A/N: This is the first half of Chapter 12. I usually don't split chapters into halves like this, but this was taking so long to get through and I got a few people asking when I'll next update, so I felt that it was high time I did, just to make it clear that I haven't abandoned this story. I'll post the second half as soon as I finish it.

I know it's been almost a year. I got a new job that has kept me very busy, and this chapter has also been excruciating to write. I knew it would be a hard one, but it's proven a lot more difficult than anticipated.

Also, fair warning, this chapter, along with Chapter Six (When the Trees Move), is the reason this story's rating was changed to M. From the start, I wanted this story to conform to the realities of war. I don't usually sugar-coat these things unless I truly think it's a bit too much.

Chapter Twelve
Alea Iacta Est

"What really arouses indignation against suffering is not suffering as such but the senselessness of suffering."
—Friedrich Nietzsche, "A Genealogy of Morals"

The thunderstorm from the previous night had let up a bit, but a light mist still filled London, quiet except for the ambience of traffic. Diagon Alley was closed, and thus completely deserted, save for the MLE officers out on their patrols, and the Aurors still investigating the wreckage from the attack the day before. As he watched them work from his office window, Cerdik Gadlak mused that Diagon Alley likely would remain closed for weeks. Such had been the case twenty-seven years earlier, after the Death Eaters attacked the largest magical commercial center in Britain, but at least that summer had felt like a normal, hot summer, and not this cold, bleak, miserable weather that seemed all too fitting for the growing crisis hidden to most of the inhabitants of Britain, who proceeded about their day entirely—but not blissfully—ignorant of the danger.

Menger Gadlak stood next to him, also looking out into the street, but his father could tell from his posture that he was becoming restive. Seeing him check his fob watch, Gadlak said, "Trawlak said he would not be long. Be patient."

Menger nodded, and stowed his watch away. Glancing at his father, he asked, "Are you sure about this?"

Gadlak's mouth thinned. "No. But I'd better be right about it."

"Could be worse. Could have been Councilor Ansalvik—or worse—who discovered us."

Gadlak snorted. "Ansalvik's an idiot. He couldn't have worked this out if you drew him a diagram. But you are right, of course. There are worse people who could have figured it out." Both were silent for a moment, then Menger asked, "When's your meeting with Scrimgeour?"

"Tomorrow morning. Probably more fallout from yesterday. And speaking of which…" Gadlak turned away from the window, and moved to his desk, where he picked up a document and handed it to his son. "The final numbers for the damages," he explained. "I need a copy placed in the records office."

Menger nodded and started for the door. He paused, however, as a light tapping at the window met their ears. Gadlak frowned and looked to the window, where he could see a raven on the sill, tapping the glass with its beak. They could just see the glint of a metal cylinder tied to its leg. The two Gadlaks looked at each other warily, and then the elder hesitantly opened the window. The raven hopped in and fluffed up its feathers, quivering slightly. It then tugged at a tie with its beak and the cylinder came loose and fell to the floor with a light clatter, before it turned around and took off again, disappearing into the mist.

Gadlak stared at the cylinder, and glanced at his son. "Check it."

Menger nodded and bent over the cylinder, withdrawing a Secrecy Sensor from his pocket. Gadlak watched warily as Menger scanned the raven's small delivery, and then, stowing the probe away, bent even closer, running his fingers over the cylinder without touching it, a slight magical pulse just audible from his own probing. Then he picked it up and held it out for his father. "I can't detect any harmful spells."

In spite of this, Gadlak couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that had arisen the second the raven appeared on his window sill. He didn't know anyone who would send him messages through ravens, except Grobschmied and the Grimrooks (all of whom typically would simply drop by if they wanted a word), or the other Councilors; but Danduath didn't use typically use ravens to communicate with him, having other, more efficient and secure ways. After a second's hesitation, however, Gadlak took the cylinder and twisted its lid open, shaking out a small slip of parchment that had been rolled up inside it. When he unrolled it, he inhaled sharply. There were no words scribbled on the parchment, but a single insignia stamped in red ink, the emblem of a fox's head on top of a crossed axe and spear, a symbol he knew only too well.

"Father?" Menger asked uneasily.

He handed over the parchment, and saw Menger's face lose all color the second he looked at it.

"Oh… shit."

"Indeed."

Menger's shock turned to disgust. "What in Laelit's name would they want with you?"

"I can think of many possibilities," Gadlak said coldly.

Menger handed back the parchment, and then he paused, looking disquieted. "You don't think they know?"

Gadlak started to shake his head, but then in that moment, a horrifying thought crossed his mind, as horrifying thoughts all too often do in moments of tense uncertainty, and without a word Gadlak moved to his desk and yanked open the side drawer, revealing the instrument that controlled the range and intensity of the Silencing wards surrounding his office. Sure enough, the slide was all the way down. The wards were not active.

The night's rain had let up, though a thick veil of gray clouds still hid the sun and sky from the view, and the unrelenting cold that had gripped Britain for the past few months seemed to have become impossibly colder. It was so frigid that most in the vicinity of Aelyn Dionn had started putting on their winter gear, though it was not yet even September. This was true in the village and it was true in the Grimrook house, where Harry and Ron were busy packing their rucksacks for relocation, while Hermione and Cecilia were downstairs trying to clear away any sign that anyone had ever been in the house. Harry, still weak physically, was especially warmly dressed, but he still shivered a little, and felt a little more restive than usual. Perhaps, as Hermione suggested, it was due to his impatience to finally move on, but something else seemed to be nagging at him, and he couldn't think what. Whatever it was, it was causing him to pace around the room, looking out the window every time he passed it, his hands buried in his coat pockets.

After a few minutes of this, Ron said, "You know, you might as well relax a bit, if you're done packing. We don't even know if we're even leaving today." He shook his head. "All depends on the Lord Chairman now."

Harry knew that part of the jibe was directed at him, but he chose not to reply. His talk with Grobschmied had set his mind somewhat at ease concerning Dagnar Trawlak—or rather, as at ease as the situation allowed—but he hadn't grown up with a cultural suspicion of goblins, as Ron had. However, he and Ron had both learned to distrust politicians, and Trawlak was both goblin and politician. Words alone could not assure Ron that he could be trusted. Though he hadn't openly expressed his views since Cerdik Gadlak's visit, Ron had been more sarcastic—though thankfully not caustic—than usual, and only partially hid his impatience that Harry and Hermione seemed more accepting of the situation.

All in all, the atmosphere in the Grimrook house had been uneasy all morning, but at least it was quiet, nobody wanting to say anything, intentionally or unintentionally, to increase the tension.

As he finished stuffing his photo album into his rucksack, however, his scar burned suddenly, causing him to sit on the bed and rub his scar, hissing in pain.

"Harry?" Ron asked, concerned. "Are you all right?"

Harry waited to answer. The burning stopped almost as soon as it started, leaving a dull irritation. The pains in his scar, though they didn't occur as frequently as they had in the months following Voldemort's return, were no longer entirely unexpected, but somehow this felt odd, like something he really ought to pay attention to.

"Something's up," Harry finally said. Perhaps the restiveness he'd been feeling all morning wasn't his own.

"I think that's a given," Ron said darkly. "Your scar pains always mean something's up."

Harry shook his head. "No, this isn't the same. Something's… off."

Ron frowned. "In what way?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "Just the pain… and a feeling."

Ron said nothing, but he glanced out the window nervously. Harry looked back at his rucksack, trying to focus on his belongings and not on the gnawing feeling growing in his gut, the stirring he was now sure was coming from Voldemort, not from himself. But it was still remote enough, still shielded enough, that he couldn't identify anything further. Still, the strength and relentlessness of the feeling left Harry feeling a sudden dread. This wasn't like his scar prickling on the day of the Diagon Alley attacks. Something felt different.

"Ron," he said slowly, "I think… no." He frowned, thinking hard. Then he said, "I think we ought to consider leaving today anyway, even if Trawlak doesn't give us the information we need. I think we might have stayed here too long."

"You've been ill," Ron reminded him. "You're still ill."

Harry bit his lip but didn't respond. He somehow doubted that Mad-Eye Moody would be so understanding, and as paranoid as Moody was, Harry couldn't help but think the same way at the present time. His scar prickled again, but this time it wasn't as sharp. Perhaps Ron was right, he told himself. If Voldemort was no longer able to hold the connection closed, he'd be feeling it a lot more frequently these days, at least until he learned to block it himself. Perhaps, he thought, as the pain dulled to numbness, whatever had caused this had passed.

Regardless, he was still uneasy enough that when he heard a loud rap on the bedroom door, he almost leapt out of his skin and spun around, only just stopping himself from drawing his wand on Rok Grimrook, who blinked and raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Ron stared at Harry. "Bloody hell, you are jumpy today, aren't you?"

Harry felt his face redden, and he mumbled an apology.

Grimrook shrugged. "Bad night?"

"Something like that." He wished his still-weak heart would slow down a bit. It was making him light-headed.

"Why aren't you at work?" asked Ron.

"Came to check on things," Grimrook said. Looking at Harry, he added, "I ran into Feidlenid on my way here. She asked me to give this to you."

It was then that Harry realized that Grimrook was holding out a small ceramic container, and at once he understood. He took the little urn, unable to find his voice, and only nodded.

"She also said that it's unbreakable, and the lid's magically sealed," Grimrook explained. "In other words, you can carry it around with you, if you wish, and there's no danger of it breaking or spilling."

"Thank you," Harry said quietly and uncertainly, turning the urn over in his hands.

His errand completed, and sensing that Harry wasn't really in a humour for company, Grimrook took his leave, pausing only to promise to inform them the moment they heard anything concerning Trawlak. Once the accountant was gone, Harry sat on the bed to examine the urn. Probably uncertain of his tastes, Feidlenid had chosen a simple white ceramic urn with a gold rim, but the pattern and coloration wasn't really of much concern to Harry. No, what felt strange was that for so long his parents' remains were only an abstraction to him, decaying to dust in a grave that for sixteen years he'd never visited, and now he'd be carrying what was left of them around with him. Perhaps the thought wouldn't bother him as much once they found somewhere more permanent to work from, and he had someplace to keep it, but at that moment, having it in his rucksack felt somewhat ghoulish. Still, the goblin priestess had gone through all that work to give his parents bodies a second funeral in the only respectful way she knew, and, grateful to Feidlenid for her efforts, Harry opened his rucksack again, stowed the urn safely inside, and zipped it shut.

There was no warning.

His scar exploded. Pain, so much pain, of such intensity that he could only see a haze of red and black, so hot that soon his whole head and even his shoulders seemed to burn. Pain. Breathing. Throbbing. Darkness. Fire. Heat.

Burning was all that existed.

And yet, an image seemed to form in his mind, the darkness ordering itself into shapes, and new images, foreign ideas seared into his mind, etching into his thoughts like acid.

"We will know soon enough if what you say is true."

A smaller, cowering figure, head was bowed down, hands on the back of his head in submission, his face in shadow, knelt on the stone floor. Several masked Death Eaters stood around them, and behind them, over a dozen of the pale-faced, dead-eyed sorcerers in black, leather robes with steel adornments. The underground chamber was full of Death Eaters, deferent in the presence of their master, fearfully silent in the presence of his dark allies.

"To my knowledge," a weak voice responded, "it is true."

"And tell me, goblin, why do you bring me this information?" The voice was calm, but inwardly, there was a burning feeling, impatience, anticipation. "What do you want in return?"

The goblin was silent, his face still obscured in shadow, but his head moved, and the glint of his eyes was barely visible.

"What the Ministry of Magic won't give, and what the Lord Chairman is too cowardly to fight for," he said boldly, audaciously. "Your promise of the complete and permanent separation of Tylwthteg from human wizardry."

Voldemort's cold laugh echoed through the chamber. It was not an unexpected condition, but the goblin's brazenness amused him. He moved closer to the goblin.

"We too would prefer a pure society," he declared. "If what you say is true, and we do find him in this village, I may agree to make some concessions to Tylwthteg Hran. Lord Voldemort rewards those who aid him."

Though the goblin's expression wasn't visible, his aura was one of grim satisfaction. Voldemort smiled coldly. Very well, let the goblin think himself successful. Over-confidence had always been a weakness of his kind. Voldemort's head turned in the direction of Bellatrix Lestrange, one of the three with wands trained on their guest, and gave a firm nod.

"Crucio!" she shrieked.

The goblin screamed, a strange, strangled screech that suited his kind. It was merely a brief taste of Voldemort's wrath should the goblin's information lead them to nothing, and he only allowed Bellatrix the enjoyment of inflicting pain for a moment before he indicated for her to stop, and like the obedient minion she was, she complied, lifting the curse. As the goblin slumped to the granite floor, violently quivering, Bellatrix kicked him in the gut for good measure, causing him to double over, wheezing pathetically.

"Your words are about to be tested," Voldemort told the goblin, "and you had better hope that I find them to be true."

Voldemort watched the goblin for only a few seconds before he gestured for Bellatrix and the other Death Eaters to follow him. In a moment, all Death Eaters would feel the call of the Dark Mark. If the goblin spoke truly, he was determined to not fail this time. Before quitting the chamber, Voldemort looked at his the silent, motionless cultists who hadn't moved throughout the exchange. "Keep him subdued," he instructed. "Depending on what we find, I shall decide what to do with him. But if he moves, feel free to kill him, or sacrifice him to Voes if you prefer. It matters not to me."

The Death Eaters were already leaving the chamber, but the Sha'etemmins slowly surrounded the informant, and the foremost of them raised a hand and rippling energy seemed to emanate from him, a spell cast with no wand that caused the goblin to crumple to the floor and curl into a fetal position, frozen in terror. Voldemort watched for another moment, briefly allowing himself to indulge in awe and envy of their power, and imagining with excited anticipation the day he learned the secret to the ancient, forgotten magic they wielded. But for now, he must focus on the teenager who had eluded him for sixteen years, who had even escaped the trap laid in Godric's Hollow.

This time the boy's luck would finally run out.

By the time the vision finally ended, and Harry became aware of his surroundings again, he was drenched in cold sweat, his scar still burning painfully, and a strange ringing seemed to fill his ears. He could see that Ron was crouched over him, calling out his name, and Harry sat up, shaking his head to try to clear it. Doing so made his forehead and temples throb, and his scar seemed to burn even worse, but he tried hard to ignore it. Things were now clear. They likely only had minutes.

Without answering Ron's panicked questions, Harry got to his feet abruptly, causing his heart to beat hard and painfully, and his head spun, forcing him to pause a minute to refrain from passing out. He then snatched up his rucksack and moved out of his room as quickly as possible, costing him every ounce of strength or energy he could muster. He did not have far to go, however, because he ran into Cecilia and Hermione on the stairwell, staring at him with wild, consternated expressions, evidently having heard the commotion.

"Harry?" Hermione began. "What"—

"He knows I'm here," Harry cut her off. "We have to get out."

The fighting had started so suddenly that Rok Grimrook had no idea what prompted it, or where it had even begun. The morning had started out normal enough—or rather, as normal as he could possibly consider it, given that he had just delivered to Harry Potter the ashes of his sixteen-year-dead parents, whose bodies they had nonetheless cremated only the night before; but for the other goblins of Aelyn Dionn, the day of August 26th had started as per their usual routine. After he had delivered Feidlenid's gift, Grimrook had made the short walk back to the village, intending to drop by the bakery for a quick breakfast before heading to Gringotts.

But he hadn't taken even a few steps down the street before he heard screaming near the town square, and the sound of spellfire and shouted incantations, and shortly after that, he saw villagers, mostly goblinesses and their children, running down the street away from the town square. Instinctively Grimrook reached into his pocket and gripped the handle of his hidden revolver. It did not take him long to find the cause of the commotion, for he had not got far before he saw three, then four, then five masked humans in black robes chasing villagers, firing curses after them. The nearest threw a spell that knocked a young gobliness off her feet, stunning her, but not killing her. Seconds later the Death Eater seize the gobliness by her foot and start dragging her back towards the town square. Grimrook quickly drew his gun and took careful aim. It only took one shot, and the Death Eater dropped to the ground, releasing the gobliness, and never moved again.

The other Death Eaters leapt into action, but Grimrook was well-trained, and quicker. Mustering his magical strength, he flung out his free left hand and landed a burst of green energy upon the humans, catching two of them and lifting them from the ground, before he swiped his hand to the right and by so doing magically flung them into the brick wall of a nearby shop with a sickening crunch. One of the two that remained standing brandished his wand, but he hadn't even got the incantation out of his mouth before Grimrook took aim and fired his revolver. The Death Eater shrieked in pain as the bullet shredded his right shoulder, causing him to drop his wand. With only a split second to act, Grimrook then fired a shot at the last standing Death Eater, but his haste offset his aim, and instead of going through the Death Eater's head, as he'd intended, the bullet went through his chest, causing the Death Eater to crumple to the ground, desperately trying to stem the tide of blood while gasping for breath; but Grimrook's concern was now for the young gobliness who had started to crawl away backwards.

"Go," he hissed at her in Sindrian. "Get out of the village. Stay out of sight until they leave."

As he spoke, he saw movement in the corner of his eye, and saw more Death Eaters coming up the street. He glanced back at the gobliness, who was now back on her feet, but shaking her head frantically. "I can't. My brothers—"

Then, without another word, she ran, not towards the road or the woods, but towards a residential street, leaving Grimrook with no course of action but to try to hold off the Death Eaters and hope that she'd successfully find her family and escape. A groan met his ears, and he looked down at the Death Eaters he'd just shot. The one who took a shot to the chest had already lost consciousness, but the one with a wound in the shoulder was gasping and trying to move, inching his uninjured left arm towards his dropped wand, which had rolled a few feet out of his reach. Grimrook quickly stepped forward, and snatched up the Death Eater's wand. He then pointed his revolver at his face.

"Wait!" the Death Eater gasped.

Grimrook stared at him for a few seconds, then he stowed the man's wand in his pocket and crouched down, seizing him by the collar.

"Why did you come here?" he snarled. "What does your master want with this place?"

But the Death Eater, succumbing to blood loss, only slumped down and said nothing more. Grimrook cursed under his breath and shoved the human away. Then he heard more shouting and looked up. He counted another three Death Eaters coming, and knew from the increase in the volume of yells and incantations that there were more—perhaps dozens more—in the town square, too many for him to hold off only with magic, and he was sure he only had one or two rounds left in his revolver. Swearing under his breath, Grimrook ran to the side, spotting a horsecart to duck behind. Once out of the Death Eaters' line of sight, he rummaged in his pocket for more rounds, and only found four. Moving quickly, hearing the sound of spellfire and shouted incantations growing louder, he opened the cylinder and loaded each round into the chambers, one by one, wishing he could load them more quickly.

Then he heard more voices, combative voices shouting in Sindrian, and he chanced a glance around the edge of the cart as the Death Eaters' incantations became louder and more hurried, and the loud bursts of spellfire more frequent. Not thirty feet away from where he hid, four goblins, two of them in the uniform of the village constabulary, had joined the fray, sending pulses of magical energy at the three humans, one of whom appeared to have thrown up a protective shield. Grimrook ducked back behind the cart, and began to quickly weigh his options. On the one hand, Grimrook's instincts and his anger were telling him to stay in the village and fight; but the Death Eaters bringing such a massive assault upon Aelyn Dionn, an obscure goblin village that hardly had any dealings with humans, could only mean one thing.

Therefore, against his instincts, Grimrook ran back up the street, headed back for his house, towards the only thing—or rather the only person—in Aelyn Dionn that could possibly interest Lord Voldemort.

To her credit, Cecilia was the first to snap into action, ordering Ron and Hermione to grab their things and be out of the house in sixty seconds. Harry, having already grabbed his rucksack, was already moving down the staircase, trying to ignore his persistent light-headedness. Cecilia followed him down the stairs, probably keeping an eye on him. He glanced at her as he reached the landing, noting her hard, determined expression. Harry saw her retreat into the kitchen, and from his viewpoint he saw her grab a sack and start packing food parcels into it. He then moved into the living room, where, to his relief, he saw Hedwig perched on a shelf. Harry held his arm out, and Hedwig, clearly aware that something serious was happening, fluttered to his arm.

Satisfied that he had everything necessary, Harry drew his wand and headed for the door, just as he heard somebody coming back down the stairs, but he didn't turn to see who it was, instead opening the door and stepping outside. His head began spinning again, and he leaned against the doorpost, willing his head to stop spinning. During that time, Ron joined him, and seconds later, Hermione and Cecilia did too. He was aware of the three of them looking at him in concern, but presently the dizziness stopped, and he looked up at them. Then he became acutely aware of Hedwig's talons digging into his arm more painfully, and looked at her and saw that she had tensed, her feathers ruffled.

It was then that he heard the distant screams, and he looked in the direction Hedwig was staring, and saw a column of smoke rising in the distance. They had attacked the village first. Cecilia's face contorted with anger, and she snarled some kind of goblin curse under her breath.

"Oh my God," Hermione whispered.

Ron swallowed. "We don't have much time. Where should we go?"

Cecilia was quiet for a moment, listening to the noise from the village. After Ron repeated his question, however, she turned away, and finally said, "Uncle Grobschmied's house. It's in another village on the other side of the forest, fairly distant from here, so hopefully it's safe enough." As she spoke, she stretched her hands out, and, knowing what she intended, Harry, grasped her arm. Ron and Hermione grasped her other, and Harry felt Hedwig flutter to his shoulder and grip it tightly. Cecilia closed her eyes and pivoted.

For a second, Harry felt the start of Disapparation, but then suddenly the squeezing sensation tightened, harder and harder until he couldn't breathe at all, and then abruptly released, causing his ears to pop and the dizziness to return in full force. He collapsed to his knees, feeling as though someone had driven a spike through his temple. Hedwig released his shoulder and screeched angrily, while Harry became dimly aware of Ron, Hermione, and Cecilia all swaying on the spot, clutching their heads.

They hadn't moved an inch.

"What the hell," gasped Ron, "was that?"

Cecilia made no reply, instead crouching down and rummaging in her bag for a minute, before withdrawing one of her odd brass instruments. She fiddled with a dial on the instrument and read a little roll of paper on the side, where Harry could just see tiny words starting to appear. Then Cecilia lowered the instrument with a grim expression.

"There's some kind of anti-Apparation ward," she told them. "There's no sign of them here, so they must have put it around the whole village."

Ron and Hermione both stared. "They put up wards?" Hermione said in disbelief. "Unnoticed? In only a few minutes?"

Cecilia said nothing, but there was no denying what had just occurred.

Ron looked at Hermione. "What about Portkeys?"

Hermione nodded, and looked around for a few seconds, before stooping down by one of the front windows and picking up a stone. She closed her eyes and pointed her wand at it, muttering, "Portus."

There was no blue glow. Nothing happened. Hermione stared, and then tried again, but there was still nothing. She then looked up at the others in panic. "It's not working!"

"They must be blocking that too," Cecilia said. "They're likely blocking all magical transportation."

Ron cursed. But Harry, recovering from the failed Apparation, slowly clambered to his feet, and looked back toward the village. The screams and explosions still sounded fairly distant, but Harry knew the village was still too close. If the Death Eaters decided to come up the road, it wouldn't take them long to find the house.

Seemingly also thinking along these lines, Cecilia said, "Let's at least get out of sight. Follow me."

She then turned abruptly and moved at a fast pace into the woods, up the same path they'd taken the day before to build his parents' pyre. As they passed into the trees and the house disappeared from sight, Hedwig took flight, moving to low-hanging branches ahead to keep up. Cecilia, holding up her instrument as she moved, kept a brisk pace. At first she seemed to lead them back towards the clearing where they'd built the pyre, but then she abruptly turned down a smaller dirt path of even more uneven terrain. Harry soon began to struggle, stumbling as his foot sank into a depression in the path, and he barely kept balance. His heart was pounding, and soon his breathing came uneven. He hadn't had to move this fast since their escape from Hogsmeade, but back then he was in perfect condition. Apparently moving even at a fast walk for more than a minute was a threshold his body wasn't quite healed enough to cross. Still, he kept going, trying to keep up with Cecilia, Ron, and Hermione, but soon a hard wave of dizziness swept over him, forcing him to stop and lean on a tree, wheezing. As he struggled to catch his breath, he glanced up to see that the others had already moved far ahead, apparently unaware of his predicament.

That is, until Hedwig, fluttering to a branch above him, screeched after the others, prompting Hermione to pause and look back.

"Stop! Stop!" she called to the others.

Cecilia and Ron turned, and backtracked as soon as they saw what caused the holdup.

"Harry! Are you all right?" Ron asked, concerned.

"I will be if you just…." Harry's whole body seemed to hurt as he struggled to get his breathing under control. "…if you just give me a…." Another wave of dizziness hit, and he groaned, staggering forward a little. Hermione and Ron both grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him. Harry said nothing further, furious at himself. All that progress he thought he'd made, and it was gone in a minute, and at the worst time possible. If the Death Eaters found them because he was too bloody weak to move…

"Cecilia, we can't go at that pace," Hermione admonished the gobliness.

"Right." Cecilia glanced over her shoulder as she spoke. "But we have to find the boundary of that jinx. They don't seem to know precisely where to look for us, so they must have set the jinx around the whole village and nearby country."

"How the hell did they get it over this wide a range?" demanded Ron.

"He's right. Anti-Apparation wards are normally used for single rooms or a small building," Hermione said. "It would take days for even the Ministry to put them around this wide an area. They shouldn't be able to do this."

Having no answer, Cecilia shook her head. Then she looked at Harry guiltily. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I was so concerned with getting us out of here that I forgot."

Harry couldn't offer any response except to nod in understanding. His breathing seemed to be getting under control again.

"Are you ready to move on?" Cecilia asked. "We'll take it slower, especially now that we're least out of sight of the village and of the house."

As she spoke, her words started to sound oddly distorted, and the edges of Harry's vision blackened. Cecilia seemed to stare at him, suddenly looking wary, as he felt the blood suddenly drain from his face, and a new dizziness took over. Then, without warning, his scar erupted in pain again, causing him to inhale sharply and clutch his forehead. For a split second, Harry's vision shifted, and suddenly he wasn't looking at the trees and brush, but instead he caught a glimpse of a cobblestone street, old-fashioned houses and shops all around, some on fire, others reduced to rubble, the air filled with smoke, and the sounds of screaming and spellfire and shouted incantations filled his ears.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Harry blinked, and realized that he had fallen against the tree, his hand still grasping at his scar, which continued to burn fiercely, causing his eyes to water. Ron and Hermione and Cecilia all were bending over him, looking terrified.

"Harry? What is it?" Ron asked urgently. "What's happening?"

Harry tried to get to his feet, but his legs shook violently, forcing him to sit back down, but he couldn't get any words out before the connection burst open again, and he was again lost in vision.

Voldemort was not pleased.

He had intended for the operation to be quick, and quiet, so as to not give Potter any warning, and he also had no desire to stir up the goblins of Britain before his forces were ready to deal with them. His instructions were clear: gain entry, find Potter, and quickly bring the boy to him before there could be any resistance or interference. But it appeared that Jugsen and Thorkelson had utterly bungled the operation, with the result being a full street battle between the Death Eaters and the villagers. If Potter was truly in the care of the village healers, as his informant believed, the bloodshed in the streets would have given him more than enough warning. The Anti-Apparation wards would prevent him from Disapparating—assuming he had the strength—but Potter had been granted far too much time to find some other way out, and Voldemort would not give him a minute more.

The street was full of bodies, some of them Death Eaters. Elsewhere in the village, the sound of fighting was still audible, where some goblins had evidently chosen to ignore the constable's forced call for surrender. However, for the most part the villagers seemed to be backing down. Voldemort was also satisfied to see that either the goblin clergy had opened the temple doors as commanded, or perhaps that Bellatrix had managed to break through their defenses. Either way, the goblins seemed to have realized that their fighting was futile. Those fighters who were still alive now were in a line in the middle of the square, on their knees with their hands on the back of their heads. All around the square, the Death Eaters appeared from adjacent streets, pushing villagers into the town square, most of them goblinesses and their spawn. Bellatrix and Dolohov, meanwhile, were overseeing the Death Eaters clearing the temple, herding priests and priestesses out into the square. Voldemort waited patiently until finally a newer Death Eater appeared at the entrance, roughly pushing out a number of goblins not in the habits of the clergy, who all were old, sickly, or otherwise injured or afflicted. Among them was an old, decrepit gobliness who struggled to descend the temple steps. Impatient with her slowness, a Death Eater seized her by the neck and flung her down the stairs, prompting other Death Eaters to jeer at her mockingly. One of the priestesses let out a cry of dismay, and tried to rush to the old gobliness, who lay crumpled and unmoving on the ground, but she didn't get two steps before another Death Eater hit her with a trip jinx, causing her to smash her forehead against one of the stone steps.

Voldemort, meanwhile, turned to watch as the other infirmary patients were moved out of the temple, waiting for his followers to bring one in particular into the town square. But then the line of goblins stopped, and two more Death Eaters came out, both glancing at Voldemort nervously as they spoke to Dolohov in hushed tones. Finally, Dolohov and Bellatrix turned and approached him. Voldemort looked back to the group of patients and goblin clergy, all forced to their knees like the rest of the villagers.

"This is all of them?" he quietly asked.

"Yes, my lord," Dolohov answered. "He was not in the infirmary."

Voldemort looked back at the temple dispassionately, then he glanced at Bellatrix. "Continue to search the temple."

She bowed her head obsequiously, and returned to the stone edifice, gesturing for two others to follow her. Voldemort then looked at Dolohov. "Begin a sweep. I have ensured that he can't escape by magical means, but if he got out he most likely will have run for the woods."

"Yes, my lord."

Dolohov then shouted for other Death Eaters to follow him, and left. Voldemort, paying no further heed to them, moved toward the temple clergy, and his eyes fell on one in particular, who was dressed in a more elaborate robe than the others, and otherwise wore a number of chains and crests not found on the other priests and priestesses. Voldemort looked at the nearest Death Eater, and gestured for him to bring this goblin forward. The Death Eater understood the unspoken command instantly, and seized the goblin under the arm and forced him to his feet, shoving him forward until he fell at Voldemort's feet, causing villagers to yell in outrage.

As the priest looked up and met his eyes, Voldemort asked quietly, "Are you in charge of this temple?"

In perfect English, the goblin responded, "I am the prelate, yes."

"Do you know who I am?"

"I do."

"And do you know why I have paid you this visit?" Voldemort continued.

For a moment the prelate only looked at him, and Voldemort was mildly surprised to find that he betrayed little emotion except scorn. If he was afraid, he was remarkably adept at hiding it.

"We have no part in your war," the prelate told him derisively. "We have few dealings with human-kind, and our lifestyle can be of no interest to you. Yet you found it necessary to murder one of our most devout priestesses, terrorize this town, kill its inhabitants, and desecrate this temple."

The Death Eater pressed his wand into the prelate's neck, causing him to briefly wince in pain, but he ignored it and finished, "No, I cannot imagine what led you to this action."

Voldemort raised a hand and struck him. A few goblinesses in the square audibly gasped. "I ask again, do you know why we are here?" he demanded.

"As I have said," the prelate responded. "I do not."

At that moment, one of Bellatrix's squad appeared at his side. "I'm sorry, my lord. We've used every spell, checked every room. There's no sign of him."

Voldemort seized the prelate by the throat. "Harry Potter," he said in a dangerous, quiet voice. "Where is he?"

The goblin blinked. For the first time, he looked taken aback.

"Harry Potter?" he repeated.

"I have been informed that he is here."

"Not to my knowledge," the prelate retorted.

Voldemort forced him to look directly into his eyes, and he searched, forcing his way into the goblin's mind and looking for any trace of fear or deceit. Yet no matter where he looked, no matter what line of thought he followed, Voldemort could detect no lie in the prelate's mind, only a combination of disgust and bewilderment. His answer was clear. Potter had never set foot in the temple, had never been brought to their infirmary. Furious, Voldemort threw him aside, and looked at the crowd watching fearfully.

"Today, we received information from one of your own," he addressed them. "Information that a boy we hunt is hiding here, in this village. Whether he is located will determine your own fate." He watched for a moment as the villagers took in his words. "So I will put the question to you all. Where is Harry Potter?"

The villagers stared at him, and then at each other. No one said a word, but as he looked over them, looked at their individual faces, he only saw fear, surprise, confusion, but nothing else.

"I repeat," Voldemort continued, "whoever comes forward will save this settlement and its inhabitants. Give him to me, and we will inflict no further damage upon you."

He waited, but no one came forward. Voldemort hissed in anger, and looked back at the temple doors, where Bellatrix stood.

"Have some men search the houses," he ordered her. He then turned to the other Death Eaters in the square. "Move them back into the temple."

The Death Eaters immediately snapped into action, shouting for their captives to get to their feet and move into their holy place as ordered. Goblinesses cried out, and their children wailed, while the few remaining goblin men shouted invectives at the Death Eaters, but with the constables and most of their other fighters dead, any attempt to resist was entirely pointless. Now their fate entirely rested on whether Dolohov or Bellatrix located the boy.

A/N: I'll get the second half up as soon as I can, though I can't promise when. Parts of it are already written, but there are a few gaps I need to fill, along with some editing and revising.