Chapter Eleven

Failure

Technologically speaking, the Wizarding World was a backwards place. The thought had occurred to Dudley Dursley many times, mostly when he had taken the trip to Diagon Alley with Joan in search for some herb or spice that supposedly held magical properties. He had seen the crowded alley, the vendors hawking their wares on cobbled streets, animals screeching in cages, the heady smell of packed bodies and cooking in the air.

Though he could understand why they preferred to stay so backward, especially when magic could do so many things that machines did. But it was not just magic that made them so different than Muggles, it was the culture.

It was a culture that, Dudley realized, had almost stopped since the days when knights gaily waved their swords around, with a few social changes since then. To Dudley it was like walking back into a different time or into some mock medieval dress up.

It was a society that had never undergone the Industrial revolution, one that had never given up the sword and the armor for gunpowder and shot. Their weapons depended upon the imagination of the user and what could be imbued into weapons that had become obsolete hundreds of years ago. Again Dudley could understand that. He'd seen some of the magical devices that could stop a bullet, others that could bend the laws of physics around them, and others that made even the worst Muggle weapon seem like a toy.

Such was the though that ran through Dudley's head as he saw the charging figure in a heavy black suit of metal, a raised sword in one hand and a small buckler in the other. He knew by looking at the armor and the sword that they were magical. That their strength depended upon the spells and charms that ran through the hammered steel.

The thing was that magic didn't work any longer in the house.

Magic may have been able to warp the laws of physics, but where magic no longer existed, a thin sheet of harden steel was no match for several thousand pounds of pressure in an area no bigger than a thumbprint. Even with magic, such forces would be hard to absorb.

The first black knight went down, then the second behind it, and then the third and the forth. Dudley could feel the fury and the heat in his hands; his ears rang from the thunderous roar.

He screamed back defiantly. How dare they attack his house! How dare they try to hurt his family! How dare they come here! Like wheat beneath a scythe they fell, one by one. A berm of bodies against the oncoming tide.

There is a saying: that even a knight in full armor armed with a sword can be brought down by many men armed with wooden spears. Dudley thought it ironic since he was the one being attacked by men dressed like knights out of a fairy tale. But the saying was true, as Dudley was the focus of the renewed attack. The weapon in his hands caused the most threat and it was the one that was silenced first.

As pain flared through his body, Dudley felt an immense sense of failure. He had failed his family, he had lost the battle, again. The pain of the descending blades was nothing compared to the thought of not being able to protect his family. He had already lost one to his weakness. He hadn't been able to save them either.

Failure and an impenetrable darkness.

"Harry, protect my family."

XXX

The Second War left a huge footprint of destruction across the Wizarding World. Especially during the final year of battle as Voldemort lead a campaign of terror to destroy the will of the people to fight back and to weaken the power of his opponents. On a scale that dwarfed his earlier work nearly twenty years before, there was almost no Wizarding family that hadn't been touched by his bloodied hand.

Joan Loring had been apart of one of those Wizarding families. When she was five she had run into a boggart that had revealed her greatest fear. Only twelve years later she had returned home to find that horror come to life as Death Eaters attacked her family and destroyed everyone and everything she had loved.

Her family had no political connections, nor had they sided with any one group. They were a family of scholars who lived more in the past than in the present. Who knew all about the reigns of past kings and wizards than what had been occurring the last few years. But terror is a weapon that the Dark Lord continuously honed and her family had been a whet stone.

A war that she had never cared for, barely even thought about, had descended upon her and left a lake of blood in it's wake. She was not a fighter, she was not particularly good at using offensive or defensive magic, but she wanted her revenge. She wanted justice for what had been done to her. That had led her to Harry Potter and his fight against the Dark Lord.

When Harry's near dead and bloodied cousin had been brought in, she had immediately helped in caring for him. Over time she had found a connection in the young man who had, like her, lost all that he loved and cared for. Another victim of Voldemort's need to have the world fear him.

Together they had created a family, but the thought of possible attack was not far from their mind. They memories of the past had scarred them and they tried to prepare for such an eventuality, but as time went by and no attacks came they had begun to think they were safe. Especially when the strongest wizard in the world had an eye out for their safety. They had peace in their lives and for their children.

How could this be happening again? The thought ran though Joan's mind as she heard the heavy thumping up the stairs. She had created a new life. A life that was supposed to be safe. The Dark Lord was dead and the world was supposed to be at peace.

How could this be happening again?

Was this how her mother had felt as the Death Eaters had come for her and her youngest? Did she feel the same indescribable terror and failure she felt now? Did she wish she were stronger and braver, more able to fight off the oncoming creatures?

Joan let out a scream that held more frustration and despair than fear. She tried to claw against the metal gauntleted hands; she tried to find a weakness and then tripled her efforts as her child was torn from her grasp.

As blades covered in the blood of the man she loved descended. Joan could only cry in failure. She hadn't been able to save her family, again. She hadn't been strong enough, she hadn't been brave enough.

Failure and then an abyss of black.

"Harry, save my children."

XXX

Thought no longer applied. It was something that had taken him a long time to understand. After a life of struggling to gain control, to be the one in charge of his own destiny, it was so hard to just let go. To give into instinct and let everything fade away into a blur of action and reaction, where thought and decisions had no sway.

The journey to that point was not a smooth one. He had been taught by one of the best, but he had resented it. He had rebelled against the teachings, for the simple reason of not liking the person who taught him. It was a hate shared by both parties, neither had wanted to be there and after several vengeful spats and a physical confrontation they had parted ways. That was until it became evident to Harry that he needed the others help more than they needed him. It had been a moment of humility that had stayed with him for years afterward.

That man had been Professor Snape. He had taught him more about how to fight, how to become the person who would defeat one of the most terrifying wizards of all time. His teachings had saved Harry's life many times. They were the foundation upon which all he had learned was built upon. Powerful teachings from a great man, who had been one of the many lost in the final battle.

No thought. No second guessing. Only instinct and training.

The blade moved with a glittering speed that was too fast for an observer to follow unless they knew what to look for. The clashing sounds of blades connecting. steel upon steel, and the occasional duller sounds of a blade making contact with armor.

Harry moved in a dance of death, blade strike out, quick and fast. It's deadly sharp tip found soft spots in greaves, joints, the narrow slits in the bullet shaped helmets of the black armored knights.

A heavy blade swung, Harry parried with a skirling tiiing of steel upon steel. The other tried shifting from attack to defense, but Harry was quicker, his blade already moving and finding a soft spot where leg greaves connected with a knee joint. There was a hard resistance and then a soft feeling as blade parted flesh. The armored figure cried out in pain, already dropping to his knee, his blade falling from his hands.

Harry's blade moved again, with precision it entered the narrow slit in the helmet, sinking in with almost no resistance and exiting almost as fast as it entered. The heavy body of the knight fell to the floor and all was silence.

Harry stood there, his chest pumping like bellows, his breathing controlled and steady. Why wasn't' there any noise? Where's Dudley?

Fear suddenly seized him and he made his way out of the wrecked kitchen. The press of knights had forced him back, away from Dudley. How much time had gone by since then?

His fears were confirmed as he looked upon the body of his cousin. A hardness formed within him, like a clenching of a fist around his heart. His eyes were still opened, staring sightlessly up the stairs, a look of utter defeat still upon his face. Harry staggered up the stairs.

Joan and Vernon. Where were they? Why wasn't he hearing them?

"Joan!" He croaked and staggered into Vernon's room.

There was so much blood. It was all he could think as he slumped to his knees. So much blood and she was such a small woman. Intense pain flashed through him, burning hard and fast and leaving behind nothing. Harry stared at her sightless eyes and he could only feel an immense failure.

He had sworn to protect them. He had given his word. He had told them they would never need to fear. He hadn't been strong enough. He'd been too arrogant, too cocky at his own strength. He had failed, again. He had lost all that he loved.

"I'm so sorry."

Failure and a burning sense of rage.