Darkness
by Iejasu
Many thanks to my proofreader Llarian :) She is great :)
Chapter 5 - Making use of what is there
Malfoy Manor glittered in the dusk as if it was covered by thousands of jewels.
Many tiny house elves held candles to the arriving guests, dressed in luscious robes
as they stepped onto the red carpet that led from the gate to the entrance of the manor.
The ladies looked charming while the gentleman looked formidable.
Small talk was exchanged in the usual polite manner. In former times the revels of the
death eaters had been in secret, but now everything was changed. The death eaters were
respectable men and supporting Voldemort was considered appropriate behaviour.
A reporter from Witches Weekly stood not far from the arriving guests and made notes
for his article and the photographer made sure that every single one of the stunning
robes would appear in the next edition together with the article.
Narcissa Malfoy was first lady of the luscious wizarding community of Britain, every
witch of taste wanted to know exactly how she dressed and how she spent her day.
She was the leading role model for wizarding fashion and style.
Draco Malfoy was every young witches dream. A dashing young hero with a striking smile
and perfect manners.
His father, Lucius Malfoy was no less than the right hand of the all mighty Fuehrer,
Voldemort.
Champagne was served to the guests and the music invited some of the younger couples
to dance.
The robes swished over the polished dancing floor. Young debutantes of this
grand community eagerly displayed their belonging to this radiant vision of the
wizarding world.
After dinner the inner circle withdrew politely into the library, discussing more
private matters over a glass of port and a fine cigar.
Lucius Malfoy straightened his elegant robes, posing in front of the open fireplace,
one foot nonchalantly placed on a stool as he told his newest anecdote.
The epitome of a winner.
"He had gutted her! I just wonder, did he gut her before he fucked her or afterwards?"
Lucius Malfoy laughed about his joke and his son as well as the other guests quickly
joined in.
Draco, always eager to please his father, added something.
"Severus might have enjoyed that. He always thought that Granger was a know it all,
maybe now he knows everything himself after posing as an augur and reading in her entrails..."
The laughter increased. It was not wise to forget that Draco was the crown prince.
"Snape the Augur. That is good!"
Lucius Malfoy grinned and clasped his sons shoulder in appreciation.
He pulled a small picture from his breast pocket and handed it to his son. It was a
shot made from the distance with a wizarding camera. One could see Snape on it and
the girl on his arms definitely looked like Granger. Wordlessly he allowed his son
to study the picture.
Draco admired it, tilting his head in thought.
"Potter will probably find it very interesting to know what became of his little girlfriend!"
Suddenly the flames in the fireplace changed and a head popped out.
"Pettigrew Manor has been raided by the resistance!"
The present inner circle turned pale and Lucius started swearing, throwing his glass
into the fireplace.
The glass flew though the projection and even though the man flinched, he did not
shrink back. "Pettigrew is dead!"
The room, first deadly silent, now erupted in noise.
"Potter and his band of marauders will pay for that!" Lucius roared as he turned to
deliver the news to the Dark Lord.
******
Harry Potter, leader of the resistance, entered the BBC Building and,
looking casually enough, passed the old porter who smiled at the young
man. Harry had made sure that he would think him as a member of the staff, some
delivery boy or something along the line.
Inside the BBC Broadcast building was something called the "Stronghold", down
in it's labyrinthine basement which is, in fact, an old WW2 bunker, build in 1941.
He passed the doors to the "Stronghold" and climbed down the staircase, that had
been named by muggles "The Stairway to Nowhere", because to them it ended in a brick
wall. Potter walked up to the brick wall and passed through it, very much like
the entrance to the platform 9 3/4 on King's Cross.
After rearranging his spectacles, he glanced around, nodding to various families
camping on the abandoned Bakerloo platform. This place was just perfect. It even
had a well, so there was enough fresh water. Hidden deep below muggle London it was not
within the actual perimeter of the wizarding parts of London, like Knockturn Alley or
Diagon Alley that were now dangerous to anybody not loyal to Voldemort. One of his many
projects was to build a tunnel to Diagon Alley.
London itself with its Underground tunnels was the perfect hiding place for the
resistance.
Nodding to some refugees he recognised, he passed through the groups of people lying
around on mattresses, their meagre belongings spread on the floor or hanging from the
walls and ceilings. Privacy was a luxury that only the sick and the dying could be granted,
sometimes only accomplished in death. The true reason for this was not the respect for
the dying but the bad influence the sight of death had on the living. There was nothing
sacred left in dying. It had become an everyday sight.
He climbed over some people, unaware of the smell that emanated from unwashed bodies, sickness
and poverty. A small child grabbed for his trousers, trying to get his attention but he hardly
took notice. All he could think of was last nights' raid. They had been successful but the cost
had been high.
Sometimes he wondered why he continued fighting. He was so tired. Maybe he only continued because
he could either fight or die. He could never join Voldemort, become one of the now respected
death eaters. The "Boy who Lived" had become "The Man who Still Fought", and the people
expected him to be their saviour. But when everybody was sleeping and those around him had
finally become silent, the tiny voice within him was audible. The tiny voice that asked him
unpleasant questions.
Harry Potter, how many lives have you taken?
Are you any different from Voldemort?
So much blood on your hands. Is this fight really worth it?
Will there ever be an end to the fighting?
Will you ever live to see peace?
Would there be peace if you would give up and surrender?
What are you fighting for?
Would those around you not have a better life under Voldemorts reign than sitting here,
in this dirt and darkness, hoping for deliverance that might never come?
Are you an impostor who claims he will rescue them?
Are you going to fail?
Every night those questions kept him awake until exhaustion made the voices inside his
head shut up.
He entered the small room that adjoined the platform and provided at least a minimum
of privacy. On his desk he found a list.
Mary Waters - dead
Stella Constables - injured
Arielle Bready - lost
Seamus Finnegan - dead
Fred Weasley - injured - recovery questionable
Harry stared at the list of the last casualties. Most of them were in what they
called the infirmary, even though it was still crude. Poppy worked restlessly to
keep them alive and/or to ease their pains. Not much more she could do. Their
supply of potions was low and the medi witch could not brew the most potent potions
available. She simply lacked the abilities and the talent of a true potion master.
But the risk of contacting Snape for the more complex ones was simply too great.
He was not very eager to help. The last time he had contacted him to brew some
potions, the acid tongue of the spy had reprimanded him like a school boy.
What was more important? Saving the lives of some decent wizards or keeping the
spy alive? The old Harry would have probably thought that saving lives of the
decent was more important than keeping the slimy git alive but H.J. Potter had
learned. Snape, as much as he disliked him, still had his uses. But every time
he experienced the acid comments of his ex-teacher, only one thought kept him
from cursing that disagreeable git. The thought that the day would come when Snape
would loose his value.
Harry sat down, sighed and cleaned his glasses. A habitual gesture, revealing
his tiredness.
Ron entered the office, dust in his hair and looking weary.
"Are you sure that this muggle technique of giving blood from one person to another
will work?" His voice sounded doubtful.
Harry frowned. "Well, the chances are good. I talked to Poppy. You and Fred are close
relatives, so your blood might be compatible. If George would be here, we would ask him.
We don't have the facilities to test it but Poppy has read up on some muggle books and
is quite positive. If our blood is like that of a muggle."
Ron winced at the mentioning of George. He was not ready to loose yet another brother to
the war. His tone of voice started to show despair.
"But what if not? Why can't we get a decent blood infusion potion? Or send someone
to get the ingredients for it!"
Potter's fist slammed onto the table. "Because we don't have that bloody infusion potion!
And I will not send somebody out to look for the ingredients in the forbidden forest
nor can I contact Snape. I will not risk more lives. We have to make do with _what_ we have!"
Ron took a step back. His old friend Harry had changed during the years, his temper becoming
more violent, his scruples diminishing. Ron did not envy Harry and was glad not having to decide
on whom to send out on some deadly mission, knowing that some of them would not come back.
But sometimes he wondered where his old school friend had vanished to. Sometimes he even hated
Harry, wanted to scream at him, shake him so he would become the old Harry he remembered.
But then he reminded himself that it had been a price that Harry had to pay for being a leader.
And the same voice reminded him that Harry needed a friend, someone he could depend on.
And Ron Weasley had always been the friend of Harry Potter. So he kept silent, ignoring
those treacherous thoughts. Sometimes Ron wondered why he had not been sorted into Hufflepuff....
The war had changed Harry. And Ron had to admit that Harry was not the only one.
He had changed, too.
Weasley's face twisted at the mentioning of Snape.
"Is there no other potions master available?"
Wearily Potter shook his head. "No-one we could trust..."
Ron sneered. "Don't tell my you are trusting that ugly bat."
His hatred for Snape had never been diminished even tough Snape claimed to be on their side.
Sometimes he wished that the slimy git would get what he deserved.
"No, I don't."
Ron's shoulders slumped as he walked out, realising that some obscure muggle medicine
would be the only hope for his brother...
TBC....
*****
For information on the "The Stairway to Nowhere"...
Go to http://www.starfury.demon.co.uk/uground/deeplevel.html
by Iejasu
Many thanks to my proofreader Llarian :) She is great :)
Chapter 5 - Making use of what is there
Malfoy Manor glittered in the dusk as if it was covered by thousands of jewels.
Many tiny house elves held candles to the arriving guests, dressed in luscious robes
as they stepped onto the red carpet that led from the gate to the entrance of the manor.
The ladies looked charming while the gentleman looked formidable.
Small talk was exchanged in the usual polite manner. In former times the revels of the
death eaters had been in secret, but now everything was changed. The death eaters were
respectable men and supporting Voldemort was considered appropriate behaviour.
A reporter from Witches Weekly stood not far from the arriving guests and made notes
for his article and the photographer made sure that every single one of the stunning
robes would appear in the next edition together with the article.
Narcissa Malfoy was first lady of the luscious wizarding community of Britain, every
witch of taste wanted to know exactly how she dressed and how she spent her day.
She was the leading role model for wizarding fashion and style.
Draco Malfoy was every young witches dream. A dashing young hero with a striking smile
and perfect manners.
His father, Lucius Malfoy was no less than the right hand of the all mighty Fuehrer,
Voldemort.
Champagne was served to the guests and the music invited some of the younger couples
to dance.
The robes swished over the polished dancing floor. Young debutantes of this
grand community eagerly displayed their belonging to this radiant vision of the
wizarding world.
After dinner the inner circle withdrew politely into the library, discussing more
private matters over a glass of port and a fine cigar.
Lucius Malfoy straightened his elegant robes, posing in front of the open fireplace,
one foot nonchalantly placed on a stool as he told his newest anecdote.
The epitome of a winner.
"He had gutted her! I just wonder, did he gut her before he fucked her or afterwards?"
Lucius Malfoy laughed about his joke and his son as well as the other guests quickly
joined in.
Draco, always eager to please his father, added something.
"Severus might have enjoyed that. He always thought that Granger was a know it all,
maybe now he knows everything himself after posing as an augur and reading in her entrails..."
The laughter increased. It was not wise to forget that Draco was the crown prince.
"Snape the Augur. That is good!"
Lucius Malfoy grinned and clasped his sons shoulder in appreciation.
He pulled a small picture from his breast pocket and handed it to his son. It was a
shot made from the distance with a wizarding camera. One could see Snape on it and
the girl on his arms definitely looked like Granger. Wordlessly he allowed his son
to study the picture.
Draco admired it, tilting his head in thought.
"Potter will probably find it very interesting to know what became of his little girlfriend!"
Suddenly the flames in the fireplace changed and a head popped out.
"Pettigrew Manor has been raided by the resistance!"
The present inner circle turned pale and Lucius started swearing, throwing his glass
into the fireplace.
The glass flew though the projection and even though the man flinched, he did not
shrink back. "Pettigrew is dead!"
The room, first deadly silent, now erupted in noise.
"Potter and his band of marauders will pay for that!" Lucius roared as he turned to
deliver the news to the Dark Lord.
******
Harry Potter, leader of the resistance, entered the BBC Building and,
looking casually enough, passed the old porter who smiled at the young
man. Harry had made sure that he would think him as a member of the staff, some
delivery boy or something along the line.
Inside the BBC Broadcast building was something called the "Stronghold", down
in it's labyrinthine basement which is, in fact, an old WW2 bunker, build in 1941.
He passed the doors to the "Stronghold" and climbed down the staircase, that had
been named by muggles "The Stairway to Nowhere", because to them it ended in a brick
wall. Potter walked up to the brick wall and passed through it, very much like
the entrance to the platform 9 3/4 on King's Cross.
After rearranging his spectacles, he glanced around, nodding to various families
camping on the abandoned Bakerloo platform. This place was just perfect. It even
had a well, so there was enough fresh water. Hidden deep below muggle London it was not
within the actual perimeter of the wizarding parts of London, like Knockturn Alley or
Diagon Alley that were now dangerous to anybody not loyal to Voldemort. One of his many
projects was to build a tunnel to Diagon Alley.
London itself with its Underground tunnels was the perfect hiding place for the
resistance.
Nodding to some refugees he recognised, he passed through the groups of people lying
around on mattresses, their meagre belongings spread on the floor or hanging from the
walls and ceilings. Privacy was a luxury that only the sick and the dying could be granted,
sometimes only accomplished in death. The true reason for this was not the respect for
the dying but the bad influence the sight of death had on the living. There was nothing
sacred left in dying. It had become an everyday sight.
He climbed over some people, unaware of the smell that emanated from unwashed bodies, sickness
and poverty. A small child grabbed for his trousers, trying to get his attention but he hardly
took notice. All he could think of was last nights' raid. They had been successful but the cost
had been high.
Sometimes he wondered why he continued fighting. He was so tired. Maybe he only continued because
he could either fight or die. He could never join Voldemort, become one of the now respected
death eaters. The "Boy who Lived" had become "The Man who Still Fought", and the people
expected him to be their saviour. But when everybody was sleeping and those around him had
finally become silent, the tiny voice within him was audible. The tiny voice that asked him
unpleasant questions.
Harry Potter, how many lives have you taken?
Are you any different from Voldemort?
So much blood on your hands. Is this fight really worth it?
Will there ever be an end to the fighting?
Will you ever live to see peace?
Would there be peace if you would give up and surrender?
What are you fighting for?
Would those around you not have a better life under Voldemorts reign than sitting here,
in this dirt and darkness, hoping for deliverance that might never come?
Are you an impostor who claims he will rescue them?
Are you going to fail?
Every night those questions kept him awake until exhaustion made the voices inside his
head shut up.
He entered the small room that adjoined the platform and provided at least a minimum
of privacy. On his desk he found a list.
Mary Waters - dead
Stella Constables - injured
Arielle Bready - lost
Seamus Finnegan - dead
Fred Weasley - injured - recovery questionable
Harry stared at the list of the last casualties. Most of them were in what they
called the infirmary, even though it was still crude. Poppy worked restlessly to
keep them alive and/or to ease their pains. Not much more she could do. Their
supply of potions was low and the medi witch could not brew the most potent potions
available. She simply lacked the abilities and the talent of a true potion master.
But the risk of contacting Snape for the more complex ones was simply too great.
He was not very eager to help. The last time he had contacted him to brew some
potions, the acid tongue of the spy had reprimanded him like a school boy.
What was more important? Saving the lives of some decent wizards or keeping the
spy alive? The old Harry would have probably thought that saving lives of the
decent was more important than keeping the slimy git alive but H.J. Potter had
learned. Snape, as much as he disliked him, still had his uses. But every time
he experienced the acid comments of his ex-teacher, only one thought kept him
from cursing that disagreeable git. The thought that the day would come when Snape
would loose his value.
Harry sat down, sighed and cleaned his glasses. A habitual gesture, revealing
his tiredness.
Ron entered the office, dust in his hair and looking weary.
"Are you sure that this muggle technique of giving blood from one person to another
will work?" His voice sounded doubtful.
Harry frowned. "Well, the chances are good. I talked to Poppy. You and Fred are close
relatives, so your blood might be compatible. If George would be here, we would ask him.
We don't have the facilities to test it but Poppy has read up on some muggle books and
is quite positive. If our blood is like that of a muggle."
Ron winced at the mentioning of George. He was not ready to loose yet another brother to
the war. His tone of voice started to show despair.
"But what if not? Why can't we get a decent blood infusion potion? Or send someone
to get the ingredients for it!"
Potter's fist slammed onto the table. "Because we don't have that bloody infusion potion!
And I will not send somebody out to look for the ingredients in the forbidden forest
nor can I contact Snape. I will not risk more lives. We have to make do with _what_ we have!"
Ron took a step back. His old friend Harry had changed during the years, his temper becoming
more violent, his scruples diminishing. Ron did not envy Harry and was glad not having to decide
on whom to send out on some deadly mission, knowing that some of them would not come back.
But sometimes he wondered where his old school friend had vanished to. Sometimes he even hated
Harry, wanted to scream at him, shake him so he would become the old Harry he remembered.
But then he reminded himself that it had been a price that Harry had to pay for being a leader.
And the same voice reminded him that Harry needed a friend, someone he could depend on.
And Ron Weasley had always been the friend of Harry Potter. So he kept silent, ignoring
those treacherous thoughts. Sometimes Ron wondered why he had not been sorted into Hufflepuff....
The war had changed Harry. And Ron had to admit that Harry was not the only one.
He had changed, too.
Weasley's face twisted at the mentioning of Snape.
"Is there no other potions master available?"
Wearily Potter shook his head. "No-one we could trust..."
Ron sneered. "Don't tell my you are trusting that ugly bat."
His hatred for Snape had never been diminished even tough Snape claimed to be on their side.
Sometimes he wished that the slimy git would get what he deserved.
"No, I don't."
Ron's shoulders slumped as he walked out, realising that some obscure muggle medicine
would be the only hope for his brother...
TBC....
*****
For information on the "The Stairway to Nowhere"...
Go to http://www.starfury.demon.co.uk/uground/deeplevel.html