Chapter XV
Merlin, it was freezing! Why did his duties so frequently require him to wait in the cold? When he'd taken his lord's Mark, Clarence Warrington wouldn't have guessed that the most important spell he'd use would be warming charms. Then again, nothing about his service was quite as glamorous as he'd expected.
"Warrington?"
"It's about time you got here."
Graham Montague shrugged in an unapologetic fashion. "The castle's basically locked down, what with the thefts of potions ingredients inside, and the rumors of dragon pox from without."
"They aren't rumors," Warrington interrupted gravely. Word had spread that St. Mungo's was no longer accepting those infected, for fear of spreading the disease further than it already was.
The Seventh Year swallowed heavily at that but continued nonetheless. "Anyway, we're lucky that Weasley's on our side. Those brothers of his showed him all their ways in and out of the school."
"And he just shared them with you, freely?"
Montague grinned. "His pet mudblood was attacked by her former sycophants. Asked me for help to identify who exactly was involved in hurting her."
"I see. Then I suppose that your relationship with him will turn out to be mutually beneficial. Our Lord has an assignment for you to accomplish by the next Hogsmeade weekend."
"Weren't you listening? There won't be any more Hogsmeade weekends! There's rumblings that students who leave for Yule Break won't be allowed back, for fear of bringing dragon pox into the castle!"
Warrington blinked. He hadn't heard that, which made it likely that none of the villagers had, either. "Let me worry about that. For now, our time is short and we need to get to work."
"I understand. What is it I am to do?"
"The plan will be one of your own making. Consider this a demonstration of your more Slytherin traits. My part will be to ensure you are proficient at the required spell." Warrington drew his wand, gesturing for Montague to do the same. "The incantation is Imperio."
"And you're absolutely sure that you want to do this?"
The young man rolled his eyes. "Can you think of a better plan?"
"Well, no, but- I mean, it just seems like suicide. What am I supposed to tell the family if you die up there?"
"And here I thought you were actually concerned for my well-being; you're breaking my heart, Pyotr!"
Pyotr Sarstedt was not a man accustomed to this sort of madness. A runologist, he made a tidy living setting up and maintaining wards in Magical France, supplementing that with the odd job here and there for the Zabini family. "I've disabled the perimeter alert, so you're clear to enter."
Harry nodded, peering up the winding mountain path. "What about transportation wards?"
"There aren't any. Anyone dumb enough to end up here would need a way to make a hasty exit, after all."
"That's good. Are you coming, or should I return and grab you once I've finished?"
"I'll come, but I'm not a fighter. You'll be on your own up there."
"Who said anything about fighting? This is just a negotiation," Harry replied with a confident grin. 'Madness!'
They walked together up the mountain, the winter chill practically freezing the air in his lungs. Pyotr wondered, not for the first time, what he was getting into. It wasn't a question of morality; no, much of his work for the crime family had been to sabotage the wards of shops and businesses targeted for exploitation and racketeering. Something like this, though, seemed well beyond the norm even for the Zabinis.
He was the son of a French wizard and a disgraced Russian woman; his mother herself the illegitimate daughter of a prostitute and a minor Tsarist royal. That sort of lineage carried a heavy weight of resentment, a burden that Pyotr had channeled into his forays in the questionable sectors of the Wizarding World. Therefore, when the orders came to escort the most-wanted wizard in the entire world and provide him with any required assistance, Pyotr hadn't thought twice about agreeing - though he did double his normal fee.
Still, he thought to himself while shivering beneath his heavy cloak, he hadn't anticipated the sheer recklessness of the teenager's plan. 'Reckless, or was it ruthless?' In the end, the line between the two was often faint and blurred.
Disillusioning himself with a tap of his wand, Pyotr watched Harry shed his own cloak, passing through the two haphazard piles of stones that marked the entrance to the tribe's territory. Clad only in silver robes, a strong pulsing white light emerged from an upraised hand. Rumbles, here and there, deep and guttural voices replied. Well, they had their audience.
There were seventeen of them, surprising Pyotr with their numbers. The largest, standing a solid twenty-six feet tall, hefted a crude stone axe and glared down at the intruder; the others behind him chuckled, showing signs of mirth at the human foolish enough to enter the giant tribe's lands.
"Which of you is the chief of this tribe?" Silence. "I would negotiate for your service. Who is your chief?"
The tallest squeezed the handle of his axe. "I Wremoth. I Gurg, leader."
More laughter from the others accompanied the Gurg's whistling axe striking out towards Harry, the amusement faltering as the axe head and handle crumbled away into sand well before reaching its target.
With a furious cry of rage, Wremoth raised one massive booted foot, intent on stomping the life out of the trespassing wizard. A crack of apparition sounded, followed by a snap as the tendons behind the giant's planted foot ruptured, courtesy of a huge iron edge that sliced into his ankle and vanished a moment later.
Howling in agony, the Gurg stumbled forward, barely catching his balance before losing it entirely as a section of the mountain half the size of Pyotr's home erupted outward, forming a blunt spear that smashed into the side of the giant's knee, the impact forcing the joint out of place with a horrendous tearing sound. Wremoth's collapse was so thunderous that the runologist looked worryingly at the snow-covered peaks around them, fearful of a potential avalanche.
Another giant leaped forward with more quickness than he would have assumed the massive beings capable of, one huge hand balled into a fist to crush this upstart wizard. Harry apparated a dozen feet forward out of the strike's path, just as a set of jagged iron spikes grew out of the ground, the giant's momentum driving the black metal deep into his own flesh.
Ignoring the interloper's cries of pain, Harry maintained his focus on Wremoth. Searing white fire burst into existence, erasing the giant's beard and hair almost instantly, leaving blistered and burned flesh in its wake. The Gurg's legs were ruined, unable to support his ponderous bulk, but he was lifting himself up with his huge arms, intent on carrying on the fight nonetheless.
Instead, both arms sank into the previously rocky, mountainous terrain, buried up to the shoulder in twin pools of quicksand that shifted back to stone once the giant was imprisoned. Helplessly immobilized, Wremoth eyed his opponent with rage and fear.
A fierce emerald glow present in his eyes, robes and hair billowing in the wind, Harry Potter held one arm aloft, a massive iron lance forming out of the ether in mid-air, propelled through Wremoth's left eye with a simple gesture.
Looking around at the other giants, Harry's sonorous-enhanced voice echoed through the French Alps. "I am your Gurg now."
"You asked to see me, sir?"
"Yes, come in, come in," Lord Zabini sat behind his desk, a half-eaten plate of bread and cheese nearby. "Share a toast with me?"
"To what?"
His bodyguard poured them each a glass of chianti. "Today, it begins. 'The die is cast', if you'll forgive the dramatics. Let us hope that our venture has a more favorable conclusion than did Caesar's."
"I don't understand," Daphne replied but clinked her glass with his anyway. She'd grown to appreciate the Zabini family's wine. "Did you receive word from Harry?"
"I did not, though I trust that whatever he has planned will force our hand either way. No, tomorrow morning my son-in-law will introduce a resolution within the Sorcerer's Assembly to dissolve the International Confederation of Wizards."
So. It was really happening. "Quoting Caesar seems an appropriate choice, sir. Did your visitors depart?"
"They did, today. They are in large part the reason for such posturing within the Sorcerer's Assembly, and why our intentions are so transparent. Would you care to venture a guess as to why that is?"
Daphne looked over his shoulder out the grand window that took up most of the wall. "Publicly announcing your opposition to the Confederation makes what was a conspiracy a reality. Either they support the resolution and make clear their alliance with you, or they stay silent and show they can't be counted on. You're drawing the battle lines."
Alessio smiled behind his glass. "Very good. There is also the benefit of capitalizing on the ICW's recent disfavor. Better to brand this conflict with our own narrative in the hearts and minds of average wizards and witches than to allow them to do it for us. I've already dispatched agents to nations that I know will oppose our efforts, ready to approach their news outlets to spread our message as soon as this happens."
She tried to take comfort in the knowledge that finally they weren't alone, after what had felt like ages spent isolated and struggling against everyone and everything. It didn't work. "What if- how sure are you that our 'allies' are willing to fight? What will you do if, when the day is at an end, Italy stands alone before the entire Confederation?"
Chuckling as he tore a piece of bread from the quarter-loaf on his plate, Alessio took a bite and waved his hand, as though brushing away her concerns. "I understand your concern, but that won't happen. Grindelwald's war has grown distant; while Europe still trembles at the memory of just how terrible it was, to the rest of the world it is far less immediate than their own ambitions and grievances."
She couldn't understand that, having grown up in a country that had fought three wars in a half-century. Zabini continued, "Perhaps when my son-in-law returns from Switzerland, he can share with you the various motivations that each of our allies have in going to war. I'm sure you won't be surprised to learn that none of those reasons involve a desire to see justice and freedom spread through their lands."
Was this how it was for Harry, she wondered, making deals with the devil in the name of self-preservation? How many lives would be lost in this war of their own making? Rather than dwell on that uncomfortable thought, Daphne finished her glass of wine. "When does Harry return?"
"Tomorrow, just after dinner. I do hope that the young man doesn't cause too much of a disturbance; knowing his disposition for grand acts of sorcery, breaking the Statute again would be a bit of a black eye for us."
She didn't know how to respond, so she didn't. The black-suited bodyguard refilled her glass, and the two sat silently for a few minutes, the late afternoon sun gradually darkening into dusk.
"Where will we go?"
"Pardon?"
"When- when the war starts, what will Harry and I do?"
Alessio leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together over his stomach. "Harry will go to where our opposition is strongest. One does not leave their sharpest sword in the scabbard, after all. You, though, Miss Greengrass; you have impressed me over the last month. For one so young, your cunning and ruthlessness show great potential."
"Thank you," she replied cautiously. There was clearly an offer forthcoming.
"I understand you are acquainted with my grandson in England."
"Blaise? Yes, he's a good friend," she stressed, hoping that the message carried over.
Never one to misread a situation, Alessio grinned in reply. "I'm sure that a position within my family can be arranged, regardless."
"I'll go where Harry goes. There are reasons that I cannot stray from his side, especially in battle." She saw no reason why the Zabinis needed to know of Harry's demonic corruption. "This is not up for negotiation."
"Of course, of course. I will inform you of the outcome of our opening gambit tomorrow. Enjoy your evening, my dear."
With a nod at his dismissal, Daphne finished her wine and left his office. Lost in her thoughts as she walked through the corridor, she nearly collided with a couple walking towards Alessio's office.
"Oh! I'm sorry- mi scusi," she muttered, "I wasn't-"
"Daphne!" Chiara exclaimed, ever-present cheer laced in her voice. "What a lovely surprise, running into you. Pierre, go on ahead."
The tall blonde man, as handsome as Chiara was beautiful, shrugged and obeyed her order, leaving the two witches alone. "I was heading back to my quarters-"
"Then I will come with you," she responded immediately, twining her arm through Daphne's. "Were you meeting with my grandfather? I cannot imagine what must be happening, with as often as you two are plotting in his office."
"He's been a great help to Harry and I."
"Si, there is very little that my grandfather cannot do. But where is Harry? It is so rare to see you outside of his shadow."
Daphne bristled. "He's away."
"Then I will have to make do with your company this evening," Chiara said, breezing into Daphne's quarters as though they were her own.
"You looked like you already had your company picked out for the evening," she sniped, patience fraying. "'Pierre', was it?"
Laughing gaily as she flopped onto Daphne's bed, Chiara loosened the clips that held her hair in place. "He is a quidditch player. It's rumored that he will be selected as a chaser for the French national team at the next World Cup."
There were so many replies that flashed through Daphne's mind. Slut. Whore. Bitch. "Get out of my room."
"Are you in love with Harry?"
"Get out!"
With one last enigmatic smile, Chiara obeyed, leaving Daphne to sit in silence and stew in rage, worry, and fear.
It had been two days since Harry left for France.
The brass-colored wave of his announcing charm struck the wards with a clang. After waiting for more than a minute, Harry sent another, then another. At last, a figure approached the wardline, walking steadily forward, cane pressing into the frozen soil.
"I knew you'd come. Times change, nations rise and fall, but the stupidity of youth remains constant."
"You aren't the first person to challenge me claiming to be immortal. I'm looking forward to teaching you a lesson about impermanence."
Flamel laughed, a full-throated and genuine expression of amusement. "Oh, I don't doubt that someone will, someday, but it won't be a gnat like you."
"I've been proving people wrong my entire life. You'll just be the latest example."
"I'm certain that you'd be capable of doing so in any other setting. But after your last visit, I upgraded my protections, ironically using a gift that you so generously provided." Flamel gestured behind him, where some sort of gazebo stood, pulsing with crimson light, glowing lines of runes and glyphs emanating from an altar where a familiar, fist-sized stone sat.
"He- Dumbledore gave that to you? And still you betrayed him?"
Flamel's expression shifted, turning bitter and stony. "I loved Albus, he was a dear friend. I will never forgive you for turning him against me, against all of wizardkind. You, Harry Potter, are little more than a rabid dog, lashing out in animalistic fury and endangering everyone around you." The ancient, weathered old man paused as Harry's aura settled around him in a slow swirl, green light expanding and illuminating the darkness. "By all means, exhaust yourself. Powerful though you may be, a Philosopher's Stone contains boundless energy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to go back to bed."
As Flamel turned his back and began the walk back towards his home, explosions reverberated around him, magical shockwaves flowed like waves in the ocean, and a rain of iron fell from the sky; still, the wards did not so much as tremble. Harry wiped away a line of sweat that formed over his brow. He had to break through, but how?
For a moment, he considered whether Flamel had left to contact the French magical police, but Harry dismissed that almost as soon as it occurred to him. The man was a mirror image of his own accusations, arrogant and assured that his artifact would protect him.
'Of course, it's only arrogance if I actually break through' he thought, eyeing the gazebo. No protection was unbreakable, it was just a matter of finding the right weakness to exploit.
Sitting down on the ground, Harry ignored the winter chill, crossing his legs and closing his eyes. Slow, steady breaths fogged the air as he reached out with his magic, touching the wards, feeling their vibrancy and potency. Unlike many of the dwellings he'd battered down in England, Flamel's wards lacked the malevolence and hostility that the Death Eaters employed, instead preferring a more simple barricade to protect the space within.
There were the typical masking elements, guarding against muggle intrusion and holding back magical creatures; the same kinetic protection as when he'd faced the dragons here before, making conjuration a non-starter. But- just maybe…
Brushing off dirt and dead leaves, Harry clambered to his feet. The location contained within these wards was sheltered by the full power of one of the strongest magical artifacts ever created; one that certainly held more power than he himself could muster. But no wards were infinite; they protected a limited area, one specifically outlined and written in detail.
With one last deep breath, Harry opened his eyes, robes buoyant and hair slowly rising as he reached down, drawing on the placid wellspring of his magic. His aura flared, intensifying, then coiled tightly around him as he crouched on one knee, placing his hands on the ground a foot away from the wardline.
Deep rumbles shook the ground. A tremor ran through the soil beneath his fingers. Convulsions shook the bedrock. It felt as though the earth itself cried out in response to his power. Massive fissures opened up all around him, the terrain rupturing and shifting all around him.
The wards held, Flamel's estate an oasis of calm amidst the surrounding cataclysm. But this was no island; the faults, once created, cratered outward like ripples in a pond. And in a matter of minutes, the space that the Philosopher's Stone protected no longer existed. A huge chasm, immediately to the east of the warded area had formed, and slowly at first, then gaining greater and greater intensity, sections of Flamel's land began to erode and slide away into the crevasse.
Just like that, the protections winked out.
Harry gasped, bent over from the strain of setting off an actual earthquake. It wasn't over yet, this was just the beginning.
"What have you done?!" Flamel's raspy, shrill cry sounded, and with a spryness that belied his appearance, he swiftly approached, wand at the ready. "You truly are a monster."
Rather than reply, Harry straightened, chest still heaving, aura once more flaring wildly. A tired, merciless grin split his lips, and he met his enemy's charge with his own.
Flamel's fighting style was… unique, skillful but not overwhelming. His spells were mystical, arcane, and unlike any that Harry had previously encountered. One area-effect spell seemed to increase the gravity around him, leaving him sluggish and slow; another impacted an iron disc, and rather than being deflected, caved in the conjuration and nearly impaled Harry.
But it had been a long time since Nicholas Flamel engaged in mortal combat, and for all his tricks, he was slow to cast, seemingly weighing his spell selection in seconds, rather than casting reflexively. His greatest skill, alchemy, had no place in a fast-paced battle, and any alchemical transformations were vulnerable to Harry's own transfiguration. Without the wards guarding him, the end to this fight was a foregone conclusion.
Flamel seemed to realize the same thing, throwing his wand to the side. "I do not fear death. Whatever you do to me is only temporary, a blink of time in an existence that has built more than you can possibly destroy."
Stone hands rose from the ground at Harry's gesture, grasping each of Flamel's limbs and binding him in place, outstretched and upright. "Your greatness will forever be diminished by your treachery. And," he added casually, "Temporary or not, you're not going to enjoy what comes next."
Flamel showed no fear. "Then get on with it, you little savage. No matter how I suffer, my Perenelle awaits me on the other side. Any torture is worth being reunited with her."
Coming to a stop in front of his opponent, Harry's voice was quiet. "You lost your wife?"
"I did. The ravages of time caught up with her sooner than it did to me, and she passed on before I received the second Stone. I know she's waiting for me, as I would for her."
"I lost someone as well. She died to save my life, jumping in front of a curse intended for me." The two men were silent for a stretch, Harry motionless, and Flamel restrained. "Do you believe in the Deathly Hallows, alchemist?"
The old man scoffed. "When I was born, Ignotus Peverell had only just died. 'Believe', no; I am aware of their existence, yes."
"Then you know of the Resurrection Stone."
"What of it?" Confusion and uncertainty were clearly written across his features, unsure of where this strange line of conversation was heading.
"You were not the only recipient of a Stone from Albus Dumbledore. He gifted me the Resurrection Stone." That he no longer had the Stone went unsaid. "It is a terrible artifact."
"The dead should remain so," Flamel agreed, "The living were not meant to communicate with those that have passed on."
"Perhaps, but in a less conceptual sense, the Stone is cursed. It can return the spirits of the dead, but the longer that they are held on this plane, the greater the agony they suffer. It returns the spirits of the dead so that they might live in unending torture."
"Truly monstrous," came the mumbled reply. "The Peverells were mad to tinker with such forces."
"I wanted you to know that, alchemist, because your wife will be my constant companion for the rest of my own existence. And I will tell her every single day, as she wails and begs to be at peace, that you are the reason for her suffering."
All the blood drained from Flamel's face. "You- you wouldn't- she did nothing to you! Please, not my wife-"
"Goodbye, Nicholas. Enjoy your eternal loneliness." The stone bindings ripped off his limbs without another word, leaving the Immortal Alchemist to bleed out on the ground, cursing his name.
Harry watched him die, before turning his attention to the splintered and crumbling gazebo, and the red stone still inside. A few moments later, he vanished with a crack, leaving behind the ravaged and devastated section of the French countryside.
Not for the first time, Tris wished she'd focused on a more exciting area of expertise than monitoring the activities of the Sorcerer's Assembly. She'd spent more than thirty-five years of her life wearing various faces and sitting in on these sessions, and she scarcely needed both hands to document the number of times that anything of note took place. Truly, the Mugwumps were to the ICW what beards were to a centaur - cosmetic, decorative, but wholly meaningless in function.
Nevertheless, it was her duty and she performed it ably, as she'd been forced to during her encounter with the Supreme Mugwump several weeks before. He'd since conformed to her expectations, and so she sat, monitoring the rumbling of dissent among the various representatives, gathering documentation should she need to coerce them, and doing her part to ensure the safety of all witches and wizards.
"Mr. Pirras, you have the floor," Supreme Mugwump Salah announced, and Tris idly filed her nails as the Italian Mugwump rose, no doubt to protest once again some customs seizure of illegal goods by another country. 'Why we allow a mafia family to govern an entire magical nation is beyond me'.
Her focus lasered in on him, though, along with every other eye in the chamber when the full gravity of his words became apparent.
"Witches and wizards, I come to you today not as an Italian, not even as a Mugwump, but as a free wizard. From the time of the Etruscan warlocks, my country has governed itself according to the wishes and desires of our own people. It was Italian wizards and witches that developed the wands you hold in your hands, who endured the Germanic invasions, muggle witch-burnings, saw the rise and fall of dozens of Dark Lords; through it all, Italy has stood, a monument to the strength and determination of magical people."
He paused for dramatic effect. "Today, I come to you as a free wizard, but tomorrow I may well be in chains. None among us can say any different. The shackles were slipped on, inch by inch, so slowly that none of us even noticed they were there, waiting only to be locked into place on the whim of an unaccountable organization that promises their tyranny is only meant to protect us. I speak, of course, of the Confederation we are all here to oversee; a Confederation that has violated the sovereignty of several member states, that has left wizards and witches to die in disease and depravity, that reacts to dissent by turning our own magic against us!"
Her jaw dropped at the audacity of this man, but Pirras was still going. "I came as a free wizard, and I will remain one until the day that I die. In service to that cause, and on behalf of the wizards and witches of Italy, I call for the dissolution of the International Confederation of Wizards!"
Pandemonium erupted, and Tris wished for a moment that she'd focused on a less exciting area of expertise than trying to keep the Sorcerer's Assembly under control.
Pyotr put the last runestone in place, glancing over at his companion once he was sure that the arrangement was flawless. Harry had come back well after midnight, exhausted and barely standing. He'd gone over the plan once more, ensuring that Pyotr's preparations would be ready, then collapsed onto the small cot and was dead to the world until late morning. They'd had a simple, quiet lunch, and then left his apartment in Lyons to set out on their mission.
It had been bittersweet, locking up his flat for what was likely the last time. He'd be accompanying Harry back to Sardinia at the end of this day, bidding farewell to the country where he'd lived his entire life to this point. After today, the only place he'd be welcome within France would be a prison cell.
He felt no conflict over facilitating this attack, though. He had royal blood, after all; rightfully, he should have been a noble in Russia, but for the bigotry of the Tsarists and the bloodlust of the peasants. No, France was always nothing more than a placeholder for the legacy that Pyotr Sarstedt and his family had long been denied, and he would shed no tears over Harry Potter's plan to bring the nation to its knees.
"I'm ready. We've got twenty-three minutes until the first portkey arrives."
Harry nodded, once more shedding his winter cloak in favor of his silver robes with the hood raised, his eerie glowing eyes illuminating his shadowed face. "When the portkey activates, I want you to approach. We can't take the chance of you being apprehended by aurors."
That command twisted his insides in anxiety, but Pyotr signaled his understanding anyway. He was a runologist, not a soldier! He had no place in whatever butchery was to ensue here today! Still, his instructions were concrete, and the gold too seductive to resist.
Drawn out of his thoughts by a series of ear-splitting booms, Pyotr watched, awestruck as Harry single-handedly brought down the wards of the Delacour chateau in a matter of seconds. So surprised by the speed that the defenses were shattered, he nearly missed the bright flash of light, scrambling over to tap the activation rune that raised the wards he'd encircled the chateau's boundaries with, blocking apparition and all outgoing portkeys.
His companion was nearly out of sight, riding atop a stone column that was speeding towards the distant home. Pyotr waited, seeing distant flashes of spellfire, then saw half of the large house collapse within a plume of smoke. He cast another tempus, waiting impatiently for the minutes to pass before the first portkey arrived.
His wand vibrated in his hand just as multiple cracks sounded along the boundary of where the Delacour's wardline had been. The gendarmerie responded quicker than they'd anticipated! Pyotr took off running, hearing the shouts of the magical police for him to halt, throwing up a hasty shield as he sprinted towards the manor. 'Just a few more minutes!'
"Harry!" He shouted, catching sight of the young man standing before two individuals wrapped in chains, a third lying motionless on the ground. "Incoming!"
The fearful look on the Vice-Minister's face shifted to a vindictive rage. "You won't be so lucky as you were last time, Potter. I'll personally be the one to send you beneath the guillotine for your crimes!"
Pyotr shuddered at the smile with which Harry replied. "Watch them, I'll deal with the others."
Harry turned and walked confidently towards the fourteen white-robed aurors that were running towards them, leaving him to nervously avoid the piercing look that Marcel Delacour shot at him.
"Who are you, wizard? Free us, and I can guarantee you some leniency."
"Sorry, I can't do that."
"You wouldn't want us to get hurt, would you monsieur?" An angelic voice, one surely sent from the heavens asked, and Pyotr's eyes widened as he took in the other person Harry had captured.
She was beautiful, a goddess in the truest sense of the word. Long, flaxen hair that looked woven of the purest silk, light blue eyes the same color of a clear, perfect day, a figure that - though wrapped in chains - promised the epitome of every man's desire. His breathing grew heavy, arousal coursing through his blood as he looked upon this… this utter perfection.
"Free us, and I will grant your every desire…" she cooed, and in a daze he took a step forward, intent on doing just as she asked, not even flinching as a stray spell from the battle taking place behind him passed just by his ear.
The trance was broken, however, by the bright flash of an incoming portkey, three giants landing in a thunderous crash as they dropped in among the aurors, slaughtering them together with Harry in a matter of minutes.
In the face of such horror, the veela's allure fell away, and Pyotr snapped out of his daze, scrambling away from the young woman and the Vice-Minister as they floated into the air, levitated towards where Harry and the giants waited.
"Vice-Minister, I'd like you to meet some of my giants. I'll be leaving you with them while I take care of some other business."
"You can't do this!"
"What was it you said to me in that prison? 'I'm just glad to see justice done'?"
Delacour's face twisted in hatred as the chains disappeared from him and the veela. "Might as well make the chase sporting, eh fellas?" One of the giants licked his lips, looking over the two wandless humans. "Let's go, Pyotr."
Stepping closer, the ground beneath their feet transfigured to stone, and just as he'd entered, Harry Potter left the Delacour chateau atop a stone column, his exit punctuated by screams of terror.
"How was it out there?"
Remus grimaced, unshrinking the parcels he'd picked up from a muggle grocer. "There were a fair number of people at Gringotts, but Diagon was whisper-quiet. Seems like a lot of shops are choosing to do business via owl rather than risk contact with customers."
Andromeda nodded from where she stood, staring out the window at Tonks and the American auror. "I can't say I blame them. Without the proper potions to treat it, dragon pox is almost always fatal."
Neville blanched at that, but Remus spoke up before he could say anything else. "Speaking of potions, I stopped by the White Wyvern to meet up with Dung. He says the word's spread all over Knockturn that there are potions available for those willing to join the resistance."
"Must be Riddle's group," Sirius noted, digging through the bags Remus brought back. "Where's the firewhiskey?"
"Sold out. I got some muggle spirits, though you really should give it a rest," he said. Remus had been their 'designated shopper', his lycanthropy providing a significant resistance to dragon pox and other diseases.
"Did Mundungus tell you how Riddle's offer was received? Seems rather cold, to only provide medicine to the people willing to fight for you."
"How do you think it was received?" Remus asked rhetorically. "If it's a choice between your family dying from disease, or you dying by a foreigner's wand, which would you pick?"
"There's got to be something we can do!"
"Dragon pox has been around for as long as wizards and witches have, which is why the treatments were developed using ingredients from all over the world. No one could have anticipated being cut off from international trade."
Something about Andromeda's explanation tickled the back of Neville's mind, silently mulling over her words while the others continued their discussion.
Place Cachée was rather impressive, in Harry's opinion, combining the elegance and luxury of Lyman Hall in Boston with the wonder and excitement of Diagon Alley in London. Hidden away beneath a formidable array of illusions and disguising enchantments, it stretched for more than two miles inside of Paris, a sort of magical arrondissement that centered commercial life for the average French wizard or witch.
He idly wondered how many aurors remained in the country; he'd faced roughly two dozen in the Channel Tunnel, and about a dozen more at the Delacour chateau. If their forces were comparable to the British DMLE's cadre of hitwizards and aurors, that equated to just over a third of their active forces.
That assumed, of course, that the two countries had comparable militaries. He internally griped that this was the sort of thing they really ought to teach in History of Magic, but then realized they very well may, and he'd never know given the way he was constantly flouting his education. That small amusement was worthy of a laugh on this dark day.
"What's so funny?"
"Just thinking how I should be in class right now."
Pyotr aimed that look at him, the one where it seemed he was torn between sending for a mind healer or casting a curse at him, but Harry was unconcerned with the runologist's opinion. He was too skittish, an academic who liked to play-act as a gangster but when confronted with actual violence, wilted like parchment before an open flame.
'Or maybe I've just grown so numb to the slaughter that I can't fathom an actual human's reaction' Harry considered.
It was true; he'd luxuriated in the violence of this mission, of settling scores both recent and old. It was different than before, with Dumbledore and Daphne; then, it seemed he couldn't do anything right, that every move was the wrong one.
But now - it was different now. 'It's because you have nothing left to lose' a small voice that sounded suspiciously like Susan's said in his mind. With Alessio's plan in motion, war looming on the horizon, that observation was more truth than he'd care to admit.
"Thirty seconds," Pyotr murmured as they passed by a vintner's stall, oaken casks of wine being hawked to passersby.
Were Dumbledore and Sirius right? It didn't feel like they were, as the adrenaline coursed through his body in eager anticipation. He was a warrior, he'd been fighting for years; if he just happened to be a little better than his challengers, well that wasn't something worthy of being upset over!
He'd been wrong before, though, about almost everything. It was his distrust and determination to act alone that had roused Erra, cost Luna her father, Susan her life, and wet his hands with the blood of… of… he didn't even know how many people.
"Get ready."
Would he look back on this moment in a year, or five, or ten, and see the start of a sequence of events that culminated in the death of another person he loved? Harry stopped, drawing annoyed looks from shoppers walking behind him as he thought of Susan, bleeding to death in his arms. Dumbledore, the look of surprise etched permanently on his face. Daphne, their fingers slippery with blood, reaching out to one another.
No. He couldn't- he wouldn't lose anyone else. This war would be the last, and then he would never have to fight again.
A flash lit the street, and panicked screams filled the air as a half-dozen giants began to rampage through France's largest magical district.
A/N: fun stuff! Now we're cooking with fire!
Special, huge shoutout to LongSelfIndulgentReviews, who read all of ASAoV and WaR, left a bunch of reviews, then promptly went and promo'd the story on reddit. I'm really grateful!
Let's see... some house-keeping stuff:
- I've started a collaboration story with 573 (author of the incredible Arcanist: Unspeakable Mysteries), involving a Harry Potter thrown back in time to antiquity. Lots more gods and goddesses to battle in those days!
- I am starting a new Haphne fic, based off of a prompt from MidgardWyrm
- That will be my final multi-chaptered fanfiction, so from here on I will be working on finishing what I've got. Enjoy it while it's hot! It's been a pleasure meeting so many cool people, and amazing to hear that they've enjoyed my work!
Stay safe, healthy, and happy! ~Frickles
