harry_18

Thanks to all the people who reviewed the last chapter. Your various permutations of the general “What the F***!?! Update now!” Were most appreciated. I feel kind of bad for jumping a twist like that on you after 40 chapters. Kind of deceitful. Good to know the majority of people appreciated it.
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“Harry?” Padma said quietly, standing at the end of the hospital bed. Harry seemed to be sleeping, his chest rising and falling weakly. His eyes were red, like he’d been crying. Perhaps the pain was worse than he let on. She felt bad for needing to wake him. “Harry wake up.” She reached out and tapped his leg. He jerked fitfully, but his eyes flickered open. He didn’t speak though, didn’t acknowledge her. He just stared off into space. What had Dumbledore said to him?

“Harry I‘ve been talking to the healers. They‘ve run some more tests.” She licked her lips. “Look, it looks like a few months was actually optimistic. There‘s damage deep down, lots of damage. You need to let them help you now or… or you‘ll die. In a few weeks.”

Harry said nothing, he didn’t even seem to have heard her.

“You won‘t be able to fight Voldemort.” Padma tried a different tack. “I‘m not saying you‘ll have weeks like you‘ve been going all year. You‘ll have weeks in this hospital bed, not able to move, eventually you won‘t even be able to talk. You won‘t be able to kill Voldemort. You won‘t be able to be the chosen one.”

Harry flinched, pain running across his tired face.

“You see Harry, you‘ve got to let them help you.” Padma stepped up to put her hand on Harry’s. “Please?”

“You do what you have to do.” Harry pulled his hand away. He still hadn’t looked at her.

“You‘ll let them help you?” Padma tried not to be put off. “You‘ll take off the evil eye and let them work on you?”

“Yes, why not.” Harry rolled over so he was facing away from her. His breathing stuttered, he sounded like he was holding back tears. Padma backed away, she had got what she came for. The healers would fix Harry’s body. What had happened to his mind? That might take a little longer.

What had Dumbledore said to him…
*


The boy who was once called Harry faded in his mind as the healers entered his room. Bustling around and speaking comforting, empty words. They cleaned him up, washing his arms and chest. They asked him to remove the bracer. He did, letting it fall to the floor with a brassy clatter. The healers shied away from the mark on his arm. Fearful. Why should he care.

They did something that was supposed to numb him. He couldn’t tell the difference. Everything was dulled already. He watched, unable and unwilling to care, as they cut his skin open. His blood seeped out, quickly staunched by a healer. He wished they wouldn’t bother.

A cold gel was swabbed onto his ruined hand. Ruined for what? For the sake of what? All useless. He wished they wouldn’t bother.
*


Draco slapped the sore skin of his arm to try and stay awake. It had been burnt in the battle, but it was fine now. Just enough residual redness and pain to help him stay alert. He swung his weary eyes around the waiting room, all of the marauders were here. Most of them had finally succumbed to sleep, Draco didn’t blame them. It was hard to imagine that the deadly midnight assault on the creature ship had been just last night. They had been worn out, worn down. Draco pinched his arm again. He wondered if there was anywhere he could find some tea. The tea shop was closed but surely the healers had a staff room or something. Maybe he could ask one.

Or maybe he could just fall asleep.

Draco shook his head. Some of them had to be awake when the healers finally stopped working on Harry. He shuddered, they had already been at it for hours. How many… additions…. had Harry made? He glanced around the room again. Everyone seemed to be asleep. Even Ginny, who seemed to have nodded off in the act of pinching herself. They had all been there all night, no one had collected them. He supposed it was only a matter of time before a teacher or an order member came to wrangle them up and drag them back to Hogwarts, where they would no doubt stay. Chained to posts like dogs so they couldn’t run off again.

Draco got wearily to his feet, maybe he could walk some of his tiredness off. He stepped carefully around the prone marauders and stepped up to the door to the ward. Harry’s bed was obscured by curtains but the shadow of the healers were still moving against the surface. As he watched one of them detached and stepped towards the door. Draco stepped away to let him out, hope and dread rising in his stomach.

“Is there any news?” Draco asked.

“Yes, there is.” The healer looked around the room. “Is his family here?”

“Yes.” Draco said definitely, looking over the marauders. “Wait a moment… HEY!” The marauders jerked to life, hands flying to wands before they realized where they were. Draco turned back to the healer. “They‘re up. What is the news?”

“Well we… we removed several items from the body of your friend.” The poor healer swallowed nervously. “We found a drop-gem embedded in his sternum. There was also something in the wall of his stomach. We think it may have been designed to negate poison but it seems to have had the opposite effect. It was the source of his illness. We also found-”

“What about his eye?” Draco broke in. “Have you fixed his eye?”

“His… his eye.” The healer paused. “His eye had been removed too long ago, there is a great deal of scarring. Unfortunately we were unable to restore it. We are currently looking into whether the installation he has is high quality enough to leave there.”

“Installation…” Draco stared at the man coldly. “You‘re talking about his eye.”

“Yes, I know.” The healer shook his head and turned back towards the door. “We‘ll try to keep you informed.” He pushed back through the door and hurried back towards the curtained bed.

Draco looked back over the marauders. Through their sand-filled, droopy eyes he could see their sadness. Harry had fought so hard and got nothing in return but accusations of murder and a permanent disfigurement. And a dark mark, they could not forget that.

“Harry might say it was worth it.” Padma said softly. “For driving Voldemort to ground.”

“Of course he‘d say that. Doesn‘t make it true.” Ron pulled his knees up to his chest. “I mean you heard him in there. He‘d think death was worth it.”

“Is he wrong?” Draco muttered darkly. Perhaps they didn’t hear him. Perhaps it was just as well. They were all startled as another door was pushed open, revealing Professor McGonagall. She didn’t need to say anything, they knew why she was there. They were going back. And they might never leave.
*


“Are you sure?” Natalie asked? Her voice admirably free of shaking. “You could get a bracer like Harry‘s. Or perhaps there are less invasive means of removal.”

“There are not, it was not made to be removed.” Snape tightened the strap around his arm. “And I would prefer to not be dependent on an item of illegal jewelry. Just please do it, it is already beginning to burn.”

Thankfully she did not argue, but instead bent down and touched her wand to the skin on Snape’s arm. The slicing pain was distant, dulled by potions. There were bottles by his arm, some empty, some waiting to grow the skin back after the mark was gone. He was in his apartments at Hogwarts, the only place he could have gained those potions without questions was from his own supplies. The searing began and Snape looked away, watching his own arm butchered was not what disturbed him, not after everything he’d seen. But it reminded him of what Harry was going through. Of the dark lord as well. What would he do next? What would his next move be…

“He may go into hiding.” Natalie answered his unanswered question, still intent on his arm. “Like he did fifteen years ago.”

“He will not.” Snape shook his head. “He was forced to hide then, he had no power. Now he does, it is lessened certainly, but he still has some.”

“Bellatrix, Rookwood and Forneus.” She traced easily around the edge of the skull. “That is who he has left. What would he do with them?”

“It will be savage, I am certain of that.” Snape felt the cutting stop and watched as Natalie picked the little flap of skin up and calmly incinerated it. It was done, he was free. Strange that he should feel so little. Perhaps because he knew he was not truly free until Voldemort was dead. Perhaps because he knew that, without the ability to spy, he was next to useless.

“Don‘t think that.” Natalie’s eyes flickered up to his as she daubed his arm with a potion soaked bandage.

“But I am.” Snape shook his head. “Perhaps not useless but… if I had not acted on instinct we would now know exactly what Voldemort was planning. We would be able to counter him instead of stumbling around in the darkness.”

“You had to.” Was all she said.

“Perhaps.” Snape let his head drop back, perhaps.

“You know them better than anyone.” Natalie continued. “You can work out what he will do next.”

“I have been trying.” Snape replied tetchily. “But I cannot think of anything he would wish to do that he has the manpower to accomplish. Unless he has some plan I am unaware of. Which he almost certainly has. I always got the sense that he had something brewing.”

“The ministry? The department of mysteries? The Prophecy?”

“He covets that no doubt. But I can see no way he could obtain it with three death eaters.”

“Four.” Natalie corrected. “Barty Crouch is still out there somewhere.”

“And if he is not dead then he is doing Merlin knows what.” Snape shook his head. “It could be anything.”

“Severus,” Natalie took his face in her hands and tilted it up to meet her eyes. “Not so low now. We won today. It may not feel like it, but we won a victory. Victories have been few and far between this past year, we need to cherish them, not worry about what will happen next.” Snape was once again amazed by the way she could break through to him, whatever his mood. He smiled,

“I believe I have some wine.”
*


The boy who carried the name Harry felt himself enter the familiar dream. He felt floorboards under his back, scratchy through the thin hospital robe. He knew where he would be when he opened his eyes. And finally, he even knew why.

He pushed himself off the floor, leaning his tired frame against the wall. The wall painted with bears and snitches over a pale blue sky full of fluffy clouds. Harry felt like spitting but he couldn’t muster the energy. He ignored the crib in the center of the room, it’s shiny mobile spinning idly in the dream-wind. He shoved the door open and descended the stairs. The revulsion he always felt was still there, but he could barely bring himself to care. He knew what this place was now.

No one-year-old remembers their house. No one-year-old could remember every photo, or the pattern on the wallpaper. This place was a lie, a parasitic memory that had been burnt into his mind. The creeping sickness in his skin was his mind’s way of telling him that it wasn’t real, that it didn’t belong.

He stepped up to the front door and stepped outside. There were street signs in the memory. No one-year-old would remember street signs, they couldn’t even read them. He should have known, should have realized somehow.

He couldn’t feel the orchard nearby. God knows what that represented. Some metaphor for safety his mind was projecting out maybe. Who knew. The river? Some other part of his mind… it didn’t matter. Harry let himself fall to the ground on the grass, it was all pointless. It wasn’t worth fighting this anymore, it was burnt onto the back of his scull. He could never escape.

His eyes flickered open in the hospital ward. He could feel the sore new growth in his hand. It was pink, new skin, and smaller than the other. Harry dropped it back onto the blankets. Other parts of his body hurt too, little scars and injuries. They had fixed him up. He wished they hadn’t bothered.

The dream was still swirling in his head, biting at him. It was too hard. He saw his things piled neatly against the wall, even his clothes. Suddenly he knew he had to leave. This place… he just had to leave. He quietly pushed out of bed, ignoring the creaking in every muscle and drew his bag over. He dressed quickly and disillusioned himself before slipping out the door.

The marauders were sleeping there, lying across benches or curled up on the floor. He didn’t wake them. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. Couldn’t talk, he had no idea how he would even start. He hurried away and down the stairs. He didn’t stop until he was out of the building and a few streets away. A small street, not busy. Breathing hard he shoved his wand out into the street. He found that he could barely keep his arm up for the few seconds it took for the knight bus to blur out of nowhere and screech to a stop in front of him.

“Ere are you Harry Potter?” The pimpled conductor squinted at him, his voice full of amazement.

“No.” The word was hollow in his chest.

“Right, right, incognito.” The man tapped his nose. “I never believed any of that stuff about ya. Hero that‘s what I say.”

“Right.” Hero… that cut to the core like a knife. “Take me to Godrics Hollow.” He had no idea where the idea had come from, but as soon as he said it he knew he needed to go. It was as strong a need to go to it as there had been to leave in the dream.

“Godrics Hollow?” The pimpled guy swallowed. “Right, I see.”

The bus moved off and the nameless boy sagged down in a chair. Why was he doing this? Did he even have a reason? He didn’t seem to have reason’s anymore. He remembered being full of fire and need, burning passion for the fight. But now he just felt hollow, like he’d been scooped out. He didn’t want anything anymore. Except perhaps to die. Why was he going to Godrics Hollow? Why not. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go.

The bus screeched to a halt and he got out without speaking. The bus disappeared with a whoosh, a purple blur in the air. Harry looked up and down the street, it looked like any other village. It was empty this time of day, like a ghost town. Suited his mood perfectly. He looked forward, an derelict house, burnt and with the top floor blown off.

But he knew what had stood there. He had seen it in his dreams. This was where it had happened. It just hadn’t happened to him.

He stepped forward his hand stretched out, then shied away. This house was just more lies. The feelings in his head, grief, loss, fear. They weren’t his, they weren’t his loss. Only strangers had died here, two strangers. People who had nothing to do with him. The grief was another trick, just another level of lie.

He spun away and stalked down the street, not looking back. He had never lived there, it meant nothing to him. Or should mean nothing. His feet brought him to the square and he lent tiredly on the war memorial. He should never have come here, it was not what he needed. He raked his hand through his hair.

Not his hand.

Not his hair.

He spun and punched the stone, hissing out rage through his teeth. The lie poisoned everything. Even his real memories were tainted. He didn’t even look like this for Christ’s sake! His whole body was a mask!

The stone shifted under his fingers. He looked up just as the memorial seemed to melt, morphing into, a statue underneath. Harry stumbled back. No… no no no. Under the memorial there were two figures, a man and a woman. The woman cradled something in her hands. The man… the man looked just like him.

No he doesn’t. I don’t even look like me. The boy trembled with rage as he looked on the happy Potter family. The testament in stone to the life he had never really had. His fingers went to his wand.

“Reducto!” The wand flickered out, even through the rage the spell flew true. It struck the head of the father statue, shattering it into splinters. Some of them cut the boy’s flesh. He didn’t care.

“Reducto!!” Lilly Potter’s head snapped off and crunched onto the tarmac. Rolling to a stop in a storm drain.

“Reducto!!” The last shot was the strongest, striking out in a blinding bolt of light, obliterating the bundled infant. Blowing the little boy-who-lived to smithereens. Flames flickered across the statue before they died out. Flickered across the ruined stumps of heads and died to nothing.

The nameless boy stepped back, breathing like he’d run a marathon. His clothes wet with sweat. He dropped his wand back into his pocket and turned his back on the statue, his breath still coming in furious bursts. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breath. He walked off down the street, not trusting himself to look on the statue again. It made it all too real.

His eyes found a graveyard. Both eyes, real and magical. He shuddered, he’d got used to the shining overlay over his vision, the x-ray view of the world. Now it was just a constant reminder. A reminder of what he’d sacrificed for the lie. He pushed the graveyard gate open and let the eye roam, in a moment it had angled in on the Potter grave. He walked hesitantly to it, his wand safely away in his pocket. He pushed a piece of ivy off the stone and read the inscription.
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death


Well that was bollocks. Being dead meant you had at least one other enemy left, namely the one that killed you. His eye whirled in it’s socket, looking straight down. The two coffins, side to side in the ground, stared back at him. But… there was a shadow. Like a vacant area. He drew his wand and muttered a revealing spell. Faint whiffs of illusion drew out of the ground to meet him. He waved his wand again, cutting the misty waifs away. He worked… he didn’t know how long. Probably minutes, maybe hours. At some point the gray sky gave way to rain and the graveyard grass turned slick. Harry ignored it, concentrating on the spells. It was good. It was a puzzle, breaking the illusion. It stopped him from thinking.

Finally he was done. Nothing different showed on the surface, but down underground… Harry stood and stepped back, his heart hammering in his chest. There was a third coffin on top of the other two, arranged like a pyramid. Inside… inside was a smaller body, a child. It’s tiny arms crossed over it’s chest.

The nameless boy fell to his knees. There it was, the final proof. The final incontrovertible check. That poor wasted body in there was Harry Potter. He could even see a tiny scratch on the bone of his scull, above his eye, in the shape of a lightning bolt. The real scar had cut all the way to the bone, his was barely more than makeup. That was all he was in fact… makeup for a puppet. A god-damn doll.

He raised his wand to the stone, but said nothing. The anger in him was gone. He had seen the bodies of the real Potters, lying together. It was hard to feel anger, but he wished he did. The anger at least filled him up, filled the emptiness with flames. But now the fire was gone and he felt even emptier for it. He found himself resting the point of his wand against the rough, wet stone.

It wasn’t even his wand. He stared at it, thoughts skittering over the numb center of his mind. It was a wand gained from killing, killing and fighting in a war he was never supposed to be part of. This wand was his killing wand. He had done horrible things for the sake of this war… to others… to himself. He found himself pressing down harder on the wood. He had pickled his soul in blood and what had it got him? He added his other arm and pushed harder. He had fought, and he’d been broken. The wand splintered with a loud crack, the springy wood bending almost double before it twisted into ribbons. A little red fluff was visible through the break. It had had a phoenix feather core, he never knew.

“Well that makes thinks easier.”

The voice had come from behind him. He turned slowly but his magic eye had already whizzed around to find the intruder. The black robes told him everything he needed to know. Harry knew he should feel panic, or dread, fear perhaps, at least surprise. But he was damned if he felt anything.

“You would be Rookwood.” His voice sounded dead in his ears.

“Yes I am August Rookwood.” The man sketched a sarcastic bow, his wand in his hand. “Thank Merlin I still have a watch on the underage magic detectors. You‘ve come a long way just to slip now. A long long way…”

“Felt like further.” The empty boy dropped the remains of his wand onto the Potter grave. Perhaps some fool wizard would find it and make up some story about it. He turned back to the death eater and asked, “Are you going to kill me?” He was surprised that his voice did not sound eager.

“Eventually Mr Potter, no doubt.” Rookwood held out his wand. “But first you‘re going to secure something for me.”

“What?”

“The dark lord‘s undying favor.” Rookwood tilted his head up arrogantly. “I will be raised above the others, above even that bastard Crouch.” Rookwood paused, obviously expecting the weary figure before him to say something. “Well? Nothing to add? No witticisms?”

“No.” The boy who had been Harry stepped forward. “Do whatever you like to me. I don‘t care anymore.”

“Is this some kind of trick?” Rookwood raised his wand threateningly. “You are alone here I know that… well, to be sure. Stubefy!”

He closed his eyes before the spell hit. The darkness was welcome.
*


A crashing noise woke him. Flashing light burned through his eyelids as he groaned. The noise went on and on, familiar… very familiar. His memories twinged, his real ones.

“I‘m in the underground.” His eyes flickered open just as the tube train flashed out of sight, leaving the tunnel in darkness. He felt the cords binding his hands together, his fingers danced along them trying to find a knot. There was none. They were tight though, biting into his skin, magical no doubt. He didn’t have to feel to know that his legs were similarly bound. He didn’t bother to try to stand.

“You are indeed Mr Potter.” Rookwood stood over him, his wand outstretched. “The London Underground.”

The nameless boy twisted and looked around him, one of the walls was been broken through and a dark, earthy tunnel stretched away. Now that the train was gone he could hear something in the darkness all around, a scratching slinking sound.

“We‘re not alone.” Harry breathed.

“Oh, so you noticed.” Rookwood held up his wand and lit it, smiling. The darkness rolled back, but not far. A grey wall stopped the light, a writhing mass of cloth and rot.

“What… what are they?” He looked on the dark hooded figures. As he watched one of them turned its shrouded head towards him. It let out a death rattle.

“Those are Dementors.” Rookwood smiled. “Had you forgotten that they too served the dark lord? Slipped your mind?”

“Dementors…” The boy looked into the swirling mass. Wasn’t he supposed to be feeling some sort of coldness, despair? Wasn’t that what Dementors were supposed to do when you were close to them? He shook his head, they couldn’t touch him, a person could only feel so much despair and he was already at his limit. And as for making him relive his worst memories? Ha! His darkest moment was still fresh in his mind.

“The dementors like it down here.” Rookwood continued. “They‘ve been breeding down here like flies. There are hundreds of them.”

“Dementors don‘t dig.” Harry glanced back at the tunnel. “What else do you have down there? I thought I killed everyone you had.”

“You did.” Rookwood sneered. “But that doesn‘t matter. In fact, none of that matters. Now be quiet.” Rookwood flicked his wand, making a silencing charm. A second flick levitated him off the floor. Rookwood reached into his pocket and pulled out a long silvery length of cloth, easily recognizable. An invisibility cloak. He just hung there in the air as the cloak was thrown over him. He really couldn’t have done anything else. Rookwood turned and walked up the tunnel, his black shoes slipping on the wet dirt.

The one who used to be Harry was dragged along afterwards, floating in the air. He couldn’t move… speak… he was a ghost. Right now his situation fit him like a glove. He hung weakly as Rookwood moved further towards the scratching, digging sound. The dementors followed after, filling the tunnel with cold. Up ahead there was a turning. As Rookwood walked calmly around the bend figures came into view. One dark cloaked figure standing tall, the rest ragged and torn and scrabbling at the dirt mindlessly. No, it wasn’t just their clothes that were ragged. It was their flesh.

Inferi, or zombies. Who could tell the difference? The figure in front of them turned as Rookwood approached. Dark long hair spun out as Bellatrix stepped towards Rookwood.

“You are late Augustus.” The female death eater was not as pretty as she had been. It seemed like a steel toed boot with the force of a falling teenager behind it did more damage than expected. The left side of her face was crushed in, a mass of scars and bulging skin. When she spoke she slurred, only the right side of her mouth moving. Her eye was a raw socket, nothing left.

She had lost her eye. How wonderful. How very poignant. Under the cloak the invisible prisoner felt his emptiness filled with a tiny spark of satisfaction.

“Hello Bella.” Rookwood stopped, his hand flickering to his wand. “Shouldn‘t you be in your own tunnel? That was the plan was it not? Forneus in one, myself-”

“I know the plan.” Bellatrix snapped. “Do you Augustus? It seems to me that you are the one who doesn’t know the plan. I came here to see why you were late. Why were you late?”

“I was delayed momentarily, nothing to concern you.” Rookwood waved his hand away. “You should go to your own tunnel. Without someone there the wrangle them the dementors may be getting restless.”

“I want the truth of this.” Bellatrix held out an accusing finger.

“You will not get it.” Rookwood dropped his laconic demeanor and snapped at her. “Get to your own tunnel. We take down the ministry tonight, there can be no mistakes because one of us is trying to separate themselves out from the crowd.”

“There is no crowd anymore.” Bellatrix sneered through her ruined face. “There are three of us. There will be more than enough glory to go around.” Bellatrix turned and dissaperated into thin air.

“Lying bitch.” Rookwood grated. “We all want to be the dark lord‘s right hand. Stop digging you freaks!” He directed the last one to the creatures burrowing in the dirt. They stopped moving and stood, their vacant eyes rotting in their skulls. Rookwood raised his wand and the dirt began flying away faster. In a short moment the dirt became a brick wall, old and faded. The wall of the ministry.

“Are you ready Mr Potter?” Rookwood grinned up at the invisible prisoner hanging above him. “Here we go.” He turned to the wall and raised his wand. There was a shattering blast and the wall caved in. Behind it a man at a desk jumped to his feet his hand tangling in his robes. A green flash of light struck him in the head, he dropped onto the desk, scattering papers.

“Go.” Rookwood pointed. The dememtors flew past him, the inferi lumbering along between them. There were a few moments of silence, then the screams started.
*


“Dumbledore!” Moody yelled as he thumped down the corridor at Hogwarts, moving his old bones as fast as they could. “Dumbledore get your senile arse down here!”

“Moody?” Albus appeared around the corner, his face a mask of concern. “You were on guard duty. What are you doing here?”

“Didn‘t you listen to me?” Moody threw his hand back the way he’d come. “The ministry‘s falling! Enough dementors to paint the sky black!”

“Why didn‘t you send a patronus?”

“Didn‘t you hear what I just said! Every inch of that place is full of the soul sucking demons! No patronus could cut through that!”

“My god, we must help them!”

“Oh really? You think so?” Moody saw his spit fly.

“We must go now.” Dumbledore pushed past him, dashing to the door. “We can take back the ministry, all of us can.”

“But there could be a trap!” Moody tried to keep up, his breath catching in his chest. “You can‘t go in there blind you can‘t just… we don‘t even know where Voldemort is!” Dumbledore was speeding away. “We need a plan! Do you have a plan you old bast-” But Dumbledore was gone, already around the corner. Moody doubled over, he was old, too old. But gods he wasn’t done yet, he wasn’t… done. What the hell was Dumbledore thinking? He could get them all killed! The entire order. The entire bloody order in one fell swoop, and what the hell could he do to stop it? He felt so old…

But not yet done.

He straightened and staggered down the hall. Faster. Faster. He found the door he wanted and threw it open.

“Severus!” Moody shouted towards the startled Professor. “The order needs your help!”

“The order?” Snape stood, his hands flat on the table. Zhao was beside him in a moment. “I am not a member of the order any-”

“The ministry is compromised!” Moody saw his words cut Snape. “Dementors in more numbers than ever before.”

“And you want all the help you can get?” Snape sneered. “The order had done me no favors lately.”

“Severus,” Natalie Zhao spoke calmly, despite the situation. “Look at him, something else is going on.”

“Smart girl.” Moody shook his head. “Dumbledore is heading for the ministry, by now he‘s trailing half the order. He‘s going in without any eyes, without anything. It is a trap, or could be. Even if it‘s not he‘s still going to lose half the order. He‘s… he‘s reckless. He‘s stuck in the old war. He‘s everything you said he was. But if we let this happen…”

“I know.” Snape’s eyes flickered with panic. “We need to help them. We need to help the order.”

“That‘s why I‘m here Snape.” Moody was gritting his teeth. Every moment was wasted. “But I don‘t know what… there are only three of us.”

“Four.” Snape muttered under his breath. “There are four of us. Natalie, would you get Michelson. Meet us at the ministry back entrance.”

“Even four can‘t cover this.” Moody growled as the unspeakable dashed from the room. “You know that.”

“I know. I know well…” Snape pulled a robe off the back of a chair. “We need an army.”

“Do you know where to find one?”

“I do.” Snape closed his eyes, “I do.”
*


Rookwood stepped over a body. It’s eyes were still open, it’s mouth moving vacantly. The dementor’s kiss, it left them living, but they were bodies nonetheless. Rookwood paid them no mind.

“Welcome Mr Potter, to the Department of Mysteries.” Rookwood pulled the cloak off his floating prisoner. Harry Potter. His prisoner was just hanging there dumbly. Well… he couldn’t really do any different. Rookwood let Harry down to the floor and canceled the silencing charm. “Well Mr Potter? You have anything to say?”

“What are you doing with me?” Potter’s voice was a little horse from the long silence. “You‘re trying to earn points with your lord, isn‘t capturing me enough?”

“More than enough Harry. More than enough.” Rookwood tweaked his wand and the bonds on Harry’s legs snapped off. Another click and Harry stumbled forward. “But I am after the icing on the cake. If I am to surpass Crouch in terms of merit to the lord… I must seek the icing.”

“That‘s the stupidest thing I‘ve ever heard.” Harry said dully.

“Well I didn‘t ask you.” Rookwood hurried forward through the ministry, he had to slow down a moment later though as Harry shuffled along behind him. “Hurry up!”

“My feet are asleep. Your ropes were too tight.”

“Just move.” Rookwood walked back and grabbed Harry by the front of his shirt. The dementors were still swirling by the ceiling, looking for victims. There were still a few left. Not enough to trouble over though. He stepped into out into the memory office, pulling his strangely compliant charge past the tank of brains. He stopped by the door to the death chamber, there was the sound of spells from within, someone holding out perhaps. He pushed the door open in time to see a wizard scrambling away from an inferi trip and fall. The corpse-warrior grabbed the blubbering unspeakable in it’s unshakable grip and threw him away with inhuman strength. Screaming as he flew across the room, his scream was cut off as he fell through the archway in the center. The curtains ruffled for a moment, then went still again.

Rookwood hid a shudder, he was never entirely comfortable with the execution portal. Harry watched from his side with dull eyes. What was wrong with the boy? Never mind. Rookwood picked his way around the edge of the room, giving the inferi a wide birth, and pushed open the door at the other side.

“Well Potter here we are.” Rookwood gestured impressively at the banks of shelves in front of them, each one with rows upon rows of tiny spheres. “This is the hall of prophecy.”

“These are prophecies?” Harry sniffed disbelievingly as Rookwood dragged him along the line of shelves. “They look like snow-globes.”

“They are records of prophecies, and they are the reason we are here.” Rookwood glanced down at the boy he was dragging along. “Did you know there was a prophecy made about you?”

Harry didn’t answer, but he sniffed again, his mouth twisting into a sneer.

“I assume that was a yes.” Rookwood glanced up at the number on the shelf, yes this was it. “The prophecy concerned you and the dark lord, you know that too?”

Once again the boy stayed silent. Rookwood poked him in the back to set him walking up to where the prophecy was held.

“The dark lord is very eager to get his hands on the prophecy. That prophecy.” Rookwood pointed at the particular orb. “And I will be the one to give it to him. My icing, you could say.”

“What do you need me for?” Potter was staring at the orb with barely contained hatred. What was going on?… Never mind, it wasn’t important.

“Shall I tell you something about the prophecies of the department of mysteries? They are keyed, protected. Only certain people can lift them from where they lie. Namely the people they have been made about. So the only people who can take this prophecy are the dark lord, and you.”

Potter stared at the orb for a moment longer, the words sinking into him. Then he threw his head back and laughed, laughed so hard his eyes ran with tears. It was a reaction Rookwood had not expected. Laughter, but not in jest, not in joy. This was a bitter laugh, full of darkness. What was going on?

“So that’s it is it?” Harry choked out, his dead eyes still glistening. “What a bitter joke”

“What?” Rookwood shook his head.

“And if someone else grabs one?” Harry reached out his hand. “What happens then?”

“If they are very lucky they might escape with only major injuries.” Rookwood answered confusedly. “But in all likelihood? They would die. Screaming.”

“Really?” The Potter boy’s hand hovered over the swirling glass. “To hell with it.” His fingers closed around the orb.
*


Minerva screamed as she threw her patronus against the grew wall before her, knowing it was too late. The dementors scattered but a lifeless body fell from their clutches. An auror. Subjected to the kiss.

Minerva shuddered, she only hoped it had been quick. She spun as cold hands grabbed her from behind, crushing her with inhuman strength. The breath fled from her lungs and she felt ribs crack. In desperation she transformed and dashed away on four feet, spinning and changing back to plant a fireball in the chest of the inferi that had held her. As soon as it was gone another took it’s place.

They were overrun, there were too many!

“Help me! Oh god help me!” A figure ran from out of the madness, his green bowler still clutched in his hands. “Please!”

“Get out of here you fool!” McGonagall shoved Fudge away. She could not deal with him. Her eyes searched through the scrambling masses for the head of the order. “Dumbledore! Dumbledore we must pull back!”

She could not see him, she could not see anything. Despair was her only warning and she spun, a shining light throwing a dementor away that had been practically on her back. She didn’t even know where they were anymore, near the courts possibly. Down in the deeps, no escape.

She heard a scream from her left and sent a patronus wildly into the surging crowds. The scream cut off sharply. Whether she had had any effect she did not know, she had to transform again to dance out of the way of a swooping dementor and snapped back to send another shining light to hold them back again. But her body was tired, her wand arm tired.

Rotting flesh filled her nostrils and she tried to bring her wand around. Too slowly. The dead fist crunched into the side of her head and she fell. She brought her wand up and blew the dead figure to shards, blood already dripping into her eyes. They needed help, and there was no one to give it.

No one.
*


The orb came free in Potter’s hand, it’s faint radiance shining through his fingertips. Rookwood felt his heart leap, but the Potter boy was staring at the prophecy like it was a live snake.

“Good, good. Now give it to me!” Rookwood demanded, but the boy didn’t move.

“Not possible.” Harry shook his head. “Saw the body…” The body? He wasn’t making any sense.

“Just give me the bloody orb!” Rookwood made to grab it but Potter slipped away.

“It‘s not… It‘s not… Can‘t.” Suddenly the white light faltered. A tinny whine filled the air, like grinding gears. Harry held up his hand, slowly uncurling his fingers. In the middle of the white a tiny spike of darkness was growing, like ink in milk. The blackness grew until it covered the whole inside of the orb, it was no longer shining glass but a polished orb of obsidian. The whine grew in the air, biting into his ears. Suddenly there was a fizzing crackle and Potter yelped in pain, spilling the prophecy onto the floor. Rookwood cried out, it would break for sure! But when the orb struck the ground it squelched, spreading out like clay.