Welcome back, dear readers! I have another story completed and will be posting it at the rate of a chapter every few days or so. Be forewarned - this one is the darkest one I've yet written and will have a couple of trigger warnings posted in the Author Notes at the beginning of the appropriate chapters. (I don't like inserting such warnings or any other thoughts in the middle of the chapters because I feel it disrupts the flow of the story.)
As usual when I write a Harry Potter story, I use UK English as accurately as I can. And also as usual, Brit-pickers are strongly encouraged to comment with any improvements or corrections! Much thanks in advance! In relation to that, in this story I've chosen to give Tonks a full-blown Cockney dialect. Researching that dialect was an absolute blast, and I hope I've given it justice - not only with the dialect itself but also the idioms and rhyming slang.
The premise for this story began when I thought about the infamous battle at the Department of Mysteries at the end of fifth year. I'm sorry, but a half-dozen kids using schoolyard jinxes going up against twice their number of psychotic murdering terrorists who throw lethal spells around like confetti is not going to end well for the children. And that's basically the point in this interpretation when canon went completely off the rails.
The mood of the story was also heavily influenced by Johnny Cash's cover of Hurt (originally by Nine Inch Nails) - the story title was actually borrowed from one of the lines. That song may also be considered the theme song of the story and inspired me to do something new (for me) and put together a soundtrack - I'll be posting the relevant songs at the end of each chapter along with the relevant scene for them.
As always, reviews and constructive criticism are welcome. Flames, insults, and trolls are not, and will be ignored - if you don't like it, I don't really care. I didn't write it for you anyway. Go read something else, or better yet if you're so in tune with what should be happening go write it so the rest of us can bask in your brilliance.
Since FFN has been having issues with email delivery, I put together a profile on X (formerly Twitter) to give my readers an alternative means of keeping up to date. My handle there is the same as here: Alsas1975. Feel free to follow me there if you'd like those updates or to ask questions about any of my writing!
And finally, if you recognize it I don't own it. Like everyone else here, I'm just borrowing things for a little while. Enjoy!
***EoD***
Inspector John Statham crushed out his cigarette and flicked the extinguished butt into the rubbish bin before turning back to the squad car. The car's flashing blue lights cast their glow through the late-night London mist, illuminating his partner, Inspector Paul Bennet, straightening up and shutting the rear door of their vehicle. A disgruntled young chap with lank, stringy hair and a scruffy beard sat in the back seat, hands cuffed securely behind him. Four other police cars lined the street behind theirs, each with one or two handcuffed subjects sitting inside or being helped in by constables of the London Metro Police.
Bennet gave his gruff partner a lopsided smile. "Goddamn drugs," he observed.
"Indeed," Statham responded. He gazed off across the sparsely lit Leicester Square. Eerie globes of soft white light, marking the locations of the streetlamps, did little to dispel the misty gloom. Flickering neon lights from the nightclubs that surrounded the square added glowing islands of red, green, and blue to the murk. A noise drew his attention to an alley across the street, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust as he watched a rumpled, heavily inebriated man vacate his stomach amidst a pile of full rubbish bags. "As long as this place caters to that crowd, though, we're going to be dealing with this mess," he growled.
"It's been a little quieter lately, though," Bennet replied. "That fire on Charing Cross spooked a lot of people. Burned the whole block to the ground, and the fire brigade still has no idea how it started." Watching the same wretched drunk stagger off into the night, he gave a bitter laugh. "Almost a shame it happened over there instead of here."
Statham rubbed his hand across the stubble on his head. "I asked the director if he'd heard anything about it," he admitted. "He said he hadn't, but he looked nervous as he said it. Don't know if he actually knows anything or not, but I could tell something was off. It could even be as simple as orders not to look into it."
"Which is odd enough, you must admit."
"True." He looked off into the general direction, his curiosity warring with his discretion. "Heard a rumour from one of the chaps on the fire brigade, though. Poor bastard swore up and down that he saw animals in the flames. Like, the flames were animals, not that there were animals burning. What's more, he claimed one of them was a dragon."
"Bollocks," Bennet scoffed.
"That's what I thought too," Statham agreed. "But I could see in his eyes that he at least believed what he was saying."
"What do you make of it?"
"Not a clue," he said. "Not a goddamn clue." His eyes narrowed as he gazed off into the night, as if the answers might spontaneously appear before him. Shaking his head, he turned back to his partner. "Well, let's get this tosser to the station," he said. "Then we can pursue the most exciting part of this job."
"Bloody paperwork," Bennet laughed.
As Statham opened the door of their car, the ground shook violently, accompanied by a muffled boom to the north. Even as their eyes turned toward the vicinity of the concussive blast, they heard the unmistakable groaning of distressed architecture, followed by the sounds of collapsing rubble intermixed with the fainter but no less heart-clenching sounds of people screaming in fear and pain. Clouds of dust and smoke rose and mingled with the continuing mist, obscuring vision to the north even further. There was a moment of stunned silence before Statham was barking instructions into his radio while his partner gathered the officers on scene together. In less than a minute, Statham and Bennet led the others north, leaving two men to stand watch over the drug dealers they had apprehended.
***EoD***
Sirens split the night as fire engines, police cars, and ambulances converged on the shabby business area just to the north of Leicester Square. A mysterious underground explosion had rocked the area not ten minutes prior, and the first responders had reported that a sinkhole had appeared in the centre of the district. Many of the surrounding blocks sustained significant structural damage as well.
The late-night mist had picked up into a steady rain, and was lit up by a flood of flashing blue lights and white searchlights as emergency personnel on scene, wielding torches, prybars, shovels, and axes, carefully began sifting through the rubble in search of victims and survivors. It wasn't long before more white floodlights were added as various media outlets arrived and set up broadcasting points on the other side of the cordoned-off areas.
In the midst of all the chaos, the sound of several muffled pops down a dark alley went unnoticed. Even when a trio of oddly-dressed people quickly emerged from the same alley a few moments later, the attention of everyone else was on the giant rubble-filled crater before them, and the emergency rescue teams painstakingly making their way through the debris.
The newcomers were dressed alike in what seemed to be a uniform of some kind. Heavy-duty black trousers, mid-calf black boots, and black shirts underneath intricately-tooled vests of a strange kind of leather were topped by long, wide-sleeved burgundy garments that looked something like a cross between a coat and a robe, cinched tight with wide black belts. The clothing looked anachronistic yet well-worn and highly functional.
The three walked up to the police cordon and ducked under. Though a London Metro Police constable stood not six feet away and was looking in their direction, she did not give the slightest indication that she even saw them. If she had, she would certainly have been struck by the look of identical horror on each of their faces as they beheld the devastation, a horror made all the more acute by the otherwise professional bearing all three maintained.
"Crikey," the female of the group whispered. Oddly enough, the colour of her hair changed to solid white before shifting back to the jet-black-tipped-with-violet style she had first arrived with. "It's the 'ole Ministry, Shack. Reckon 'e done it?"
The tall man of African descent she addressed sighed in resignation. "I hope not," he said, defeat in his voice. "I wouldn't wager either way."
"Who was the desk sergeant tonight?" the other man asked, his voice faint.
"Robards," the man addressed as "Shack" replied.
"Damn." His eyes tightened. "I'll have his head if he's killed our own."
"Tain't tha' simple, Proudfoot!" the woman snapped. "Can ya really blame 'im for 'atin us? Aftah everythin wha' we done to 'im? We failed 'im first, ya know, and I don' fink it's gonna stop. Fudge, Umbridge, an' Kno'turn Alley was jus' the beginnin."
"At ease, Tonks," Shacklebolt said. "You too, Proudfoot. We've all been on edge, but this isn't the time or the place. We've got to get someone down in there somehow and try to find survivors. And try to not break the Statute of Secrecy while doing so."
Chastened, Auror Tonks nodded her head. "Sorry, boss," she said.
Proudfoot sighed as he saw broadcasting cameras trained on the crater. "I don't suppose we'll be able to call in the Obliviators, will we?"
Shacklebolt shook his head. "No. Everything we need to coordinate a response is down there," he said, pointing at the crater.
"Whadda we do?" Tonks asked.
"At this point I don't see that there's anything we can do without drawing attention to ourselves, but I've no doubt that the rescuers will find what's left of the Ministry before the end." He sighed and shook his head. "I'm afraid the only place to go at this point is Hogwarts, as much as I hate to do that. Hopefully Dumbledore will have some ideas." He couldn't help but to notice the scowl that appeared on Tonks's face. "Something on your mind?"
"Well… I should 'ope 'e's got some ideas, considerin 'at this jaspah wif 'arry's largely of' 'is makin."
"Be that as it may, he's probably the only voice that people will still listen to. Unless you have a better suggestion?"
Her scowl did not lessen in the slightest, but she shook her head.
"Right, then. Let's go."
***EoD***
In retrospect, blasting out the main support pillars while standing in the Department of Mysteries probably wasn't the most brilliant idea he'd ever had. Not that that Unspeakable had really given him a chance. He'd planned to detonate the runestones after leaving the Ministry, but it was in line with his typical luck that the greycloak surprised him and started slinging spells.
It hadn't been a year since that disastrous night where he and his friends had snuck into the Department of Mysteries to save his godfather, and the memories were as strong as ever. Wandering these cursed halls again had been difficult, especially when he saw the spots where his friends lay dying. Especially the square terraced room with that sinister arch on the dais in the centre. That was the room he had lost his godfather, Sirius… and her.
Nonetheless, he had managed to set his runic charges at the appropriate points without being noticed. The wards the Unspeakables had set all over the department were supposed to be the very best in all magical Britain, but they were no match for his unique capabilities. Capabilities that would have certainly made all the difference the last time he was here, though not all of them had even potentially been available then. Even the ones that had only been bound would have made a difference, and damn Albus Dumbledore for putting those binds upon him and preventing him from knowing about his original birthright earlier.
After triggering the runic sequence, Harry Potter had just enough time to erect his shield over himself before the ceiling of the department – along with everything above it – came crashing down around him. Fortunately, his shield withstood the collapse, but he was now buried who knows how many feet underground under tonnes of broken rubble.
He crawled to his feet with the aid of the staff he used as a crutch – the protective bubble formed by the shield was just enough for him to stand fully upright – and his hand went first to the mokeskin pouch Hagrid had given him. He knew that anything inside was protected, but the documents within were too precious to just assume the best. Carefully removing them, he confirmed that they were still intact and the primary reason for his trip here tonight was still a success. He rolled them back up and put them back in the cardboard tube he'd conjured for them when he first grabbed them. Putting the tube back into the bottomless pouch, he looked around one last time. There was nothing left for him to do. A moment later he faded from view. The shield faded as well, and debris filled the space he'd just been.
***EoD***
The rain had stopped for the moment, but the clouds that still raced before the full moon promised only a temporary respite. This corner of the cemetery, occasionally illuminated by the pale white light when the clouds broke, was small but well-kept, showing the love and care the survivors still held for their loved ones who had passed on. At this hour, no one was expected to be there, but a lone shadow could still be seen moving through the granite headstones, with the chronicles of those who had lived, loved, and died faithfully recorded on their eternal surfaces.
The shadow stopped at one small black granite headstone that bore the shape of an angel and knelt before it, heedless of the wet grass surrounding it. A loving hand brushed the damp granite, tracing over the name engraved upon it.
"It's almost over," a voice whispered. "I know it won't bring you back, my love, but hopefully no one else will have to suffer what we have. He tried to find where you were laid to rest, but no one can break through the wards I've put up around here. They'll last until the sun itself dies, which means no one from the magical world will ever be able to find you. No one will ever desecrate your resting place." A shadowed head bowed, and shoulders began to shake as the figure silently wept. "I miss you so much, my love."
The clouds parted long enough for the distant moonlight to fall upon the haggard form of Harry Potter, but one that few would recognize as such. His black hair, untameable as ever, had premature streaks of grey running through it and fell almost to his shoulders. The round glasses he was known for were gone, as was the famous lightning-bolt scar that had once adorned his forehead. Instead, he wore a black patch over his left eye as well as a thin scruffy beard. As young as he was, it looked like nothing more than a couple of week's growth of facial hair.
The moonlight also shone full on the tombstone that Harry knelt before. The inscription in gold lettering read:
Hermione Jane Granger
September 19, 1979 – June 18, 1996
Beloved Daughter
"You were the magic in our lives."
Harry took a deep, shuddering breath and stood up, using his staff to support himself. "There's one last stop, my love, and this nightmare world will be finished."
***AN***
Empire of Dirt Theme: Hurt by Johnny Cash