Trust and Betrayal
By: JA_Japster
Inspired and partially based on the OAV "Samurai X"
Harry Potter is copyrighted to J.K Rowling and Samurai X and Rurouni Kenshin is copyrighted to Nobuhiro Wazuki and Shueisha Jump Comics. The fanfiction is the product of JA_Japster and should not be reproduced in any fashion without permission.
Trust
Part X: Men of War
The curse missed him by a fraction of an inch, grazing the skin of his cheek as it tore by, drawing a line of blood. Harry spun around, whipping a stream of blood from his face in the air, and parried the second curse, neatly returning it back to its caster. The wizard ducked the counter blow, and retreated a step, goading his opponent to follow. Harry felt a grin tug at his lips. He was only too happy to oblige.
There were four of them, assassins clad in the same black attire and masks as the man who had attacked Harry the previous night. Death Eaters. They had been waiting in hiding, materializing from the shadows of an alleyway as Harry passed. The leader of the four stepped forward, drawing his wand, and addressed the raven-haired assassin.
"We are the Death Eaters." He said. "Prepare to die, rebel scum!"
That had been five minutes ago. The leader of the squad died first, and Harry quickly dispatched another assassin shortly after that. They were talented young men, quick, strong and not entirely without skill, but they lacked the finesse of the man whom Harry had dueled with earlier. They had thought they could overwhelm him with sheer numbers, but now two of them had paid for their mistake with their lives, and the other two would follow shortly.
Harry charged forward and feinted at the first wizard, but then pivoted and jammed his wand at the second, sending a lethal curse tearing through him. The unprepared assassin was thrown backwards and died without a sound, blood streaming from his ruined body, leaving the last of his numbers to die alone.
The last remaining assassin hesitated, and Harry did not need to see the man's face to know the terrified surprise that shone in his eyes. The man was scared and confused, and kept looking about him for guidance, as if something had gone horribly awry. When no help came, the assassin looked at Harry and then yelled a wordless battle cry. He ran at Harry, but the Slayer easily sidestepped the clumsy attack, slicing open the assassin's stomach in mid-step. The masked man stumbled, his hands clutching uselessly at the bleeding gash in his stomach, and then fell.
Harry exhaled slowly, letting the adrenaline slowly drain from his body. It had been too easy, hardly a challenge, and yet the simplicity of the battle disturbed him. He knew these masked assassins operated as a group, so why send a weaker force to accomplish what a stronger one was not able to? It made no sense.
He flicked his wand to rid it of some of the blood that had splattered on it, and when he was sure no other dangers waited to ambush him, stowed it away. He reached up to his cheek, and his hand came away covered in red.
That was close, Harry thought, tracing the diagonal cut on his cheek with his finger. A fraction of a second slower and the curse might have removed his head. Maybe you really are slowing down, he chided himself.
Just then, Ron came running up the path with his wand drawn, breathing heavily and covered in blood. Harry involuntarily redrew his own, immediately on guard.
"An ambush?" Ron asked breathlessly, looking over the dead bodies. Harry nodded then gestured to Ron's robes. Ron looked down at them distractedly. "Huh? Oh no, none of this is mine."
That seemed to satisfy Harry. He glanced warily around them at the empty streets. "We should get out of here."
Ron shook his head in agreement. "Right. Get to the tavern; I need to report this to Dumbledore. Two assassination attempts on you in a row; there's no doubt now that we have a spy."
Together, the two turned and fled into the night.
--
Hermione sat alone in the late hours of the night, sitting by the window, looking out into the quiet streets. She told herself she was not waiting for Harry, and yet in her heart she knew it was not true. Her worry that Harry might not return was genuine, but she could not figure out why. There was something about the man that attracted her, fascinated her. It wasn't his looks; Hermione had never been to be overwhelmed by a hansom face. It was something more elusive, something she could not quite pin point.
Hermione felt a brief stab of guilt. How long had it been since her fiancé had been murdered and she was already becoming infatuated by a complete stranger? Ever since she had arrived at the Three Broomsticks she could not find the time to conjure the tears necessary to mourn for her loss. There was something about the people that kept the tears at bay, people like Harry…
But she had detested men like Harry her entire life. Assassins. Men who knew nothing of living and insisted on surrounding themselves with death. They knew nothing of the world, of relationships or the finer things of the world that made life worth living. They knew only fear and aggression, letting it conquer their souls, creating them into machines of devastation and destruction. Men of war.
They were not to be feared. They were to be loathed.
Then why are you awake in the late hours of the night worrying for him? A voice in her head asked coyly.
I need him only for his connections in the Order. She insisted. Nothing more.
Oh you want something from him, that sly voice whispered, but I think it has nothing to do with his connections. You could seduce an officer just as easily, but you chose him. An assassin, a man who saved your life.
I despise men like him. She replied caustically.
Then why can you not stop thinking of him?
This is ridiculous. For all I know this Harry might be the one who murdered Theodon.
Maybe. Then why do you fear to ask him? Is it because you fear the truth? Do you fear the truth might jeopardize any future with him?
You're insane! I hardly even know the man! And besides, he belongs to the Order, my sworn enemy.
You say this, but I know the truth. I know you Hermione Granger, daughter of the peasants who have long toiled under the oppressive reign of men like your grandfather. You have heard their cries and felt their pain. So I wonder, where do your loyalties truly lie?
Enough of this interrogation! I will not have myself be questioned by…
Yourself? The voice laughed.
She was spared herself from answering when a sudden movement from outside caught her eye. She dashed over to the window, and saw a figure stumbling toward the tavern. She almost dismissed it as another drunk when she recognized whom it was. It was Harry.
Hermione pulled on a bathrobe and hurdled down the stairs, her heat thudding in her chest. She ran toward the entrance and arrived in time just to catch Harry as he fell. Blood was streaming from a wound across his face, dripping onto her as she helped Harry into a nearby chair. He slumped against it, only semi conscious now from what Hermione could only assume was massive blood loss. He mumbled something incoherent and reached weakly towards her.
"Hang in there Harry." Hermione whispered. She disappeared into a nearby room and reappeared carrying a satchel laden with medical supplies. With a flick of a wand, it snapped open and a cloth sprang into her hand. Quickly, she began mopping the blood up from the assassin's face.
"G-get me Madam Rosmerta." Harry croaked weakly.
"She's busy attending to other wounded." Hermione said. The first cloth was quickly soaked, and she tossed it aside for another one. Again, the rag quickly absorbed the blood. She cursed under her breath. The flow of blood would not stop until the wound was healed. She reached back into the satchel and removed a flask of green liquid.
"Drink this." She said. Holding Harry's chin in her hand, she poured the flask into Harry's mouth. He coughed violently; spitting most of it back up, but then relaxed and managed a few sips. Almost immediately the cut magically began to mend itself, the flesh melting back together seamlessly, and Harry's strength seemed to return.
Harry sat up straighter in the chair, looking around as if he suddenly realized where he was. "Hermione!" He said, surprised. He rose to stand, but Hermione pushed him back into his chair.
"You're still weak from the blood loss. You need time to rest." She cautioned.
"Where's Madam Rosmerta?" He asked urgently.
"She's with some of the other healers taking care of the wounded."
"Wounded?" Harry asked, jumping to his feet. He allowed himself to be pushed back down. "What wounded?"
"I'm not sure." Hermione replied. "A couple of hours ago a stream of men starting coming into the tavern. Apparently there was a fight of some sort between government soldiers."
"How many?"
"Three with minor injuries so far, and one dead."
"Damn." Harry muttered. So he had not been the only one ambushed that night. There had been six different targets that night, and if Hermione's reports were correct, that meant more than half of their assassination squads were still missing, probably dead. The spy had dealt a serious blow to them.
"What happened out there, Harry?" Hermione asked with concern.
Harry slouched back into the chair; still unable to believe the losses they sustained that night. "We were ambushed by Death Eaters."
Death Eaters. The name sounded familiar, and unconsciously her memories took her back to a few days ago when she first arrived in London. She had been waiting in the antechamber of her grandfather's office with a pair of wizards dressed in black robes, and she could have sworn she overhead the word being used in a conversation between the two men.
"Oh my God." She whispered. She touched his hand lightly. "Well I'm glad you're safe."
"You're still worried about me speaking with Dumbledore?" Harry asked.
"No!" Said Hermione, feeling a little shocked and offended. But you should be worried about that, that little voice whispered, if you truly feel the way you do.
Harry realized he has said something wrong and looked away. "I'm sorry."
"No," Hermione said quickly, "What I meant was…" Her gaze lingered to the hideous cut trailing across Harry's face and could only imagine what had happened to the man who had given it to him. "Maybe I'm not ready quite yet. Does that disappoint you?"
Harry shook his head. "No. I wouldn't ever want you to ever see the things I have to do." He looked at her and there was a sudden sadness in his eyes. "Sometimes I wish you weren't even here, nowhere near the bloodshed."
Hermione could not think of anything to say. That was one of the last things she could have expected the assassin to say. He was a man who was drawn to violence and yet he wished to protect her innocence from it. It wasn't a selfish wish either to protect his dignity, she thought, but an authentic desire to shield someone like her from the cruel realities of war.
An uncomfortable silence lingered in the air, so she reached into the satchel and took another rag and began wiping off the remaining blood on Harry's face. Harry closed his eyes.
"You don't have the hands of a peasant girl." He said. Hermione stopped abruptly, fear freezing her body in place. "They're smoother…gentler."
"My mother was a muggle nurse." Hermione lied, saying the first thing that came to mind. "I often helped her." The last of the blood was wiped off, and with a wave of her wand the dirty rags vanished. "There. All done."
Harry rose and touched his cheek. A small scar would remain, Hermione saw, but she thought it gave a sort of roguish air to his naturally sharp features.
Admit it, you like it.
Don't be stupid.
"Thank you, Miss Granger." Harry said.
"Please, call me Hermione."
"Thank you, er…Hermione." Harry repeated awkwardly. "Goodnight." With that, he turned and left,
walking up the stairs out of sight.
Call me Hermione, eh?
Shut it. It's nothing like that.
We shall see.
--
Voldemort was not pleased. Under the illuminating light of a lighting charm that hovered overhead, the Dark Lord could see the result of the battle. Two wizards in black robes lay sprawled on the ground in puddles of blood, looks of terror frozen on their faces when they died.
"What do you mean they weren't the Slayer?" A booming voice echoed. Though Voldemort was taller than most men, the man who spoke easily towered over the leader of the Death Eaters. He was a giant of a man, standing easily four meters tall, every square inch of him rippling with muscles.
Voldemort sighed and repressed the urge to kill the man. "I showed you a picture of the man." He said with exaggerated patience. "Obviously those two dead men are not that man. So I can only imagine why you were so excited as to report that you had killed the Slayer when the reality of it is that you had not!"
The giant's face wrinkled in confusion. It was an ugly face, covered in scars from battles that the giant survived and others had not. A wild mane of black hair grew unchecked on his head, which he scratched at, thinking hard.
"The answer, Brutus, is because you are an idiot." Voldemort said angrily.
Brutus the Bastard, a half giant whose size was as legendary as the massive battle-ax that rested on his shoulders. He was an uncultured, uncouth slob of a man who had somehow been recruited into the Death Eaters ranks, though Voldemort could not remember how. There was no doubt he was a skilled fighter, but unfortunately his prowess in battle could only be rivaled by his natural stupidity.
Brutus' face went livid with rage, and he snarled menacingly. For a moment it looked like he was about ready to go for his ax, but a single look from Voldemort stayed his hand. No matter how stupid the half-giant may be he was smart enough to fear the Dark Lord. He knew what the dire consequences would be if he drew on his master.
"I apologize, lord." Brutus said gruffly. Voldemort was disappointed. This meant he couldn't kill the man. Yet.
"Clean up the mess." Voldemort snapped. As he strode away from the carnage, Draco broke away from a conversation he was having with one his lieutenants and fell into step with his master.
"That didn't go as expected." Malfoy said.
"You're an astute observer of the obvious, Captain." Voldemort replied sarcastically. "Four more of our men dead and another chance at the Slayer gone to waste."
"It's too late to hope to intercept him?" Malfoy asked.
Voldemort shook his head. "He'll be long gone by now."
"It was lucky for them that they switched assassins at the last moment." Malfoy commented. "Obviously they are aware of their spy."
Voldemort nodded, knowing what Malfoy was speaking of. The Slayer was supposed to be dead, killed at the hands of Brutus the Bastard, but he had never arrived. Instead, two other Order assassins had shown up expecting to kill some government official and had been slain in the ambush. The Slayer, it appeared, had gone after the imaginary Colonel and killed the four Death Eaters who were waiting to ambush someone else.
"Luck has little to do with is, Captain. Albus Dumbledore is an intelligent man. Only someone like him could have sniffed out the traitor so quickly."
"You seem most complimentary of him." Draco observed.
"As should you." Voldemort said. "A man like him does not grow old by being foolish. He is not to be underestimated."
"If that is so then why did he not take pre-emptive measures and call off the attacks?" Malfoy wondered aloud.
"Dumbledore, no matter how clever he may be, is still only one man and needs to cooperate with the rest of his organization. I believe he was powerless about the decision, and the only preemptive measure he could possibly take was to protect the Slayer."
"So you think there's a power conflict somewhere within the rebellion?"
"Yes."
"A possible weakness then."
Voldemort smiled. "Indeed."
Author's Notes:
Another week, another chapter written and uploaded. It's amazing. I think this is the longest any of my stories have ever gone. Thank you for the constant support from my reviewers! You've been a great encouragement! It's hard to stay on task when I'm constantly being bombarded with new ideas from a variety of inspirations. For example, I finished watching Evangelion (Can anyone make any sense of it's rather vague and inconclusive ending?) and was about ready to start a new project when more rational thinking prevailed. Thank goodness for that. I'm horrible at Philosophy and seriously doubt I could successfully integrate anything more sophisticated than a John Locke-ian perspective into any literary work.
Notice:
Some of you may have noticed another fanfiction entitled Trust and Betrayal on Portkey.org. The author informs me that
the same title is entirely coincidental and was selected before she had seen my own story. For that reason, please do
not confuse the two works, nor unfairly discriminate against either merely because they share the same title.
Thanks.