A/N: Here's the first full chapter. Enjoy!
Breakfast is over quickly, as most meals around here are – not only do we have planning to do and war councils to host, but Death Eater attacks can happen at any time, so we've gotten used to fast meals. A lazy dinner is a luxury none of us are sure we'll ever see again, and we've definitely run out of here with half-empty plates left behind on more than one occasion.
It's not our hideout that we're worried about – we've actually been quite lucky in that regard. The Death Eaters – or the Snatchers, really, as the Death Eaters have more important things to do – haven't concerned themselves with this particular warehouse; in fact, I'm almost positive they don't even know it exists. Perhaps the modified Fidelius Charm McGonagall put on the place (altered so that those with no ill intent towards GHRS can find us even if they're lucky enough to make it through London unscathed) actually works. It's never been put to the test before, but so far, so good. I rap my knuckles discreetly against the underside of the wooden table, just in case – I'm not superstitious by any means, but we've had so little good luck as of late that I can't be too careful.
As I mentioned before, we're in London – which, quite honestly, is a terrible place to be right now, but we have no other choice if we want to know what the other side is up to. A lot has happened since Harry died, and almost none of it has been good.
Harry…oh, my dear, sweet Harry. My best friend, my brother in all but blood. I'll never forget the sight of his limp, broken form cradled in Hagrid's arms as Voldemort declared him dead, nor will I ever forget the screams of anguish that accompanied this announcement. To this day, I still couldn't tell you if one of those screams was mine – judging by how raw my throat was for weeks afterwards, though, I think it's safe to say it was.
Nobody quite knows what happened, but something went horribly wrong when Harry wandered off into the Forbidden Forest during the armistice hour. Dumbledore, the manipulative bastard, had always kept himself at least three moves ahead – because of course, I'd been too blind by my admiration for authority to realize he'd been playing us all like a chess game until it was too late – but this time, he'd miscalculated, big time. Harry knew things the rest of us didn't, and whatever he knew had led him to the forest that night, had led him to his death. Because he had died – we'd all hoped and prayed that it was a joke, that Harry would somehow pull off yet another miracle and leap from Hagrid's arms, alive and unharmed…but he hadn't.
The prophecy had said that only one of them could live – it hadn't specified that it would be Harry, though.
The fifteen minutes immediately following Voldemort's announcement were some of the most horrifying fifteen minutes of my life. The Death Eaters went crazy, whooping and cheering as they cast terrible spell after terrible spell upon the Order and their allies, most of whom were too stunned to retaliate. It was a mass slaughter – I can't even name all of the people who died in those fifteen minutes, but we easily doubled our casualties for the night and then some. Finally, Voldemort called off his dogs and said he would show us "mercy" – if the bastard is even capable of such a thing – and retreat. He would allow us to tend to our dead and wounded with dignity, and he would give us twenty-four hours of clemency in which to reconsider his offer to join his forces. Anyone who refused would be officially branded an enemy and punished accordingly if caught.
Well, then we just had to make sure we weren't caught.
We did the best we could with the dead and wounded, but there were so many – several more people died throughout the day because we either couldn't get what we needed to treat their injuries or were at a loss as to how to treat them in the first place (some of the Death Eaters are really good at inventing really nasty hexes, most of them with no counter). The makeshift cemetery we constructed by the lake seemed to stretch for ages, and one grave hurt far more than most: Harry's. It was a painful experience, but I'd insisted on being part of the team that dug it, both wanting and needing to do this one last thing for my fallen best friend. We marked the spot with a stone identical to those marking all the other graves – we were afraid that if we identified Harry's grave in any way, the Death Eaters would desecrate it – but I hated the anonymity, and so when no one was looking, I carved a tiny lightning bolt into the rock with my wand. It was so small that no one would see it if they didn't know to look for it, but Harry had lost his entire life to this war in more ways than one, so I felt it was only right.
Once we'd done all we could, we gathered up whatever supplies we could salvage, and then those of us who remained Apparated to McGonagall's cottage – for one thing, it was still in Scotland, so it was a much more manageable jump than some of our other safe houses, and for another, it was one of the few safe houses we knew hadn't been compromised. Grimmauld Place was still out, as nobody had yet managed to recast the Fidelius there after Dumbledore's death, and the Burrow was much too obvious. One thing was for sure, though – there was no way in hell any of us were going to join Voldemort's forces, not after what he'd done. And so, we planned.
That was just over three years ago now. The war's still going on, and it's far worse than it ever was during even the first war – basically, Voldemort openly controls the entire UK. He's in charge of the Ministry of Magic, and his troops roam the streets freely in search of rebels like us. The Muggles are even more aware of us than ever – by some miracle, they still don't know that magic exists, but they're just as embroiled in the conflict as we are. And how could they not be, when half of London has been burned to the ground? The Muggle Prime Minister has been under the Imperius Curse for only God knows how long now, acting as Voldemort's liaison with the British Muggle population, Parliament no longer exists, and the royal family…well, the stories are still conflicting about what happened to them. Some say they fled and managed to reach safety before things got too terrible, but others say they were slaughtered, every last one of them. Nothing was reported – after all, in Voldemort's eyes, they're only Muggles, no matter who they are – but I don't think I want to know for sure. I've seen more than enough, thanks very much.
Anyway, the point is that Britain is an absolute mess. Nobody can come to our aid, either, as Voldemort controls everything that comes into or leaves this country, the latter being next to nothing. Refugee escape attempts almost never succeed anymore, and incoming supplies are just as rare. There is barely enough food to keep everyone fed – those of us with wands can, of course, duplicate what we already have and preserve it under Stasis Charms, but the Muggles aren't so lucky. Very few people are willing to share with the Muggles, either – in such a tough situation, the idea of 'survival of the fittest' comes out in the worst way, and in this case, our non-magical brethren just don't make the cut.
Those of us who initially gathered at McGonagall's eventually split off into three groups – one stayed in Scotland, one went to Surrey, and the main unit went to London. The Surrey contingent is holed up at Arabella Figg's house – Voldemort never really took notice of her because she's a Squib, and it's paying off so far. The Scotland group is about as close as we dare get to Hogwarts – for whatever reason, Voldemort left it untouched after the battle (it closed after that and has yet to reopen), but we can't risk returning in case Voldemort anticipates that move. There are just too few of us to risk any sort of open encounter unless we're absolutely sure we're ready – which we're not. We can't be sure all the Horcruxes are gone, and until we are, we wait. Oh, we definitely go after Death Eaters and Snatchers on a much smaller scale when we can, but the final confrontation requires very careful planning if we want even a smidgen of a chance of coming out alive.
"Shall we begin, then?" McGonagall asks once the last dishes have been cleared away. She's as no-nonsense as ever, which I greatly appreciate – so much has changed in the last few years, so it's nice to have something stay the same, especially when that something is a veteran witch's determination and leadership. If I live to be even half the witch Minerva McGonagall is, I'll die happy.
"Quite right!" agrees Flitwick, who sits to her left. "It's time we got started. Mr. Weasley, perhaps you can go first today?" By 'Mr. Weasley', the diminutive professor means Bill – Arthur and Molly are with the Scotland group.
"No further luck with the goblins, although they're still keeping their promise to remain neutral," Bill reports. The goblins have so far managed to stay out of the war – how, nobody really knows, but they have. It's good for us because it means we still have access to our Gringotts vaults – withdrawing gold is a time-consuming process requiring the utmost secrecy and heavy disguises, but it can be done – but it also means the Death Eaters have unrestricted access to their money as well, and as several of them come from very wealthy families, it makes cutting off their resources rather difficult. Although I suppose we should be grateful – according to Bill, the goblins were extremely upset when Harry, Ron, and I broke into the bank and stole Hufflepuff's cup, and the goblins could've easily denied us access altogether. It was only Bill's explanation to the head goblin, with whom he has about as good a relationship as it's possible for a human to have with a goblin, of what the cup actually was that saved us.
Yes, Bill knows about the Horcruxes. Dumbledore had been all about the secrecy, but that secrecy had only gotten us into trouble, time and time again – we spent months starving in a tent in the woods because of those secrets, lucky to make any progress at all. After Harry died, I decided that enough was enough. I gathered together a small group of people, people I knew I could trust with my life, and told them the whole story. Of course, it's highly unlikely that Voldemort made any more Horcruxes, especially now that Harry's gone, but I feel better knowing that Ron and I aren't the only ones who know. In this climate, it's foolish to waste our resources, and our minds are some of the most valuable resources we have. In the event that there is another Horcrux, we now have a team of extremely powerful people to help us out.
"That is not exactly good news, but it's no worse than we were expecting," McGonagall says in response to Bill's report about the goblins.
"I'm sure they'll stay that way unless something drastic happens," Bill replies with a shrug. "We all know the goblins are notorious for not caring about the state of human affairs as long as it doesn't affect their treasures." He pauses and adds, "On a positive note, Fleur and I managed to dismantle that curse in the Tottenham Court Road station." Murmurs and approving nods race around the table at this statement – from what we know of the curse, it would've caused a catastrophic explosion if it had activated.
"Well done, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall says. "And Madame Delacour-Weasley as well." She surveys the group. "Is there anything else we should know about?"
"Mundungus is dead," Dean Thomas pipes up. "Saw him get hit with an A-K last night while I was on stakeout." Several people frown at this announcement – Mundungus Fletcher was a royal pain in the arse and one of the most immoral people I've ever met, but he'd been our best thief by far, as well as very good at gathering information. He's going to be hard to replace.
"An unfortunate loss indeed," Flitwick says, unknowingly voicing my inner thoughts aloud. A few others nod in agreement.
The meeting continues for roughly ten more minutes, but nothing more of note comes to the table, which is probably a good thing. While it means for monotonous days, no news is definitely good news in most respects.
"The Surrey contingent reports that all is well, and we should be hearing from the Scotland group within the next few days," McGonagall says. "That's all for now, unless anyone else has something to add." When no one speaks up, McGonagall nods sharply and formally ends the meeting.
There isn't too much of a schedule around the warehouse, except of course for chore rotation and stakeouts. When I'm not assigned to one of those, I mostly research. Thanks to my beaded handbag and McGonagall's quick thinking, we managed to smuggle quite a few books out of both the Hogwarts library and Dumbledore's private collection before fleeing the castle, and I spend most of my spare time reading. We need to be prepared for whatever scenario this war throws at us, and the more knowledge we have at the ready, the better.
"Hitting the books today?" a familiar voice asks. I look up into soft brown eyes and smile as best I can.
"Hey, Gin," I say. "No, no books today – I'm on stakeout with you, remember?"
"Ah, right – sorry. At least we're mostly after food, though." Ginny doesn't say anything further, but I know what she means – obtaining food can be tricky, but it's nowhere near as trying as the guerrilla-style outings that actually involve taking down Death Eaters.
"We leave as soon as we're ready – braid my hair for me?" Ginny nods and moves behind my chair, beginning to wrestle my curly locks into a tight braid. It's by far the best hairstyle for keeping my hair off my face – a necessity if we run into trouble and have to fight – and Ginny's much better at it than I am, so this is basically a daily routine.
"We should probably touch you up soon," Ginny comments as she works. "Your roots are starting to show."
"Alright – we can do it when we get back," I reply. Since most – if not all – of the members of GHRS are well known to the Death Eaters, we always go out in disguise. Most of the London group uses spells, but Ginny and I prefer Muggle methods, which aren't at risk of undoing themselves if a stray 'Finite' were to come our way. We've been using Muggle hair dye ever since we relocated to London, and so far, it's worked beautifully. After all, nobody expects a Weasley to have anything other than red hair, so Ginny's dark brown 'do, which she's also shortened into a pixie cut for ease of maintenance, is hardly worth a second look. My own hair, while still as curly as ever, is now blonde. Both colors took some getting used to, of course, but they're not bad. I even found a handy charm that makes the color last longer, so we don't have to do touch-ups as often as Muggles normally would.
"Brilliant. Your braid is done, so go finish getting ready," Ginny says.
"Thanks." We grab jackets and wands, and all too soon, we're ready to go.
