Chapter 14: The Fight, The Folly and The Future
A/N: (Best Clarkson voice) Sitrep: This story is short (at least for me) with less than five chapters to go, that's the good news. The bad? My recovery is taking longer than expected. I am recovering from (in no particular order) three trapped nerves in my back, a contusion of the left eye and a hematoma in the skull that is based around my temple, eye socket and forehead which unhappily give me monster headaches.
Basically focusing on anything hurts… including writing. That being said I am still plugging away with just under an hour a day devoted to typing this… but don't expect the updates to be within a particular time. The chapters will be posted as they are copied and as I can.
With that being said, please enjoy this chapter.
"Filthy Goblins, you will not stand in my way," Narcissa said, somewhat distractedly as part of her mind was on directing, herding really, the Inferi to their targets.
Still, as far as she was concerned, they underestimated her conviction and training as a true daughter of House Black she had received and what she could find in their varied and ancient library, in their family's history.
This fact she knew and she proved as she casually and absentmindedly gutted two of her attackers at once with a curved (and wickedly sharp) spear of ice using only her wand and a soft mutter.
Simultaneously though, part of her mind was on her charges as they pushed through seemingly random areas in the dome that protected Nysa.
She felt their claws move as they fell into the sky and expelled their constant need for blood and flesh on the Veela that rose to meet them, forever marring their perfect skin. She felt them elsewhere as well, biting into the flesh and scales of the Sirens and tearing out Goblin throats as they were poked with enchanted weapons.
Their fists were hers, when their teeth sank into an enemies throat she felt it as if it was her own. She could taste the blood on her tongue and down her throat, feel the hearts ripped from bodies in her hand and, above all, the animalistic hunger that drove them to move in the first place.
She knew it was a risk, but she couldn't help but also be drawn to watch the near titanic battle between her most hated enemy and her powerful Master. Even as she did so her mind, which was stretched in far too many directions, shaped spell after spell and drew on the small amount of magic that she was using to defend herself.
It was a thing of beauty and a thing of utter destruction, that fight. No man was giving an inch and was casting spells with such speed that she couldn't make out what they were casting. It did not help her analysis that the spells were both colourless and silent, save the Unforgivables.
She could easily see the effects of what could, under other circumstances, be seen as the most beautiful and choreographed dance that she had ever seen. The ground around them was littered with holes, half transfigured remains and unstable magic.
The battle hadn't even been going on for a minute and already, in comparison to others of its type, it looked like it had been going on for an hour or more.
Given all that (and how distracted it made her), it would have been understandable that she didn't notice one of the Goblin's move into her blind spot and slip the tip of his spear between her ribs.
She did feel it though, especially when it pierced her heart and split it in two.
-HPCOD-
"No!" Bellatrix's screech, like that of a wounded animal, was music to Neville's ears, even if her barrage of spells was so fast and complete that all but two of the remaining Goblins fell to some sort of twisted version of Fiendfire but, only after she had lined them up like balls on a pool table. It stretched over them like a giant black canopy and then consumed them quickly even as they screamed out their agony.
Neville didn't fool himself, even though his opponent was mad in the truest sense of the word she wasn't stupid by anyone's definition. He understood that his next three spells (a bone breaker, a blood boiling charm and an organ freezer) wouldn't hit and, despite his best efforts, he had never fully mastered silent casting nor was his power level equal to hers.
But he made up for that.
He snuck in a colourless spell (or as close as he could manage as unlike those with much higher power levels his were still full of vibrant colour in the main) that was only a simple one designed to correct the target vision. Opticians often used it to speed up their job and would never be something most people would use in combat.
Then, still firing any spell that he could think of and shielding or dodging hers he drew the knife he was given as one of the Ten with his other hand. Reacting to his need, it slowly lengthed into a blade as he closed the gap in space between them and the Goblin's rushed in, eager to avenge their kin.
She did manage to kill both of them but, only when they were right in front of her at point-blank range as Neville's spell had messed with her depth perception. This meant that her usually perfect spellwork had become frantic and slightly panicked.
It did mean that Neville was able to get close enough to her to use his sword though. That cost her a deep gash on her torso that stretched from the top of her breasts and moved down in a jagged curve to her left hip. It was a minor miracle that she wasn't disembowelled outright as that had been Nevile's aim.
She did fall to the floor, whimpering in pain from the deep wound, with the last of the Longbottoms almost screaming in pure joy at her fate.
-HPCOD-
"Most impressive," Bonecrusher murmured before speaking in a more normal tone, "remind me never to annoy Daniel Granger".
"Noted," Sirius commented less than a minute after the Inferi lost the will that was driving them forward as a cohesive unit. "And yes, before you ask, that is an enchanted flamethrower he is using. His idea, of course, I really had no idea they existed and it was a right bastard to get the spellwork right".
How many do you have at the moment?" Bonecrusher asked, eyes bright with interest.
"Just one," Sirius answered even as he pushed aside a small unexpected pang of sadness. He knew what the change in the Inferi's behaviour meant and, though they kicked him out long ago, he believed that it was one of his cousins that had controlled them.
He didn't feel sadness for who they had become, but rather the children they all once were. Before the Black madness and family tradition had corrupted and twisted them, they had been beautiful, bright and lovely girls. Life had changed them, their family had changed them and Voldemort had made them into mockeries of what he remembered.
But he still remembered.
'I'll think about that soon,' Sirius thought, 'but not today, not now.'
"Get it to work on a large scale and we'll take a dozen," Bonecrusher grunted, with a calculating stare full of fascination for the weapon and its devastating effects. Then he saw Sirus's pained expression and changed the subject. "You know why we had to let them in, don't you?"
"Yes," he admitted with a haunted look, "because, if they didn't come in the Siren's would likely all die and, if they broke through the glass, then the sea would come with them. When we let them in, we were able to keep the sea back and do it on our terms rather than theirs".
"It saved peoples lives," Bonecrusher said softly, "the sea would kill just as much as an army. Remember that when we count the dead".
"Don't look now," Sirius said, "but it appears that our muggle fellows are nearly out of bullets and you're going to see something else new to you".
Sirius and Bonecrusher turned to watch, even as the Goblin's face narrowed in confusion. A moment later he turned back to Sirius, openmouthed.
"Are they forming some sort of line?" Bonecrusher asked, even as he saw that one or two wizards had mingled with the muggles and were now blasting the extremities of the Inferi and then move them to a pile. The muggles then picked up the still dangerous (though less so without arms and legs) creatures and passed them along.
"Like water buckets in a fire," Sirius agreed. "And if you like that, you'll love what happens next".
-HPCOD-
Harry did something that no one else had dared to do in decades, he laughed in Voldemort's face. The fact that he did so while spitting blood made it either reckless or even more impressive.
Then the battle took a small break as magic pushed them both apart.
From this distance and after all of this fighting neither was sure who pushed the other away first. By this time their magic was actively and instinctually activating to protect each of them from the other. Ordinarily, wizard duels didn't go on this long but, when they did, that was an uncommon but not unheard of occurrence especially if their power levels were close to one another.
"Is that all you've got?" Harry growled, even as she drew his own blade and it morphed into the shape and size of a butterfly axe.
'You've gotta love Goblin Steel,' Harry thought, even as his wand glowed with deadly intent. 'A full-sized axe weighing less than a small hatchet, impossibly sharp and carrying more enchantments than you could shake a stick at? Nothing bad about that'.
Another Killing Curse flew at him, across the desolate battleground, followed predictably by a Cruciatus and an Imperius. By this point, even as he dealt with the barrage that flew towards him, Harry found himself vaguely disappointed by Voldemort's lack of originality almost as much as the prospect of dying, being controlled or being out into a pain-filled coma.
"Nev," he called, even as he noted that the man's sword was bloody from running Bellatrix clean through and ending the threat of the mad witch forever. "I could use a hand mate".
Even as he spoke, he sent his own reply to the Dark Lord's attack. It was made up mostly of conjured creatures (mostly panthers, some rhinos and even an eagle or two) and putting the other man on the defensive for the moment.
"D and D?" Neville called, even as he wearily entered the fight.
"D and D," Harry agreed, moving back as he did so. Distract and destroy, something that they had trained for and done many times before, though not quite in this way or even with a confrontation approaching anything like this in mind.
He was touched then, when Neville didn't even blink but moved and Harry settled into a meditative position even as the earth rose to protect him with barely a thought as it formed a thick dome.
Both men trusted each other and they firmly believed that, even if they didn't know what exactly the other was doing, it would be to help each other. The bond, their friendship had been formed years ago and deepened through every shared experience and struggle they had faced.
That was something that Voldemort would never truly be able to understand as he had never fully trusted anyone in his life. Used? Yes. Manipulated? Of course. Trusted? Never.
-HPCOD-
Neville knew that his life could be measured in a few hundred seconds, at best, and only if Voldemort wanted to play with his food as it were.
The Dark Lord, for all of his faults, far outclassed both Harry and Neville in the versatility of knowledge that he possessed even though both of them had studied him and what he knew far more than they ever had Dumbledore over the years.
The three of them differed in raw power as well. Due to the unique ritual that Harry had been through (a fact shared with no one except Hermione and his immediate family which, in both of their minds, included Neville) Harry's power level was in flux but he was in the top tier, the highest rank of wizards as these things were measured. So too was Dumbledore and Voldemort but, not Neville himself.
That wasn't necessarily a bad thing though. Like most things in life that had its drawbacks as well as its pluses and it was more how you used it that seemed to count. That seemed to go doubly for magic and, in one very important respect, much more quickly for the most powerful.
Cast magic was, at its core, the act of shaping your natural magic into a tool that caused a specific effect. The problem was that the more you did that and the more power you put into it, the quicker your magic hardened in shape...for lack of a better term. Usually, for most wizards, this was only of concern when you reached a certain advanced age and had been using magic all of your life, but it happened much earlier for the powerful.
Frankly, the average wizard died of old age before it had any great effect on their magic. It took a long time, or a lot of power for your magic to begin to 'set' and it was a problem that Neville didn't share and likely never would.
This gave Neville a glimmer of hope as his magic, precisely because it was weaker, was more fluid than Voldemort's and hopefully, he could cast some spells far easier (and with less power wasted) than the Dark Lord that currently ruled the country of his birth.
His first spell was murmured and it created twelve images of himself complete with facsimiles of his magical aura. He wanted to begin the battle that he was sure to lose with as many advantages as he could.
Hermione had tried to explain the hows and whys of the hardening of magic to both men but, frankly, it was too much for Neville to understand with all of the equations that she had used and the subjective nature of ones own magic.
Harry had once, over many drinks with him, described the difference in a more general way so that he could understand a difference that he could intellectually grasp the edges of but not feel.
Voldemort's magic was like a massive spear. It was all violence and sharp edges, designed to force his will on the world and it reeked of suffering and blood. Though it could be turned to defensive purposes, it was harder for him as the shape of it inhibited the act. Certain very delicate positive spells were also lost to him and, Neville summarised, that the Dark Lord would make a very bad Healer, likely to do far more harm than good intentionally or not.
His magic simply wasn't that flexible anymore.
Dumbledore's magic favoured flamboyant, orchestral movements and looked more like ropes of glowing power. That was more suited to the few wide-area charms and (of course) transfiguration rather than the darkest of curses and charms in general.
When that part was being explained to him Neville remembered a story that his Grandmother had told him and shared it with the then drunk Harry.
Apparently, by the time that he was twenty-five, the young Dumbledore couldn't do household charms anymore, not effectively. When he tried a simple colour change and resizing charm on his clothes he had ended up with wide flared sleeves and something that looked like a bad hippies tie-dye experiment.
Rather than admit the weakness, this was the reason for Dumbledores hideous fashion sense. He had chosen to let everyone believe that he liked outlandish clothes and styles. He had even ordered tailored robes of an ever-increasing garishness to perpetuate the idea. Neville's Grandmother had been there when he had failed to do such a simple thing and had passed that truth down as an amusing family story to first her son and then her grandson.
Harry's was more a hammer at the moment than anything else. What spells he couldn't do with finesse he tended to smash through by overpowering them as his was still in the process of hardening. Even so, most normal delicate workings tended to be more difficult for him or end with a bad twist.
The trade-off, of course, was that those spells that they had mastered and could use were even more powerful than before and came easier as time went on.
'Though,' Neville thought, 'at the moment that doesn't mean much and the fact that he can't put out a normal candle anymore with magic because it will literally blow up in his face is unhelpful. It is funny though'.
Neville was resolute, well trained and very quick but, as he ducked a vicious dark red ribbon that was meant to rend the flesh from his bones, he could only hope that it was enough to see him through until the end.
-HPCOD-
Harry sighed as he quickly closed his eyes and fell into a light trance. Thanks to his occlumency it was far easier to do this than it would otherwise be and took him almost no time at all. That being said, it wasn't a skill that he regularly practised so a sensory deprivation tank would have been best, so Harry made do with what he had to hand hence the dome and closing his eyes.
All the while he was trying to ignore the fact that the clock was running out on his friend and that very friend was fighting the Dark Lord for his life, possibly his very soul even as he had a pregnant wife at home.
Looking at the darkness of his eyelids in this state caused the world to fall away. The first thing to go was external sound, then internal as even the faint beat of his own heart faded for the moment and then finally, blessedly, his entire world was this soft darkness.
Then many lights shone through, in glorious colours and an almost infinite amount of patterns and variations that was as beautiful as they were calming. It was the wondrous shine of all magic that was near enough to him that he could sense it.
His own magic, largely depleted and temporarily free of the battle, was settled and at rest. Its golden-green glow was easy to see in this state as it hummed contentedly around him. Beyond that was an echo of the same power that had created the dome that he sat in. It was fading now but was entwined with the earth and rock that it had manipulated into its current shape.
Then there was, further away, Neville's power which appeared as a bright golden brown spark to his senses. It lept in agitation and fear, like a fragment leaving a bonfire, as he fought and avoided death by the skin of his teeth. Beneath that, as always with his friend, was a solid base of strength rooted in his character and the fact that he was fighting for those that he loved.
Beyond them both, much further away, was the deep dark blue that Harry associated with the Sirens, the dark and twisted shadows that were Inferi and a kaleidoscope of weaker lights that were fighting wizards. Further on and the weakness of this sight became apparent as, in this state, he was blind to the muggles. If he was closer to them he might have seen the tiny spec of magic that existed in every living thing but, he wasn't so he couldn't.
Voldemort however, was easily within his sight and very distinctive to him and he was easily within range when it came to Harry. He marshalled the full remaining might of his gift as it would be needed now.
His mind, powered by his magic and will, dove full tilt at Voldemort but it wasn't Occlumency that he was attempting but something much more difficult.
Though the mass of thinner lines that branched from the man would be a tempting target and should be easy enough to cut or smash individually. Their strength, however, was magnified by the fact that they were intertwined and interconnected with each other. They were like a braided rope and far too tough together to be cut or untangled with the time that he had available.
Which was a shame because it was clear that, though the connection only ran one way, Voldemort siphoned off a fair amount of power in small lumps from countless sources. It would have been helpful to take that away from the man but that wasn't ever the plan.
Instead, he searched out the darkest of the dark, the most repugnant threads and (when he had settled on those three) he began to squeeze them as his power wrapped around them like thorny vines ripping into flesh. Thankfully, they were the only three not connected to the greater whole though they were connected to each other.
He tore into them with the full fury of his will and infused each attack with the love that he had for his wife, his friends and any that he considered family. His stubbornness began to be rewarded soon enough.
Against that, no matter how deep his fear or the strength of his resolve, Voldemort didn't stand a chance.
He needed to learn and to do so quickly. The love that felt was his shield against the darkness that permeated every single cell of Voldemort's being.
-HPCOD-
Despite his losses (and the towering anger that they caused), Voldemort found himself enjoying this fight against a vastly weaker foe. It wasn't a match of equals but, still, the Longbottom boy was well trained, wily and tenacious despite not having the power to truly compete at this level. He respected the drive, f not the folly, of facing him.
'Is this what it feels like when muggles hunt particularly swift rabbits?' Voldemort idly wondered.
With several waves of his wand dark curses span from his wand, forming a net of power that he was trying to use to enclose the boy. He furthered this with several transfigured animals that Longbottom had to deal with, further slowing the boy down and trap his prey.
Several smaller, albeit much weaker, curses were the boy's response. They made a deep clanging noise against the shield that Voldemort easily created to defend himself and he couldn't help but chuckle at the attempt even as he moved his casting speed up a notch.
"How long do you think you can keep this up before you tire, make a mistake or simply miss and you die, little Longbottom?" Voldemort taunted the boy.
"I'll keep going for as long as I need to do so," was the boy's grim reply and Voldemort couldn't stop him from chuckling again. To his mind, it was a shame that the boy opposed him as such bravery, no matter how misguided or pointless, should be rewarded and not wasted.
An explosive hex literally took the ground out from under Neville's feet, though it disrupted the boy it also caused the fire whip that was meant for his own head to miss. Instead, the volatile construct bit into this side and chest, not enough to kill him but certainly enough to hurt.
Even as he screamed in pain he hit back with two killing curses and they caused the boy to duck and move out of position. The pain in his body had turned Voldemort's admiration of Neville's skill into a wave of roaring anger that would not be denied until the irritant was dead.
Voldemort tasted his victory even as he lined his own wand up, the tip already glowing that famous shade of green, and had an immolation and pain curse in the back of his mind and ready to be cast, just in case.
Only to fall down, screaming in pain with the victory snatched from his grasp and disappearing like smoke on the breeze, as the earthen dome melted away like water and his true nemesis entered his view.
Something in him had changed, something had made him...lesser… but he had no chance to figure out what it was as he would soon be fighting for his life.
-HPCOD-
Harry took stock of the situation in a single glance and, even as Voldemort rose with a thunderous face and Neville weakly rolled away, he exploded into action.
Shards of the earth blew up from the ground and became spears, only to be met with a wall of magic from the dazed and discombobulated older man. Two opposing fire whips met in mid-air with a thunderous crashing sound as they battled and both were deflected away from the other from the force of the impact.
Both men were completely absorbed by their fight, or they seemed to be until Harry spoke to him.
"Your Horcruxes are gone," he said with a smirk, not unlike the one that Voldemort himself had been sporting when he had fought Neville. That statement even had the benefit of being true.
The great strength of those vile things was the fact that they magically connected the soul to the Earth via the objects that were created. The objects themselves had many protections, and anyone who could create one was not someone you wanted to fight.
That being said, there had never been anyone like Harry before. The connections between the two were too delicate, too well hidden for anyone with normal mage sight to see regardless of how well they trained their gift, but not Harry, not after the rituals he went through and the amount that he had practised.
They were unprotected, simply because they had never needed protection and Harry had just exploited that weakness to cut them. Without the magic of the host connecting them, the Horcruxes began to fail immediately and, all throughout the country they did as they literally starved.
Their screams had gone unnoticed, hidden as they were, but the objects were 'dead' all the same and they had been forced onto the next great adventure with no source to feed them.
Both men were bruised and bloody. Both of them were exhausted and the news that he was once again mortal did make Voldemort pause. Harry did forget one thing though and it was a thing that he was reminded of straight away, wounded animals bite and lash out with pure ferociousness.
Voldemort attacked viciously and quickly, surprising Harry and causing him to defend against so many spells at once that the very air seemed to change colour around him. Harry shouldn't have been surprised though as not only was the Dark Lord a complete bastard in every sense of the word but he had been through far too many rituals himself.
Harry was, thanks to similar ones, at the peak of human conditioning but he had understood that there were limits better left alone, lines that you should never cross. Voldemort had barrelled through those barriers with all of the finesse of a tank.
Where Harry was the best human his makeup could make, Voldemort was inhuman in every sense including his bodies endurance. It did have its advantages however, Harry did still have his sanity after all.
Though whether it was the rituals or whether it was the Horcruxes he made no one would ever really be able to say. After all, what came first, the chicken or the egg?
Sadly, that humanity (and weaker constitution) did leave him at a distinct disadvantage at the moment. He could feel the constant attack battering at his defences, could feel the weight of his legs as he slowly lost strength and he tried to dodge everything that was coming as the spells that hit were causing his shields monumental strain.
He knew that it was only a matter of time before even Voldemort burned himself out. He could only hope that it happened before his magic gave out and died in short order.
Harry gasped with near exhaustion and fell to his knees as his legs felt like they had turned to water as there was a natural break in the battle.
Neville knew it too, as he got to his feet and Harry noticed him out of the corner of his eye. He knew Neville well after all this time, he knew what the other man took in.
He knew that Neville could see his weakness, he could see that the odds were against them and that Voldemort was building up to something that was either big or indescribably nasty and Harry would be able to do almost nothing about it.
They both saw the grand gestures that Voldemort was beginning and the gathering darkness leaking like a cloud from his wand. Harry saw Neville's jaw tighten and gathered what he was going to do a fraction of a second after the other man had decided it himself.
"No," Harry screamed as Neville acted as he knew that he would. He dived in front of a curse that was a dark twinning of black and purple and appeared to scream its insidious malice as it headed towards Harry, only to hit the willing flesh of his friend instead.
Even as it took Neville in the back (and he was already convulsing in pain) Harry returned fire. It wasn't a spell exactly but, rather a primal release of magic, the kind of which was much more common before formalised charms or even instruction.
It was his fear, hope, hatred of Voldemort, rage, pain and shock made manifest in pure unadulterated magic. It drained him almost to nothing, he felt it as soon as it was formed but, could find it in himself at that moment to regret its creation, even if it risked his death.
Voldemort knew what it was too, at least in a general sense, and he apparated, knowing without being told that if that touched him he would die. It was better to risk a botched apparition in his mind, that certain death if he stayed.
"Nev," Harry asked quietly, even as he collapsed next to his friend, absently noting that Neville had stopped screaming as quickly as he started and was looking back at him. "Are you okay?"
-HPCOD-
"Not really, no," Neville answered, as he felt something different in him before he looked at Harry critically. "I don't suppose you can apparate to the Healers can you?"
He could feel that whatever Voldemort had done to him was still growing and spreading inside him. At the moment it didn't hurt, it merely felt uncomfortable and that was growing by the second throughout his body.
"'Fraid not, mate," Harry's response was followed by a dark chuckle even as the two young men helped each other to stand as they always had and always would. "I'm afraid that I'm all tapped out at the moment… I can't even transform. All I have is my ability to see magic and even that...well… I can barely see you at the moment".
"Do you always shoot your entire load all at once?" Neville joked. "Poor, poor Hermione".
"Fuck you," Harry grumbled with good humour, even as Neville moved to take his arm and apparate him there himself and that was where things took a horrible turn.
At first, everything felt fine for Neville but, as his magic began to diffuse throughout his body it twisted and splintered. It bit into his system like shards of hot glass and then stayed there, burning like acid.
He collapsed gasping in pain, even as he let go of his magic. Only after he did that did the pain lessen, though it was there now as an echo in the back of his mind and Harry helped him up again.
And it was still continuing to invade every cell of his body.
"Don't use magic for now okay?" Harry asked him. "I get the feeling that it would be very bad for you".
"Couldn't if I wanted to," Neville admitted as they both wordlessly decided to walk towards Arcadia. "You're not the only one with problems at the moment".
"Can't get it up?" Harry began, before mimicking Neville's earlier words. "Poor, poor Hannah".
"She loves me anyway," Neville joked. He didn't notice but, the easy smile that they shared didn't reach Harry's worried eyes.
Eventually, the two exhausted men reached the outskirts of the city, a few minutes later. By that point Harry was already standing straighter, supporting Neville far more than he was being supported, as his magic began to return to him.
They made a study in contrasts in that regard. With every breath, Harry was growing strong, if only marginally, while Neville was getting weaker as Voldemort's spell continued its evil work.
Still, that had nothing to do with the gaping look of shock that Neville sported on his face when he took stock of what he saw.
"Do you like it?" Harry asked him, trying to distract him from the growing pain and feeling of wrongness that he was experiencing. "It does free more wizards and witches to try and help the injured and it kind of reminds me of the old fire brigade in period dramas...you know passing out buckets filled with water?"
What they both saw was a very orderly and focused line of people. It started with a wizard, who took care of the most dangerous parts of the Inferi and then covered their mouths, usually with something conjured or transfigured, or a muggle that blew those same appendages off with a shotgun while another tossing a wad of something (presumably pre-enchanted and made to stick) in their mouths. "Voldemort was smart enough to spell their heads to resist direct magic to the head and standard firearms, it would exhaust a normal wizard to break through three of them and then the rest would be on him. A muggle would simply be dead after the first attempted headshot".
All of this had to happen quickly though, before the magic that animated them could begin to restore them, if only to minimal functionality.
"I understand that, I also understand saving the enchanted rounds as they are hard to make. I can even get behind not wanting to get in range of one to chop its fucking head off," Neville admitted. "But, how do you kill them...wait...is that one of those things Dan showed us a…"
"Woodchipper?" Harry finished for him, even as they watched one of the things being turned into mulch, much to Neville's shock and awe. "Yep. I think they have about forty lines running at the moment, not just this one".
"Wow. A woodchipper really does beat just about anything, doesn't it?" Neville replied.
"It really does," Harry agreed. "Who knew?"
-HPCOD-
Sebastian Delacour was out of his coma, back living with his family and (most importantly for him at the moment) in the Conclave and was just about to address the I.C.W.
In other circumstances, he would be glad that Dumbledore wasn't here as Nysa's previous judgement against the man was about to be expanded to the entire Conclave. He would have enjoyed hunting the man to the ends of the earth if need be and bringing Dark Lord Dumbledore in to face justice as well as the wrath of his family.
If only it wasn't for the chair he was now stuck in he would have taken great pleasure in that, in the panicked and defeated look on his enemies face. Sadly, that was not to be his role in this.
'Still, this is a victory of sorts...or soon will be' he thought.
In all fairness, it was a marvel in and of itself and it was a testament to Hermione's skill as a Healer that he was alive at all. The Healers had tried everything that they could to undo the damage that had been done to him but, curses were designed to resist removal. Their effects were often permanent and only special rare cases (such as the bond of magic that Harry and Hermione share) allowed the victim to effectively fight back and restore full functionality.
They were, by and large, lost to myth and legend. Even if they weren't they were not the kind of things that you could plan for or engineer.
To make a long story short he was stuck in a specially made chair for the rest of his life. He couldn't feel anything below his neck and it was only by his magic, interacting with this uniquely designed artefact, that he was able to move (it floated), go to the toilet (vanishing runes and inbuilt cleaning charms) or read anything (a charmed and inscribed plank of wood that came out of one side of his chair, hovered at eye level and inscribed whatever he was looking at page by page).
The chair's body was handcrafted by Harry and imbued with as much power as he could manage to squeeze into it. It was layered with as many enchantments that it could take without collapsing under the strain, by his wife and his daughters.
It was an act of love from his family, a tribute to how much they cared for him. He also knew that, for Harry, it was partly about the misplaced guilt he felt about not being able to do more. Sebastian didn't blame him though and had told him so often enough.
What Harry was slowly beginning to understand was that not only did Sebastian not hold him or any of his family to blame for his condition, he was actually truly touched by the lengths they had gone to, just to help him.
To him there was one person ultimately responsible for this, one person that held the blame and that he would hold fully to account, was one Albus Dumbledore and he would pay.
"The Scottish Magical Representative is recognised," Gino Cassini, the former Representative of Italy and now the Supreme Mugwump of the I.C.W. spoke with a soft voice that still managed to reach everyone in the room.
"My nation," began Arthur Weasley, "requests and requires the return of one of our own. The citizen in question was taken in the course of his duties and has been held, unlawfully and without trial, by the island nation of Nysa".
"To whom are you referring?" The Supreme Mugwump was quick to ask before this session could devolve into shouting as so many others had before it. To his credit, he ran a tighter ship than his more infamous predecessor and was smart enough to allow Sebastian to answer the question when he signalled using the chair.
It was made of wand wood, after all, a simple Lumos posed no difficulty for him… though it did make the entire chair glow like a small sun for a second and made the Frenchman close his eyes as he knew what was going to happen.
"He is speaking of Kingsly Shacklebolt, a caught spy working at the behest of the Dark Lord Dumbledore, who in the course of his espionage put me in this chair".
The uproar that the Supreme Mugwump was trying to avoid came anyway with those explosive words. When it had reached its peak Cassini was a good enough politician to corral the opposing voices into some sort of order once again and it was only then that Arthur Weasley spoke once more.
"How can we know that, if he hasn't been brought to a fair trial?"
Even as the man spoke Sebastian saw the pain on his face. Weasley knew what Shacklebolt did and these were not his words that he was speaking, they were Dumbledores. He felt a pang of sympathy for the man, tempered by the fact that Weasley had chosen his course and even if he was now regretting it he was still following the course laid out for him.
That pang of sympathy died completely with the man's next words. "Innocent until proven guilty after all".
"It is not the remit of the I.C.W. or any of its Representatives," began the Supreme Mugwump, "to interfere with the legal practices of the criminal justice system of any member country unless we are in direct control of it. Even then, it would be only temporary. Watch what you say, Representative Weasley or we will sanction you for malicious slander against a foreign country and its Representative".
"For clarity's sake," rebutted Delacour, "I will say that Shacklebolt was fairly tried by a special panel that consisted of judges from both Nysa and France".
"So, when will he be released? When will his sentence end?" Weasley pushed.
"Technically it already has," Delacour said with well-concealed glee, "but it would be pointless to give him back to you. What would you do with a corpse?"
"You murdered him!" Arthur gasped in horror.
"Murder implies an illegal act. We brought a criminal to justice, tried him and then executed him for those crimes. Espionage, torture and attempted murder are serious crimes and they deserve a serious sentence".
"You… Butcher". Weasley snarled his reply and looked truly horrified, almost stunned, at the fact that Nysa had killed someone he once viewed as a friend.
"Pot. Kettle. Black Weasley. Remember who...or what it is you serve before you judge me and mine".
"Gentlemen,let's leave this part of the discussion behind," Cassini pointed out quietly. "This argument serves no purpose here".
Then the day got even better for Sebastian even as it got worse for Weasley. Arthur was quite upset at the end of it that Dumbledore was now officially considered a Dark Lord in every I.C.W. member state and, as such, any government that he led was no longer considered valid.
Meaning he was out of the job and was barely able to leave himself rather than end up in prison as an accomplice. This was only because they did not, as of yet, have enough evidence on the government itself to deem it so broken that they would do so.
It did mean that he was able to carry one simple message to Dark Lord Dumbledore.
We are coming. Lay down your arms because we are coming.
-HPCOD-
Voldemort smiled as he marvelled silently at the mystery, wonder and versatility of what he thought of as the highest and most important branch of magic.
He disdained love and disregarded compassion. Any sort of mercy was for the weak and the helpless as far as he was concerned. He found solace in power, intent and most of all his convictions.
Which was why, from the very first time he had heard the term, where others shuddered at the idea of the Dark Arts and shied away from it he saw only the untapped potential of magic.
'Granted,' he thought as his hands were deep in the guts of yet another carcass, 'much of what I am doing now is hardly that. Still, it will do the job'.
The Internationals may think of his country as a breeding ground of monsters and that he was a master of abominations against nature.
He was going to prove them right.
-HPCOD-
"Alright, you scum!" Ron Weasley bellowed, even as he looked scornfully at the new recruits. They were new to the service and, unlike him, only commoners that ordinarily would be far beneath his notice. "Our Lord has commanded that you get the training that benefits all of those brave fellows that bear his mark. By Merlin, I will make sure you get it if it is the last thing that I do".
The pathetic scum, the flotsam and jetsam of wizarding society, had faces that were painfully full of their obvious hope and pathetic need to believe in what he was saying.
'Cannon fodder is always stupid,' he thought with an internal sneer.
Ron was many things on this day but, most of all, he was proud of who he was and what he was doing. His Lord and Minister Parkinson trusted him (as far as he was concerned Potter had never done that) above all others to do this important work. He was unaware that this group was not the only ones being trained in this way, nor was he the only trainer.
Thinking was never his strong point.
Minister Parkinson had managed to survive the poisoning that had taken so many of his staff. His system had been decimated by it though and he looked less of a man these days and more merely a skeleton covered in flesh.
The Minister had changed in other ways since then as his eyes blazed with fanatical purpose now. Where he was once a man that loved the trappings of wealth and nobility almost as much as he loved power, the attack had changed him on a fundamental level.
He was no longer the slightly fat (if you were being respectful or kind, rotund) and jovial middle-aged man that he used to be. He no longer gently used his connections and heritage to push Voldemort's agenda nor did he take advantage of 'perks' as was his due. He had no home life, essentially having put his family behind him, and no doe-eyed mistress warmed his bed.
He now demanded obedience to the cause. There was no fine gift, donation or plea that could dissuade the man. He had no interest in art, no piece of music would distract him, no fine clothes could catch his eye and no interesting story would entertain him.
Dressed in severe and utilitarian clothes, he had become a being of pure purpose and unrelenting will. Despite his weakened physical condition, he was far more dangerous now than he ever was because all he needed were Voldemort's orders and his unrelenting hatred for the people that had done this to him.
Ronald Weasley was under the impression that he was the instrument of that revenge. He also believed that, when he achieved it, his name would be catapulted higher than any in his bloodline had ever dreamed and he was right if only about one thing.
Cannon fodder was always stupid.
-HPCOD-
"Dammit Harry, you have to lead the first contingent," Neville argued, just as he had been trying to do for the last half an hour.
"No, I really don't. I get that you want me to, but I don't have to".
"The I.C.W. agreed that the commander should be someone from Nysa as we were the ones who saw this problem coming," Neville replied.
He spoke to Harry passionately, or as passionate as anyone could be sitting across from a friend in his own kitchen and at his own kitchen table. His face was alight with his feelings and was only marred by his drawn and haggard look which was a remnant of Voldemort's attack.
He looked like he had aged a decade in only a few days, but that was hardly the worst of the spell's effects.
"True," Harry agreed, "but I'm not and never have been one. I'm a wandcrafter, woodworker, occasional soldier…"
"Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy," interrupted Neville.
"Funny. You're right in the fact that we need a commander, I've already admitted that, but amongst other things, I lack patience with people that would be needed for the job. If anything I'm an overpowered skirmisher at best, not a general. Going by myself or leading a small group? Sure. An army though? Never".
"So who do you suggest?" When Harry didn't answer him, the penny dropped for Neville and he looked at his dearest friend in horror. "No Harry, not me, you know I can't and why I can't".
"Of course you can," Harry replied soothingly.
"Really?" Neville half-snarled, even as he lifted his shirt to show hundreds upon hundreds of softly glowing runes clustered around an angry curse scar that entered his back and had caused another wound in the front. Both were hemmed in by the runes that also stretched across his lower ribs. "Even with this?"
"The Mage Eater should have killed you and the runes keep its magic at bay…" Harry began.
"But if I use magic, I weaken and risk breaking the walls you and Hermione have built. If they fall I'll die within minutes and who knows how long I have before it fails anyway".
"Nev," Harry began softly. "You are alive today and you are only at risk when you use active magic. You still have access to potions and runes, not to mention your family".
"But that's my point! How can I command people with magic without it? I've been a wizard my entire life and I have grown up with enough to know that won't work. My bloodlines legacy is at the strongest level it has been in centuries and I don't know how I can fight without it being ready at my fingertips. I don't even know who I am without it".
"I do," Harry answered firmly. "You are Neville Longbottom, my best friend, one of the hardest workers I have ever seen and the most tenacious bastard I know, there is no way that you'll let this beat you. You've never seen a challenge that you haven't overcome or worked around. It would take more than this to break you... if anything can".
The last few words that Harry spoke were said as a direct challenge to Neville and all Harry could hope was that he responded to it.
Thankfully, he did.
-HPCOD-
Later that evening both Harry and Hermione were laying down naked in bed, enjoying both the afterglow of their lovemaking and the closeness of each other. He felt the warm body of the woman he loved rise and fall with soft breaths as she was settled on his chest.
Neither of them was sleeping though, as each was too worried about what had happened to both Neville and Delacour. Harry had another worry though that he wanted to talk through and that was Moody's plan.
"It could be too dangerous to do what he has planned," Harry eventually spoke out into the comfortable silence.
"Moody?" Hermione said. "Of course it could. All life is a risk, ours more than most".
"It's too fast and relies too much on surprise," Harry added.
It wasn't that he didn't understand the risks, nor the benefits of the chosen course but he thought the plan was too risky.
Like Napoleon not taking into account the watery ground of Waterloo, the Romans not anticipating Hannibal crossing the Alps or Alexander not naming a true Heir to his empire the world sometimes turned on the point of a single decision. All he could hope was that this single decision was not the one that killed him.
"What's the old saying?" Hermione mused. "Cut off the head of the snake and the body will die?"
"Yeah," he admitted, then he shrugged. "But in this case, the body is made up of hardcore Death Eaters. We need to learn from the mistakes of the past...even if we win we need to take the carcass of the body too".
"We'll do that. Then, when they are all together, we will burn the fucking thing".
Harry was faintly amused that his normally eloquent wife was swearing but, he didn't mention it aloud as he saw the determined gleam in her eye and agreed with it. Morality considered or not, ethics or not, it was simply a fact to him that some people simply did not deserve to live and allowing them to do so put far too many at risk.
A risk that could not be allowed.
"Did I lie to my friend?" Harry asked his wife, turning the conversation back to his earlier thoughts as he did so.
"That depends," she replied, "on what you told him".
"Basically? Not to worry about the wall that the runes make around his magic or the fact that, if it fails, he will be dead in minutes once it has fallen".
"Then you did the right thing," she replied while looking into his eyes with an understanding look of her own. "It will only hurt him to worry about something that he cannot fix or change… no wall lasts forever".
"That's not really an answer". He paused then, afraid to press the point as he feared the answer but needing to know anyway. "How long have they historically lasted?"
"Hmm…" Harry waited for her to think it through even as her eyes unfocused slightly, staring into the middle distance. After all this time he knew that when she was truly focused on something she could get like this and it was better not to prod her as she searched her memory for an answer. "The Magic Eater spell is rare and its treatment rarer still. It is in a class of spells simply known as Primordial Magic. No one knows who invented the branch, only that it covers all spectrums, moralities and, as the name suggests, they are some of our oldest and most complex workings outside of rituals. They could have been designed by the very first wizards or even the people of Atlantis for all I know but, one thing is certain, they need a strong will and stupid amounts of power to cast successfully".
"Hermione," Harry spoke again softly, trying to keep her from any tangents and on the answer that he sought, "the runes. How long do they last?"
"According to the records that I have seen, anywhere from three months to nine months. But that number is only valid if we trust the historical data and I don't think we should in this case".
"Why not?"
"Because the measurement is subjective. In every case where the runes worked the person providing the power to create them was more powerful than the wizard who took them and that affects the rate at which the runes break down. Now, I'm more powerful than Neville by a wide margin but, don't forget that you crafted the runes as much as I did and you are more powerful than me, Neville and half the Hawks put together".
"I thought runes were static magic?"
"In most cases, they are and are even held up as prime examples of what static magic is. What you have to remember though is that they are not made of his magic but rather a mixture of both of ours and they weren't placed in the traditional place".
"Traditional place?"
"Like a rock, a wall or even clay… something magically neutral. It was used on a wizard, with his own instinctively hostile magic. His own power is fighting against something that is keeping him alive, like antibodies fighting an infection and when you add that to the natural resistance that evolution has built up in us to resist foreign magics… it's not good. The only ways around that are to kill the subject and then carve or massively overpower the runes when first charging them and (also because of that) there is no way of recharging them".
"So," Harry concluded, "it's not so much a case of if they fail, but when. I wish I could share power with him like I can with you. It wouldn't be much but…"
"It would likely recharge the runes," she admitted. "I don't think we are ever going to figure that particular riddle out Harry...as far as anyone can tell it was a unique event that cannot be replicated".
"Besides," he added with somewhat forced levity, "you need something to keep you up at night".
"I thought that's what I married you for?" Hermione snarked with a smile.
"So you did," he agreed and he began to kiss her neck. "How about I keep you up some more?"
"Prat," she answered but didn't disagree anymore after that.
-HPCOD-
Bonecrusher almost snorted at the folly of wizards, particularly those in positions of power like the I.C.W. Granted this was not a new idea and often amused most of the Goblin Nation as they had been alternatively shaking their heads over it or laughing behind wizards backs for years but, still.
It was the responsibility of each member state of the I.C.W. to provide trained Hitwizards and (more often than not when few ever had enough of that select group) Aurors if they were called upon to do so. It was also their duty to provide a provisional commander for each of those units and to equip them as well.
The I.C.W. liked to think of themselves as the Magical version of the U.N. but, to those that were cynical or (in his mind) had any sense they were far closer to its predecessor, the failed experiment known as the League Of Nations. It showed now in the fact that though the I.C.W. did graciously offer to pay for the troop's wages they did little more than check that the other 'boxes' were ticked off.
This meant that generally speaking, that only a few of the units were actually well trained and that all functioned best when they were either left with their original commanders or given a very firm hand and supplementary training. Even with that, most ended up being little more than a rabble but, they tended to have a very large numerical advantage thanks to the sheer number of member states but their gear varied wildly.
In short, to the Goblin Nation's standard, it was piss poor although not all were like that. The most famous and effective units, those of France, Germany, Spain, Italy and Portugal took their obligations seriously.
'As will the be the case for our people,' he thought with glee as his blood began to sing with the echo of the warrior that was buried, so thinly beneath the body of every Goblin whether they were actually armed soldiers or anything else.
Treated firesilk leggings and an under tunic spelled to resist enemy magic were standard for each member of the three hundred strong unit that comprised Nysa's contribution to the first wave. A Goblin Steel Ciricass was added for the high ranking and/or the wealthy among them though everyone else would get touched leather vest interspersed with normal steel links and wizard runes stitched into them. All would get a cotton and firesilk blended cloak and a shrunken and hidden survival pack which also doubled as a first aid kit.
As the Native Americans once used every part of the Buffalo or modern Muggles used plastic, the people of Nysa used the versatility of firesilk (and its magical flexibility assuming the rights treatments, runes and spells) for everything near enough and had been the go-to choice for anything it could be turned to almost since its first successful run.
That meant that, when added to weapons that were created by Goblin's and Wizards in concert and custom wands that had been crafted (in large part at least) by Lord Emrys, they were anything but undersupplied.
Where the people of certain Member States would be fighting to avoid getting chosen to go, in some senses Nysa had the opposite problem. The gear was theirs to keep after all and, more than that, most wanted to fight for what they had found and were building here.
It was his job to make sure that those chosen to go represented only the best of what Nysa had to offer and he was damn sure that he was going to do his job. If he didn't and the Ten didn't kill him for gross incompetence or the Nation feed him to a Dragon, he would kill himself.
His honour demanded no less of him and he was certain that he could make them the best force the I.C.W. had ever seen.
-HPCOD-
Soon the three hundred (not including support and administrative staff) were assembled and due to leave the island. They were going to leave within the hour and join the rest of the host that was forming in a protected area in the outskirts of Paris and, when ready, take the fight to the former homeland of many of their number.
Moody, much to the man's angry yelling, was not going with them. He, instead, had been charged with protecting their home so that no one could get to it while they were away and fighting.
After all, there was no point in fighting for a home if there wasn't one to come home to. Moody, being the soldier that he was, did not like it but he did understand it and his duty. He would keep the home fires burning. Joining him would be the majority of the Hawks (those not trying to be in or chosen for the second wave) along with Lady Abbott.
The majority of the Shadows would either travel with Commander Longbottom or, in the case of the Black ones, ahead of him. He would also be accompanied by a concerned Sirius Black and a vengeance filled Fleur Delacour.
Sirius would stay with Neville and provide the magic that the younger man could no longer use, as and when he needed it, acting as an aide-de-camp of sorts. Fleur, on the other hand, would run a small fifty man strong skirmishing unit that would try and operate ahead of the main host.
Their job was to try and harry the enemy, disrupt supply lines, conduct lighting raids and kill the leaders of the enemy army as quickly and quietly as possible. In short, she was buying the others time with dangerous manoeuvres so that they could try and make the time and place of any full battle favour Nysa over Britain.
They would also provide support for Harry and his small team (not that they knew that was who they were providing it for at the moment) if and when he needed it. Sirius would help Harry too, in a very small way, using a collection of the other man's hairs and strategic use of polyjuice as it was important that Lord Emrys was seen with the main host.
Hermione would head up the Healers, not just the group from Nysa but also those of the entire host when they joined with them. In the same vein, Neville was both the Commander of Nysa as well as the entire Force when they moved together in a day or so.
As for the real Harry, he would connect with the teams already in place and help them behind enemy lines. More than that though, he would move freely, faster on his own than with an army using his honed skills and growing power to cause death in key strategic places anywhere that he went.
Before disappearing amongst the populous like the shadow for which his kind was named.
-HPCOD-
Albus Dumbledore enjoyed a slow and leisurely breakfast, alone in his office save for Fawkes, and for the first time in a long time, he smiled at the sun as it rose past his window.
It was not how he planned it, he knew that, but still, his design was coming together quite nicely despite everything that he had been through and all that he had faced.
"I confess," the man said softly to his familiar even as the Phoenix stayed silent, almost in judgement, "to having had a moment or two of doubt, though that has thankfully passed".
It wasn't that he didn't believe, of course he did, but it seemed to him that every plan that he had made in the last few years had been turned aside, mitigated or simply failed before they could begin. Every ally sent out was either captured, killed or had minimal success and it was enough to shake even him, though he had held to the goal needed to save everything he held dear.
The need to control Harry Potter.
But now the paradigm had shifted, now he would see a version of his plans come to fruition at last. Better than that, when he was finished, any training that Harry had gone through and any skills that he had learned would be where they were meant to be all along, at Dumbledore's disposal.
He knew that the I.C.W, was a slow and bloated thing, far past its prime and had in fact fostered that lethargy when he had headed the body (behind the scenes of course) because it served his purpose then as it did now. He knew that he couldn't face the full might of that organization for long, not if they organised a full force, which they had.
Even if they hadn't done that, simply because he was now wanted as a Dark Lord in every member state he knew he was in trouble. Almost all of them had at least one very powerful individual like himself, Voldermort or even Harry and though most were not quite on his level and tending to be recluses more than anything else he was now a target to anyone wanting reward in any of those places including them.
No one could survive against a concerted attack from the I.C.W. for long, or as a known and committed Dark Lord against them… no one ever had. They instead had found their allies turned against them, their homes destroyed and their reputations ruined until finally they were dealt with.
The most successful of them were Grindlewald and Voldemort (he didn't include himself on the list) and Voldemort was, in theory, the more successful of the two because he had a country in his grip although, by measurement of time, it was Grindlewald as he had a huge following that was utterly devoted to him and was always on the move.
All of which told him that you would need a lot of bodies to protect you and mobility. Even then, he was there when his lover fell and he had seen Voldemort fall once meaning that their methods only bought them time...not freedom.
It might have seemed strange then that he was eating his breakfast with a smile but, he knew that logistically he was well within his rights to be doing so. No matter what they couldn't attack him first, Hogwarts Wards protected mainland Scotland and left only an attack from England which meant they had to deal with Voldemort first.
Voldemort, he knew, would make them pay dearly for every bloody inch of land that they took before (presumably) retreating as the prophecy wouldn't have been fulfilled. He was fairly certain that they would win from sheer numbers but, they would be battered bloody and half-dead before they ever reached him.
He believed that he knew his enemies, that he knew them far better than they knew themselves. They would not pause at England's border and regroup as they probably should.
'They wouldn't, in the impetuousness of youth and stupidity, conceive of the idea that I know what is right. No, they will see a devil that must be brought to heel and face justice. They would want his people, the free thinkers that they were, to be out of their control. When they do I'm sure they will have a few surprises, but so will I".
What he believed about Harry was as true to him as the sun that he was watching in the sky. They would come, of course, and he could never win in the long term but he didn't need to. If Harry was close to the power of himself and Voldemort (with the prophecy he believed that all but certain) he had a method in mind to deal with that.
He needed to hold them to a standstill and take control of Harry Potter. He did not doubt that Harry would be with the army and he could kill two birds with one stone. He would gain control of the body, use him as a political hostage to negotiate from a position of strength and, at the same time, 'guide' the boy down his proper path.
'By the time I'm done, Harry will be thanking me for the opportunity to die and my country will be restored to its proper place. My titles will be returned, reparations will be paid, apologies issued and my reputation will be sterling once more'.
"It's not blackmail or extortion Fawkes," he chided his old friend even as the bird looked at him sorrowfully. "It is the right thing to do, the Greater Good demands it. If there is one thing that I am constantly reminded of now, it is that the only thing that matters, all that can ever matter is the Greater Good. it will not be denied and, without that, all will be lost".
Fawkes crooned softly, perhaps in reproach, perhaps in fear even as Dumbledore ignored it as he had so many times before. He didn't care because, as he contentedly ate his breakfast, he knew that Fawkes wouldn't break their bond.
He was bound by the nature of his kind, he didn't want to die.