Disclaimer: I own nothing, nada, and as of the moment, I'm very, very broke. SO DON'T SUE ME!
A/N: Yeah, this is depressing. Yeah, I know, after a disappearance from this site for what seems like forever, this is a pathetic attempt at posting, but hey, I'm a busy girl. So, let's see if we can't get me some reviews – I love them – and I'll attempt to post a little more than once a year! Go ahead, flame if you like – it's still cold in Arkansas!
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"Mr. Potter!"
Harry whirled around to see a boy who looked to be no older than fifteen running toward him. But with instincts sharpened from living for nearly eleven years in a state of perpetual anxiety, he intuitively knew that something was seriously wrong. Not, he admitted, that things hadn't been wrong for quite some time now, yet something about the frenzied desperation in the kid's eyes sent his own pulse into overdrive.
"What's going on?" Harry demanded, grabbing the kid by the shoulders, a bit more roughly than he'd intended, but unable to resist being caught up in the boy's panic.
"They're here!"
"Listen to me! Who's here? Where's Remus?" Harry glanced around. Lupin was supposed to have been running interference for him for the next couple of hours, so where was he?
"He left! He said to tell you the Muggles know, that they're here." The teen was calming now, clinging to the reassurance that he'd done as he'd been told, but his words only spurred Harry's fear.
The wizarding world had been in what was basically a civil war for over a decade now. Harry, as major general for the Light Side, had recently destroyed what little control the Ministry still held over the law-abiding population of his world in a last-ditch effort to stop the endless warfare.
Voldemort's recent acquisition of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons had only strengthened his resolve, and although Harry's decision to use whatever methods he needed to regain some semblance of control over the few schools still operating the midst of the destruction had been ridiculed by many, he'd refused to give up. And soon after he'd been elected to his current position, he'd used his new authority to place a state of martial law over the few auror-occupied cities, firm in his belief that, for the children's sake, this had to stop.
Harry had no illusions that things could go back to the way they had been; he'd lived like this for too long, and the war had robbed him of any belief in human nature he might once have had. He wasn't certain, even now, if he would have the strength to grant amnesty to those monsters when the moment finally came; he'd seen too much for that to be so easy a decision. But the children -- those of his friends, and others -- had to be protected from the cruelties that ruled their parents' lives. If something wasn't done, and quickly, Voldemort's sporadic attacks on Muggle cities would escalate into a battle that could destroy the wizarding world, and he would not allow that to happen.
And yet, despite his best efforts, it seemed he'd been too late.
Caught up in his own thoughts, Harry had ignored the implication of what was happening. Forget Voldemort, forget the war; they were facing the total annihilation of everything he'd worked so hard to save. Now the boy's slight tug on his hand snapped him out of his reverie.
"Mr. Potter?"
He had to go, to fight. Not Voldemort, this time, but an entire world, a world desperate to protect themselves from a way of life they couldn't understand. He was running for the door when they dropped the bomb.
The explosion hadn't been close by; if it had been, he would already be dead. Harry was already figuring this out, even as he staggered to his feet: the shockwaves had toppled him like a house of cards. He reached out, bracing himself against the wall, and was mildly surprised that it seemed to be wavering slightly under his fingertips. He shouldn't have been surprised, though; he had gone down hard . . . .
The wall really was wobbling. The realization finally hit him. The building was collapsing, with everyone he cared about still trapped inside. He could not let this happen. No.
He didn't bother concentrating on a spell; no incantation he knew contained the kind of power he needed. He simply forced every ounce of power he possessed into the shields still supporting the building, and a part of his mind that should have been thinking something far more sensible casually noted the irony of what he was doing, that he was using the spells he'd placed on the building to defend them from the enemy to fight the ones he'd been trying so hard to protect.
He never thought of what a vulnerable position he was placing himself in, standing there in the middle of the hall in plain sight. But suddenly he was on his back on the floor, with no memory of how he'd gotten there. His right shoulder was throbbing, and he felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach. He rose to his feet, surprised by how difficult it was, and touched his shoulder lightly, experimentally. His hand came away soaked with blood -- his blood, he realized with a shiver -- and only then did he understand what had happened to him. He'd been shot.
He went toward the door, fighting to stay on his feet, and stood there a moment, his keen eyes searching for the gunmen. He didn't see them, but he knew they were there, probably pleased that their quarry had run straight into their waiting hands. Well, they were in for a surprised where he was concerned. He hadn't backed down from Voldemort, and he wasn't going to run now.
He might be trapped, and they might kill him yet, but he was not going down with a fight. Not now, not ever.
"Come on!" he yelled into the sudden silence, hearing his words echo back to him in a faintly mocking cry of utter despair. Hopeless, he thought. Hopeless to fight, to think he could really make a difference now, when there was nothing left to save. The Muggles had their target, and it was him.
The buildings beyond him were toppled; dimly he realized that the attack had been planned for days, maybe weeks, and he hadn't known, hadn't suspected . . . How had it all gone so very wrong?
No use to run. He could very well be the last of his kind, and even if he wasn't, there couldn't be enough wizards left to restore their world to its former glory. For the first time in his life he was left without a single defense, without a single cause he could fight for, and it was a remarkably empty feeling.
There. That window. Senses honed from years on the edge didn't fail him now, and from the corner of his eye he carefully noted the faintest glimmer of sunlight reflected off the gun barrel, without consciously realizing that he had. Even as his mind whirled under the sudden rush of guilt, he found himself measuring the distance and finding his target well within range. He could kill the man now, before he pulled the trigger, but what would be the use? He had nothing left to fight for; the famous Harry Potter would soon be nothing more than a memory. Even if he survived this, he didn't have the heart to fight anymore. He'd lost, that was all.
He never heard the final shot.