Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, but I really, really want to.
A/N: The chapter title comes from a line in Macbeth, which I'm studying in school. Oh yeah: Review!
Chapter Two: Full With Horrors
"What the bloody hell is going on here?"
Harry's head thudded against the window painfully at the sound of Moody's voice. He opened his eyes and adjusted the glasses that were close to slipping off his nose, looking at the shocked faces of the Weasleys as they stared out the windows of the Ministry cars they were riding.
The Dark Mark glittered mockingly at the group of robe-clad wizards that were picking their way through what was left of number 4, Privet Drive. The whole house was reduced to rubble—jagged chunks of wallpaper-covered concrete stood where the walls were, glass cabinets full of china were overturned, and the second floor of the house seemed to have fallen on the first. Harry recognized his own articles of clothing among the dusty wooden planks of what used to be his closet. In the front lawn, Aunt Petunia's precious begonias were wilted, as if bowing their heads at the demise of their caretaker.
St. Mungo's officials were loading the bodies into hovering white carriages hidden behind an untouched bush. Harry's breath caught in his throat as he recognized the hulking form of Dudley, covered in cloth, being levitated inside, followed by Uncle Vernon's equally porcine physique and Aunt Petunia's skinny one.
"Oh Harry," Hermione gasped beside him, clutching his arm. On his other side, Ron goggled at the remnants of the house.
"Bloody hell," he breathed, "they ripped your house apart."
"Not just that," Mr. Weasley said gravely, speaking from behind them. "Look around you."
For the first time since he woke up, Harry looked at his neighborhood. Similar fates met his eyes. The Dark Mark didn't just signal the end of Harry's family; it marked the massacre of every person that lived in Little Whinging the night the Death Eaters came.
People gathered in bunches in Privet Drive, pointing and gasping at the rubble of the other homes. Whole trees were uprooted, street signs and lampposts were bent, and cars were smashed. One could see the plumbing and electrical cords in the walls of the houses. Corpses were hanging from the rafters and the trees; some were petrified in vulgar positions; still others spun in the air, drool hanging from their mouths as their blank eyes stared at the overcast sky.
"Shit," was all Harry could say.
"Come on," Hermione whispered. She pulled him and Ron towards Moody and Mrs. Weasley, who were talking to some wizards dressed as Muggles.
"—got the skinny woman in the bath, those scumbags, her bath water wasn't even cold yet when we arrived—"
"—the fat kid, did you see, they ripped his stomach open. Entrails were pouring out, by the time we came he could've lost five pounds. Death Eaters might've had a good laugh with that—"
"Harry!"
Mrs. Weasley enveloped him in a comforting embrace that did nothing to quell the anger rising inside him. "You can stay with us, Harry" she said soothingly, flattening his hair as though he was a child. But Harry jerked away from her and stalked over to Moody.
"Wha—" he began, but Moody cut in.
"Stick with the Weasleys, Potter," he growled, his normal and magical eye both staring intently at Harry. "You've got no family now."
The reality of the situation forced Harry to drop to his knees beside Dudley's battered computers. The Dursleys were cruel and horrible people, but no one, in Harry's opinion, deserved to be disemboweled in his own home. Except for a couple of people I know, Harry thought darkly. The Dursleys may have been a thorn in his side, but they were still always there—besides his closest friends, they were the only constant things in his life, always spiteful, never changing. Since Dumbledore died, he was almost looking forward to being with them, if only to assure himself that the torment he had to go through meant that the Dursleys were still what they always were— his grudging family. And now—
Harry stood up and went over to Moody again.
"I'm going after him," he said simply.
Moody's magical eye widened. "Oh no you're not."
"We're going with you," Ron said, and Hermione nodded in agreement.
"Look," Moody said, a tinge of desperation in his gravelly voice, "you lot are staying with the Weasleys. It's far too risky to be out on your own, especially for underage wizards like yourselves."
"We've faced him before," Harry argued. Recklessness, or bloodthirst—he couldn't tell which—was making him do this, he knew it. But letting the feeling die down did nothing for him or anyone he cared about.
"But he was never as powerful as he is now," Moody retorted. "Harry, I know you want him to die—for your family, your friends—but you can't go on searching for Voldemort unprepared! Every single person in our world wants Voldemort gone, but the Death Eaters are dangerous, taking more risks. They have nothing to lose with their deaths, so long as they helped Voldemort come back to full power again."
"I will kill him," Harry shot back. "I will kill that bastard if it's the last thing I do."
"He has us," Hermione put in.
"And what are three teenage wizards against the most evil wizard in the world and his followers? This is exactly what he wants you to do, go gallivanting on some hunting spree! He will lead you to him but before you realize where the hell you are, he would have put you in a cauldron and boiled you."
"Contrary to your belief, Harry," Tonks added, coming from behind Moody, "we are doing something. Aurors are scouring the globe, working with other magical governments to locate Dark activity that might lead us to Voldemort. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is working round the clock ensuring that everybody is safe. The Wizengamot just ruled that all convicted Death Eaters are to be put to death unless they cooperate. Every single capable person is working their arses off to find Voldemort and give him the punishment he deserves."
"I'm capable," Harry muttered.
But Moody and Tonks had already gone to talk to witnesses.
Harry sat down on a rock and buried his face in his hands. Hermione's hand rubbed his back soothingly. Ron just stared. The dead air was thick with unspoken condolences that no one thought would help. Ginny approached them, and Hermione stopped massaging Harry's tense muscles so Ginny can embrace him. He leaned on her shoulders as his arms came around him, allowing an insistent tear to leak through his eyelids and fall into her wavy red hair.
"You still have us, Harry," she murmured, her breath warm on his ear.
Mrs. Weasley's voice rang out from a few feet away. "Can't you do anything, Alastor? Isn't there any other protection charm that might work?"
"The magic that was invoked is gone with the death of his family, Molly," Moody intoned sagely. "The little protection he would have gotten is gone. We should've have made him return earlier," he murmured, almost to himself.
In the deep recesses of his mind, Harry vaguely recalled having heard something about this from Dumbledore before. What was it? he asked himself. Something about going back to the Dursleys so I can be protected until I turn seventeen?
"You lot," Mr. Weasley said gruffly, gesturing to Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione. "We've got to get going if we're to go back to the Burrow by nightfall—Ministry's orders, you know."
They stood up. Harry snuck a glance at the remains of number 4 once more. What was once his—for lack of a better word—home was now being inspected by a bunch of strangers as if it were a curious-looking wart. His anger warmed him like no words of comfort ever could.