All That's Left Is Love
Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable
John F. Kennedy
I don't care if I fall as long as someone else picks up my gun and keeps shooting
Ernesto 'Che' Guavara
Prologue: Heart's All Gone
I'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday
Fall Out Boy - 'Just One Yesterday'
July 5th, 1997
The quiet of Knockturn Alley on a summer's night was suddenly and unexpectedly shattered by the sound of an explosion. The orange glow that lit up the night sky as flames engulfed Borgin & Burke's was visible from Diagon Alley, where bleary-eyed guests at the Leaky Cauldron, awoken from their slumber by the noise, could see it from their bedroom windows.
Within seconds, the proprietor, Mr Borgin himself, was on the scene, having been alerted by the shop's magical alarms. Working for decades with magical, occasionally dangerous, artifacts had given the unctuous shopkeeper plenty of experience with the occupational hazards of his job, and it was but the work of a few moments to extinguish the fire.
As the last flames died under the jet of water coming from his wand, he squared his shoulders and prepared to survey the damage, not so much the physical damage to his premises (that was easily repaired with magic) as the potentially millions of galleons worth of destroyed artifacts, not to mention the disappointed customers expecting orders fulfilled. Frequently, his customers were not the kind of people to take disappointment lightly. Then, of course, he also had to figure out what object could have malfunctioned and caused the explosion.
The latter question was answered all too easily as he waved his wand to disperse the smoke in the street and stepped closer to the shopfront. The door was somehow miraculously still on its hinges, in fact it was still closed despite the force of the explosion having been enough to blow all the windows out. Daubed on the front in what appeared to be paint was a symbol, a black fist clenched and raised in defiance, with red-and-gold flames licking up the wrist. This image was surrounded by a white circle that made it stand out from the black wood of the door, and underneath – also in white – was a phrase in what Mr Borgin thought to be Spanish: ¡No pasarán!
Arson. And the only kind of arsonist who left symbols behind was one doing it for a political cause. He had a bad feeling about this. Time to call in the Ministry.
As the small team of very sleepy workers from the DMLE and the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes departed to write up their reports (conclusions: arson by person or persons unknown, presumably as an act of terrorism given the use of a logo, but for reasons and in support of a cause unknown), a hooded, black-robed figure apparated into Knockturn Alley.
The figure moved cautiously closer to Borgin & Burke's, seemingly wary of entering the crime scene. After one last look around to make sure there was nobody watching, a pair of pale, slender hands reached up and lowered the hood.
Lucius Malfoy took a deep breath of magical London's night air and bent down to examine the rubble littering the pavement. As the shop had technically been an active crime scene until about a minute previously, nobody had carried out any repairs or clean-up. That would be Borgin's responsibility in the morning, he assumed. In the meantime, he had a couple of hours until dawn. More than enough time to see if he could find any traces of the magic that had been used to blow up the shop, anything that could give the Dark Lord a clue as to the identity of the arsonist.
He waved his wand experimentally over some of the shards of brick and glass at his feet, muttering a simple charm under his breath that identified residual magic. Nothing. It had probably been too much to hope for, this far from the centre of the explosion. He needed to go inside and figure out where this had begun.
He inched warily towards the door, wand drawn, eyes flicking around as he looked for threats.
"Homenum revelio," he muttered.
Nothing. As far as Lucius could tell, he was alone. Which made sense – whoever had planned this had been going for damage and theatrical impact, not bravery. They had made their point, they were hardly going to stay around to await capture. If he wasn't so concerned, if the Dark Lord wasn't so furious, he would almost be impressed.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed forward, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched. He approached the door, once again casting a few cursory charms in order to ensure that the findings of the Ministry team were correct. He had observed from afar as they had attempted to open the door to no avail; some sort of combination of a modified Permanent Sticking Charm, a Locking Charm and an Imperturbable Charm were keeping it upright and sealed with the strange icon daubed across it.
¡No pasarán! Spanish. Meaning "they shall not pass". He had no idea what it meant in the context of its use as a slogan. An invocation? A warning? A threat? A commentary on the permanently closed state of the door? If the latter, it was somewhat ridiculous; the windows had been blown out by the force of the explosion rendering the door irrelevant to the question of entrance and egress.
Lucius vaulted the windowsill with ease, and as he crossed over the boundary of the shop he felt a strangely familiar sensation. For just a fraction of a second he felt as if he had entered somewhere safe and comforting. He could feel some of the tension leave his shoulders as he exhaled a long sigh. Then he shook himself. That was a ridiculous emotional response. No matter how many times he had been in this shop, even at its height it was hardly his home, never mind the fact that it was currently a burnt shell of its former self.
The epicentre of the explosion was clearly visible in the centre of the room. As he got closer to it, he could smell just a hint of the acrid scent of fireworks in the air. He once again attempted to detect any traces of magic and was surprised to find nothing. Kneeling down in front of the large burn mark left by the explosion catching, he reached out and touched the black stain on the floor.
That was when something seized him by the ankles.
Theophilius Dudley, the Site Lockdown Coordinator on the Department of Magical Accidents & Catastrophies' Damage Control team, hurried through the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, his head already surrounded by flying memos. Arson was rare in Wizarding Britain, and the working theory that the attack on Borgin & Burke's was an act of terrorism by a previously-unknown group worried him. He had to compile his report quickly and send it on to the DMLE. This was going to be a case for Thicknesse himself if his team were right in their belief – shared by the Aurors who had attended the scene – that there was now a second terrorist group operating in the country. It was going to be a long night, and a long day after that.
As he got into the lift, he heard running footsteps behind him. Dirk Cresswell of the Goblin Liaison Office was sprinting towards the lift. Theophilius held the door, and Dirk managed to get in, panting for breath.
"What has you in work at four in the morning?" he asked the Muggleborn wryly.
"The same thing as you, I suspect," Dirk replied. "The Goblins might have gotten a little bit antsy about an explosion right on their doorstep. It's been hard enough to keep them happy since the attacks on Diagon Alley last year. I know for a fact they've doubled their security, which means that in reality they've at least tripled it."
He paused for breath and looked shrewdly at Theophilius.
"Are the rumours true? Was it another attack?"
Theophilius exhaled at length before answering.
"I may as well tell you, everyone will know in a few hours anyway," he said slowly. "Yes, on preliminary inspection it seems to be an attack... but not by the Death Eaters. A new group, or at least a new approach. No traces of magic in the explosion itself, but a very magical and unerasable brand and slogan left behind."
He shuffled through the papers he was carrying, looking for the photo of the shop door.
"We don't know who they are, what they want, or why they picked an admittedly fairly suspect shop as their target. This is all we have."
He waved the image under Dirk's nose. It wasn't exactly the right approach to operational security, but he liked the Goblin expert and saw no harm in it.
"A slogan that appears to be in Spanish and means something along the lines of 'You won't pass'. We think that may be in reference to the door it was painted on being permanently sealed shut, but we aren't sure."
The lift rattled to a halt for Dirk's stop and Theophilius could see a strange look on the man's face.
Dirk handed the photo back and smiled oddly as he departed the lift.
"I would suggest, Theo, that you learn a little bit about Muggle history. And foreign languages. The phrase means 'They shall not pass' and believe me, if whoever painted it was raised in Muggle society, they weren't referring to the door."
With that, he was gone without a chance for Theophilius to ask him for further clarification.
It was clearly time for some research. The long night had just gotten even longer.
Lucius Malfoy looked up, hearing the sound of someone moving in the darkness in front of him. Unable to stand, he gripped his wand tightly, his mind entering a state of tranquility he associated with the moment before a duel, a meditative mantra of curses and hexes running through his thoughts.
After a moment, Arthur Weasley's daughter stepped out of the shadows and into his wandlight.
That was... unexpected.
Her wand, held aloft in her left hand, was pointed directly at him and there was a strange look in her eye, a coldness he associated not with a child but with Bellatrix. No, not with Bellatrix, with Bella, with his sister-in-law as she had been before Azkaban had ruined both her looks and her mind. A cold, ruthless, brutal determination and devotion to a cause.
Devotion. If Draco's descriptions of Hogwarts' social dynamics were accurate, the girl was hopelessly devoted to Potter. Both to his lost cause and to the ideal of the ragamuffin boy himself. Was he here? Lucius wondered if he could touch his Mark and summon his master without the girl realising. If he handed Potter to the Dark Lord on a silver platter, the loss of the prophecy would be forgiven and his position would be restored.
He just had to keep the foolish girl talking for long enough for Potter to reveal himself. Easy.
"Miss Weasley," he began, inclining his head slightly and keeping his tone measured and even. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"You fucking know," she spat, contempt in every syllable. "How much suffering have you put me through? Have you put my family through? Will we review matters? Shall I start with Voldemort's fucking diary possessing me or will I just kill you now and spare you the litany of woe?"
"You are unwise to speak his name, little girl," he began, trying to throw her off.
"I didn't," she smirked. "His name is Tom fucking Riddle and for all your blood purity shit he's a half-blood. Look up his sordid little family tree, if you get the chance. Except – sorry, not sorry – you won't ever get a chance to do anything again."
She grinned at him, baring her teeth, and for a moment she looked feral.
Slowly, casually, as if he were simply getting comfortable, Lucius' left hand began drifting towards his right arm.
"You can't kill me," he said calmly, filing the information about the Dark Lord's alleged heritage away for future use, "Even if you had the strength of will to cast the Killing Curse, which I doubt, you would be arrested instantly. You're still underage, are you not? You have the Trace on you, or have you forgotten in your righteous anger?"
As quick as a flash of lightening, the redheaded girl reached her right hand into her robes and pulled out a long silver knife.
"I don't need magic to kill you, scum," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
The knife flashed down on his left hand, severing a tendon in his wrist and immobilising it midway through his attempt to gradually reach his Mark. He was running out of options.
"Killing me the Muggle way? Your father would be so proud, I'm sure," he said softly. "But do you have the stomach for the job? It's a brutal, visceral act. Not simple and clean like a curse."
Something flickered in her eyes. Finally, he had unnerved her.
Then the knife was at his throat, her wand discarded on the floor as her left hand pulled his head back by his hair.
"I had your boss in my head for a year when I was eleven, you ponce," the girl hissed. "He made me torture and hunt and kill, and worse he made me want to do it. I've made my peace with what I am. I hope for your sake you've made yours."
Desperate negotiation was the only tactic left available to him.
"What do you want?" he croaked, his composure cracking. "Whatever it is, I'll do it, I'll get it for you, I swear!"
She leaned in so close that Lucius could feel her breath on his neck as she replied. He felt transfixed, like how he imagined a small animal might feel as a powerful predator closed in.
"Unless you can give me my brother back, even for just one day, you have nothing I want but your death."
Shit. That was it then. Time to face death with honour. Unless... one last throw of the dice, one final attempt to get in her head.
"You won't do it. Do you think your precious Potter would want you to be a murderer?" he gasped.
She smiled, a heartless, reptilian smile that was unnervingly like his master's.
"Poor naïve Lucius," she chuckled mockingly. "This was Harry's idea. We're not the innocent, honourable children you thought we were. It's almost as if the events of the last few years forced us to grow up. Besides, I'm not here to kill you."
She paused, clearly relishing whatever she was about to say next.
"I just had to distract you."
And then, several things happened at once. Lucius sensed someone moving behind him, the Weasley girl stepped back from him and ducked behind a bookshelf, and something cold and hard was shoved down the back of his robes. He found himself yanked into the air by magical means and violently thrust out the window and into the street, then up again until he was floating at the level of the rooftops.
Then the world went hot and white.
A/N: this piece has been floating around in my head for a little while, inspired by the fic 'For Lack of a Beozar' and a general desire to see the DA generation be a little more proactive and revolutionary in their attempts to change Wizarding British society. This is going to be multi-chapter (although not insanely long) and the darkest thing I've written. But it's not going to be unrelentingly bleak or violent either. I'm also experimenting a bit with a different approach to narrative rather than my usual linear-time-progression one-POV-per-chapter insert-lighthearted-banter-here thing. Theophilius Dudley and the Damage Control team are completely made up by me. The former is inspired by Harry in DH claiming he's Vernon Dudley, the son of a worker in the Department of Magical Accidents & Catastrophes, and Scabior saying he thinks there's a Dudley in that division. The latter is obviously named for Marvel's Department of Damage Control but is also just kind of a logical thing for the DMAC to have I think?
I hope some of you guys know the significance of the phrase ¡No pasarán! to both Spanish and British history, but all will be revealed anyway as the story unfolds.
This is my first new fic since 2014, so I hope it holds up as well as the fics I'm continuing now I've returned from hiatus.
