sad, depending on your viewpoint. The idea that Harry probably found it funny killed her humor, just as he had killed most of her mirth long ago. Beside her, Ron squeezed her hand for comfort, and she willingly took it. She needed all the courage she could muster, for what she must say. He'd asked her if she wanted him to do it, but she'd refused. She had become their leader, the figure that above all represented what they fought for. And so it was fit and right that she would lead them now, that these words should be hers.

She turned to face the crowd, casting the spell that would give her the voice of a giant.

With one last deep breathe to steady herself she began to speak.

"My friends and fellow soldiers," Hermione began, looking over the crowd, trying to see with both her eye and her mind each individual person, each unique soul, "much has happened since the fall of Hogwarts. Much has happened since we fled what was once our home and came here to Durmstrang. We never expected to remain apart from the Ministry. We always thought that we were a symbol, a kind of standing ground, from which all the things our enemy hates and despises would flow from, a place for the best in Wizardkind. We always thought that the war would end soon, and once it was over and our purpose was served, we would dissolve and go back to our old lives in the Ministry. That is what we always believed.

But, times have changed. We have changed. Our old selves were stripped from us by the cold and the snow of our new home, washed away, and these changeling, amorphous selves, like molten steel, were burned anew in battle. We have been forged a new into something better than we were. And now that we glance back, at what once seemed a symbol of greatness, we see the flaws we ourselves once had. The Ministry is better than Harry Potter and his monstrous Tide. But in a way, they are also worse. Because even Harry realizes that equality has its benefits. Even he sees what good or evil is in it. He has taken it and twisted it, broken and changed a beautiful thing... but he still ends up with something better than what the Ministry has. They dominate and rule and crush all who are weaker than they are... and they damn and mock that which is not. The Beast-keepers that we have taken in know this better than we ourselves know it from long days and nights living under fear of the sword and the whip. This is the Ministry's true self, its inner soul. A soul that fights Harry not out of any sense of the good and pure in this world... but because it fears him, fears him for his strength"

Her gaze swept over them all, watching as each began to realize, in their own way, what she was saying, what it might mean for them all, and she forced herself to continued onward, to not back down from it, "It is the same reason they attacked us yesterday." Gasps and cries from the crowds- with the exception of the Beast-keeper guards, no one had known about the attack from the Ministry. "Nine thousand soldiers landed on our shores yesterday, around 1:00 p.m. The guards asked them to leave, and they refused. The Beast-keeper guards slew them in the frozen wastes, but there will be more, and more, and more." She looked around at the uniformly shocked and mortified room, and continued on. "I will not demand that any of you stay with me. I will do no more than ask, because to do more is to stretch beyond the kindness of Good and enter the cruelties of Evil that we fight so hard against. And above all, we must not become what we fight. For then we will no better but much worse." She looked over them all and raised her gaze upwards, where somewhere above the whirling white sky beyond this room, the stars that mankind have always dreamed upon shone in the endless dark, small lights of hope.

She closed her eyes and spoke, and her next words would always ring out in some small portion of the minds of all those gathered here. "I will not pretend the road will not be hard. I will not tell you that we shall succeed, because we may very well fail here and now. But I can tell you this. If we stand, and if we fight, we shall know something greater, become something greater, and in that black field where all humanity stands singing and shouting in the rain, our singing will be heard above all. And now I ask of you this. Will you stand with me?!"

The roar of the crowd below, a strong vote in the affirmative, the war cry of thousands, met her ears and blackened vision. Two tears, of both joy and sorrow, leaked out of her closed eyelids as she gazed blindly upwards, joy of their support and sorrow at those that had died and would die. Despite the fact that her eyes were closed, despite the fact that all she could see was darkness, she imagined the look on Ron's face, Old Grim that he was, gazing over his troops and smiling his bittersweet smile. And maybe, just maybe, in the darkness behind her closed eyelids she saw a light, a bright light, of peace and honor and hope.

Ron turned to face her, and opened his mouth to speak when he caught sight of her in a mirror that lay past her in the great hall. He never told anyone he saw it, and questioned his own recollection of it later until he was certain he'd only imagined it. But sometimes, he wondered.

In a mirror that was angled to reflect whoever was on the podium of the great meeting room, Ron saw Hermione. It was raining in the mirror, a hard driving rain that almost seemed alive, sentient in its want and need to wash all things away mortal. And the rain did not touch her flesh in the mirror and a holy light came from her.

Jester's Keep, Oceania. Same time.

Harry Potter walked the halls of his castle, rubbing his chin as he pondered over the recent events in his kingdom. Ever since announcing the Writ of Law, some things had happened in his kingdom, things both expected and things that caught him completely off-guard. He ran through them in his head, analyzing each one in a mental checklist, after the Writ of Law had first been announced, with Ginny's subsequent appointment as Head Arbiter. He laughed as he remembered that she'd been rather shocked at receiving the honor, and had responded more like the girl she had been than the Necromancer she now was, hands flapping around as she tried to think of something to say. Several hundred people had come forward to try and become Arbiters. Ginny and Harry had done the anointing, eventually electing three hundred Arbiters for Oceania alone. Using the Portkeys to travel to Lunas, he'd empowered Fleur to elect Arbiters for the mainland Europe portions of the Tide.

Back home, as he would always think of England, he'd empowered Cameron, now mayor of a bustling town, to elect Arbiters for the two other cities in England. And cities is what they were; compared to Muggles, there were few Wizards in the world, and so far smaller numbers sufficed to classify a place as a city. The last Wizard Census, which had tried to identify how many Wizards lived in the world, had declared that there were only six hundred million Wizards in the world, compared to six billion Muggles. The report had been completed two years ago, and had shocking implications to the idea of a war with Muggles. Of the six hundred million Wizards, five million lived in England, with fifteen million in mainland Europe. So few, so very few. But then again no one ever count the magical creatures that now supported his Tide and they made up the number with size and quality especially when they were finished making Goblin technology. They had reversed engineered it so that they could make it. Anyways back to what he was thinking.

Of course, Wizards made up for it with magic and politics. When half the world's leaders were constantly being Memory Charmed, coerced, or were simply Wizards themselves, it was easy to hide. Two-thirds of the British Parliament, both Houses, was Wizards, and the Prime Minister was easily magiced or manipulated whenever necessary. And the Royal Family, and most Noble/Royal families throughout the world, had been made up of Wizards for ages.

Harry ran his finger up and down his slowly lengthening scar as he walked. He had no intention of entering the Muggle world and taking it over by force. Why bother? It was so much easier to rule from behind the scenes. He smiled, wondering what he could do with a million puppet governments under his command. It would be so much fun to be the puppeteer for once.

He'd had some problems putting his laws into effect, though. As a general rule, madmen and lunatics hate to be ordered around, and so most of the last two days had been devoted to killing the disgruntled souls who violently protested the law. One particular fruitcake had been a serial killer named Willington Normes who, in his best Jack the Ripper impersonation, had slaughtered four people with very sharp knives before the Arbiters had gotten to him. The funerals, something Ginny was cooking up in her office at the moment (which was where Harry was headed, for that matter) were being held today. Other killers and nuts, not wanting to follow the law of even such a monster as Harryand his Ebony Flame, had decided to attack others as well. Many were killed in the streets. Some of the crazies, killers, and nuts were just content with where they were in the Tide and where rather expressive on the fields of war. Everybody in the Tide went armed, so it was a bit harder to freely slaughter them, though people like Willington figured out a few ways to do it.

All in all, two hundred people were killed in the entirety of the Tide, counting the fifty-man resistance movement in mainland Europe that Sec. Gen. Vicks had to put down. More than Harry had hoped for, but less than he'd feared, so it all came out okay.

He stopped as he passed in front of a mirror, looking at himself. He was wearing his favorite black vest and cloak, much like the one he'd worn to the meeting two days ago. Looking himself over as one last check-up, he was about to continue walking down the hall and enter Ginny's new office when he heard something.

"I will not pretend the road will not be hard. I will not tell you that we shall succeed, because we may very well fail here and now. But I can tell you this. If we stand, and if we fight, we shall know something greater, become something greater, and in that black field where all humanity stands singing and shouting in the rain, our singing will be heard above all. And now I ask of you this. Will you stand with me?!"

A great roar, of many thousands, followed this statement. A roar for yes, a roar that agreed, in its many-tongued voice, to make a stand, a roar that was, in its own way, very much like singing.

Harry turned his face back towards the mirror, a small smile playing at the corners of his face. Was it beginning? Was it really, truly starting, here and now? Was this prelude over was the true war about to begin?

In the mirror, he saw himself, as we all do when we glance in a mirror, but also he saw more. As a lord of the dark, and Blaise as a mistress of it, as monsters within dreams, Harry and Blaise knew some things instinctively. Saw some things, as well.

And what he saw now was his form, caught in a soaking rain. But it didn't touch his human form; rather, it fell and ran down the outline of a Jester, of a demon with a mask, of a laughing, prancing, clawed form. The rain touched it and became it; became that mocking figure of darkness. Harry's smile became a lunatic grin as he saw what was in the mirror. He saw the only other Jester alive, Blaise, in a very similar position. So much of the world he did not understand. But this, this he understood. He understood it very well.

He looked towards the north-west, grin still on his lips. He raised his hand, and with the echo of the Jester in his voice said, "Well met, Hermione"

His laughter rang throughout the castle and throughout his cities all around Europe. The only one to join his laughter was Blaise, and her voice was just as far reaching as his.

Voldemort's Fortress, undisclosed location in England. Same time.

Voldemort looked up from where he sat, fingers rubbing his temples as they so wanted to do, his breath hanging in his throat like a dead man in a hangman's noose. He was hearing something... something like the patter of rain.

He stood up, and his eyes were a reflection of the emotion within him, wide mirrors into the almost delirious fear in his black soul. He'd heard that sound only twice before. And both times, he'd known that it was for him. But now, for some reason only his dumb senses could fathom, he was afraid. Afraid of what the mirror would tell him. For that's the way it always went, wasn't it? A mirror would tell. Mirrors, those simple pieces of glass that broke the bonds and bounds of this pitiful dream and nightmare we call reality to see beyond.

Voldemort sighed as he walked over to the full-length mirror in his study. He was old, and he knew many things, including what a mirror really was. It reflected the current you, yes, but it was also a gateway. A gateway... or maybe just a window. Yes, that was more accurate, a window on the Mists and fogs of dreams.

Voldemort stood in the front of the long mirror, his left shoulder turned towards it, his gaze firmly ahead. With another sigh, he turned to look. And he saw the fog of dreams.

A great plain, multitudes upon multitudes, a host beyond thousands, so many that the greatest computers would only snap and break under the pressure of contemplating such a high number. Rain poured, poured throughout eternity, poured not as a gentle spring rain but a harsh, pounding thing, a thing almost living in its relentlessness, stubbornness, and unending amounts, as it tried to pound the multitude into submission. Some brave souls, though few! So very few and he liked that stay that way, turned their vulnerable faces to the sky and sang, sang their song of defiance and hope and honor. And the rain could not turn their faces, for it could not touch them. Others, so many more and yet so much less, writhed and screamed on the ground. And others- fewer than the writhing, almost as few as the brave- stood and smiled directly into the mirror, smiled while rain ran off shadows-no demons behind them. Twice before, Voldemort had seen his face smiling back at him, with that reptile's grin. With a shock, he saw Harry Potter, his greatest nemesis, looking at him. His gaze swept the crowd, and despite the millions there, he saw a girl, a piece of snow white hair drifting before her face, singing and shouting into the rain. And on the ground near her, writhing and screaming in torment, not brave enough to stand and too weak to become, caught in torment for all eternity.

No. He stepped back, closed his eyes, threw his left hand over his face. No. It couldn't be. But in his head, he knew it was true, for he had seen himself. The mirror shattered in front of him.

Wizengamot, Ministry of Magic, England. 8:00 p.m. that day.

Amelia Bones looked over the emissary from their new ally. A fat man, he called himself Pettan Grew, and his fat jowls shook as he talked. His bald head gleamed in the light of the Wizengamot's meeting room.

"Minister," he said, bowing slightly to her, "Coyote sends it's deepest regrets for the loss of your men. We will supply as many more as we can. It is a sad thing, my lady, and our sorrow is with you." Unknown to her he was sweating for a different reason and that being that he was sure she would catch him.

"Thank you," Amelia said, and the cold in her tightened as it laughed that god-forsaken laugh of inhumanity. Oh Gods, Nine thousand dead. Thankfully, this had been an unofficial, top-secret mission, so Alexander Ceras hadn't gotten wind of the news. He would have turned it into something that she was sure that would not end well for them. Nine thousand dead, she shook her head, almost a quarter of their military capability, gone. They'd underestimated them so much more then they had thought possible.

As Pettan Grew began talking about the various troop movements and deliveries that would be heading to various Ministry encampments soon, he didn't notice the little cockroach that scurried up his back and settled on the collar of his cloak, where there was a little room to breathe. A dangerous job, being a cockroach, but so rewarding all the things to learn and hear and they were lucky very resilient or he would have died already.

A soldier soon burst in, dragging a young girl of sixteen with him. He threw her into the floor of the Wizengamot, and the slightly stunned Amelia recognized the soldier as Edgar Locke, her resident captain of the guard. Pettan Grew, who'd jumped at the intrusion, struggled to control his breathing, while on his neck collar, Cloud Johnson cursed internally. Damn it Armitage she'd just have to have gotten caught! As the only remaining spy in the Wizengamot still free, he huddled closer to Pettan Grew's collar, to hear the proceedings. Edgar began talking in a fast, breathless monotone.

"We caught this spy lurking in the Muggle Studies department, Minister! She was snooping around in an Invisibility Cloak"

On the floor, the blond girl coughed and struggled to stand up. The captain delivered a fierce boot to her head, rendering her almost unconscious. She lay on the floor, her breathing shallow; blood was beginning to cake her hair.

"What? Do you know where she's from? The Shore, or the Tide"

"We're not sure yet," Edgar said, teeth clenched as he remembered how he'd found the spy. She'd tripped him and stepped on him, making him look like a fool in front of his men, at least until he grabbed her, jerked the cloak off her, and revealed her to the world at large. "We haven't anyway to tell if she is with the Shore or Tide yet though as she has no insignia. We think she's from the Shore, though. They were the last ones here, and the Tide hasn't been here in months. "

Cloud's cockroach antennae wiggled. Ooh, this could be useful. If they thought she was a White Shore spy, then they'd be more willing to fight the Shore than the Tide. This had potential... but he had to play it right. He wished he could send a mental message, but he could do nothing for now.

"Lock her up in the dungeon," Amelia said, mouth twisted in a snarl. " We'll deal with her later"

As Edgar Locke grabbed Armitage and hauled her up, Cloud slipped through the folds of Pettan's cloak to the floor, ran over the guard, and hitched a ride on his leg. Moving up to the guard's left shoulder, he glanced over at where Armitage rode shotgun on the guard's right shoulder, and let out a cockroach sigh.

He hoped like hell he knew what he was doing because if he didn't, he would get them both in trouble, risk his mission, and endanger both theirs lives .

Durmstrang, undisclosed location in Russia. 10:00 p.m. that night.

Ron took off his cloak and took off his sword, leaning it against the wall to wait for a minute while he dressed for sleep. He usually stayed up until long after midnight, for some reason never having nor needing the peace of sleep. There were stretches of days when he never slept at all, insomnia touching him with its wide-awake presence. And then there would be nights he could barely stay awake at all, like tonight. He yawned, shaking his red-haired head, and put on a loose fitting night shirt and pants. Stepping into his silk shoes, he picked up Godric Gryffindor's sword and carried it over to the bed he shared with Hermione. It wouldn't do to be without some sort of weapon in the night. Unlike Hermione, who seemed to be able to cast magic without a focus of any sort, Ron was a Channeler, requiring some sort of focus. He preferred the sword. He'd taken it from Hogwarts' Trophy Room, a seeming eternity ago when he had left Hogwarts with half the DA and Hermione by his side to take up residence in Durmstrang. He still remembered that wild nighttime run, the fear of being caught strong, the air running high with tense emotions, the thoughts that maybe Viktor Krum had decided to betray them all... and the relief they'd all felt when they had seen the great ship he had brought to whisk them all to safety, a great thing, a mighty ship that had appeared out of the waters of a lake, that long ago night.

Krum's enormous influence in Durmstrang had been the one saving grace he'd had, and for it, Ron was thankful to him. The man had pulled all their asses out of the fire. He had died, in the battle for Beauxbatons, and his loss in the cause of the White Shore was one of the main reasons Durmstrang had become their new home permanently, as a sort of tribute to Krum. To his memory.

Ron shuffled over to the bed. Hermione was in the bathroom, tidying up for bed, and so he was alone in the room. He sighed and put his sword down within easy reach, leaning it against the wall of the room. He lie down, ready to sleep, but felt something stop him. He turned around. And his eyes snapped open wide with surprise.

The words on the sword were moving, shifting, before his eyes, swimming on the sword's hilt like fish through a strange, molten sea. Godric Gryffindor's name swam out of focus, and for a second Ron thought he'd see Harry's swim into place instead. For some reason, fear of the bastard had suddenly stung him deep, deep in the heart. An overwhelming fear,
one that brought his courage back. His sleepiness gone, he threw the covers of the bed back and grabbed the sword. Despite his fear, despite that weakness, this was his sword, and he would not be so weak as to be afraid of it, now or ever. And the instant he touched the handle, the fear in him lessened, diminished, disappeared. It had never been there in the first place. The sword had tested him. Through the trappings of its sheath, the sword seemed to glow with a white light, a pure light. The words swam into focus, appearing and solidifying in an instant. The words RON WEASLEY, looking as though they'd been there forever, stood on the sword. And Ron knew what he had to do.

Walking quickly, almost running for fear of the magic running out, he threw open the doors leading onto the snow flecked patio outside their room, on the second floor of Durmstrang. He threw the sheath off Lyonheart (and the name of the sword, never mentioned or spoken of in Ron's hearing or for many centuries, sprang full-fledged into his mind in that instant, almost like it had been their along) and lifted the sword high. And it gleamed, a white gleam that the storm saw and recognized, that the blizzard aided by lifting and making brighter and greater.

It shone across the distances of time and space. Far away, having felt oddly tired and wanting to go to bed, Harry Potter looked out his window. Shining in the darkness, far away, was a single star. A small, slow smile played on his lips, and he walked to his window, threw it open. Leaned out and lifted his hand, and in the process became the Jester. His right claw, fingers up as if grasping the bottom of a chalice, shone in the darkness with its own black consuming light. Separated by miles in both geography and philosophy, Blaise and Hermione both gaped at the men they loved, stared at each other across the darkness of time and space as twin lights shone, opposites to each other. Soon, both lights diminished, at the same time, at the same rate. When at last Lyonheart's glow died to a small pulse, Ron bent over and picked up its sheath. When it was sheathed, he turned to Hermione, and said, "It's starting. Everything's just been leading up to this"

He turned and walked back into the room, sleep having fled him for the night. "Tell everyone to get ready," he said. "The real war begins now"

Harry, smile turning to lunatic grin, turned to face Blaise. "Yes," he said, drawing it out, hissing through his teeth as he closed his eyes to contemplate what had just occurred. His voice kept going from human to jester until it just had an overlapping echo of both. "This is it. The beginning... of everything I will ever want for. All the pieces are in place. All the veils have been stripped away. Light has revealed its pure nature. Dark has revealed its corruption. This world, and the good and evil in it, has become a force neither good nor evil, just worldly. And Darkness..." He smiled, and even Blaise, who was so like him and so beyond evil but nothing compared to him, felt a measure of fear in that demon's smile. "Darkness has awakened on this world. It is time. The war has begun… finally."

He did not fully understand all he had said, and wondered later where the knowledge had come from. But it mattered not.

It was time.

Bountries on the Black Tide

Harry Potter (600 Thousand Galleon Dead from Ministry. 300 thousand Galleon Dead from Voldemort) "The Jester King" or "The Jester of Madness"

Seamus Finnigan (160 Thousand Galleons Alive/Dead, Ministry. 175 Thousand Galleons Alive/ 100-Thousand Dead, Voldemort) "The Black General"

Ginny Weasley (150 Thousand Galleons Dead, Ministry. 175 Thousand Galleons Alive/ 100-Thousand Dead, Voldemort) "Lady of the Dead" or "The Black Lady"

Blaise Zabini (150 Thousand Galleons Alive/ 120-Thousand Dead, Ministry. 195 Thousand Galleons Alive/ 100-Thousand Dead, Voldemort) "The Jester of Pain"

Neville Longbottom (150 Thousand Galleons Alive/ 120-Thousand Dead) "Master of Water"

Padma Parvati (150 Thousand Galleons Alive/ 120-Thousand Dead) "Queen of Earth"

Draco Malfoy (145 Thousand Galleons Alive/Dead, Ministry. 150 Thousand Galleons Alive/100-Thousand Dead, Voldemort.) "King of Beasts"

Luna Lovegood (145 Thousand Galleons Alive/Dead) "Lady of Destruction"

Terry Boot (145 Thousand Galleons Alive/Dead, Ministry. 175 Thousand Galleons Alive/ 100-Thousand Dead, Voldemort) "Lord of Hellfire"

Samual (145 Thousand Galleons Dead) "Lord of Misfits"

Cho Chang (145 Thousand Galleons Alive/Dead) "Lady of Monstrosity"

Fleur Delacour (140 Thousand Galleons Alive/ 120-Thousand Dead) "The Metal Winged Lady"

Wedge (130 Thousand Alive/ 110 Thousand dead) apprenticed under Terry Boot. NKN

Richard Spithe (130 Thousand Alive/ 110 Thousand dead) "Secondary General"

Alex Vicks (130 Thousand Alive/ 110 Thousand dead) "Secondary General"

Victoria Heavenwalker (140 thousand dead) "the Heart Striker"

Current organizations in Black Tide.

Marauders are the basic soldier and terror squad. Their leader is Seamus who only takes orders from Harry or Blaise depending on the situation. His second in command is Vick and Spithe.

Purgers are those with Skull-masters. Their leader is Terry Boot who helps make the Skull-masters and is part of the Enchanters Guild. Terry follows Harry and then Seamus' orders.

Necromancers are those that raised the dead. It was controlled by Ginny. She took orders only from Harry and requests from Seamus.

Elementalist is those that control the elements. Some Purgers are part of the Fire Elementalists but instead of staffs they use their Skull-masters as ways to cast spells. All of the Eclipse is in some part of it. Some Krakens are part of it but not many. Neville is the commander of the Elementalist. He takes orders from Harry and sometimes Seamus. He also learned military strategy, from muggles, so to better command them in battle.

Enchanters are those that make the weapons. Some battle with other groups but most don't. Leader is Cho Chang. They follow Harry's orders.

The Eclipse is the demolition experts. Their leader is Luna who follows Harry's orders then Seamus'. She is also part of the more destructive side of the Enchanters Guild. practice

The Kraken is the beast tamers organization. Their leader is Draco who follows Harry's orders then Seamus'.

The Sword fish are the assassins. Their leader is Blaise then Daphne. Both of who only take orders from Harry.

The Great White is the interrogation, slavery, and torture organization and is composed mainly of fear-casters. Their leader is Blaise and then Tracey. Both only take orders from Harry.

Chimera is living experiments that are used in battle. Whipstitch is the official leader but is commanded by Cho Chang so she is in command of this unit. She takes orders from Harry and then Seamus.

Barbarians are those that use their rage to power their magic. They use their magic to surpass the human limit and some even get greatly angered and more powerful by pain. They are the opposite of the Monks who seek inner peace. They are lead by, formerly Nymphadora Tonks, now Dora Tonks and Fleur Delacour. They take orders from Harry and Seamus.

Misfits are creatures that have joined Harry, to find haven and take vengeance on the wizarding world that suppressed them. They ranged from werewolves, to vampires, to giants, to veela, to just about every other intelligent creature. Their leader is called Samual and is a vampire. They take orders from Seamus and Harry.

Current White Shore organization

Crabs (paladins) are those that serve the light. They are stubborn and unmoving. Their leader is Ron. He takes orders from Hermione

Animals (beast tamers) they are those that bond with Beasts, and are angry at the Kraken for enslaving the beast of nature. They have bonds with the beast of natures so far that their own bodies change to look like them. They are lead by Walter Andrews who is supported by Charlie Weasley who is a new member. He takes orders from Hermione and Ron.

Plants (druids) they are those that control nature itself. They are angry at Harry for destroying the Forbidden forest. They are lead by Patil Parvati. She takes orders from Ron and Hermione.

Sands (warriors) are the basic soldiers. They have the greatest amount among them as well as some of their best soldiers. They are lead by Kaleb Isaacs. He takes orders from Ron and Hermione.

Fire (clerics) they are the healers and help improve battling conditions. They are lead by Hermione who in turn leads everyone in the White Shore.

Calm (monks) are those that have used their magic to give their bodies supernatural limits. They are the more melee fighter and work with the Warriors often. They seek an inner peace. Their leader is George. He takes orders from Hermione and Ron.

Enchanters are those that make the weapons of the White shore. They are powerful and involved with all of the groups. They are lead by Percy Weasley. They take orders from Hermione.