A/n: review my minions, review!
Thanks, as always, to Amazonia. My everything.
Warnings for this chapter: violence, language, explosions, angst, and plot twists.
Panic Switch
Chapter Twenty-One
Frank McAllister used to know what he was doing. Before the war had begun, Frank was secure in his life and in his aims. He was his own boss, his own ruler, and whatever shots he called were undisputed, understood, and done. Making a life for himself after things had gone so awry in his youth had been hard, but Frank had succeeded. His accomplishments made him arrogant, but didn't he deserve to be a little full of himself? From a lowly fraud to a crime lord – that was certainly impressive.
Only, he'd lost it all. Once again, his world had imploded around him, and everything that made Frank sure of himself had been destroyed. He wanted to blame the perpetrator of the chaos, the person he admired and hated, but hell if that would work. Henry was just too much of an innocent.
He gathered that most would scoff at his opinion. Well that was just fine, because Frank knew he was right. When he had met Henry, innocence had been far from his mind. Here was a seductive, menacing young man who killed conscience, who deceived without remorse. Struck stupid by that smile, one that promised something terrible but oh-so-tempting, Frank knew he loved Henry the moment he saw him. And like a fly in a spider's web, he was caught and reeled in, dissected until all that was left was Frank's poor skeleton and an everlasting adoration he couldn't shake.
But with Henry had come war, and, no matter how hard Frank prepared, it had blindsided him. He remembered, with some sadness, the conversation he and Henry had shared about the subject. About Frank failing to take on such an important role in a paramount revolution.
"You have a propensity for following orders that I've never seen in a boss," Henry had said to him, his tone teasing but serious. "It could get you in trouble, Frankie."
Frank had watched Henry closely. The boy was sitting on his desk, as he was accustomed to doing simply because sitting in a chair would be conforming.
"I've followed people all my life, kid," Frank responded, using the moniker to remind Henry of just who was older and more experienced. It never worked. "I'm a new boss, sort of. Cut me some slack."
Henry's eyes were bright as he laughed, silently, at Frank. "I could," he allowed, very amused. "But then you'll get in over your head with this
, and I'll get screwed over."
Frank sighed. "I can handle it, Henry," he insisted. "The power you promise is too much of a temptress for me to fail."
"You shouldn't think like that," Henry admonished, clasping a hand between his thighs as he lit a cigarette. Frank was startled by how he looked. It was a boyish posture, but the smoke and the conversation were naturally mature. "Have a little more passion for it, for Chrissakes. Passion will get you everywhere in life," he declared with a laugh, swinging a hand out.
"I'm sorry I'm not so enthusiastic about a war," Frank retorted wryly. "People are going to die, you know, people you know and care about. A war of this magnitude can promise all sorts of things, and the bad shit keeps me from being
passionate, as you say. The good shit just gets me involved."
Henry smiled at him and turned his stare away. "Hmm," he voiced ambiguously. "Have you ever read 'Liberty' by Edward Thomas?"
"I don't read," Frank grunted.
"It's a poem," Henry corrected.
Frank scowled. "I don't read poetry."
The boy thought this very amusing and laughed. "All right, Frankie," he nodded. "But it's about what you just said, in one way or another."
He scoffed. "All poetry and books and crap are like that. I don't know why people can't say what they mean. Like a normal motherfucker."
Henry grinned, smoke billowing out of his mouth as he released a puff of air in laughter. "They don't say what they mean because we like mysteries. Figuring out shit all by ourselves. Were everything so simple, we wouldn't have to go to war or even be subtle about it. Great revelations are the name of the game, and ambiguity keeps us," he paused and licked his lips, leaning forward and dramatically into Frank's space, "
passionate."
Frank pushed him off the desk. "Quit the philosophical bull. Don't you have something to do?" he'd growled.
In memory, Henry didn't look as lovely as usual, but Frank was sure that if they were face to face, he would be enamored all over again. And he could understand that conversation now. Apart of him had already known where Henry was coming from, but he supposed he hadn't wanted to think about it much. However necessary the war was, Frank had failed, just as Henry had predicted. But, at the same time, Henry's odd wisdom (more appropriate on an older, more cultivated man) rang with an innocence that made Frank feel badly for him.
Henry had never been in this position. In this awful in-between that Frank found himself in. He would never comprehend it because the boy had never been so completely overpowered. Frank supposed it was on account of Henry's strength and his own weakness. He was weak.
The door flung open, and a familiar face came into his make-shift office. His manor, his luxuries, his reputation were all gone. As untouchable to Frank as Frank now was. Agent Coleman did not greet Frank in any sensible fashion, but he wasn't entirely surprised. Hit Wizards, even ex-government employees, had no manners to speak of.
"Talk to Rahul, McAllister," Coleman demanded, beginning to pace in front of his desk. "He's fucking around and ruining things."
Frank raised an eyebrow, looking and feeling pathetic. "I can't do anything about it," he said, sounding like he had said that phrase over and over out loud and in his mind.
Coleman shook his head, his face red with frustration. "He's going to anger Brooks out into the open," he revealed. "All because Brooks outplayed him. You've heard about the device...we'll get our asses handed to us."
"You've an unhealthy fear of Henry Brooks," Frank told him mockingly. "You should get that looked at."
Swinging around quickly, Coleman glared at him as if he were the piece of shit he knew he was. "Fuck you," the Hit Wizard said, seething. "That kid is a maniac. I remember how he killed Backus and Maxim. He annihilated them. My entire team. Now there're only three of us left. Three! Anybody in their right mind would be scared of him. Rahul's making a mistake!"
He lifted a shoulder in the face of Coleman's fury. "Rahul makes a lot of mistakes," he merely responded.
"Brooks is already pissed as hell, what with his dad..." Coleman went on, and then stopped himself in barely perceptible alarm. "He wants us to stage an attack on someone close to Brooks, and fuck if that's a bad idea!"
Frank was frowning. "What about Denny Brooks?" he asked, a niggle of worry spreading through his chest.
Coleman glanced at him and then resumed his pacing. "They're missing. Denny Brooks and John McKay," he explained.
Frank gaped. "Missing?" he repeated, breathless now. "What the fuck do you mean, missing? Henry's just hiding them—"
"No, no," Coleman interrupted, swiping a hand in impatience. "Rahul's been in contact with a few spies. They're missing, and Brooks doesn't know where they are."
Denny and John missing? Frank sat down again, not realizing he'd risen, and stared down at his hands in disbelief. His friends...Denny. Who had gotten Frank out of that deadly rut he'd been in after the death of his wife and unborn child. Denny, who Frank was sure Henry would keep safe and out of harm's way. And John! His best friend and, undoubtedly, the most loyal man. John, who he hadn't seen or heard from since his betrayal. Since Frank had ceased contact with Henry and had gone his own way. His own way and yet not. He owned nothing now.
"Does Rahul know where they are?" he asked, his throat raw for some reason. When Coleman remained silent, he glanced up and saw that the man had stopped pacing so hysterically. He wasn't looking at Frank.
"No," he answered.
Frank caught his breath. "Does Henry suspect him?"
Coleman nodded. "You see why this is such a bad fucking idea? Brooks is mad, really mad, and Rahul wants to ask for an ass-kicking…" the agent went on. But Frank wasn't really listening.
If he knew Henry, and he thought that he did, the boy would likely be planning something. His anger at his missing father and friend would ensure it. Frank knew Rahul was behind what had happened, and he couldn't help but agree with Coleman. The man was asking for trouble. Very big trouble. And not just from Henry, but from Frank. Denny and John were supposed to be off-limits. That was a part of their deal. If a deal was even what this was.
He closed his eyes briefly, thinking back to the boy who he still couldn't help but love. Henry would never understand what Frank was feeling now. This terrifying, horrible guilt and self-hatred that took hold of him and wouldn't let go. This wanting to do something but not being able to. These chains around him that were self-inflicted because he was weak. So fucking weak.
Before Coleman left, he exclaimed, "Rahul's damaged pride will cost us the war!" Then he stormed out, slamming the ramshackle door to the poorly lit room Frank had imprisoned himself in.
And all he could think about Rahul's mistake was good.
.o00o.
There was a bad stench in the atmosphere around Mamoon. Rashidi wasn't surprised to see signs of war wherever he looked, but the scent of death and foreboding made him uneasy. It was very likely he only felt thus because of the relative peace that had fallen on his own home land. A sense of rehabilitation, of avidity for a new government and a new way made his people prone to good spirits.
Mamoon was its opposite. The city was tired and broken, not unlike many lands throughout the world, but this spoke of a dangerous handicap. This city, in contrast to everywhere else, would perish of an evil disease that ate it from the inside. Sickness was heavy in the earth and in the air.
Though Rashidi felt less than confident about being there, he nevertheless took a very deep breath before he climbed out of the plain black car. Two men followed him out, weapons relaxed at their sides. Rashidi straightened his Military issued uniform, having dressed this way to perhaps persuade a madman, and moved toward the warehouse before him. Contacts had given him the location of one of Rahul's hideouts, and he was sure the man was expecting him.
As a neutral, now that he was sufficiently removed from war by his peaceful surrender, it was important that Rashidi meet with Rahul and remain unharmed. Rahul had no quarrel with him, at present, and they should be able to speak plainly and civilly. Henry Brooks and his team would not be able to do so much. But Rashidi wasn't there on Henry's behalf, and he would make this known to Rahul right away. Hostility should, therefore, be unneeded in their conversation. Yet Rashidi was careful.
Arif Rahul was a dangerous man, and they were both aware that he held information sought after by many. Sought after by Henry Brooks, whom they both were wary of provoking. Rashidi would keep this meeting secret, so as not to be a cause of suspicion for Brooks. One that would likely get him killed. A suspicion that was both logical yet incorrect.
He was in Iraq to try to convince Rahul to surrender. There had been word, rumors really, that Rahul had tried without success to unwrap himself from around McAllister's finger. Word was that Henry hadn't trusted him, and Rahul's damaged ego had caused the recent bout of fighting. Rashidi didn't need to base fact on rumor, for he had heard the truth from Henry. His close confidence with the boy didn't mean they agreed. He couldn't blame Brooks for not buying into Rahul's story of being victimized, but he did blame Brooks for not doing what he was doing now. It was time to negotiate.
The hot, stale air did not bother him. Though the warehouse was grimy and dilapidated, he was beyond judgment. War made him less particular. Just as he thought, Rahul met him at the gates, and he appeared welcoming but judicious. They knew where they stood, facing each other, and Rashidi considered the prospect of this meeting ending up successful.
"I would say that this is a pleasant surprise," Rahul said by way of greeting. "But I am not surprised."
"Good," Rashidi grunted, walking into the warehouse and, when he had opened the gate, past the man. "I'd hate to be rude."
Rahul opened his mouth and laughed silently. He didn't begrudge him his amusement; Rashidi was rarely polite and always rude.
"Come," Rahul said. "Let us talk in privacy and peace. Your guards may mingle with mine."
Here, Rashidi found himself backed into a tiny, little corner. Rahul was obviously aware of his intention for amenity. His request of no guards in their meeting was a bid for trust that Rashidi had no choice but to adhere to. If he refused, a volatile man like Rahul would refuse any more entreaties in the future. Agreeing would not diminish the danger. Rashidi had a weapon at his side and Rahul likely did as well, not to mention, he was on Rahul's land and under his terms.
Which meant refusing wasn't an option.
"Very well," he gave in, motioning for his guards to stay behind. They were as skeptical of his orders as Rashidi was.
He followed Rahul to a sparse office on the second floor. Beneath them, a handful of men seemed to be moving crates onto a truck and speaking in fast, feverish Arabic. Rahul let him in and waved him into a seat.
"Shall I call for tea?" he asked Rashidi, a polite smile on his face.
"No," Rashidi responded bluntly. "I'd rather get to business, if you don't mind."
"I don't know where Frank McAllister is," Rahul said.
Rashidi gave him a look. "I think that's a lie, but I don't want to know where he is," he snapped. "I'm not here on Brooks's orders."
"Really?" A raised eyebrow. "I think that'sa lie. The boy is keen on killing Frank, now that his father has been murdered."
He hadn't known about that. Rashidi didn't bother to hide his surprise as he leaned forward in his seat. "Denny Brooks is dead?" he asked, wanting clarification.
"A week now," Rahul informed him, inclining his head. "Did he not tell you?"
Brooks had not told him, and Rashidi had spoken to him only a few days ago. It was all very strange. Had Henry known Rashidi would take it upon himself to talk with Rahul? Was he part of a game he didn't understand? Was Henry's nonchalance about Rahul, about finding McAllister, and his silence about his father's death some sort of manipulation? Brooks had mentioned that he had a way of finding McAllister himself, or was that a lie? A lie to carefully push Rashidi into action?
It was very possible Henry had played him, and Rashidi scowled in anger.
"Perhaps you are not under Henry's orders after all," Rahul surmised, gazing at him serenely. "You must have your own reasons for hating McAllister then. I am sorry to inform you I am unaware of his location—"
"I don't care about McAllister," Rashidi interrupted scathingly. "Brooks will find him, anyway. He's a dead man. I'm here to negotiate with you, Rahul."
Rahul did not seem surprised, which just made him angrier. "As I'm sure you know, I've surrendered my army to the Wizards," he continued, gritting his teeth at the lack of reaction his words caused. "My country is well on its way to reform. We are rebuilding and reorganizing. It is a good sign. Though I'm sure your own philosophies prevent you from believing it, Brooks's tactic has worked. There is unity and progress in my country. I would hope it is within your interests to see as much here, in your home and among your people."
The man was watching him, listening. He went on, despite not knowing what Rahul felt underneath his placid mask. "An end to the war is possible. I come here to ask that you surrender, as I have, for the betterment of business and humanity."
It took him a moment to realize what was happening, but when he did, fury burned through him and involuntarily cramped his muscles like knotted, irate strings. Rahul was laughing at him. Deep belly-laughs that seemed more appropriate on a jolly, fat man rather than this skeleton clothed in silk. Hatred flared afresh for Rahul, who Rashidi had never been and would never be able to tolerate. Never.
"I am sorry, I am sorry," Rahul chortled insincerely. "But you come here to suggest I am a rational man, when you and I know that I am not. More than that, I am a realistic man. Your reform will fail just as China's has failed. Nothing has changed Rashidi, and nothing will."
"China was sabotaged!" Rashidi said angrily. "The assassination caused the collapse, as I'm sure you know."
"Are you accusing me of something?" Rahul asked, seeming dreadfully amused.
Rashidi took a breath. "No," he disagreed. "Yet if you cannot see the good faith in surrendering for your people, then perhaps you can see it for selfish reasons. Money is involved, Rahul—"
"Money is always involved," he interrupted. "And you propose that your new government will pay me to surrender? That they will make sure I am comfortable and unaccountable?"
Rashidi, after a moment of silent, seething contemplation, begrudgingly nodded. "They would," he affirmed aloud.
"Is that not a contradiction of the ideals you speak of? You would let an obviously evil man live in luxury if he were to stand down, to surrender to good men?"
Taken aback, Rashidi didn't respond. He hadn't thought they were evil men, starting this war. He had believed them ambitious, and willing to sacrifice for a greater purpose. What Rahul spoke of was a part of them all, a part of their nature that rarely won over sensibility.
"You understand me now," Rahul continued, smiling. "Do you know why Henry Brooks will lose this war? Why he will lose everything?"
He did not respond, but Rahul wasn't expecting him to. "It is because he still loves and is loved. It is because he is both willing to destroy humanity and also covet it. He does not want change, or growth, but recovery. A rebirth of ideals and virtue that he has only heard of in myth. But they do not exist. There are no good men, and there never have been."
"So you would destroy any trace of it? Any chance of a recovery?"
"It doesn't exist, Rashidi. Brooks is chasing after a dream. Only a dream. I am not a victim of such ideals. The world will never be peaceful, never be virtuous. What morals there once were have always been deceptive. Beneath them, there is only the power of illusion, the comfort of lies, and the part of us that will never be silent. The part that seeks to only destroy. Brooks will understand this in the end. He has already—" Rahul paused and looked away. That small, soft grin never leaving. "He will recognize that there is no law, and in his lawlessness, the war will be lost. Because this war has nothing to do with humanity and everything to do with a monster disguised as a God."
Rashidi clenched his jaw forcefully. "You are a bitter man with a bitter purpose," he said.
Swinging his head around to smile at him, Rahul laughed shortly and said, "As we all are, sir."
There was a sudden sound of a struggle downstairs, and Rashidi frowned and quickly stood.
"Wait," Rahul's voice rang out loudly, even over the yelling. Rashidi turned to stare at the man, and found the barrel of a gun in his face. He gaped.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
Rahul tossed his head to the side, listening to the chaos downstairs. It went silent, very suddenly, forebodingly. "Your men put up a good fight, no doubt," Rahul whispered. His black eyes refocused on Rashidi. "I will not surrender. My way will not be compromised. Dreams of virtue have given me this power to destroy, and I have destroyed goodwill. You are wrong, Rashidi. I am sorry you must pay for it."
Rashidi abruptly knew just how wrong he was. "You can't," he said gruffly, scared despite himself. "Henry—"
"Henry Brooks is dead," Rahul cut him off. "His dreams are dead. And so are you."
He didn't hear the shot. Perhaps because it was one of Brooks's weapons, perhaps because it was too fast for him to notice. But then he knew nothing at all and nothing really mattered. Rashidi's body crumbled to the floor like a falling ziggurat, as graceful a death as Rashidi had hoped.
.o00o.
As he always seemed to be, Snape was shrouded in darkness as he hunched over a bubbling, hissing cauldron. The fumes had accumulated in every corner of the room, suffocating and heady. When Harry stepped into the lab, he instantly covered his mouth with his hand. The smell wasn't bothersome, but his eyes were burning from the too-noxious air. Snape did not turn around, his careful stirring was not interrupted, but by the stiffening of his back, he knew Harry was there.
"Have you come with more accusations, Potter?" he inquired, his voice sibilant and husky. "Or are you here to apologize, or perhaps beg that I not kill you where you stand?"
Harry dropped his hand from his face and observed as Snape added a pinch of something to the animated brew. It coughed and puffed before stilling, its greenish hue becoming a darkly black.
"You could if you wanted to," he responded quietly.
Snape turned from his worktable and stared at Harry with a patience that was disingenuous and wrathful. Snape took his time before saying anything more, and when he did speak, it was not with acceptance or mercy. "You dare lay a hand on Draco?" he said calmly, no change in his expression.
Harry's head twitched very slightly. "We both gave as good as we got," he claimed. "You're welcome to at least try and kill me, if you'd like. I can't keep myself from fighting back, unfortunately."
Snape merely watched him. His narrowed black stare did not frighten Harry, as he was sure Snape hoped it would. "I have done Draco a wrong, perhaps—"
"Be silent," Snape told him. "I will hear nothing more of it."
Harry only shrugged. "If that's what you think is best," he retorted, not at all trying to provoke a reaction, though he acknowledged, belatedly, that his words were anything but civil.
"I think it is best, yes," Snape said, turning back to his cauldron and waving his wand to lower the burner. "I think you are too far gone for retribution, or even help, if I were inclined to lend you it. I am not, in that context, at least."
He faced Harry again. "What do you want?" he asked bluntly.
"The potion is ready," Harry said.
"As I'm sure you concluded, given I have not spoken of it," Snape observed. "Will you activate it now?"
"No," he answered, rather quickly. "There's more to be done."
"More to kill is what you mean, without equivocation," the Potions Master corrected. "Are you now living off of revenge?"
Harry thought about this, and then raised a shoulder in response. Snape continued to study him. "No, I don't suppose you are living at all," he guessed.
"Have it ready for when I need it," Harry said, beginning to walk away. "I think in a week, maybe more. It'll be time then."
He was almost out the door when Snape spoke. Just as the room was shrouded in a terrible, toxic fog, so was his meaning when he asked Harry, "Have you mourned yet?"
Harry turned to stare at him again. "Mourned?" he asked, in honest confusion. "Mourned what?" he whispered.
He left Snape on his own with his potions, standing in the dim light of the room with alarm and another emotion, another strange feeling, unmasked on his face. Harry vaguely recognized it as fear.
.o00o.
Mina waited for him in her office. He had sent word of his arrival beforehand, knowing she would appreciate it, and came to her without their usual pleasantries. Today, after all, was all about business. Alejandro Guillermo sat in a seat in front of her desk, looking pensive but happy to see him. He shook hands and accepted a drink.
"You've heard about Rashidi?" Harry asked them, knocking back the dry alcohol.
"We have," Alejandro answered, his forehead notched in sorrow. "Rahul didn't want it to be secret. Africa is enduring, however, despite Rahul's plans."
Harry nodded, pouring another drink. "I am glad of it," he said, knowing he didn't sound particularly glad at all. "I have each coordinate. You have the explosives?"
"Enough to blow the world into the abyss," Mina laughed. "I will accompany you."
Harry dipped his head and turned to Alejandro expectantly. The man laced his fingers across his chest. "I will wait here," he answered the unasked question.
"Very well," Harry agreed, offering his arm to Mina. Alejandro rose and kissed her on both cheeks, lingering only a little. His whispered goodwill made her cheeks turn rosy, but she seemed happy for the attention. "We will be moving fast, Mina. Apparating is what Wizards call this form of travel. It can be disorientating, I'm afraid."
Mina quickly reached out and grabbed up her bottle of liquor. "Aqua vitae," she cheered, grinning. "I am ready."
The feeling of being stretched, coiled, and shrunk flew through her nauseatingly as Harry Apparated. It didn't last very long, thankfully, and when they landed, Mina was proud that she barely stumbled. Her urge to vomit passed after a healthy swig from the bottle. They were in front of a large bundling in the middle of field crops that looked to be corn. Harry steadied her briefly before unshrinking one of the crates with his magic. They quickly unloaded the prepared C-4 and rigged the detonators. Mina took eight packs in a large duffle bag and nodded to Harry.
"Compass system, Mina," he reminded her unnecessarily. He handed her a gun. "If there are guards I miss, kill them. Go."
She ran. The first and second package stuck easily to the front doors, Harry's yell echoing her movement. She sprinted down the length of the building and turned the sharp corner just as the doors flew open and the device activated. Sounds of battle followed her feet. Two more explosives stuck to the west wall before she was off again. Around the back, there were three guards quickly babbling into their headsets, throwing away their now useless guns to presumably pick up their standard ones. Mina shot them swiftly, her practiced eye that Andro complimented often preventing the need for a second shot.
Two more were slapped on the south wall and two more on the east. She sprinted into Harry's battle and shot from behind. Before more men could pool out of the door, she shut it with a kick and ran towards her partner. She grabbed his arm, and they Apparated just as Harry detonated the bombs. Fire licked her heels but they were gone before it could do her harm.
The next warehouse was in another orchard, though this one looked to be full of oranges. They encountered no difficulty in the second attack. From fields to a populated city, they disposed of each and every warehouse in North America. Then they moved on to Europe, to Asia, to the cold hell of Greenland. In the east, there was more of a fight, and, where it took only two minutes every where else, there they spent another sixty seconds killing their way to the warehouses. There was no real fight in it, thanks to the device and Harry's power.
The last warehouse was in England. They blew it, and the fresh bodies surrounding it, up, but this time, they stayed to watch the destruction. Smoldering billows of fire and smoke rose to the sky, flowering and spreading with heat as stone crumbled around them. Mina felt the heat on her face, dry and biting, and she took another drink and watched, as if hypnotized, as the fire consumed everything in its path.
Beside her, Harry observed the wreckage with an expressionless eye. They took their leave when there was nothing left to burn.
Andro hugged her tightly when they returned. "How did we do?" she slurred happily.
He glanced at his watch. "An hour and twenty minutes, almost exactly," Alejandro told her. She cheered and emptied the bottle. "I see you were able to work efficiently despite the drink," he laughed, motioning towards her.
"Of course!" she said with mock offense. "How do you think I ever get anything done?"
He grinned at her before turning to Harry. "They are all destroyed, I take it?" he questioned.
Harry sat down. "All but what was stolen. A few cargo ships have been taken in the last few months, but they are of little consequence compared to the amount we disposed of today."
Andro hummed in agreement and led Mina to her sofa. "Are you sad to see your creations wasted thus?"
Harry's face was blank. "No," he revealed. "No, I'm not sad."
"You're not happy, either," Mina said, licking her lips and smiling. "You've done well today, young man. There's little left for Frank to fight us with! This will all soon be over."
"It's never over," Harry said, a bit snappishly. Alejandro looked as though he recognized this truth as well.
"Don't be so cynical," Mina chastised him. "Look at how Africa has done! You were right, Henry Brooks, about how this would end. People have noticed your accomplishments already. There's talk of peace and much hope for it."
Alejandro saw the boy's face clearly. He saw much more than Mina could when Henry responded, quietly, "I was wrong about how this would end."
Her gleeful expression became confused then. "If I am cynical, Mina," he continued, "it is only because I really have nothing to be happy about. And if I want it that way—" he stopped and did not look at them. "Please respect it."
He rose very abruptly and moved to the door. Mina got to her feet quickly, making to speak or hold him back, but Alejandro reached out to stop her. "Let him go," he murmured to her soothingly. She obliged.
They watched him leave, both thinking differently upon his departure. Both concerned but resigned.
The war would end, yet of Henry Brooks, they knew not what conclusion would befall him. As friends they worried, but, as people, they understood.
.o00o.
When she had finally gotten the little girl to sleep, Molly still did not go to bed, despite her exhaustion. It had been eight days since Harry had shown up with the girl, and, since then, there hadn't been a word from him. By questioning her, gently and kindly, Molly had learned that the little girl's name was Cassie, and that her parents had died on the day she was brought to the Burrow.
She was tiny, only just turned six perhaps, but nightmares kept the child up during the night more often then not. Molly had barely gotten sleep, and consequently, neither had Arthur. The child was no burden, and Molly was no stranger to comforting distraught little ones. Yet the girl was more damaged than her children ever were, and perhaps ever would be. Her dreams startled her awake, screaming for her dead parents, who Molly presumed had died in some kind of fire. Cassie was deathly afraid of it, in any case.
Most times, the tragedy did not bother her. In the day, she settled for drawing pictures and chatting away to Molly about nonsense things. But she still asked for her mom and dad most days, and, at certain times, she would inquire where her Uncle Henry had gone, and when he would be back.
Molly did not think he would return. She had spoken with Arthur about it, and they knew that Harry had known the little girl's parents, perhaps very well, and his abandonment of Cassie told Molly that he was of no mind to consider her. Something had happened.
In the days after Cassie had come to them, they had realized more than just the child's and Harry's loss. Cassie was a witch, they were glad to find out. On the third day, she had unwittingly Levitated the furniture in Ginny's room, stuck in some hellish nightmare and unable to stop herself. Molly and Arthur set about teaching her, in between soothing her to sleep, about the magical world. As traumatized as Cassie was, she was amiable most times, yet her presence meant more than tragic circumstances of war.
Molly tried not to believe Arthur's truth, for her husband had relayed the conversation with Harry and had assured his accusations as undeniable fact. Her Harry, her Chris, was the reason for all of the death and destruction plaguing the world? It was too much to believe, all at once, and so Molly was taking her time thinking on it. Yet, despite all of the evidence to prove Harry was truly a…despicable person, Molly was not of the mind he was the tyrannical, murderous terrorist Arthur had suggested (in one of his more dramatic moments).
All Molly saw in this new vision of Harry was a child much like Cassie. A child who needed to be taken care of; and Molly would do so, once she got over the shock of this revelation. Once Harry came back for poor little Cassie and made peace with Arthur. If that ever happened, of course. No, she was not skeptical of Arthur's change in perspective. She knew her husband to be as wise as he was foolish, and he would cave when Harry returned to them. He would not agree, but he would accept. Though Harry's absence had only served to fuel Arthur's fight, that is until Cassie had been brought to them.
He was humbled by her loss, and more pensive than Molly had ever seen him. She would speak with her husband at times, beside the fire after Cassie had finally gone to sleep, and, though he was largely unresponsive, she knew he listened. Molly had yet to speak sharply to him, but she was losing patience with his melancholy quickly. She was attempting to get more out of him now, late that night after a chaotic day at the Ministry, and whispering so as to not wake the little girl upstairs.
"What did Kingsley say?" she asked, for the second time.
"Oh," Arthur came to attention, turning away from the fire and running a hand down his face roughly. "Only that he suspects more violence to come of it. He sees that there is something that's happened, whereas others don't."
Molly pursed his lips. "The Ministry thinks it is only the height of the war? They did the same in 1981, you remember."
He made a sound in the back of his throat, both a scoff and a laugh. "And Harry defeated Voldemort, abruptly ending everything," he agreed. "But we don't expect a miracle like that. This isn't a Magical war."
Molly knew this. She knew the difference. Magical wars were secretive, subtle and dangerous. But this war was unlike any other that Wizarding Kind had fought. It was one world facing another, both vastly different but strangely the same, and with no common ground or miracles to hope for. Their lives, and their world, seemed to not be in the hands of only one man. Yet Molly and Arthur knew the truth. It was right that there was no man to stop the war. It was right that there was a boy to stop it, and they were aware, devastatingly aware, that Harry was moving. That he was aiming for an end.
Arthur, in his own way, approved. But there was, besides the obvious spread of violence and pandemonium, a dangerous tinge to these developments. There was a hazard to the boy they knew and loved (Arthur would never be able to deny he loved Harry dearly) that made them wonder if peace was worth it. Harry, in his actions, suggested there was a reckless haplessness about him. A terrible state of the mind and heart that could ruin or revive everything. Molly felt as if all her hopes and dreams were in a rock, teetering on the edge of a cliff, chancing a roll backward or forward or beyond. Whatever its future, there was the almost sure prediction that the steadfast rock would be destroyed. If Harry wasn't broken already.
She could tell that this was what weighed heavily on her husband's soul. It hurt and frightened her just as much.
"Harry is risking a lot this way," Arthur murmured. "Though he is saving time. Lives too, if we're to think about the greater good."
"You don't believe in it," she argued gently. "It was a line between you and Dumbledore that could never be broken."
Arthur nodded briefly. "But I followed him anyway," he said, before sighing. "Must we always be unsure of what is right and what is wrong?"
She laid a hand on his arm. "If we were sure, my love, I imagine it would be us leading the world to war and not Dumbledore, or Harry," Molly answered.
"Or You-Know-Who, for that matter," he laughed humorlessly. "Us lead the world, Molly? My dear, you are silly."
A light smile lit up her face. "We shall always disagree, I think, but we can only change things once it's over. Harry will end this," she said confidently, though her concern for the boy was underneath her sure comment. Arthur saw it clearly.
"And we agree with an end," he mentioned.
She nodded and sat back, taking her turn at staring into the fire. Molly thought for a moment and then whispered, "What will he do?" She sounded about as scared as she felt.
Arthur did not look at her. "Something costly," he responded. "I don't blame you for worrying, dearest. I...I am worried as well."
Molly knew this was her chance to tell Arthur how she felt on the matter of Harry, to lecture him quite soundly, but hurried steps on the stairs interrupted them. Cassie came hurtling into the room, her eyes wide with fright, and Molly was up and on her feet instantly. She was prepared to open her arms and comfort the girl, to hug away the lingering nightmare, but she stopped when she saw that Cassie was shaking terribly.
"There's something outside!" she told them.
A whistling howl interrupted Molly's next words, and suddenly there was a crash loud enough to shatter her ears. Glass flew in every direction, a wave of flames suddenly careening down the staircase. Cassie's shriek made her move, and she grabbed the little girl up to her and made for Arthur. He was standing in the middle of the room, his wand out as smoke billowed from every nook and cranny.
"Stay away from the windows!" he shouted, just as another explosion rocked the Burrow. Rubble began to cascade down, and Molly ran over to her husband quickly. "Into the Floo!" he commanded. "Go to Grimmauld!"
"Arthur!" she yelled, not wanting to leave him. Not ready to leave him in their burning home.
"Take her and go!"
Her shaking hand clasped a handful of powder, and she was screeching her destination as the fire activated and took her away. She landed in the parlor of Grimmauld Place and set Cassie down. The girl was inconsolable, not that Molly tried to soothe her. Her eyes remained fixed on the fireplace.
Vaguely, she knew that Sirius was there, asking her questions. Molly did not answer.
She waited.
The Floo startled her when it flared to life. Molly moved forward and grabbed her husband quickly, barely able to thank whatever existed for his safety. He held her just as close.
"I couldn't save the house," he said once she'd pulled away, shaking his head in sorrow. "It's gone, Molly."
"It's all right, it's all right," she hushed him. "We're safe."
"What happened?" Sirius asked, invading their conversation worriedly. "Arthur...?"
"We were attacked," her husband said, his voice strained. His eyes moved away from Molly to Sirius, and then, finally, they landed on Cassie. Molly realized the little girl was trembling, silent tears falling down her cheeks, and she picked her up and held her. Cassie shivered as she wrapped Molly into a very tight hug.
"Attacked?" Sirius repeated, looking alarmed. "Did you see who it was? Why would they attack the Burrow?"
Arthur ran a hand through his hair, successfully dislodging the ash there. "I didn't see who they were, it was just...people. An army."
While they spoke, Sirius shut the Floo and led them to seats. Molly sat and cradled Cassie to her chest, murmuring nonsense words until the tremors stopped. "We should call the Order," Sirius was saying, looking them over closely. "If this was an attack on us, then someone must have let out about it. Was it people from the last war? People from this war? Why on earth would they attack the Burrow—?"
"Sirius," Arthur interrupted. "They used Muggle weapons."
That stopped him. Molly watched the varying emotions play out on Sirius's face. "Well," he finally spoke, clearing his throat. "Soldiers have been known to attack randomly, only its bloody bad luck they would go after you—"
"I don't think this was random," Arthur said.
Sirius frowned in confusion, and then his expression opened up, and he seemed frustrated and disbelieving. "Not thisagain," he sighed. "Harry wouldn't do this, Arthur how can you—"
"You toldhim?" Molly snapped at her husband, though she was quiet enough not to startle her charge. Her voice had a very noticeable edge of ice, however. "Arthur, how could you?"
"I only told Sirius and you, Molly, in confidence," he said, having the decency to look ashamed of himself.
"You don't believe this rot about Harry, do you, Molly?" Sirius asked.
She did not answer. Molly examined her husband carefully and saw that he had something on his mind. Something important, by the looks of it.
"I think…they didn't destroy the Burrow," Arthur revealed slowly. "They could have killed us all with that bomb. They didn't."
"They wanted you alive?" said Sirius.
Arthur frowned. "No," he shook his head negatively. "None of them could get past the field, not one. The bombs they shot...those exploded before they hit the house. I think...it might not have been destroyed. Perhaps."
Sirius fidgeted where he stood. "You can't go back there now! We'll gather the Order and go tomorrow," he decided. "You'll stay here however long you need."
"Thank you, Sirius," Molly said for them both.
"They couldn't get past the Wards," Arthur suddenly blurted, his face the picture of confusion. "They were trying to get us out because the Wards kept them away."
"Our Wards did that?" Molly couldn't help but exclaim. "Bill did add to them last summer, Arthur, but they aren't strong enough—"
"Those Wards were put up without our consent," he stopped her, finally looking up to meet her eyes. "By someone who anticipated an attack by Muggles."
"Arthur, I know you've lost your house and everything, but my godson did not attack you!" Sirius nearly shouted, his eyes wide with anger.
Cassie made a distressed sound, and Molly ran a hand down her back. "Hush, Sirius!" she admonished, soothing the girl in her arms.
"No, no," her husband said, waving a hand. "Harry would never hurt us. He...no, he saved our lives," he went on quietly. "It was Harry; I'd know his magic anywhere and he—" Arthur looked at Molly, his gaze hollow with guilt and resignation. "They were Harry's Wards," he said.
Later on, in the early hours just before dawn, Molly came down the stairs to search for Arthur. She had tried to sleep, but her mind would not let her rest at all. Cassie had cried herself silent before falling away into slumber. Her tortured sobbing had torn at Molly's heart, but there was little she could do except hold her. She would speak to Snape, maybe, when the Order showed in the morning, about getting Cassie some Dreamless Sleep.
She found Arthur where she left him, sitting by the fire, in a mirror of how he would have spent the night at home, were it not burned to the ground. So much had happened in one night that Molly could not bear to think of it. The shock of losing her house, of being attacked, had not yet worn off.
"Come to bed, Arthur," she said to him. "We have a few hours before the others get here. Come sleep."
"I can't sleep, Molly, I can't," he declined forcefully. "How am I to deal with this? I haven't understood what's happened, or what I can do."
She sighed. "You can rest and see what can be done later," she told him. "Brooding on it now will only exhaust you."
"Have I made the wrong choice?" he spoke over her. "Have I been bad to him?"
Molly thought on this and resolved that she would have her say. It was perhaps the worst timing, or the best, but she would risk her husband's upset for this.
She took a breath. "You have," she agreed. "You have forgotten that Harry has protected our family for all the years that we have known him. You have slighted him, by casting him out of our family. By denying him our love and care. You made him helpless, Arthur, and unable to turn to us for guidance. Now we both know he cares little about himself. And he will hurt himself because you would not understand."
"How could I?" Arthur questioned harshly, his voice hushed. "How could I understand what he's done?"
"Not what he's done; it is unacceptable, but what he is. First and foremost, he is our son, and you forgot that when he confided in you. He did not ask for understanding of his cause, but understanding of himself. And you hurt him terribly."
Arthur took a great, shuddering breath. "I can't look at him without seeing what he's caused, wanting some sort of justice for it. But Molly," he said, staring up at her, "he's not our son."
"He's as good as," she snapped. "And as for punishment, we can easily treat him how we would if it were Fred and George in trouble."
He laughed bitterly. "How, my dear?" he queried. "This is much more than bringing a toilet seat home."
She came to him then, sat beside him, and held him close. She smiled. "We ground him, of course," Molly whispered. "We take away his broom."
They grinned at each other, but their smiles did not last as she reached out to touch his cheek. "But you do not take away his family," she told him, despair clenching her heart. "Not his family, Arthur. It is worse than anything he could have done."
He turned away from her, but not in malice. Pain collapsed his face as he closed his eyes. They sat together in relative silence, all but for the creaks of the old house. Finally, he looked at her and smiled. "How are you so right, Mollywobbles? Why don't I listen to you more?" he teased lovingly.
She held his face and kissed him chastely, whispering, "I'm never wrong, my love."