Harry Potter and the Death's Head Mark

Chapter 2:

"They're Nazis," Tom said, his face lit by the glow of the dormitory fires. The others stared at him, spellbound by nothing more than words. After four years of being ignored (harassed) by his housemates, he had been given his chance. He was the only one of them with enough knowledge of the muggle world to understand both sides of the war. They knew nothing--and knowledge was one of the most prized assets of Slytherin House. That, and the cunning to know what to do with it.

Tom had both. They needed him.

At last.

"And, although they're merely muggles, we can't just magic them away," he continued, glancing at Walburga. "They have wizards on their side too.

"Look outside. That's not ordinary lightning." Tom slowed his speech for effect. He let his eyes move throughout the group of his listeners, piercing each of them to the root. "The storm outside is not natural. The Nazis have invented a new way of fighting. The muggles call it Blitzkrieg--"lightning war"--because it's so fast. But there is another reason to call it Blitzkrieg..."

Tom remembered the bombs, the blitz of 1940. The orphanage had been hit in one of the attacks. He'd ran for it and tried to make it to Diagon Alley, where the wards would protect wizards from muggle bombs. But he was cut off by debris and a crowd of screaming, frightened people. A grizzled muggle warden had seen him then. Thinking the boy mad to be walking about during an air raid, the muggle had picked him up and forcibly carried him to a shelter. It had been humiliating for the thirteen-year-old wizard to realize that although he was the heir of Slytherin, a muggle could overpower him simply by being a grown man.

However, the most galling thing about it had been the owl he'd received that evening, addressed to "Tom Riddle, in a Makeshift Bomb Shelter in the London Underground" from the Ministry's Improper Use of Magic office. It had been to remind him of the Restriction of Underage Sorcery Act and censure him for his unsanctioned casting of a hover charm, which he had used to keep a mess of rubble from crushing his skull. The warden had been saved too, by virtue of the fact that he'd been standing close enough for Tom's shield to protect him as well.

"That's funny," the warden had said, wondering how the owl had gotten into the Underground. He was clueless--he hadn't even noticed Tom's use of magic. "Smart bird, to seek shelter like us."

Then he had used a blanket to smother a fire that had suddenly ignited, lit by Tom's indignation at being threatened with expulsion for defending his own life.

"Their wizards can control the weather?" asked Avery, jarring him from his thoughts.

Tom nodded, a little surprised at the boy's correct guess. Claudius Avery's older brother, Domitian, had been one of his worst tormentors. Domitian had been a fourth year when Tom entered Hogwarts, and he'd been eager to use his superior age and strength against, well, anyone. But a mudblood made a particularly appealing target. In his last two years at Hogwarts, alongside Lancelot Lestrange, he led a band of upperclassmen in making Riddle's life a living hell. Things had abated slightly when Tom was invited to the Slug Club in his fourth year, but Domitian and Lestrange were in the club too, and resented the contamination of their territory. So they never really let up; they just got more cunning in their insults. The younger Avery, the one in Tom's year, had dumbly tagged along with them, never initiating anything, but always standing by his brother. A second son, born to lackeydom, with no brains of his own--until now. Now, with no older brother to coddle him, he'd have to fend for himself.

"Yes, they can," Tom replied. "They are rather powerful, as well, so the storm is also one of wild magic."

"It makes sense," Alphard said. "Wild magic's pretty chaotic--I'm surprised none of their wizards burned out. And as for the other, Germany's pretty cold. I'm sure German wizards have been trying to control weather since the days of the Romans."

"Exactly," Tom answered. Alphard and Avery nodded, like students proud to meet with their teachers' approval.

"They say vampires can control storms and such," said Dorcas Meadowes, a sixth-year girl. "Perhaps they've bribed one to help."

"That's another possibility," Tom easily admitted.

"Maybe they're working in tandem," said Avery. "Vampire plus sorcerers equals...?"

"Nothing good," said Meadowes.

Tom inwardly growled. He couldn't stand the lack of knowledge he had of Norse magic, of the methods they were using.

He wanted to go to the Chamber. He would find answers there, just as he had when he'd found it last May. But it had been too risky--after Doppelburg's speech in the Great Hall, no one had left their common room. The last thing Tom needed was the Nazis finding his basilisk--the greatest weapon he had, save his mind.

"We don't have enough information," said Alphard, echoing Tom's sentiment. "We need to keep our eyes open. But I don't need to tell a group of upper-year Slytherins that." He grinned grimly.

"Yes," Walburga, another of Tom's self-appointed enemies, interjected. She'd once supported the anti-Tom Riddle campaign, as she'd set her sights on Domitian before hearing of her impending engagement to her young second-cousin, the third year Orion Black. "What do you think we are, Hufflepuffs?"

"Indeed," Malfoy huffed, still smarting from his earlier humiliation in the Great Hall.

"I think Gryffindors would be somewhat worse in this situation," mused Matilda Bulstrode, looking up from a book on aeroplanes.

"At least Hufflepuffs know how to listen," Tom agreed. Alphard chuckled.

"What about Sluggy?" Avery interjected. "He's our Head of House. Can't he do something?"

"He's looking out for himself above all," snarled Meadowes with unusual venom. "And he's scared. He won't help us."

Alphard glanced at her, his face surprised. "It'll be better if the Jerries let us prefects patrol again," he offered, uneasy at Meadowes's outburst. It was hard to make that girl lose her temper, but when she did, the results were a veritable Ragnarok. "I'll have to get Minerva to ask with me."

Tom nodded approvingly. Alphard was learning. He knew the Nazis wouldn't accept an Indian like Mohandas in a position of authority. In this case, the support of the Head Girl was better than the support of the Head Boy.

"We'll have to stick more prefects per watch," Alphard continued. "Then there could be at least two of ours out there on any given night. It'd be more work, but...you up for it, Riddle?"

Two of ours. At least two Slytherins out per night.

"Of course," said Tom, pleased to be included already. This would make things much easier.

Alphard nodded.

"These Nazis are being very sneaky about it," Meadowes said softly. "They know they'll have to win our hearts."

The others nodded. Slytherins were no strangers to manipulation.

"The Gryffindors might be hard-pressed," muttered Bulstrode, who had found another book, a more generic tome on muggle warfare. "They fancy themselves warriors, and the Nazis seem to try for that sort of air."

"But Gryffs also like to see themselves as noble," Meadowes argued. "They think surrender is beneath them. So while some will be caught up, the most visible resistance will probably come from Gryffindor."

Tom glanced at the silent Abraxas Malfoy. His resistance had been rather visible as well. Of course, many of the old-blood Slytherins were Slytherin in name only. They were really more suited to other houses, having asked for Slytherin only as a matter of familial duty. Malfoy, with his thirst for glory, was more of a lion than a snake.

Tom smiled to himself. He was more a Slytherin than any of them. By disposition and by blood. He may not be a pureblood, he may be confined to a hellish muggle orphanage under constant threat of German air raids, but he was far more worthy than them.

"What do you think, Tom?" asked Alphard.

Tom looked up. Six faces (Alphard, Walburga, Avery, Malfoy, Bulstrode, Meadowes) peered back at him. Walburga and Malfoy seemed reticent at listening to a fifth-year halfblood, but Tom would convince them soon enough.

"I think," Tom replied, "that we should take care of our younger years. They are the most vulnerable to outside manipulation."

As for the rest...

"We must remind them who they are, who they must be."

He was in.

"And meanwhile, we will bide our time..."

He had power and influence now--something he had not always possessed, especially as a mere orphan among hundreds, trapped in a city on fire.

"...and study our new enemy..."

The Nazis' bombing of London had brought him the closest he'd ever been to death.

"...make whatever alliances we need to..."

And they would pay for that. Even if he had to enlist some others. Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs--whoever was necessary. A fight was inevitable; even his fellow Slytherins could see it.

"...until the end."

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"We need to fight," Alastor was saying.

"Fight," Betran Bones repeated. "With what?"

"Anything," said Alastor. "Everything."

No one spoke. Some shook their heads.

"What about the professors?" the boy forged on, his voice rising. "What happened to them? Who here believes that tripe about them leaving us? They wouldn't leave. Dumbledore? Merrythought? Lestrange? They would fight."

Yes, they would have fought. Albus Dumbledore, the transfiguration professor, was one of the most powerful wizards Alastor had ever met. Sometimes he could feel the strength vibrating around him. Galatea Merrythought, a former Hufflepuff and current teacher of Defense Against the Dark Arts, was an ex-vampire hunter with utter loyalty to the school. And Longinus Lestrange, the charms professor and youngest of the three, was a Master Duelist and former Auror.

"Alastor," Minerva said, nervously petting her pet cat. "We can't fight them now. They're stronger. Most of us haven't even reached our primes yet--I'm only seventeen. Most of the seventh years, and perhaps some sixth years is all we can expect to have comparable magical strength. And as for the knowledge...none of us has ever fought in a war before. We don't have the experience."

Alastor grimaced with the reminder of his own lack of training.

Gawain Lockhart sat up. "What about the Dueling Club? We're experienced in combat."

"Duels aren't the same thing as combat, Gawain," Alastor sighed. "My father said recruits to Magical Law Enforcement make that mistake at first, but they learn real quick. If they get a chance." The boy inwardly shook his head. Gawain was the same year as him, and had been annoying him ever since day one, when he'd plopped himself down next to Alastor on the Hogwarts Express, heard his dad was once a Hit Wizard, and promptly asked him how many criminals he'd "taken out."

It had been even worse when the kid was made sixth-year prefect. Alastor despised incompetent authority.

"Still, we should look at the Dueling Club," Septimus conceded. "It's the group of people most likely to want to fight."

"Unless they joined it for the prestige on their future job resumes," Bertran said dryly.

"Good point," said Septimus. Plenty of pureblood family boys being groomed for political office liked to be in the Dueling Club. It kept up "the old ways" and looked good, just as Bones said.

"And who are you thinking about recruiting?" Minerva demanded skeptically.

At the same time, Devin Diggory asked: "Are you talking about other Houses as well?"

"Of course," Alastor replied. "What good'll it be otherwise?"

"Alphard Black," Septimus shot out. "He's a good duelist. Prefect, plays chaser in Quidditch. He's a fighting kind of guy--would've been in Gryffindor, if not for his family. Ten galleons says he's in the Slyth common room right now, trying to rally a bunch of...well, Slytherins."

Alastor didn't like the idea of Slytherins getting involved, but figured that the Slyths would especially hate the Nazis, seeing as most of the invaders were muggles. "You know him better than me," he relented.

Septimus grinned. He and the Slytherin prefect had been rivals since their first year. While they'd been a bit childish at first, resorting to such measures as itching potion and transfiguring each other's trousers into skirts, they'd learned to give each other a grudging respect. In the meantime, their prank war became legend--so legendary, in fact, that the two sometimes banded together to attempt particularly noteworthy stunts, like the infamous Grey Lady of the Lake fiasco or the time they turned the entire Hufflepuff dorm pink. This collaboration culminated in their sixth year, when they had been found voluntarily partnering each other in Dueling Club practices and even speaking to each other in the hallways.

"Hooch's good," Septimus continued. "For a girl," he added, mainly to gain the amusement of Minerva's glare. "And Mohandas is decent."

"He'd better be," said Devin. "He's Head Boy. But Dolohova could eat his dinner, and supper too."

"The Russian?" asked Minerva. "In Hufflepuff?"

"Yes," Septimus confimed. "Ludmila's a great duelist."

"She's mean," Alastor admitted. "Especially to the lads. I half expect her to hex me in the--"

"Alastor Moody!" Minerva scolded.

"--head," Alastor finished dumbly. "Right in the head." He turned to Septimus. "'Ludmila'? You're on a first-name basis now?"

"Not quite," Septimus admitted. "I just like the sound of 'Ludmila.' It's Russian for 'beloved.' I looked it up."

Alastor shook his head. "That's a little creepy, Sep."

"What?"

"You, stalking the Abominable Snowwoman of Siberia. I mean, she's decent-looking, but couldn't you find a girl who's not handing house-elves copies of the Communist Manifesto?"

"She's giving house-elves the Communist Manifesto?"

"Yes." He'd seen it. It had been quite funny, actually. Dopey had just blinked at her with round, big eyes, and Fuzzy said something like: "But we is not supposed to be making trouble, miss."

"You know, she gave me a copy of the Manifesto," Septimus continued, his eyes gazing off into starry nothingness. "It's how we met."

Minerva laughed. Sometimes you just had to laugh or else you'd cry. "You're helpless, dearie."

"What?" Septimus asked. "You know, I keep wanting to talk to her about it--I know I'd get her to talk to me if I brought that up--but I can't really understand this Marx fellow. He's a bit too muggle for me."

Alastor sighed and looked at the mirror by the fire, taking the time to grease his hair into place.

"Delacour," he said, ignoring Septimus's lack of love life. "Jean-Luc Delacour. Another exchange student. Was in Beauxbatons, before it closed. He's from southern France, which has been occupied by Nazis for a while now. We should talk to him."

"Good idea," said Devin. "He hates Nazis. They're the reason he came to Hogwarts in the first place."

"We should get Goyle," said Gawain. "He's good."

Alastor sighed again. Gawain thought anyone he couldn't beat in Dueling Club was good.

"Goyle's fair to middling," said Septimus. "Not aggressive enough. Now Malfoy, he's good. A pain in the arse, though."

Alastor snorted. "No argument here." He craned his head for a moment. They'd named the Dueling Club's Big Eight now: him, Septimus, Delacour, Dolohova, Black, Malfoy, Hooch, Gawain...wait, but Gawain had only just scraped by, as someone had creamed him spectacularly...Meadowes.

"Dorcas Meadowes," Alastor announced. She had annihilated Gawain at last year's tournament. How could he have forgotten her? She was more skilled than Hooch, though Hooch had been the first girl to join. And she was calmer than Dolohova, which often made her the better hand in a duel. She was the best (looking) of the club's girls, in Alastor's opinion. "You know, the Slytherin. In my year."

"Yeah, I remember her," said Bertran. "First practice of the year. She was helping that new fifth-year, wossname?"

"Something Riddle," said Septimus. "He's one of the new prefects." He remembered the kid from the first (and only) two meetings they'd had that year.

"Tom Riddle," said Minerva. She made it her business to try to learn the names of everyone at Hogwarts--a task that had unfortunately grown easier since the beginning of the war.

"Good fighter, that kid," said Alastor. But, unable to resist, he added: "Knew a surprising amount of hexes, for a new fifth-year."

"You know Slytherins," Septimus replied, laughing. "The whole house common room is like dueling club practice. You have to know your wandwork just to survive in there."

"Speaking of wandwork..."

"Yeah. Tomorrow."

Minerva leaned forward. "You're talking about the new class, aren't you?"

"What class?" asked Gawain. "What did he call it, again? At dinner, Doppeldore called it--"

There was a silence as cold as a Dementor's breath.

"I mean, Doppelburg," Gawain backpedaled. "Doppelburg."

Alastor started to open his mouth, but stayed silent. He didn't want to admit that he had once mispronounced Doppelburg's name in the same way. It was strange... "Doppelburg" and "Dumbledore" sounded only slightly similar, but he felt that there was something...suspicious...about it.

But Alastor wouldn't voice his suspicions out loud. He'd sound like that Ravenclaw girl, Trelawney, going on about her dark omens and murky constellations.

The Gryffindors looked at each other. They decided, by silent unanimous consent, to change the subject.

"Where do you think they're holding him?" asked Bertran, thinking of their Head of House. "Do you think the Nazis have a wizard prison? Their own Azkaban?"

"I hear the Nazis have lots of prisons," said Septimus.

They tried to change the subject again, but it kept drifting back to Dumbledore, and Doppelburg, and the Nazis, and the war.

Then they decided to go to bed, but they didn't have much luck. Alastor tossed and turned all night, fighting shadows in his sleep.

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Harry was adjusting to kriegie life.

The biggest thing about it was the all-pervasive boredom. Harry was used to dull times--warfare was merely a few moments of terror pervading a solid block of boredom--but this was different. The boredom covered you like a moldy blanket. You were no longer a soldier, restless but secure in the knowledge that you were serving a cause. No, you had no purpose anymore. You couldn't help your allies or fight your enemies. The only choice you could make was either to quietly eat your ration of "vegetable" soup or run across the warning wire and make a dash for the fence.

The word for the latter choice was "suicide."

Bartlett told Harry about Ives, a Scotsman with claustrophobia. The man had gone mad one day--his mind at the point where being in a barracks felt like being in a coffin. He'd run out of the barracks one afternoon and rushed the fence.

It took a while for the guard at the nearest tower to respond, as he had probably been dozing or staring off into space. But, as it was, Ives didn't even make it over the first block of barbed wire.

The boredom was maddening, but the men had learned to deal with it. They walked about in a parody of a stroll, greeting their friends along circuits of the compound, or stepping over to another barracks for afternoon tea. (Tea being another word for boiled water.) The men would talk, talk as if they hadn't seen each other in ages and were not currently imprisoned in the same compound. Ten-minute conversations took a least an hour. Talking was a way to ward off the doldrums, as Carter called it.

Keeping busy was another. Some men gardened, while others merely pretended to. They would shuffle around with their hands in their pockets, kicking at the sand and talking to the men who were actually planting things. Other men paraded on the fields for exercise. According to Carter, "we once had a vaulting horse but then the Nazis took it away because some men were 'abusing that privilege.'" Harry wanted Carter to talk more about that, but the man never did, as he was distracted by a group of men playing pinochle, another popular P.O.W. activity. There were classes as well--Harry was learning German and Spanish--and even church services, taught by such chaplains as Robert Jones (Baptist, American Air Force), Paul Wakefield (Anglican, British Royal Air Force), and Father John Murray (Roman Catholic, American Navy).

Camp life was filled with self-imposed work, but Harry was growing sick of it. He had just learned the future tense in Spanish and the imperfect in German, but he felt his little efforts were wasted. He yearned to fight. He owed his very existence to a prophecy of war, and if he couldn't fight Voldemort--if Voldemort lived--he couldn't survive.

One afternoon in October, he set about remedying this.

"I need to talk to you," Harry ordered, cornering Hogan by the camp's "theatre"--an eight-by-six meter hut squatting on the North side of the compound.

"Sure thing," drawled the American. The two of them were accustomed to talking or occasionally playing cards in the barracks. Hogan never seemed to mind answering Harry's questions and he asked few of his own.

Harry didn't know how to say it, so he just looked around to make sure no Jerries were about before blurting out his question. He'd been there over a month--if they didn't trust him now, he supposed they never would. So he may as well ask. "Don't you have an escape plan or something?"

Every P.O.W. was supposed to have one. That was how it worked in the movies.

Hogan, to his credit, did not look surprised. He blinked once and shook his head.

"We have a plan," Hogan told him. "Listen carefully."

Harry leaned forward.

"Sit," said Hogan. "Wait. Eat what we can. Then, when the Nazis get clobbered, go home. That's our plan."

"That's a plan?" Harry retorted. "Sounds like Scheiss to me."

Hogan only laughed. "That's life, kid."

He took out a cigarette, and puffed away by the place between the North guard tower and barracks 4, smiling like he was free and not caged like a dog.