A/N I still don't own Harry Pott

He woke far too early, laying in the barn where they had asked him to park his mech. They had offered him a bed, but he refused. He was still too uncomfortable with these people to accept anything from them. These people had claimed to be his family and expected him to just accept it. The only person to even begin to understand him was the old man with the crazy eye and peg leg, a man he could respect as a fellow warrior.

The rest were too soft, they saw themselves as a put-upon group of heroes, who were trying to overthrow an evil self-styled dark lord. They weren't willing to do what needed to be done. They had sixteen years to prepare for the return of the Dark Lord but did nothing. It would have made sense if they thought he was well and truly dead, but Dumbledore, their leader, admitted that he didn't ever think he was gone.

He sat in silence pondering that fact when his father came out.

"Mind if I sit?" James asked, gesturing to the seat that Harry had found in the back. Harry gave a noncommittal grunt.

James stared up at the mech, lost deep in thought. "I won't pretend to know what you've gone through, but if you ever need anything, I'll give whatever help I can."

Deciding to accept the olive branch as it was offered, Harry turned to his father.

"How serious are you about not only fighting but winning this war?"

"Whatever it takes." came the reply without hesitation

"Oh really?" Harry asked, quirking an eyebrow. "Do you know what all that entails?"

"Of course I do."

"Are you ready to kill your enemy? Kill him before he even remotely sees you?"

James gulped but squared his shoulders and nodded his head, a fire burning in his eye.

"Good, that's the easy part," he said. "How about the smell?"

"The smell?" James asked, confused.

"Tell me, how many bodies have you seen?"

"Uh, quite a few, I am an Auror, you know," came the reply, still confused. "A lot of my job is dealing with homicides and the like."

Understanding flashed across his face, "Let me rephrase. How many bodies have you seen, and more to the point smelt, freshly killed, often by your hand, baking out in the hot sun, no magic whatsoever to preserve the body?"

James looked pale but still, Harry pressed on.

"Or how about the idea, that a normally singularly life-changing event: the death of a person in their prime is dead, is now so commonplace to the point that life becomes a footnote? Are you ready for that?" he asked challengingly.

James couldn't meet his eyes. Harry put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Look, this is a war that needs to be won, no question, and chances are you'll be needed on the front lines one day, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Wars are marathons, not sprints."

James looked slightly mollified.

"Now I do need some help though."

"Name it, and it's yours," James said eagerly.

"I need a way to procure more rounds for my gun, I need tools to keep this thing in top working order, and I'll need a workshop."

James thought about it for a moment.

"Well, we have three problems. Problem number one, I have no idea where you can procure more, what do you call them? Oh yes, rounds, frankly I don't know how to buy anything on your list. And also, Lily and I don't have the money you will need for this project. Most of the money is already spent on current operations for the order, as well as for Jack and Rose's Hogwarts tuition. As for who you can talk to, about your other stuff, try Arthur Weasley, he should at least know where to begin."

"Thank you, James," Harry said as he turned to leave.

There was a sudden flash and a silvery phoenix appeared next to James and spoke in Dumbledore's voice.

"James, there has been a kidnapping at the school, the likely suspects have left."

With that, the bird disappeared.

"Taken where?" Harry said, running to his mech.

"Where do you think you're going?" James asked as Harry began his pre-trip checklist and slipped into the meld mode with his mech.

"Simple," Harry said as his mech started mimicking Harry's movements. "I'm going to go save those kidnapped people, just as soon as you tell me where to go."

"Ok, but why?"

"They want these kids for one reason or another, so by default, we don't want them to have them, and if they're comfortable keeping hostages there, it makes sense that we should deprive them of any valuables they have at that location, no?"

An evil smile broke across James' face.

"A prank worthy of the marauders!"

"A prank?" asked Harry, confused. "I was under the impression that pranks were, for the most part harmless, not whatever this is."

"I suppose you're probably right. I'll have to think on this for a bit."

"Where exactly am I going?" Harry asked.

"Right! I'll side-along apparate you."

They appeared on a hill overlooking a large stretch of land with a large, sinister-looking tower looming in the distance, casting a shadow across the land.

"There it is," James said.

"Why are we so far out?"

"Because this is far out as you can go without being in the anti apparition wards' reach."

Harry nodded his head in understanding, "If I'm not back in 30 minutes, get back up."

"I'm coming with you," James said, moving as if to begin the long trek.

Like hell you are," Harry said, grabbing the man and stopping him from running off towards the tower.

"Why are you so dead set on going in there and getting yourself killed?"

"You need me, "James said in response. "Someone will need to get you through the wards."

Harry began laughing, and before he could explain, James cut him off.

"What's so funny?"

"How would you say the wards around your house are?"

"Some of the best in Britain if not the world. Our ancestor, Ignotus Peverell, built Belladonna House in the year 1244, location Gloucestershire. When Hardwin Potter married Ignotus Peverell's grandaughter, Iolanthe, Belladonna House passed into the Potter estate. Ignotus himself wove the enchantments into the wards, and each subsequent Earl of Gloucestershire has added something to the wards. For example, just last year, I had a consultant from Gringotts do an audit of our wards. The consultant said it was one of the strongest they've seen."

Harry looked thoughtful.

"And how long has this eyesore been here?"

"Lucius Malfoy, a Death Eater who used the imperius defense, filed the paperwork for a new house about ten years ago. They began construction not long afterwards."

"I was testing my mech against your wards, and with a little bit of pressure I could have broken through. Do you think that wards, even done by a powerful wizard such as this Volemort are any match for seven hundred year old reinforced wards?"

"No, of course not."

"Then you need to stay here, we don't know each other's fighting style yet. You'll just get in my way, and me in yours, so please go back and inform Dumbledore it is being taken care of."

Nodding sullenly, James acquiesced. Harry watched as James walked back down the hill, and twisted and with a muted pop apparated back to Belladonna House. Steeling himself for what was to come, Harry began jogging towards the tower.

Contrary to some people's beliefs, he did not enjoy killing, but he saw the cold hard logic of it. Sparring with an enemy that intended to kill you just gave them another chance. To do so, Harry remembered the first time he had to kill a person, and not a faceless enemy. It was a Margovian barbarian. Harry had just disabled his mech, and had removed the helmet.

He could still see the hate filled eyes of someone who would stop at nothing to kill him. Harry had given the man the opportunity to surrender, and turn his mech over the way the rite of conquest demanded. The man instead lunged at his lightly defended armpit, the known weakness of all Mosquito class mechs, with a long dagger and nearly was able to stab Harry in the axillary artery. Luckily he was able to get to a healer before he bled out, but he still carried a horrific scar as a reminder.

Usually he was pretty good at distinguishing between those who would surrender and leave, and those who would take advantage of your naivete to stab you in the back without an ounce of remorse. All mercenaries had to develop a sixth sense for those things. Mechs sold for a lot more when a person could just reprogram the core, which could not happen if the previous pilot died while still melded. No amount of coin was worth your life, so you killed the fanatics.

Harry stopped at the front door, an imposing structure that was tall enough he was sure he could maneuver without fear of being stuck. And even if he was stuck, he had his trusty sword, a masterwork of engineering a weapon befitting a warrior. He walked up to the door and kicked.

The door folded like a cheap suit. Stepping through the now empty doorway, he felt a tingle as he passed through the wards. He could feel them strain against his multiton momentum, but they were no match and soon popped like a balloon.

He smiled grimly as thirty men and women went for their wands, many of them placed haphazardly, strewn across any open place or in the back pockets of those who were marginally better prepared. Before even a single spell was cast all thirty of them lie dead, their blood pooling around their bodies, the entrance peppered with bullet holes from a single spray of his arm cannon.

These had been men and women toasting one another, drinking to the Dark Lord's ascendence, toasting the winning side, the victory over Mudblods and blood traitors. To them this was a celebration, a celebration of the inevitable rise and victory of the dark lord, so when a hunk of steel burst through the front door and in the process breaking the wards.

They were stunned, they could not fathom what had just happened. Those few seconds had cost them everything. Thirty nameless mooks lie dead, all because they could not foresee the impossible. Harry supposed he should cut them some slack from what little he had both studied and observed from this world, these magic wielders thought armor beneath them. Even the non-magicals only used tanks as heavy weapon platforms. He supposed it was made since a pilot's magic was used for the meld, and the non-magicals had no magic, but these wizards should know better, but they didn't.

If there was one thing he knew, it was war. It was far easier to shock the enemy into submission, then it was to fight them after they had become entrenched. He knew he had changed the world forever, just by showing up with the hardware he did. This piece of architecture was once essentially a fortress and now to be the tomb of many of his enemies.

Step after reverberating step, death followed in his wake, sword and gun working together in perfect harmony, leaving behind only a train of bifurcated bodies, dismembered limbs as every obstacle in his way was blasted apart.

It drowned out the pleas of the dying, many calling out for gods they had long ago thrown to the wayside as enlightened thinkers, only now crawling back, praying for one last reprieve.

Still others for their mothers, for the comfort they had known as children.

All of it was silenced by the rattle of the chain gun spewing death.

He was the angel of death, he was the avenging angell and he was coming to collect his due.

His sword scything through the few who managed to survive the onslaught, stopping spells mid cast, silencing cies for loved ones, the blade dealt death quickly and indiscriminately leaving behind it a trail of unfinished work.

He stalked onward, ignorant of the few spells that managed to connect with his armor. The spells to disrupt a mech from the outside where archaic and hard to cast. Mechs were built as a response to enemy sorcerers calling down death on the rest of the infantry. What started as a defense of the infantry soon gained popularity as a discipline all its own. Moving from destroying sorcerers it soon turned into an arms race to kill or be killed by mechs.

A door stood strong against the flying shrapnel, almost mocking in its strength. His steps turned from wanton slaughter to a more purposeful stride towards that door and to punish it for its insolence. Upon opening it inside he found a nicely furnished conference room, a crystal chandelier casting refracted light across a wall and a highly polished table. He found himself looking directly into the eyes of Lord Volemort, the black slits surrounded by blood red iris, hatred burning in them, looking for an outlet.

"This is only the beginning," he said as he Disapparated away.

In quick succession those others in the room left.

Continuing to stalk the rest of the corridors, he could find no more people. Satisfied he had either killed or forced the enemy to retreat, he was just about to leave when he heard the faint banfging coming from upstairs. Deciding that his mech was too heavy to safely climb the stairs, he quickly dismounted and went to check on the noise.

Mindful of a likely ambush, he came to a door with locks on the outside, and pounding coming from within. Drawing his sword he called out, "Step away from the door, I'm going to open it, no funny business, I'm armed!"


Daphne Greengrass did not remember what had happened before. Now, she woke up in an unfamiliar room lit only by a flickering candelabra. As she stood up, she discovered she was still wearing the simple, loose white nightgown she had worn to bed.

She found the door locked, and when she looked around, she found many of her classmates. Daphne's best friend, Tracy Davis, walked slowly over.

"What's going on?" she whispered.

Just as Daphne was about to answer, the peep hole on the door opened and a rough voice said, "You're all prisoners of the Dark Lord. One of your family will take the Mark, and donate one quarter of their wealth to forward the cause. Then and only then, will you be let go."

With that, the peep hole slammed shut, leaving the room in relative darkness. Someone sniffled. It was a small first year with tears streaming down her face.

"I'm Daphne," she said, not unkindly.

"Ayla Shafiq," the girl said.

Shafiq. The family had immigrated from Iraq to Pakistan. Soon after, their talent in wards and magical law made them rich. They had moved from Pakistan to England just a few years before Ayla must have been born. The Shafiqs' familial ambition made them more likely to be sorted into Slytherin, but Ayla had a thick Ravenclaw blanket wrapped around her.

"Look, Ayla, I'm sure that we'll be rescued here soon." she said with as much conviction as she could, hoping the small girl couldn't pick up on her own hesitation.

Daphne had heard of similar kidnappings during the First War. The victims were never found. She pulled the tiny girl up onto her lap and began stroking her dark hair. The young child smiled and closed her eyes. Daphne felt the evenness of her breathing as Ayla Shafiq fell asleep on her lap.

She was scared, and she couldn't even imagine how scared the younger ones must be. For the first years it was their first time away from home, to a place they were they were told was the safest place in Magical Britain, only to find themselves kidnapped by crazy psychos, to used as bargaining chips in a crazy man's bid for power. She silently vowed to herself that she would never join the Dark lord, and more importantly protect others like the girl sleeping in her arms.

Just as she was about to close her own eyes, a sudden explosion rocked the whole building to its core. She looked up worriedly as a bit of rock dust seemed to shake loose from the ceiling, but then relaxed when nothing else happened. Ayla began to shift as if to wake up.

"Wha… What was that?" Ayla asked.

"I'm not sure, go back to sleep," Daphne said soothingly, gently placing her head back on her lap. She sat for a while in fear, wondering what was happening outside these four walls.

Hearing only the clomping of feet she was about to relax when suddenly she felt the magic snap, before she could even comprehend what happened she heard what sounded like a long, sustained thunderclap.

Everyone crowded around her, trying to hear what was going on.

"Sounds like gunfire to me," said a young Hufflepuff second year, an American transfer student. His father had moved to England to work with Lucius Malfoy, no wonder why he was here.

"Gun -what?" someone asked.

"Gunfire is produced by a gun. A gun is a muggle weapon that shoots out little metal pieces called bullets."

"How do you know this?" the person asked again.

"Well you see," he said, hesitantly, obviously unsure of how to react to being the center of attention, especially the older students, "m-my Mom is a - a muggleborn, and she used to take me to my Pa's ranch and he taught me to shoot."

They listened in silence as the gunfire continued. Eventually the gunfire stopped and they were met with silence, the type of silence that feels odd after constant sound over a prolonged period of time.

"What are you doing?" Daphne asked as Theodore Nott made his way to the door and began pounding on it.

"I am hoping that whoever is out there will take pity on us and rescue us."

Soon Daphne found herself surrounded as everyone in the room began pounding on the door hoping for a rescue. She was about to join in when she heard a voice calm, cool and collected speak from behind the door.

"Step away from the door, I'm going to open it, no funny business, I'm armed!"

The older ones of the group pulled the youngest members towards the back wall, away from danger. Theodore grabbed the candelabra sitting on the table and positioned himself as if to get a swing if man on the other side was hostile.

"You need to disable the locking enchantments on the door."

She was prepared to hear the mumbling of a man trying to get through the enchantments. Instead sshe gasped as the blade of the sword materialized right above the lock and proceeded to instead cut right through the lock.

On the other side of the door stood a man, about her age, standing at around six feet tall, well muscled, wearing some kind of leather jacket and jeans, cutting a rather impressive figure. But what caught her attention the most were his vibrant, jade green colored eyes that seemed to look straight into her soul.

"Miss Daphne Greengrasss" she said holding her hand out to shake.

"Harry Potter, at your service," he said, gently returning the handshake.

"Harry Potter?"

She felt her knees go weak, this wasn't possible. She felt herself slump into his arms as she lost consciousness. Harry Potter was dead, every wizarding child knew that.

A/N thank you ChiaroscuroGirl for your beta!