Running, at Oh Two Hundred Greenwitch Mean Time

Running, at Oh Two Hundred Greenwitch Mean Time

Breathe.

He opened his mouth wider, but the pain in his lower chest refused to abate.

Breathe.

The pain was now a sharp dagger, stabbing in beneath his ribs. His heart, trying to tear itself away from the hollow of his chest, rattled against his ribs. He opened his mouth even wider, feeling the heavy drops of sweat running down his cheeks. His eyes blurred for a moment, then cleared again.

Breathe, you fool.

I am breathing, he realized. Just not enough for his oxygen-starved lungs to be sated. He tried to force more air into the bottomless pits, while his legs pumped on, relentlessly propelling him through the night forest.

Again and again, well-worn boots stamped into the mixture of earth and water pasted thinly over the face of the land. It was the slippery kind of mud that spelled disaster for the unwary and doom for ankles and knees. By all rights, he should have gone sprawling a couple of times. He should have broken an ankle, twisted a knee, or with the way things were going today, broken his neck.

He really should have.

But he didn't.

Instead, he forced his legs down the familiar track, the cold wind slashing at his eyes and ears and cheeks. He could hear the crackling of branches as they rocked in the wind, the hoot of an owl as it flew through the night air, the subdued breathing of the denizens of the Forbidden Forest as they lay low in fear and anticipation. And above it all, he could hear the surprised calls and shouts of his pursuers, mingled with pained yelps and whining.

For a second, he allowed a tight, thin-lipped smile to be pulled over his teeth. They're mostly dogs, you know, Neville had said, in his shy, sincere voice as he handed over the small pouch, such a long, long time ago. Can't hound you so well with their nostrils clogged up with powdered mustard seed.

With his eyes open, he silently breathed a prayer for Neville, to whomever it was that received prayers these days. There was no sudden illumination from the heavens in answer to his prayers, no ghostly voice whispering reassurances at his ear. But he didn't really expect any. You did what you could, then prayed for what you couldn't. Any and all salvation in between would have to be summoned from within.

Like NOW!

A surge of energy from his wand, and a would-be ambusher hidden behind a tree went flying into the underbrush. As he ran on, he momentarily debated the idea of permanently neutralizing him/her/it, but decided that he could afford neither the time nor the energy.

Pity.

The irony of his words struck him, and he laughed, a gasping, grunting chuckle, as he ran on. And mercy was the farthest thing from his mind as he advanced deeper and deeper into the Forbidden Forest, drawing Voldemort's henchmen behind him like a dying stag draws the vultures.

And so the spider weaves its web.

* * *

Breathe in, breathe out. In, out, in, out. Left foot, right foot. Left, right, left, right....

Suddenly, a dark figure loomed up before him, and the curse was just about to roll off the tip of his tongue when his hand froze around his wand, and he swerved just in time to avoid running into the shadowed, half-broken stump of a tree.

God damn the Forbidden Forest, and rot it to all Hell!

It was a sudden inner lash of anger that caught him by surprise, but gave wings to his feet. Heart pounding, rapidly going through his list of profanities both muggle and wizard, he risked a quick glance backward through a gap in the trees.

The night sky was aglow, lit up with a pillar of fire. Dark shapes flitted back and forth in the darkness around it, streaking across the sky in celebration of mayhem and slaughter. A celebration of victory as old as the first broomstick. Of course, the first thing that came to his mind was another smartass comment.

A pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night.

Or something like that.

With a sharp pang of regret, he realised that they had torched the Gyffindor Tower. And the churning clarity of mind that comes with the separation of the mind from the body, replayed for him the last despairing moments in the now non-existent Tower. Because it hadn't taken long, for the few holed up inside a sanctuary fast becoming a deathtrap, to come to the realization that the castle was well and truly lost.

Acceptance, however, had been a completely different issue altogether.

I'll draw them away, and you can all escape during the distraction.

The ensuing silence had been thick enough to cut with a cudgel.

It's the only way.

This time, the silence was more of the despairing, accepting kind. And moments before he had left, in the last minute chaos as routes were mapped and contingencies fought out, she had come to him, as he had known she would.

Be careful, she'd said, and kissed him chastely on the cheek. But he had felt the soft curves of her body pressing against him, reminding him of soft bare skin against calloused palms and dark cascade of silky hair against his cheeks and the fluid movement of bodies against one another.

Then he'd felt Ron's eyes on him, and stepping away from her, he'd turned to face his best friend.

Take care, mate, and a clap on the shoulders. Three words that stood in place for countless conversations. His shoulders tingled again with the ghost of the clap, and he imagined that he could feel the hand on it still, firm and faithful and trusting.

Ron could be so blind at times. And he really should stop sleeping with Hermione behind Ron's back.

* * *

With a leap, he cleared the last layer of underbrush with the shouts of his pursuers right at his heels. Now he was finally, gloriously free. Out in the open fields, where there was no trees to impede his path. Out in the open fields, where the cold stars stared down mercilessly from the darkness above. Out in the open fields, where a running figure would stand out like a lump on plate glass.

Do not cross an open field. Ever.

But his goal was oh so close, as well.

Having said that, when the need becomes a must, as all needs eventually do, use either speed, discretion, or protection. Better yet, use all three.

Thank you, Moody, for everything you taught me. Rest in peace, my friend.

He moved; weaving randomly across the black field, slamming through the rising clouds of dirt and shattered stone as ungentle magic gouged deep holes in the ground at his feet, dodging the angry buzz of curses flying through the air, panting and gasping as his goal appeared in sight.

Then he smiled.

Good old Minerva, steady as a rock. He knew she could be relied upon. Good old Minerva, wise as the sages. Of course it will be there. She'll have made sure of it, like everything else she'd done before. Good old Minerva, cold and dead and six feet under.

A wall of fire bloomed before his eyes, cutting off all avenues of escape. He allowed himself a last grin, to mock his pursuers, and an oath, for one who wasn't here.

I'm coming for you, Riddle.

Leaping, Harry reached for the portkey with both hands.

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Tightening his hands, he closed the cloak around his shoulders and tugged on the hood until he was certain that his face was completely covered. Hidden in the small alcove of shadow that fell as just rounded the corner, he leaned against the cold stone wall and waited. The dank smell of the hood invaded his nostrils, and he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to remember better scents from the past.

The sharp smell of newly cut grass, the rubbery stench of asphalt on a hot day, the damp freshness of the forest at night, the gentle fragrance of perfume and cologne, the biting saltiness carried on the winds from the sea, the sweet slickness of limbs entwined, and....

Snapping his eyes open, he watched as a door opened across the street. Two hooded figures emerged, hurrying down the street, uncaring of the ringing sound of footsteps echoing down the half-lit street. And the face of one figure flashed as he passed beneath a lamplight, too cocksure to keep the mask completely hidden beneath the hood.

Sloppy. Very sloppy.

Tsking to himself, he prepared to clear a snake-infested safe house.

* * *

He was reminded of a muggle documentary he once saw on the telly, when the Dursleys had mercifully emptied the house for one reason or another and forgot to lock him up in the cupboard. A muggle documentary on urban warfare, though why on earth they played such things on an education channel was beyond his understanding.

Especially now, standing in the middle of a room rapidly filling up with the stench of death. But he was grateful that there had been nothing better on the other channels, so that he could refute the droning voice, point by point, and keep the beckoning madness at bay.

Taking a city is possibly the worst nightmare for a commander, said the crisp, Oxford accent, because there is no room for technology to come in play. No tanks, no aircraft, little or no radio communication. Just the plain infantry soldier armed to the teeth.

Moving carefully out of the door into the hallway, he headed for the far end, silent but swift. But even the cold, clutching fingers of tension wasn't enough to drown his own retorts to the unseen commentator, ringing around inside his head.

Not so, not so. Don't have any technology to begin with. And we're all armed to the teeth with a piece of wood less than a foot long. It works wonders.

A quick glance back reassured him that no one had doubled up on him, and he slowly inched sideways around the corner, keeping his wand in line of his sight. Ready to blast anything and everything that appeared in his line of sight. He remembered a muggle advertisement: What You See Is What You Kill. Or was it something more mundane, like What You See Is What You Get?

But the only thing he was offered was death, so he took it.

Satisfied, he ran lightly down the corridor, striding over the still-twitching bodies. The light thud of his boots on the boarded floor was hardly audible as he stopped at the next corner to repeat the move all over again.

* * *

...and the defenders have all the advantage, the commentator still continued. Favorable ground, knowledge of the locality, and zero distance from their base of supply. While it is estimated that the attacking side must have four times as many suppliers to the number of combat troops, just to keep in supply. Especially grenades, since one is used every time you open a new door. Enter a house? Throw a grenade first. Enter a room? Throw a grenade first.

Not so, not so. Sometimes the attacking side is more familiar with locality, he retorted, his pride wounded. And when you're holed up, then you've given up the advantage. And we don't carry grenades, we don't carry ammunition, and we sure as bloody hell don't open doors. Instead we say...

A whispered word, he was outside the closed door, leaving the silence and dust to settle on the still, unmoving figures. Lock and key and barricaded doors - such meaningless things to wizards. Even Death Eaters should know better. The black scorch marks on the walls were the only reminders of the object lesson he left behind in the artificially induced silence of the room.

And Number 12 Grimmauld Place was theirs again.

This time, he allowed the twitching of his lips free rein.

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Grinning, he lightly vaulted over the walls. Well-worn boots landed softly on the dewy grass, and he strode forward into the grimness that was Malfoy Manor.

At first, they had all disagreed.

Even the twins, who he'd thought would jump at the first chance he offered. But in the end, they obliged, as he knew they would. As he knew they must. Grudging and hedging they may have been, the opportunity to wreak disaster at the expense of their enemies was too good to pass up.

A little more convincing for Remus, though he knew the former professor would have to come around. The starving werewolf could never pass up a scrap of affection thrown in his direction, and he'd made sure that the beast was fed, but never full. And the poor creature never could deny anything to the only child of Lily and James, anyway.

She was the hardest. But hadn't he learned that a woman's heart is hardly in her own keeping, even after the vows are sworn and the rings exchanged? Hers, he held trapped in the iron cage of his soul, never to be released. And so he would torment her, and be tormented himself, till death did them part.

So now, he was here.

What was it that Sun Tzu had written? Do the unexpected?

The first part of doing the unexpected was tricking your own side. Deftly sidestepping a patch of poison ivy growing side by side with roses, he tried not to whistle in glee.

After all, the second part of doing the unexpected was tricking your opponent.

To Be Continued

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Inspired in no small amount by Katt's "The Silver Trail," of the Standard Colours arc, archived at http://www.xeno3kattz.com, Frank Herbert's "God Emperor of Dune," and my own experiences in running.

GMT is actually 'Greenwich Mean Time.' So don't go putting the wrong answer in your tests folks.

'Like a lump on plate glass' is an expression I've borrowed from Timothy Zahn's novel, "Dark Force Rising."

Yes, I did see the documentary, and it was on Discovery, no less. Other details were pulled from my own meager military experiences.

What You See Is What You Get - WYSIWYG was the term used to describe technology that enabled direct printing of on-screen materials. Think 'screen capture' sent directly to printing. Macintosh's Desk Top Publishing is an example.

Lastly, some issues that dear kaz814 brought up - I just assumed that the portkeys work for as long as they exist or are used up. Sorry if it contradicts some canonical issues, but hey. I¡¯m the guy with the pen here. *grin*

Keep on the lookout for the next story, "Guinevere," coming soon. (As if anyone would want to continue reading this thing)