Chapter 65 Broken Wards and Shattered Streets

In his fifteen or so years of life, Harry realized that the prospect of opening a parchment scroll had only been this unnerving, and simply put, terrifying, on one other occasion in his short existence. But then, he reasoned, he was not the only one to eye the stack of furled parchments, that seemed to - even if they did - give the few who had sat their OWLs just a few months before the gaze of death. "Would rather face down a Grimm," muttered Neville, "Or the Mad Bitch Lestrange."

"Two Grimms," muttered Harry, "And you can throw a Dragon, a lake full of Grindylows, pissed off Merpeople, fifty effingus, and another Dragon in there on my account."

Given that his friends had been spending most of their days, if not most of their nights, at Potter Manor, it was no small wonder that their respective parents had merely forwarded on their mail via the Floo. Granted, there were always going to be some delays given Harry's nearly paranoid levels of security. None commented on that, for obvious reasons, but it did mean they tended to get their post about a day late, but once everyone had taken their mail, there were only two scrolls of parchment left, addressed to Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom. The only two fifth years in the group finally faced the proverbial music. Even though it was early in the morning, Harry had no compulsions about opening a bottle of Firewhisky under the watchful gaze of his friends. He smirked, ever so slightly, "In victory, I shall deserve it, in defeat..."

Neville snatched the bottle out of his hand, leaving Harry staring stupidly at the cork for a moment, "Victory or defeat," said Neville, "I'm just glad my gran ain't around to see me do this!" Neville took a long pull from the bottle, then broke the wax seal, and took another long pull straight from the bottle. He didn't bother reading the preamble but skipped to the second half of the parchment. The pin-drop silence was deafening, seemingly stretching on forever, "Did all right," he finally said, "Seven OWLs," he laughed, "Don't ask me how, but I even managed to scrape an Exceeded Expectations in Potions!"

All eyes were suddenly on Harry and he found himself copying Neville first action: He took a long pull from the bottle, "For good luck," said Harry, 'God knows, I've used up just about all the luck I was born with,' he thought darkly. He began to read, and following Neville, skipped the opening paragraphs of the preamble about grade boundaries, going straight to the actual results. Each subject was broken into two parts: A practical and theoretical component with a grade for each being worth 60% and 40% respectively where appropriate. He was not the least bit concerned about how the individual components had gone. He was just interested in his overall scores.

All things considered, Harry felt that his OWL results were somewhat better than he could have possibly expected. Considering that he had not even bothered to show up for the Divination Exam, let alone attend the class for most of the year, he was somewhat surprised that they actually bothered to save him a slot at the examination. He looked up from the parchment at the six pairs of eyes watching him, waiting for a response, "Passed everything," he said, "Except for Divination and History of Magic... no real surprises there.." He didn't have to say anything about History of Magic, "So seven OWLS."

"Which is why," said George, "I am adamant that we should have gotten "EE" in everything..."

"Because you exceed expectations just by showing up for class!" the rest chorused with a laugh.

With a wave of his hand, Harry banished the bottle of whiskey but with a wince, lost control of his magic, allowing the bottle to crash to the floor. He frowned as he struggled to decipher the magic that had just slapped him in the head from behind fully raised mind shields. It was a message of some kind, but he was spared further headache when Winky popped in unannounced, "Harry, ward breach upon Grimmauld Place!"

Considering the injuries she had sustained, she was in remarkably good health. Harry had not been able to convince her that she needed to let her wounds heal fully before returning to work. Magic of course had healed the physical, but according to Dobby, she now had nightmares - something Harry could relate to - but she managed. "Thank you, Winky,"

That explained the minor headache, "Somebody," he growled, "owes me another bottle of Firewhisky! Legion! On me!"

They exploded into action, racing each other, almost good-naturedly out of the sitting room that overlooked the front lawn, up to the first-floor armory. Changed in seconds, they grabbed the Goblin-made portkey and vanished. They reappeared in an alley not far from Number 12 - it was Tonk's common arrival point, and somehow, he was unsurprised that he could see the building. 'Fidilius must have lapsed when Sirius...died,' thought Harry. The thought brought him a moment's sadness, which devolved to anger, that someone was violating his Godfather's house, more specifically, his house!

"Winky!" she appeared almost silently next to him, "Find our friends in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and tell them of this break-in!" She apparated without a sound.

"Broad daylight," said Fred.

"Lotsa muggles about," continued George.

"Takes courage," remarked Neville.

"And intelligence," added Luna, "Magic makes us silent, invisible, almost undetectable to Muggles, and they are the perfect cover for such a crime. We hide in plain sight much of the time. That is precisely what our enterprising criminal associate is doing."

"Doesn't matter," said Harry, "I'm gonna find him, then I'm going to beat him to within an inch of his life, then I'm going to have him thrown in Azkaban." They walked out of the alley and crossed the street to Number 12. Bringing up the rear, Ginny cast a series of charms that would keep the muggles at bay for the moment.

The moment they stepped into the foyer, their demeanors shifted, as they took up positions covering the entrance hall of the most ancient and noble house of Black, "Find and take him alive... if you can."

They didn't have to look very far, or all that hard: From the kitchen came the high pitched, half squealed half shriek of rage, followed by a more masculine - albeit slightly effeminate - shout of surprise and fear. The sound of breaking crockery, the metal rain of falling cutlery, followed by a large man-shaped object wrapped in rags that burst out of the kitchen followed by a somewhat ragged-looking house elf: The infamous Kreacher.

The stench coming off the retreating figure, however, left the twins with no doubt about who this was as they took aim, but uncertain who they should be aiming at: Mundungus who was still trying to escape, or Kreacher who seemed to be having the time of his life beating the stuffing out of the intruder with two levitated saucepans, while spanking him repeatedly with the handle of a broom as yet another chinaware projectile streaked out of the kitchen and smashed in the back of Fletcher's left knee, stumbling him.

It was that moment when Fletcher looked up, to find seven wands pointed in his general direction, as Kreacher, breathing heavily ceased his assault, "Filthy mudblood master has returned. But Kreacher won't serve! Kreacher won't!"

Harry glared at the ancient house elf. He had heard the stories about the... creature standing in front of him, and wasn't too sure what to do with, it. He was sure that Sirius had a point when he'd said that the elf had spent 12 years alone with only the ravings of his mad old mother's portrait for company."Kreacher! Shut up!"

For a long moment it seemed as if the house-elf would disobey him, but finally, whatever magic that governed the house, and his ownership of it, also governed Kreacher, who feel silent, but clearly against his will. Harry would have to decide what to do with Kreacher later. For now, "Mundungus Fletcher: I've heard a lot about you - and none of it, is good." He managed a stare that reminded the prone Fletcher of Mad-Eye and he shivered as Harry's voice went from "friendly conversation" to "growl of death" with a single question, "What the fuck are you doing, in my, house?"

"I'm just here... searching for something..." he said evasively, "With Sirius dead and all, I figured I could just grab some of this old junk and sell..." Harry was not stupid enough to believe a half-truth, given that it was couched in a lie. Nor was he about to let the sniveling bastard before him slide.

"Let's pretend for a moment," said Harry acidly, "that I'm not a complete moron. I somehow doubt that you could have gotten past the protections in place without some kind of assistance," Harry gave Kreacher a sidelong glance, "So, talk!"

Fletcher hesitated, and that was the only excuse Harry needed, "Kreacher?"

There was a pitter-patter of tiny, sock-clad feet followed moments later by a blaze of shining copper. There was a momentary, perhaps even fragment of a whimper followed by a pair of near-deafening clangs that mingled with a shriek of agony: Kreacher had eschewed magic and clobbered Fletcher in the ribs, twice with a saucepan.

The blows rained down systematically. Clearly, Kreacher was enjoying himself as he worked Fletcher over from head to foot, "Call him off!" screamed Fletcher, "Call him off!" Kreacher had raised the heavy-bottomed pan again

"Kreacher," said Harry, "Stop!" The last blow landed with a resounding crack on the man's raised forearm, and everyone winced. Something had broken, at least cracked on that last blow.

Kreacher's thin, almost emancipated arms trembled, almost struggling to hold the pan over his target, "Perhaps, just once more, filthy mudblood master?" suggest Kreacher, "For luck?"

Colin sniggered, "Go on Harry, once more."

"Maybe later. Unconscious idiots don't answer questions. But if he needs more persuading," Harry simply nodded towards Kreacher who was still holding his weapon of choice upright. "So what were you searching for, and more specifically, who told you it was here? Don't think I won't make sure that arm is broken."

The others stared at Harry in surprise. They knew that he had changed, but they were now wondering just how much he had changed in such a short period of time. There was a time, not that long ago when Harry would have thought twice, if not three times before breaking someone's arm. Now, however, they were convinced that not only would he do it, but more specifically, that he would not hesitate.

Mundugus Fletcher thought differently, or perhaps he was afraid of his more, erstwhile "employer" on this particular exercise. Harry shrugged, "Ossis Effergo!" Fletcher screamed and Harry stared down and sighed, "That must have hurt," he said, "Now do I have to break your other arm?"

"Snape! Severus Snape!" shouted Fletcher, "He told me what the wards were! I swear it was him! He told me how to get past all of them! He told me, to mess the place up! Look like a robbery. There's nothing to steal here anyway. I dunno why he wanted me..."

"Harry," said Neville. He was cut off by an explosion in the street, followed by a second one moments later, "That, does not sound good..."

"Yeah, I know. we've been had!" He swore quietly to himself. Twice he'd been suckered, and he silently vowed that it would never, ever happen again. As far as Harry was concerned, a certain greasy-haired fuck had shown his true colors at last. He made a silent vow that he was going to deal with one Severus Snape, personally, regardless of whether he returned to Hogwarts.

Right on cue, the front door exploded inwards, a shower of wooden and stone shards that would have perforated anyone standing in the Foyer. While doing some damage to the property, the shockwave disturbed the slumber of Ms. Walburga Black who immediately began shouting obscenities and screaming insults about the teenagers in the kitchen. "We need to shut that bitch up," thought Harry. That would wait as the first of the Death Eaters spilled through the shattered doorway.

"Firing line! Cut 'em down!" Mundungus whimpered something, "Kreacher, he's all yours."

Kreacher, as it happened, was something of a sadist, and he smiled and bowed ever so slightly to Harry. Suddenly, Harry knew just how to keep Kreacher in line as the elf snapped its fingers and Mundungus Fletcher found himself in the bowels of the House of Black, in some pain, having landed on his broken arm and the skeleton of the former occupant of his jail cell in the depths of the bowels of Grimmauld Place.

They had their enemy coming in from one direction, and he found himself wondering, "Kreacher!" the elf appeared, "These people seek to violate the sanctity of the Noble and Ancient House of Black. Will you defend it?"

The small creature nodded firmly, "For my house, I will fight!"

One less problem. "Ginny, Neville, cover the rear and ward the place as heavily as possible. Luna, Colin: High ground, we need to know how many and from what direction. Twins, with," he ducked as a spell lanced through the air, "Keep their fucking heads down!"

"We got something..."

".... that will help with that!"

They pulled a pair of cylindrical objects from a pouch on their belt. Harry eyed them critically,

"Those grenades?" he asked casually.

Fred tossed one to him, "Not quite. We got the idea from something muggles call a "Flash Bang." A Flash Bang is lots of noise, blinding light that stuns and incapacitates for a short while."

"But we've made them... better."

Harry found himself wondering whether he would ever be able to tell the twins apart without them identifying themselves first. "And how's that?" he asked popping up to let a cutting curse decapitate a Death Eater. He frowned as he recognized the face: It was another of the thrice-damned effingus.

"Well, the muggle ones produce one big flash of light and sound," whoever it was, grinned almost maniacally, "We call these nine-bangs." Harry heard the sharp click of a pin being pulled, followed by the metallic ping as the hexagonal cylinder rolled down the corridor, followed seconds later by a second one, unnoticed in the chaos of all the spells going back and forth.

They detonated a second apart. It was like being at ground zero of a crate of Dr. Fillibuster's fireworks going up all at once - and they were a good six feet away behind solid cover. In such close confines, they proved that they were more than mere stun devices. The trio moved forward, Harry on point with the Twins flanking him. There was no hesitation as Harry simply numbed his heart and killed, and killed, and killed. The twins hesitated and then followed suit. A single pass and they had cleared out the entrance hall, leaving a trail of twenty dead Death Eaters behind them. Slaughtered, they took up positions at the front windows and peeked out from behind the curtains.

Neville's hawk Patronus passed through the floor and spoke, "At least twenty-five out there. They've blocked the street at both ends - looks like they blew up the houses, street, and then some just to seal us in." Harry's first thought was for all the muggles caught up in the middle of something they could not understand. Then he looked out into the street and realized that there were no muggles left standing. They were all dead. For the first time in many months, after having killed countless dozens, if not hundreds of effingus, that bled, that died, he felt his gorge rise.

The ring on his hand grew warm and he looked down at it, deciphering the coded message with ease. Their rear was secure. They didn't have a lot of options open to them: 'It's only a matter of time before the Ministry shows up, Aurors and all. Worse yet, the Order of the fucking plucked chicken - sorry Fawkes - would love to get their headquarters back.'

A barrage of spells lanced into the front of the house, gouging scars in the stonework and shattering windows. Knives of broken glass spiraled through the air. Their return fire was meager, but they succeeded in downing another two Death Eaters. The hawk descended through the floor again, "Reinforcements! At least another twenty on foot!"

Harry cursed. Numbers-wise, they were back where they started. it was going to take the Ministry Auror's and the Order to even the odds enough. At its simplest level, it was a numbers game, and they simply had more. As long as they had the effingus, they would always have more... but then again... Harry too could play the numbers game.

"Kreacher!" the elf appeared, looking as sour and sulky as he had when Harry first arrived. "Can you lower certain wards in certain areas of the house?"

The elf nodded sullenly, "But filthy mud-blood master can do it himself." It was clear that the elf was as insane as they humanely come, but now was not the time or place to deal with that, "But if the filthy master wants, Kreacher can do it."

"Lower the anti-portkey wards around the back garden," he ordered. The elf nodded and vanished. He had no way of knowing just how many he was going to condemn to death. But then, he also had no way of knowing how many could, or would answer such a summons. But unless they could even the numbers, they were all dead anyway. He focused his thoughts, tapped the ring with his hand, and sent out the encoded message.

"Legion Core under siege. Battle ready. Emergency Portkey Redirect: Back garden, no. 12, Grimmauld Place, London."

The exchanges of spellfire were now more than a little one-sided. Four wands against the forty were bad odds. Just like the Ministry. 'No,' he thought firmly, 'Not like the Ministry. I made that mistake once, I am not doing it again!"

Harry moved to the back garden and did the only thing that he could possibly do, given the circumstances: He waited.