Rating:
R
House:
Schnoogle
Genres:
Action Romance
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Order of the Phoenix Quidditch Through the Ages Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
Stats:
Published: 09/12/2004
Updated: 06/11/2005
Words: 341,488
Chapters: 30
Hits: 175,276

Harry Potter and the Defiance of the Hero

joe6991

Story Summary:
After the devastating events of Sword of the Hero, Harry is flung into a strange and unforgiving world as he struggles against fate and destiny to find a way back to the people he loves and to a war that is waiting for its leader. As the year progresses and the days grow progressively darker, will Harry rise and become the true hero the world desires, or will he fade and be defeated by the strongest evil to have ever lived....? A boy with the fate of two worlds on his shoulders must find the strength to stand by his morals, even if it means giving up the thing he wants the most.

Chapter 13

Chapter Summary:
We've not reached the end yet... that is still far beyond our sight... but we have accomplished a grand beginning. So I suppose this could be the end of the beginning, and the beginning of something else. Harry realises and questions who and what he is, as forces beyond comprehension bend their thought towards his troubled mind. When do heroes get to rest...?
Posted:
12/13/2004
Hits:
5,874


Harry Potter and the Defiance of the Hero

Chapter 13 - The Worlds We Live In

Don't wish me happiness - I don't expect to be happy...
It's gotten beyond that somehow. Wish me courage and
strength and a sense of humour - I will need them all.

~~Anne Morrow Lindbergh

The hardest thing about this life, is having to live it.

"And for outstanding courage against the forces of darkness, and against insurmountable odds and adversity, it is an honour to award Harry James Potter the Order of Merlin, Second Class."

Remember that, even if you remember nothing else...

A round of applause rocked the crowed atrium of the Ministry of Magic, as Harry limped up to the podium situated in front of the fountain of magical brethren and was decorated with his silver medallion. He had to lower his head slightly as Crouch slipped the fine silk ribbon over his head and set it to rest around his neck, but then he was shaking the Minister's hand as a hundred cameras all flashed simultaneously.

He offered the crowd a brief, fake smile - as a real smile was a rare thing of the past - and then walked back over to his fine backed chair, sitting down next to Dermas Trask, who was adorned with a similar silver medallion around his own neck. The Minister had begun to speak again, and was making gestures with his hand towards Harry, but he wasn't really listening.

Harry looked down to the circular piece of pure silver that hung from his neck, felt the cool weight of it against his chest, and then picked it up tightly in his right hand to get a good look at it. The silver surface - which depicted the emblem of the Ministry - reflected the torchlight in the atrium and twinkled in Harry's eyes. Turning it over, he read the inscription on the back, as the crowd of Aurors, civilians, Ministry personnel, reporters... whoever was here... all applauded something Crouch had just said.

The inscription on the medallion read:

Harry James Potter
Order of Merlin, Second Class

For exemplary service in the field of war
April 15
th, 1997

The cameras flashed again and Harry looked up briefly to behold the sea of faces all clapping for him once again. Funny he thought with a humourless shrug, I kill people and they honour me... I kill Death Eaters to save Aurors and they honour me... I've killed pretty much anyone who has stood against me... and these people admire that?

Harry gazed past the crowds and beyond the atrium with its finely decorated walls and enchanted ceilings, and looked back into his life and saw nothing more than death. His parents - my real parents, he thought, not the man sitting next to me - Cedric... twice... Sirius, Ethan, the Dursleys. All of them casualties of war who suffered because Harry wasn't strong enough to change their fates, or so he believed.

"Two decades we have been fighting this war," Crouch continued. "Two long decades of loss and personal heartache. I doubt that there is a single man or woman within these walls who has not been affected by loss in some way during that time.... Hope has been born though, and it comes to us on the backs of these brave individuals, who have accomplished more than we ever thought possible a mere week ago."

Again, a round of applause.

"The balance of power has been turned in favour of the light," said Crouch, to a silent, hopeful crowd. "Our world will soon be free of the dark menace that has plagued it for so long. He Who Must Not Be Named, Lord Voldemort, will know justice for his crimes - for his atrocities - as a special squad of our nation's best will be formed, under the command of Harry James Potter, to seek out and destroy evil at its source. So with that.... Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with great pleasure and pride, that I give you, Commander Harry Potter."

Harry had known it was coming, had known ever since his meeting with Crouch a day ago after he had been released from St. Mungo's. There had been few protests to giving him command of this squad, as by now the world knew of his heroics both at Hogwarts and Azkaban, and no one doubted his power, but some believed him to be too young for such a position. The Minister had used his position to override these concerns and complaints - he, at least, saw reason.

As he rose to the podium to present the small speech he had been obliged to prepare, Harry was momentarily blinded from the flashes of light, as he recalled briefly that meeting with Crouch....

"The Ministry will place its full resources at your disposal, should you choose to accept this responsibility, and fight for an end to this war," Bartemius Crouch said, offering to refill Harry's tea cup from across his large and expensive desk.

"Let me get this straight," Harry said calmly, waving away the tea. "You want me to lead a group of wizards and witches - the best - and take the fight to Voldemort. You're giving me full command of Ministry resources to find and kill him, is that right?"

Crouch's face showed no emotion - nothing, and when he answered he was as honest as he could have been. Harry knew they were way beyond the normal pleasantries and formalities that usually accompanied most situations, so Crouch's answer did not faze him.

"Yes, Mr. Potter," the Minister replied. "You have the strength, and I believe the will and desire to defeat the Dark Lord. We, of course, would like to see that happen... and seeing as how we have failed to achieve that in nearly twenty years of war, we are willing to try anything - even employing someone who hasn't even passed their NEWTs."

Harry nodded. "If I do this... I'll have complete control? Money, people... everything?"

"You will submit reports to me on your progress once a week, or whenever you deem necessary, but other than that... you're a separate force to the Auror division, and to Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix - although you may recruit from these divisions. A group... which will operate in secret for the most part... but your main objective would be to find and eliminate the threat to our world at its source."

"Voldemort..." Harry breathed, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "I'll do it."

"Good evening," Harry began quietly, staring out into the crowd. "Nothing I can say here tonight will matter much in the long run, so I'll keep it brief...." Utter silence reined as every one of them - over five hundred magical people - hung on his every word. "This war... this quarrel over the purity of blood... has gone on for far too long. I aim to put a stop to it now, not in the distant future - but soon. Those of you with children at Hogwarts, or growing up at home, just know that they'll never have to face war like we all have. It's going to end... thank you."

No sound followed Harry's slow footsteps back to his chair, until slowly a quiet clap rang out from somewhere in the crowd, and was quickly joined by another and another, until the entire population of the atrium were roaring their approval. James clapped Harry on the shoulder as he sat down, and the Minister returned to the enchanted podium.

"Short but to the point, well done," James said.

"There's a lot to do," Harry replied, nodding to people who he recognised in the Auror lines. Kingsley... Tonks... Remus.... "And I've only got a few months to do it, before I head back."

James sighed. "You... you could stay," he whispered. "We'd be more than happy to have you."

Could I? Harry wondered. Could I really abandon the real fight? Let my own world deal with it... on their own... NEVER!

"Sorry, James," Harry managed. "I've caused too much damage in that universe. I've got to do what I can to fix it."

"Why you?"

"Who else...?"

****

In war... in life... it is usually the innocent who tragically pay the ultimate price for the ambition of those with power. Great battles can be fought across many fields, within the walls of cities, or on the grounds of ancient castles. A thousand different places. Usually, wherever the location, innocent life is sacrificed for what may or may not be the greater good.

Collateral damage; is the term given to this loss of life most often during military conflicts. Bitterly funny really... two words used to describe the end of a life, or lives. People who had families, friends, jobs, dreams... ambitions of their own, categorised in two words. Referenced, even. They become nothing more than a memory, or a name on a slab of dark and cold stone.

War always breeds collateral damage. It is unavoidable, as certain as the need for air. One side of the conflict has to be completely prepared to see humanity at its worst, to see the destruction left in the wake of a battle - where the collateral damage is high. Preparation is the key, some semblance of control over an uncontrollable situation. A man who has the job of categorising the dead - a group of men and women maybe - are the first line into the field after the battle...

They are the ones who see the carnage left in the wake of war. The ones who see the field after the fight and realise war has no real winner, only survivors who are haunted by memories of distant frontiers and other days of equal bloodshed. They see the price paid for peace, and wonder if it was too high.

These people are always ready - always willing - to face the next massacre. And in the magical world, after twenty years of war, they respond quickly and expertly. No matter what the situation, they'll be there to do their jobs.

So that is why when the bomb of raw magical energy exploded in a torrent of searing heat and blood red flames in Trafalgar Square, the Ministry of Magic was on the scene within ten minutes of the detonation - its group of damage controlling witches and wizards securing the site and clearing away the devastation.

Our own hero also arrived on the scene of destruction soon after that. Harry stood atop of an ash covered and broken stone column riddled set of stairs above the horror that this Muggle square had become in only one brief moment of time. Damn you, Voldemort he thought, as his mind painted a fairly accurate picture of what had happened.

People - both magical and Muggle alike - ran past him on he stairs, and lights of emergency service vehicles and fire were reflected in Harry's emerald green eyes. Screams of the dying or wounded reached his ears and the acrid smell of burning filled his nostrils. Harry took another emotionless look around the once proud square, and he knew that this was a message for him.

Hundreds, maybe even a thousand people walked quickly and with purpose around Trafalgar Square - in the heart of London and through its central business district. It hummed with early morning life. Children threw seed and fatty chips to the pigeons which, on a good day, outnumbered the humans who occupied the Square. Street performers and tour guides led crowds around with their antics, and a large number of the soon to be victims were just admiring the sights and sounds of the famous tourist attraction.

Nelson's Column - a large stone tower of sorts that stands one hundred and eighty five feet high, complete with a seventeen foot high statue of Admiral Nelson himself. A great British war hero, who fought valiantly for his country up until his death in battle off the Spanish coast of Trafalgar, where he defeated Napoleon and the French and Spanish fleets. This column stands proudly in Trafalgar Square, a monument to sacrifice.

The massive column is decorated at the top with Acanthus leaves, cast from British cannons, and at the base are four bronze relief panels - cast from armaments captured from the French. These panels depict the four great victories of Admiral Nelson. Finally, at the four corners of the monument sit four great lions, cast in bronze.

This monument is what most tourists to the Square come to see when they visit London. They admire its beauty and craftsmanship - sometimes stand in awe of it, and the reasons for its existence. Today though, Nelson's column held a dark secret - ticking away at its base, hidden simply beneath an invisibility cloak.

Monday, April 17th 1997. A day that would be remembered for years in this time, in this world, within this universe. A day hundreds died for the pointless attention of one teenage boy, who has a destiny far beyond comprehension or thought, and who his locked in an eternal struggle against the forces of darkness.

The clock tower, Big Ben, chimed with its age old tone as the minute hand clicked onto the twelve, announcing the arrival of the new hour. It could be heard from Trafalgar Square.

DONG!

Nine chimes left and then the world would be irrevocably changed forever.

DONG!

The birds, as if having some innate sense suddenly began to take flight from Trafalgar Square. It was as if they could sense the coming destruction - feel the tension in the air.

DONG!

The clock strikes three....

DONG!

Four is one more.

DONG!

Five and everyone is still alive.

DONG!

Six, the Devil and his tricks.

DONG!

Seven, do you believe in heaven?

DONG!

Eight... Death will not wait.

DONG!

Nine, it is now time.

DONG!

Ten... if only we could start over again.

BOOM!

Precisely as Big Ben strikes ten o'clock, three hundred and twelve lives are ended as the bomb, hidden in plain sight, explodes at the base of Nelson's column. A magical device, this bomb was packed with enough pure energy to disintegrate anything within two hundred and fifty feet.

The first one hundred and fifty feet of the impressive column, which had stood for over one hundred hears, simply dissolves into dust, and the remaining thirty feet, complete with a statue of Admiral Nelson, begins a fast fall to the now scarred ground of Trafalgar Square.

The explosion itself is devastating, as the magic expands and pulsates - destroying life. Red fire is writhed in this destruction, destroying concrete and stone, ending innocent life. An entire tour group of over fifty people is engulfed within these searing hot flames, and later their charred corpses would be found fused into one ashy lump.

Shock followed the initial explosion, which to onlookers one mile away was nothing more than a brief flash of intense red light, followed by a wave of power that knocked them from their feet. A MILE AWAY! Windows in the surrounding buildings for up to half a mile were shattered and cracked, glass falling like rain upon the streets of London. Those unfortunate enough not to have been killed in the explosion, but were still in the square - were thrown high into the air or sent tumbling against the concrete... painful deaths, as magic tore limbs from bodies.

Debris was scattered in an almost symmetrical circle from the base of Nelson's column, which was gone, and many birds that had not been fortunate enough to fly away quickly now fell from the sky as burning balls of feathers.

Seven seconds after all of this happened, the top of Nelson's column, complete with his statue, hit the devastated ground around where it had stood for generations. The thirty feet of rock it was connected to splintered, cracked and was propelled in every direction as dangerous heavy shrapnel. If this served any purpose, it was to cushion the blow for the statue, which miraculously survived unscathed, and now stood defiantly in the ruins of the column it had been perched on before. Admiral Nelson stood on a field of war again, the dying around him and the flames licking at his bronze heels.

Screams of pain, fear, shock and uncertainty followed this cowardly attack. People, survivors, fled in every direction away from the ill-fated Trafalgar Square. Some found refuge in the church of St. Martins, which hung on the outskirts of the Square, and had been littered with large pieces of rock and debris from the explosion.

Many others found a safe haven in the National Art Gallery across from what was once Nelson's column. This gallery held one of the world's richest collections of paintings, and its curator was currently screaming on the phone to the Muggle authorities, as bleeding and broken survivors dragged themselves or others into the sanctuary his gallery had become.

No sooner had the chaos abated, than did a cool and entirely evil cackle sound out through Trafalgar Square and Greater London. It sent fear into the hearts of any who heard it, and eyewitnesses would later claim that the laughter emanated from a glowing green skull that hung in the air eerily.

Innocent men, women, and children lost their lives within those first few seconds after the clock struck ten. Casualties of a war they did not even know was being fought, or ever would know. Heroes in their own right, losses to a cause. Fire spread quickly throughout the Square and surrounding buildings, and soon a thick black smoke heavy with ash filled the air.

Burst pipes and water sources helped to quell some of the blaze, but the magical heat from the bomb lingered and this was unquenchable fuel for fire. Bodies burnt, more fell, and everyone was left wondering why.

The Muggles would never know the truth about what happened here, and is it best they should not? Whether or not they know was of little importance to the secluded society of magical folk, who fear the meaning of that glowing green skull, and who were as of right now only just learning of the attack. Nothing was certain anymore to these people, or any others, except for one thing....

The world had become a darker place at ten o'clock that morning, Trafalgar Square had been razed to the ground, hundreds had died, and it was all to send a message to one teenage boy.

For a moment, all Harry Potter could do was stare at the destruction around him. Nothing could have pulled his eyes away from the corpses or flames that littered this once busy place. His unblinking and slightly glazed eyes examined the wreckage in all its horrid and gruesome detail. Members of Harry's fast forming squad stood around him in equal disbelief that humanity could be so cruel, none of them said anything. There was nothing to say.

You think I'd be use to death by now, Harry thought, as he took the first step down the steps that were covered with ash and debris. He blinked once on his descent, and in that moment wished that he could be anyone else.... be anywhere else. He walked past Muggle emergency service personnel, who took a brief cursory glance at him before shrugging and continuing on with their jobs - whatever they had to do.

Harry didn't have to fear being asked any questions or being stopped by the Muggles. His Charms expert had cast excellent Muggle repelling and confusing spells before they had left Hogwarts. All of the Ministry and magical folk here would have some sort of disguise if they were going to walk through a Muggle inhabited magical disaster area.

The members of his squad fanned out around him silently, each one here to collect evidence or heal any wounded they came across. It had only been ten minutes since the explosion, there was a good chance that on an area of ground this size - there were still people dying.

Smoke blew into and around Harry and it made his throat sore and his eyes sting, but he couldn't do anything about it. Glass shards cracked under his dragon hide boots as he took slow steps across Trafalgar Square. He could still hear sirens in the distance and see flashing lights through the smoke but this didn't bother him.

As was his way, he squeezed his right wrist slightly and felt the wand there still secured in its new holster. Briefly he realised he still needed to purchase several items from Diagon Alley. Definitely a job for another day, another time.

Passing the dry, scorched and cracked fountain in the centre of the Square - that had been bubbling with water only a quarter of an hour ago - Harry came across a body that was, under the circumstances, in fairly good condition. Although whoever it was wasn't moving, and lifeless eyes stared up at Harry from where she lay against the wall of the fountain. Just to be sure, Harry pressed his fingers into the young woman's neck.... she was still warm, but there was no pulse.

A single tear, a rare thing for Harry, worked its way through the coarse unshaven stubble on his face as he beheld two lifeless bodies - both children - and continued on to where he knew Nelson's column had stood only a short time ago. Ash was clinging to his white robes, which were now dirty, and it stuck to his hair. Sighing, Harry cast a quick cooling charm as the area he was entering was blisteringly hot. He doubted anyone had been this close to the column yet.

Just another day, he thought sadly, straining his eyes against the smoke that clouded his vision. He coughed once from smoke inhalation, but it was sporadic - there was no danger of doing any damage. This close to the centre of the explosion, and Harry saw unrecognizable lumps that he knew to be more corpses. He was careful not to tread on anything other than burnt ground and ash.

The heat became more intense so Harry cast a stronger cooling charm and came in time to the large piles of rock that had once stood one hundred and fifty feet above the ground. He came in time to the still standing statue of Admiral Nelson. Harry paused as he beheld the bronze man, and he could only just see his face seventeen feet above him. Having no idea who this was a statute of, Harry moved on past the statue and then found something that confirmed his worst fears.

The smell of burnt flesh was terrible and it made Harry feel sick as he approached the base of Nelson's column alone. A green glow had caught his eye though, and for a moment he though it was another Dark Mark, but if possible it was something far worse. The large stone... steps, I suppose they could be called, that had been the foundation of the column were covered in rock and fire, but blazing defiantly green against this destruction was a hideous message - a sign that showed to Harry why these people had died today.

Green letters, written in fire, were scrawled where the bomb had sat twenty five minutes ago. Of magical design, the fire letters read:

Potter
Resistance means Death
But not for you... yet
The Innocent will suffer first

Harry put one foot up on a slab of rock in front of him and rested his left forearm against his raised knee as he read this message, and he couldn't stop the scowl developing on his features. Wind blew ash around him and Harry felt anger bubbling in his chest. He felt and saw the bolts of power rippling across his skin in response to this powerful emotion.

Control it, he thought, or it controls you.... Thanks to the green fire message, there was no doubt in Harry's mind to who was responsible for this atrocity, and he swore on the memory of those who had died that he would one day, somehow, rid both of his worlds of Voldemort. For he considered the world he lived in now to be real, and as such would die to protect it.

"Commander Potter," said a known voice from behind Harry, and he silently berated himself for not hearing their approach.

"What is it, Grace?" he asked, not turning around but keeping his eyes glued on the fire message. "And call me Harry, just Harry."

Grace Arnair, one of Harry's six trainers in his own world, fell silent as she read the message through the smoke and walked up to stand beside Harry. "We've healed many around the perimeter," she said slowly, her eyes flicking from Harry's to the message - trying to discern his thoughts. "And portkeyed about three dozen to St. Mungo's, unconscious of course."

"Yes?"

Grace sighed. "Most are dead," she said, brushing a strand of her long brown hair back behind her ears. "We saved as many as we could... but it's a massacre."

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Harry raised his palm and sent a bolt of pure power into the glowing green letters scrawled onto the base of Nelson's column. His eyes blazed fury as the words were obliterated from existence, enveloped in cleansing light, and without another word Harry turned around and walked away, with Grace at his heels.

"You know," he said quietly, thoughtfully, to Grace as the two of them walked back out of the Square. Through the fire and smoke, brushing passed still falling ash and burnt corpses. "The faces are the same across any world... always the same...."

"What?"

Harry shook his head sadly, regretfully. "Never mind... I'm just rambling...."

More Muggles ran by the two of them, but they ran by without noticing either Harry or Grace. Not really watching his footing, Harry trod on the fingers of a man lying dead in his path. The ring on the man's finger told Harry more about him than he wanted to know, and suppressing a shudder he moved quickly on.

The despair of what had happened was just another memory that would live on in Harry's mind for as long as he did. It would gnaw at him in his dreams... or nightmares... whenever he managed to sleep, and as he Apparated out of what remained of Trafalgar Square with his team, he knew that his soul had died a little more, but his resolve to win this fight had hardened beyond breaking point.

****

Later that Evening
Hogwarts, Room of Requirement

"It was a show of force. Pure and simple. Targeted at you, Harry. He wanted to show you, and the world, that his grip is still strong - that he has not been defeated yet."

"Hmm...." Harry sighed, rubbing his forehead. "What do you think, Dermas?"

Harry was seated at a circular table within the room of requirement. This room at Hogwarts was serving as headquarters, the meeting place, for his squad of the best witches and wizards in the nation. It had taken Harry only a day since his Order of Merlin presentation to form this group, and they were now just getting started out in the world. Influencing power, calling in favours, searching for Voldemort's hiding place.

There were seven people at the table, Harry made eight. Starting from his left sat Dermas Trask. He was an obvious member of the team, as he knew the wizard underground well, and plenty of people owed him favours. On Dermas' left sat Grace Arnair, their Charms and intricate spell caster. To Grace's left was Sirius Black, who had been given leave from his position as Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts - a position which Dumbledore now filled.

Sirius had been another obvious choice. His family was extremely wealthy and influential. The name Black, for good or evil, carried a lot of weight in certain circles. Sirius would be a valued member of the so far nameless team. Harry just hoped he didn't get him killed... again.

Making up the fifth member of the team, and sitting to Sirius' left, was Nymphadora Tonks. Reassigned by the Ministry, and Dumbledore's liaison with Harry's group and the Order of the Phoenix. She was currently leaning back in her chair with bubblegum pink hair and her feet up on the table. Her manner was entirely serious though, and she was a valuable fighter.

Next to her was member number six - Art Nuan. An Indian man who sported a curly goatee and dark piercing eyes that hardly ever blinked. He was a hitwizard, a wand for hire. Had he not wanted to see Voldemort dead, it was most likely that he would be one of the many bounty hunters who were after Harry's head. As such, he was good for keeping tabs on international bounties, and the locations of other hitwizards. Recommended by Trask, he apparently knew the faces of the world's best hunters - and would prove to be invaluable over the coming months. Not one to speak much, he discerned a lot from their conversations, and anything he did say was intelligent and to the point.

Number seven was another new face for Harry. A woman nearing her thirties - Sophia Tréla. She had wavy blonde hair that cascaded down her back in perfect strands and blue eyes that were nothing more than two cold chips of ice. An enticingly beautiful woman, but quick on the draw with a wand - not a person to be crossed. She was a curse breaker, and knew Knockturn Alley very well. Another link in the seedy underground where Death Eaters could hide.

Member number eight was another familiar face for Harry, although the man himself had never met Harry before. At least not in this universe. Thomas Fright - a former Auror and instructor of highly advanced curse magic and defensive spells. He was their best duellist next to Harry, and he had already scheduled practice battles for the whole team to take place sometime this week. They were supposed to be the best, and Fright wanted to see how each of their skills matched up against one another.

A short man, Fright had long dark hair that he tied back into a ponytail, which defined his face quite clearly and the stubble on his cheeks gave him a dark look. Silent for the most part, he had been one of Harry's special instructors alongside Grace Arnair earlier that year.

Harry quickly ran through all he knew of these people, whilst listening to Trask's response to the Trafalgar Square attack - something the Muggles had decided was the work of terrorists. Magical terrorists, Harry thought. Just another weapon. He decided he couldn't have chosen anyone better for this job, and just hoped now that they were up to the task.

He had thought briefly of asking Dumbledore to join his team, but with his responsibilities to more than one Wizarding law enforcement department, he had decided against it. Dumbledore may have been an extremely powerful wizard, but he was too well known and... noble... for a job like this.

"It may be the first of many," Trask said. "This attack, it killed over three hundred, but it was relatively small compared to what Voldemort could truly do. We have to be prepared for another, perhaps as soon as tomorrow."

"Who would know?"

Dermas clicked his teeth together thoughtfully for a few moments before answering. "Creating a magical explosive device... it isn't simple. It's a mix of Muggle technology and raw magical energy, which is packed into the Muggle device."

"What are you saying?" asked Sirius, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm saying," continued Trask. "That Voldemort couldn't create one on his own. He would need parts... components and wizards with expertise in this field to construct another bomb."

"There would be a trail," Harry speculated. "A trail we could follow, from the supplier maybe even to Voldemort himself...."

"Exactly," Trask nodded.

"Knockturn Alley may be a good place to start, Commander," Sophia said neutrally.

Harry nodded absently, glancing briefly into Sophia's cold eyes. Despite his best efforts, he could not get her to call him Harry. She had grown up within the French Auror military, and as such the chain of command was ingrained deeply into her character. She would ever call him by the field commission the Ministry had bestowed upon him. Commander.

"Go tonight, if you will, Sophia," he replied. "We need to know if there is another attack planned. I don't... no... I won't have any more Muggles suffer for our mistakes."

The group fell silent for a few moments and Harry required a glass of water and it appeared in front of him. "Well I think this issue has been exhausted," he sighed, before taking a deep drink. The glass disappeared with a thought and he said, "Any other business?"

"A team name and equipment requirements," Thomas Fright said, twirling a finger around his ponytail. "If we're going to act the part we need to look the part."

"Too true," smiled Sirius. "And the Minster has kindly given us free reign over the defence budget."

Harry nodded. "Suggestions?"

"Basic Auror survival kit... with a few modifications," Tonks said, swinging her feet off the table and sitting up straight in her chair.

"I didn't think they used those anymore," Sirius frowned. "Too expensive, not very reliable if I remember correctly, and no good in a skirmish."

Fright shook his head. "For a small force such as this one they should work well. Especially if they're outfitted with top of line gear..."

"What are they?" Harry asked.

Sirius shrugged. "Back in the early years of the war... Aurors were dying fast," he began, his eyes sinking into their sockets - taking on a haunted look that Harry found eerily familiar of the Sirius he had known in his own world. "The Ministry issued special survival kits to each and every Auror straight out of training. It was a trunk, that could be reduced or expanded - along with its contents - and it held things such as a broom, a spare wand, money, potions... you get the idea."

"And they stopped using these?"

"It cost upwards of five hundred galleons to create one, and there are hundreds of Aurors. We found that Death Eaters would either take or destroy the kits after a fight, if they won. For a time, we were aiding the enemy and there were even a few suicide attacks on the Auror division because of it."

"What? Why?"

"Each trunk was fitted with a Portkey back into the Ministry. An amazing blunder, now that I think about it," Sirius finished, slowly shaking his head.

Harry was deep in thought at this point, and decided for the affirmative with these kits. It seemed the wisest thing to do. He didn't want to be responsible for the deaths of any of these men or women who had agreed to aid him in finding and destroying Voldemort. A means of escape, perhaps more than one, would be essential.

"I'll look into these tomorrow," Harry said. "Unless there's another attack, but I want you to look into that at Hogsmeade tonight, Dermas. Even Death Eaters drink at the Three Broomsticks, or maybe the Hog's Head, you could-"

"Harry," Sirius said carefully. "The Hog's Head was destroyed in an attack two years ago. It wasn't rebuilt."

Harry realised that every other member of his team, bar Sirius, was looking at him strangely. These people were the best at what they did, and they were all suspicious of their Commander. Nothing of his past was known, except that he had supposedly died in Diagon Alley six years ago... and yet here he was.

"I didn't know that," he said by way of explanation. It wasn't one of course, but it was all Harry would give. "Anyway... Dermas, check out Hogsmeade. Alert the Aurors if you discover anything about an attack. Same for you as well, Sophia. The Aurors can respond faster than we can at the moment."

"Well I think that's it then," Grace said.

"We still need a team name," Art Nuan whispered. It was one of the only things he had said all evening.

"That can wait until tomorrow," Harry replied, waving his hand dismissively. "Although you can all think on it tonight."

Silently, the seven members of Harry's team got up to leave. They wished each other goodnights, happy hunting. Traded soft jokes about staying out of trouble, and then said goodbye to Harry - who had remained seated as they all departed.

"Same time tomorrow morning everyone," he said before they left. "Unless something happens before then...."

"Goodnight, Commander," Sophia Tréla said, sweeping out of the room quickly.

"Don't stay up past your bedtime," Sirius joked with a smile, attacking his age. "Lily wouldn't be happy."

Harry nodded and glanced up at the wall, just as a clock appeared. It was almost eight o'clock. Not too late, but still dark enough for Sophia and Dermas to begin their missions. "I'm having dinner with my... parents and Dumbledore at eight thirty," he replied.

After the rest of the team had said their final goodbyes and exited, Harry sighed heavily as the large table and all the other chairs disappeared, and his own chair transformed into a large and comfy armchair, much like the ones in the Gryffindor common room. Harry was unable to keep the frown off his face as the fatigue of everything that was always, always happening caught up with him.

Today has been a long day, he thought tiredly, running a hand through his hair. Now that he was on his own, this fatigue was the only sign of weakness he would ever show outside of this room. He had to remain strong most other times, for the sake of all who had placed their hope in him.

The clock on the wall struck eight and Harry looked up into the emptiness of the darkened room before him. Only a faint flicker of torchlight remained glowing along the stone wall, and that was dying. Harry preferred the dark though, and didn't require the room to illuminate itself any further.

He had some time to kill before he was needed anywhere, so Harry required the room to provide him with something to read. No sooner had he thought it, did a thick text appear in his lap - The Art of War. Having enough light to read by, Harry slowly flicked through the pages of this book, which felt very old to him. He had asked for a book on war tactics, leadership roles... and so on. It came as a bit of a surprise that the room gave him a book written by a Muggle.

Sun Tzu... Harry read, returning to the cover. Vague memories surfaced as he read the title of the book again. He'd heard it somewhere before, possibly mentioned by Hermione at some point. He didn't remember much about the book, but he did recall that it had been written over two thousand years ago. He turned the pages slowly, glancing at passages of text which seemed to be highlighted, that jumped out at him from the page.

Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look upon them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death.

To subdue the enemy without fighting is the supreme excellence.

It is only one who is thoroughly acquainted with the evils of war that can thoroughly understand the profitable way of carrying it on.

The clock struck once as the minute hand reached a quarter of an hour, and Harry snapped the book closed. Appropriate stuff, he thought tiredly for a moment, before standing up and walking over to the door. The book and his chair disappeared as he did.

There were a few people, Hogwart's students, in the corridors and halls of the castle as Harry made his way up to his parent's quarters. He walked by a few Ravenclaws who stared at him in awe as he passed, but then remembered they had to make curfew at eight thirty, and quickly hurried along. Harry ignored them all - he didn't have the time for them now.

Images of the massacre that day assaulted his mind as he walked in the silence and ever growing darkness. Horrific images, bitter images. Charred and burning corpses, the man's arm with a wedding ring upon his finger. All of it came back in a continuous loop and Harry found himself shaking his head to be rid of it.

I can't do this... he thought, looking out of a nearby window and seeing the Hogwarts grounds. He then looked beyond that and out into a strange new world, which it seemed he was destined to save.

"Damn it," he whispered, thinking of Voldemort. Everything, every death, every loss, every moment of pain, always came back to that creature. Whether it was the Voldemort of one world or the Voldemort of another. He was always at the centre, inspiring chaos and creating new and effective ways of murdering innocent people.

I have to kill him, Harry sighed. He has to die. But to do it more than once...? That's just unfair.

"That's life," he said, rubbing his almost healed shoulder. Occasionally it would start to throb and go numb, which meant the circulation was failing. A few quick rubs and it was as good as new. Harry found that it was worst in the morning, when he could sleep. He'd wake up and his entire right arm would feel numb. It was a weakness, one that could cost him sooner or later. He decided he would look into medicines tomorrow, along with everything else he needed to purchase.

Dinner that night was nothing special. It was just him, Dumbledore, James and Lily. They talked little... what was there to talk about? And Harry ate little as well. He never really felt hungry that day, not after what he had seen in London that morning. The four of them discussed the war, not going into too fine a detail, and Lily thanked Harry again for going to Azkaban.

James raised the question of Quidditch again, and for a brief moment Harry longed to be back in the air on a broom, doing nothing more - worrying about nothing more - than chasing and catching that small golden ball. Dumbledore was still delighted with the idea, and suggested this mock up game between the Cup winners Gryffindor, and James' and Harry's team, could take place at the end of the month. Harry quickly agreed, and it became one of the few things he was looking forward to.

At around ten o'clock that evening, Harry headed back to Gryffindor tower, thoughts of his bed in mind. He both longed for, and dreaded going to sleep. So much had happened these last few months that Harry was constantly feeling dead on his feet, but nightmares plagued his sleeping hours and it was always hard to get rest.

That said, he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow up in the sixth year dormitory. He had avoided and ignored all of the stares he had received down in the common room, and as sleep took him Harry had one final thought. I wonder what tomorrow will bring?

His sleep was deep but, as he had expected, troubled. A strange heat filled the room as Harry slept, and none of the other sixth year boys knew where it came from. They assumed a warming charm had been cast, and left it at that. None of them could see the glowing gold scar on Harry's forehead behind his drapes, surrounding his bed. None of them could see a thing.

****

Five hours was all he managed before waking in a cold sweat. Shivering in the early morning cold and rubbing his eyes of dry sleep, Harry stood up shakily on the fine carpet and grabbed his robes, shirt and jeans from the foot of his bed. In just his boxers, he made his way across the dormitory and headed into the showers across the landing.

Fifteen minutes later and Harry was silently exiting the common room. He'd had to make a quick trip back into the dormitory to fetch his dragon hide boots, and mentally made a note to get some more armour for himself and the team. His old piece of armour had saved his life a dozen times over on the day of the final battle in his own world. It was good stuff.

By four o'clock that morning Harry was wide awake, feeling a little tired but reenergised nonetheless, and back in the Room of Requirement. He stood behind a large desk that had dozens of maps of the British Isles spread out across it haphazardly. A few long sticked candles in their holders provided light and held down the corners of some of the maps, as Harry frowned upon them and rubbed his early morning stubble, which was a few days old now as he hadn't shaved since Saturday.

"Where are you?" he asked the maps quietly, glaring from one corner of Scotland down all the way to London. "Where would you hide?"

Harry was, of course, looking hopelessly for Slytherin fortress. That was what he and his team, his squad, were created to do. Find and destroy Voldemort. Harry knew Voldemort wasn't stupid, and he knew that he would most likely never see him again outside of that fortress, wherever it was. The problem here though, was that it had been hidden for a millennium, but Harry would search anyway.

Only rumours so far had reached him from the ears of his team, and their information had come from less than reliable sources. No Death Eater had been given the location, and had only ever Apparated inside of it occasionally. They couldn't tell the Ministry, or anyone for that matter, where the fortress was located.

Ethan, the Dark Lord's spawn, hadn't been any help either. He wasn't talking. Still rotting away within a Ministry holding cell, Harry would need to speak with him soon. I'll make him talk... he thought. One way or another.

He waved his hand and one map rolled itself away as another unfolded before him. This one just a map of England, with glowing red markers to indicate magical settlements, or the location of ancient castles. There were hundreds - he'd never find it this way. Salazar Slytherin... if I were Slytherin where would I build my fortress...?

Pointless, he realised. It may not even be on the British Isles. Magic made the world very small. The fortress could be on the continent, or under the sea for all he knew.

"I'll find you..." Harry sighed eventually, and then required the maps and desk to disappear with a thought. He fell back into his armchair next to a fire that had just roared to life in the required fireplace.

What am I doing...? he thought, not for the first time. Who am I to lead this war? Why do I have to sacrifice the lives of those under my command? Because I will, when the time comes... I'd sacrifice them all if I could take Voldemort down.

And the truly terrible thing about these thoughts, Harry knew, was that he seriously would contemplate it if the choice arose. War had changed him from the young, wide eyed and amazed eleven year old youth that had discovered magic from a giant of a man called Hagrid, and into something much more practical - colder, efficient. A killer of the most dangerous sort. One with nothing to lose, one not allowing anything to stand between him and his goal - the death of evil.

An admirable goal, some might say, but what would they say of the path taken to achieve it... Harry's path was littered, was paved, with the bodies of his enemies, or worse his friends and family - the cement that held it together was mixed with blood. A dark path that led to a purpose stronger than the laws of life and death... of magic and faith. It would ultimately either destroy or save all worlds.

The small teenage boy who walked this path and influenced its course had no idea of these things though, and he currently sat with his head in his hands, remembering the love he and Ginny had shared in those final weeks within his own universe. It seemed like a distant memory now, a pleasure felt years ago across some vast distance which time had long since forgotten.

When Harry looked up at the clock again it had just gone five, and he knew he didn't have any more time to spend within his memories - not when a job had to be done. With a thought, he required a book, one he had seen in the library, to appear before him. It was a thick tome, entitled The Founders: History since 950A.D.

I hope there's something in here, Harry thought, opening the book to the contents page. He scanned it briefly, before turning to the parchment leaf one, of seven hundred and thirty four.

At a time of unrest in the magical world, where magical talent ran unchecked and uneducated across the isles of Britain, the four greatest wizards and witches of the age founded the...

Harry knew all of this, and his eyes jumped quickly from paragraph to paragraph, hunting for key words. Fortress... Slytherin... War... He became so engrossed within the thick text that he didn't hear the door to the Room of Requirement open and close quietly, nor did he see the two figures that approached him until their shadows were cast over the page.

"Commander Potter," Sophia Tréla said promptly, nodding respectfully to him as he stood up from his chair.

"Hey, Harry," Dermas Trask, the other person to enter the room, said. "You go to sleep at all last night?"

"Briefly..." Harry replied. "Did you two find anything? Anything at all?"

Every member of Harry's team knew the workings of the Room of Requirement, and with a few quick thoughts the three of them were once again seated around the large circular table that served as an appropriate place to conduct their meetings.

"I heard nothing of an impending attack, Commander," Sophia said professionally, her voice strong. Although Harry could see the lines around her eyes. She was tired. "Knockturn Alley was unusually quiet last night."

"Same for Hogsmeade," Dermas said. "No one's heard a thing - and I did ask a Death Eater."

"How?" asked Harry.

Dermas shrugged. "They're only human. Half a bottle of firewhiskey and I told him I was interested in joining the 'cause', you know, and he told me vague things about the power and respect being a Death Eater brought you. He knew nothing about an attack though."

"Doesn't mean there won't be one..."

"No it doesn't," agreed Dermas. "But if there's going to be one, lets just hope the Ministry had better luck than we did thwarting it."

Harry sighed and nodded. "Anything else?"

"Yes," Dermas and Sophia said in unison.

"Ladies first," Dermas then said.

Sophia nodded. "Death Eater recruitment is on the increase. I was approached twice last night by recruitment men, who I memory charmed afterwards, but they were talking to all the wizards and witches in the pubs - Voldemort is boosting his numbers."

Harry rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "Is that what you were going to say, Dermas?"

Trask nodded. "It was."

"Strength in numbers...." Harry whispered. "I don't suppose you've found Slytherin fortress? Or is that just wishful thinking?"

Trask laughed. "That's like searching for a grain of salt in a stack of needles that's been dumped in a barn full of hay. No one has any idea where it is. No one!"

"I'm afraid I'll have to agree with Trask's appraisal of the situation," Sophia said, with a nod of her head to Dermas. "For all we know it may not even exist..."

"Oh it exists," Harry said quickly, in total honesty. "It just doesn't like to be found."

"What's the move then?" asked Dermas.

Harry shook his head and for a moment stared despondently at the floor. "You two are going to get some sleep," he eventually said. "While I sort out some supplies and reschedule this morning's meeting to seven o'clock tonight."

****

It has been said by many across many worlds and many times, that when it grows dark enough - we can see the stars. A metaphor, perhaps, that light will always find a way to penetrate darkness, even at its source. A good metaphor to believe in... But beliefs are not always correct, and just because a man can die for them it doesn't make them true.

At least, that's what Harry thought as he walked down the crowded street in Diagon Alley, heading towards Quality Quidditch Supplies. He had just bought eight expandable trunks, which could be shrunken down to pocket size. They were of simple design - their only magical feature being the ability to adjust size. One compartment with enough room to store a basic kit of survival gear. Harry intended to use them to their full potential.

Apart from the Trafalgar Square incident yesterday, Death Eater attacks had been zero over the past week or so, and as such people were not as afraid to come out of their homes, and Diagon Alley was rather busy as Harry jostled his way through the crowds. He had to stop on occasion and shake his head, allowing a mysterious darkness that kept settling over his eyes to dissipate.

It had happened three times since he had Apparated to the Alley that morning, and just like the previous time - a veil, almost like a thin black cloth that was semi-transparent, fell before his eyes and made the entire world, or what he could see of it, appear hazy. Harry knew he wasn't imagining anything each time it happened, but he also knew that no one else around him was suffering from this... condition.

Just like he couldn't know his scar was burning while he slept, Harry couldn't know what was happening here - and he wouldn't know for many months - but he shrugged it off now as merely fatigue, and decided to ask Madam Pomfrey for a dreamless sleep potion tonight, so he could get some proper rest.

The dark haze that had settled on his world disappeared, and it fell from Harry's mind also as he entered the Quidditch shop. His eyes beheld the familiar sight gladly, as he took in all the moving Quidditch posters on the wall, the Snitches that were flying around the shop freely, the numerous books on the sport, the walls and cabinets lined with Quidditch merchandise, robes, arm guards, brooms.

The shop wasn't as busy as Harry had expected, and carrying the brown paper parcel with his trunks inside under one arm, he headed over to the counter where a young witch was seated reading the latest edition of Witch Weekly. Possessing strawberry blonde hair, which she was absently curling around her wand, Harry coughed politely to get her attention.

The sales witch looked up quickly, and dropped her magazine onto the glass counter. Harry's eyes briefly skipped down to it, and he held back a sigh when he saw his own picture adorning the front cover, under the sub heading: Who is Harry Potter?

"How can I help you?" the young witch asked nervously, making the connection with the magazine in a second.

"I'm after some brooms," Harry said.

"Well we've got plenty of them," the witch waved her wand towards a stack of parchment and a piece of it flew deftly into her spare hand. "What type you after?"

"Preferably one that flies," he said with a touch of humour. "A Firebolt."

The young witch, who had offered a small smile at Harry's poor joke, now frowned and appeared to fall into deep thought. "A what?" she asked.

"A Firebolt," Harry said. "International racing broom."

"I've never heard of it..." she replied, shaking her head. "Which company makes it?"

"Obviously one that doesn't exist in this world..." Harry said under his breath. And then louder, "What's your top of the line model?"

"Well..." the young sales witch said nervously, obviously slightly unnerved so far about this encounter. "That would be the WindStream."

"The WindStream?"

"Uh-huh. Fastest broom in the world. Zero to one hundred and fifty in three and a half seconds. Very expensive though."

Harry nodded, thinking of the Firebolt's capabilities. It wasn't that fast! This broom was something entirely different altogether. "How much do they cost?" he then asked, but the price was no problem. The Ministry had given him a book of payment parchment, already signed by the Minister. Blank cheques, to coin a Muggle term. Harry only had to scrawl in the amount of the purchase.

The sales witch sucked in her breath severely. "One would set you back seven hundred galleons."

"Really!?" Harry said amazed. He didn't know for sure the price of a Firebolt back in his own world, but he didn't think it would have been that much.

"You won't be buying one then," she replied, looking slightly dismayed. It wasn't a question.

Harry choked back a small laugh and turned to give her an honest smile. "No, no... I'll take eight."

Packing a broom into each separate trunk, expanding and reducing them all twice, took Harry ten minutes of his time - and it was nearing noon when he stepped back out onto the crowded street of Diagon Alley. Thankfully, no strange haze fell before his eyes and the sun beat down on him with a heat that promised a scorching summer, especially for this part of the world.

Where to now? he wondered, looking around at all the different shops. What would be useful to put in these trunks? Harry realised then that it would have been better to wait a day, so he and his team could have made a proper list of items. He was lost now, unsure on what to purchase beyond carry-alls and brooms. And, he thought when he saw Ollivander's, they'll all need to come here to be fitted for a second wand. The wand chooses the wizard.

That's it then. I should head back to Hog- Stopping in mid-stride, Harry knew where he was heading next and turned and began to walk across the road towards a shop that had existed in Hogsmeade back in his own world. Standing proudly against the left wall of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, and opposite from Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, was...

Elendil Armourer's
Maker's of the Finest Battle Wear
Since 78 A.D.

With a small smile, Harry remembered the very large, but very happy, man who had owned this store in Hogsmeade. Marcus Elendil, if it was the same man in this universe then he was about six and a half feet tall, had long bear like arms that were knotted with muscle, and a big bushy grey beard that hung halfway down his chest. He was bald and had sharp, piercing grey eyes.

The bell above the door tinkled to announce Harry's arrival as he stepped over and through the frame and into the dusty, archaic shop. The first thing that hit Harry about this shop was the smell. It smelt strongly of leather, or more accurately, dragons hide. There were long columns of armour running the length of the store, brown dragon hide hung from the walls, ceiling, and was piled on the floor. There were also a few stands that held robes, of all colours.

Weaponry, of modern and ancient designs, adorned the walls in an array of shiny silverly surfaces. Long cleavers, bastard swords, claymores, smaller blades and at least three dozen knives all caught Harry's eye. Briefly, it made him long for his own blade, the blade of Gryffindor. If he concentrated on it, his left arm felt somewhat hollow without the sword being there - awaiting his call.

"Can I help you?" came a gruff and thankfully familiar voice from behind Harry. Just like it had happened in his own world, Harry hadn't heard Marcus Elendil's approach, which was an amazing feat considering the sheer size of the man. He was exactly as Harry had remembered him, right down to the scar along his right arm.

"Marcus Elendil," Harry said strongly, turning around and looking up slightly at the man.

"Do I know you?" Elendil said, suddenly on his guard. Harry saw him eyeing the swords on a stand barely four feet away, and decided he didn't want to get into a fight with this man.

"No..." Harry replied. "But I know you."

"Oh yeah?" he said hotly.

Harry nodded. "You have a reputation as the best armourer in the world, and I've come to buy some armour."

Marcus's expression softened a bit, but he was still suspicious. "Who are you? You look familiar?"

Harry switched his bag containing the eight small trunks from his right hand to his left hand and offered it to the tall man. "Harry Potter," he said. "It's good to meet you."

Harry saw a twinkle of recognition dawn in Elendil's grey eyes as they shook hands. "Well," Marcus said, moving around his display stands and heading for the stool placed behind the sales counter. "S'not often I get much business these days. Armoury's a dying trade, I'm afraid... but I'll see what I can do for you, Mr. Potter."

"Thank you," Harry replied. "I'm looking for nothing but the best, you understand, I did have some made from a Hungarian Horntail, but that didn't hold up well against the blade," he finished, understating the trauma his armour had been placed under when Voldemort had run him through with his own sword.

"Can't have been well made then," Marcus huffed, picking up his long pipe from off of the counter in front of him. He lit it with a click of his fingers, and took a deep breath of the smoke. "Nothing's supposed to be able to get through Horntail. Poor make..."

Harry shrugged. He couldn't tell Marcus that it was he who had actually made the armour... well, a Marcus of another universe. Damn this got confusing! Harry thought idly.

"It held up well against brute force and most curses that hit it," Harry then said. "It held up really well. But the blade that pierced it... it was a magical blade."

"Still shouldn't have got through," the large armourer said, waving his hand dismissively. "Dragon armour has magical properties of its own, and I don't know of a harder substance to make it from than Hungarian Horntail."

"Really?" Harry asked, feeling dismayed. If Hungarian Horntail was it, and Hungarian Horntail had failed... then I'm wasting my time here.

Marcus laughed as he refilled his pipe with tobacco flakes. "Aye, there used to be another creature we could make the strongest armour from. Back about five hundred years ago. Damn near impregnable this stuff, or so say all the reports."

"What was it?" Harry asked, not really paying much attention anymore. He had turned his attention towards the swords hanging on the walls though. He might as well get a replacement for now, and then...

"A basilisk," Marcus said, and laughed again - as if the idea of obtaining basilisk hide amused him. "Nothing stronger... not in this world anyway. Well my father used to go on and on about how hard it was to get-"

Harry's eyes widened as several pivotal and seemingly invisible pieces of a very complex puzzle fell into place with one simple word, uttered from the mouth of an innocent man just relating his family history. Everything just became so bleeding obvious, that for a moment words failed him. It was simple though...

"What did you say?" Harry said quickly, abandoning the sword stand and turning back sharply to look Marcus squarely in the eyes.

Marcus frowned and shrugged. "My dad," he said. "Used to go on for ages about all the types of armour-"

"No, before that."

The armourer fell silent for a moment, frowning at Harry and taking a few short puffs on his pipe. "You mean about the basilisk?" Harry nodded, a smile playing at his lips. Marcus wasn't smiling. "Do you know what a basilisk is, Mr. Potter?" he asked.

Harry was shaking his head. The Chamber of Secrets... Salazar Slytherin's secret chamber. There's got to be something down there about his fortress. "Giant snake, isn't it?" Harry answered Marcus after a moment. "Fangs, lives for hundreds of years, to look upon it is death. That about right?"

Nodding, Marcus said, "So you see why we can no longer make armour from the basilisk hide. We simply don't have any. Basilisks were fair game back in the Middle Ages and before, but they're near extinction now, if any even still exist at all."

Harry was thinking quickly. It all made sense, everything was coming full circle. He didn't really doubt that he would find something of use down in that Chamber, but did he want to risk waking a basilisk to obtain it. Yes, he answered his own question.

"Also, it used to take dozens of wizards working as one to take down a basilisk for its hide. If there was one, I wouldn't go near it - even though I'd be a very rich man for even making and selling one set of armour from such a hide."

"If you could get a basilisk hide," Harry speculated innocently. "From a large basilisk, fifty feet at least, how many sets of armour could you make?"

Harry saw the eagerness and excitement in Marcus's eyes, even if this was only speculation. Harry knew it wasn't, but did Marcus? "Four dozen sets, at least."

And then, another thought came to Harry, and he knew he'd have no trouble taking down the basilisk a second time. If anything, it would be ridiculously simple - and all he needed to do was practice a bit of transfiguration.

"If I can get you a basilisk," Harry said slowly. "Will you make me eight sets of armour for free?"

Marcus stared at him for a moment, searching for the punch line maybe, looking for the lie in Harry's eyes. There wasn't one. "If you could get me a basilisk," Marcus said, just as carefully. "Then I'll give you my first born child."

Harry smiled, and then offered his hand again to the man - who now appeared dumbstruck. "That won't be necessary. I'll owl you within the week if I manage to acquire the hide."

Marcus took his hand and then Harry turned to leave, a thousand and one thoughts reeling through his mind as he headed over to the door - the least of all slaying a basilisk. He may have just found Slytherin Fortress!

"Mr. Potter!" Marcus called as the chimes rang out through the shop as he had opened the door. "This isn't illegal, is it? I won't accept tainted merchandise."

"Nothing illegal," Harry replied. "In fact, we'll be dong a good deed. I'll explain it all later. Goodbye."

Leaving a very confused and thoughtful Marcus behind, Harry breathed in the fresh air of Diagon Alley gratefully. It had been stuffy inside the armourers and Marcus' smoking hadn't helped matters. Stepping back onto the cobblestone, Harry had a look around and tried to decide if he had anything left that needed doing. He couldn't think of anything, except maybe going to see about a second wand - but that could wait for now. He did, after all, have an impressive arsenal of spells in his wandless magic depository.

If truth be told now, Harry was slightly excited about his... revelation, if it could be called that, in the armourers. The Chamber of Secrets. It was one of those simple solutions that were only ever obvious after the fact. Of course, there's bound to be more down there than just a snake. And there was the basilisk down there, should I bother disturbing it?

Suddenly, and once again unexpectedly, that strange haze fell before Harry's eyes, and this time he felt a quick ripple of pain in his forehead. It was so brief, not even a second's worth, that he was sure he had imagined it, but for that to coincide with this weird haze before his vision was... disturbing.

Crowds of people walked about and around him, completely oblivious to the sensation crossing Harry's sight, and Harry momentarily found himself studying it closer. He closed his eyes and counted to three, and when he opened them the haze had once again departed, but this time the memory of it remained strong. What's happening? he thought, not so willing to mark this up to fatigue anymore. I'll see Madam Pomfrey for a check-up, and some potion. That'll -

A world that we live in can be many things... cruel... passionate... forgiving... violent. All aspects of a human perspective that is ever seeking redemption. Never though, has a world been fair - and despite what you may think, that is a good thing. If everything was fair, then the bad things that happen to you would occur only because you deserved them.

Harry's world, whichever he lived in, was no exception. Fairness had nothing to do with what happened next, and never would. A seven million galleon price tag on human life is enough to entice even the most moralistic of men, who are in the right trade, and Harry had made no secret of his trip to Diagon Alley that morning.

Families, working men and women, Aurors on patrol, none of that mattered to the hardcore bounty hunter. Nothing mattered to these professionals, not even the laws of a country. Harry had been told all of this by Art Nuan, a man who was cut from the same mould as those who hunted him, and he hadn't really thought it any different than facing a Death Eater. Both had a disregard for human life.

This cold truth was brought home to Harry personally over the next few minutes, as there was something decisively different between fighting a Death Eater with a cause, to a man who was out to make money, and this was just the way of the world. The man standing behind Harry, with the long, thin, and infinitely sharp blade in his hand, felt no emotion as he brought it up above his head, and aligned it with Harry's exposed neck - and was that fair? Perhaps survival never was, but it was something that Harry was exceedingly good at.

And in the small moments between seconds that thoughts could be processed in, Harry realised several things. One, the breeze on his neck that had no identifiable source. Two, the glint of silver he caught in the corner of his right eye - just on the edge of his peripheral vision. And three, the alarm bells going off in his head. Instinct had saved his life more than once over the years, and Harry's instinct then was to duck - and duck quickly.

A streak of silver cut through the air and Harry fell quickly, ducking his head down to the left as he did. Gasps and screams from the surrounding innocent crowd reached his ears as he swung back up quickly - the blade having passed over his head by mere inches - but Harry did not need to hear them to know his days of relative peace had not lasted long.

In a blur of pure anger and battle hardened reflexes, Harry spun on his heel just as he returned to his full height from his brief scrape, his dance, with Death. He was facing a man who was standing only half a foot away, and when their eyes locked Harry saw surprise, and doubt. Don't start something you can't finish, he thought.

Diagon Alley stopped as those surrounding Harry and his attacker began to retreat quickly, away from the danger. Harry took a small second to examine this man, who was roughly the same height as he was at just less than six feet, and who possessed a mane of long dark hair that swept around his shoulders in shiny locks of black. He had a pointed face with cool brown eyes that were those of a professional killer. Harry thought his eyes might look the same to an outside observer.

Another thing Harry noticed about this man, was that he did seem to have quite big upper body muscles, which were now currently working to raise his blade for another strike. Shit, Harry thought, and dropped his shopping bag with all his recent purchases in it to the ground and jumped back, narrowly avoiding the pointed tip of the blade that cut the slack of his robes and sliced through the fabric as if it were butter.

The crowds gasped again, and Harry wondered why none of them would do anything, surely the Aurors in the crowd, if there were any, would help. No time to think about that though, he had to survive now.

Harry thought about what he should do. Physically attack? He didn't know much about hand to hand fighting. Just what Scrapfold had taught him in their short lessons a few months ago, and what he had learned from Dudley about boxing last September. No, magic it was. Intending to raise his palm, Harry had to jump back again as the black-haired man swung his blade at his neck.

He stumbled on the cobblestone as he avoided a flurry of stabs and slashes aimed to kill, and Harry jerked aside just as the sword blade past less than an inch in front of his face. The black-haired man, whoever he was, lunged after him, this time aiming his blade lower across Harry's stomach.

Balling his hand into a fist, as it was impossible to get off any magic at this range without losing a hand to that blade, Harry spun to one side and brought his fist down hard on the right wrist of the man. The wrist holding the sword.

"Christ..." Harry breathed as his hand came into contact with that wrist at great speed. It went numb as a bolt a pain shot up his arm. It felt as if he'd just punched a wall.

"Not good enough, my friend," the man smiled and mocked him. His accent was one Harry was not familiar with. Somewhere east, possibly Russian. "And I thought this would be hard. I wonder why your bounty is so high?"

Harry jumped back, it seemed to him that was all he was doing in this fight, just as the black-haired man swung his blade again. It was a feint though, and Harry fell for it. Concentrating on avoiding the blade, he didn't expect the man's left fist to come pummelling into his ribs with what felt like the force of a sledgehammer.

The blow knocked all the air out of Harry's recently healed chest. He stumbled backward, panting and gasping for air and struggling to stay on his feet. He failed there, and fell back over a hole in the cobblestone road. This was what saved his life though, as he threw his hand, with its glowing palm, up before him as he fell, and cried,

"Amos Nex!"

A single silver arrow was shot like a bullet from his glowing palm and recognition flared in the black-haired man's eyes a moment before the arrow tore through his chest and shot out of his back just as fast as it had entered. Harry hit the ground hard, but the black-haired bounty hunter was dead, and he knew it, as he fell to his knees - looking down at the small red-rimmed hole in his green robes.

Blood pulsed in the wound, spilling out quickly and vitally across the dark fabric. The crowd around both of them was silent as Harry struggled to sit up. "That's why," he said quietly, as the life drained from the man's eyes. He had just answered the one, and only, question the bounty hunter had asked him.

"Commander Potter," a voice rang out in the silent alley, as the black-haired man fell backwards off his knees and lay slumped and bleeding on the cobblestone of the alley.

Harry stood up and with a flick of his hand summoned his shopping bag back to him. Thankfully the brown paper was sealed tightly, and nothing had spilled onto the ground. He turned to the voice that had called to him through the crowd, which was observing him with grave awe.

Three brightly robed men were approaching him from about a dozen feet away down the alley, just outside of Gringotts. They were Aurors, they had their wands drawn, and had witnessed the whole scene from further down the alley, and had tried to jostle their way through the packed crowds to arrive in time to help. But it had been a quick fight.

"Can I leave you guys to clean this up?" Harry asked, waving his hand at the lifeless lump of his first encounter with a bounty hunter that was after his head. Not waiting for an answer, Harry Disapparated with a small pop and appeared hundreds of miles away outside of the Hogwarts castle gates.

Rubbing his bruised chest, Harry limped over to the vine covered stone column that marked the entrance to the old castle. Placing his bag down, Harry sighed and leaned against the cool stone, staring up at the gargoyle that had sat there for a thousand years as a silent sentinel for the castle.

When will this end? he asked the universe or anyone that would listen. Harry turned up his palm and looked at the faint glow that highlighted the blood in his veins, pumping around and keeping him alive. Magic had changed his life, nearly ended it on countless occasions, and had made him a killer.

What am I now? he wondered, remembering the last flicker of life he had seen in the black-haired man's eyes. Hero or villain? What will I give or sacrifice to achieve an end, whatever that end may be?

Wind blew the blossoming white roses that lay along the road to Hogsmeade back and forth. Harry had always admired these thorny flowers, even though he knew their existence was facilitated by magic. Probably something Professor Sprout had done in one of her Muggle flower lessons. But nonetheless he found them strangely beautiful, but deadly. Why does a rose have thorns? Perhaps, in another world, along another outlet of the Boundary, they don't...

Or perhaps, Harry thought sadly, perhaps there's a universe out there somewhere where I'm a Muggle, living in blissful ignorance. But, again, that was wishful thinking. And there's nothing wrong with wishful thinking, Harry reminded himself, if only used briefly, as a break from reality... from this world.

But it would never be anything more than a dream, and Harry knew that that was life. He was stuck with the lot the universes had thrown at him, that Fate had given him, and all he could do was strive to make it a better place than how he found it. This was, ultimately, his only goal in life - all for a better world.

This is the world Harry lives in... a world of magical terrorists, of bounty hunters, of dark and light. A place where hundreds could die against their will to appease a madman's whim. A world of unbelievable violence and sadness... but, as Harry had thought more than once, that's life. He could expect nothing more or nothing less. He had to do what he had to do, and no one could fault him on that. It was never easy though, it never would be.

The hardest thing about this life, is having to live it....

Remember that, even if you remember nothing else.

****


Author notes: There's another chapter. Slightly dark, but not much, and an insight into Harry's tortured psyche. Please read and review,

joe