I had several reviews for this story so I decided to go ahead and post the second chapter, don't worry if it doesn't make sense right away guys it isn't supposed to, the first few chapters are to allow you to see what this version of Harry Potter is like so that you can hopefully understand that he is far different from the boy we read about in the first few books. Hang in there guys and thanks for the lovely reviews!

Mistress Slytherin

WARNINGS:

VIOLENCE

LANGUAGE

HOMOSEXUAL RELATIONSHIP

QUESTIONABLE MORALS

Let me know if I missed anything.

Chapter 2

Hold My Hand.

(So Cold-Breaking Benjamin)

Harry's hands twitch from under their gloves. He's surrounded by people in black, a sea of names and faces but he doesn't really know any of them. He's fought with them, but it's too late to make friends. They're all grim, drawn, cold, their life stolen by the war. Maybe he should go back to the start hmmm? Why are they standing there, huddled together with guns in their pockets while they burry their dead?

War.

Voldemort did it; he went out and started a war with the muggles. Started massacring them small villages then towns, then the big cities until they couldn't ignore it any more. War, a three sided war, Harry's side, Voldemort's side, and the muggles. A free for all. Wards were set to prevent the worst of it on their side, they could use guns but tanks and planes wouldn't work within three feet of the ward lines, even nuclear bombs were cleverly dismantled by one Hermione Granger.

They still kept coming though.

Like stubborn ants. Harry had tried peace talks, had tried to join with the muggles in an effort to bring down Voldemort. There was no debate; they wouldn't trust anyone, especially Harry.

So here they were.

Dumbledore had disappeared no one knew where but the consensus was that he was dead.

McGonagall had cut Hogwarts off from the rest of the world; it was no longer a school but a safe house for children that he was sure happened to hold lessons every day if he knew anything about the prim headmistress. Harry sent help where he could, had his team on the look out for supplies. Any child he came across was taken to Hogwarts. Harry met with the prime minister under a peace flag once a month to return the children to their families if they had any but more often than not they didn't have any and would be returned to Hogwarts.

Harry took a deep breath as it came time for him to speak. He didn't know why the hell they asked him to speak every goddamn time. He gave the same speech every time; he had no idea what else to say, what else could he say about someone he hardly knew? He was a team mate yes, but aside from his skills in battle Harry didn't know a damn thing about the man.

But he looked at the man's wife.

Too young to be a widow.

His children.

Too young to lose their father.

War was a bitch.

He gave his speech.

He spoke of the greatness of a man he barely knew. He spoke of the man's bravery, of the courage and honor, of everything that these people needed to hear. The man died though, and he never let them forget that. Never let them forget that he died for a future, a future that they all fought for, a future that they could be proud of.

And a small part of his mind always whispered as he said that:

Bullshit.

But he said it anyway; because he had nothing else he could say.

He couldn't say that they were losing.

He couldn't stand there and tell them that there were other mothers and children on the other side of this war that stood beside a grave and wept and were cajoled with the same empty words. He was a killer, he wasn't cruel.

After his speech, after his rose had dropped on the cold hard casket, he would shake hands with their brothers, hold their wives as they broke down and tell their children tales of a hero. But there was nothing left in him, just an echo of the man he used to be.

He supposes that's why they call him the machine.

Hermione is his silent companion, she goes where he goes and there is no use arguing about it. She's the cleverest witch of their era and it's a damned shame that she's wasting her genius on war but she wouldn't have it any other way, not after Ron. Sometimes Harry envied Ron; they had been kids, fifteen years old with guns thrown into their hands and no choice but to learn how to use them. Hermione had been down with a broken leg and Harry had never been more glad than that day when they'd been attacked on all sides. There really wasn't a chance, but they had to fight until the wards could go up and protect Hogwarts. Fifteen minutes they were told, fifteen minutes…The Aurors held them off for the first five, then they joined with guns conjured hastily. Some guns didn't work. Half of Gryffindor was lost within the next five minutes, cannon fodder, enough to stop the flow. Harry let loose; he'd fought wizards more frightening than these people. He didn't think just kept pulling the trigger aiming on instinct, dodging on instinct and it kept him alive. When his gun ran out of ammunition he pulled out his wand. Bullets grazed him but he didn't stop he kept going. He was an animal, lost, he had to live he had to kill Voldemort and no muggle and his gun was going to get in his way.

And then the wards went up.

He could remember calling out for Ron, half hysterical from the intensity of it all. He was bleeding along his arms and legs but they were only grazes. He could remember turning walking around in circles surrounded by bodies. The few that had survived were sobbing, clinging to each other, staring ahead in shock. He found Ron eventually. The blow of it of losing Ron had turned him mad. He didn't remember what happened really, but Hermione said that they could hear him scream from the infirmary she said he sounded like someone dying and for a moment when they brought him in she thought he had.

Harry stands now as they burry another man.

When would it end?

Hermione reaches out silently and grasps his hand holding it tightly in hers.

She settles her head on his shoulder and it's the only comfort he is allowed to accept.

The day is grey and cloudy, most days are, but he still looks up at the sky in wonder as though he's never seen it before. How many wars had that sky seen?

When would it all end?

Please god…let it end…

Hermione squeezes his hand tightly and he knows that she is thinking the same thing. She's not on the front line, he wasn't about to let her be on the front line but she saw him when he came back. She kept his canteen full and at least three fresh packs of his favorite cigarettes in his uniform after she washes away the blood. She's there when he wakes up screaming, she knows it's destroying him.

Maybe it already has destroyed him.

He doesn't know.

But the funeral is over.

Back to work.

He tries to ignore the sea of fresh graves as they turn back.

One day maybe it will be his grave.

He can't help but hope that it's soon.