Chapter thirteen: help

Ginny Weasley was reminded of how much time was spent running when you were with Harry. Fifteen years ago it had been the streets of Cairo, now it was the heart of the Amazon jungle. Monotony or not, he really got around.

James ran in the lead, leaping over roots, dodging around trees, vaulting small trickling streams, ignoring whatever colorful insects or plants they passed. Ginny herself was about fifteen feet behind him, keeping an even pace. She could feel the blood pounding her ears, hear herself panting, but she wasn't going to stop and rest until she was sure the Death Eaters were far behind. The soldiers at the camp had fired a few rounds of spells into the trees behind them as the left the camp, but now there was no sign of the dark wizards. But Ginny had had enough experience with their kind to know that that really didn't mean a thing.

At first, Harry had ran abreast of her, but now he had fallen behind a few feet. He was pulling Neville after them by the arm. The man still seemed rather lost, and while so directed made good pace, still was not proceeding nearly as fast as Harry would have preferred.

Traveling the earth, fighting evil, saving the world from Harry's side. It had all once seemed so appealing to her. Now, there was nothing she wanted more to be back in London, comfortable, well rested, with her husband and children safe around her. No more dark magic and violence.

Maybe that's how you know you're getting old, she thought wryly.

She waded quickly through a stream, the water up to her thighs, soaking her feet, and emerged into a sparse clearing. They were at the bottom of a steep hill of damp rock, arrayed with thick ivy. The ground was muddy and shifted under her feet. It was here James had stopped, taking a moments rest.

Harry and Neville emerged out of the jungle behind them, panting heavily. Harry paused for a moment to catch his breath, before once again taking stock of their situation.

"What were you thinking?" he questioned James.

"I was thinking I might just save our lives."

"We're in the middle of the Amazon jungle, the land time forgot, with no food, no map, no wands, and no idea where we are. I wouldn't call that saved."

"At least I did something," the boy protested. "They were going to kill us, and you were giving them exactly what they wanted."

"I was waiting for the opportune moment."

"So was I."

"They still have the skull, along with Neville's directions. I wouldn't call that ideal."

"Shut up, both of you," Ginny ordered. Rubbing her temples, she slumped against the rock wall. "What's done is done. We need a next step."

Harry leaned back beside her, the cool stone soothing against his back. "You're right," he said heavily. James was right as well, in a way. He couldn't explain it, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to leave the skull.

"We'll look around, there's got to be someone else, if we walk far enough. Then we'll send a message to the Ministry, bring the Aurors down on them, let them do their job. But first let's rest a moment." No one disagreed.

Now that he wasn't running, it hit home how very tired Harry was. Communication with the skull had taken more out of him than he would like to admit. Add that to the running, the stress of seeing his family threatened, the fact that he was starving, the last drink he'd had had been swallow of firewhisky back in the tent, and the fact that he was still feeling the strain of his duel with the natives in the graveyard, combined to make him feel genuinely drained.

Harry felt his eyelids growing heavy. He glanced over at James sitting in the dirt beside Neville, and at Ginny, beside him. His skin crawled at least they were alive, that was all that mattered.

Then Harry felt the prick of a thorn on his arm, and realized that the crawling on his hadn't just been a part of his imagination. He tried to move, but realized that the vines covering the rock face had inched over him, curled tightly around his limbs, pinning him.

"Get away from the rock," He shouted, alarming James. "It's Devil's snare."

"It's what?" Ginny shouted, Harry saw that she was in a similar position. She fought against the hold of the plant, but it held her all the tighter. A thick vine wrapped around her chest. Harry recalled his last experience with Devil's Snare, in the hollows beneath Hogwarts castle.

"Don't fight it," he said, "it only makes it worse," he warned. But even as he did so, two tendrils curled around his neck, probing at his face. He jerked his head away. He felt a whistle of air, as they were knocked away.

James held a long stick, and was beating at the vines of the murderous plant. But for every green arm he knocked away, the rest squeezed tighter. Ginny gasped as the plant began to constrict around her, squeezing the breath from her body.

James hurried to her, leaving Harry, and began to beat the root crushing his mother's ribcage, but to no effect. "Come on, help!" he entreated Neville.

"Help," said Neville, absentmindedly, and drifted off, disappearing into the forest.

Harry fought to fill his lungs as the plant squeezed him tighter. "Fire," he gasped. "We need fire."

"That'd be easier with a wand," James protested. He brought the stick down of the large root so heard that it bit into the larger plant, releasing a trickle of green ichor. In turn, a long tendril wrapped around his stick, wrenching it from his grasp, and crushing the weapon into splinters. Another daring vine whipped at the boy, who dodged away.

Harry closed his eyes, as a vine curled around his neck, another frond feeling its way across his face. As he found himself unable to breath, he knew he had one chance. Here we go again, he thought.

There was an explosion of white energy. It sheared through the vines encircling Harry and Ginny. The vines and roots sighed, back, shrinking into hollows in the cliff face. James was propelled backward, temporarily blinded.

When his vision cleared, he saw Harry and Ginny gasping for breath, leaning on each other as they stumbled away from the cliff face, and the Devil's Snare. He hurried toward them, and Ginny quickly pulled him into a relied embrace.

"That went well," said Harry.

"What'd you do?" Ginny asked, awed and apprehensive.

"I have no idea," said Harry, sheepishly.

"Well, thanks." They lapsed into silence, a family victorious.

"Where's Proffesor Longbottom?" James blurted, suddenly remembering.

"Right here," came the gruff answer. Dovchenko stood at the edge of the clearing, flanked by Death Eaters. One of his hands was clamped tightly on Neville's shoulder.

"Help," said the distracted Proffesor, matter of factly.

The Death Eaters were none too gentle about escorting them back to the camp. The four of them were shoved and prodded along a much clearer path than they had taken. It did not take very long for the olive drab triangles of the tents to come back into view. By Harry's reckoning they were back in the Death Eater's camp less than an hour since they had escaped.

"Must be losing my touch," he mumbled. Dovchenko shoved him in the back, and Harry tripped over a root. He got to his feet to find that they had had come out into a smaller clearing, shielded from the bonfire by strategically arrayed tents. Here the ground was barren and level. And before him was the girl.

Natasha Lestrange moved like a dancer, taking no notice of the newcomers. Her blade was a blur of silver as it swung and stabbed, rending the air, over and under, switching hands, grips, and fighting styles quicker than the eye could follow. Every movement was precise, matter of fact, yet graceful, beautiful. She had changed into a black tank top, her pale arms stark against the darkness. Harry could see the sweat running down them; her hair flying out with every step and change of position, and on her face was a smile.

The intricate dance seemed to go on for far longer than it did, until finally, she froze in a ready stance, the blade held high, shielding her from invisible attack. And only then did she give her attention to the recaptured prisoners.

Harry gasped as he recognized the sword; it was not the rapier she had used before, but a broadsword with a hilt of silver, inlaid with rubies. He had used it himself to kill the monster of the Chamber of Secrets. It was Godric Gryffindor's sword.

"Well done," she said, to the arrayed Death Eater's, though she had eyes only on Harry. "I see you've retrieved them promptly. How disappointing, I almost expected more of the boy who lived."

"You know, I get that a lot," said Harry, refusing to sound or look as defeated as he felt. The game was over, and she had one, she even had Gryffindor's sword, wherever that had come from, but that didn't mean he had to be the gracious loser. "People tend to forgot that I'm human, not a god."

"I know the feeling," she said. "Tomorrow, you will be displeased to note, we are breaking camp, and setting off for the city of gold." She paused, allowing the arrayed Death Eaters to cheer.

"When we reach the Akator, it will be only the beginning. The way to a new world will be long and treacherous, but every journey begins with a single step." More positive reception, she was playing the crowd.

"A shame you will not be around to see it, Harry Potter. As soon as your directions are verified, you will die. You are of no more use to us, you and your family, and the madman, will be disposed off. Perhaps I shall turn you over to Antonin Dovchenko's loving care. What do you say to that?" The Death Eaters laughed appreciatively, Dovchenko looked pleased. Then it quieted; they were waiting for Harry to reply. To beg, to bribe, to plead for his life and his family. He'd seen the tactic before, and reminded himself, never let the enemy know how that you're beaten.

"I say, you can go to hell," he answered, quetely, sure to put a cool menace into his words.

"I thought you might," Natasha replied.

"You know what I do to Death Eaters?" Harry asked, "the things I've seen? What about Dietrich, the old soldier, who escaped form Azkaban. I tracked him down, I found him. And we took his precious Ark and we turned it on him, killing him and every other Death Eater with him, the power of God, sending them deep into whatever hell they crawled out of.

"Vogol, that sick little man, you remember him. Thought he could save the world, and rule it too. I fixed him. Sent him over a cliff clinging to a muggle tank. And as for the rest of them, I watched Cho Chang fall to her death, following the cup she wanted so much. That traitor Slughorn, he got exactly what he wanted, and it killed him. The Holy Grail killed him.

"Voldemort, your old dark lord. I killed him, too, just like a common Death Eater. I followed the trail of his Horcruxes, and I destroyed each and every one." This was not exactly true, but close enough. "And then, when the only piece of his dark soul was left in his body, I gave myself up. He killed me, spoke the unforgivable curse and watched me crumple in a jet of green light, but I didn't die. He had only doomed himself. I came back, we fought. He thought he had the Elder wand, thought he could beat me. But I won, turned his curse back on him, destroying the man who could not die. And I was only seventeen years old"

"Stop," Natasha ordered, but Harry continued.

"And your mother, Lestrange? I didn't kill her myself. No she was slain by my own mother-in-law. A housewife, a muggle-lover, killed your mother. Dueled her, and beat her."

"Shut up," said Natasha, halfheartedly, her gaze burning into his eyes.

"I could go on, I haven't talked about the Thuggee, or the Dementors, or the Inferi, or the Basilisks, but I won't. Just know this. This is what I've done, this is who I am. I'm not just an auror. I'm a man, but I'm the chosen one. And I'm going to do my damnedest to slaughter every single one of you before you can lay a hand on my family."

"Dovchenko," ordered Natasha, quietly. "Torture him."

That was when it clicked. Everything clicked. Natasha Lestrange suddenly made sense. The sword, the knife, Dovchenko doing every little thing for her, he had never seen her use a wand.

"You're a squib," Harry shouted, louder than even he intended.

"No I'm not."

"Yes, yes you are. I've never seen you do magic, you have your lap dogs do every little thing for you. Shield you, protect you, fight for you, because you can't. You're a muggle. No, you're worse than a muggle, you're a mistake, you're against everything the Death Eaters stand for."

Natasha had turned away, and now she met his gaze again. Tears filled her eyes, her face a mess of anger.

"You want me to go to hell, Potter? You don't know the meaning of the word. I live in hell every day of my life. You don't know what its like, you wizards who think you're so bloody normal, with all that magic blasting out of your fingers. People who think mudbloods are filth, even though they're up to their ears in power. Do you know what its like being surrounded by people who could turn you into a speck of dust as soon as look at you, and know you're nothing. That's hell, Potter. And I'm not an ordinary girl. People look to me to be the leader, to have the power, even when I'm nothing. They don't see me, they see my mother, and they see my father.

"Do you know what its like to be a squib, when your father was the greatest wizard who ever lived?"

Harry's first thought was of Albus Dumbledore. But that was impossible. Dumbledore had never married, never had a child, and the chances of him and Bellatrix…

"My father," Natasha began, her voice cracking. Steadying herself, she began again. "My father was Tom Marvolo Riddle."