No Substitute for Victory

"Harry," said Lavendar, calling into his office, "that Muggle you've been expecting is here."

"Hello Doctor Badasay, please come in." Harry waved the man to a seat opposite his desk. "Can I offer you anything? Tea, or perhaps some sherry?"

Doctor Badasay, a middle-aged Indian man with a trim black mustache blinked a bit bemusedly, and then said, "Sherry, perhaps. I've had a long trip, and...well, this whole business has taken me quite by surprise." He patted his muggle clothing, a gray tweed suit, and smiled. "I certainly received a great many stares on the way here to your office. This has been an experience!"

Harry poured out generous libation and handed to his desk. He himself was drinking tea, and had a full pot on his desk. "Yes, I imagine it was. Welcome back to the Wizarding World, such as it is."

Dr. Badasay sipped at his sherry, and then looked directly at the Deputy Minister. "Yes, I was quite shocked to receive your letter, Mr. Potter. Interested, too, of course. I'd put the Wizarding World behind me when I left Hogwarts in my second year after being diagnosed as a Squib. I'd almost convinced myself the whole episode was a childish fantasy when your proposition arrived." He set his glass down on the edge of Harry's desk. "Is the patient still here?"

"Under lock and key," Harry said. "That's by mutual agreement, you understand?" At the doctor's nod, Harry plunged forward. "Based on the incident I described, can you give me any idea of what he might be suffering from?"

"Well, it's impossible to give a completely accurate diagnosis, you understand?" At Harry's nod, he went on, "But based on what you said, it sounds to me like multiple childhood traumas compounded by gross physical abuse. Add to that the stress involved in trying to live up to high standards and you have, in sum, a severely traumatized individual." He shook his head sadly. "I have to tell you, Mr. Potter, since I began my work as a clinical psychiatrist, I've often wondered what the psyches of wizards and witches would be. Considering what you've told me about the patient, I think the wizarding world represents a vast, untreated swath of society."

"A new market to be tapped?" Harry asked, smiling ironically.

"Perhaps so," the doctor said, and sipped a bit more sherry.

"Is his condition treatable?"

Dr. Badasay nodded, "Given long-term care, yes, it is. Much will depend on the patient, of course. If he reacts badly to psychotherapy, then stronger measures will have to be taken. Have you spoken to him about it, yet?"

"On a tentative basis, yes. The one thing that came out of our conversation was this fact: he knows he's in deep pain, and that if he'd remained where he was, he wasn't going to get better. That, above all else, I think, was why he fled and came here."

The doctor stood up and gripped his bag. "May I see the patient?"

"Then you're accepting the contract, without hearing the particulars of the agreement?"

"Well, in your letter, you said that this would be similar to the examination of an incarcerated prisoner. My findings would be reviewed by you, the Minister of Magic, and perhaps one or two advisors, but no one else."

"Correct," said Harry.

"Then, yes, I accept." He smiled. "Frankly, I'm eager to begin work."

After passing through several checkpoints, Harry led the doctor to a locked door, and inside waited the patient, Draco Malfoy.

"Who's this, Potter?"

"This is the healer I spoke to you about, Malfoy."

Draco, who had been reading on his bed, stood up and looked the Muggle doctor up and down. "You don't look like much of a healer to me!"

"Appearances can be deceiving," Dr. Badasay remarked. "Wasn't it Merlin who said, 'No true wizard makes his judgment based solely on sight? That is the province of a fool.'"

Malfoy's eyes widened and he involuntarily took a step back, but he said nothing.

Dr. Badasay smiled, and glanced at Harry Potter. "I think I can take it from here. Tell the guard I'll knock when I'm finished.

Harry nodded and left the room.

The doctor sat in a chair beside the bed and looked at the younger man. "Tell me...when did you first realize you hated your father?"

Draco Malfoy's eyes locked on the doctor, "How did you know?"

***

Doctor and patient walked a narrow twisting path through Draco Malfoy's subconscious. It was a dark, sharp, pain-filled world that frequently reduced Malfoy to screaming fits and threats of dire retribution upon the man who forced him to remember long-buried hurts and horrific sights that had scarred his life. To his credit, Dr. Badasay refused to shirk from his task, and several hours later, as Harry was reviewing the psychiatrist's notes he glanced at him and said, "You're earning your gold!"

"Oh yes, Mr. Potter. That I am! No one who truly understands the rigors of the profession ever begrudges a psychiatrist his fees."

Harry looked at one paragraph and whistled. "An Oedipus complex? I have to admit that doesn't surprise me at all."

"Frankly, Mr. Potter, I suspect it's one of the core problems--not just of Draco, but of most of the so-called Purebloods. How could wizardkind ignore something as simple as breeding, or basic genetics?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Let's not get into that," he said, nodding at the papers. "So, if Draco's problems are rooted in his relationships with his parents--"

"It's not as simple as that, Mr. Potter," Dr. Badasay interrupted. "Draco Malfoy is an extremely complex young man. He has been brought up to believe that concepts such as heritage, family, and nobility only have meaning within select groups--pure-bloods. Voldemort was the sum representation of these concepts--the archetype by which all wizards were supposed to measure themselves. Those who didn't, or outrightly refused to measure themselves against these standards were, in Draco's view, considered chaff. Hence, his caustic remarks and disparaging attitudes toward yourself, Miss Granger, and so on.

"This viewpoint provided Draco with a certain amount of stability, you understand? To his viewpoint, the world was composed of absolutes: black and white, right and wrong, and so on. Voldemort was right, Dumbledore was wrong, with nothing in between! Anything which challenged that viewpoint was automatically suspect, or discarded as not congruous to the order of his universe."

"But surely he knew this viewpoint was wrong when Harry and the rest of us kept outperforming him?" Hermione asked, looking up from her copy of the notes.

"Well, at first he convinced himself that the teachers had favorites. You were obviously one of them."

"Oh, obviously!" she said, rolling her eyes.

"No," Harry said, raising one hand. "He's right. I heard Draco say the same thing to his father, that time I overheard them in Knockturn Alley." He briefly explained the incident to the psychiatrist, who nodded solemnly.

"Exactly so. Mr. Malfoy's dismissal of his son's claim is further evidence of Draco's feeling of failure. He couldn't live up to the standards his father set, which caused him to try harder, and become more vicious to those whom he felt was standing in his way. However, there were already cracks in his resolve, ones which he couldn't tell anyone about."

"Explain, please," Harry asked, frowning and looking puzzled.

Dr. Badasay folded his hands in front of him. "Anyone who has had even a rudimentary training in the concept of morals has a basic idea of right and wrong; even Draco Malfoy had a brief background of it at a young age. When he grew older, his father's passions and demands of his son overrode this code, but it has remained in his life. At Hogwarts School he saw others who followed a moral code more closely, and were rewarded for it--whether through good fortune, or outright praise from teachers. His own family's code was less successful, so he began to question it--never publicly, but more often in the back of his mind. In his heart of hearts, however, Draco felt he was doing wrong. This produced a nagging doubt, which led to stress, and produced some of his trauma." The doctor sipped at a cup of tea, and then held it out to Dobby to have it refilled. "Ultimately, of course, things came to a head when he actually met Voldemort."

"That must have been a sight to see," Hermione remarked, with a nasty look on her face.

"Draco was presented to the Dark Lord, like a stripling at the royal court." Dr. Badasay shook his head at the thought. "His mother introduced him as the heir to the Malfoy name, and Voldemort's only comment was that he hoped this one showed more promise than Mr. Malfoy Senior."

"Lucius," Harry supplied.

"No, Mr. Potter. Consider Voldemort's words: he hoped that Draco showed more promise. No judgment; no consideration; no praise; no acknowledgment of the Malfoy name or reputation! An expectation of more work on Draco's part! That was the worst thing he could have said to Draco. Even a negative comment would have been better because Draco would have worked much harder for approval. As it was, he saw only more effort expected of him. Voldemort's words were a betrayal of everything Draco had been brought up to believe in. Worse yet, the Dark Lord was hardly the demigod he'd heard of--a foul, menacing being who demanded absolute loyalty and dealt out punishments for any slight, even imagined ones. Draco was afraid of Voldemort the moment he saw him, and fear doesn't ensure loyalty; any tyrant can tell you that. Again, Draco felt betrayed."

"So if his own world wasn't satisfying him, and Voldemort wasn't the Messiah, what happened? Why is he here, now?" Hermioned asked.

"Escape," said Dr. Badasay simply, holding up his hands, palms up. "He felt himself withering away. The object of his affection, his mother, was bound to the Death Eater cause. Draco couldn't budge her from that, and his father was in prison. He found himself without friends, without anything to believe in, and utterly alone. And, psychologically, Draco is not a young man equipped to endure solitude. Even at Hogwarts, he had ready support from his cohorts, and most especially his mother; her regular packages of sweets also included, by the way, warm letters. But in the Death Eater camp, Narcissa was kept busy, and had little time to coddle her son--and he needed it! Being alone was sapping his strength and draining his resolve. No one was available to help him. So, Draco finally turned for help not to a friend, but to the one enemy he knew would treat him fairly." The doctor made a finger-gun and pointed it at the Deputy Minister. "He turned to you, Mr. Potter. And he was right, you did help him."

"So, now what?" Hermione asked.

"Well, now that he's made at least a preliminary acknowledgement of his problems, he and I must make him face them, and work towards resolving his issues."

Harry smiled slightly. "You make it sound easy."

Dr. Badasay shook his head. "Believe me, it's not. He's very resistant, even stubborn at times. He knows he needs to change, if he is to survive, but his upbringing is such that he cannot readily accept new ideas."

Harry wasn't quite sure what to say to that but finally settled for, "Keep up the good work."

Later, as Harry and Hermione were walking back to Harry's office, Harry remarked, "You were right, Hermione. Calling him in to treat Draco was a fine idea."

She shrugged. "Well, when Ginny told me how Draco reacted to her, and he always got angry at certain times, it was pretty obvious he needed help." She flashed her winning smile at him and then changed the subject. "Now, how are you coming on your speech?"

"Pretty well, I guess. I'm having a bit of trouble with one part."

"Well, let me have a look at it while you run that other errand."

Harry groaned. "Oh, boy! I forgot about that." He sighed and lowered his head. "I hate doing this sort of thing."

Hermione took his shoulder in commiseration. "It has to be done. As much as you dislike her, she has to be told."

Harry nodded, and continued walking past his office, while Hermione ducked inside to look over his papers.

***

"Well, this is a surprise," Rita Skeeter said, as Harry Potter, Deputy Minister of Magic, walked into her office and sank into a chair opposite her desk. "Given your animosity towards me, I never thought you would agree to an interview, much less just walk in on your own." She pulled out her quill and pad and started to speak, when Harry raised a restraining hand.

"This isn't an interview, Rita, this is a courtesy."

"Courtesy?" she said, as one of her eyebrows shot up. "May I quote you on that?"

Harry sighed, and decided to drop all pretenses. Personally, he loathed this woman, so perhaps just this once he could indulge himself at her expense. "Your home was attacked this morning by the Death Eaters. Your twin sister, Roberta, and her husband, are both dead."

Rita Skeeter didn't speak for almost a full minute; she just stared. Then her jaw opened slowly, her voice was little more than a whisper. "What?"

"Apparently this was the retribution for that article of yours two days ago about Narcissa Malfoy being a 'Wandering Widow' and her 'playing around' while her husband is in prison. The Malfoy family crest was drawn on the living room walls with your sister's blood!"

Rita Skeeter's shock was so great that her mouth was still gaping and her eyes were glazed. A low cry was just starting in her voice, and then it broke off abruptly as a thought occurred to her. "The baby! What about my sister's baby!"

"Apparently Narcissa didn't realize Roberta was pregnant, otherwise she probably would have taken the child. As it was, she mutilated your sister just enough to mortally wound her, and then left her to die. Fortunately, there was a Healer with the Aurors who arrived, and they managed to save it: a healthy little girl. The healer took the liberty of naming the child after her dead mother."

Rita broke down into wild sobbing.

Harry let her cry herself out, and then spoke firmly. "We've done a search, and, although she does have a Muggle uncle on her father's side, you are the child's closest living relative. I hate to think what kind of mother you're going to make, but I can't interfere in parental rights, just like Albus Dumbledore couldn't interfere when I was dumped on my aunt and uncle's doorstep.

"You have a bad habit of thinking you can stab everyone with your pen and pay no consequences, Rita. Now, every time you look into this child's eyes just remember that the reason she has no parents, no mother, is you!"

Rita said nothing. Her eyes were red and swollen, fresh tears stood in her eyes, and her lips were trembling. Finally she managed, "Where's my niece, Roberta?"

"At St. Mungo's. Since the girl was born four months prematurely, she needs special care. No one knows whether the child will survive," Harry added, staring at her with hot eyes. To him, Rita was a betrayer worse than Wormtail, for his actions had been out of a deranged sense of personal preservation; Rita Skeeter's however, were in the hopes of making money!

She stood up and stumbled toward the door. Harry let her get halfway there and then said, "I'm sorry, Rita. For the baby, not for you."

Rita paused at the edge of the doorway, as though gathering the strength to confront him. When she finally did swing around to face him, Harry thought she had aged ten years; her blonde hair was askew, her makeup was smeared, and her eyes were haunted. "Have you no pity?" she asked, her voice breaking.

"Where was your pity when Barty Crouch was screaming as his father sentenced him to Azkaban? Where was your sense of honor when you called Albus Dumbledore an obsolete dingbat? Where was your sense of right and wrong when you listened in to a private conversation and then ridiculed Hagrid's heritage? Where was your concern for your twin sister's welfare when you mocked a woman known to be homicidal and called her a 'wanton harlot, hungry for fresh game'?"

Rita Skeeter visibly sagged, but said nothing

"I know what it's like to grow up with an aunt instead of a mother, Rita. Think about that! She's going to spend years wondering why her parents aren't around. She's going to spend hours staring at the stars wondering why, and whether it's her fault. " Harry's eyes were hard.

The reporter remained mute, frozen in place.

He paused, and then he had a sudden thought. "I take one thing back, Rita. I do pity you, because someday you're going to have to explain to that child what you did, and why you did it."

Rita Skeeter staggered as the truth of the words struck her like mortal blows. She slumped against the wall, and then slid down to the floor and collapsed into a fresh storm of weeping.

Harry turned on his heel and left the ruined woman. He doubted whether this would change her, but he hoped he was wrong.

At length, Rita Skeeter picked herself up and stumbled out of her office. The future stretched before her like a shameful prison sentence.

**

"Thank you all for coming today," Harry said to the crowd below him in the Ministry of Magic auditorium, his voice carrying to the far corners of the room, magically augmented just as the announcer's had been at the Quidditch World Cup. He glanced nervously to his right, where Percy Weasley, the Minister himself, flashed him a smile and a thumbs-up. Harry glanced at his notes, and then tossed them over his shoulder.

The crowd tittered a bit, and Harry smiled. "That's for history," he said off-handedly. "My friends, and I hope I can honestly call you that, the time has come when you must be informed of certain things, which until now have been closely held secrets, but which you deserve to know. They pertain to the war we're fighting, and the truth about the man who is trying his very best to destroy our lives. A man who is in actuality just a common bully!"

A current of gasps and people began whispering excitedly between each other.

"Yes, a bully! Just like the kind that most of us have known at one time or another in our lives. He's the kind of boy who pushes you aside, or threatens you if you don't let him copy your Potions work. His motto is: do what I say; give me what I want, or I'll make you hurt. Tom's actions are the same as they always were--bully, intimidate, terrorize, until what he wants is his.

"Yes, I call Voldemort 'Tom' because that is his true name, Tom Marvolo Riddle! The name that you all flinch on hearing is in fact an anagram of his birth-name. Like any bully, he created a verbal mask which he felt would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies; and anyone who doesn't support him is automatically labeled an enemy!" Harry went on to explain the origins of Tom Riddle--his mother's heritage, her ensorcelment of a man, and her piteous death in childbirth.

"So, you can see, Tom Riddle does indeed have a kinship to Salazar Slytherin--but hardly the pure-blood lineage he's claimed."

Muttering broke out in the crowd, and gasps of incredulity could be heard amidst all the shocked faces. Harry suspected there might be a few supporters of Voldemort hidden in the crowd, but he knew Voldemort would never have told his followers his true origins--because, of course, it undermined his whole claim of kingship. That was a part of what Harry hoped to accomplish.

Harry went on to describe the shabby orphanage that Riddle had grown up in, and how he had meted out punishments to his fellow orphans. How he'd strangled a rabbit, terrorized younger children, and kept trophies as reminders of all the pain he'd inflicted. As the Deputy Minister talked on, he emphasized the pettiness and vindictiveness of the young Tom Riddle. As he'd hoped, the mutters in the crowd became a steady murmur of outrage and contempt, as the terrible tapestry of Voldemort was progressively unraveled.

"So for all his terror, all the hurt which he's inflicted, he's nothing more than a schoolyard thug. Tom Riddle is not an aristocrat, and never can be. He's the offspring of a country squire and a besotted cross-eyed yokel armed with a love potion! If he's not a bastard, he's certainly the product of a crossbow-marriage." Harry snorted with contempt. "He's little more than a terrorist! Do you really want to make him your king?"

"NO!" was the resounding answer, and Harry Potter nodded his thanks.

"Now, let me tell you another great secret about Tom Riddle--he went to great lengths to mutilate himself, with the hopes of achieving immortality." Harry went on to explain about Horcruxes, the deliberate murders which Riddle did in order to split his soul into fragments. Two people in the crowd actually vomited, and one woman shrieked as Harry described in detail the horrific acts, including the blatant murders of Riddle's own father and grandparents in order to carry out his plans for eternal life. Harry surveyed the crowd, and then told how both he and the late Albus Dumbledore tracked down the Horcruxes one by one, and destroyed them; and how, after Dumbledore's ignominious death, he had finished the job.

A man near the front of the room stood up to applaud, and soon the whole auditorium was filled clapping and cheers. Harry smiled and nodded, and then raised his hands for silence.

"So now, this great big, bullying git has only one-seventh of a soul left, and he knows it! He is as mortal as you and I, and he fears death! He sends others out to do his bidding, pushes his minions into the arena, but he will not leave his hiding place. He's probably protected by a Fidelius Charm lest his location be discovered; undoubtedly guarded by a dwindling cadre of loyal followers, he directs his troops like chess pieces, trying to gain some advantage. But he himself will never step onto the field of battle, because his measure of safety is gone! Anyone with the means and the opportunity could kill him, and he cannot chance that. Tom Riddle is a coward, and he knows it!

"Tom Riddle's entire strategy is based on terror. He assassinates, kills, punishes, and tortures anything or anyone who gets in his way, and sometimes hurts people just because he can. He means to frighten us to the point where we will believe that prolonging the war will be more painful than actually surrendering. The Germans have a term for this policy: Schrecklichkeit, which means, 'frightfulness'! Even the name for his followers, Death Eaters, reflects this ideal. Commit any crime, any atrocity, as long as it creates fear."

The silence in the room was complete. Harry's words had everyone spellbound.

"Tom Riddle means to frighten us to the point where we can no longer continue. But, our counter-strategy is simple. We will not give in! Never!

"Yes, this war is hard. Yes, it is painful because every day our friends and our loved ones are in danger, and many of them have died. But, we must ask ourselves, how much is our liberty worth? How far are we willing to go to provide a better tomorrow for our families? To that question there is only one answer, as far as possible, and for as long as it takes!"

The room erupted in cheers again, and it was five minutes before Harry could speak again.

"This, my fellow wizards and witches, is whom we face! Not a demigod, not a monster, but a pitiful, dangerous, mutilated creature that thinks he is better than the rest of us. He is not! He's a thief, a liar, and a murderer who has no love or even liking for anyone or any thing at all! He destroys everything he touches, and the sooner he is dead and buried, the better we shall all be!"

There was another thunderous round of applause and cheering.

"To do that, the Minister of Magic and I need the very best from all of you, irrespective of your station. We've come a long way, and now I dare say the end may be in sight! Tom Riddle's followers are falling away, and though we too have suffered great losses, and lost those we love, we have a great advantage: we must win! The Death Eaters have the option of walking away. They know they can still live under our rule, as they did after their master lost the last war.

"If Tom Riddle's forces are victorious, then Britain will face the darkest tyranny it has ever known. Even Muggles would not be safe, for terror, murder, and lawlessness would become commonplace! Anarchy would be set loose upon the world, and there would be no hope. None!"

Harry sipped at a glass of water, and then continued. "It-must-not-happen!" Harry spaced out the words and leaned in towards the crowd as he spoke.

More applause and cheering echoed in the room; shouts of encouragement and gestures of support were visible throughout the crowd. Harry smiled, nodded, and then continued.

"More than fifty years ago, Tom Riddle opened the Chamber of Secrets and released a basilisk upon Hogwarts School to test his powers. As part of that test, he did two things. First, he used the monster to murder a young girl in a bathroom. The only regret he had was that the act would have closed the school and forced him to return to the orphanage, and so he stopped the killing. Not out of regret for an innocent death, but because further acts of terror would inconvenience him!

"The girl who was killed became a ghost at Hogwarts School, Moaning Myrtle. Her sobs and her tears are for a life that was stolen unjustly from her, through no fault of her own.

"Tom Riddle's second act was even more despicable. He needed a scapegoat to escape from the guilt of opening the chamber, so he framed a large, shy boy who had a forbidden pet--a creature whose bite was poisonous. Rubeus Hagrid was blamed for opening the Chamber of Secrets. Tom Riddle's testimony was considered more valuable than the protestations of an innocent. Hagrid was expelled from the school, and his wand was snapped into two! A young man who might have become a great wizard was stripped of that chance, and instead became a gamekeeper.

"Two innocent victims of Tom Riddle have dwelled in our midst since that terrible day. It is too late for one of them, but the other can be redressed. Today, we will undo Tom Riddle's second injustice."

The crowd appeared confused muttering began, but Harry raised one hand for silence, and then waved at someone to his right, out of the line of sight.

First, Percy Weasley, the Minister of Magic, took Harry's place at the podium. Then he turned and gestured at one side of the stage.

Hagrid came slowly into sight, moving awkwardly, flushing at the sight of so many people watching him. He stopped beside Percy, who began to speak, "Hagrid, after consulting with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Aurors, I am pleased to announce that your record has been expunged!"

The crowd broke out in applause. As they clapped, Harry accepted a small box from Lavender Brown. He handed it to Percy, who opened it and held it out to Hagrid.

"Furthermore, the finest craftsmen in the Ministry of Magic have labored to create this new wand! It's made of redwood, and has a dragon's heartstring in the center. It has been specially crafted to respond to you. Let me be the first to welcome you back to the ranks of wizards!"

Amid growing applause, Hagrid reached out a trembling hand and gabbed his new wand. Immediately a fiery glow surrounded his body, casting brief shadows in the room. As his eyes swam with tears, people in the audience began to stand up, still applauding, until finally the entire room was on its feet. The cheers and whistles and shouts of encouragement echoed back and forth in the auditorium.

Hagrid shook his head when Harry asked him if he wanted to speak. "This says it all," he murmured, waving his wand. Sparkles of a half-formed incantation brightened the room. His eyes swimming with tears, Hagrid backed away.

Percy smiled and then gave the podium back to Harry and walked offstage with Hagrid beside him.

Harry raised his hands again, and gradually the din subsided, though here and there he saw several thumbs-up signals. He smiled, and closed his speech with a personal plea, "Twenty years ago, I survived a Killing Curse, something that had never happened before. For many years, no one knew why. Albus Dumbledore finally told me that it was because of my mother, Lily Evans Potter. She gave her life to protect me; her love became a shield that warded off Tom Riddle's attempt to kill me. It was her love that caused the curse to rebound, and destroy his body, and give the world a fourteen-year respite from that killer's reign."

Harry was silent for a moment, and then continued. "Though many more people have died from Killing Curses since that terrible day, I think it serves as an important reminder of what we're fighting for: love! We love our country, we love our friends, and most of all we love our families. None of these things mean anything to Tom Riddle, because he cannot love. He never has! And now, with only one-seventh of his soul left, he never will. His entire life is composed of greed, pain, anger and hatred! That is what our own lives will be reduced to if he should succeed.

"Give me your best efforts, my friends, and together we will drive this shattered ruin of a wizard into the hell he so richly deserves! Together we will rebuild the wizarding world, and let Diagon Alley shine again as it once did."

Harry smiled broadly. "Thank you, and good day to you all."

The clapping and cheering went on and on, long after Harry Potter left the room.

**

"That was very bold Potter," Severus Snape said as Harry stepped into the master bedroom of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. "Your speech struck the Dark Lord to the core. His hatred for you has multiplied tenfold, something even I did not think was possible."

"Good," Harry said, as he shut the door behind them. Despite his endorsement for the former Potions Master, many in the Order of the Phoenix still loathed Professor Snape, and Harry couldn't take the chance of someone losing their temper and killing their precious double agent. "So he's heard my public address? Every word?"

"Oh, yes," Snape said, his eyebrows rising slightly. "He thinks you did it out of spite, though. He has damned your name beyond counting, and is planning new ways to bedevil you. One thing you should be aware of, he has now put an extraordinary price on your head, and is encouraging mercenaries and bounty hunters to try to murder you."

Harry snorted. "What took him so long? I thought he would have tried that a long time ago."

"The Dark Lord does not have your resources, Potter, as well you know."

Harry smiled, but said nothing.

Severus Snape went on, "I must say I was surprised to hear that you included the information about the Horcruxes in your speech. I would have thought that piece of information would be kept secret. Any number of people could do that now, and you could have more than one sorcerer beyond the pale of death."

"I thought about that," Harry admitted, "but then I realized that has always been a possibility. By telling everyone what Voldemort's done, it makes them realize just how sick he is, and that he doesn't have any special powers. Added to which, I don't think Voldemort would allow anyone in his own camp the chance to become more powerful than him. I'm going to let him be my policeman amongst the Death Eaters."

"And after he has been defeated? What then?"

"Two weeks ago the Department of International Cooperation sealed an international level enchantment. The spell for splitting the human soul won't work anymore, anywhere! Voldemort is the last of his kind."

Severus Snape nodded appreciatively. "Well, it has increased his loathing of you."

"Good," Harry said, smiling.

"Why do you say 'good' in that self-satisfied voice, Potter?" Snape sounded more like the questioning professor now, and Harry realized that tone of voice was what had always bothered him.

"Because if he's angry, it means he's not going to think clearly. Angry people make mistakes, and at this point, the more mistakes he makes, the better off the rest of the wizarding world will be. Now, tell me, is there any truth to what I've heard about his planned assault on the Ministry farms in the New Forest?"

Professor Snape looked shocked. "I must admit, I'm impressed, Potter. I am one of only four people who knows about that."

"Three," Harry corrected him, "Caltrop was captured late yesterday. My interrogators pulled that information out of him, and we set a plan in motion."

"Yet another of the Dark Lord's lieutenants down. He will reel from the news."

"By the end of the day, he's going to be dealt the hardest blow of the entire war." His eyes flashed fire as he looked at his former teacher. "Even if Voldemort can't feel anything anymore, his followers are going to know once and for all that they have a choice: surrender, or death!"

"Then I had better get back to my place," Snape said. "If you intend to deliver that message, then no suspicion must fall on me."

"I thought you were above suspicion," Harry remarked, his eyebrows rising.

"No, Potter. No one is above suspicion. The late Bellatrix Black was not the only one who suspected me, nor am I the only one who has been accused of consorting with the enemy. That is what it means to live inside the borders of the enemy encampment; suspicion, gossip, innuendo, politicking, and blackmail are commonplace. It is one more reason why you must win." He nodded to Harry as he started to leave, and then looked back at him. "And watch yourself carefully, Potter. The Dark Lord is becoming desperate, and desperate men are the most dangerous of all."

Harry escorted him to the front door. As the door shut, the curtains in front of Mrs. Black blew open and she stared down at him. Before she could open her mouth, Harry fixed her with a hard stare. "Don't even think about it! This is my house now, and you're only there as a courtesy!" He shut the curtains on her, and then walked back down the hall toward the master bedroom, stopping to stare at the last severed house-elf head on the wall. "I gave you what you wanted most, Kreacher. I hope you're happy now."

The dead house-elf didn't speak, but Harry thought there was a hint of a smile on the face.

Once in his room, Harry ate the meal that Dobby had waiting for him, then took off his clothes and put on the pajamas that had been laid out for him.

Sitting up in bed, he opened up the Muggle fiction book he'd been reading every night, warming to the plot. Arthur Weasley had suggested it as a way of de-stressing, since he didn't have a family to come home to. He was just starting to get into the story of the English sailor on the island when a knock made him look up.

"You did very well," Ginny Weasley said to Harry. She was still wearing her healer's robes from her work at the Ministry of Magic. Like so many former Hogwarts students, she had answered Harry's call to arms, and now worked as an apprentice Healer. The Dark Lord's attack on the Ministry--coinciding with the attack on Hogwarts School--had required the next generation to step up. Fortunately, they were doing well.

"You think so?" Harry gave her a nervous smile, and beckoned her to come in. "I spent three days practicing that speech in front of a mirror. Every time I made a mistake, the mirror would correct me."

"People are still talking about it down at the Ministry," she said, coming around his bed to stand next to him. "Everybody got something different out of that speech, but what struck people the most was when you told them that Tom Riddle was a half-blood. I think that shocked them the most--the idea that his one big claim to Slytherin's legacy is just a lie..." she trailed off.

"Yeah, I told Malfoy that once, and it just about floored him. I thought that everyone needed to know."

Ginny sat on the edge of Harry's bed. She kept staring at him all the while. "But when you reminded everyone that love was what we're fighting for, I think that was the winning subject."

Harry took her hands and pulled her close. "Ginny, I can't wait anymore. Will you marry me?"

She flushed and put her head on his chest. "I don't come of age for another year, Harry."

"I know," Harry said. "But life is so uncertain right now. People are dying, or disappearing so quickly. I just...if you died tomorrow I couldn't live with the idea that I never told you that I loved you."

She gave him a mock look of indignation. "Do you?"

"Yes, very much."

She smiled slowly. "Yes, I will."

**

"After our forces come back from their mission in the New Forest," Voldemort hissed, looking at his loyal followers, "we will strike Potter's armies in Scotland. I have fresh information on his positions there, do I not, Mulciber?"

"Yes, my lord. We dragged that out of an Order member only this morning."

Voldemort smiled, and then his face grew lighter when he saw Graham walk in. The fellow looked tired, but that was too bad. "You have returned early from your mission in the New Forest, Graham. Good! Rally your regiment, for they are needed for a fresh assault in Scotland."

Blaise Graham's mouth twisted, but he forced himself to speak. "My lord, I have no regiment."

Voldemort's bloody eyes contracted. "Explain yourself!"

"They're dead, my lord! The Ministry of Magic killed them all," he said in a voice hardly more than a whisper.

Despite his fury, Voldemort suddenly realized that Blaise Graham, whom he had known since his first day at Hogwarts, was swaying on his feet like a drunken man. His clothes were dirty and bloody, and his eyes were haunted. Something terrible had happened, and Voldemort wanted to know what it was.

"Speak to me," Voldemort demanded.

"We were preparing to assault the Ministry of Magic farms, as you commanded. At that point, Vixen, one of my scouts, reported that she had surprised a group of gardeners tending the Ministry's crop of mandrakes. We briefly came under fire, from a small group of sentry wizards near the greenhouses."

"Get to the point!" Voldemort screamed. "I don't need to know every single thing that happened--not yet!"

Graham shuddered, and fell to his knees. "My lord, we killed a few and put the rest to flight. They rushed through a dense patch of forest, and we pursued them, following your order to kill them all. When all but I were in the forest proper, the enemy suddenly vanished, dropping down as one like badgers into the ground. Then there was a colossal blast like thunder, and every single tree exploded! The air was rife with millions of splinters flashing every which way. My entire regiment, over five hundred of your best wizards and witches, torn to shreds before my very eyes! Those not destroyed outright by the blasts were shredded to tiny pieces of bloody flesh! They would be worthless to you even as Inferi."

For a long time Voldemort didn't speak. The audacity and simplicity of Potter's attack momentarily stunned him. Then he hissed, "Why weren't you killed, too? Why were you hanging back?"

"Your orders, my lord. Since Potter introduced the metal fighting vehicles, you have wanted to spare your best commanders from leading any assaults. I had raised a Protego spell, as you commanded me to do when in combat."

The Dark Lord realized that everyone in the room was staring at him, waiting for his next command. He covered his gaffe by asking what had happened to the gardeners who'd led his forces into such an early grave.

"Like badgers, my lord, they came out of holes in the ground. I changed into a bird and flew into their midst. I could see their holes had metal covers which kept them safe from the wooden splinters, though one man did have a cut across his cheek."

There was a commotion at the back of the room and two more regimental commanders entered the room, looking just as bloody and defeated as Graham. Voldemort recognized them as Whitlock and Falchion, who had departed yesterday on separate missions in Wales and Ireland, respectively. In a flash of clarity, Voldemort knew their tales would mirror Graham's word for word--defeated, their forces annihilated. He waved them to silence, and turned back to the business at hand.

"You did well, under the circumstances," Voldemort said, trying to salvage something from the disaster. Killing Graham would accomplish nothing, and he needed every seasoned fighter he had. "Still, the loss changes our plans." He waved a hand at the rest of the room. "Leave me, and summon Severus Snape!"

Alone, Voldemort looked around the cold chamber, seething at the assault upon his people. Potter had decimated three painstakingly built fighting forces. Fifteen hundred witches and wizards, and he'd done so with the same trap! Where was Potter getting these ideas? His stratagems were wreaking havoc on the Death Eaters, sapping their morale, and changing the entire course of the war! In barely a year since Dumbledore's long-overdue death, he, Lord Voldemort, Sorcerer Supreme, was no closer to triumph than he had been before.

Voldemort sucked in a breath and gnashed his teeth. These losses hurt!

"I wish Nagini was here," he whispered aloud. But his beloved serpent had vanished nearly a year ago, and in Potter's speech before the Ministry of Magic, he'd admitted to killing her.

Rage boiled in Voldemort's belly as he thought of that speech! His spies had repeated it on his command, and before they were even one-third through, he wished he'd never given the command. Potter had heaped insults and ridicule upon him and received a standing ovation! He'd even given that half-breed Hagrid back his wand, undoing his school time masterstroke. Voldemort's fury redoubled as he heard about the joyful tears of the half-giant as he was restored to the rank of wizard.

Even worse, Voldemort would not even have the satisfaction of knowing that people were afraid of his name, for his Muggle name was now being used commonly. The title of Lord was being dropped.

Bit by bit, Harry Potter was chipping away at Voldemort's legacy, leaving him bereft of all his honors and comforts. Everything that meant something to him was being stripped away. Well, two could play at that game!

Severus Snape entered the room and dropped to one knee, his head respectfully lowered. "How may I be of service to you, my Lord?"

"Severus, dear Severus, you know our mutual enemy, Harry Potter?"

"As well as any teacher can know his pupil," Snape said, still keeping his gaze lowered, his face covered by his lank black hair, as though by a veil.

"Tell me, then, does he have a...lover?"

"Of a sort, my Lord. A young girl who was often seen in his company, prior to the death of Albus Dumbledore."

"Slain by your own hand," Voldemort hissed, his voice silky with feigned affection. "Again, I congratulate you on your actions, Severus. You served me beyond the accomplishments of any of my faithful." A thought occurred to the wizard. "I trust my gift of the laboratory is to your liking?"

"Superb, my Lord. It goes beyond anything I ever had as a teacher. I thank you from the bottom of my heart." He lowered his second leg, and stood on his knees, not deigning to look upon his master. Voldemort thought that this was why Severus Snape was so favored--he knew his place, and assumed it without being told.

"This girl who was Potter's...does she have a name?"

"Weasley," said Severus Snape. "Ginerva Weasley."

***

"I need more blood-replenishing potion!" Ginny shouted to an orderly as she squirted skin-solvent onto the blasted throat of an Order witch, and then looked at the woman's broken nose. She tapped it once with her wand, using the spell that Tonks had taught her. The unconscious witch took a breath, reassuring Ginny that the airways were clear.

Five days earlier the Death Eaters had attacked an Order stronghold and killed most of the Healers. Ginny had been one of five that the Ministry of Magic loaned out to cover the loss, and now she found herself in charge of the mobile aid station on the battlefield itself. She hoped she was up to the task.

Ginny pushed the levitated stretcher into the hands of two interns. "Blood-replenishing potion for that one until she's up to the norm," she said, watching them whisk the woman into the recovery area. "All right, what's next?"

"This one just came in," said Darva Draconis, a renegade Slytherin who'd been working alongside Ginny for two days, pointing to an unconscious man on a cot. "Multiple contusions and abrasions to the upper torso. From the looks of him, I'd say probably a concussion as well."

Ginny cupped the man's face, opened one of his eyes, and nonverbally spelled a pinpoint light into his eye. She went through the magical diagnostic routine drilled into her by Madame Pomfrey, and nodded. "Very good, Darva, that's exactly what it is. Now, what would you recommend for treatment?"

Darva swallowed, blinked her dark eyes, sweating, knowing she was under scrutiny. "A Grade-3 general healing potion for the bruises and cuts, and..." she trailed off, and then rallied, "a Kranion Hal spell for the head wound!"

Ginny smiled, nodding. "Very good. Now, do it!"

Darva slowly administered the healing potion to the wounded man, and then enchanted the man's bloodied head. The cuts on the head sealed themselves, and the patient slowly smiled, and then fell asleep. Ginny checked the spell, and nodded. "Good job. He'll sleep, but he'll awaken in a few hours as good as new."

The last of the wounded were hurried away to the rear of the tents, and nurses dealt with the less seriously injured.

Ginny and Darva took a much-needed breather.

A brief burst of yellow light illuminated the room as the side of the tent deflected 90% of a fire-spell, the remainder only slightly warming the room.

The billet, crafted by her brothers, Fred and George, under contract for the ministry, was the perfect solution to battlefield injuries. Allegedly inspired by a Muggle television program Harry had once seen, it allowed Ministry and Order forces quick treatment and a return to the battlefield at a far faster rate than that of the enemy. Special camouflage spells made the Death Eaters think it was a latrine.

A house elf appeared with mugs of steaming tea, and Ginny looked at her fellow healers, finishing off the last of the sick and wounded. Orderlies levitated the stretchers and cots to the back of the guarded tents to relax.

On the far side of a nearby hill there was a muffled explosion, and the sound of sizzling spells.

"Let's relax while we can," Ginny said, as she sipped her tea and sat down on a stool. "There may be more guests arriving soon."

"It's funny that you call them 'guests'" said Darva as she dropped to the ground, rubbing her head in fatigue. Darva was Ginny's age, but had short blonde hair and a purple scar on her neck.

"They don't stay longer than a few hours, and none of them pay for their lodging," Ginny pointed out. "Better to be guests than permanent roommates."

Darva smiled, and saluted Ginny with her cup. After a moment she became serious. "Thanks again for believing in me."

"You're welcome," Ginny said, smiling slightly. "After so much death and pain, I know what it's like not to want to cause any more." She waved a hand at the mobile surgical tent. "That's why I signed up to become a Healer. Here, I know I'm doing some good."

Darva nodded, sipping her tea. "It feels good to give the gift of life." She pushed a lock of her blonde hair away from her face and looked at Ginny with a small smile. "Did I ever tell you that I saw you on my first day at Hogwarts?"

"Really?"

"It was the year when Harry and your brother crashed the car into the Whomping Willow. You were sorted after I went to Slytherin, and you went to Gryffindor to sit amongst your brothers." The girl smiled slightly, saying, "Draco Malfoy pointed you out to me."

"I confess, I don't remember seeing you on the train, or later." Ginny said, flushing slightly.

"Well, we were sorted into different houses, which aren't supposed to be the best of friends." Darva was silent for a while, sipping her tea. "All the same, thanks for giving me a try as a nurse."

"You've done well so far. Keep it up, and we'll see how far we can trust you," Ginny glanced at one of the guards sitting nearby. She gestured with her cup. "How did you get that scar? I've never asked you before."

Darva grimaced. "During my first raid on an Order of the Phoenix supply house in Devonshire. I was first in the door, and we surprised an old witch sitting on her hearth. My squad leader told me to kill her...but I couldn't do it." She looked into her tea and shuddered. "The witch didn't have her wand, so she slashed at me with a fire poker. If I'd been any closer she would have laid my throat open."

"What happened to the witch?" Ginny asked, already knowing the answer.

"My squad leader killed her. They just cauterized the wound on my neck and dragged me along to finish the mission." Darva shuddered, and kicked at the ground in anger. "I was beautiful once! Now...because of this stupid, stupid war...!" She sobbed, and didn't speak for a long while. Finally, "After that, I knew I wasn't any good to them. So, when they left me alone after that last big attack, I surrendered." She looked at Ginny. "And here I am."

Ginny touched the girl's shoulder. "And here you'll stay, so long as you continue to do good work."

"You won't regret it," Darva said, smiling brightly. She looked up at the entrance and then took a deep breath. "Drink your tea, Ginny. Looks like we've got more guests!"

Litter-bearers with unmanned stretchers floating along behind them came in bearing wounded wizards and witches, one of them with a severed arm on his chest.

"Poppy, guide my way," Ginny muttered, moving toward the stretchers. "Healing serums, front and center!"

Two soldiers threw away their uniform robes and suddenly their wands were extended. "You'll need more than potions, wench!" Killing Curses slammed into two Ministry soldiers, knocking them to the ground. Darva was felled by a jelly-legs charm, and Ginny cried out her name.

"Relax, you're the one we want!" the dirty Death Eater shouted, slapping Ginny to the ground. "The Master wants you alive!" A club smashed the back of her head, and she knew no more.