The mansion was, even by the standards of pureblood superiority, ostentatious.
Lucius had expedited the construction ever since his master had returned. The crystal glass ceiling. The gothic, crenelated towers. It was a landmark all by itself, but that was the point. This mansion was meant to be center of rule for Dark Lord Voldemort. He would hold court here, dictate laws and orders to the Ministry once it fell under his sway, and receive foreign dignitaries, all from this one seat of power.
Lucius had spared no expense in building this homage to the Dark Lord. Partly because the elder Malfoy had hoped that the luxury he was heaping into Voldemort's lap would spare him the punishment for abandoning his master after the First Wizarding War.
Snape knew that it was going to be a futile effort. The Dark Lord did not simply forget disloyalty.
Snape also knew that if everything went according to plan, the Dark Lord was going to be punishing a lot more of his followers in the immediate future.
The double agent had Portkeyed into the forest on the outskirts of the manor. He slowly counted to ten.
Four massive forms appeared out of thin air. Their plated, iron-riveted bodies made them appear entirely out of place among the thick under foliage.
The boy walked through the gap his engines left. Emerald eyes flickered to the mansion off in the distance and then to Snape.
"This is it?"
"This is it."
"Looks enticing," Harry said.
Snape scowled at him.
"If this doesn't work…"
"It will work."
"You don't know that!"
"I don't. Which is why I know exactly it will work."
The potions professor glared at the boy, who if it had not been for a twist of Fate, would have most likely sat in one of his potions classes in the dungeons beneath Hogwarts.
"That doesn't make any sense."
"If I don't know the results of a particular course of action, then neither will the enemy," Snape watched as he detached what looked to be a pole from a storage unit on the back of one of his warjacks, "Therefore, the battleground is even. Nothing is predetermined. Which means I will have the initiative. I will be able to dictate the battle flow and the subsequent events that come after."
"That doesn't make any sense either."
Harry made a noncommittal noise. He drew his sword and socketed it into the mounting couple on top of the pole. He turned the sword effectively into a spear.
"In short, it will work because I will make it work."
The boy noticed the look Snape was giving the weapon in his hands.
"For reach," he explained.
"A boy, a spear, and four metal machines against the most powerful Dark Lord since Grindelwald and his followers," the double agent couldn't help but remark, "Who would you bet on?"
"Probably the Dark Lord," Harry replied.
"That's comforting," Snape said snidely.
"Because you've made an error in your equation. That boy is me. That spear is mine. And those four metal machines are my warjacks."
"Is there a difference?"
"Certainly. The difference is the difference between victory and defeat."
To Snape's chagrin, the boy then knelt. The spy watched, confused, as he took off his combat gloves and scooped up a handful of dirt. Harry began rubbing the soft loam into his palms and between his fingers.
"What are you doing?"
"Consecrating the ground," the boy said patiently, "It is an old Morrowan tradition. A rite of preservation, if you will. There are many ways to perform it and this is just one. I don't practice myself, but a blessing before battle never hurts."
"Practice," Snape repeated, "Blessing? You're talking about religion?"
"Yes. The worship of Morrow is just one religion among many in the Iron Kingdoms."
Snape looked at him oddly. Then he looked back to where the hulking, steam-belching monstrosities waited in silence.
"Everything about you is strange," the potions professor admitted, "First these damned warjacks of yours. Now you're talking about worship and gods as though they were real. You know that in this world many religions were started because wizards who had nothing better to do decided to play some tricks on some muggles?"
Harry nodded.
"Doesn't surprise me. Shouldn't try that in my world though."
"Why not?"
"Because the actual gods will probably do something about it."
The boy rose. He brushed off the dirt on his hands and tugged on his combat gloves. He retrieved his spear and tested the grip. The blade at the end began cackling with obscene amounts of electricity.
He looked at Snape.
"Let us begin."
++++++
Shock has always been the most important aspect of warfare. This, he knows and understands.
In the Iron Kingdoms, centuries ago, shock warfare was performed by the cavalry arm of each faction. Armored lancers, astride massive destriers, thundering down on the poor, unfortunate souls who made up the infantry line. The initial impact of thousands of pounds of horseflesh and armored rider inflicted such horrendous damage, such psychological shock, that entire formations of men would break and run.
The invention of the percussion cap rifle turned that equation on its head. Now, infantry had a way to dilute the charge by inflicting casualties from afar. The impact of shock was lessened then negated entirely as the mass proliferation of firearms took hold of each kingdom. Further advancements such as the rifled cannon and the chain gun reduced the role of cavalry into just one branch of the military instead of the decisive branch.
For a while, the armies of the Iron Kingdoms waged war by maneuvering ranks of line infantry into position and exchanging repeated volleys of musketry.
Then came the first warjacks, modified laborjacks given primitive weapons to wield. And once again the equation was turned on its head.
Massed volley fire from the most accurate rifles could do nothing to thick layers of ablative plate. Cannon fire was better but was liable to miss a jack when it moved at full stride. Magic did nothing at all for inside the armored frame of a warjack lay intricate protection runes that negated the worst effects of sorcery. It took a special type of magic that could interfere with these runes and scramble the complicated command nodes in the central cortex, but those types of spells were rare and barely used.
He has seen the type of damage a lone warjack can do to unprotected infantry. In many cases, he has done the damage himself.
The key was to layer shock on top of the already imposing stature of the warjack. To build up the sense of invulnerability around this beast of steel and steam while tearing down the opposing side's confidence of victory. To inflict so much psychological and physical damage that the enemy will be fundamentally incapable of continuing the combat.
So when the Cyclone bursts through the walls of Voldemort's manor, twin rotor cannons blasting on full auto, he inflicts shock on the cloaked figures milling around the lower levels of the antechamber.
The sustained volley kills twenty men. The Death Eaters are grouped together. They are socializing. They are drinking and toasting to their imminent victory and what they believe to be the resurgent rise of their lord and master. Never in a thousand years would they have thought that an eight-ton behemoth would explode out of the wall and rake them with automatic weapons fire.
Twenty men. Dead. Gone. Just like that. The fusillade scythes them down like wheat. It pops human extremities like balloons and hurls shredded bodies against the chamber's intricately decorated walls.
The Death Eaters turn. There is at least a hundred of them in the antechamber. They have not yet realized that whatever celebrations they intended to have in this manor are about to be cut hideously short.
The Berserker bursts out of the opposite wall. Wooden paneling explodes outwards in a hail of splinters. It has hit the side of the manor at a dead run. The entire antechamber shakes with its titanic footsteps. The war axes it clasps in each fist are jack-grade weapons. They can do horrendous things to another warjack. They do far worse to the smaller organic shell that is a human body.
The Berserker leaves a trail of bifurcated corpses behind its path. Wherever its arms swing, cloven human body parts fall around it in a gory rain.
The Death Eaters are reacting. They are reacting in the same way people unfamiliar with being assaulted by warjacks operating at full-tilt would react. By shouting, screaming, and running around in general confusion.
The Crusader shoulders through. It uses its massive bulk to upend furniture and smash apart tables. Just killing the enemy is not enough. He needs to systematically rearrange the landscape to send a message. He needs to make the opposition know that there is no place in this world they can hide where he will not find them and annihilate them. The Inferno Mace pounds the masked enemy into bloody craters on the immaculate floor. The Crusader pivots and smashes down a marble pillar supporting the glass ceiling. The ornately carved beam falls and crushes the milling figures roiling around its base.
The Death Eaters are finally doing the correct thing. They are casting Shield Charms to protect themselves and offensive spells and curses at the warjacks. But the shock has afflicted them. The sheer atrocity of what is being done to them has turned the ability the human brain possesses to logically reason upside down.
The Protegos come out as brittle things or collapse as soon as they are summoned. The spells and curses miss his warjacks entirely or hit the Death Eaters' own comrades in the pell-mell confusion.
The Reaper completes the ensemble. Its gunmetal form stalks like a perverse predator amid the running, screaming foe. It chooses the juiciest morsels and pins them to the floor with its helldiver spike. The Death Eaters impaled this way wriggle like caught worms. The screams that come from behind their masks are loud and high-pitched.
Killing the enemy is good. Killing the enemy in the most brutal ways possible is better. The shock factor becomes multiplicative.
He steps through the hole the Reaper has made. Compared to the absolute carnage his warjacks are causing, his presence is a minor detail amid the mayhem.
That is about to change.
He has eyes only for the figure on the top level of the antechamber, surrounded by members of his Inner Circle. The only path to him is an elaborately decorated staircase, wide enough to fit all his jacks on. Whoever designed this mansion clearly intended for guests to be dazzled as soon as they entered.
The part of his mind not calculating new battle algorithms and ramming them into the cortexes of his warjacks thinks that after today, there most likely will not be new guests visiting this mansion anytime soon.
He moves towards the staircase. At the same time, he rears back his head and shouts out the reason why he is here.
"Voldemort!"
He has practiced the pronunciation with members of the Order. He has made sure through repeated attempts that the name will not come out jumbled and disorganized.
For there is power in a name. There is power in saying the name correctly and succinctly. There is power in saying the name of your enemy while looking him in the eye and telling him you are going to go up those stairs and you are going to kill him dead.
Crimson pupils stare back at him, wide with surprise. Voldemort lifts a skeletal digit towards him and screams something at his followers. His Inner Circle doesn't move. The shock has afflicted them too. Whatever elite status they enjoy in the Dark Lord's employ pales in significance compared to the unparalleled slaughter happening below.
They are paralyzed with indecision. They are rooted to the ground by fear.
That's fine. He'll come to them.
He estimates that it will take ten seconds to move from his current location to within striking distance of his spear. He plans to make the journey in nine.
His pace is measured as he gains the first step. He doesn't run. He doesn't charge. He advances. The purpose is to convey the message that death does not need to rush to reach you. It will come for you on its own sweet time.
A command-impulse forces his warjacks to converge on his position. They surround him on all sides, shielding him with their bodies. He has cast an Arcane Shield over himself as soon as he entered the mansion, but the addition of thick, jack-grade plate into the equation means a second layer of protection.
The armored wedge, with him at the center, advances up the staircase. Spells hammer in from all sides, but most go wide. Others rebound harmlessly off sloped plate.
The first objective of his plan has already succeeded. He has inflicted so much psychological trauma to the immediate enemy that it has ceased to function as a cohesive fighting force. He has done so much physical damage to the Death Eaters that whatever pitiful remains that are left have ceased to be an effective threat.
The second objective waits for him atop the stairs. To kill a snake, one must cut off its head.
Voldemort is screaming incomprehensibly now. He is dragging his own Inner Circle from their places by his side and pushing them into the path of his warjacks.
One Death Eater, by some miracle of a chance, stumbles through the gap left by the Crusader and the Berserker. The man has a heartbeat to raise his wand. Then the bladed edge of his spear comes down in an overhead swing and splits the man in half from the top of his head to the bottom of his groin. There is no blood whatsoever. The lightning field housed by the mechanikal blade, when toggled on to full power, automatically cauterizes whatever it touches.
The Death Eater comes apart like a chopped log. Two equal, diametrically perfect halves flop to the ground.
He walks through the space between the two halves before they can fully fall.
"Voldemort!" he grins up into the face of the horrified foe.
The dark wizard's wand is pointing towards him. A green burst of light explodes out the tip. He knows what it is. The Killing Curse, the most unforgiveable of the Unforgiveable Curses.
The Order has informed him on the modus operandi of this Dark Lord and the types of spells he employs. He has no doubt that his Arcane Shield, as efficient as it is, will not fully protect him from the effects of such an ancient and malefic curse.
It's a good thing he has something that will.
The Reaper takes the hit in full stride. The helljack instinctively moves forward and blocks the hissing green beam with its body. The Killing Curse impacts against one of the engine's immense shoulderplates and dissipates, as he assumed it would.
For how could you kill what is already dead?
He mounts the top of stairs. Allowing the Reaper to block the curse has, at most, caused a one second delay to his ten second estimation.
Voldemort's Inner Circle scatter before him. They don't want any part of this. From the way the Dark Lord screams in fury, he guesses that this is not the first time his followers have abandoned him.
He is close enough now to see the fear, true fear, in the dark wizard's eyes.
This is the other aspect of shock warfare. To make the enemy believe you are fundamentally unstoppable despite all evidence to the contrary. To make him believe there is nothing he can physically or mentally do to resist you. Despite the scope of damage he has caused, there are still methods they can employ to halt his advance. But they are not used. He has so overwhelmed their sense of rationale that they believe him to be functionally invincible. His attack has happened so quickly and so decisively that they believe they have already lost.
The spear rises in his hands, a nimbus of cackling electricity.
"Voldemort!" he shouts out the name of the man he is about to kill.
The speartip descends on empty air. The sudden crack he hears tells him that he will not accomplish his second objective today.
To escape the death coming for him on swift wings, Lord Voldemort, the darkest wizard since Gellert Grindelwald, has apparated out of his own manor.
More cracks sound around him. The Inner Circle, as well as the Death Eaters that are still alive, join their master in fleeing from the celebration that was supposed to herald their rise as the undisputed rulers of magical Britain.
++++++
"You did it," Snape said flatly as he approached.
The boy's breastplate was streaked with blood. Holes had been burnt into his utilitarian cloak by hastily cast spells. Besides that, nothing else suggested that he had just single-handedly shattered a Death Eater task force at least a hundred strong and sent the most powerful Dark Lord in recent memory fleeing for his life.
His warjacks followed him down the steps like trained hounds trailing behind their master after a successful hunt.
"I did," Harry said when he grew close, "but I was also fortunate. They were wholly unprepared. The circumstances were also extremely favorable to me. They did not expect this type of engagement and suffered for their negligence. Had this been a field battle where they were given time to prepare, the outcome would have been very different."
Snape stepped gingerly past a prone body and the gradually widening pool of blood spreading from beneath it.
"How so?"
"On open ground, there would have been more space to maneuver. They would have surrounded me as my battlegroup plunged deeper into their ranks. They would have bombarded me with spells from all sides and though my warjacks possess a certain degree of resilience, one spell would have eventually found me. But in an enclosed space like this," emerald green eyes roamed the antechamber with dispassionate interest, "they fed their own slaughter. Their indiscipline further buried them."
"And you knew all of this beforehand?" Snape asked in disbelief.
The boy shrugged.
"I made an educated guess based on what I have heard and seen of the enemy and assumed a particular set of behaviors they would enact under extreme duress. I was almost right. Only one factor did not match my battle plan."
"And that was?"
Harry looked at him.
"Voldemort. He ran sooner than I expected."
Snape snorted. The double agent, in some ways, still couldn't believe he was having this sort of conversation.
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Good in the sense that running proves he is a coward and cowards can be expected to make mistakes on the battlefield. Bad in the sense that running also proves he is smart and smart people don't tend to make the same mistake twice. This type of attack will most likely not work again."
Snape nodded and reached into his robe. The potions professor produced a piece of parchment and handed it to the boy.
"Here's the list of children currently being held hostage. They will be gathered in the upper atrium. They are locked in there," Snape glanced at the massive oversized weapons being held by each warjack, "but I suspect that's not going to be a problem for you."
Harry accepted the parchment wordlessly. He gazed at its contents before gazing at Snape.
"You are prepared then?"
The man swallowed, but put on a brave face.
"I am."
"And the issue of blood loss?"
"I drank a Blood-Thickening Potion earlier today, like we discussed."
"Will Voldemort believe it?"
"My Occlumency shields will divert his attention when he tries to open my mind. It will make him believe I took the wound during the fight."
A look of distaste crossed the boy's face.
"You wizards rely too much on your mind-magik."
Snape couldn't help himself. The statement begged for a comeback.
"And you warcasters rely too much on your warjacks."
One corner of Harry's mouth curled upwards into a half-smile.
"You have a point."
The spear thudded into Snape's chest a second later.
It was an extraordinarily good blow. The boy had been standing there one second, conversing with him like normal. The next second the spear point had entered his body without a hint of warning. There had been no threat suggestion. No indication that what was about to happen would happen. The movement had been instantaneous or as near instantaneous as the human brain could perceive it to be.
Snape gasped as he felt cold steel slide between his ribs. Besides being too fast to see, the blow was also well-placed. The bladed point of the spear had penetrated deep into his flesh but missed all the vital internal organs, just like they had intended all along.
"My apologies," Harry said, not sounding apologetic at all.
He removed his spear from Snape's side. Blood jetted out, spraying in a wide arc. Had he not taken the Blood-Thickening Potion, Snape knew that the wound would have robbed him of consciousness within minutes.
The potions professor sagged to his knees. His hands instinctively clutched at his side. He looked up into the eyes of the strange boy in his strange armor and saw only ruthlessness there. It was not the cruel type of ruthlessness. There was no malicious streak in it nor a callousness towards human suffering Snape had grown used to seeing in his years spent at Voldemort's side. It was the same type of ruthlessness that an experienced blacksmith might display when beating out the impurities in a particularly obstinate blade. It was the same type of ruthlessness that a veteran workman might show when hammering down a particularly stubborn set of nails.
It was the same type of ruthlessness that could topple a Dark Lord from his seat of power and bury him six feet underground.
"Don't lie," despite the pain, despite the blood bubbling out between his fingers, Snape still grinned, "You're not sorry."
Harry tilted his head to one side.
"Not at all," he said and rammed the butt end of his spear into Snape's face.
++++++
He watches the spy fall forward. Lying face down on the ground, his body is indistinguishable from the rest.
Behind him his engines wait impatiently for new orders. Their blood is up from participating in the wanton slaughter. It is a strange phrase to use considering that warjacks do not possess any form of arterial liquid in the heavy cabling inside their hulls but defining these beasts of steel and steam with human characteristics is just another consequence amid the long process of becoming a warcaster.
He has long ago accepted that these changes to his thinking would happen, have happened and have riven them from his mind.
A mental command refocuses the cortexes in each warjack. His engines immediately straighten, wary and alert.
He wheels on his feet.
"Come," he tells them, "We have more work to do."
++++++
She couldn't hear the sounds anymore.
Inside the magically sealed atrium, Daphne Greengrass turned.
"It's quiet again," she said to her friends, Tracey Davis and Blaise Zabini.
The two Slytherins nodded back.
"I thought I heard explosions," Tracey said.
"Maybe they were celebrating with fireworks," Blaise guessed.
"I thought I heard screams too," Tracey added.
"Maybe they were really happy about the fireworks," Blaise said darkly. He rubbed his arms ruefully.
Daphne understood the meaning behind the act. She, Tracey, Blaise, and the seventeen other children in the room were waiting for the main event to be over, whereupon they would be escorted to the antechamber and forced to publicly declare their family's loyalty to Lord Voldemort by taking the Dark Mark on their arms.
Daphne Greengrass believed in pureblood superiority. She, along with her family, believed that pureblood wizards and witches were superior to half-bloods and muggleborns when it came to aspects such as wizarding culture, magical knowledge, and social behavior. Because of these advantages, it was therefore the duty of purebloods to guide and nurture half-bloods and muggleborns until they became adept at functioning on all levels of wizarding society. In this way, new blood can be brought in to replace failing bloodlines and magical civilization could continue to flourish.
She did not believe for a second that being a pureblood made you better at magic than those of less pure blood. She had seen the proof herself in muggleborns like Hermione Granger, who could outcast and outstudy Seventh Years in the middle of their N.E.W.T.S. Indeed, her years spent at Hogwarts had only strengthened her beliefs.
And now she was about to swear loyalty to a cause that spat all over those beliefs.
She did not want to take the Mark. None of the people in the room wanted to take the Mark. Not even Blaise, who occasionally roamed the halls of Hogwarts with Draco and his gang.
For it was one thing to call someone a mudblood to her face. It was something else entirely to believe that certain someone should be wiped off the face of the earth.
Daphne, like all the other children in the room, had dreams. Perhaps one day she would take over her father's business and expand it into other locations. Perhaps one day she would take a sabbatical from work and travel the world. None of her dreams involved magically stamping the skull and serpent sigil of a Dark Lord into her skin.
Daphne was under no illusions that if she took the Mark, none of her dreams would ever come true. But she would still take the Mark, for if she did not, her family would suffer repercussions. Even worse, if she did not take the Mark, it would be her sister, Astoria, who would have to take the Mark.
With no other alternative, she did the one thing no Slytherin would ever do. She hoped.
"Maybe someone is coming to rescue us?" she dared to suggest.
Even Tracey, the one who shared beliefs closest to her own, looked askance at her.
"Why would they do that?" Blaise asked.
The question was self-depreciating, but Daphne understood where it came from. Not all Slytherins believed in pureblood supremacy but enough of them did that all of them were tainted by association. Just like how not all snakes were venomous but because some were, all serpents were now automatically affiliated with the sinister and the ominous.
She was about to give a retort when she heard faint sounds coming from the outside corridor.
They sounded like footsteps. In fact, they sounded like a great many footsteps.
And unlike the soft, almost secretive way Death Eaters carried themselves, these footsteps were heavy and clunking.
She hurried to the rune-locked door.
"Hello?" Daphne called out, "Is anyone out there? Can you let us out?"
She looked back to her friends for support. Tracey looked hopeful. Blaise looked like he was trying very hard not to look hopeful.
For a few seconds nothing happened, and Daphne felt her hope slowly ebb away. Then the voice answered, made low and muffled by the thick wooden barrier between them.
"Step away from the door."
Daphne hesitated before obeying. She took several steps back and rejoined her friends.
"It's locked by an advanced system of runes and charms. You'll need to---"
A massive iron fist smashed through the door. Splintered wooden chips flew in every direction. One of them, a sliver as long as Daphne's arm, buried itself in the table behind Tracey and Blaise.
They all stared at the spiked gauntlet protruding into the room. It was larger than all three of their chests put together.
Whatever was on the outside pulled the fist back and the door came off with it, torn clean off its hinges by some tremendous, irresistible force.
"Or that," Daphne said in a very small voice.
What next peered inside the room was decidedly not human.
Its head was shaped entirely out of metal. The immense steel casque, with a lower facegrille of wrought bronze, made its appearance synonymous with that of a bulldog. Burning, coal-fired eyes stared at them through the tiny vision slit on its helm.
A low guttural growl came from its throat as it vented warm steam into the room.
Some of the lower years made noises very close to whimpering.
"You're blocking my way," the familiar voice returned.
The monster's head retreated from view. In its place, a boy stepped through. He was dressed in the most outlandish attire Daphne had ever seen. The worn breastplate, four centuries out of fashion. The tattered, hole-strewn cloak which looked like it had just had more holes strewn into it. The dirty, grime-streaked goggles sitting above his head, making him appear as though he was the protagonist from some cheap muggle novel.
Daphne would have considered the entire thing outlandish had she not noticed the freshly-spilled blood splashed over his clothes.
The boy glanced at them impassively. Then he produced a piece of parchment of all things from his cloak. He peered at it, brows gradually furrowing. Daphne wasn't sure, but she thought she heard him say "bloody wizard names" under his breath.
Then he looked up, fixing them in place with the intensity of his stare.
"Daffodil Green Grass?"
Daphne was painfully aware of an entire room's worth of gazes burning into her back. Slowly, tentatively, she raised her hand.
Emerald green eyes flickered towards her before flickering back to the parchment.
"Tray See Day Whiz?"
Tracey swallowed. She looked like she wanted to correct him but wasn't sure how.
"That's… me?"
The boy nodded at her and then went back to scrutinizing the parchment. It was then that Daphne Greengrass realized that this wasn't some mock comedy gone awry or some cosmic entity deciding to have a laugh at their expense. The boy was being completely and utterly serious.
Their savior looked up again, face set into an expression of cold professionalism.
"Blazing Zucchini?"
++++++
This continued until he had ruthlessly and relentlessly butchered all twenty of their names. The last unfortunate soul, a third-year girl with auburn brown hair, looked slightly dazed at just how wrong her name had been pronounced.
The boy nodded to himself when it was all done and slid the parchment back into his cloak.
"Good. We are all accounted for then."
"Excuse me," Tracey said gingerly, "but who are you?"
She winced when the boy looked at her blankly.
"My first name has always been Harry," he finally said, "Didn't use it much but it is what it is. My last name, as I have found out in the past few days, is Potter."
A moment of silence passed as twenty pairs of eyes stared at him incredulously.
"You're Harry Potter," Daphne said flatly.
"You actually want us to believe that?" Blaise snorted.
"Good joke," added Tracey.
The boy cocked his head to one side.
"Did I make a joke?"
"Yeah," Blaise sneered, "as if the Girl-Who-Lived's disappeared twin is magically going to show up after fifteen years and rescue a bunch of Slytherins."
"One, I would share a similar sentiment if I were in your place. Two, I do not require you to slither in anywhere in my presence. A simple thank you will suffice."
The way Blaise's mouth worked soundlessly up and down, Daphne noted, resembled a nutcracker's jaws set to crack nuts in perpetuity.
The boy turned and left through the shattered doorway. He returned with a bundle of cloth bags. He set them on the table behind Tracey and Blaise.
"You'll be needing these."
Blaise glared at him.
"What are those for?"
"They're bags. For holding things."
The Slytherin rolled his eyes.
"I know that! What I meant is why are you giving them to us?"
"You have been here longer than me. It is highly likely you will have recognized items considered to be high value within these halls. You will assist me in locating these items and appropriating them."
"Stealing," Daphne said tonelessly, "You're asking us to help you steal things from the mansion."
"It is not called stealing," the boy said back, "It is called requisitioning."
"Whatever you want to call it, what makes you think we'll help?" demanded Blaise.
"Because if you don't help me I will not give you the port keys that will take you away from this place and reunite you with your families."
They stared at him. Then they stared at the bags on the table.
"You have forty-five minutes," said Harry Potter.
++++++
They paused when they reached the main antechamber. A scene of absolute carnage awaited them. Toppled pillars. Upended furniture. It looked like a hurricane had swept through and turned everything upside down.
"I thought you said all the Death Eaters had vacated the premises," Blaise's voice was missing its usual pureblood bluster.
"They have vacated the premises," came the matter-of-fact reply.
"These ones haven't," Tracey said quietly, eyeing the multitude of prone bodies lying still on the floor.
"They have vacated the premises, spiritually," the boy amended.
He made his way down the steps. They had no choice but to follow him. The sacks they were alternatively carrying and levitating were filled to the brim with magical artefacts and heirlooms. In retrospect, Daphne was surprised just how efficiently twenty people could pillage an entire mansion when sufficient motivation was applied.
They moved down the stairs.
As they grew nearer to the bodies, it became apparent just how each Death Eater had died. Some had been smashed into a pulp against the floor or walls. Others lay slumped, riddled with holes. Still others had been cleaved entirely in half. Bare human anatomy was laid open for all to see.
Some of the lower years looked positively ill as they descended with the group.
A low groan made them stop. One of the Death Eaters was still alive. His left leg was twisted at a horrendous angle. His right leg was missing from the thigh down.
Harry strode in his direction. The boy lowered his spear and expertly flicked the blank silver mask off the man's face. A rough unkempt face was revealed, complete with shallow cheekbones and haunted eyes.
Daphne stopped. Hatred welled within her heart.
"Antonin Dolohov," she said out loud.
The man glared wildly at them. His face was pale from the extent of his wounds but that did not prevent his ability to scream.
"The Dark Lord will take you all! He will take you and break you!"
Harry ignored the outburst.
"You know this person?" he asked her.
"He said that if I did not take the Dark Mark, he would make my sister... And then he said… I would not like the way he made my sister."
"Race-traitors! Mudblood-lovers! None of you are worthy!"
The boy's eyes bored into her.
"What are you going to do?"
Daphne didn't respond. Her wand had automatically found its way into her palm. Her hand shook but she nevertheless pointed her wand at the ranting Death Eater's face.
Harry nodded. In an act she will be forever grateful for, he turned towards the others.
"Look away," he told them.
++++++
"You sanctioned these killings?"
The woman glances up from the stack of papers on her desk.
"Yes. And this is the only first batch."
"There were hundreds of names on that list, Ashlynn."
"I know. I signed off on each name myself," the woman holds her hands out in front of her. She looks down at her palms as though if she isn't sure if they were truly hers, "What kind of Queen am I, when the first thing I do when I gain the throne is to put my countrymen on hit lists to be killed?"
He looks away. He is unused to seeing her in this state.
"It had to be done. They were traitors to Llael. They weren't your countrymen anymore."
"Had to be done," she repeats, "Every day I tell myself that and still it hurts."
He shifts uncomfortably. She notices and smiles a bitter smile.
"I wish the Resistance never retook the capitol. I wish we were out in the countryside again, throwing off the yoke of Khadoran rule one township at time. You, me, and a few hundred Resistance fighters."
"You can't change the past. Llael is yours now."
The woman nods. Her short blonde hair, once unburdened, is now crowned with a golden circlet glimmering with diamonds. He will never get used to the sight of her in a crown.
"And with it comes responsibilities I do not enjoy. These reprisal killings. The sentences I heap on my own people. It shouldn't be like this. The rebirth of a nation should be a celebrated thing. Instead, the entire city is cloaked with an aura of fear."
"You had to know something like this would have happened. Llael would not have fallen so quickly if Khador did not have inside help."
"I know. And that is why I have called you back from the field."
She hands him a brown folder stamped with the Royal Seal of Llael.
"This…" he glances over the contents, "…This is the former Minister of the Interior."
"A loyal, stubborn, foolish man. He was old guard. Devoted to the previous king. When all the other nobles fled, he alone defended the capitol with his household guard. He only surrendered when the Khadorans threatened his family with execution."
"Yes. You have extolled his virtues before. Even when he served as the head of the puppet government set up by Khador."
"He softened the brutality directed towards the common citizenry. I have always wondered how he accomplished that. Now I know. The Highborn Convenant has provided evidence that he sold information on the Resistance to Khador. He sold the lives of my soldiers to save the lives of my people."
"If that is the case, his name should be on the list."
The woman shakes his head.
"No. I will not let him be dragged through the streets like a common criminal. He deserves more than that. I will allow him the dignity of dying in his own hearth and home. My Royal Guards have already sealed off all roads and accessways to his estate. What is needed is someone to deliver the death sentence."
He looks at her, not quite sure what he is hearing.
"That's why you called me back? To commit sanctioned murder?"
"It is not murder. The courts decided the verdict under the rule of law."
"Those same courts would have found us guilty of treason against Khador just a year ago!"
"You do not need to understand why it must be done, only that it must be done."
"I would prefer knowing why, thank you very much."
"I'm not asking you to do it for Llael, the Highborn Convenant, of anyone else. I'm asking you to do it for me."
His fingers clench into fists by his side.
"Don't say that. You don't have a right to say that."
"No," she says quietly, "I have the right. You are the Sword of Llael. And as the Queen, I am in need of my blade."
++++++
She panted from exertion when everything had finished.
Unlike the others, her friends had not looked away. Tracey had come to stand by her side. Blaise had placed a hand firmly on her shoulder.
Now, more than ever, Daphne was glad to have the support of her friends.
A faint sob made them all look down.
Antonin Dolohov was still alive, though the definition could only be used loosely.
She had thrown every spell, curse, and hex short of the Unforgiveables at him. What remained twitching on the floor was not so much Antonin Dolohov as it was the sack of flesh that was once Antonin Dolohov.
Daphne stared at the devastation she had wrought, feeling equal parts satisfied and equal parts guilty. Satisfied that what needed to be done had been done. Guilty that she needed to do it in the first place.
She started when the spear came down. Splatters of blood sprayed on the ground in front of her feet. The quivering ruin that was Antonin Dolohov finally stopped quivering.
The boy wrenched his weapon free. The motion that accompanied the act suggested cool indifference, but the way his eyes burned was anything but indifferent.
"If anyone asks what happened here today," he said to them, "I killed this man."
++++++
Fleur Delacour was taking a stroll on the outskirts of Potter Manor when the faint pop of an activating portkey made her turn.
"Hello, Floor," the boy said to her. Behind him, his warjacks materialized out of thin air. Their larger than normal size made the sounds that accompanied temporal displacement much louder than they had any right to be.
Fleur inwardly cursed Rose even as she offered a polite smile in return.
"Hello, 'Arry."
More faint pops signified new arrivals. They were familiar faces. The quarter-Veela recalled seeing them sitting at the Slytherin table during her time at Hogwarts.
Some of them were carrying or levitating… All of them were carrying or levitating what appeared to be large sacks of loot over their shoulders.
Fleur noticed that the expressions each student wore was one of acute confusion, as though they were not quite sure what had happened had just happened.
Fleur could sympathize. She was currently wearing a similar expression.
"Is the Order of the Phoenix still in?" the boy's eyes had never left her face.
She wordlessly pointed in the direction of Potter Manor.
"My thanks," Harry said and led the procession of mechanical automata, looted goods, and rescued children away.