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The War We Fight | ||||||
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Category: Post-OotP Characters:Albus Dumbledore, Dumbledore, Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, Fluff Warnings: Violence Rating: PG-13 Reviews: 175 Summary: This is the story of a war. A war between good and evil, light and dark. This is the war Harry will fight, where he will learn the meanings of life and death, love and friendship, sorrow and betrayal, honor and hardship. This is the war where he will fulfill his destiny. H/G with some R/H sixth year fic. Hitcount: Story Total: 95174; Chapter Total: 4263 |
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A/N: Okay, two important things: first, I opened a Yahoo Group, for all of those who want to talk, ask questions, or simply chat about anything and everything. It can be found at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/the_war_we _fight/ or just follow the link in my profile. Second, I wanted to explain why this took so long. I just finished school; I'm in the middle of college applications; I'll most probably be moving to Europe next year, to study, all alone and away from my whole family. Those are all great things, and I'm extremely exited, but they are also completely earth shattering. I'm telling you guys this because I got a couple nasty reviews complaining about updates. I'm still writing, this isn't an abandoned fic, and in fact, the most exiting is still to come. But please, understand that Real Life comes first, and that I can't simply press a button and force myself to type, when I'm worried and stressed, things simply don't flow. Anyway, thanks to everyone who's still interested, and don't forget to leave a few words, they make my day! And lastly I'd like to thank Bill, who looked this over for me, and gave me the most complete beta job I've ever had. Thanks! it can also be a hell from which we cannot escape. John Lancaster Spalding Chapter 14: Family heirlooms and nasty surprises. As the small cart made it's way through the mazes of dimly lit colours and moist underground passages, Harry fought against the rising waves of anguish that cursed through him. The simple thought of the kilometres of earth and stone separating him from fresh air made him want to panic. He realized, feeling the cool air in his face as they made their way downwards that he would probably never feel entirely safe underground again. As they entered a last corridor, light suddenly flared all around. They had apparently reached their destination. The Potter vault, Harry knew, had no number, since it was considered one of the foundations over which the bank had been built centuries ago, before there were enough vaults to justify numbering. Not many families, Harry had found out during his long journey in the homicidal cart, could boast about such an honour as having one of the foundation vaults. His guide, a small overexcited goblin, couldn't seem to get his mind around the fact that he'd been chosen to escort such an illustrious client - nor that he'd finally be able to see the ancestral vaults. The small creature reminded Harry uncannily of Colin Creevey mingled in with a strong dosage of Dobby essence. Vaklof, however, was proving to be quite the useful source of information - and not an useless distraction from his wrecked emotions. From what Harry had gathered from the constant chatter, Gringotts had been set up at the request of maybe a dozen wizarding families who wished for a safe place to deposit their belongings, away from the constant clan wars and sacks - a normal occurrence apparently, some fourteen centuries ago. The Potters were one of those prestigious families, along with others such as the Blacks, the Malfoys, the Dumbledores, the Prewetts, the Ravenclaws - a noble line who had unfortunately died away, informed the goblin - the Gaunts and the Longbottoms. There were others too that hadn't stuck in Harry's mind. The heirs to those lines where still treated by the bank with uncommon respect, even a full millennium later. Goblins, his guide informed him, did not easily forget those to whom they were indebted. Gringotts was all the goblins had, the last stand, their very last bargaining chip. Without this bank, they would become complete outcasts from all magical society. This explained why Ragnok himself was interested in him, why he promised to always deal with Harry personally, the boy thought. He was the heir to two of those vaults now. No wonder the Goblins thought he was someone important. For once, the fame didn't bother Harry. If it had helped him get an interview with Ragnok, and had helped him forge an alliance, then everything was worth it. Struck by a sudden thought, Harry asked, “Vaklof, you mentioned Ravenclaw. That's one of the founders. What about the others?” The small creature emitted an excited squeak. Apparently he wasn't used to people actually listening to what he had to say. “Oh, Mister Potter, this Ravenclaw isn't the one that founded Hogwarts. This bank is older than that. But I think I can answer your question: Slytherin never owned a vault in his name, and his daughter married into the Gaunt line. The Hufflepuff vault was already numbered, even if one of the lower level vaults, one of the very first. And Gryffindor… There is very little information about Gryffindor's descendants. After his duel with Slytherin… Well, he more or less removed himself from all contact with other wizards. He became more or less a recluse in the family property, and little is known after that. However, sir, if this subject interests you, you might find it helpful to look at a few of the genealogy books in your vault. They have much more detailed information than I ever could give you.” The Goblin gave a toothy grin, and Harry nodded in thanks. This last tunnel brought them to a large cave. Vault doors were built into the walls in a wide circle around the entrance tracks. It was a dead end, with a single entrance. The ceiling was high, and disappeared in darkness, but the air was fresh and moist, making Harry wonder if perhaps there wasn't an opening somewhere in the heights of the cave. Each vault door was as large as the Great Hall's entrance, with a family crest emblazoned in the metal. It took but a moment for Harry to find his own vault, step out of the cart and walk towards it. “I can go no further, Mister Potter. Goblins aren't allowed inside those vaults, sir. Powerful magic, blood magic, allows only the heir of the line to step inside and be admitted by the vault. From now on sir, you're on your own,” said the goblin in a serious voice. He stepped forward and raised his hand, with not a little amount of trepidation. A smooth disk was placed in the middle of the door and the Goblin had instructed him to place his palm there. The moment his skin made contact with the cold iron, he felt a slight prickling, as if he was being shocked, and resisted his impulse to draw back. The whole door lit and the surface he was touching warmed pleasantly. Both animals in the shield suddenly came to life, the Gryffin roaring loudly and phoenix song filling the whole space, lifting Harry's spirits, and making a smile appear in his face. After a few moments of this cacophony, silence fell once again in the cave, but the door continued to glow, and would stay like that for however long there was a Potter to claim it's ownership. Soon, with a horribly loud cracking noise, the door slowly, ever so slowly, opened. Harry, amazement still written on his whole countenance, watched as the vault that contained all that was left of one of the wizarding world's most noble and ancient lines unlocked for him. As the stale air inside the vault was released, Harry had to fight to manage to keep breathing. He hadn't realized what more than fifteen years could do to a closed room atmosphere. Fighting against his impatience, that demanded that he walked in, regardless of the air, he waited, letting fresh air slip inside. The vault, Harry realized as soon as he stepped inside, was no more than a division of the larger cave he had been standing in, not a minute before. It was large, deep, not like his trust vault. He could stand here, and not be able to touch the ceiling; he could walk, and not come to the end of the space. He could, he realized, do just about anything he could do in any spacious living room. Everywhere he looked, there were personal objects stacked haphazardly, everything covered with layers upon layers of dust. Bank security apparently worked: no one had been here since his parents had died. The back of the room, he noticed, was filled with piles upon piles of coins. There was more money inside this vault than he could ever spend in a lifetime of frivolous and liberal spending. He shook his head angrily. How come no one had ever bothered to tell him this was here, waiting? He would need to meet with John Hellington again. He had plans, and he had suspicions. And above all, he needed answers. Now more than ever before. Taking his eyes off the dusty piles, Harry continued to walk around the room. A whole section of it was crammed with furniture and family pictures. Some pieces were obviously antiques, but all in perfect order, probably, he guessed, carefully wrapped in protection charms. He knew where he'd come, if he ever got round to furnishing his own house. He passed those quickly, and moved to the next interesting part: a whole section of wall filled to the brink with ancient tomes. John had told him that the Potters owned one of the most important private libraries in England, and that most of it had been transported here when the war began, as James didn't think even the old manor was safe enough for such a treasure. Harry stepped closer to the bookshelves and noticed that there was more than just books there. Heirlooms and small bibelots were speckled between books, or on otherwise empty shelves. One whole pane was filled to the brink with strange artefacts, probably what his father had talked about in his letter. As he slowly turned round, trailing his eyes around the whole cave, he willed himself to feel something, anything. He craved some sort of foundation, some sort of attachment, that might help him understand just what he was doing, something that might ground him somehow. Sighing, he realized that it was not to be. Getting back to the business at hand after an internal slap, Harry quickly and carefully began sliding his eyes all the way through the titles on the shelves. He realized very soon that he'd done a giant mistake not bringing his book bag from school, or something else to carry things. He'd have to take only what his arms could hold. Every now and then, Harry picked up a tome and deposited it in a side table close at hand. His first stop came when he reached a delicate sandalwood jewellery box that still held the delicate fragrance of the wood. Lightly running his fingers across the top, he tried to blow away most of the dust, to see the carving. He was amazed at the delicate floral patterns, the careful craftsmanship. It was obvious this was something built with love and care, and used in the same spirit. He opened the box, and inside were several pieces of jewellery, but what made Harry start, what made his heart suddenly pound in his chest, were two identical gold bands, engraved with fine runic symbols, held together by a silk ribbon. There was no doubt in his mind that those were his parents' wedding bands, even if he had no idea how they had ended up here. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to calm his nerves, and glanced once more inside the small box. The next thing that caught his eyes was a delicate necklace, made of several thin treads of gold, laced like vines, with small emeralds encrusting. The centrepiece was a phoenix in flight, so very real that Harry half expected it to flap its wings and fly. He took it in his hands and lifted the necklace out of the box. This made the bottom become apparent, and what Harry saw there nearly made him drop everything he was holding. In a delicate, flowing script, was his mother's name. Deciding, after a few moments of avid gazing, that he'd had quite enough emotional upheavals to last him through the day, he closed the box with a snap, and put it back in it's place. He kept the necklace, slipping it in an inside pocket of his jacket, feeling that there was one other person that might enjoy wearing such a beautiful piece. He finished roaming the book titles, and had a small careful selection he'd take with him on his way back. He'd followed the Goblin's advice and had taken a couple genealogy and Potter history books with him. He wanted to know where he came from, wanted to discover why no one every talked about his family's past. He stopped to look at the swirling, smoking instruments next and wondered what each of them did, what each beep and alarm meant. He imagined that through the generations, each father had explained them to his son. But that would never happen. He'd have to figure it out all alone. There was one thing however, that drew his attention even more than all the moving silver instruments. In a slightly raised platform, in obvious display, was a scabbard. It was simple, made of a thick red leader, with slight engravings near the top and bottom. Complicated straps hung from it, obviously meant to fasten it to clothes, although the mechanics of the thing completely escaped Harry. He was strangely drawn to it. He felt as if he'd finally understood the purpose of his whole trip to this damp and mouldy cave. He extended his hand and grabbed the light sheath. He immediately felt that it wasn't a regular tool. His whole hand was tingling with magic; an old, deep power was embedded in the very fibers of it, and he was resolved to find exactly what it did, and what was the sword meant to reside inside the simple, elegant scabbard. Grabbing the half dozen books he'd selected, a small bag of Galleons that should last the trimester, and the scabbard, Harry left his vault, and the bank, and went back to the world of conflict that was Grimmauld place in the summer. Harry had not meant to fall asleep. Especially not in one of headquarters parlours where any Order member could walk in on him. He knew that, those days, sleep meant more likely than not nightmares and visions. No matter what he did with his Occlumency shields, at night they were always weaker and more prone to attack. He'd been exhausted however, between his arguments with Dumbledore and the lonely trip down memory lane, and the moment he'd sat down, his eyes begun to droop. He hadn't even had time to give his barriers an additional nudge before sleep claimed him. That explained why he wasn't incredibly surprised by what happened next… He was angry, supremely angry. After all, failure was not something he was used to, something he could easily accept. The figure kneeling before him in the dank chambers knew this. Knew that, unless perfectly justifiable, failure was not tolerated, and punishment never pleasant. The figure was trembling visibly, his fear strong enough that he could taste it in the air, feel it in the way the magic seemed to quaver. Cowards, all of them! Miles away, Harry's pleasant nap was suddenly interrupted, and with a great, shuddering gasp, he began to dream. His thoughts were circling between barely contained rage, and a cold calculating anger, that was the trademark of all his actions. So the boy was under the fidelius. Hadn't he learned from experience that the charm was not infallible? He would have to come out eventually. He knew Potter, he was not like those fools he had as servants, he would not cower away forever, even if he could. It took but a moment for Harry to realize what was happening. It had been months since he had entered Voldemorts mind in his dreams, months since either one of them had been careless enough to let such a thing happen. He cursed the moment he had allowed himself to rest, and wondered what would come of this. He couldn't let Voldemort feel his presence otherwise he was done for. He needed to wake up, as soon as possible. Yes, the boy would leave the house eventually. In fact, the boy would leave very, very soon. He was sure of it. And then, when they all thought the worst had already passed, when the whole bunch of them thought they were safe, he would strike. He wanted that prophecy, now more than ever. If the boy had struggled to hide it for so long, then it had to be important, had to mean something, for both of them. Exasperatedly, Harry wondered if Voldemort wouldn't give up on the bloody prophecy. When it said “and either must die at the hands of the other”, Harry had imagined a mighty duel, spells flying, magic everywhere. Not this ridiculous chase for a prophecy that was already starting to fulfil itself. A new wave of anger swept through him as he watched the quivering figure at his feet. Those fools had let the boy escape, had let him slip through his fingers once again. He would not become a laughing stock! He'd had enough of this ridiculous chase! Next time, one of them would not come out alive. That was a promise, he thought, and Lord Voldemort kept his promises. Harry gave an internal laugh, even as he struggled to wake up from the nightmare. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Voldemort and him agreed on something. But right now he had to focus, this was no time for distractions. He knew what would come next, and he knew that the moment Voldemort used an unforgivable, his scar would explode in unbearable pain, and he honestly didn't want that. Turning towards the kneeling man, he casually, lightly, waved his wand and muttered, “crucio!”… Ah… Yes… As the man writhed and screamed, he finally felt some of his anger abate. Yes, he would get the boy again, and then… Once he had proof that his victory was inevitable, he would drown this world in fire. Harry gave a muffled scream, and fell from the couch with a spasm, his hands grasping his forehead. He needed to wake up! Now! He lifted the curse, and with a contemptuous stare at the shivering mass in the floor, snapped, “Prepare the troops, we attack tomorrow.” Yes. The boy wouldn't escape his stronghold a second time. This round, he'd deal with him personally. “Harry!” Ginny had entered the room the very moment Harry had suddenly clutched his scar and tumbled down to the floor. “Harry! Wake up!” She crushed down next to him, and wondered what she was expected to do. Harry was still clutching his face, but the worst of the pain seemed to have subsided. His body had relaxed, and as she grabbed a cushion and placed it under his head to make him more comfortable, she saw that his eyes were fluttering, and that he was about to wake up. She continued to call his name softly, “Harry, wake up, you had a nightmare, wake up!” She was more than slightly relieved when he suddenly blinked and opened his eyes. It took him only a second to get his bearings, and another to recognise the face hovering above him. “Ginny,” he whispered, voice slightly hoarse. “Yes. Are you alright, Harry? You fell from the couch.” She laughed slightly, her eyes twinkling. “Really?” he asked absent-mindedly, while he picked himself up from the floor. “Merlin, this is bad,” he muttered. Ginny immediately lost the light attitude. “What's bad, Harry? Did you just have a vision? What's going to happen?” Her voice was frantic now, as she watched him pace the room. Harry however, didn't assimilate what she was saying. He was running through every option he had, every possible scenario that might explain what Voldemort had said and thought flickering in his mind. He wondered who he should tell, who would believe what he had Seen. Ginny, tired after a few moments of being completely ignored, marched up to him and, making him look her in the eyes, asked forcefully, “Harry! Tell me what's going on!” He closed his eyes as if in pain, and said in a strangled voice, “Voldemort is going to attack the Hogwarts Express.” Ginny blanched, and whispered, “He wouldn't!” Then, in a stronger voice, “What did you see, Harry? Tell me!” He took a deep breath, sat down heavily, and as quickly as possible went over the vision. Ginny listened in silence, let him talk, knowing that if she interrupted his tale, she might not get him going again. “He didn't actually say the Hogwarts Express, Harry,” was her first comment. “But isn't it the most likely option? He said tomorrow, he said that he'd get me as I leave…” His voice died away as he remembered being inside that monster's mind, listening to his thoughts as he plotted to kill him, feeling that creeping, sickening darkness that plagued the Dark Lords whole being. “He doesn't know where we are now, but he knows that I'd never miss the train, he knows that Hogwarts is too important to me.” Ginny nodded, thinking hard. When she spoke, it was in a tentative, timid voice, “Harry, the most obvious answer would be for you not to-” He interrupted harshly, however, before she had time to finish her reasoning, “That's out of the question, Ginny. I'm not missing the train.” “But think, Harry! If you're right, and you arrive at Hogwarts in some other way, a portkey, or floo, then you'll be safe!” Ginny's voice was quivering, she knew he'd never go for it, but she couldn't bear even the thought of loosing him again, couldn't imagine how she'd survive the uncertainty, the doubts again. “Yes, you're right, Ginny,” his eyes flashed angrily, “and then what? I'll be safe, yes, and then what? What will happen when they don't find me in that train?” He got up, and started pacing angrily again. “They'll tear it down, they'll kill everyone inside, it'll be a massacre. I can't let that happen. I can't!” Ginny closed her eyes as if in pain. And indeed, she was in pain. This war, the sacrifices it forced them all to make, was tearing her apart, and she knew, without being told, that she wasn't the only one that felt as if she was slowly, ever so slowly, giving way, losing herself in the pain and anguish. Harry continued, after a few moments. “You, however, Ginny, you need to get there some other way. I'll ask Dumbledore for a Portkey. Ron and Hermione too, if someone can talk some sense into that thick head of his.” “I'm not going,” she said quietly. That stopped Harry in his tracks. He turned an incredulous stare at her. “What?” he asked. “You heard me. If you're willing to sacrifice yourself, then I'm going to be there too. And don't start,” she continued when she saw that he was about to protest, “it's my choice, Harry. And if you're going to be there, I will too.” Her eyes were shinning with a steely resolve “But don't you see, Gin? If they have both of us, then we're finished. I couldn't bear to see you in pain, I'd give them everything they want!” He knelt in front of her as she sat on the sofa, and gently took both her hands in his larger ones, feeling the delicate fingers, firm muscles. His eyes were begging, but she couldn't give him what he wanted. “I can't, Harry. It's just too hard. I need to be there with you, and you know that you need me there too. We'll just have to work hard and not let ourselves be captured. Either of us.” She smiled, a gentle, serious smile, that didn't quite reach her eyes. But at the same moment, she gently freed her hands, and wrapped them tightly around his neck, pulling him into a hug, that he returned with the same fervour. He was afraid, he realized, afraid not for himself, but for the small figure he had wrapped in his arms, and for what life would be like if he suddenly found himself without her. “Mrs. Weasley, where's the floo powder?” Harry asked anxiously, as he entered the kitchen a few moments later. “We don't leave floo powder lying around anymore, Harry.” He started at her tone of voice, this certainly wasn't the same one he was used to being addressed by Molly Weasley. There was no warmness; for the first time Harry wondered if she was really so completely opposed to his actions that it would hurt any future dealings he might have with the Weasley family. “I need to speak with Professor Dumbledore, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said, trying not to let any annoyance he might be feeling appear in his voice. “You'll see him tomorrow at Hogwarts, Harry. I'm sure whatever it is can wait until then.” Her tone was awfully condescending, thought Harry, and sent small chills of annoyance down his back. He did not have time for this right now. “Actually, it can't. Can you please tell me where the floo powder is, Mrs. Weasley?” He was making a tremendous effort to continue to be civil and educated. He realized that Mrs. Weasley wasn't someone that would understand if he suddenly acted any different, even if the circumstances warranted it. Ginny entered the room and frowned at what she saw. What was going on in here? Harry stood to one side of the kitchen, arms crossed, and an annoyed expression in his eyes. Her mother, her back to him, was acting as if he wasn't even there. “What's going on?” She looked around, seeing the exasperation in Harry's face, stubbornness in her mother's, and wondered what could possibly have happened. “I was just asking Mrs. Weasley where the floo was. Apparently the jar has grown legs and moved since this morning.” Harry said, with forced calmness, and a faint drop of sarcasm slipping in his tone. If Harry was resorting to irony, then things were bad. “Mother?” Ginny asked, looking at Molly, begging her in her mind not to cause another fight. Harry had had enough confrontations for one day. “This is important, Mum, give Harry the floo.” “This is important?” Molly snapped, “What exactly is important enough to a sixteen year old, that can not wait until tomorrow?” Ginny's eyes opened wide, and she glared disbelievingly at her mother. “Mum, please don't cause a fuss, we really need to talk to Dumbledore.” “You need to talk to Dumbledore? Like Harry talked to him this morning? Is that it?” Mrs. Weasley glared menacingly at the two teenagers, daring them to contradict her. “Actually, Mrs. Weasley, this morning it was Dumbledore who needed to talk to me,” Harry answered, in a would be casual tone. Inside, however, he was seething, and wondering how long it would take Hedwig to arrive at Hogwarts, and if the delay was acceptable, considering the situation they were in. This is simply ridiculous, thought Harry, to think that help would be late simply because people weren't able to see past their age. He'd wait; see if Ginny could get a handle on the situation first. “Don't talk back to me Harry Potter!” screeched Molly, and Harry actually jumped. He definitely wasn't used to being snapped at by her. “I will not condone with any more of your ridiculous new attitude! This is no way to treat the adults around you!” “My attitude?” Harry asked, in a dangerously low voice. He was wondering what had happened to everyone around him. “Every single thing I did, every word I spoke this summer were justified, Mrs. Weasley. You have no right to judge me. Not you, not anyone else. None of you know what it's like to be in my shoes!” Ginny secretly agreed with Harry, but she didn't want to say it in front of her mother. They needed to find a diplomatic solution to this issue, and soon. Too much time had been lost already. Time they needed to prepare. “I know you've had a rough time of it, Harry, but this is no excuse. The way you've been acting is simply inadmissible. Meddling in the affairs of adults, dipping in old magic, this is no proper behaviour for a sixteen year old.” “What would you have me do then, Mrs. Weasley? Simply give myself up to Voldemort? Or leave the war for you to fight? Is that it?” His voice was still low, a mere whisper, but his eyes were flashing, and Ginny could feel the atmosphere of the room changing. She knew that Harry would never hurt her mother, he would die rather than harm any one of them, but for the first time in a few days, she saw him struggle to control his powers. “Yes Harry. This fight isn't fit for children. You have no business messing in it. You'll only cause more trouble, and possibly get people hurt.” Harry couldn't believe his ears. What were these people playing at? Were they all blind and deaf? Didn't they see that it wasn't his choice? That Voldemort had made it for him, before he could even talk? “I would like nothing more than to do that, Mrs. Weasley. But I can't. Now would you please tell me where you hid the floo power?” Harry's eyes were mere slits, his fists clenched, but he managed, somehow, to control his voice so as to make his request as polite as possible. “Mum, please. There is a lot at stake here.” Ginny's delicate, placating voice cut through the heavy silence in the room like a knife. “People's lives, Mum, this isn't some ridiculous, wilful request. You know Harry, Mum, please!” “What could he possibly want with the headmaster that couldn't wait until tomorrow? This is preposterous!” “Jeez, I don't know, I might, just possibly, let him know that there's going to be an attack by the psychopath that's been trying to kill me my whole life?” Harry's voice was biting, and Ginny saw that her mother felt the sting. Served her well, she thought, this was no time for a bout of sudden mothering. “Inside the cabinet, under the sink,” was all she said in response, although she had paled considerably. Her eyes unfocused, and she whispered, in a voice not her own, “I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, I'm so sorry.” And with those parting words, she left the room. “That certainly went well,” muttered Ginny tiredly. Harry only nodded in response, apparently as drained as she was. He didn't want to even imagine how it would go when the whole Order was assembled. A/N: Okay, so, this is it. I had intended to add the Order meeting in this chapter, boarding the train in the next. But I liked how this ended, and you know what to expect next. Sorry once more this took so long! Beta Note: Our dear authoress would have had this out a week ago, were it not for a huge delay on my end, caused by a recalcitrant computer. I take the blame for the lateness of this, and beg her forgiveness and yours. BillHagridsson |
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