Author's Note:
This is a continuation/soft reboot of the time travel tale "Hair of the Grim" by Nightmare Sired Muse, with a bunch of changes. It also contains many concepts, lines and situations from the grab-bag that is "Odd Ideas" by Rorschach's Blot. Both are used with the permission of their original authors. The Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. I do not own Harry Potter or anything else.
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Rated M for some violence, language, drug use and sexual references. Nothing explicit.
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Canon-compliant. HP&DH compliant (except the Epilogue). HP&CC compliant (except the conclusion). FB&WTFT compliant. Pottermore compliant (mostly).
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Recommended Fanfiction of the Week: "Poison Pen" by Genkai Fan.
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Question of the Week: Whatever happened to that game Snakes and Ladders?
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Chapter 22 – Gotta Catch 'Em All
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Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder.
– Game of Thrones
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The Dark Lord Voldemort fell out of bed, shrieking in agony. It felt like every cell in his body was trying to explode simultaneously. Something, somewhere was drawing on his magic, trying to suck it out of him. Fiercely he resisted the violation, drawing on every ounce of strength he had, every last reserve of power, to pull back from oblivion.
His bootlicking dogsbodies of course fell into a complete panic, running around like headless cockatrices. Adding to the confusion were the bursts of accidental magic that the Dark Lord, in his pain, lashed out in all directions. Accidental magic from a child can be charming, or irritating, or terrifying, based on your mood or your knowledge of magic. Accidental magic from a frantic Dark Lord, however, is utterly devastating. Several minutes of his agonising pangs was enough to incinerate his bedroom, and the two adjoining rooms, setting his lickspittles to fleeing in abject terror before the twisting waves of power. Before long, the base was deserted. Except for a single prisoner in the dungeons below.
That prisoner calmly stood and wandlessly summoned a set of keys that someone had dropped in their haste to escape. It was the work of seconds to remove his heavy iron fetters and unlock his cell door. Strolling up the stairs, he collected a robe, boots, dragonhide gloves and a variety of wands that had likewise been dropped on the floor. Then he made his way to the pathetic figure writhing and twisting on the floor, nimbly sidestepping the (weakening) blasts of power that continued to spew forth. With a gesture, Voldemort's holly and phoenix feather wand was in his hand. He twirled it appreciatively, savouring its magical responsiveness.
"Tut tut, young Voldemort, you seem to be in a bit of a pickle. Or is it a bit of a jam? In a bit of some type of foodstuff, in any case." With a flick of the wand, his opponent was petrified and levitated. The prisoner scrutinised the Dark Lord carefully. "That must be extraordinarily painful, having your magic stripped from your very body and soul like that. Even more so than a regular wizard, given your vast reserves of magic. And to face the rest of your existence as little more than a squib? How terrible must be your despair. Never let it be said that Lord Grindelwald is not merciful: Avada Kedavra!"
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Intensely motivated, it hadn't taken too long for the HA to reach the minimum standards required for Professor Flitwick to agree to train them – a mere three months. Shortly thereafter, they learned what a harsh taskmaster the Professor could be.
"Again!" Flitwick barked. "You wanted help, help is what you'll get! Your stamina is barely adequate, you need to be able to go all night if that's what it takes!"
They dragged themselves off the floor and prepared to run through the old sadist's drills once more. Drills which ranged from:
- - the difficult:
"Five thousand sit-ups, Mr Pettigrew and Mr Lupin!" Flitwick demanded. "And since your fitness isn't quite so abysmal: six thousand push-ups, Miss Evans and Misses McKinnon!"
- - to the dangerous:
"You want me to swim across the lake with you on my back?" James asked incredulously.
"Yes, Mr Potter, and then it will be Mr Longbottom's turn. And you're only permitted to breath twice," the half goblin agreed. "We need to build up that lung capacity! You need to be able to hold your breath for long periods of time."
The two boys glanced at each other.
"Well, I guess there and back won't be so bad," Frank said dubiously.
"Of course not," Flitwick agreed. "And once you've succeeded at that, we'll move on to doing it every morning after Professor Scamander and Hagrid have broken up the ice."
- - to the bizarre:
"You want to suspend me from the North Tower from a clamp attached to my tongue overnight?!" Sirius demanded.
"To elongate it and build up its strength," Flitwick explained. "You can stop after you're able to lick your eyebrows and do fifty chin-ups with it."
"I can already lick all sorts of places already," the boy grumbled to himself.
"What was that, Mr Black?"
"Er, I said: is that so I'm able to yell out incantations no matter what?" Sirius asked, trying to make sense of things.
Flitwick nodded. "Among other reasons."
Later that month, the Professor gathered the HA in the Room of Requirement in lieu of their dinner. He sat on a raised dais eating a bowl of rice and two pickles.
"Do you know how one masters combat, my apprentices?" Filius asked.
"How, Professor?" asked Alice.
"The same way one masters any other skill," Filius replied. "Practice. I shall provoke as many life threatening situations for you as possible, I've found that the threat of death focuses the mind wonderfully. Now normally I would just send you out onto the grounds to fight the Dementor horde in an epic battle royale, however you can do that on your own time. In fact, I expect it. But for now, I have something else in mind."
"Gee, I hope it won't be too much trouble for you, Professor," Sirius said sarcastically, stomach rumbling loudly. "Wouldn't want you to interrupt your meal."
"Fear not, Mr Black," Flitwick stated. "It is much less appetising than it looks. Fortunately, I received it in trade rather than paying for it."
"In trade for what?"
"That's hardly important right now," he replied hastily. "Now to begin your death-defying training session."
"What do we need to do, Professor?" asked Lily, ever the teacher's pet.
"We'll start you off easy, I think." Filius smiled disarmingly. "Confrigio! Bombarda Maxima! Reducto!"
The HA scattered in terror as the room exploded around them.
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"We did it!" a high voice shrieked in delight.
The other students in the Library looked up in irritation as a whirlwind of red and black bounded up to that odd lump Peter Pettigrew, launching herself into his lap. The exuberant girl cared not that this was supposed to be a place of reading and silent reflection, nor that the rest of the students were glaring in annoyance, nor that the force of her trajectory had knocked the startled boy, and herself, off his chair and smack back onto the floor. Throwing her arms around his neck, she peppered her face with happy kisses.
"Wediditwediditwediditwediditwedidit!" she squealed.
"Whu? Did what?" a dazed Harry managed.
"Snatching those six from the past and bringing them here fixed up everything! Everything! None of it ever happened, none! No blood wars, no dead friends, no resurrections and especially no fathers imprisoned in eternal time loops!"
"Really? That's wonderful news!"
"Isn't it?" Lily Luna chirped happily. "I have my Dad back! My Mum's not a nutter anymore! And it's all thanks to you and your genius idea, you wonderful rodent! Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!"
"Happy to help," he mumbled, thoroughly embarrassed by the girl's demonstrations of joy. "Al and James and Scorpius okay? We didn't accidentally wipe them from history or something did we?"
"No, they're fine; I only have two siblings now though. The other babies aren't exactly a priority for my parents; though I suppose I could casually 'suggest' the idea to them …"
"What I wouldn't give to be a mouse in the wall for that conversation," Harry snickered. She beamed back at him.
"Once more into the breach, eh Wormy? Your skills of plowing through the female population never cease to amaze and inspire," Sirius smirked knowingly from his sitting-chair, peeking over the edge of the Auror training manual he'd filched from Charlus. "Insatiable boy; truly a credit to the Marauders."
Harry rolled his eyes.
"Though you may want to avoid involving yourself with more redheads, mate; just a friendly word of advice. Makes it seem like your rubbing James' face in it, if you know what I mean."
And then the Librarian Madame Crabbe was upon them like the Wrath of Merlin, and their entire group was bodily ejected from the sanctuary of silence.
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Gellert Grindelwald reclined on a large cushion in his luxurious chair. A fire roared merrily. The Lestrange Manor may not be as magnificent as the Malfoys', but was not lacking in creature comforts. It was amazing what a hot four-hour bath, a hot meal, a dozen nutrient potions and some comfortable, fashionable robes could do to revitalise a person who'd spent over three decades in one gloomy prison or another. Now that was real magic.
It was time to get to work. The backstabbing traitor Dumbledore had had 30 years' free rein over magical Europe; and what a milquetoast, aimless reign it had been! Grindelwald had a lot of catching up to do if he were to set the world to rights for The Greater Good. He reached out a wizened arm and seized the oil lamp on his side-table. It was ornate and made out of tarnished brass. An artefact that would not have looked out of place in a school rendition of the Thousand and One Nights. He rubbed it, and in true Arabian Nights fashion a black tendril of smoke poured out of the spout and gradually took the form of a tall, handsome, dark-haired man, who glared at his summoner with open hatred. His glowing red eyes suggested a demon rather than the shade of a human being.
"Welcome back to us, Tom," Grindelwald began genially. The spirit snarled and darted towards him, absorbing into the man's eyes, nose and ears in an instant. The old wizard chuckled in amusement, then took a deep breath and blew firmly. The black cloud shot out of his mouth and, after a moment of confused swirling, re-formed into a puzzled human form.
"While you have clearly taken steps to keep your soul trapped on this plane of existence, you have barely enough magic to manifest as a ghost. Certainly not enough to possess even a flobberworm. Without regular infusions of magic from external sources, your soul will gradually haemorrhage what little magic it has left, until you become a mere muggle ghost. And since muggle ghosts last less than a year before dissolving into the aether …" He trailed off, letting that thought sink in. "Yet I am a merciful master," Grindelwald said, "and I will ensure you receive those necessary infusions of magic should you prove a faithful and loyal retainer."
The spirit hissed defiantly. "Or," Grindelwald continued unfazed, "I will simply re-seal you into that lamp and forget about you. Maybe in a few generations I'll gift it to one of my great-great-grandchildren to play with, but by that point, you won't be around to notice, of course."
The shade paced back and forth in agitation, while the old man looked on in amusement. Finally, making it's decision, Voldemort swung back and hissed, "You have a deal, sssslavemassster!"
"A rather rich accusation coming from one who has done such deeds as you have," Grindelwald responded mildly. "Let us begin: your first task is to tell me everything about the nature of the Dark Mark you've branded your cattle with. And then you're going to inform me of all your assets: names of followers, caches of gold and supplies, properties, blackmail material, magical knowledge, research, bought politicians and business leaders, and so forth. Then you're going to give me every scrap of intelligence you have gathered concerning Albus Dumbledore: his home, his defences, his routines, his actions over the past year, and especially his wand."
The spirit's eyes widened.
Grindelwald cackled roughly. "I see you finally understand."
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Harry sat in the Hogwarts Infirmary being healed from his latest 'training session' with Professor Flitwick. Madame Valentine ran diagnostic charms over his body. The boy stared out the windows of the Hospital Wing, idly watching the Dementors float back and forth.
"Your potions regime coupled with a proper diet and your, ahem, 'conscientious exercise program', have had a wonderful effect on your health," she announced proudly. "You've increased in height by three inches and dropped from 160 to 130 pounds since the beginning of the school year, a remarkable achievement without magic. Hmmm, substantial muscle growth, no problems with reflexes … keep up the good work, young man. What does Professor Flitwick have your little group doing at the moment?"
"He's teaching us to disarm people, Madame Valentine."
"By means of the Expelliarmus?"
"No, by means of multiple Cutting Curses."
"I … see. Do try not to be clumsy then, Mr Pettigrew, re-attaching limbs is a difficult and tiresome process. I have enough on my plate without –"
Suddenly the Infirmary exploded into light and song. Phoenix flames swept through the room, and through the inhabitants. For a brief, shining second, Harry felt as if he were soaring through a crystal-clear sea of magic that shimmered and sparked all around him, and connected him to every other living thing on earth. In wonder he raised his hand, watching the flow of energy swirl around it and through it. Clenching, he could see the impact roll outwards like a ripple, affecting the entire universe in little ways, just as other ripples affected him. Then just as suddenly, the rainbow kaleidoscope was gone and he was back in his body on his own two feet in a mundane and colourless world. Dazed, he shook his head to clear it. Then became aware of a figure lying on a cot in front of him. Albus Dumbledore, his robes and flesh torn and tangled together, right arm and face charred almost beyond recognition. Became aware of Fawkes' frantic song and falling tears.
Harry froze in shock. He was powerfully assaulted by a memory of Dumbledore surrounded by green light and falling in slow motion off the edge of the Astronomy Tower. A thousand lit wands raised around a marble sepulchre as the sky wept.
He was shaken back into the real world by Madame Valentine pushing past him. "Floo St Mungos!" she screamed, trying desperately to stabilise the old man.
Harry almost tripped over himself sprinting to the Floo connection. Throwing a handful of powder into the fireplace he yelled, "St Mungos! Emergency Room!"
A bored face appeared on the other end of the connection. "Please state the nature of the medical emergency."
"Dumbledore's been critically injured! Looks like he's dying! Get Healers over to the Hogwarts' Infirmary NOW!" The bald man reeled back in shock. But in less than a minute, Healers were pouring out of the Floo. 10 minutes after them came a squad of grim-faced Aurors, led by Alastor Moody. Since Madame Valentine and the other Healers were busily trying to save the Headmaster, it fell to Harry to provide a report. But since he knew almost nothing about what had happened to the old man, it was a very short statement.
Moody eyed the agitated youth, who kept trying to peek over Madame Valentine's shoulder. Given his stature (or lack thereof) this was no easy task. Tiring of the boy's hopping up and down, he dragged the boy to the other side of the Hospital Wing. "Nothing ye can do about it, lad," he sighed, "best leave them to their work." He hesitated, eyes softening. "Never gets any easier, ye know, seein' comrades fall. But wailin' about it gets nobody nothin'. Only thing ye can do is learn what lessons ye can – and then work like hell to make sure it don't happen to yerself or anyone else."
Harry looked up at him with blurry eyes. "Thanks, Moody," he choked, when his throat began to work again.
"Don't mention it," the grizzled Auror replied roughly. "Now, off wit' ye. The Aurors' will get to the bottom of it. And the moment ye find out anything about this mess, ye tell me right smart, understand?"
Harry nodded.
"Attaboy. Robards, we got everything we can from here? Then let's move out!"
He felt numb, watching the Aurors hurriedly leave, except for Proudfoot who remained as a guard. Then he stood, strode to the Floo again and tossed in another handful of Floo powder. "Ministry of Magic, Dolores Umbridge's Office."
"Peter, what is it?"
"Dumbledore's been attacked," he said dumbly.
"Oh no! What happened?"
Harry shrugged helplessly.
"I'll see what I can find out," she abruptly disconnected.
Harry walked back to his dorm on autopilot.
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Bellatrix dived to the side to avoid Severus' Sectumsepra curse. Smoothly springing upright she snapped off a chain of hexes. Reducto! Engorgio Skullus! Ossis Effergo! Confrigo! Ruptura! Fulmina! Snape was a blur of motion as he deflected or sidestepped them.
"Faster!" commanded her mother from the sidelines. "In a real battle you won't have time to dither about so!"
Snape was sweating profusely. In the weeks since they had fled Hogwarts and Lord Black to join the newly militant Traditionalist faction, he and Bellatrix had duelled each other to exhaustion every morning. And then duelled Cygnus or Druella in the evening. Sometimes they duelled two-on-two, and sometimes it was three-on-one. Snape felt like he was being run through the wringer, but had to admit that his spellcasting speed and proficiency, as well as his physical fitness and situational awareness, had increased dramatically. This was an education, he had to admit, that had many advantages to the one at Hogwarts.
In the down-times while the were resting or recovering from injuries, Bellatrix and Snape were studying Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Dark Arts and Combat Magic under several specially selected tutors. At night, they would sit for hours with Cygnus, Druella and their colleagues discussing the history of the wizarding world, magical philosophy and strategic theory. Snape couldn't remember a time when he'd felt so worn out, yet so satisfied with his lot. Here were no abusive fathers, no Marauders humiliating him, no disapproving professors, no uppity rats trying to get him killed, no oblivious mudbloods to send his heart through the shredder repeatedly.
Just as he prepared his counterattack, Cygnus Black III entered the room and called for an early halt to their practice. Forestalling his wife's imminent objection with an elegantly raised palm, he smoothly conjured a table and chairs and called for his house elf Manky to bring tea and water.
Snape collapsed into one of the chairs and gratefully drank from one of the bottles of cold water.
Bellatrix, completely unruffled – hair and makeup still perfect in spite of the vigorous spar she'd just taken part in – sat down gracefully and folded her legs like a proper pureblood lady. Her mother did likewise.
Allowing Manky to pour her tea, Bellatrix a cast a sidelong look at the crisp black Dark Marks adorning her mother and father's forearms, and felt a swell of jealous longing. She knew the oath the rat had extorted prevented her from ever having one of her own. Well, the Dark Lord would know of her loyalty and her (indirect) efforts on his behalf, nonetheless. Her Marked parents would act as a backchannel between her and Sevvie-pooh, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. They could coordinate their activities to achieve mutual goals. And very soon the Dark Lord would conquer the morons running the Ministry of Magic, and become ruler. Then she could get a job with the Ministry, maybe as an Auror. She wouldn't be serving the Dark Lord would she? No, her magical oath certainly didn't preclude her from being a faithful employee of the legitimate government of magical Britain.
"Druella, Bellatrix, Severus, we must speak for a moment. There have been important developments to discuss." He took a sip of tea while contemplating how to break the news.
"As you know, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is an exceptional wizard, a genius of a kind that only appears once over many generations. In his magical explorations, he has delved far beyond the limits by which normal wizards and witches are constrained. Needless to say, such explorations of primordial and eldritch powers are extremely hazardous. It is a testament to his extreme skill that he has heretofore navigated such shoals unscathed. Unfortunately," Cygnus said regretfully, "that situation has changed: he has inadvertently lost his body due to the consequences of a minor miscalculation."
Bellatrix's eyes widened. "And he yet lives?" she asked incredulously.
Her father nodded. "Indeed. Another testament to his greatness. Yet another was his foresight in preparing for such a possibility. He secretly appointed a regent to rule in his stead, until such time as he is able to reconstruct his body. Have you heard anything of this?"
"There were some rumours," Bellatrix admitted, "of a prisoner who was recovered from the Continent. I do not know any details. Is he the one?"
Cygnus nodded, pleased at the intelligence-gathering prowess of his eldest child. "That too was the limit of my knowledge until today. It turns out that the regent is none other than Gellert Grindelwald himself!" He paused to savour the shocked silence.
"But husband, surely … I mean, Grindelwald is dead …?"
"I thought so too," admitted Cygnus, "however, it was a masterful deception by Dumbledore and the German Ministry. He is indeed alive, and the Dark Lord – once he discovered that – saw fit to rescue him from the fetters Dumbledore had imprisoned him in. This very morning, Lord Grindelwald summoned a council of all the Dark Lord's followers to update them on the news. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was also present, in sprit form."
He grinned giddily, a most un-Black-like expression if ever there was one. "The regent immediately launched a retaliatory strike, in case our enemies had caught wind of what happened and believed our forces to be weak and confused as a result. We landed a decisive blow that will ensure all who oppose us to continue to cower like the fearful curs they are!"
"What sort of blow?" Bellatrix asked breathlessly, onyx eyes gleaming in anticipation. Cygnus chuckled, and leaned back, taking a long draw of his tea while he stretched the anticipation out. He did so enjoy teasing his daughter, and he had so few opportunities to do so these days. Her eagerness was one of her most adorable qualities.
"Nothing much," he shrugged, "just an attack on the home of an insignificant blood-traitor named Albus Dumbledore." Dead silence.
"You didn't," Druella whispered.
"We did indeed. With our and the regent's combined knowledge we were able to exploit a number of weaknesses in his ward structure, and assaulted it en masse. I have only just returned from the raid."
"Why was he not at the school?" Snape asked in confusion. "It's term-time, he should be living at Hogwarts now shouldn't he?"
"Ordinarily yes. However, he was looking after a gaggle of young relatives and for some reason they were not attending Hogwarts. The old fool kept trying to shield them rather than combat us properly. It was his undoing."
"You mean …?"
"Incinerated the old meddler, obtained several hostages and a variety of magical equipment and burnt the place to the ground."
"Dumbledore's dead?" his wife demanded, her white-fisted grip on his arm tightening painfully.
"We think so. The last I saw of him, he was being banished into the flames of his own burning house by Lord Grindelwald, using the old fool's own wand, no less! Nevertheless, it's always best not to assume without checking the corpse for polyjuice. But even if he survived, he suffered grievously. For a man of his age, I would be very surprised if he lives through the night."
"Praise Morgana," Druella breathed.
"And now," her husband braced himself. This news would not go down so well. "We must pack our things. The regent has decided to relocate our forces outside of Europe."
"Run away?!" Bellatrix exploded, springing to her feet. "Right on the cusp of our complete victory?!" Severus was appalled, and could only nod in agreement.
"Please children, sit and listen for a moment," her father said in a placating tone. "Things are more complicated than you may think." His daughter stared at him rebelliously, fists on hips. "We are far from 'the cusp' of victory unfortunately. Our forces have been decimated by the actions of unknown enemies: the flower of our youth has vanished and the British Isles are crawling with the scum of the wizarding world who seek our heads for the sake of table-scraps. Crouch and his minions continue to hound us. The Wizengamot has just approved more funding to the DMLE, the largest increase in 300 years, solely for the purpose of hunting us down. That Quibbler rag continues to spread propaganda to poison the minds of wizarding folk. More and more of the fools among us are starting to believe the lies that our Lord was a muggle."
He shivered in disgust. "Lord Grindelwald's former allies in Germany, Eastern Europe and Italy face in similar difficulties. Many of their number remain behind bars. The European Ministries are uniformly hostile to any actions to restore The Greater Good to the civilised world. They are likely to keep up their short-sightedness for the foreseeable future."
He rose and began to pace absently as he spoke. "The regent has determined that we must rebuild our armies. In the 1940's, Lord Grindelwald was able to storm across Europe and Eurasia with thousands of wizards and millions of muggles at his command. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named attempted a more subtle approach here in Britain, but that is a long-term game, and it has not succeeded as well as we might hope. The past two years have resulted in significant reverses for us. But there is a place where many of Lord Grindelwald's former allies reside. They are powerful, organised and numerous, and the local Ministry is impotent against them."
"Where, sir?" asked Snape.
"It is a land called Mahounihon, located on the opposite side of Asia," Cygnus answered. "I see you are dissatisfied with this decision, yet it is for the best. There is an old saying: 'avoid what is strong, attack what is weak'. Here our enemies are strong and entrenched – there our allies are strong and our enemies scattered and feckless. We shall sweep aside the last remnants of opposition, and use the country as a bridgehead from which we can launch our conquest of Britain and the rest of Europe."
"I don't like this at all," whined Bellatrix petulantly.
Her father ignored her, still looking intently into Snape's eyes. "You must understand, young man, that the world is much larger than Britain alone. This is all part of what is called 'The Great Game'. It is the greatest game of all, the fundamental struggle of all life. That which determines who has the right to rule the weak, the stupid and the impure. To drink deep of the bounty of the earth, of its people, and of its magic. Only those with the greatest skill, cunning and purity will attain this throne. The game has been going on for all eternity, every living thing participates: magical or mundane. The House of Black has played this game for many centuries, and several times we have come close to seizing the throne for our own. The family has determined that now is another moment of opportunity, where once again we stand poised to seize it. If only we can summon the will and the guile."
"Far out," Severus whispered in wonder.
Cygnus nodded indulgently. "The game of thrones is a 'far out' game: swords, poison, spells, battles, maiming, killing," he explained patiently. It wasn't the poor boy's fault he'd had such a sheltered upbringing. His father was a muggle, for Mordred's sake, who knows how deep the ignorance had infiltrated into his brain? "But the rewards, my boy … ah, the rewards …" He trailed off.
"Come," said the mistress of the house, "there is much that needs to be done."
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Harry awoke from his fitful slumber with a start. Looking around, he quickly ascertained that this time it was not caused by Kreacher leaning over him and staring into his soul while he slept. Instead, a silvery glowing otter sat on its hind legs, waiting for him to come to his senses.
"Meet me at the Shrieking Shack. Pronto!" the Patronus commanded, then dissipated.
Harry threw on a robe over his pyjamas, grabbed his wand and transformed into the rat. He racing down the tunnel to the Shack, where he found a singed and grimy Dolores Umbridge sitting tiredly in one of the rotting couches.
Shifting back into his human form, he demanded, "Hermione! Are you all right? What happened? Did you get hurt?" while frantically casting as many diagnostic charms as Nurse Joy had taught him.
"House attacked. Burned to a crisp. Luckily prepared so escaped. Not hurt, just tired." Her sentences were clipped and weary.
"But how? We had your place warded up the wazoo!" Harry put his wand away and squeezed in next to her, putting an arm carefully around her shoulders. She leaned into his embrace, glad for the support.
"Yes, the main house was. But there were only minimal protections on the rest of the grounds. They struck while I was out by the lake. The guest lodge and gazebo gave me cover, until they went down to Fiendfyre Curses. Anti-apparition and anti-portkey jinxes were up so I couldn't escape that way."
"Merlin, I'm really sorry Hermione – this is all my fault, if I'd only thought to have the lake area covered by the Fidelius as well …"
"Don't beat yourself up over it," she retorted sharply. "No ward scheme is invulnerable, and it's impossible to think of everything. We all have to step outside of our wards at some point, otherwise we'll all turn into crazy cat ladies."
Harry sniggered. "You're the expert on that." She poked him and he yelped as she hit a ticklish spot.
"Anyway, it's not a big deal. After all, it was only Umbridge's possessions that were destroyed. I had the only important things with me," she indicated her wand, Gringotts key and a little black book with a little golden lock.
"What's that?"
"My blackmail book. Or more specifically, the blackmail book I keep at home," she smiled sweetly.
"Is that why it's bound in black leather?"
"You can't go wrong with the classics," she shrugged. "This little thing is far more valuable than that woman's sickening kitten plates, hideous pink furniture, frills and doilies and lace coasters."
"I daresay it's a triumph for good taste! Those Death Eaters have heroically made the world a considerably more fashionable place," Harry snickered.
"I do hope my kneazles are all right though," Hermione sighed.
"Kreacher! Dobby! Flipsy! Flopsy!" The four elves materialised. "Go to Madame Umbridge's house and see if you can find her seven kneazles. You'll be able to recognise them by the pink bows they wear. Bring them to Malfoy Manor and make sure they're fed and given a bed or something to sleep on. Oh, and see if you can find any of her possessions that survived the fire and move them to an unused wing."
"Yes master," three voices chorused.
"Harry …"
"Nope, I won't hear another word about it – you're moving into Malfoy Manor tomorrow. No Death Eater can get through its war wards, it'd be suicide to try. Apparently they're powered by the convergence of ley lines at that exact spot in Wiltshire or something like that. Keeps the wardstones constantly charged by the earth's magical energy field. In fact, can you contact the Tonks and the Weasleys and see if you can convince them to move their families there as well? If the Death Eaters have gone after you for aligning House Malfoy with the Light, I don't doubt that the others're on the list too. The elves can reopen the Manor, re-stock the place with food, get the heating and Floos back on, and so forth."
Seeing how determined he was, Hermione reluctantly agreed.
A thought struck him. "Hey, if they locked the place down with anti-apparition and anti-portkey wards, how did you escape?"
Hermione grinned. There was a subtle shift of magic, and suddenly where his friend used to sit was a tawny barn owl.
"Hermione you brilliant witch!" Harry cheered, "You did it! And you're the first one!"
The owl puffed up proudly, as if to say, 'of course, was there ever any doubt?' He reached out his arm to her, and the bird awkwardly climbed on.
"Come on, let's get out of here. Wouldn't want to get caught out here by a flock of Dementors on a surprise inspection."
Making sure to be careful, Harry carried the newest animagus through the school and down to the Chamber of Secrets. She transformed back into a human and fell like a log onto Ron's bed, not bothering to shower or change. Harry pulled a blanket over her, and hopped into his own bed for a few hours of shuteye before dawn.
"Harry?" Hermione mumbled sleepily.
"Yes, Hermione?"
"What do you think we should do about all this?"
Harry pondered the situation. It was not a rational contemplation, though. He was at present a cauldron of grief and despair at the near-loss (or possibly actual-loss, it was too early to tell) of Dumbledore, of rage and impotent fury at his best friend losing the majority of her possessions and having to flee her home, of disgust at his 'relatives', Cygnus, Druella, Bellatrix, Regulus and the rest of them joining the Dark Lord (even though he wasn't surprised in the least) and not even having the decency to warn him of the upcoming attacks, of sympathetic pain for Lily's grief at her loss and abandonment by her oldest friend, Snape. Harry 'Pettigrew' Potter declared, in the full bloom of his rage, "Strike or be struck, Hermione. Delenda sint!"
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DEATH EATERS HIT HOMES OF MINISTRY PERSONNEL!
Disorganised Death Eaters Now Targeting Ministry Officials' Homes! Property and Lives of Traditionalists and Blood Purists No Longer Safe From Their Depredations! Find Out More Inside!
By Rita Skeeter and Wang Liquin
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Harry carefully strode around the room in a jaunty, arrogant gait, his supercilious sneer sliding disdainfully over all he surveyed. It was made considerably more difficult by the half-dozen reference books stacked on top of his head.
"Faster," his tutor 'Miss X' ordered. "You have important business to get to, you're a lord, you don't have time to waste ambling around. What are you doing, enjoying the scenery?"
Harry increased his pace, trying to maintain the superior swagger.
"I have some information for you about the Dark Lord," she remarked casually. "Apparently he's suffered some sort of magical accident and now exists solely as a shade." She sighed in disappointment as he tripped and tumbled to the ground, the pile of books thumping unceremoniously onto his head.
"Ouch!"
She gave him a sharp kick in the ribs.
"Ouch!"
"Get up and put those books on your head again. Now, march! If you can maintain that, I will tell you more information you seek." She watched him work at it for a while before deeming his efforts acceptable for now. "That raid on your Headmaster, and burning your friend's houses to the ground were both retaliatory strikes. They were parts of a much larger series of attacks that were intended as a rearguard action, masking the escape of their forces from Britain."
"Wait, did you say they're running away?"
"Strategic redeployment. Seems they've got a new captain at the wheel, and he's less than pleased at the Death Eaters' performance of late. Somebody you may have heard of, with the initials G.G.?"
"No way! You're sure?"
"That what the word is on the street. I admit to some skepticism myself, but I'm just passing on what I hear."
"Hmmmm. That does actually fill in a few unanswered questions," Harry said, his mind awhirl with the possible implications of this new development.
"I may also have heard a certain rumour about a certain shipment that a certain group of Purists may certainly be making tomorrow evening, if you feel like a bit of a retaliatory strike of your own."
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"My friends, I do believe we have ourselves an opportunity here," Hermione announced to the assembled Hogsmeade Axiliary of the Hogwarts Army. "Voldemort's forces are confused, disorganised, in the middle of a leadership transition and fleeing the country en masse. Now is the perfect time to sweep up the dregs. Summon our forces!" she commanded the HAHA, and watched in satisfaction as her bootlicking minions cheered and fell over themselves to carry out her orders.
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All was quiet on the western dock. The elite 3rd Supply and Logistics Division of the Death Eater forces flexed their elite logistical skills as they fell over each other to load up as much gold, wands, and magical supplies as they could onto the nondescript container ship berthed next to their warehouse. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Lord Grindelwald and the rest of high command (except for their Ministry moles) were already in Mahounihon, and they expected their equipment to follow soon. Everything in Gringotts had already been transferred to the Tokyo branch, but that still left a lot of materiel in secret supply dumps around Britain that needed to be collected, boxed and shipped.
Their work was made far more hazardous that it would otherwise be by the hordes of mercenaries and hitwizards roaming the country, in spite of the DMLE's best efforts to corral, imprison or deport them. Many of the most prominent Death Eater families had been decimated; why, just last week, the Parkinsons' Manor wards had somehow been breached, and the entire place burned down to the cinders. According to rumour, it had been a joint operation by five separate hitwizard teams. Word on the street was that pickings for the mercenaries had become slim now that most of their quarry had gone into hiding or lay behind powerful protections. That had led increasingly to streetfights over turf, on the one hand, and greater collaboration between the more clever units, on the other. Nobody knew whether the Parkinson family had gone down with the Manor, or escaped and fled the country, hiding out under adopted names abroad. It wasn't just the higher-ups who were feeling the pinch, either. Any corpse that was branded with a genuine Dark Mark, even if not on the bounty lists, received 500 galleons apiece. All of which served to sharpen their minds and hasten their hands.
Suddenly they heard the sound of a huge explosion in the distance, and felt the entire ward scheme (all six layers) shudder, then fail. The metal doors blew inwards in a shower of sparks. The warehouse quickly filled with choking smoke. Out of the smoke burst two figures in garish costumes.
"Prepare for trouble!" proclaimed Auror Jenny.
"And make it double!" bellowed Bob.
The murderous Death Eaters stared in revulsion at the duo's matching pink sports bras and tutus.
"What in Merlin's name are you doing in that getup?" one demanded.
"Just distracting you," Jenny replied, diving to the side to avoid the barrage of hexes.
"From what?" another shouted.
"From me! Tremble before my Science!" shouted Hermione, charging in from a different direction. Spotting the largest concentration of enemies, she banished a handful of tiny stones at them. Their derisive laughter was quickly silenced by the force of the concussion blast. "Taste the force of 100 Blasting Curses, bwahahahaha!" she laughed as their bodies bounced around like rag-dolls. Hey, this maniacal laughter thing is really fun. I'm starting to understand why Pandora does it all the time.
"Looks like they're blasting off again," observed Dirk Murray.
"What the bloody hell are you people talking about?" demanded Vernon Dursley, hefting his cricket bat.
"That's not important," Hermione said. "What is important is, that's your cue."
"Cue for what?"
Hermione took a half step back, more than a bit afraid that the man's stupidity could turn out to be contagious; there's no way it could be natural, even taking into account the more-than-trivial possibility that several of his ancestors had interbred with howler monkeys. "Your cue to beat up anyone still conscious and loot the place down to the bedrock," she explained patiently.
"Right lads!" Vernon cheered, afro quivering in excitement. "Let's give these unnatural freaks what for!" The horde of muggle football hooligans, hockey players and amateur rugby enthusiasts gave a mighty cheer and rushed into the warehouse and onto the docks, bashing any moving Death Eater in sight.
"Some are trying to escape! Don't let them get away – we've gotta catch 'em all!" Jenny ordered.
Hermione turned to the Auror, who was putting on a nondescript robe to ward off the chilly evening air. "Ah, Jenny are you sure it's okay for you to be here? You're an Auror – won't you get into trouble if your superiors find out you're doing this?"
"I sure would! Which is why they can never find out right? Besides, I'm sure the Minister wouldn't be very pleased with what you're doing either, amirite?"
A mousy head poked through the hole in the building. "It's gotten so quiet – is everything over?" asked Petunia timidly.
Hermione looked around. The members of the HAHA and the muggle auxiliary group were busily scouring the area. A group dumped the unconscious Death Eaters into a pile, and another group dumped the captured booty into another pile for sorting. "I think you're in the clear," she affirmed.
Petunia gave a sigh of relief, then signalled to somebody out of sight. In a moment, she came in and set up a folding table. Six other ladies entered and began to lay out sandwiches, biscuits and thermostats of hot tea and soup. Soon Vernon and his compadres returned for the post-game water-cooler discussion, and to partake of the bounty.
"Thanks Pet," said Vernon gratefully as he sampled one of her corned beef sandwiches. "Delicious as always.
Petunia beamed, filled to bursting with pride at her man and his teammates, striking a blow on behalf of normal folks everywhere. Take that, you freaks! Try to burn my house down with my family inside it, will you?! Hearing a swish and pop of magic, she turned to see Miss Umbridge wave her funny stick around, and the higgledy-piggledy pile of defeated foes vanish into thin air! Her eyes widened. Was there nothing this freakish magic could not do? "Um," she asked the formidable woman, "what will happen to those … gentlemen?"
"Fortunately, I live in a house with a large and variegated selection of dungeons," Hermione said in a businesslike manner, putting her stick away (much to Petunia's relief). "There's more than enough space to house this scum while we interrogate the lot of them."
"I'm glad they're off the streets and– aargh, bugs! Get away from the food!" Petunia squawked, making a shooing motion to try and swat the interloper.
Hermione's eyes narrowed. There was something awfully familiar – "Accio water-beetle!" The large insect shot into her hand. Hermione scrutinised its markings carefully. "Well well well, Rita Skeeter I do believe. I did wonder when you'd start sticking your antennae into my business again. Petrificus Totalis!" She conjured a glass jar and placed the frozen bug inside. Déjà vu. Gotta remember to put air-holes in it this time. And some water.
"Is that not a … normal bug?" asked Petunia.
Hermione shook her head. "No," she replied gravely. "This is a spy."
"Are there more out there?" Petunia shivered, looking around.
"Don't worry, there aren't any more. The HAHA is securing the site; they'll make sure nothing else is lurking about."
"Oh, thank goodness. I'm so relieved!"
"You needn't worry about these things, Miss Evans, we'll keep you safe. Besides, there's far worse things than spies and Death Eaters out there."
"Like what?" Petunia whispered fearfully, drawing closer to her idol for comfort.
"Like me." Hermione grinned wolfishly. Petunia looked at her in awe as she felt her heart pitter-patter.
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