This chapter has been significantly rewritten in response to some extremely accurate, if somewhat rude reviews that suggested I was overusing the stereotypes quite a bit – I was a bit annoyed after I read them, and didn't 'approve' them, so you won't see them on the site; however, they stuck in my mind. So I've changed the Dumbledore/Ron parts quite a bit, as well as the end of the battle. Overall the reviews have been positive, but the near-flamers were kind of right this time around. Please let me know if you think I've gone and ruined it! Fundamentally, things are the same, just less clichéd.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, obviously.

Credit: Again, thank you to 'phoenix catcher' for permission to borrow, I highly recomend his story 'Cast between Worlds' if you haven't already found it. Also, thank you to all those that favourited (139 total), followed (215) or reviewed (53) since this epic journey started! (Cliché much there?) Its also been added to 19 communities and had a total of 9,151 views.

Reply to Elspeth (12/12/12): I couldn't agree more. And thank you.

Don't worry about the technical bits of the artillery; they're just there for atmosphere mostly. I just wanted to draw on my own minimal personal experience as much as possible to provide as much realism as I could in a fundamentally very fictional story. It will probably surprise no-one that my favourite author is Tom Clancy, and this story will be written very much in his style. I wanted to convey the complexities of coordination in large-scale warfare nowadays, and how powerful it can be when done correctly.

Finally – to the Guest reviewer whose contribution came just a tad close to flaming – thanks for your input. I took it to heart, as I was already leaning in that direction anyway. I'm a fundamentally 'happy story' kind of guy, so the whole 'bashing' angle, (although quite persuasive when done well,) is hard to do right, and is irritating when not. Clearly I didn't succeed, so I've tried to re-edit this chapter to tone it down a bit. Sorry if that annoys others, I genuinely think this version is better.

WARNING – This chapter contains gory battle scenes. Be warned.

Chapter 3 – Bring the Rain

"Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is lightning that does the real work."

Mark Twain

May 2nd 1998, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland.

The courtyard under the Clocktower was littered with debris. Apparently a medium-sized group of Death Eaters had managed to get behind the defenders, and the duels were fast and fierce. Even as Harry and McDiarmid exited, two white-masked foes turned to them, preparing to cast what would surely be some extremely unpleasant magic. They were thrown back violently, two sharp cracks sounding from the tower now up and off to the right, lost in the general din of the battle. Neither Harry nor his guard bothered to wave or give a thumb's up; they were still just trying to stay alive.

Across the bridge, the defenders had been herded back into a tight semicircle just the other side of the bridge, taking cover among the Standing Stones. They were all far too busy to notice the two muggles skidding to a stop behind them, as someone on the opposition had noticed their vulnerable salient position and sent forward three giants to take advantage of it. The big but rather dumb humanoids would do maximum damage against a closely packed formation with their oversized clubs. However, even as the assorted blue-cloaked Aurors, red cloaked Order members and various other professors, citizens and older students raised their wands tiredly, two flaming contrails split the night overhead, followed rapidly by the high-frequency 'hissssss' of a missile motor in flight. The MILAN projectiles were steered to their targets by the operators via an incredibly thin wire that unwound behind the missile while in flight. About five metres short of the hulking giants, the proximity fuses of the missiles' fragmentation warheads detonated, blasting two of the oversized monsters clear off their feet with a concentrated cone of hyper-velocity shrapnel as well as the overpressure wave of the explosion itself.

The astonished wizards of both sides turned to the source of these destructive streaks of light. The West Tower was now alight with muzzle flashes, as the non-magical soldiers commenced fire, the experienced gunners maintaining control of their weapons' accuracy by firing rapid bursts of three to five rounds rather than just fully auto. Blue and green tracers lit the night like fireflies – if fireflies flew at about a kilometre per second and could rip limbs off. Some of the Dark Wizards tried to put up Protego shields, but most weren't fast enough, and many of those that managed to were too weak to stop more than one or two rounds.

Arrayed on the West Tower outcrop were ten M2 fifty calibre HMG's, ten 7.62 GPMG's, five MILAN launchers and nine sniper/spotter teams under the direction of Major Cooper, who was marking targets by firing bursts of red tracer rounds from his weapon. The assistant gunners for the M2s and MILANS were also chipping in with 5.56mm SA80 assault rifles whenever they weren't assisting with crewing or reloading their assigned weapon.

The sheer weight of fire certainly wasn't just 'one or two rounds'; it couldn't even be described as intense. It was simply insane.

The hailstorm of bullets scythed through the Dark lines. The M2s in particular were having a devastating effect, firing a mixture of normal 'ball' full metal jacket tracer rounds and specialist Raufoss Mk 211 'combined effect' rounds. Designed to penetrate light armoured vehicles before exploding inside, their official name was 'High-Explosive-Incendiary-Armour-Piercing' (HEIAP). They were just about borderline legal under the Geneva Convention for use on human beings, but only because the round actually passed through the person before the RDX explosive and incendiary phosphorous components ignited, simultaneously detonating with the force of low-strength hand grenade while also setting things on fire (if it had done so inside a human, then it would be illegal, for whatever difference that made).

The third hapless giant caught the brunt of the initial wave of these bullets, and was literally torn apart. The hastily thrown up shields, designed primarily to counter magical attacks rather than kinetic impacts (which were relatively rare in magical duels), failed under the barrage and the front ranks of Voldemort's forces began to flee as the small detonations of the Mk211's 'walked' up and down their formation, interspersed with the larger MILAN explosions, leaving bodies in their wake.

Dumbledore, in the centre of the circle of the defenders stood dumbfounded at the deadly light show. I thought those things earlier might be muggle flying machines, but they can't possibly be armed or that agile; and how did they work within Hogwarts, the magic should have stopped them. What is happening? I hope they're on our side; we can use all the help we can get. Turning, he thought he might find an explanation from Hermione who had been fighting to his right. She's muggle-born she can tell me what's happening.

Finding her, he began to speak, but trailed off when he saw that she was distracted by something. Following her gaze, he saw Harry Potter of all people, standing there in some kind of dark patterned clothing, smirking at him. What's he doing here? How did he get past the wards – and I thought the prophecy must have been complete when the Horcrux was gone.Dumbledore in turn was distracted as Hermione practically tackled Harry, babbling too fast to really understand due to adrenaline and combat fatigue.

"OhmygodHarrywhatreyoudoinher eyoullgetyourselfkilled..." and so on. Harry stood firm under the well meaning onslaught for a few seconds, while McDiarmid shifted nervously, acutely aware of the many gazes now fixed on them in the relative lull in the fighting as the Death Eaters tried desparately to fall back under the rain of lead. At least the outer layers of 'good-guy' wizards are still fighting instead of watching the ' amateurs, dropping their guards like that.

Neville also appeared out of the crowd, and clapped Harry on the back with a nod of welcome, with a little smile at Hermione's continued verbal assault of Harry.

"Hermione!" Harry snapped, "focus, please. We are in the middle of a battle; you may have noticed."

"Sorry. Uh, it's just been a long time."

"I know. But I'm back." Harry looked straight at Dumbledore. "And I can end this once and for all."

Dumbledore hesitated, wondering how to approach this unexpected development. After all, I treated the boy badly after the Ministry…but he had no magic, he simply wasn't needed any more...it was for the greater good, his own protection, for him to leave Hogwarts. While he was dithering, an oily voice cut in, proving once and for all that Professor Severus Snape simply didn't know when to keep his mouth shut or his temper in check where a Potter was concerned.

"Potter." The word was drawn out, oozing disgust. "What is a useless muggle like you doing here?" Snape was having a bad day. He'd been all set up to take advantage of whichever side won, professing his loyalty to both Dumbledore and Voldemort, until the Dark Lord had sent him a message last night telling him to kill the Headmaster and to bring him the Elder Wand.

Snape was a reprehensible, useless example of a human being in many respects, but stupid he wasn't. He knew the legend of the Deathly Hallows, even if he thought it was a load of dragonshite up until the night before, and he knew that the wand's loyalty required the defeat of the previous owner. Voldemort wasn't known for doing things halfway, so provided he survived killing Dumbledore, Voldemort would most certainly finish the job in order to gain the wand's loyalty. All those plans gone to ruin. Hence, he was now stuck in the middle of this battle, fighting for a lot of useless bastards he didn't respect and barely even tolerated, and now his temper had gotten the better of him one final time, even if he didn't know it yet.

"Snivellus." Harry's tone was flat, emotionless. "I'm saving your greasy behind, that's what I'm doing."

It was too much for Snape's ego, to be insulted like that –with that name – and in front of EVERYONE. Just like his father. Not for much longer. Snapping up his wand, Severus Snape prepared his favourite curse, 'Sectumsempra'. Unfortunately, he'd chosen to ignore the other Muggle standing to Harry's right.

Squadron Sergeant Major Nigel McDiarmid was, by any measure of the words, an experienced soldier. So when that greasy one on the right (What did Harry say his name was in the briefing? Several Snakes or something) stepped forward, his innate sixth sense for threats lasered in on the guy like a Tomahawk cruise missile. The SSM was an experienced hand to hand fighter, and knew how to read someone's 'tells' – the little behavioural signs that show when they're about to move, or strike. It wasn't always obvious, but McDiarmid trusted his gut, and surreptitiously raised his rifle to the ready position, with the safety already off and the muzzle pointing around Snape's feet. When Snape's neck muscles twiched, beginning to move his shoulder to lift his wand, McDiarmid reacted faster, purely on instinct, lifting the barrel the remaining six inches and double-tapping Snape in the chest with a sharp 'crack crack', before the Potions Master was even halfway through the word or movement.

Anything worth shooting is worth shooting twice. Snape fell back, slumping and sliding down against a tall upright rock behind him, two star-shaped patterns of high-velocity blood spatter painting the stone red above his now deceased body.

The gunshots were mostly lost in the din of the battle – obviously, twenty heavy machine guns firing is bound to cause some noise even at 300 metres, and the SA80 is not a particularly loud rifle as such weapons go. The effect, however, was certainly not lost on the wizards standing around. What the hell was that? was the dominant thought. They had all heard Snape begin the curse, a rather unpleasant one at that. But that Muggle had just...done something...and Snape had just...died.

Ron Weasley pushed through the crowd; he took in the scene and assumed Harry had offed Snape. Predictably his foot in mouth syndrome appeared in full force. Very unusually however, he summed up everyone's thoughts perfectly for perhaps the first, only and maybe the last time in his life.

"Bloody hell, mate!"

"Mate?" Harry didn't even look at Snape's cooling body. He looked straight at Ron, past Neville who stepped slightly to the side, pinning him to the spot with an emerald green glare and icy, cutting tone. Even though his eyes remained normal, thunder and lightning flashed in concert in the stormclouds overhead, now near-black with unfallen rain preventing light from shining through. "Don't try that again, Ron. I've learned from the Goblet of Fire incident – and I no longer give second chances. We're done. Now I'm going to save your useless hide, so stay out of my way."

Ron backed up, astonished and more than a little terrified of that glare and voice. Harry's heard about what I said … bugger got to get out of here! He pushed away through the crowd again; get away from that scary, scary person, that's not Harry. Bravery incarnate Ron was not. Not cunning enough for Slytherin, not clever enough for Ravenclaw, not loyal enough for Hufflepuff; there was only one trait of the school founders Ron had in spades – recklessness. Of course, it was more though stupidity than courage, but that hadn't prevented his sorting into the House of the Brave.

However, to his horror, Ron quickly discovered that there was something scarier than a pissed off Harry.

Overhead, a roar sounded, and a dragon - a Hungarian Horntail, Harry noticed with a shudder - dived out of the low clouds over the Lake and made for the defenders around the Standing Stones. It was flying too low for the SAS gunners to engage it, and spells weren't very effective against the armoured magical creature. It skimmed the ground as it approached the hill, talons extending forward as it slid into a rapid landing, skidding up the slope towards the defenders and ploughing a furrow in the soil*. It came to rest as it reached the Light-siders' lines, spell fire bouncing off its scaly hide, wings tucked in behind. It reared, wings now spread, preparing to flame the ground in front of it.

In this area was now a certain Weasley redhead.

Unable to do anything to help, Harry, Hermione and Neville as well as the other defenders on the hilltop took cover behind the stones. Superheated magical plasma scoured the far side, and the screams of those caught in the flames were terrible to hear, as Ron and most of their left flank was… cooked. Alive.

Unpleasant, thought McDiarmid, but no worse than Napalm. Well, he amended, apart from the fact the weapon itself seems to be sentient. Let's try this….

As the stream of fire ceased, McDiarmid rolled from the prone position he'd ended up in, up onto one knee. He was unaware of Dumbledore and several other magicals watching him in astonishment, wondering what the crazy muggle was going to try before he got killed. Switching his left hand to the pistol grip of the underslung 40mm grenade launcher he carefully took aim. This is pretty close to point blank range…better get this right or I'll kill myself.

The grenade had a minimum arming distance of ten metres – which was about how far away the Dragon's head was. McDiarmid watched as the dragon roared its triumph to the skies, and then brought its head down to focus on another knot of defenders down-slope who'd been just outside the cone of death last time. As the dragon opened its jaws to incinerate them, he fired the gas-propelled grenade in a flat arc straight down its throat.

Amazingly, the projectile didn't kill it. The dragon looked rather surprised at the explosion in the back of its throat (as much as such an animal could), and was clearly in pain, but didn't immediately die. Instead, it decided that the present location was apparently more dangerous than it had thought, and took off in a massive rush of warm air.

A few seconds later, it met a Rapier missile coming the other way.

The Rapier-equipped APC that had accompanied the SAS had acquired the dragon when it appeared, but been unable to fire as it had disappeared behind the hilltop. As it reappeared, rising slowly and vertically, it presented pretty much the optimum target the gunners would ever receive. Designed to engage supersonic air-to-ground fighter-bombers at the relatively short range of about ten kilometres, when the closure rates of the target to the battery were measured in milliseconds, the Rapier's bulbous optical tracking turret reacquired the dragon in three seconds flat, and fired in less than ten. The extremely quick and agile missile covered the distance in a mere blink of time, and detonated its proximity warhead in a similar manner to the MILAN's that had been used against the giants. The shrapnel blew the dragon's wing clean off, which surprised the wizards who were familiar with the legendary physical and magical toughness of the creatures. However, although a dragon's hide might stop spells effectively, it hadn't been tested against muggle weapons since the time of bows and arrows. And arrows don't travel at thousands of feet per second. Nor, generally are there hundreds of them impacting a relatively small area of the target.

With its wing now missing in action, the dragon pretty much fell out of the sky, completely unbalanced. Unfortunately, its tumble landed it on the edge of the cliff just down-slope from Harry, and inertia did the rest. Its mournful howl of desperation and pain was abruptly cut off by a huge splash a moment later.

However, even though the dragon was dealt with, the left perimeter was essentially gone. The Dark Forces were still being hammered, but were rallying desperately. More and more shields went up, and held, as someone in their ranks took control. Voldemort? Probably not, he's too much of a showman, would've arrived with a bang. The Death Eaters also began to work their way around the base of the hill, seeking to exploit the hole in the Light's lines the dragon had punched. Aurors and civilians rushed to fill the void, but they were spread too thin to do all that much good.

McDiarmid, professional that he was, stayed on track despite being completely out of his depth with all this magic crap going on, as he would describe it as later. Ignoring the wizards who had been stunned to silence by one of the rapid and violent dispatching of one of the more vicious and tough magical predators by an unknown weapon, the Sergeant Major stood, thumbing the transmit button for his small tactical radio. Even in the heat of a battle in which he was pretty much flying blind, the experienced NCO kept his discipline and spoke through the microphone slowly and clearly, just as he was trained to do.

"Hello Delta Zero, this is Delta Three Three. Message, over."

From the other end, Major Cooper's slightly garbled, but still recognizable voice. "Delta Zero, copy Three Three, send traffic, over."

"Message follows: enemy resistance is recovering. Our fire is not, repeat not getting through. Enemy is beginning to flank to the south, by the lake. Recommend fire support, over."

"Copy, enemy regaining initiative, flanking to the south. Any Sierra callsign, do you have a visual on Enemy Bravo, over?" Cooper was checking to see if his eyes in the sky, the marksmen on the Dark Tower could see Voldemort.

"Negative, Delta Zero."

"Sierra Two One, negative."

"Delta Zero, this is Three Three. No choice, Major. Bring the rain."

"Copy, call for fire. Standby, out."

Twenty-two kilometres away to the North West, the headquarters vehicles of 4th Regiment Royal Artillery were, to all intents and purposes, sitting in a field.

With the vehicles oriented to the South East, the vast majority of the Regiment was waiting for what they thought was a live-fire exercise. The regimental headquarters staff – the colonel, with one of his three battery commanders, a major (the others were deployed at alternate sites a few kilometres away to minimise the risk of the entire regiment being ambushed at once), the radio-telephone operator (RTO) and the fire coordination officer, a captain – were aware of the disquieting truth, however: that they were assisting in putting down what could well be categorised as the first truly dangerous armed insurrection on the British mainland in at several centuries. Never mind that the weapons were magic; it was still treason. The fact that the enemy was a bunch of neo-Nazi, ethnic-cleansing, bigoted aristocratic blue-blood supremacists just made the whole thing easier on their conscience.

The radio crackled to life. "Romeo Zero, this is Delta Zero. Fire Mission, over."

The regimental HQ, a medium-sized olive green canvas tent quickly set up over the back of a radio-equipped Land Rover, jumped to life. The battery commanders and the fire control officer shifted slightly, waiting for the rest of the data they would need to plot a firing solution.

"Delta Zero, this is Romeo Zero. Send mission, over."

"Romeo, target is between Grid 4225-8785, extending south east to Grid 4260-8735, regimental sized force of tightly grouped, unarmoured enemy infantry in open ground and forest cover, request Mike-Romeo-Sierra-India sustained neutralisation barrage, proximity fuses, danger close, how copy, over."

The RTO acknowledged the order while the officers started planning the fire mission. It was complex one, and took a few minutes to plan.

Four minutes, twenty seconds later: "Firing solution plotted, guns loaded, ready to fire."

The CO nodded. "Delta, this is Romeo. Ready to fire, on your order."

Four minutes, twenty seconds earlier...

Having heard the SSM's call for fire, Harry turned to him.

"How long have we got?"

The Sergeant Major shrugged, "Five minutes, less if the arty boys have their shit together." To Dumbledore: "Can you hold that long."

Dumbledore finally kicked his brain into gear. The long few months of hunting Tom's soul pieces and the incredibly tiring battle tonight had worn the old warlock down. He was still powerful, but his advanced age had massively reduced his endurance over long periods of magic use. Although Severus' death had shocked him, he admitted he wasn't terribly surprised. He'd suspected Snape of playing both sides, but the information provided was too valuable to shut down. And now, he'd been offered a chance for victory in what had seemed an impossible battle.

"Yes, I think. Why, what will happen then?"

"Then, they will die." McDiarmid pointed at the Death Eaters. "However, you or someone similarly powerful will need to raise a shield around this whole hilltop to protect us from the strike."

"Strike? What do you mean, and who are you exactly?" Dumbledore eyed McDiarmid a little suspiciously. "Your help is welcome, believe me, but who are you?"

"Sergeant Major McDiarmid, British Army. And to answer your next question, you're all citizens of Britain even if you've chosen to forget that little fact, so we're here to protect you, as that's our duty."

Dumbledore blinked. "What do you mean, chosen to forget? And how does the Muggle government know to be here …" he trailed off, as the full implications of that question hit him.

Harry grinned, although there wasn't much humour in it. "Shocked me too, Professor, when they told me they'd known about Wizards for over sixty years."

The Headmaster blanched, as he realised the Statute of Secrecy was little more than a piece of paper. "How…?"

McDiarmid shook his head. "Not now, it's not important. But you're going to face some harsh truths after this fight is over, and I for one think you've all been living under a rock for too long. However," he checked his watch, "in about three and a half minutes it's going to feel as if the world is going to be ending around us. If you can protect us, great. If not, you'll have to fall back, and soon.

Dumbledore hesitated. "Theoretically yes, I can, but without knowing the specifics of whatever you're going to do, I can't guarantee it."

"Okay. Since we're pretty much going to bring this place to the next lowest circle of hell, you'll have to fall back – being danger-close within two hundred metres of the mother of all artillery strikes is not something you fuck around with. Professor, keep the retreat organised – Harry, can you slow down their advance to the south?"

"Perhaps. Give me a moment."

Harry just let McDiarmid get on with it the tactics. But this, he could help with. Hermione and Neville looked at him questioningly, as did Dumbledore before he hurried away to organise the retreat.

"What's he talking about, Harry?"

Harry smirked at them. "This." And his green irises were replaced by a void of darkness.

To their credit, they didn't freak out. Hermione blinked, and Neville flinched, but they didn't step back or run away screaming from him. Well, I suppose that's a good start.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice was incredulous. "What the hell?"

Harry just grinned at her, while simultaneously intensifying the storm above them. "What, that's all it took to get you to swear?"

"Harry! Be serious!"

"Fine, fine. This is apparently a side effect of losing my magic." Harry gestured at the storm overhead. Aurors and students were streaming past them in groups of five now, making for the bridge. Seems Dumbledore does know what he's doing. Well, he's good at falling back. So are the French, so it's not that hard.

Hermione looked up, then looked at Harry, her jaw dropping. Would be funny, anywhere else.

"You're…controlling the storm?"

"Yep. Cool, huh?"

"Uh…yeah." Hermione was apparently still at a loss for meaningful words.

"Anyway, got to get on with it." Harry turned to the battle once more. Lightning lashed down, impacting the ground in front of the flanking Death Eaters, occasionally hitting them if they tried to push their luck. The advance ground to a halt, with the lightning containing them. A few of the more adventurous souls tried to put up shields and run underneath, but quickly found out that a) lightning really, really hurt, and b) magical shields don't stop ten million-plus volts of natural electricity.

Enemy contained within the killzone, Harry turned back to the group, to find Dumbledore had returned.

Dumbledore flinched when he met those jet-black eyes. Harry's hair was being ruffled by the wind, and in full muggle battledress, with those eyes, he was a scary sight even to the experienced old wizard.

Those eyes were the worst part: infinite, alien, utterly without mercy. They induced a primeval fear in those who saw them, the fear of a lesser animal as they look upon the apex predator, at their doom. But the old professor didn't back away. He knew that Harry had a right to be angry at him, had many reasons, but he stood his ground. Right or wrong, he'd done what he had for what he believed in, even if all that was crumbling around him, and he'd face the consequences as he had to.

"Mr Potter. I hope you know what you're doing."

Harry laughed. It wasn't a happy sound.

"The power he knows not, Professor." Dumbledore blinked. How did he know... "Hermione told me, Headmaster. As you should have. It didn't have to happen this way. I hated you so fucking much, after you kicked me out, but I came to understand something. When Hermione explained your philosophy, 'the greater good' and all that, I understood. I mean, it's laudable, in some respects. Taking the weight of the world upon your shoulders and all that, you're the only qualified person, yada, yada." Dumbledore was shocked at Harry's knowledge, then realised he shouldn't be. This wasn't the Harry he'd known three years ago. In his place was a cold, hard warrior, a boy … man, really, who had killed, and who could separate that part of himself – the stone cold killer - from the rest, and channel it, funnel it to the target, and box it up whenever it wasn't needed.

"However, the world didn't give you permission to make decisions for it, and the British people certainly didn't."

"The Ministry and many others have been coming to me for decades for advice..."

"Precisely Headmaster. Advice. Not, rather crucially, orders. Unless you're a ruthless dictator? I understand it can be hard to accept you're wrong after seventy years or more of being highly respected, but ruling in the name of utopia is as dangerous as anarchy and darkness, and potentially as evil. But this isn't the time." Harry turned to McDiarmid.

"Sergeant Major? How long?"

The senior NCO was eyeing the Dark lines, now no longer retreating but holding their ground; fortunately not yet advancing. "Any second now…"

Harry looked at the central group, which was now down to him, the Headmaster, McDiarmid, Hermione, Neville and the core of Hogwarts and the Order: Flitwick, McGonagall and a few other professors, Kingsley, Moody, Tonks and Lupin. The Old Guard, Harry mused. He told them to take cover behind a few of the large stones, and then prepared the protective measures he'd practised.

As he did so, McDiarmid's radio burst to life. "Three Three, Delta Zero. Shot out, say again, shot out. And good luck. Zero out."

As they took cover, heavy rain began to fall.

A few seconds earlier…

"Delta, this is Romeo. Ready to fire on your order."

Major Cooper hesitated for a moment. From his position on top of the West Tower, he could clearly see the blue-white magical shield three hundred metres away. He and his men were well inside the recommended six hundred metre safety distance for an artillery strike; Harry would be even closer, but had shown he could protect himself and others with his powers. For what we are about to receive…oh get on with it.

"Romeo, this is Delta Zero. Fire for effect. Fire for effect."

With those words, a complex array of ballistic calculations went into effect.

Cooper had ordered an MRSI, or Multiple Rounds Simultaneous Impactbarrage, on a target seven hundred metres long by one hundred metres wide, a reasonably large area to cover. An MRSI required the initial barrage of three rounds from each gun to impact at the same time. This was achieved by firing the first shell on a very trajectory, then the second on a lower one, and the third even lower still, so that all three arrived at once in a brutally effective strike. MRSI's gave no warning as the AS-90 howitzer vehicles' computer assisted ballistics no longer required ranging shots to accurately aim.

To top that, the term 'sustained' required the batteries to continue to fire until the observer, in this case Cooper, judged the enemy ineffective or destroyed – or until they ran out of ammunition. The 155mm shells of the AS-90 self-propelled artillery were equipped with proximity fuses, simple radar altimeters in the nose-cone of the round itself. At a predetermined height above the ground – in this case thirty metres – the shell would detonate, sweeping the ground below it with a scythe of deadly shrapnel. There was no defence, and no cover – the vertical angle of attack was designed to ensure that – and the MRSI ensured there would be no warning.

The MRSI was intended to make sure that the first three rounds of each individual gun arrived together. 4th Regiment had three batteries of six guns – eighteen total –spread out tactically in separate troops of three guns, connected by radio and networked computers. They were all at slightly different ranges, requiring the computer to calculate precise flight and firing times for each troop – this required a TOT or 'Time-On-Target' calculation to ensure that each gun's volley arrived in sync with all the others.

The fireplan was uploaded from the HQ, barrels were elevated and turrets turned to a precise, computer-calculated trajectory that took into account ballistic parabolas, the earth's rotation, air temperature and wind directions – they could even compensate for Harry's alterations, as he had described the atmospheric changes he would make to the artillery officers by radio before leaving Aberdeen. Rounds were loaded, breeches slammed shut. On the HQ's order, lanyards were pulled; guns slammed back, accompanied by a radio call from each troop commander of 'Shot Out!', and were quickly reloaded.

Four seconds later, the next round was out. And the next, four seconds after that, a rate of fire that could break armies. This was the first phase of the barrage, the initial strike.

Harry had developed a technique for surviving this very situation. The idea had come from the bubble-head charm. Using his power, he defined a volume of air around himself and the others, and then pushed out. At this close range, he could exercise control over the very molecules of air itself. Now, there was a one-inch partial vacuum between the group and the outside world. This was designed to stop the concussive effect of the artillery fire from hammering their bodies into pulp with repeated detonations, but would not stop any stray shrapnel – a calculated risk, but a necessary one.

The fireplan Cooper had called was probably one of the most complex and devastating volleys that the British Army had executed in decades. With no warning, a total of fifty-four fragmentation shells exploded in a pre-determined pattern along a seven-hundred metre stretch of forest. From about thirty metres up, the shrapnel covered roughly forty metres square on the ground; this meant only 18 shells were required to cover the full length of Voldemort's force. The rest overlapped in an interlocking grid that scoured about eighty metres back into the Forest, the ancient firs of which were no protection at all – pine needles do not stop hyper-velocity fragments of steel travelling at 5,000 feet per second.

The blast completely covered the Dark Army, obscuring them with smoke from the detonation, shredded wood, and the dust and dirt thrown up by the shrapnel and concussion.

Voldemort's forces had discovered exactly why Josef Stalin once said, "Artillery is the God of War."

In his contorted position behind the rock, Harry felt the thunderous explosion through the ground, as he was protected from it by his vacuum barrier. Sound (explosive concussions are essentially very overpowered sound waves) requires air molecules to bang together in order to transfer the energy. With no molecules in the vacuum, there was no transference – and so Harry's eardrums – and body – remained intact.

4th Regiment would continue to fire, but the surprise factor allowed by the MRSI technique was now lost. So they just fired, each gun adhering to the HQ's calculations to remain within the target area, but no longer trying to be fancy about it. They just walked their shells across the designated impact zone, repeatedly covering all sectors of it, ensuring nothing could be alive – until Cooper called the cease fire.

Through a high-power scope, the Major scanned the still-clearing cloud of debris. Harry's rain was reducing visibility rather sharply, and he could barely make out details any more. Still, he caught a glimpse of something through the powerful x50 scope, which was stabilised on a tripod to maximise effectiveness. He saw Harry stand and peek out, and then saw that something again…

Something turned into oh shit, as he realised that the glimpse he'd seen was rapidly resolving itself into Voldemort's pale skin, standing out in the night like a neon sign in the darkness. Around him was a small circle of upright Death Eaters, no more than ten, and beyond that circle….

Bodies. Everywhere, just ranks and piles of corpses. Cooper grimaced at the absolute carnage he saw. That's … unpleasant. With a single fire mission he'd probably just killed at least several hundred people, possibly as many as a thousand. Well, the supremacists won't recover from that. The forest boundary had been completely shredded.

"Sierra One One and Sierra Two One, I have visual on enemy leadership. They survived the strike; I repeat they survived the strike. Take the shot if you have it.

"Rodger that. Target acquired …" A gunshot echoed down the open link. "Negative effect; say again, negative effect, switching to alternate targets."

"Roger, out." I suppose it's all on you Harry.

Harry saw a shield flare into life around the enemy group before he heard the gunshot. Bloody hell … so that's how he survived. As he watched, the shield contracted around Voldemort's stick-thin form, and shimmered into invisibility again. Hopefully that means he's low on juice, which would be expected after withstanding the equivalent of the hammer of God himself. But that means…

Just as Harry completed the thought, Rudolphus Lestrange's head exploded back in a spray of blood and brains, followed by his brother Rastaban, who was thrown backwards, his chest mangled. The core Death Eaters were experienced fighters, however, and rapidly put up shields towards both the Dark and West Towers. Apparently something with a little more … punch … would be required.

Rolling out of cover, Harry waved for those around him to stay down then started down the hill, moving quickly. His eyes were back to normal, as he wanted to spring a surprise. McDiarmid stopped the others from following them.

"He doesn't need your help for this bit."

Hermione and Neville looked at him. "Screw that, whoever you are. We're backing up our friend," Neville said, and followed Harry down the hill. McDiarmid grimaced, and then shrugged at Dumbledore's raised eyebrow.

"Kids these days … come on then."

Drawing to a halt about twenty metres from the Dark Lord, Harry waited. Recognition came quickly.

"Potter."

My name really does lend itself to other people's distain. Well, two can play at that.

Projecting his voice with his power, "Hello, Tom."

"Don't call me that."

Oooh, a sore spot to exploit.

"Why not? It's ironic, really. Or maybe poetic justice. Hell, maybe just karma –you've built up enough over the years, I'm sure. The all-powerful Dark Lord brought low by the very Muggles you hated so very much." Harry stressed the word, just to annoy him.

"Oh yes, you are one now, aren't you?" Voldemort's sneer was back in full force, and his sycophants laughed with him. It was false bravado. He and the inner circle were inside their own anti-apparition wards by several hundred metres, which would take several minutes to take down and was too far to run. "As you can see, your weapons have no effect on me."

Nice try, Tom.

"No effect? I beg to differ – since you appear to be swaying on your feet, I'd say they had quite a large effect on you." Voldemort glared. "However, you don't know the full story."

"Oh? I don't have time for your prattle."

Arrogant much?

"Really? You're doing a fine job of playing for time, Tom, so I'll indulge you a bit longer. When I expelled you from my mind in the Ministry, I didn't just burn myself out magically. I unlocked a gift, a potential never before seen in humankind. The power to manipulate forces far greater than even Magic itself."

Harry paused, partly for dramatic effect and partly to gauge his audience's reaction. Voldemort was looking around desperately, eyes flickering, trying to find a way out without being obvious about it. Harry decided to put him out of his misery.

"You never heard the full prophecy, did you?" Voldemort zeroed in on Harry, his obsession obvious. Might as well give him what he wants … "It stated that I would have power you know not. Well, guess what?" Harry's eyes shifted into the infinite blackness of the void as he raised his arms to the sky dramatically, and Voldemort watched in horror at the realisation of his mistaken interpretation of the prophecy. "Here's how you find out."

A blinding white streak of lightning speared out of the heavens, driving Voldemort to his knees. A second followed, and another, and another, until a constant chain of electricity was arcing down to impact on Riddle's failing shields. A vortex of wind-driven rain swirled around the two of them, creating an opaque column into the sky that cut off the view of the outside world.

Outside the barrier, spells and curses flickered between the wizards. McDiarmid hung back up-slope picking his shots and whittling down the opposition. Neville fell to a 'crucio' from his parent's attacker Bellatrix, who held the spell on him, cackling. At least, until the muggle soldier's bullet blew her heart out through her spine. Neville struggled to his knees, and Hermione took a hit as she tried to cover him, high on the right shoulder. Lucius Malfoy was also hanging back – out of cowardice – and although behind a shield, he was blown sideways from a 40mm grenade the Sergeant Major landed just off to the side of it. Rookwood, McNair, Flint, Nott, the Carrows, they all went down eventually, either to a well placed bullet or to the powerful, experienced duellers that made up the core members of the Order and the school.

Inside the rain-barrier, one lightning bolt got through, and Thomas Marvolo Riddle, Dark Lord, 'You-Know-Who' and terror of tens of thousands of witches and wizards, died writhing like the worm he was in the blood- and rain-soaked mud of the school which gave him access to his powers.

A few minutes later, with all the Death Eaters dead, Dumbledore and the other defenders had gathered up-slope of the … whatever it was Harry was inside.

As they watched, Harry walked out of the maelstrom, which began to visibly dissipate behind him.

"Well, kid?"

McDiarmid was kneeling in a firing position, having clearly been covering him in case Voldemort had some trick up his sleeve. Dumbledore now truly looked his age, shoulders slumped. Flitwick had apparently magically first-aided Hermione's wounded shoulder, and was now levitating her back up the hill while Neville was being supported by Tonks. Moody was rather happier, having apparently watched the whole thing with his eye.

"It's done. He's gone."

*Think Skyrim for the dragon's sliding-crash landing.

I've gone with a Tom Clancy-esque writing style for this battle. No-one writes modern combat as well as he does, as far as I'm concerned, so I've included a lot of detail on the technical aspects. Modern warfighting is incredibly technical and interconnected, so it should be no surprise that it's pretty much impossible to describe without delving into the minutiae quite a bit.

My interpretation of JKR's universe is of a world mostly filled with fickle, incredibly gullible and bigoted people who must be incredibly stupid (with a few exceptions, of course – there are always exceptions – *cough*Hermione*cough*,) and therefore incredibly lucky not to have died out of inbreeding several centuries ago.

If you can't already tell, Hermione's something of a favourite character of mine (I tried to write in her death – honest! – and I just couldn't do it). She will probably crop up again during the Stargate Atlantis plotlines, simply because I like her.

TRIVIA! Or the Glossary, if you want to be technical...

The AS-90 is a tracked, lightly armoured self-propelled artillery piece, mounting a 155mm heavy howitzer. It has been in service since 1993, and has a range of 25 kilometres and weighs 45 tons. It is capable of accurate, sustained, computer-controlled fire that coordinates the ballistic trajectories of all the linked-in vehicles so that all the shells arrive at once. And using the newer Copperhead laser-guided rounds, it will pretty much never miss.