Unofficial Portkey Archive

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 IX: Traitors in Our Midst

It had been several years since he had last seen the city of London. He had been born and raised here, and yet he felt no love for the city wrought of steel, stone and the blood of the common man. The very city disgusted him. It was the epitome of muggle expansion, the very triumph of their inane technology. He hated muggles with an irrevocable passion, and it displeased him that the magical community's minister still insisted on hiding their existence.

One day they would take England back from the muggles. Once the rebellion was crushed, and the magical community once again reunited, they might strive to rid their homeland from the bane of the inferior mass that infested it. That would happen one of these days, but not if the muggle lovers of the Order of the Phoenix managed to seize control of the government.

Voldemort had taken the time to analyze the situation, and it was far more severe than he had anticipated. He inwardly cursed himself for the extended period of time the Death Eaters had spent in Ireland hunting down anti-English terrorists, leaving an inept fool like Fudge to manage the country. Fudge had allowed a potent force to form against him, and now the fate of the English government now hung in the balance.

That fool. Voldemort thought bitterly. He stared out the grand window in one of the many rooms of the Ministry of Magic overlooking the streets of London, watching the people scurry away from the light rain that fell from the skies.

"Lord Voldemort?" Draco Malfoy had appeared in the doorway. Voldemort bid him to enter.

"What is it, Malfoy?" He asked, not bothering to turn to face him.

"There has been a…complication in our plans." He said.

The fact that there was no fear in his voice spoke great measures about the young man. Others had died for delivering less than pleasing news to their Lord. But then again, even Voldemort had to admit, Draco Malfoy possessed immense potential as a wandsman, and it would be a shame to dispose of such a valuable resource. Every bit as keen and sly as his father, Malfoy knew this and allowed himself to be more brazen than the average Death Eater when speaking to their master.

"What has this complication been, captain?"

Draco had earned his commission as a captain of the Death Eaters, answering only to Voldemort, for his exceptional performance in the Irish campaign. Seldom before had Voldemort seen a man more eager to prove himself in battle than Draco. He had the talent, the intelligence and the insatiable lust for blood and death, the necessary prerequisites for any Death Eater.

"It seems Twin Blades has gotten himself killed." Malfoy reported.

"Really?" Voldemort asked with a tinge of surprise. "Perhaps we underestimated his fighting prowess."

Malfoy shook his head. "No. I've seen Twin Blades kill before, and he is as able as we predicted. I do believe, however, we may have underestimated our opponent, the Slayer."

"Is that so?" Voldemort asked.

"Indeed. He's killed two Death Eaters now, my father and Twin Blades, both wizards who were no strangers to combat. No other man has proven himself as worthy of an adversary as this assassin."

Voldemort chuckled softly. "I can sense what you're getting at, and I do not believe it is time for you to challenge him. Not yet. We have more pressing matters at the moment to attend to."

"Very well." Said Malfoy with the pouting reluctance of a child deprived of a favor. "There was also another…incident concerning the assassination attempt. It seems Fudge's granddaughter went missing last night in the vicinity of the kill zone, and our latest reports suggest she might have been captured by the Order amidst the confusion."

"Good." Voldemort replied simply.

Malfoy looked confused. "Good?" He asked. "Won't Fudge blame the Death Eaters for his granddaughter's capture?"

The Dark Lord laughed, the sound echoing ominously in the quiet room. "Fudge may be the Minister of Magic, but his power lies only in his office. He does not posses the strength to control the Death Eaters or to resolve this conflict."

"But don't we serve Fudge?"

Voldemort shook his head. "We serve England. Ask me no more about the girl. I will deal with that later personally."

Malfoy bowed. "As you say."

--

No one knew for sure how old Albus Dumbledore was. With his snowy white hair and lengthy beard one could easily guess him to be an elderly man in his seventh decade. Some who had seen him duel said he still moved with the power of a young man, and that the old, even feeble appearance was just a façade for his opponents. Even still, some suggested that Dumbledore was not even human, but a magical life force, thousands of years old, living inside a shell of flesh and blood. He did seem immortal; Harry had to grant that much, omnipotent even at times.

"Thank you for joining me." Dumbledore said. They sat around a small circular table in a secluded room, far away from the prying ears of the Three Broomstick's patrons. A set of Dumbledore's trusted guards stood outside, effectively isolating the trio from the outside world.

"Please, if you would be so kind, tell me exactly what happened."

For the next fifteen minutes, Harry related in detail exactly what had transpired the previous evening; from the moment he and Ron had parted ways at the Three Broomsticks, until the appearance of the masked assassin. Dumbledore listened in silence, only interrupting when Harry began to describe the appearance of his assailant.

"A mask?" Dumbledore asked. "What did it look like?"

"White and non-descript really." Harry answered. "It was lightweight and poorly constructed as I easily broke it during the battle, so it's safe to assume it wasn't for protection."

"No, it was not." Dumbledore agreed. "The mask was a mark of affiliation I am afraid."

Ron looked understandably startles. The Ministry had never identified itself with a mask of any sort. "What group?" He asked.

"A group of secret, professional assassins formed by the government who call themselves the Death Eaters." Dumbledore said. Neither of the two missed the spite in Dumbledore's words, or the scowl that marred his usual smiling features when he spoke.

"For that is exactly what they do. Feed on death. They have no morals, no ethics, and no conscious to govern their action. They are merely killers for the government, and they are quite proficient at what they do. Most believe their existence to be only a rumor, but I, and now you, have the misfortune of knowing they are quite real."

"Who do you know of them, Dumbledore?" Harry asked.

"We've met." Dumbledore said shortly.

"Now, the attempt last night on your life, Mr. Potter, has me most concerned." Dumbledore continued. "As you have observed, we have made it a high priority to conceal your identity as an assassin for the Order. The fact that Ministry assassins could locate you so easily leads me to believe that we may indeed have a leak within our organization."

"Are there any leads?' Inquired Ron.

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "We're not entirely certain that we have a traitor yet, and it would be unwise to suggest that falsely or prematurely. It would create unwanted panic. Also, if we do in fact have a traitor in our midst, we don't want to accidentally tip them off. I'm only disclosing this to you and Mr. Weasley is because I believe it directly affects you."

"We appreciate that, sir." Ron said.

"Lastly, we've received information from one of our spies that a one of the Ministry's top military strategists, Colonel Ratkin, is arriving in London from overseas tonight. The counsel has met on this issue, and it has been decided that depriving the Ministry of a valued resource like the Colonel would deal a serious blow to the Ministry's military coordination."

Harry was did not immediately respond, his brow furrowed slightly. Dumbledore noticed. "Is there something wrong, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, there is." Harry replied. "Surely the arrival of an important military personnel would be kept as classified as possible."

"Do you doubt the validity of the information?" Dumbledore asked. There was no accusation in his voice, but a genuine request for Harry's opinion. That was Dumbledore's way of doing things, listening instead of speaking, and that was what set him apart from other leaders in the Order.

"No," Harry conceded. "But I do find it suspicious that any of our spies would be able to find that kind of important information on such short notice. Especially now that our hits have begun to gain special attention from the Ministry."

"Agreed." Dumbledore said. "But it is out of my hands. As always, you do not need to accept this mission. I can always assign someone else to it."

Harry shook his head vehemently. If this were any sort of a trap, sending someone less skilled than himself would certainly mean their death. "No. I'll do it."

"Then it's settled." Dumbledore said. He waved them away in dismissal. Ron departed, but just as Harry was about to follow him out, Dumbledore called him back in. "Mr. Potter, please stay for a moment. I wish to discuss something further with you. It will only be a moment, Mr. Weasley. Please wait outside."

Ron did not like that idea very much, obviously still taking his mother's words to heart, but when Harry waved him away, he withdrew into the outer chamber, leaving Harry alone to speak with Dumbledore. Harry sat back down at the table and asked, "What is it that you wish to speak to me about?"

Dumbledore folded his hands and set them down on the table. "I understand you have some objection of me possibly recruiting Miss Granger into our ranks."

Harry's eyes narrowed and a surge of irritation coursed through his veins. "Ron told you?"

"No," Dumbledore said swiftly to allay the younger man's suspicions. "Mr. Weasley is loyal enough to you, Mr. Potter, not to reveal your secrets to even someone like I."

"Then how do you-" A thought suddenly came to mind. "You know Legilimency." He said accusingly. "You've been reading my thoughts!"

Dumbledore actually laughed, a deep booming sound full of amusement. When he finally recovered, amidst a fit of lingering chuckles he said, "Yes and no, Mr. Potter. I can indeed read minds when the need arise, but for you it was unnecessary."

"Then how-" Harry began, but Dumbledore cut him short.

"You seem to be under the impression that by hiding your feelings you can fool people into believing you are the emotionless killer the Daily Prophet makes you out to be, a man without weakness. And yet, because of your façade, while it manages to fool some, it makes you quite transparent to those gifted in reading the more subtle gestures of an individual."

"Wha-"

"Your choice of words, the slightest variance of intonation in your speech, the barest facial expression clearly communicates what words do not." Dumbledore said.

"Then how do I feel now?" Harry challenged, forcing his voice to remain calm and level."

Dumbledore smiled pleasantly. "Furious. Outraged that I am peering into your feelings and into corners of your mind that I have no business searching."

Harry was stunned. The old man was correct. He felt his anger drain away, replacing itself with a cold fear. Was he really so transparent? Could the very feelings he tried so hard to suppress be so easily read?

"Emotions are a powerful thing, Harry." Dumbledore said. "You've lived your life under the assumption they could only be a detriment to you, and indeed their powers can be the undoing of a man and yet simultaneously be the most potent force he could wield. It is a double edged sword that you must learn to wield."

"I have gone this far without them." Harry responded coldly.

Dumbledore stood and walked across the small room, stopping at a window that looked out into the sun lit afternoon sky. He sighed deeply. "I fear before this war is over, you shall have little choice in the matter."

He turned and faced Harry again. "But enough of that. I wanted to speak with you about the girl and speak I shall. I can sense your feelings for her, the strange attachment and yet the fear that she might corrupt the killer instinct within you. On this I have nothing to say. It will be something that you must choose whether or not you wish to discover. It was you who brought the girl to us, and so it shall be you who decides her fate. Still, there is one thing I wish to tell you."

"What's that?"

"Where you see a threat, Mr. Potter, I only a see another innocent begging for our help. Keep that in mind when you make your decision."

--

Hours later, with the cover of night only minutes away, Harry Potter walked the hallways of the Three Broomsticks still thinking of what Dumbledore had told him. He wanted to dismiss the old man's advice as foolishness. Sirius had taught him how to fight; that keeping the soul empty and free was the only way for a fighter to reach his full potential. Harry remembered bitterly the painful lesson he had learned to discover this.

He had been fourteen years old then, studying under Sirius, already quickly advancing in his talent with the wand. One day, when he had been accompanying Sirius to a local village, he had unintentionally angered an older boy who had challenged him to a duel. Stunners only. Knowing no permanent harm would come of it and believing the experience could only be beneficial, Sirius gave Harry his permission.

The duel had been short and fierce. The boy, while older and stronger, could not compete against Harry's greater speed and was quickly knocked flat by a stunning spell. The battle had been so easy, that Harry allowed his arrogance to get the better of him and uttered something boastful to his defeated opponent. The moment those words escaped his lips, Harry knew he had done wrong, but Sirius said nothing.

The next morning, however, while Harry was studying in the woods, Sirius had approached him. Reaching into his robes he removed a thin length of wood and tossed it to his pupil. Harry caught it and looked at it. It was a practice wand used for sparring, not unlike the practice swords used by squires in medieval times. Most wand fighting techniques derived from sword fighting anyway, so learning methods were also quite similar.

"I want you to try to hit me as hard as you can." Sirius said. Harry laughed thinking his master was joking, but there was no humor in Sirius' face. His laughter quickly died. "Use what you have learned to strike me as you would strike down an enemy."

Harry glanced at the practice wand and then at Sirius. "But you are unarmed." He said.

"Then what do you have to fear, boy?" Asked Sirius.

Harry was confused by the awkward request, but nonetheless obeyed, falling into a traditional fighting stance. He spread his legs a shoulder length apart, and held his practice wand at eye level, pointed at Sirius. With a wordless battle cry he charged at his master, striking at his chest.

Sirius sidestepped the attack and clipped Harry on the back of his head as he passed. Harry stumbled, dazed by the stunning blow, but hastily scrambled to his feet.

"What was that?" Sirius asked mockingly. "I know you're faster than that. Now hit me!"

Harry repeated his attack, but again Sirius easily countered it and sent him flying through the air. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but he still managed to stand despite the pain that wracked his chest.

"Why do you hold back?" Demanded Sirius. "Is it because I am unarmed? Or is simply because you fear harming me?"

"Both." Harry answered honestly.

"Let go of your compassion, Harry. I am neither your mentor nor your friend. I am your mortal enemy whom you would do anything to kill. Now try again!"

Harry lunged at Sirius again, but he still was not fast enough. Sirius brutally wrenched the wand from Harry's grip and backhanded him. He fell on the ground, rolling through the dirt, and lay there unmoving. It was painful to breathe, and darkness hovered on the edge of his vision. The bitter taste of blood filled his mouth, and Harry felt a tear well in his eye. He forced it back though because he knew Sirius would not care. The lesson would not be over until Sirius was satisfied.

"You are pathetic, Harry." Sirius yelled tossing the boy's wand into the dirt next to him. "For thirteen years I have trained you to fight and this is all you can amount to? Get up!"

"I can't!" Harry yelled.

"You can't? Or you won't?" He scowled and stomped his foot on the ground impatiently. When Harry still not stir, he added, "I should have expected as much though. Your father was as inept with the wand as you are proving to be. Perhaps he really did deserve to die."

At those words Harry's world froze. A fire sprang up in his throat, quickly spreading, and the next moment his entire body was engulfed in an inferno of blinding fury. Energy he did not know began pumping through his veins, and without realizing it, he picked up his wand and stood to face his master.

"Never insult my father!" He bellowed through gritted teeth. He charged at Sirius, a mindless cry of fury erupted from his lips, fueling the fires of rage that consumed his soul.

Suddenly there was darkness, and then Harry awoke to a world of pain. He was lying in a soft bed with a wet rag wrapped around his forehead. He licked his lip. The blood had already dried. He glanced around and saw Sirius was sitting at his bedside. He smiled when he saw that his student had awoken.

"I don't understand," Harry said, "I let go of my compassion. Why didn't I win?"

"Because by letting go of your compassion," Sirius replied. "You gave into your anger. They are emotions that you allowed to dominate your fighting, and emotions and combat never mix. Compassion, pride, hate -they slow you down; cause you to hesitate in some cases, or act irrational or careless in others. Ultimately they are the bane of any warrior."

"Then how do I avoid giving into them?" Harry asked eager to learn the secret that would help him improve.

"That is something you shall have to discover on your own." Was all Sirius said.

Back then Sirius' answer had disappointed Harry, but four years later Harry understood the wisdom of his words. It was something Sirius could have never taught him. It had taken years for him to master it, to become the best fighter he could become, and now Dumbledore was telling him his technique was wrong. It was unthinkable. Yet, Sirius had also told him never to dismiss the counsel of the wise and more experienced. Only a fool did not heed advice.

Harry suddenly wished Sirius were in London so he could speak with him. At times like these he realized how little he actually knew and how much he still had to learn.

He would dwell on all this later tonight. He and Ron had a job to do right now and cluttering his mind unnecessarily would only disturb his concentration.

Harry was dressed in his night kit, plain black leathers and tunic surrounded by a loose fitting black cloak and hood. The color black was essential for his trade. Seldom would he and his fellow assassins risk a daytime assault when the secretive shroud of darkness was more preferable. The less his target saw of him, the swifter and more efficient he could pull off the kill.

He made his way through the Three Broomsticks, passing some of the members of the Order he knew who gave him a knowing glance at a quick wish of luck. As he approached the exit of the tavern, he noticed someone pacing in front of the door. When he got closer, he noticed it was Hermione.

"Good evening, Miss Granger." He said.

She looked up startled, but her surprise quickly vanished. She smiled. "Good evening, Mr. Potter."

"You know my name." Harry said. "I never told you it."

"And neither did I." Observed Hermione.

Harry almost laughed, but he caught himself quickly. "Were you waiting for someone?" He asked gesturing to the doorway. "I noticed you standing here."

Hermione blushed and looked away hoping that Harry would not see it. "I was actually waiting for you." She whispered.

"For what?" Asked Harry warily.

"To wish you luck on tonight. I know you do…dangerous things."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about." Lied Harry cautiously. "What dangerous things?"

"I may be from the country but I am not stupid, Mr. Potter." Hermione said indignantly. "I saw you fight once before. Not too many people become experts at dueling just for fun.

Harry's face remained serious, but inside he smiled. So there was a brain to match the girl's beauty. "I trust you will keep that to yourself."

"I will." She assured him. "I wouldn't want to do anything that might get me sacked. I like it here."

"The tavern or the Order?" Harry asked.

"Both to be honest." Hermione replied. "I witnessed the unjust oppression of the lower class first hand living in the country. I believe in the justness of the cause and am glad I can do anything to help out."

"Even cleaning floors and washing dishes?"

"We all must start somewhere."

Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was no lying in her words. He could sense it, and suddenly he knew it was time to make a decision about the girl. God help us if I am wrong. "Perhaps I can talk to Dumbledore on your behalf if you really want to take a more active role."

"Would you?"

Harry nodded. "When I get back I will speak with him."

Hermione laughed, a pleasant sound that lingered in his ears even after Harry left the tavern. "Then for both are sakes I hope you return safely."

Author's Notes:
Well that's all for chapter nine. Took me a little longer to write (as it is also a little longer than usual) than expected as it got clogged down a little in places with a lot of dialogue. That and I am horrible, repeat, horrible at writing romance scenes. Completely terrible. So you'll have to excuse me if some of it sounds awkward or cliché. I might need to recruit someone to help me out with that later on down the line.

One review from a reader queried when I was going to get off the Samurai X storyline and forge my own story. I thought that was a very good question to which I can not really produce an equally good answer. It's hard to use the anime as a basis and simultaneously remain loyal to it and be original. Too much originality and it's no longer Samurai X, but not enough and I'm just cutting and pasting which is also bad. Probably once the Trust section ends and Betrayal begins I'll begin implementing my own touches, and definitely the endings won't be the same. I'm determined to do that much.

Oh and here's some pictures of me posing with my katana if you feel like checking those out for some reason. Linkage: http://www.livejournal.com/users/stoneblood/9377.html