Chapter 7:

The First Recruits

Harry climbed back up from the basement with a sluggish gait. The previous two hours of coaching by both Albus Dumbledore and Mungo Bonham had been the most emotionally taxing hundred and twenty minutes of his life.

Harry had always suspected life as a Hogwarts teacher and headmaster were much more spiritually brutalizing than most would believe. To have it confirmed by over a century's worth of tales by Albus wasn't something he was ready for. Turns out, Tom Riddle's release of the basilisk was hardly the worst crime committed by a student during his tenure. From fights being taken too far, to sexual assaults of students by other students, to an honest to God serial killer running roughshod for an entire month; Hogwarts was not as squeaky clean of a place as it pretended to be. All of these types of situations weren't necessarily swept under the rug or covered up as they were dealt with internally.

Despite himself he couldn't disagree with either of the old and dead men that it would be wrong to allow that a 17-year-old who killed another student with the killing curse in self-defense should face a life sentence with dementors, nor the many other students who used the other unforgiveables; which was usually them casting cruciatus and Imperius on each-other to find out what it's like.

The internal justice of Hogwarts as dealt by teachers was a grey area of morality. On one hand what right do they have to be the arbiters of justice in place of the law? There are already institutions meant to deal with these crimes, and who have the means and authority to do it. On the other hand, Harry had witnessed the apathetic and oftentimes self-motivated "justice" of the wizarding world. The teachers aren't blind as justice should be, sure, but neither was the actual legal system. The teachers at least cared for the well-being of their students and their futures and knew them personally - a huge contrast to the Muggle teachers who have no moral qualms teaching in a school system based off of the Prussian model, a system of psychological abuse and political indoctrination.

But if Harry thought Dumbledore's testimony of how horrible life can be to people was bad, Mungo's was worse. For the man had been a Catholic priest before becoming a certified healer, and the things people sought spiritual guidance on, let alone spoke of in the confession booth, made even Harry's already necrotic blood run cold. He couldn't imagine helping people recover mentally from family deaths, miscarriages, adapting to physical disabilities or the trauma of killing in war or causing the accidental deaths of others. Attempting to convince people confessing of heinous crimes to turn themselves in to the proper authorities, while also being duty-bound by his oaths to God to keep their secrets was a bit more up his alley. Regardless, the life of an honest priest was another level of social skills Harry couldn't wrap his head around. These were all things he had to advise people on, and that was BEFORE he became a healer.

Still, while their testimonies were an enormous juxtaposition to one another, the advice these stories imparted on consoling victims, and victimizers, were similar.

Non-threatening posture and body language. Slow, calm and reassuring speech. Avoiding words with possible accusatory or threatening connotations. But was Harry up to the task?

Well, he was about to find out because Bertha had been interviewing and consoling the girls and women in the house while Daedilus did so with the boys and men. Their stories made Harry's rage boil to a white-hot mist, but he had to keep cool for now. His hatred for the sick and twisted population of Death Eaters and Snatchers could wait for later; the opportunity to unleash it upon them would come soon enough.

Learning the Creevey brothers had another younger brother came as a slap to the face. To hear that he was the third Muggleborn in the family raised questions as to what was in the water in their mother's hometown. His good humor at learning of the boy's existence vanished as he learned about his injuries and their causes.

He'd already written down all of their names and noticed how a lot of them shared surnames with dissidents in Voldemort's regime. Jun Chang and Eric Creevey being younger siblings to two members of the DA, and good friends of his. The little Chinese girl would have started Hogwarts this coming year, and the even littler blonde boy would have started the year after that.

There were others. Most were distant or close relatives of dissidents in both Hogwarts and in the country at large. Hostages held as a threat to keep Voldemort's enemies in line and who were punished by proxy when Harry's allies failed to do so.

Every kidnappee was made to live chained, malnourished and without access to hygiene facilities was the means of torture of choice here. Clearly because it made for the most offensive conditions to photograph the victims in and mail said photos to the real enemies. A few were kept under the imperious and ordered to make voice recordings saying terrible things, and a few were tortured with the cruciatus for information.

"Good evening, everyone." Harry greeted as he entered the dining room.

The kitchen of Number 12 had never been this crowded before, not even when the entire Weasley clan had stayed over while an order meeting was being hosted there. Hestia was in a wheelchair at one end of the table, barely conscious by the looks of her, with Arabella Figg in the seat next to her. He still hadn't heard the story on how she'd been captured but her treatment hadn't been as bad as the rest, leading him to believe she was a recent acquisition.

He was surprised to discover the large number of adults present. Anabel and Ignatius Finch-Fletchley held tightly to one another. Edward Tonks, who he hadn't known was there until now, sat on a sofa near the back with Charles Abbot - Hannah's widower of a father. Both stared off into space lost in what were most assuredly dark thoughts. Most surprising of all the adults present was none other than Helen Bullstrode, Millicant's mother, who it turned out was a Muggle.

A half-blood in Slytherin? Harry had only heard of one of those before.

Then there were the children. Most were siblings or cousins of DA members, but there were a few he had never even heard of, and he could only assume were randoms that the Death Eaters had taken an interest in. Like Jessica Roberts with her younger brother, Michael. There was also an Indian, dot not feather, man who didn't speak a lick of English and a black girl with hair that looked quite a bit like Hermione's. The former's name rang a bell that he couldn't quite place, the middle he couldn't even assume was a relative of the Patil Twins seeing as there were a billion people from that country, the third simply looked familiar and he didn't know why.

He looked up at the still-ruined ceiling and the pile of rubble in one corner.

"Kreacher." He called out.

The elderly house-elf popped into existence with a pop, making all present - both those familiar and unfamiliar with magic - jump in fright.

"Everyone, this is Kreacher. He is a house-elf. If you are familiar with folklore, it essentially means a brownie. He is bound to me. There is another named Dobby."

Dobby popped into existence to much less fanfare.

"Dobby is a free elf. And my friend. He is one of the most kind and caring people I've ever met, and if you need for anything, ask him and he will provide." Harry instructed them.

Dobby nodded enthusiastically to every word.

"Kreacher, on the other hand, is a grumpy old curmudgeon and probably doesn't like you."

Kreacher nodded even more enthusiastically.

"But he is also bound to do as I command. And I have commanded him to not harm, insult or in any way make your existence here uncomfortable. Try to avoid him so that we might all live in peace." Harry asked.

Many present nodded in understanding or agreement.

"Oh, and Kreacher?" Harry asked.

"Yes master?" Kreacher answered.

"When this room is not occupied, I would like you to begin repairs on the ceiling." Harry implied.

"Good for you, Master." Kreacher refused with a smirk.

A few of the onlookers chuckled or giggled at the obvious disobedience. Harry turned to them and, with a wink, mouthed the words 'he doesn't much like me either."

"Kreacher. Begin repairs on the caved-in ceiling and any other damage to the Ancient and Noble House of Black whenever you are able to do so unseen by our guests." Harry commanded this time.

"Yes Master." Kreacher answered with mirth in his eyes.

Harry was sure now that Kreacher would have actually followed his earlier request without having been directly ordered. He seemed to be putting on a humorous show to try and put these guests at ease. The old house-elf was really changing for the better.

"You are both dismissed." Harry told the two elves, and they vanished without a trace.

He sighed and surveyed the room from the doorway. Dumbledore's shade whispered in his ear that doing so may make the poor souls around the table feel trapped, as he was blocking the only exit. Harry saw the logic in that and so walked calmly over to the sink, where the dirty dishes from the dinner that Mrs Bullstrode and Mrs Finch-Fletchley had prepared for everyone.

He turned on the hot tap and began cleaning by hand one plate at a time.

"Washing dishes, or doing chores of any kind really, has always been a great coping method of mine." He spoke to the room at large. "The monotony of it. It allows my mind to shut down and be at peace. Unthinking. Other times it lets me think more clearly."

He dried off the first plate with a towel and placed it onto the rack before picking up another one.

"Everyone has their coping methods. I can't tell you what yours might be, or even help you discover them." Harry admitted.

The second plate joined the first and he grabbed a third.

"In fact, I'm a bit out of my depth even trying to help you all with what you've suffered. But I will try my best. I don't even have the courage to look at you all while I talk. Or even the wisdom to know what to say to you." He continued. "So, I'm going to cope my way, and answer any questions you all may have. Let us all figure things out together. You ask, and I answer. You speak about what ails you, and I will listen. In private or in public."

With the third plate done he moved onto a fourth.

His audience was quiet for several whole minutes as Harry worked his way through the dirty dishes. He was putting into practice Dumbledore and Mungo's advice on patience, and it paid off. By the time somebody finally decided to pipe up he was halfway done with the bowls.

"Sooooo." Came the voice of a girl. Harry thought it was the black one he vaguely recognized. "Magic, eh?"

That earned some hearty snorts from most everyone at the table, and Harry himself.

"Oh yes! Magic has existed for a very long time." Harry answered. "So long that the people who use it, unsurprisingly called witches and wizards, have formed a separate society away from the nonmagical, called Muggles." Harry explained. "There are people born to Muggles who have magic, for reasons we simply do not understand, and they are brought into magical society where they won't be a danger to themselves or others. My mother was Muggle-born. I was Muggle-raised."

Those uninitiated to the world of magic had to chew on that for a little while. The Finch-Fletchley's filled the silence waxing on about how they found out about their son's talents and were contacted by Hogwarts. Harry tuned them out as they spoke of the beauty of the castle and how they had been welcomed into magical society.

"But, why were we kidnapped? Why did we get brought into all of this?" The Jessica girl asked.

"War." Mrs Bullstrode answered simply. "We were brought in as hostages of a war between wizards."

Harry nodded at her answer and kept cleaning.

"Most all of you are relatives of people who are fighting in this war. My side of the war, as it were." He explained. "My friends and allies, for the most part. Though there are a few of you who seem to have nothing to do with me whatsoever."

"But, say we believe you." The black girl started. "How have we never seen or heard anything about this war? Is it because your world is secret from ours? But then, why would we be brought in? What is the reason for this war? How will it stop?"

All decent questions. Some of them he didn't have the answer to.

"One side of the war wants peace." Mrs Bullstrode said. "They want to continue to live peacefully away from Muggles and continue practicing their culture without the poison of modernity, political ideologies and media. The other believes we should come out of the shadows and practice magic openly. And they are split into two groups. Those who believe we are superior to Muggles and should rule them, and another who believe Muggles are on the brink of ending all life on earth, which includes us."

Harry finished the last cup and turned to listen to Bullstrode's story.

"The two largest magical communities of Japan were located in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Were. The magical cities of old all over Europe were destroyed during the blitz and firestorms of Churchill's fire bombings, and we still haven't recovered. And the utter cruelty in genocide we have witnessed Muggles perform against their own kind. These things, completely disregarding the hedonism in modern "music" and cinema are appalling to us of magical stock. And not just witches and wizards." She went on. "But other races in hiding from the nonmagical world as well. Needless to say, me and my family are in this camp."

Nobody had ever expressed these kinds of concerns to Harry before. Were it a matter of discussing which side of the war he would choose based solely on the issues most concerning, he would certainly pick the side of Bullstrode and her stock. Were it not for the tactics and cruelty of the allies they chose.

"But, then why are you here?" Mrs Finnegan asked, her Scottish accent even stronger than her son's.

"Because they threw their lot in with a Dark Lord. And that is never wise." Mr Tonks explained simply, before remembering that he was speaking to the uninitiated. "There are many types of magic. Most of it good. Most of it wonderful. But the magic you use changes you over time. There are charms, which can change the world around you in fantastical and joyous ways and whose practitioners tend to be all smiles. Transfiguration, which is focused and disciplined, and whose master's are calm and collected. Then there's dark magic..."

Harry stepped in.

"Dark magic is violence and decay and meth; all liquified, stuffed into a syringe and shot straight into your brain through your eye socket with every use." Harry said succinctly from his brief experience with it. The explanation raised some eyebrows from those more familiar with magic. "I've been forced into situations where I've had to resort to it. And I hate it... But I understand why others adore it. Become addicted to it. It is powerful and pulls at you. Begs you to keep using it and makes false promises. And the more you use it, the more it changes you."

Mrs Bullstrode nodded to every word.

"The same is even true for when it's used on you. And I've been subjected to far more than I've subjected others to." Harry explained before undoing the buttons to his dress shirt.

Baring his wound for all present to see was intimate, and more embarrassing than he expected. But if he closed his eyes, he could almost ignore the gasps of his audience.

"And I've already been killed by it. My body just hasn't fully realized it yet. I haven't got long left in this world." Harry explained as he showed off the withering-curse afflicted parts of his body above the waist. "But out there is a war that only I can put an end to. The story is long, and convoluted, but I'm sure you will be told about it in time."

He rebuttoned his shirt and turned back around to the sink. While those present digested his comments, he filled one of the recently cleaned mugs with water and tapped the cup with a finger. It instantly turned hot and began spewing steam. One teabag later and he sunk to the floor so as to sit and enjoy his drink.

"So, one side of this war is ostensibly insane due to addiction to what amounts to an adrenaline rush and amphetamine high, and have lost all sense of justice, reasonable use of force, and humanity in fighting for what they believe in. And we were just caught in the middle of it?" Jessica Roberts concluded.

"And they've even lost sight of why they fight." Mrs Flinch Fletchley amended.

"But then what are we supposed to do?!" The black girl pleaded. "I can't even fight the old-fashioned way, what can I do about any of this?!"

Dumbledore's shade butted in.

"Your missed date is on the brink of a panic attack. She needs to know that she is stronger than she thinks she is. And that there is a way out for her." He told her.

Harry felt the light bulb go off in his head at the comment and he now recognized the girl from the coffee shop almost two years ago. The one he had asked out and promptly ditched for a date with Dumbledore recruiting Slughorn instead. The implication that Voldemort's men had been watching his interactions with such scrutiny that they even knew of her was bad enough. That they were desperate enough to track down every person he so much as had a conversation with to try and track him down was downright terrifying.

"You don't have to fight at all. Not by knife, gun nor bare hand. If you want to fight at all, you can do it by simply helping those who do. A home cooked meal, a listening ear, a clean home. These things win wars. But I don't think you want to fight at all, do you miss?" He asked her.

The pretty black girl shook her head.

"You want out of this war? Out of this world?" He asked.

She nodded.

"There are two ways I can help you with that. I can offer you a swift and painless death..."

The adults erupted into outrage at the suggestion, Diggle's exclamation of "Mr Potter!" Was even louder than Dumbledore's "Harry!", but even they were drowned out by the crying of little Jun Chang and the littler Eric Creevey.

He waited for them to tire themselves out as his once would-be date cowered in on herself.

"May I finish?" He asked rhetorically to the room of glares.

"I can offer you a swift and painless death, or I can offer you obliviation." He told her.

When the young woman seemed confused, he elaborated.

"The complete removal or destruction of all memories you have of your time in the wizarding world."

"You are experienced with the memory charm?" Hestia prodded skeptically.

"No. But I hear you are. If I do it, she will be reduced to a vegetative state, which is also an option, should she take it." He told them.

More grumbling and glares from the adults ensued, but Harry only had eyes for the girl as she stared off into space. In lieu of a conclusion she seems to come upon another question and raised her hand tentatively into the air. A hand whose fingers, Harry noticed, were far too thin from malnutrition.

"Yes ma'am?" Harry prompted.

"But if my memories are taken away, wouldn't that leave me vulnerable to being captured again?" She asked. "Just because I forget the wizarding world doesn't mean it won't remember me."

Harry nodded.

"Quite right. Not that knowing of it would allow you to make much better of an attempt at protecting yourself." Harry explained. "Which is why I'm not offering to release you back into the wild with your memories intact. All it will do is cause you unnecessary suffering, for you will always be looking over your shoulder expecting to be spirited away yet again. And I won't do that to you."

Of all the people to pipe up, it was Eric Creevey. Harry couldn't even hide his surprise at the tiny boys high-pitched squeak of a voice and actually jumped slightly.

"Can't you just remove the memories of... the bad stuff?" He pleaded, glancing briefly at the Asian girl across from him before shuddering.

Those unfamiliar with the wizarding world all looked to him with hope in their eyes. It broke his heart to shatter that hope.

"Hestia? Do you want to take a swing at this one?" Harry prompted the still unrecovered woman.

She sighed heavily but nodded all the same.

"I can do that, but that would be more harmful than leaving those memories where they are. Because while you won't remember what happened up here " she tapped herself on the forehead. "You will still remember it here and here." She tapped herself on the back of the head above her neck and then her heart.

"Your body and subconscious will remember." Mr Tonks added in. "And you will experience symptoms of the psychological trauma for the rest of your life, seemingly with no cause."

"And the worst part is." Hestia added. "You will never be able to heal those psychological wounds because you will be unable to identify where you got them." Hestia finished. "So no, I won't be doing that."

Everybody sobered up at that. Even Harry wouldn't have explained that one in such detail. And those two had the gall to get uppity with him over offering the quick way out?

"Even if it would work, none of us could go through with it." A new voice said from the doorway.

Dudley entered with the gait of the undead. Eyes sunken and red, no doubt from tears for his mother and insomnia due to the horrors he had seen.

"How could we?" He went on, his voice barely recognizable. "If the option were there, who among us would actually take the chance to go back to a normal life after what we have seen, let alone experienced? We can't walk away now that we've seen the face of evil."

Hestia tried to place a comforting hand on his arm to calm him down, but he flinched away from it.

"Now that I've seen what kind of terrible things people are capable of, what kind of evil I'm capable of, there is no going back. I will never know peace. Not in life and not in my soul, so long as there exists such evil in the world. I will spend the rest of my life hunting down every mother fucker, wizard or muggle" he spat the word out " who would commit the crimes they did against me against anybody else."

Dudley looked Harry straight in the eye, and Harry didn't recognize the person behind the irises.

"And the best place to do that, is by your side." Dudley told him.

At the conclusion of Dudley's speech silence reigned supreme. Harry took the time to glance at the faces of those gathered. Some, like Edward Tonks, held determination. Others, like Jessica Roberts, held open rage and hate. Most had fear. The children had not but tears and sobs.

"I will make the offer one last time." Said Harry. "Who here would like to take one of the doors out and escape the hell of war that awaits you if you remain with me?"

Not a single person took him up on his offer.

"To war then." He concluded.

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