The Rules Of Chess

Chapter Four: What Went Wrong?

There was no fire in the room, no warmth, or even a trace of humanity. But there was Voldemort, a barely audible hissing noise, and the shadow of a man standing stiffly before Voldemort.

“Actum Abquememoria.”

“The Order knows of planned attack on the LeRoys. They will be ready. And Harry Potter is due to be there.”

“Tell me more.” Voldemort was certainly not in one of his better moods, what with his arguably most valuable Death Eater failing to carry out his orders, and having his scheme backfire in his face.

That damned Harry Potter and his luck.

Luck was for fools, and he hadn’t the patience or time to deal with incompetent blockheads. If he had his way, nothing would be left to chance. Of course, if he had his way, half of Britain would be reduced to the size of a cinder block, overrun with his minions.

* * * * *

Harry bolted upright, his flailing arm almost upsetting a bowl of steaming liquid that was set on a night table next to him. His face was damp with cool beads of perspiration; the flannel pajamas he was wearing stuck uncomfortably to his back and legs.

He couldn’t remember having changed into pajamas (which looked suspiciously girlish, with bright pink dots lining the edges), but immediately assumed that Mrs. Weasley had something to do with it. As much as Harry thought of her as a second mother, he blushed at the thought of her changing him.

He tried to recall the reason he was even awake now, as the curtains were tightly drawn, the house was eerily silent, and a small alarm clock that was strewn across the floor read 3:00 AM. Swiftly, his dream rushed back to him.

White. Pure, blinding, refreshing white. Somehow, he was standing, quite firmly, on what appeared to be thin air. The absence of color unnerved him. A light, melodic voice descended upon the whiteness, surrounding him, singing to him—“Think carefully of the risks you are willing to take, the contribution you will make with them, and the purpose you are making them for. Then, forsake the thinking and follow your heart, wherever it may lead you…”

“Harry? Harry?” Someone was calling his name, beckoning for him to return to reality. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled himself from his memories and looked into the freckled face of Arthur Weasley.

He knew what he had to say. With fierce determination, Harry painfully hashed out each syllable—“I’ll do it. I’ll be Jordan.” His heart jumped in his chest, but he knew that this was something he needed to do, a difficult assignment that he would complete even if it killed him. He was struck by the irony of the thought—his birthday, which was rapidly approaching, was on the thirty-first. It would be a rather bitter ending if he happened to die, the day before he was born, while performing his task.

“Thank you.” Arthur’s said, sounding surprised. His eyes, soft with emotion, searched Harry’s face. “You have a good heart. I was just informed that you had uncertainties, and…well, from the way it sounded, I wasn’t sure that you wanted to pull through…”

Harry quelled noticeably under Mr. Weasley’s steadfast gaze.

“Er…”

“That’s all right, you don’t have to say anything. I simply wanted you to know that—well, I admire you. Going through the things you went through, yet still offering your hand to danger…”

Harry shrugged. A sudden thought occurred to him. “Why are you up so early? It’s three in the morning.”

“Ah, so it is. Albus kept me late, unintentionally, I would think. He was updating me on your reaction to—uh…” Arthur faltered, ears reddening. “He was informing me of our future plans. He’ll be happy to know your decision—first thing tomorrow, I’ll report back.”

With a final paternal pat on the back, Arthur retreated into the darkness. Harry heard his feet plodding tiredly up the stairs, followed shortly by the clicking noise of a door being gently pressed shut.

With his burden relieved, Harry sank back into his makeshift bed, feeling more cheerful than he had ever since he had since he left Hogwarts for the summer.

* * * * *

The days proceeding the 30^th passed by quickly for Harry, every hour occupied by training, which consisted of offensive and defensive maneuvers, preparations, and almost constant anxiety, on the part of Mrs. Weasley and Sirius. Harry was too busy to find himself extremely fearful or apprehensive for more than a few moments at a time.

Which, he thought as he clumsily blocked a Stunning spell from Remus, is probably a good thing.

Harry dropped back into a steadfast crouch instantly; Dumbledore himself had arranged for this type of training to be held. A loose ring of Aurors surrounded him, each taking their turns firing numerous spells and hexes in his general direction, which he blocked, or rather, attempted to block, as swiftly as he could. To his satisfaction, he was progressing rapidly, and had advanced to the stage in which he could sometimes manage to block two curses at once. Ron would have a cow if he knew the ‘simple lessons’ (as Harry had put it when he told Ron that he wasn’t going to be around for a while) that had been taught to Harry.

“Quite a show you put on, Harry.”

He started, almost dropping his wand, but calmed down once he realized it was Dumbledore. He supposed his initial reaction was due to spending a bit too much time with Mad-Eye Moody, who seemed always to be around, occasionally offering words of wisdom.

“That’s enough for today.” Dumbledore said, addressing the Aurors, who gradually dispersed, milling about near the refreshments table drinking Butterbeer or chatting idly about varied topics. He turned his attention back to Harry, guiding him firmly out of the large gymnasium into a dimly lit, narrow hallway.

Harry complied willingly, falling into step beside Dumbledore’s long legs. He studied the walls of the hallway with interest; between frequent intervals were large portraits depicting dueling adversaries who moved about hexing each other and performing, flawlessly, several tactics that Harry himself had taken to studying, but had not quite mastered yet.

Dumbledore ushered Harry into a circular, padded room that opened from the narrow hallway entrance. It was empty but for two wizards, one wearing red, the other black, facing each other in the very center.

Holding a finger to his lips, Dumbledore nodded pointedly at the two wizards. Harry pressed himself against the dark paddings, trying to make himself smaller by imagining he was a two dimensional figure melting into the walls.

The two wizards bowed respectfully to each other, than turned sharply and did likewise to Dumbledore. Together, as one, they brought up their wands.

One—two—three—Harry counted silently under his breath. A fantastic burst of color illuminated the room briefly.

Quick as lighting, the wizard in red appeared behind the one in black, catching him off guard. Feeling the sudden change of air flow, the one in black leapt instinctively into the air, barely missing a curse.

Harry had barely the time to remind himself to shut his gaping mouth before the two wizards had recovered from their ordeals and were battling again, with fresh determination.

Black shot a Disarming Spell at Red, who ducked, causing the spell to ricochet dangerously off the padded wall, rushing straight towards Harry’s head. Before he knew what he was doing, Harry found himself flat on the floor, quite winded, staring at the wooden tiles. Hauling himself up with some effort (it felt like a few bruises were already forming on his shins and stomach), he found himself looking up at Dumbledore, who was still watching the duel with interest.

“I like your instincts—curse barely missed you,” he said, without looking at Harry.

Smiling sheepishly, Harry resumed attention to the duel, ignoring the sharp throbbing that seemed to come from the region around his bellybutton. He decided it was worth it, in exchange for Dumbledore’s, however insignificant, praise.

* * * * *

“….Each one of you is equipped with a Spell-Activated Portkey, which will transport you to the Order headquarters if desired. Simply tap with your wand. Communication spells will be on at all times.”

Dumbledore looked tersely at the faces around him.

The final moments before the attack was now at hand. All volunteers were lined up, ready to Apparate to location.

Harry was standing sandwiched between Sirius and Mundungus, not wearing his trademark black-rimmed glasses. Sirius had few alterations—a simple haircut had sufficed. Mundugus’s hair had been bleached silver-gray, his eyes darkened noticeably, and his normally erect figure was now slightly withered. Lorrie Brown, a quiet, kindly woman, now had drastically deep green eyes, accompanied by a thick chestnut colored mane.

Dumbledore surveyed the decoy LeRoy family a final time, signaling his approval. “We’re ready.”

Dusk was falling fast, laying it’s vast hand over the sky. The small band of Aurors Apparated away, with the exception of Harry, who was Portkeyed to the destination.

Harry blinked once as he landed, miraculously, on both feet. Sirius, Mundungus, and Lorrie appeared next to him, followed closely by a dozen or so Aurors. Dumbledore made a small beckoning motion with his hand before disappearing behind a tall bush. Without a word, the remaining Aurors followed, leaving Harry and the three others quite alone.

“Best be ready,” Sirius whispered, giving Harry a reassuring squeeze. He could feel Harry’s shoulder trembling under a thin jacket, and immediately cast a warming charm over his godson, though he suspected that the shaking had nothing to do with the cold nip of the wind.

The temporary LeRoy family entered the house, which was already blazing with falsely cheery lights and toasty fires.

Harry settled himself as comfortably as he could in front of large television, flicking through channels until he let it rest on a cartoon. Mundungus eased himself into a soft, downy armchair, while Lorrie busied herself in the kitchen. Sirius sat next to Harry, looking altogether very casual, though his constant fidgeting motions gave away his true feelings.

Harry’s heart was beating so loudly and furiously that he was sure it would pop through his robes, like the skunk in the cartoon he was pretending to watch. His throat felt scratchy, as if he had just swallowed a cupful of grit.

Say something, be normal, he reminded himself. He put his legs up on the coffee table, allowing his hands to cross carelessly across his chest. That’s better.

“So…” Harry began, coughing as his voice grated in his throat. Sirius jumped upon hearing the noise. Under different circumstances, Harry might’ve laughed at the look on his godfather’s face, but tonight, there was nothing but dread hanging low over him. A faint buzzing had kicked its way into his head, clouding his thoughts until he could barely string together a comprehensive sentence.

“Er…”

Sirius arched an eyebrow at him.

“Er…um…why do the LeRoys—I mean—er—why do we have a telly? Isn’t it a Muggle thing?” Harry corrected hastily, annoyed at himself for his inability to put up under pressure. Why couldn’t he be like Mundugus, who looked like he was about to fall asleep in his chair? Or like Lorrie, who was sipping hot tea daintily, pinky sticking into the air, flipping through a fashion magazine with the air of one with nothing to do on a Sunday night?

“Don’t you remember, son? Your mother and I work for the Muggle Artifacts department for the Ministry, because we share a passion for Muggle inventions,” Sirius said with forced enthusiasm.

Harry was about to reply when his wand began vibrating feverishly. He picked it up. Around him, he could hear Sirius, Mundungus, and Lorrie do the same.

The same voice filled the room—“Death Eaters Apparating around the house—looks a mite more than the numbers we estimated—be prepared—they’re readying themselves—we’re going to make our move, hold tight—“

A slight tremor shook the house, knocking over a few porcelain vases. A deafening roar filled the air as curses zipped steadily across the front yard.

“Your wand Harry! Get ready! Stay behind me!” Sirius hollered over the din.

Mundugus and Lorrie stood back-to-back behind Harry, alert and ready, waiting for Dumbledore’ signal.

Harry strained his ears, trying to piece together what was happening behind all the cursing and shouting. Pieces of blown-up rock pelted the windows, which were holding due to the Unbreakable Wards places around the house.

No more than a few minutes later, their wands began vibrating again. A gravelly, panicked voice cut through the static, yelling hoarsely, “Portkey back—too many—“

The voice was suddenly cut off as a massive blast was set off, sending cracks running down through the floor tiles.

“Sirius—it must be the communication spells—they’ve been disconnected—“

“We’ve got to Portkey back—something horrible’s happening out there, and we need to keep Harry safe—“ Harry felt a hand enclosing tightly around his back, crushing him in a protective embrace.

“No,” Mundungus said fiercely. The concealment charms that disguised his figure melted away, revealing a tall, strong-looking middle aged man, who, at the moment, was ablaze with fury. “I’m not leaving my colleagues—friends—here to die at the hands of filth. I’m going out there and doing all I can for them—and I’m not leaving. You take Harry and leave, Sirius, and Lorrie can make her decision.”

Sirius nodded. “Harry, get your Portkey. Tap it. We need to go—now.”

Harry hurriedly slid the small, circular Portkey from his robes’ pocket, and was just about to tap it with his wand when—

The door was laid flat. A merciless, high-pitched laugh filled the room. Harry’s stomach twisted in fear.

“Expelliarmus!”

Harry’s Portkey flew straight into the air, high above his head. Then it fell, slicing cleanly through the air, shattering into sharp-edged pieces on the ground. His last hope for escape, destroyed in a split second.

A tirade of Death Eaters, led by a spindly figure, robed in black, flooded the living room. The figure stepped forth, rolling up his sleeves to reveal deathly pale arms, which ended in long, tapered fingers. Narrow red slits glinted ruby-like behind a hood that concealed what would likely be a deathly pale face.

Voldemort. Harry could scarcely believe it. Blood drained from his face, an odd pounding resounded through his head—boom boom DOOM…

Graveyard. Not Voldemort’s fathers’ graveyard. No, this time, it was his graveyard. His grave. His death.

Harry let his wand clatter soundlessly to his feet as he awaited the inevitable. Sirius, sensing his intentions, let out a strangled cry.

“Harry, pick up your wand! I demand you! As your guardian--!”

A cruel laugh drowned out whatever Sirius was going to say, whatever encouragement that might have been offered.

“Wise, Potter, wise.” The figure threw back his hood.

Harry resisted the urge to shrink back in loathing—made himself stand upright, strong. A rush of determined energy rushed through his veins, warming his numbed hands. He bent down, and, in one fluid motion, picked up his wand and pointed it between Voldemort’s blood-red eyes, shining with mirthless amusement.

“Oh, did you lose that wisdom as quickly as you grasped it?” Voldemort taunted.

More explosions sounded in the background. Voldemort barely flinched.

“Those screams you hear out there would be my Death Eaters—not quite capable of holding their own, yet proving useful anyways. You see?” Voldemort advanced further into the room, sending Sirius flying into a wall with a single flick of his wrist.

“Stupefy!” Mundungus charged straight at the Dark Lord, wand outstretched.

Voldemort blocked him with an upturned palm. Harry felt a wave of nausea rack his body. Bright green and red veins criss-crossed across Voldemort’s palm, pulsing and wriggling under papery skin in snakelike motions.

“Stupid man. I think you should go outside and have your fun before I deal with you. Go.” Voldemort lifted his wand. Shouting several profanities, Mundungus shattered through the ‘Unbreakable’ windows. Lorrie, eyes darting across Sirius’s unconscious form, let loose a frightened squeak before pushing past Voldemort and running out the door. A flash of green illuminated the doorway, a sickening thud... Harry managed to catch sight of a lock of thick brown hair before Voldemort moved directly in front of him.

“This time, fools luck will do no good.” Voldemort’s lifted his head, sniffing the air with slitted nostrils. “The stench of death is strong.” He brought his face closer to Harry’s—so close that Harry could almost poke the glinting red eyes, if he felt the need.

A voice cut clearly through the commotion. “Catch, Harry!” Sirius, using a table as support, struggled weakly to his feet, staggering sideways as he released a small, white orb into the air. Harry leapt up and caught the object.

Voldemort’s eyes widened, and he fumbled hastily for his wand. Harry, without a second thought, hit the Portkey using his wand. The world spun blearily before him, and he finally did what his body had been threatening to do all night—retched over his robes, on his wand, before he landed on a plush carpeted floor, lying in a puddle of his own vomit.

“Are you okay, Sirius?” he croaked out, wincing at the needles of pain that pierced his throat. “Sirius?”

He scrambled off the floor, cold waves of dread flooding his entire being. “Sirius…” he whispered, wand falling slowly from his sticky lifeless fingers. “I left you there…I left you…took your Portkey and left you…”

So it was that Remus Lupin found Harry, covered in suspicious looking chunky substance, staring at his soiled robes with grief laden eyes.