Year 7-04: Building Trust

Early mornings at Number 12 Grimmauld Place had become a bit of a sanctuary for Harry in recent weeks. He was often the first person awake in the morning, or at least, everyone else had places to be even earlier, leaving the townhouse empty and quiet. It became a time of rest and meditation for Harry, who could find neither in the chaos of the daytime nor in the horrific dreamscapes that haunted his sleepless nights.

But on this particular morning, the peace was disturbed as Harry made his way downstairs for breakfast. He heard raised voices wafting up the stairs from the kitchen, recognizing them as those of his parents. He paused in the doorway, unable to resist listening in on what they were discussing in private:

"...incredibly dangerous not to tell me first!"

"You know he wouldn't have let anything happen to me, James."

"That's beside the point! He's at the top of our most wanted list, besides Voldemort himself, and Amelia's top priority at the moment—"

"That seems a poor way to repay him for everything he's done for us in the past few years—"

Harry shifted a bit too loudly in the doorway; both James and Lily turned to see their son lurking in the frame.

"Good morning, darling!" Lily greeted him with a hasty smile. "Come, let me fix you something to eat." And she rushed to make herself appear busy behind the counter.

"Is everything alright?" Harry asked tentatively as he entered the kitchen.

"Fine, just fine," James muttered. He still looked troubled, as though he could not let go of whatever their argument was about. Finally he blurted out, "Your mother met with Severus Snape last night."

"You did?" Harry asked, surprised, turning to Lily. "Where is he? Did he tell you what Voldemort has planned?"

"No, not directly," Lily sighed. "Though he strongly implied that we were in great danger."

"Something anyone with half a brain could have told you," James deadpanned. "Don't you realize how foolish it was to respond to his invitation? What if it had been a trap? What if Voldemort intended to use you as bait?"

"Severus would never do that to me!" Lily said indignantly. "And he didn't, might I remind you! I returned home perfectly safe, didn't I?"

"I can't believe you still trust that duplicitous bastard," James grumbled unhappily. "Or that you would even entertain such a ludicrous offer—"

"Severus' home is among the safest places in Britain right now!" said Lily.

"And you really believe he has no ulterior motives with such an offer?" James demanded.

"Sorry, what offer?" Harry asked, unable to stay out of it.

"Severus has offered shelter from the war at his safe house," Lily explained. "To stay protected if and when an attack comes."

"Really?" said Harry. "For all of us?"

"No," James said bitterly. "Just for her."

Oh. Now Harry understood the root of the argument: Snape had reached out to Lily to offer her personal protection, not caring what happened to her husband or children. In fact, he probably hoped that the impending battle would result in James' death, a fact that was clearly not lost on James himself.

"Well...that's not so bad, is it?" Harry offered. "At least Mum will be safe no matter what happens."

"Snape can't be trusted!" James insisted. "He's Voldemort's right-hand man! Not to mention the prime suspect in Dumbledore's death!"

"And you're accusing him of having ulterior motives?" Lily laughed hollowly. "Why don't you just admit that you plan on throwing Severus under the bus to protect Harry from prosecution?"

"I'll proudly admit that!" said James. "It's his bloody fault the Death Eaters got into the castle to begin with! And he helped them all escape afterwards!"

"He also helped Harry escape," Lily pointed out. "And saved him from Voldemort afterwards. Yet you still plan on rewarding him with a lifetime sentence in Azkaban?"

"He chose his side," James said stubbornly. "And he chose wrong. You know full well that he only protected Harry to stay on your good side—"

"The reasons don't matter!" said Lily. "He can still be a valuable ally!"

"To you, not to me!" James groaned. "You might think of him as a friend, but he sees you as something more, and I think you know that!"

"You've shared your suspicions many times," Lily said irritably. "It doesn't change the fact that he is loyal. And I will not betray his loyalty by letting you back-stab the man who saved our son's life!"

"Whoa, am I interrupting something?" said Dahlia, who had just entered the room from upstairs.

"Not at all, dear," said Lily, once again going into damage control mode. "Why don't you sit with your brother while I fix you some eggs?"

"I'm going to work," James muttered bitterly, sweeping from the room. Dahlia arched an eyebrow at Harry, who gave her a subtle nod saying, we'll discuss this later.

He explained the situation to her after breakfast, when Lily too hurried from the house to attend to business. "So Snape wants Mum to come and stay with him?" Dahlia asked. "And not any of the rest of us?"

"Seems that way," Harry sighed. "And it's pretty obvious why. Mum might be in denial, but it's plain as day to both me and Dad."

"It might not be that cut-and-dry," Dahlia suggested. "He's fond of Mum, that's true, but he's never crossed any boundaries with her. And he has been extremely helpful over the past year, not just with the war, but with her emotions and her recovery."

"You don't see that as crossing any boundaries?" Harry asked pointedly. "Or think he's being helpful for his own selfish reasons?"

"I'm just saying," Dahlia huffed, "that Professor Snape might deserve some benefit of the doubt. All four of us should have died at least once over the past year and a half, and he's a big reason why we haven't. Isn't that worth something?"

"Maybe," Harry grumbled. He had declined to show Dahlia all of his memories of Snape in his past life, so she didn't know how truly nasty and vindictive he could be. His infatuation with Lily was all that was keeping his virulent hatred of James and his offspring in check. But Dahlia had a point: Harry would have been murdered at Voldemort's feet if not for Snape's scheming behind the scenes, so there was some merit to hearing him out.

But Harry was especially conflicted now after hearing what his father had to say. He'd long wondered why he had yet to be called in for questioning about Dumbledore's death, and how Amelia Bones planned to cover up Harry's crime. Now it seemed that all of their hopes rested upon pinning the murder on Snape. If that failed to materialize, would Harry be exposed? Would they be able to produce another scapegoat to appease the public, or would the Ministry not be able to protect Harry any longer?

Hopefully that was a question for after the war. It wouldn't do to dwell on things Harry couldn't control, so he resolved to focus on his own preparations. Luckily, he would get the perfect opportunity a few hours later, when Mad-Eye Moody emerged from the Floo, looking more cross than usual.

"Potter!" he barked when he saw Harry in the hall. "With me. Troop training is about to begin."

"Great," Harry nodded. "I'll just get my things."

"What do you need to get?" Moody demanded. "You have your wand on you, don't ya? No sane wizard would be caught without it in times like these."

"Er…" Harry hesitated. His Kneazle wand was currently sitting on his bedside table upstairs, unneeded for mundane tasks around the townhouse. But when he checked his robe pocket, the Elder Wand was nestled there in its place, ready for action. Harry never could be rid of the damned thing, no matter how many times he tried to bury it at the bottom of his school trunk with the Resurrection Stone.

"Good lad," Moody nodded as Harry withdrew the wand. "Let's go. No time to waste."

He extended his arm to Harry, who took it, and Moody Apparated them away. They reappeared in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of London. Moody led them towards a dilapidated old warehouse that looked to have been vacant for decades. But Harry could feel the pull of magic as they approached, indicating that the place was not as it appeared from the outside.

"You may want to disguise yourself," Moody suggested. "Your story isn't as well-known abroad as here in Britain, but nobody will take orders from a sixteen-year-old twerp anyhow."

Harry couldn't argue with that logic. He twirled his wand over his head, transforming his appearance into that of a nondescript man some twenty years older. He also transfigured his robes to match Moody's: a deep, royal purple, neatly pressed and official-looking, denoting status. Moody gave Harry's appearance an appraising nod, before tapping his wand in a specific sequence on the door of the warehouse. It swung open, and he beckoned Harry inside.

The interior of the warehouse was ten times larger than the exterior, with high ceilings and a spacious floor plan to accommodate thousands. Rows upon rows of stacked bunk beds lined the walls, and hundreds of young men and women milled about the space, dressed in casual uniform and conversing with one another.

"Welcome to the barracks," said Moody. "This is where we're housing and training the units being sent here from abroad."

Harry took in the diverse group of witches and wizards around the room. A wide array of nations and cultures were represented; Harry saw patches related to countries from six different continents on arm bands. They traveled in tight-knit groups, sticking with other soldiers of their own nationality, but he supposed that made sense in an unfamiliar environment.

"How many countries have sent troops?" Harry asked.

"Sixty-three," said Moody. "The largest units came from France, Canada and the United States, while a few smaller nations sent what they could, which was just a handful in some cases. But every little bit counts...now if only Japan and China would stop holding out on us."

Harry was encouraged by the size of the group, seeing at least a thousand individuals around the room. Most were on the younger size, perhaps only a couple of years older than Harry himself...he knew that the ICW often attracted folks aspiring to join the Aurors but lacking the necessary experience. Hopefully that made them eager and receptive to training, even if they were more green than he might like for an all-out war.

"Have you seen what they're capable of yet?" asked Harry.

"That's what you're here to help me figure out," said Moody. "The last few only arrived late last night...today will be our first chance to see what they've got."

Moody whistled loudly to get the room's attention. "Everybody gather up!" he barked. A few of the nearest groups of soldiers sauntered over, but many remained where they were; Harry spied a large contingent hanging out in the back corner, lounging on beds and trading Chocolate Frog cards over raucous laughter.

Harry drew his wand and fired sparks in the air. They made a loud bang noise that caused the entire room to jump and look in his direction. "Form up!" Harry bellowed. His room carried across the entire barracks, silencing the place; the stragglers quickly approached to join the rest of the group. Harry noticed that they continued to stick with their countrymen; the Americans were front and center, flanked by the French and the Canadians, with the various other nations trailing off around them, refusing to interact with one another.

Moody stepped atop a conjured box to address the room from up high. "My name is Commander Alastor Moody," he said. "I've been assigned to whip you sorry lot into shape. This here is my right-hand man, Lieutenant...er…"

"Prewett," Harry supplied helpfully. "Lieutenant Prewett."

"Lieutenant Prewett and I are here to assess your worth and prepare you for combat," Moody continued. "That will give us a better idea of the role you might serve on the battlefield."

"And why should we have to report to you?" a sneering voice demanded. One of the Americans stepped forward in challenge, as his buddies guffawed behind him.

"You're in my damned country, fighting my damned Dark Lord," Moody snarled. "What, do you think you should be the one giving orders?"

"I'm just saying, we should have a say in who we're reporting to!" the American said innocently, to the snickers of his comrades. "We Americans have to work our way up the ranks to earn respect, and historically, we don't respond well to unelected kings."

"You think we Brits aren't worth listening to?" Harry demanded, stepping forward. "You think we don't know war? We've been fighting this lunatic for years now...it's you that's out of your depth here."

The man narrowed his eyes at Harry, sizing him up as his four friends stepped forward to flank him on either side. "You think you're better than us?" one of his friends demanded. "We're the leaders of the free world, not you."

"Let's put it to the test, then," said Harry, casually drawing his wand. "Prepare to defend yourself."

"Which one of us?" the first American demanded.

"All of you," Harry shrugged. "Are you ready?"

The American glanced at one another, mirth in their eyes. "Five against one?" the leader scoffed. "Seems unfair."

"You're right, it is," Harry nodded. "I'll try to go easy on you."

That succeeded in riling up the men. All five drew their wands and dropped into defensive stances. "Whenever you're ready, redcoat," the leader snarled.

"As you wish," Harry grinned. The Elder Wand flashed through the air in a blur, firing a flurry of hexes in the group's direction. Two did not manage to erect Shield Charms in time, dropping to the ground in a heap. The other three managed to deflect the blows and return fire, looking bewildered by the speed their enemy displayed.

Harry effortlessly spun away from the counter-assault and transfigured the ground beneath them into ice. Two began to slip uncontrollably, crashing to the ground and falling victim to Stunners. The last remaining fighter canceled the transfiguration and looked up to find Harry gone. He looked around wildly for the missing enemy, only to be bound in ropes as Harry re-emerged in the rafters, lounging casually across the beams and looking like he'd barely broken a sweat.

"That'll be enough from you lot now," said Harry as he floated gracefully back to the ground and revived all five of the Americans. "Anyone else wish to challenge our authority?"

Nobody else spoke up. The Americans looked furious, but many other nations looked begrudgingly impressed by the display. The defeated soldiers retreated to the safety of numbers, glowering in shame at being thoroughly embarrassed by Harry.

"If that's the best any of you can muster, we have a lot of work to do," Moody said sharply. His face was firmly set in a scowl, but Harry recognized the twinkle in his eye that told him the man was highly amused by Harry's display of strength. "Line up in pairs across from one another down the row. Let's see your dueling skills."

Harry and Moody spent several hours walking up and down the barracks, observing individual duels between fighters. Many of them at least seemed to know what they were doing – Harry figured that most were top duelists at their respective schools prior to joining the ICW. A few were even genuinely talented, possessing the skill to be an Auror or Hit-Wizard even if they might have lacked the qualifications in other ways.

"Very good," Harry appraised a young Ethiopian witch when she knocked out a dozen nearby fighters with an obscure sleeping charm he did not recognize. "Save that one for when the enemy is grouped up close together." The witch beamed and nodded eagerly as she set about undoing the charm.

Others were less responsive to feedback. "Your stance is too open," he told a Canadian wizard after he was Stunned and revived for the third time. "You give the enemy too large of a target. Try turning sideways to minimize your exposure, or use your feet more to dodge."

"I was tutored by one of North America's top dueling coaches," the Canadian scoffed. "He taught me my stance, and it's worked for me so far."

"It was probably designed for one-on-one combat, not all-out war," Harry pointed out. "Just a thought." The wizard grumbled unhappily, and the next time Harry passed by, he was still stubbornly using the same open stance.

Yet others, like the Americans, outright rejected his instruction attempts. "You know you don't have to get so close to your enemies to dispatch them?" he groaned as he came across a group dueling from a mere five feet away.

"We're from Boston, redcoat," one of the men grunted without looking at him. "We have our own way of fighting. And we don't take no advice from you preppy assholes on how to fight with 'dignity' or whatever."

"There's merit to closing the distance," Harry acknowledged, trying to build a bond between them in order to gain their trust. "Perhaps you can go even farther and get physical with the opponent?"

"Physical?" the man scoffed, wheeling around to stare at Harry in amazement. "What, like we're common Muggles?"

"I thought you weren't above being undignified?" Harry grinned. He heard the men bad-mouthing him with rather colorful language as he walked away, realizing that he had a long way to go to earn their respect.

Moody eventually fired sparks into the air to signal the end of the day. "Gather round!" he barked. "Good work today. Lots to improve on, but plenty to be proud of as well. We may stand a chance in this war just yet. Pott— er, Prewett, anything you'd like to add?"

Harry considered this. His eyes scanned the vast sea of faces, realizing that he had an opportunity to improve the structure of the group and build trust in one fell swoop.

"There are far too many of you to give individual instruction to everyone," he announced. "We need to establish a chain of command. For every fifty fighters, I want one officer appointed to lead your unit. They will report to Commander Moody and myself to coordinate larger tactics."

"You're givin' us more assholes to report to?" scoffed an American.

"Figure out who your officers are yourself," Harry shrugged. "Form your own units and put it to a vote. If you don't have enough fighters from your country, combine with another nation. In fact, the more nations represented per unit, the better."

Harry hoped this would help facilitate greater trust and cooperation between the nations, rather than all of them being segregated. But he knew this was wishful thinking. Already the Americans, Canadians and French were sizing one another up within their own groups, plotting to gain leadership over their fellow countrymen and women.

"Dismissed for the day," barked Moody. "You have until 0800 tomorrow morning to establish your commanding officers. We'll be back to resume your training then." And he swiftly departed for the exit, signaling Harry to follow.

"Nice thinking there, kid," said Moody once they were out of the warehouse. "What made you think of the officer strategy?"

"I figured they'd be more likely to listen to one of their own than one of us," Harry shrugged. "Maybe if we put a filter between us and them that they control, they'll be easier to get into line."

Moody considered this, looking impressed. "It's not far off from a strategy I might use in a rowdy classroom at Hogwarts," he chuckled. "You'd make a damned fine professor, Potter."

The thought had crossed Harry's mind before. He knew his near future was filled with combat and violence, but if it ever ended, he might enjoy a more peaceful existence like teaching. He was good at it, and Hogwarts had always felt like home – but then he remembered his last time in the castle and the terrible deed he'd committed there, a knot forming in his stomach as he realized he might never be welcomed there again.

He put the thought out of his mind as he returned home to Grimmauld Place that evening. And he had a perfect distraction in the form of his cousin, Damian, who was sitting in the drawing room when he arrived.

"Hey, cousin," said the younger boy, standing to greet him. "How are things?"

"Could be better, could be worse," Harry shrugged, shaking Damian's beefy hand. The fifteen-year-old had grown considerably over the past few months...he was now taller than even Harry and at least fifty pounds heavier: pure meat and muscle, sculpted by hard Quidditch workouts. He was beginning to resemble Vernon Dursley in an uncanny way, but with hints of the Evans gene softening his father's more unpleasant features.

"Ah, Harry," said Aunt Petunia, gliding into the room behind her son. "How have you been?"

"Er...fine, thanks," said Harry, awkwardly accepting her bony hug. The last time he had seen her was in the Pensieve, as her alternate self terrorized him, so he had to re-calibrate his mind and remember that she was not the same cruel person she had been in another lifetime.

Dahlia, it seemed, had a tougher time accepting that. She arrived home for dinner shortly after, still dressed in her St. Mungo's trainee robes, and she paused at the sight of her aunt, an unmistakable look of disdain on her face.

"Hello, Dahlia!" Petunia beamed, unaware of the awkwardness in the air. "Your mother told me about your volunteer work at the hospital. That is very noble of you."

She approached her niece for a hug, which Dahlia barely managed to avoid flinching away from. "Thanks," she muttered, before rushing off up the stairs to get changed.

Half an hour later, the Potters and Dursleys sat around the kitchen table eating dinner together. "I can't thank you enough for allowing me to use your Godric's Hollow home while I get on my feet," Petunia told James and Lily. "This divorce has been rather nasty, truth be told, and it's nice to have family support."

"You know we'll always have your back, Tuney," said Lily, taking her sister's hand affectionately. "Take as much time there as you need."

"Damian will be staying here for a few days," Petunia informed Harry and Dahlia. "While I travel for a few interviews. I haven't worked a day job since I was nineteen years old, but I'm hoping to find some secretarial work near London."

"That will be just fine with us," said James. "We're happy to take in Damian for as long as you need."

"I'll have to make time for us to go out into the city sometime this summer," said Lily. "Just like old times. And maybe Dahlia can come with us! What do you say, dear?"

"I'd rather die," Dahlia muttered under her breath, so quietly only Harry beside her could hear.

"Come again?" Lily frowned.

"I said, yeah, maybe," Dahlia grumbled. Lily sensed that she was being rude, so she gave her daughter a scathing look when Petunia got up to put her dishes away. Harry too shot her a knowing look to back down; Dahlia merely rolled her eyes. His sister was as stubborn as she was loyal, and while he was grateful that she had his back, she also wore her emotions a bit too heavily on her sleeve and needed to rein it in a little around her aunt.

Harry had to share his bedroom with Damian for the next few days, which was fine by him...it would be an opportunity to bond with his cousin at this critical time in their lives. "What's with all the charms?" Damian demanded as Harry placed privacy wards around his bed. "Afraid I'll peep on you in your sleep?"

"I'm a snorer," Harry lied. "Just don't want to wake you up in the middle of the night." The second half of that was at least true...he was prone to waking up in cold sweats, screaming from night terrors, and did not want to alarm his cousin too much. Damian just shrugged and plopped himself onto his roll-out cot beside the bed.

"So what's really going on around here?" he asked eagerly. "My mum doesn't know anything about the war, and Uncle James won't tell me."

"It's the calm before the storm," Harry shrugged. "Nobody knows when and where Voldemort will choose to strike, so all we can do is try and prepare for when he does."

"What can I do to help?" asked Damian. "I want to fight."

"You're too young," Harry said firmly. "This is real war we're talking about, not schoolyard duels."

"I know that," Damian huffed. "But you're underage too, and so is Dahlia, and you're allowed to help!"

"It's...different," Harry sighed. "We're staying out of the way of the main war, and just helping out where we can."

"Then I want to do that too!" Damian insisted.

"You don't want any part in this war," said Harry. "Why can't you just stay out of trouble this time?"

"Because I have the most to lose!" said Damian firmly. "Unlike you, I'm Muggle-born, and if we lose the war, it's over for me and Mum. What good will it do if I survive the war safely if I'll just be persecuted after it's over?"

"You dying needlessly in battle won't help anything," Harry pointed out.

"I'd rather die on my feet than live on my knees," Damian huffed. "So come on, cousin, throw me a bone. What can I do to be useful?"

Harry considered this. Damian had a point: he would be one of Voldemort's top targets if the war went in his favor, along with half of his school friends. Surely he deserved a chance to impact its outcome like everyone else, despite his age.

"Why don't you write to Cedric?" Harry suggested. "The Aurors have been stretched pretty thin lately...maybe he can use your help for a task or two."

"Yeah, alright, I'll do that," said Damian. "He hasn't written to me much lately thanks to that minx of a girlfriend of his, but I'll guilt him into including me in something."

Harry chuckled...he suspected that just might work on Cedric. The young man had a soft spot for Damian, shepherding him through his first few years at Hogwarts, and might indeed feel obligated to let Damian help. Hopefully he could find some menial work for the teen to assist the Aurors in a non-combat setting.

Harry certainly couldn't be burdened with Damian's inclusion, especially with the ICW training. He was back at the warehouse early the next morning, and every morning for the subsequent week. To his dismay (and Moody's complete lack of surprise), the officer strategy did not go according to plan. While a few units had successfully appointed leaders for themselves, others suffered from disagreements over who their representative ought to be.

"Unit Fourteen!" Harry barked, addressing the group of fifty comprised of all Americans. "Why do you have three officers?"

"None of us reached fifty percent of the vote," one of the proposed officers shrugged. "So we agreed to all be officers together."

"That isn't going to work," said Harry. "What if you have a disagreement between you? Who decides what to do next?"

"Well, then we will do what I decide," said one of the officers confidently.

"Like hell we will!" another protested. "I should have the final say between us!"

"My point exactly," said Harry. "There is no clear chain of command here, and your men won't be able to tell who's really in charge. Only one of you can be officer, so how do you propose we decide who it will be?"

"It's me," said the first man again. "I'm the oldest and most experienced, after all."

"Over my dead body!" snarled another officer, brandishing his wand. The third agreed with the sentiment, also preparing for a fight.

"That's quite enough, gentlemen!" Moody barked angrily. "We're wasting time here."

"Actually, no, this is good," said Harry, to Moody's surprise. "You three, over here with me. We'll settle this the old-fashioned way."

He led the three over to an empty part of the warehouse as the other trainees looked on curiously. Harry had them spread out so they were roughly twenty feet apart from one another, similar to the setup in the Spiked Chalice fighting arena.

"A duel to decide it," said Harry. "Winner is named captain, and losers must accept his authority. Deal?"

All three nodded eagerly, eyeing the others with suspicion. Harry backed away and fired sparks into the air, and the fight was on.

All three were skilled fighters, that much was true. The oldest was cocky and over-confident, laughing as he ducked and dodged the attempts from the others to incapacitate him. But he was felled by a surprise transfigured dagger, which grazed his leg and caused him to stumble; this allowed his attacker to finish him with a Stunner. He pumped his fist jubilantly in the air, only to be felled by a Stunner from the third fighter, who turned expectantly to Harry.

"We have a winner," Harry deadpanned, as he revived the two losers. "Good fight, you two. But you got too laser-focused on one target, and you made yourself a bigger target with your boastfulness. That kind of behavior won't serve you well in a real battle. Now, back with your unit." The two losers bitterly retreated back into the crowd, glaring daggers at the winner.

A few other units needed help deciding their own officer, as Harry proctored each of their fights. It gave him another opportunity to see what each fighter brought to the table, and provide feedback on their technique. Now if only they would fight with as much determination and resolve against Voldemort as they did their fellow countrymen – then they might stand a chance.

Unfortunately, the in-fighting continued throughout the week as Harry and Moody tried in vain to unify them. Many of the units elected to train separately, with their officers barking orders at them instead. That led to numerous fights that needed to be broken up, and several trips to St. Mungo's for those who had pissed off their superiors (or subordinates).

This is the elite unit that's supposed to defeat Voldemort's army? Harry thought in exasperation. Even if they had a two-to-one advantage they might struggle to beat a prepared enemy, and that advantage is nearly as large for the OTHER side!

"You're doing a fine job, lad," Moody appraised him at the end of yet another stressful and counter-productive day. "We'll whip them into shape yet. It'll just take time."

Time we don't have, Harry thought worriedly. July was rapidly coming to a close, and something told him that Voldemort was preparing something big. Surely he knew that giving the ICW time to get ready was not a smart idea, and he would choose to strike while the forces against him were still trying to organize themselves.

He headed straight from the warehouse to Raven House, as he had every afternoon that week. Fleur had insisted on regular dueling practice with Harry, feeling rusty after two years of working a sedentary desk job. He got the better of her every time; even on the handful of occasions she managed to trick him or slip a curse past his defenses, the Elder Wand prevented him from losing, evading defeat by a hair's breadth.

"It is impossible!" Fleur shouted angrily after Harry revived her for the dozenth time in a row. "I am 'opeless!"

"No, you're not," Harry reassured her. "You may be out of practice, but you'll be able to hold your own against the average Death Eater with no problem. It's just this wand preventing you from doing me serious harm."

"And you are 'olding back against me!" Fleur accused him. "I can take a beating, 'Arry; I do not need you to protect me!"

"It's not my own spells I'm worried about," Harry sighed. "It's what the wand might do to you if I let it."

"What do you mean?" asked Fleur, her prideful anger giving way to curiosity about the artifact.

"I can feel it trying to take over at times," Harry admitted. "I'm not letting it unleash its full potential. It's like controlling Fiendfyre, except I worry it will consume everything around me instead of only myself."

Even now Harry could hear the Elder Wand whispering in his mind, urging needless violence. She's dead weight. Do away with her now so she doesn't slow you down any longer. Your lust for her beauty is weakening you. Let me show you what I can do. Let me kill her so that you can find a partner more worthy of your talents. He pushed the dangerous thoughts out of his mind, knowing the Wand would seek bloodshed no matter what was actually best for him.

"Do you think you will be able to control it in a real battle?" Fleur asked worriedly.

"I don't know," Harry admitted. He left his true feelings unspoken: he didn't know if he wanted to. Part of him was tempted to let the Wand loose on his enemies, to give it control when he inevitably faced off against Voldemort on the battlefield. What if that was the key? What if the Wand was 'the power the Dark Lord knows not'? Harry knew there was nothing about him inherently that could overpower Voldemort...perhaps his ownership of the Wand was all he needed.

But he knew that was a dangerous proposition. His conversation with Grindelwald at Nurmengard indicated that the Wand had been his downfall fifty years ago. He, too, had given into the Wand's impulses against Dumbledore and paid the price for it, to his eternal regret. But was Grindelwald telling the truth? He knew how intelligent the former Dark Lord was and his clear sympathy for Voldemort's cause, so perhaps Harry ought to take his word with a grain of salt.

"Be able to control what?" asked Dahlia, who had sauntered out the front door and settled on the porch steps to observe their duels. She often stopped by Raven House on her way home from work, to check on their personal stores and watch Harry and Fleur duel in the yard. Harry wished his sister wasn't omnipresent at his safe house, which he still viewed as his personal sanctuary. But she had done nothing to betray his confidence thus far, so he had no reason to object to her constant presence.

"This," Harry sighed, twiddling the Elder Wand at her as he and Fleur approached the house.

"You're still having wand troubles?" Dahlia scoffed. "I know Kneazle cores are tricky, but I thought you got over those in your first year."

"This isn't the Kneazle core wand," said Harry, handing her the wand. She took it and examined it, frowning when she did not recognize it.

"Whose is this?" she demanded as she scrutinized the ancient wood.

"It's mine now," said Harry. "I took it from Neville, who took it from Dumbledore."

"Ah, I thought it looked familiar," said Dahlia. "I saw Neville using it towards the end of the school year. I asked him about it and he snapped at me...that was one of the rows that led to us breaking up."

Harry again felt a small pang of guilt at how things had played out at the end of last term. He had chewed out Neville thoroughly for his poor behavior, but it seemed the boy was unable to control the Wand and succumbed to its evil influences, affecting even his most intimate relationships.

"It's not entirely his fault," Harry explained. "This wand is extremely dangerous. Neville wasn't exactly himself whenever he was using it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dahlia demanded. "It's just a wand...what makes it so dangerous?"

Harry hesitated, wondering how much he ought to reveal. But Fleur nodded encouragingly beside him, so he relented. "You know the story of the Deathly Hallows?" he asked. "From The Tales of Beedle the Bard?"

"Sure," Dahlia shrugged. "Dad used to read it to us all the time before bed...not that you'd remember that, I suppose."

"Well, they're real," said Harry. "And this is one of them."

Dahlia frowned skeptically at him. "You're saying this is the Elder Wand?" she scoffed. "You're pulling my leg. The Hallows don't exist."

"They do," said Harry. "Didn't you ever wonder how the Potters had an Invisibility Cloak that lasted so long across generations? It's also a Hallow. And so is the Resurrection Stone, which is sitting at the bottom of my school trunk as we speak."

Dahlia's eyes widened at this information, eyeing the wand in her hands with newfound reverence. She quickly tossed it back to Harry, as though it had burned her.

"What the hell are you doing with them?" she breathed. "Is this what you two have been doing all this time? Trying to get all three Hallows?"

"Not exactly," said Harry. "But that's what Dumbledore told Neville to do. He gave Neville the Wand, which he already owned, and the Cloak, which he stole from Dad all those years ago. Then they went looking for the Stone, the night of the attack, but I had already found it months prior."

Harry could see the gears churning in Dahlia's head – she was no idiot, despite the playful insults the two siblings often hurled at one another. "And now Neville's off looking for the Stone by himself," she deduced sadly. "Not realizing you have it."

"And he wouldn't trust me, even if I told him where it was," Harry nodded. "He thinks I'm corrupted by Dark magic, and he'll do anything to prevent me from getting the Cloak back, even though it's my birthright."

Dahlia pondered this predicament in silence for a long while. "I just wish I could talk to him," she lamented. "I would have ended things much differently if I'd known what would happen so soon after. He doesn't deserve what's happening to him."

Harry nodded forlornly in agreement. He declined to tell her that the worst may be yet to come for Neville, given the horcrux situation. Fleur seemed to be thinking along similar lines, shifting uncomfortably as she studied Harry's expression.

"You realize that we cannot wait forever, 'Arry," she said softly. "We must take action to end zis war before it gets worse. If ze war begins and we 'ave not yet found all of ze horcruxes—"

"I know," Harry sighed. "Which is why I think it's time to go to my father and tell him the truth."

"About your past?" asked Dahlia, suddenly sitting up at attention.

"About the horcruxes," said Harry, looking to Fleur. "You're right: we need more help. And my dad needs to understand what he's up against in order to plan for the war properly."

"What's a horcruk-sis?" asked a confused Dahlia. Fleur, however, smiled proudly at Harry.

"Come along, and he can explain it to you as well as your father," said Fleur, reaching out her hand to help Dahlia to her feet. "I will take us to the Ministry."

"You want to go now?" asked Harry, suddenly getting cold feet. "Er, I don't know...maybe we can wait until tonight when he gets home—"

"We 'ave delayed this conversation far too long, 'Arry," Fleur said adamantly. "We mustn't waste any more time."

"Yes, come along, 'Arry," Dahlia smirked. "I don't know what she's talking about, but I know she's right and you're wrong, like always."

Harry grumbled irritably...how was he letting Fleur and his sister dictate everything in his life lately? But he couldn't disagree – Fleur was right that this was a conversation that should've happened months, if not years ago. James Potter needed to be aware of what he was up against if he was going to effectively lead the country against Voldemort.

"Fine," he sighed. "But let's be smart about it first." He applied his typical glamour to himself, before doing the same for Dahlia and Fleur. Now all three appeared to be your average middle-aged Ministry employee, none of whom would turn heads. As long as Fleur kept her Allure intact, they should evade notice. Finally satisfied with their appearances, Harry linked arms with the two girls, and Fleur Apparated them away.

They reappeared in bustling downtown London, near the public entrance to the Ministry. At once Harry picked up on the tense atmosphere, as passers-by walked quickly and with purpose to their destinations. Even the Muggles seemed to sense the tension, walking in tight-knit groups and walking past storefronts without a passing glance.

Harry, Dahlia and Fleur joined the queue into the public restroom that served as the main entrance to the Ministry. There is where they saw the first signs of discontent, in the form of a large poster pinned on one of the stall doors. 'CAN MINISTER POTTER BE TRUSTED?' the missive asked. 'WHO KILLED DUMBLEDORE? WHAT ARE THEY HIDING FROM US?'

"Bloody morons," Dahlia muttered, ripping down the poster as they passed by. "People will find any reason to accuse their government of conspiracy."

Except in this case, the conspiracy is true, Harry lamented. The Minister was, in fact, sheltering Albus Dumbledore's killer, even if the circumstances were more complex than that fact on the surface. He could only hope that was the extent of the rumors, and that most people didn't buy into the theory.

But that hope only lasted for a minute at best.

Harry flushed himself into the entrance of the Ministry, where he was met with a large group of witches and wizards waiting outside the Atrium. At first he thought perhaps the security checkpoint was undermanned, causing delays in sorting people into the office. But he quickly realized that the crowd was not actually waiting to get through the checkpoint. In fact, they all seemed to be there for the same exact reason.

"Justice for Albus Dumbledore!" someone shouted from the crowd.

"Why is Amelia Bones covering up the truth?" shouted another.

"Who is the Minister protecting?"

"The Prophet is complicit!"

"We demand answers now!"

The crowd of a couple dozen seemed to be largely comprised of protesters, chanting and blocking the path into the Atrium. A handful of Aurors was attempting to keep the peace and clear a path for employees to get through. But the protesters were loud, persistent, and visibly angry.

Harry realized that he recognized several of the protesters in the crowd. Fred and George Weasley appeared to be leading the charge, along with Lee Jordan, at the front of the pack. A few other Hogwarts graduates were present, and even some current students, like Dean Thomas, Ernie Macmillan, and most saddening, Terry Boot. All were pumping their fists or wielding signs, one of which even bore Harry's face on it and asked, 'Where is Harry Potter?'

"Ignore them," Fleur whispered in Harry's ear as they pushed through the crowd. "Remember, it is only rumors. No one is taking them seriously."

Harry hoped this was true, but it was becoming less likely by the minute. More and more people seemed to be joining the charge against him, seeking justice for what he had done to Dumbledore. Word was spreading fast, and Harry doubted he could outrun the allegations forever...he realized now why Amelia Bones had been so anxious about him being seen in public, and why James was so eager to put Snape behind bars.

The group finally got through the throng of dissidents and arrived at the security checkpoint. "Place your wand in the receptacle," said the bored guard on duty when Harry approached.

Harry hesitated briefly – would his wand set off some kind of alarm? Would the guard call out Harry for his use of a glamour and make a fuss about it? Would the protesters realize that the target of their ire was in their midst? All he could do was keep his cool and calmly draw his wand, slipping it into the receptacle and hoping the young man wouldn't make a commotion.

A slip of paper slid out of the machine, and the guard took it, frowning as he read the result. "How odd," he muttered. "This wand doesn't appear to be registered with the Ministry."

Harry's heart skipped a beat as the guard plucked up the wand out of the receptacle to examine it. Harry had inadvertently drawn the Elder Wand rather than his Kneazle wand, and now the guard was eyeing the fabled artifact curiously, clearly unaware of its significance. Had Harry made an honest mistake? Or did the Elder Wand come automatically to his hand when he reached for the other? It wouldn't be the first time.

A voice piped up from behind Harry: "Oi, what's the hold-up?" A queue of employees had formed behind Harry, jostling to get past the protesters and through the checkpoint. The guard looked nervous by the hostile energy before him, and Harry decided to take advantage of it.

"Name's Lieutenant Prewett with the ICW," he said sternly, narrowing his eyes at the young guard. "Are you having trouble manning your post efficiently, soldier? Or do I have to bring the matter to Commander Moody's attention?"

The guard's eyes widened at this threat; he clearly knew of Mad-Eye Moody and his reputation. "N-no sir," he stammered. "I do apologize. Please, go on through." And he waved Harry past, along with Fleur and Dahlia.

The mood within the Atrium wasn't much better than the outside world. The Ministry employees passing by looked just as stressed as the people walking the streets of London, if not moreso. Nobody gave them more than a passing glance, which was good, because Harry could feel Fleur's Allure beginning to amplify, her nerves betraying her resolve.

"Rein yourself back in," he muttered in her ear. "And let's keep moving." Fleur nodded, and Harry felt the effects diminish as she reeled her Allure back in. The three marched swiftly across the Atrium floor towards the lifts, cramming themselves into a car with a group of other employees, en route to the administrative floor high above.

"Bloody protesters making an awful racket," one witch grumbled irritably from the back of the lift car.

"D'you reckon they have a point?" asked another wizard. "Is Minister Potter hiding something? There are odd rumors about his son—"

"There is something off about that boy," another man remarked; Harry recognized him as Lord Patil, a Wizengamot member and father of his classmates Parvati and Padma. "My daughters say that he is aloof and dangerous. It would not surprise me if the rumors about him and Dumbledore are true."

Harry, Fleur and Dahlia stood in awkward silence as the gossip continued all the way up, with workers filtering in and out of the lift at each stop. Finally they reached the top level, and the trio got out, hurrying away from the crowd towards James' office.

"Everyone knows," Harry lamented, realizing that his worst fears were being confirmed. "They know it was me. And it's only a matter of time before the Ministry has no choice but to arrest me."

"Dad won't let that happen," Dahlia said firmly. "He'll protect you even if public opinion turns against us."

"Yeah, maybe," Harry sighed. The last thing he wanted was for his father to lose his job because of him, again, even though he knew James would do it in a heartbeat. But he was finally in a position to enact real positive change, and if Harry jeopardized that, the war could get real ugly, real quickly.

They entered the administrative wing of the Ministry, which was bustling with frantic activity. The employees here moved with rigor and purpose, looking more organized and less terrified than the rest of the Ministry. Harry supposed that the people working here were more likely to be loyal to James, and more trusting that his confidence was backed by decisive action.

The trio arrived at the Minister's office, where a lone secretary sat hard at work in front of the closed door. "Excuse me, miss," said Harry, approaching the desk. "I'm here to see the Min— Penny?!"

Penelope Clearwater's eyebrows shot up at the address. "Nobody has called me Penny in years," she muttered. "Do we know each other?"

In fact, they did. Penelope had been a Ravenclaw prefect for the first three years of Harry's education, and he always thought she was a kind and thoughtful person. He had no idea that she was now working directly for his father.

Harry glanced around him to make sure nobody else on the floor was looking in his direction, then briefly dropped his glamour so that Penelope could see who he was. When she saw his face, her eyes widened in shock.

"Harry?!" she hissed. "What on earth are you doing here? I've been hearing such terrible rumors...Percy Weasley owled me two nights ago to warn me that you were deranged—"

"Don't believe everything you hear," Harry said evasively. "Is my dad in?"

"He's speaking with Dale Greengrass at the moment," Penelope nodded. "But he said you were out of the country...is it wise for you to be here…?"

"I'd appreciate you keeping it quiet for now," Harry muttered as he re-applied the glamour. "Just until the rumors die down a little."

"Alright," Penelope muttered, beckoning the three of them forward. Harry passed by her desk on his way into the office, but she caught his wrist on the way. "Harry? Are we truly safe here? My parents are Muggles – should they leave? Should I leave?"

Harry considered this. "If you don't plan on fighting, I would try to get out while you can," he said. "Get out of Britain for a few months until we know how the war is going. It's going to get dangerous for Muggle-borns pretty soon."

Penelope's face went white, but she nodded and released her hold on Harry. He gave her a reassuring nod and knocked before entering his father's office.

The Minister's office was a large, ornate space that Harry knew his father felt was excessive and ostentatious. It boasted floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Atrium below – a majestic view by any measure. But that view was currently blocked, as James had drawn the curtains shut. He was currently hunched over his desk, poring over a stack of reports as Dale Greengrass stood over his shoulder, pointing out key elements for him.

The two glanced up to see the three strangers approach. "Can I help you folks?" he asked suspiciously.

Harry twirled his wand to remove the glamours from each of the three of them, and both James and Dale's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Harry!" Dale exclaimed. "You're here? Don't you realize what people are saying about you out there?"

"I'm well-aware now, thanks," Harry said bitterly. He could still faintly hear the protesters in the distance from far below in the Atrium...he wondered if perhaps that contributed to James' decision to draw the blinds.

"Miss Delacour," James nodded to Fleur. "What brings you here with my children?"

Fleur hesitated, glancing to Harry before speaking. "We need to talk about something," Harry said in her stead. "Something important."

"Can it wait until tonight?" James sighed. "Dale and I have quite a bit of work to do before closing hour—"

"I'm afraid it can't wait," said Harry. "And we need privacy. My apologies, Lord Greengrass, but can you give us the room?"

Dale looked stunned by the dismissal. He glanced incredulously to James, who could only shrug, and Dale grimaced, heading for the door and closing it shut behind him.

"This had better be good, Harry," James grumbled, indicating for the three to sit. "Is it about the ICW? Moody reports that things are progressing well with their training."

"It's not about that," Harry sighed. "It's just...well…"

"Spit it out, son!" James groaned. "I really can't afford to waste time here."

Fleur squeezed Harry's hand and gave him a reassuring nod. Harry nodded back, knowing he shouldn't waffle any longer. It was time to come clean.

"I haven't been entirely honest with you lately," he muttered. "There are some things you should know about what I've been up to the past few years."

"And what would that be?" James demanded.

"Well," Harry sighed, "it all started when—"

Boom!

A colossal explosion from somewhere in the distance rattled the entire office, causing them all to stumble and grasp for something to right themselves. The buzz of the Ministry around them stilled, as everyone seemed to hold their collective breath, waiting to see what might transpire next.

"What was that?" Fleur asked in a hushed tone. James opened his mouth as if to answer, but he was interrupted by a closer, even louder sound:

BOOM!

Chunks of marble and stone rained down from the Atrium ceiling as Fleur and the three Potters were thrown to the floor from the force of the explosion. The heavy blinds collapsed to the floor from the impact, and Harry had to imagine that the magic imbued within the Ministry was the only thing keeping the windows from blowing out from the force.

"That sounded close," Dahlia said worriedly, eyes trained at the crumbling ceiling visible just outside the office window. "Like it was directly above us."

"But zat is impossible," Fleur breathed. "Downtown London is directly above us."

Oh, no, Harry thought, dread settling into his stomach. Not now. It's too soon. We're not ready.

Down below, shouting voices could be heard as workers scrambled across the Atrium for safety. People were screaming; Aurors were barking instructions; the ceiling continued to crumble and break apart as some unseen force barraged the Ministry from above.

"Dad, what's happening?" Dahlia asked worriedly.

Harry and James shared a grave look. Neither of them responded to her question, but both of them knew the answer. And it wasn't the one that either of them had hoped for, not so soon.

The war against Voldemort had officially begun.