Trust and Betrayal

JA_Japster

Rating: R
Genres: Romance, Action & Adventure
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 24/11/2004
Last Updated: 19/06/2005
Status: completed

(Complete) AU -In early England, a bloody rebellion threatens to tear the magical community in two as the elitist government battles a seccesionist group known as the Order of the Phoenix. Amidst the chaos, a muggle born witch and a deadly assassin may hold the only key to peace. (Inspired and partially based on the OAV Samurai X)

Chapters

1. Trust (Part I: The Assassin)

2. Trust (Part II: The Three Broomsticks)

3. Truth (Part III: Death at the Docks)

4. Trust (Part IV: The Death Eaters)

5. Trust (Part V: Internal Affairs)

6. Trust (Part VI: Waltz in the Rain)

7. Trust (Part VII: Fateful Meetings)

8. Trust (Part VIII: Stray Cats)

9. Trust (Part IX: Traitiors in Our Midst)

10. Trust (Part X: Men of War)

11. Trust (Part XI: Love and Hate)

12. Trust (Part XII: The Worth of a Killer)

13. Trust (Part XIII: Tears of a Child)

14. Betrayal (Part I: Fisherman's Village)

15. Betrayal (Part II: Fruits of Our Labor)

16. Betrayal (Part III: Shedding His Past)

17. Betrayal (Part IV: Strangers in the Dark)

18. Betrayal (Part V: The Necessity of Murder)

19. Betrayal (Part VI: Ill Tidings We Bring)

20. Betrayal (Part VII: Betrayed By a Kiss)

21. Betrayal (Part VIII: The Slayer Reborn)

22. Betrayal (Part IX: The Exiled Death Eater)

23. Betrayal (Part X: Flames of the Phoenix)

24. Betrayal (Part XI: One Final Request)

25. Betrayal (Part XII: Until Death...)

26. Betrayal (Part XIII: It's Beautiful Isn't It?)

27. Trust and Betrayal (Epilogue -Reflections)

1. Trust (Part I: The Assassin)

Trust and Betrayal

Written By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OVA "Samurai X"

Harry Potter is copyrighted to J.K Rowling and Samurai X and Rurouni Kenshin is copyrighted to their respective owners. The fanfiction is the product of JA_Japster and should not be reproduced in any fashion without permission.

Truth

Part I: The Assassin

It was raining...

It always seemed to be raining, but then again, Samuel Lock mused as he adjusted his top hat, it was England. At least he was dry though, standing in the doorway of one of the most elaborate mansions in the entire country. He stirred impatiently as he watched the rainfall from the dark heavens above, and licked his lips as he usually did when something was not going quickly enough for his liking.

Samuel Lock was an older man who was fast approaching his sixtieth birthday despite all denial and all attempts to halt the aging process. He was aging well though. He no longer needed the white rigs that the young used to satisfy their vanity, and he had not gone to entirely to seed either, which was more than he could say about some of his peers.

Yes, Samuel Lock was a man of dignity, wealth, and great influence given the crowds he entertained these days. This much could be ascertained by the casual observer, but what could not be seen was that as normal as Samuel Lock looked, he was anything but. Samuel Lock was a wizard, and one of the utmost importance, which was why he was standing there, framed in stone archways of Malfoy Manor, licking his lips irritably.

The door behind him opened and a young man stepped out to stand beside him. The man, if you wished to call him that, was little more than a boy at only twenty years old. He was a sharp looking young man with light brown hair and hazel eyes that gazed out into the night. Like Samuel, he also wore elegant black robes and a top hat.

"Umbrella, father?" The young man asked.

Samuel smiled and accepted the proffered umbrella. "Thank you, Theodon."

"How was the meeting with parliament?" Theodon asked.

"As well as can be expected." Samuel replied sadly. Theodon nodded understandingly.

Meetings with parliament were never welcomed events. All they did was serve as an opportunity for all the city governors and government officials to learn more of the ensuing chaos that threatened to tear apart England's magical community. The Order of the Phoenix they called themselves, a revolutionary group. In actuality they were little more than terrorists who stopped at nothing to topple a government they claimed was "stricken with corruption."

They made Samuel sick. Of course the government wasn't perfect, but it was stable and preserved the peace. He could not imagine what would happen if the rebels were allowed to have their way. Anarchy at the very least he suspected.

"Where are the rest?" Samuel asked.

As if on cue four men stepped out through the front door and moved into a protective box around Samuel and Theodon. They were dressed alike in non-descript black robes and muggle top hats, yet there was something distinctive about the way they walked and held themselves. Each was taller than Samuel, lean and muscular like Theodon, and radiated the same aura of assurance and confidence as they set off down the dark alleyway.

"You'll be safe with us." One of the men in black behind them said.

Aurors, Samuel decided with a small smile, the elite of the ministry's security forces. Trained in a dozen forms of dueling and spell casting and each one brilliant in his own right, Samuel could hardly ask for better bodyguards. There was something comforting knowing that the Ministry warranted him important enough to assign not one, but four members of their elite force to insure his safety.

The short walk down the secluded alleyway was necessary. Anti-apparation charms had been placed in a twelve-kilometer radius around the meeting point, and checkpoints of security forces created an impregnable wall surrounding the manor. Travel by broom had been made impossible by fierce winds and pouring rain. The walk would be a little less than two kilometers before arriving at a heavily guarded portkey that would whisk Samuel and Theodon halfway across the country to his manor.

Caution was necessary. These were dangerous times indeed.

During this parliament meeting, chairs usually occupied by three senior officials had been empty. They had been assassinated in the streets en-route to the meeting along with their contingent of bodyguards. No one witnessed the killings, but there was little question in Samuel's head the terrorists were behind the heinous act.

They walked in silence for several minutes. The rain was unrelenting, obscuring sheets of cold rain that thundered against their parade of umbrellas, creating a moonless night. Somewhere in the distance, a cricket chirped.

"Why don't you go ahead." Theodon said to the two lead Aurors. "Terrence and I shall escort my father the rest of the way."

The two Aurors hesitated, reluctant to leave their charge in the protection of only one of their own. Slightly annoyed, Theodon waved them away, and the Aurors finally bowed and disappeared down the path. Instantly they disappeared from sight, swallowed by the shadows.

After a few more moments had past, Samuel broke the uneasy silence. "So," he asked Theodon, "How is that muggle girl you're courting?"

Theodon cleared his throat. "I've told you before father she isn't a muggle. She's as proficient as a spell caster as I am and-"

"But she's a mudblood, son." Samuel interjected.

"She's as much of a witch as mother was." Theodon snapped.

"Your poor mother," Samuel said sadly with a soft click of his tongue, "Would be turning in her grave if she knew."

Theodon suddenly stopped. He glared at his elderly father, his face livid. "She's the grand daughter of Fudge, the Minister of Magic for Christ's sake, father! I thought that would be more than enough of a lineage to satisfy you!"

"An illegitimate child!" Samuel retorted.

Theodon's jaw clenched as if he dearly wished to say something angry but had the self-control to hold it back. He turned and abruptly and continued walking.

"You love her, don't you." Samuel said at last. It wasn't a question.

"I do. I'm going to marry her."

Samuel sighed and cursed under his breath. Since the day Theodon was born Samuel had prayed he would marry well. The daughter of a merchant or governor, but never had he imagined that his son would marry a mudblood though...

"We'll talk more about it when we get home." Samuel compromised. "Come. It's too cold to argue out he-"

He suddenly stopped speaking as something in the distance moved. The procession froze, and the remaining Auror raised his wand and whispered, "Lumos."

Half concealed in the shadows stood a solitary figure clad in black robes dripping wet from the wet. He stepped out into the road in the entire persona of a cat, slow and lethargic, lackadaisical and without haste. He walked wordlessly until he reached the center of the cobblestone path, captivating the mesmerized gazes of his audience, and then suddenly turned to face them.

The stranger was young, no older than Theodon perhaps, with shoulder long black hair and the sinewy physique of a soldier. His face was partially obscured by the locks of soaked hair matted against his skull, and yet two things particularly stood out, even from where he stood ten meters away.

The first was the lightening bolt scar etched across his forehead. It didn’t look random or the result of a clumsy duel, but deliberate and meaningful, the product of some advanced magic. Never before had Samuel seen one such as it.

The second object of Samuel’s fascination was the man’s eyes. They were the purest emerald, glowing with energy as he beheld the Samuel and his bodyguards. An involuntary shiver coursed up Samuel’s spine. The eyes were frightening, like the eyes of a predator examining his prey. Cold, meticulously calculating, devoid of any traces of fear.

They were the eyes of a killer.

“Assassin.” Samuel whispered.

“Get back, sir!” The Auror bellowed, throwing himself in front of Samuel, his wand ready. Into the air he shouted, “Isaac! Thomas! Come quick!”

But the steady rainfall was the Auror’s only answer. Again he called to the Aurors Theodon had early sent ahead, and again no response came.

“They won’t come.” The man with the emerald eyes said. His voice was as cold as his eyes, factually concise without the slightest trace of emotion.

"You killed them!" The Auror gasped. "Die, assasain!" His wand rose and a jet of light rocketed toward the man.

At the last possible moment the assassin drew his wand and with a vicious gesture deflected the curse into the side of the alley. It detonated into a giant fireball, half engulfing the young man, but before the smoke had cleared he was already charging down the passage, unscathed. Another spell went streaking towards him, but he ducked under it, and continued running, his wand held tucked under his opposite arm like a sheath around a sword.

The Auror's eyes widened in shock, but only for a moment. He raised his wand again. "Avada Kadavra!" He bellowed. A flash of green rocketed towards the assassin, and for a second Samuel was certain the man had no chance of escaping it.

But he did. With an astounding leap, the raven-haired assassin jumped over the blast of lethal energy and continued his charge. The Auror prepared another spell, but by then it was already too late for him. His assailant was already less than a meter away.

The assassin muttered something inaudible and swung his wand in a slashing motion against the man's chest. There was a flash of light and the Auror could only stare in surprise as crimson soaked through the front of his robes. He collapsed to his knees, blooding spilling from his lips, and then pitched forward onto the cobblestone, motionless.

Theodon stared at the assassin, his mouth wide in astonishment. Hastily, he broke out of his trance and pulled out his wand. "You murdering bastard!" He roared.

"My qualm is with your father, not you." The assassin said monotonously. "Step aside and you might live through this night."

Theodon didn't answer in words, but actions. He lunged at the assassin, a spell flashing past the man's head as he sidestepped it. The assassin’s own wand flashed, but Theodon's knocked it aside and the spell gouged an gash out of a stone wall nearby. The duelists stepped back, the first blows exchanged without injury, and the dance continued.

Samuel watched helplessly as his son dueled with the stranger. He had once been an accomplished fencer ages ago and he knew talent when he saw it. The assassin that had come this night to kill him was more than just talented. He was exceptional. His footwork, the fighting stance, the perfect equilibrium of aggression and caution -the man was more skilled than any Samuel had ever seen.

Again their wands clashed. The air was thick with the smell of cast magic. They fought for what seemed to be hours with neither gaining the advantage over the other. Theodon fought with determination to protect both himself and his father, but the assassin never seemed to weary.

The man feinted with his wand and then thrust it towards Theodon. Theodon managed to deflect the force of the curse into the air, but it offset his balance and he stumbled backward. The assassin was relentless, and taking advantage of his opponent's opening, attacked one last time. His wand flashed, and an arc of light traced over Theodon's exposed throat.

And with that it was over. The man lowered his wand and watched passively as Theodon fell on back. Blood spilled from the deep gash in his neck, bubbling as he tried to speak Mortally wounded, Theodon managed to turn himself over and crawl across the stone path towards his father, ignoring the blood that spilled from his throat and left a crimson path in his wake. The pain was excruciating and yet he forced himself to continue. He had to protect his father no matter how dire his injury. He had his duty to fulfill.

“F-father…” he whispered weakly, stretching out his hand toward Samuel. “Run…please…”

"Theodon!" Samuel called to his son. He clasped his son’s hand and held it tightly as tears trickled down the side of his face.

“Run…please run before-“ Whatever Theodon's last words were ended in a bloody gargle as another spell pierced through his heart. His eyes widened and then slowly shut as death claimed him.

The assassin watched emotionlessly as the old man hugged his dead child, sobbing and caressing the boy's cheek. He watched this for a few moments until he grew tired of watching the morbid spectacle. "It's time."

Samuel looked up into the eyes of his killer. "How could you do this?" He cried. "He was just a boy."

"We all die." The man said. He lifted his wand and without remorse fired beam into the center of Samuel's forehead, killing the old man instantly. His body fell against his son's, their blood mixing with the rain as it seeped through the cracks in the sidewalk.

"Rest in peace." The assassin said. He knelt down beside the two men and from the inside of his robes produced a white rose that he placed on each of the men’s bodies.

"Touching eulogy."

The assassin turned and spotted a man emerging from the shadows nearby. Obviously he’d been watching. The newcomer was a good head taller than himself, thin and lanky with freckles adorning his face and a mop of flaming red hair sitting atop his head. They shook hands.

"Good work." The new comer said eyeing the three dead bodies.

"It was necessary."

"It always is." The red haired man smiled. "Come on, Potter, we have more work to do."

Author’s Notes:
Well there you have it. The first chapter hastily written in between exams and long sessions of Halo 2. It hasn’t been proof read (if you’re interesting in proof reading the next chapter please drop me an email at JA_Japster@hotmail.com) because of time constraints and was a sort of spur of the moment project after I re-watched Samurai X for the billionth time. God damn that anime is awesome. Kenshin is such a hardcore mofo. Anyway, yeah, like the anime the story is entitled Truth and Betrayal because I couldn’t think of anything more original, and yes the story is heavily influenced by the anime to the point where some people might think of it as a rip off. To those people I’d probably agree with, but I took certain liberties where I felt like it. Comments, queries, complaints, praises, flames? Put them in the review section folks.

2. Trust (Part II: The Three Broomsticks)

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 II: The Three Broomsticks

The headquarters of the London branch of the Order of the Phoenix was established in the heart of the city, probably one of the last places the authorities would suspect, under the disguise of a local inn and tavern called the Three Broomsticks. The owner of the tavern, a lovely middle aged woman named Madam Rosemary, was sympathetic to the rebel cause, and the inn and tavern itself generated enough traffic from foreigners and regular patrons to sufficiently cloak the Three Broomstick’s true purpose from the Ministry. Combined with the fact that Madam Rosemary served a mean drink and fine meal, the Three Broomsticks made for an ideal headquarters and safe house for Order activity.

Ronald Weasley agreed whole-heartedly with that last sentiment. He was never happier than when he was inside the Three Broomsticks, out of the dreary rain, with a cold drink in one hand and a beautiful blonde in the other. Such as was the occasion now; having arrived with Harry to the tavern’s welcoming embraces only an hour prior.

“And how many of those evil men did you kill today, Ron?” The blonde cooed, playfully running a finger down his freckled nose. He flushed until his skin was as red as his hair and took another swig from his glass.

“Practically a dozen!” Ron lied. “Ain’t that right, Harry?”

Harry Potter sat in the stool next to Ron and the girl, staring blankly at an empty glass that had yet to be touched. He looked up and nodded distractedly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Sure I can’t get you something to eat or drink, Harry?” Madam Rosemary asked.

”No thank you.” Harry replied.

“Sure? You’re one of the best soldiers the Order has got. You got to keep your strength up you know.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Madam Rosemary frowned disapprovingly. Since the rebellion had officially been declared three years ago, Madam Rosemary had been a mother to the young men and women that filtered in and out of the tavern. She possessed a maternal protectiveness over all of them, scolding, comforting, and mourning whenever one died. If soldiers like Harry and Ron were the arms of the rebellion, it was people like Madam Rosemary who were the soul.

“Alright then. Call me if you need anything.”

Harry nodded and Madam Rosemary disappeared back into the kitchen.

Ron stopped his flirting with the blonde and turned to his friend. “You sure you’re all right?”

“Sure.” Harry answered.

Liar, Ron thought. He’d met Harry when they were both eleven years old, nearly seven years ago, and one thing he’d learned from their years of friendship was that Harry hated to be nagged. The fact that his friend didn’t show the smallest signs of annoyance was proof he was lying. But why would Harry lie to him?

He was probably tired, Ron concluded; weary from the night’s activity. He had a right to be. Three hits in one night would exhaust anyone. Harry was the most proficient assassin ever known to England and had seen more blood during this rebellion than probably anyone else, but he was still human. It’d be best just to let him be.

After a while, Harry quietly rose and, without a word to anyone else, disappeared upstairs where the Order’s housing accommodations were.

Madam Rosemary reappeared from the kitchen to collect Harry’s unused glass. She polished it while staring at the stairwell that Harry had disappeared, a sort of sadness marring her usually lively smile. “He’s a lonely man.”

“Aye.” Ron agreed. “He’s found a meaning in life, but has no enjoyment for it.”

Madam Rosemary chuckled. “The opposite of every other man in life. What he needs is a good woman.”

Ron laughed. “Believe me I’ve tried. My sister, Ginny, was in love with him for the longest time but Harry…well…Harry just wasn’t interested. Polite as hell, always, but completely indifferent to everyone he meets.”

“Maybe he just hasn’t met the right woman.” The blonde commented. “The kind of woman that’ll thaw that icy heart of his.”

“Aye.” Ron and Madam Rosemary chorused. “Aye.”

Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, was not a happy man. He sat in his private office with two other senior officials, trembling with barely restrained rage, his bowler wobbling dangerously on his balding head. He stalked back and forth across the large office, his fists clenched at his side, cursing under his breath.

“Minister?” Asked one of the officials.

“Three senior officials, Hogs! Three!” Fudge raged. “Locke, Jenkins, and Williams! Three of the most important officials in parliament murdered on their way home from the meeting yesterday evening! Does this mean anything to you?”

“We’ll have to try our hardest to fill in the gaps. Their absence will put a strain on several departments, but still I think-“

“You idiot!” Fudge screamed, spraying spittle over the unlucky official. “I meant the papers! The Daily Prophet for starters! Do you have any idea, any idea at all, what those journalists will do once they get news of this? Public disgrace! Total lack of confidence in our security measures! Heads will roll for this, Hogs, let me assure you!”

“We can’t avoid the press forever, Minister.” The other official cautiously ventured.

“No, we can’t. But we must find someone responsible for these crimes to make it look like we’re doing something to catch these…these…terrorists!”

“The law enforcement department has yet to determine a suspect.”

“It’s the Order no doubt. Those damn…damn…damn…ah!” Fudge screamed in rage and smashed his fist on his desk. “They’re trying to destabilize the government from within. Picking us off one by one until we’re too weak to resist. But I’ll show them…”

Hogs looked at his partner uncertainly, but then said timidly, “They have confirmed though that all three murders were committed by one man. Most likely the same one in each case.”

“Well that’s just perfect!” Fudge exploded. “One man wiped out twelve of our best Aurors, and three government officials! What will the papers call him? The Slayer? Our propaganda machine is not working in case you haven’t noticed, Hogs. As much as we print that the Ministry is doing a fine job protecting the rights and interests of the people, there is still dissatisfaction amongst the lower class, and that’s why we have a rebellion on our hands for Christ’s sake!”

“The papers must not get news that a single man is making a fool of us.” Fudge continued. “No. The people will idolize this assassin; make him out to be a hero that kills in the name of justice. No, no, no.”

Hogs mumbled something.

“What did you say, Hogs?” Fudge asked.

Hogs mumbled something again.

“What?”

Hogs averted his eyes so he wasn’t looking at his boss. For the first time Fudge noticed there was something in Hog’s hands that looked like a crumpled periodical. And written along the top of the newspaper in big bold letters was…

“I said…it’s already too late.” Hogs whispered.

Author’s Notes

Well, there you have it. Chapter two is done and chapter three is on its way. Thank you for your reviews. I’m horrible about completing stories. Absolutely terrible. To date I’ve never finished a single multi-chapter story I’ve started. But, don’t give up hope on me yet! I’ll break the streak! Promise! Edits were made to the copyright (thanks!) Oh and I really would like a proof reader so if anyone is willing…Well, I have some video game playing to do. Now if you’ll excuse me Jak III awaits…

Comments, queries, flames, complaints, praises…review box folks! Read and review!

3. Truth (Part III: Death at the Docks)

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 their respective owners. The fanfiction is the product of JA_Japster and should not be reproduced in any fashion without permission.

Truth

Part III: Death at the Docks

Cornelius Fudge sat at his desk looking distinctly more disheveled than the prim and proper standard he usually upheld. His coat laid cast on the floor somewhere alongside his bowler, and dark shadows from a lack of sleep filled his eyes. He yawned from behind the mammoth stack of papers that occupied the top of his desk, and took another sip from the half emptied bottle of England’s finest whiskey.

He placed the bottle back down on his desk with a bang. In Fudge’s other hand was a small mirror in which a face that was not his own appeared. The face that appeared in the glass belonged to a younger man, and his voice echoed in the small chamber as he spoke.

“We heard of the news of Theodon’s death.” The man said.

“Yes. Tragic indeed.” Fudge replied. “How is my granddaughter taking to the news?”

The man scowled. “As well as could be expected if your fiancé to be was murdered.”

Fudge sighed and took another shot of whiskey. He let the slow burn of the liquor as it traveled down his throat calm him before he spoke again. “I would like her to come down to London so I can see her.”

“Are you mad, Fudge?” The man asked. “She’s distraught over the news of Theodon’s death. She doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep…she rarely even talks to anyone anymore.”

“I wish for her to come to London irregardless. Getting her active again will be the quickest way for her to overcome her grief.”

“Her parents will never allow for it.”

Fudge laughed bitterly. “Muggles.” He said disgustedly. “We need not their approval. Make it happen.”

“Very well.” With those last words the man’s face disappeared from the mirror. A few moments past, and then the mirror shimmered, and the face of another man, older this time with light brown hair and proud eyes that glared from within the glass once again, replaced the usual reflection.

“Bishop.” Fudge said in greeting.

“Minister.” Bishop replied tersely

“What is your update on the investigation of the assassinations?”

“The same as twelve hours again, Minister. We have confirmed that one unknown suspect carried out all three murderers within a five-hour period. Whoever carried out these hits was strong enough to overcome our best Aurors and disappear with preciously few traces.”

“You and your Aurors are proving to be…ineffective, Bishop.” Fudge said irritably.

He was being generous with inefficiency; incompetence would have been a more appropriate choice of words. Since the rebellion had begun, a dozen major officials and countless other government workers had been murdered by the terrorists, and all the Aurors had to show for themselves thus far were speculations and theories. All the arrests made so far of suspected informants and spies were insubstantial. Fudge needed something more concrete if he hoped to show the reliability of the Ministry.

“We’ve been working around the clock on this case.” Bishop protested. “It’s impossible for us to try any harder than we already are.”

“Well try harder!” Fudge roared. “I need to know who is making a mockery of me by killing our officials so brazenly! I warn you, Bishop, one more mishap in your security precautions or any additional delay in your investigation and…”

”You’ll what, Minister?”

“I’ll be forced to call in the Death Eaters to replace you.”

A long uneasy silence filled the office. Bishop’s face paled, and when he spoke again it was with a slight tremble. ‘My men and I would redouble our efforts to catch the culprits. T-that’s not necessary, Minister, I assure you.

Fudge smiled. “That remains to be seen.”

--

It came to no surprise to Madam Rosmerta that Harry was not in his room when she came to wake him the next morning. When she opened the door she found the empty room as neat as it had when she’d cleaned it the day before. Even the four-poster bed was so nicely made that it might as well have been unused during the night.

She sighed. It vaguely occurred to her the bed might have actually been unused. Again. Harry had stayed at the Three Broomsticks long enough for Madam Rosmerta to discern that the boy seldom slept more than a few hours a night and never in the bed provided. The boy was a living enigma, kind and polite, yet so riddled with eccentricities and problems that it sometimes frightened her.

A boy as young as he shouldn’t have to kill, Madam Rosmerta thought. But it was necessary. Few were gifted with the talents that Harry possessed…gifts that made him such an effective assassin. The harsh reality of the situation was that the Order would need people like Harry; people who were not afraid to get their hands dirty if they were to succeed in usurping the current government.

Harry understood this all too well. And that’s why Harry agreed to do what he does.

She gently closed the door and was about to head back downstairs when a voice called from behind her.

“Good morning, Madam Rosmerta.”

Startled, she turned and saw Harry standing nearby. He was dressed in a clean pair of black robes and his jet-black hair was tied neatly in a tail that hung down his back.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter. Did you sleep well?”

Harry nodded. “I feel refreshed. I thank you for your kind hospitality.”

Madam Rosmerta smiled brightly. “Your more than welcome. Oh, and Mr. Weasley is waiting for your downstairs.”

Harry nodded again, the same stiff politeness etched in the emotionless contours of his face, and then turned and walked down the stairs to the tavern below.

Ron sat alone at the bar, looking glumly at a tall pint of something or another. He looked exhausted, no doubt from a night severely deprived of sleep. He spotted Harry walking down the stairs and motioned to join him. Harry obliged and sat down on the stool beside his friend.

“Drink?” Ron offered.

Harry shook his head. “It’s looks like you have more than your share.”

Ron snorted. “Weasley’s are born with a natural tolerance.”

“So I take it those vomit stains on the counter belong to someone else.”

”Damn straight.” Ron replied. He fumbled for something in the pocket and removed a crumpled piece of paper. He slid it across the counter to Harry who picked it up and looked it over.

“Another job.” Harry observed. “Kind of odd isn’t it? What is this? Two nights in a row?”

“The Order can’t pass up a golden opportunity like this. We’re taking out Munro.”

Harry’s eyes widened. Everyone knew Gregory Munro. He called himself a businessman, but everyone with a half working brain knew he was one of the largest importer and exporters of illicit magical contraband in Europe. He was also a firm supporter of Fudge because Fudge chose to turn a blind eye to his illegal activities, and in return for this favor Munro was known to toss Fudge information concerning local activity from time to time.

Some of this information was occasionally about the Order of the Phoenix.

“You remember Peck right?” Ron asked.

“He was arrested for aiding the cause and sentenced to Azkiban, sure I remember. Why?”

”One of our spies has credible evidence that Munro was the one who copped him to the Ministry. Because of this, the higher ups have decided his continual existence poses a threat to Order activity.”

”It’s about time.”

“So I take it you have no objection to this one?”

Harry shook his head. “None at all.”

--

Harry sighed and took in the tranquility of the ocean as he waited in the shadows of the dock. There was something about the running of water; the sound of waves overlapping that gave him a certain measure of peace that he could not find anywhere else. If given the choice he might elect to sit here on the docks, gazing out into the fleet of trading ships on the horizon, basking in the wash of calming waves as he waited for the sun to rise.

Muggle fisherman did that Harry recalled from a periodical he once read. They lived on their boats, catching fish all day, surrounded by the same euphoric ambiance. They knew nothing of war or death, and lived day to day content with that they had. Harry would like to become a fisherman one day. He could put down his wand and vow to live a simple life. Maybe then he would find the elusive peace he sought.

One day, but not tonight. There was still business to attend to tonight.

Partially shrouded in the darkness between two anchored trading vessels was a contingent of four men. The one in the middle was Munro, a short, fat man that had grown rich through his illegal dealings. The other three men were his bodyguards, cheap thugs that one of Munro’s servants hired from a nearby tavern. Scum like Munro did not warrant protection from the Ministry. Scum like Munro did not even deserve a quick death like the one Harry had granted Samuel Locke the night before.

It was men like Munro that confirmed the justice in what Harry did. Men like Munro symbolized the corruption that ate away at the government like termites inside a wooden house. They spread quickly, eating away at what past generations had fought to accomplish, until one day all would collapse into chaos. They profited from the pain and sorrows of others, and that was why men like Munro had to die.

It was for the good of the cause. For the good of England.

The group was moving up the pier away from the ships, two bodyguards in front and one taking up the rear. The bodyguards were low class wizards, men who had never attended an academy and had picked up everything they knew from experience. They posed nowhere as close to a threat as a trained Auror would, but Harry could not completely discredit them either. The stupider, weaker ones died during the early days of the rebellion. Only the strong survived.

Harry reached into his robes until he found the worn grip of his wand stored away in a protective sheath at his waist. He drew it and examined it for a second, just as he always did. It was not his first wand that he had received when he was eleven by an eccentric wand maker, but one he had meticulously constructed himself.

He ran a finger down its smooth surface and a shiver ran down his spine. It was longer than most at fourteen inches, constructed of oak and containing everything necessary for it to be a reliable instrument of destruction. Harry twirled it expertly and then replaced it in its sheath.

It was time.

Author’s Notes:

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. My chapters are generally shorter because I don’t have a lot of time to write and like to upload what I do have as quickly as possible. Writing this is fun because I already have a foundation, and yet can expand and take liberties wherever I want. That and Kenshin just kicks so much ass it’s almost unbelievable. Deciding how to adapt the Kenshin universe into the Harry Potter universe, Japan to England, sort of thing is challenging and yet is simultaneously quite entertaining. It might not work out perfectly, but I’ll try my best.

-Thanks Sauron for offering to proof read. I finished this chapter up late at night and I won’t have time to check my computer for a couple of days so I’m going to pop this chapter up, but I’ll be sure to send you some of my later chapters. Thanks a lot.

-Hm…thanks for pointing that out October. Something always goes wrong with the upload and Portkey has a habit of eating up spaces I put in. Made some changes. Hope it’ll work.

-Thanks to everyone else who reviewed. Reviews are what keep me going and encourage me to write more. It confirms that people actually enjoy reading my stuff and that just makes my day. Keep reviewing, or I’ll be forced to go back to playing video games all day…which really isn’t that bad of an alternative all things considered.

Questions, comments, praises? You know where they go. Read and review folks!

4. Trust (Part IV: The Death Eaters)

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 their respective owners. The fanfiction is the product of JA_Japster and should not be reproduced in any fashion without permission.

Trust

Part IV: The Death Eaters

The dock was bathed in crimson. Three bodies lay scattered atop the narrow woodwork, their lifeblood seeping through the cracks into the ocean below. Amongst the bodies stood a man garbed in black, splattered with the blood of the men he had slain. He was the grim reaper, deliverer of death, and the wand he wielded was his scythe, a conduit of his will.

Ron watched as Harry surveyed the bodies. Seeing Harry in practice, seeing the cold precision in how he killed, reminded Ron of the name the Daily Prophet had given Harry in the headlines this morning. The Slayer, a remorseless killer responsible for the string of murders that paralyzed London with fear.

The Slayer

Ron had not shown Harry the newspaper that morning in the tavern. He didn’t know how his friend would react to the nickname, whether he would embrace it with pride or be angered by its demeaning innuendo. It did not much matter, though. Harry had a way of finding things out on his own, and if Harry already knew he showed nothing to acknowledge it.

Three lives had been extinguished in the space of a few moments. Harry had approached the men, told the bodyguards to disband if they valued their lives. The men refused, drew their wands, and then the blood bath began. It wasn’t a battle. It was a massacre, a massacre only someone like Harry was potent enough to conjure.

Harry blurred as he charged the group, accelerating so quickly that for a moment his speeding form appeared only as an incoherent flash of motion against the darkness. He struck equally swiftly and with unparalleled viciousness. Three spells ripped through the air in the blink of an eye, ripping through the bodyguards like a knife. Blood spurted from the ghastly wounds in their chests, and before they could cry out in pain or alarm, they were already lying prone on the dock, scant seconds away from death.

When Harry slowed down and came to a standstill in the middle of the carnage, the battle was over. He lowered his wand, oblivious to the splotches of red that stained his face and robes, and turned his attention to Munro who was curled up in a ball, sobbing.

“Mister Munro,” Harry said looking coldly at the criminal. “It’s time.”

“P-please. Spare me!” Munro begged. “I’ll give you money! Everything I have! Just let me live! Please!”

“You’ve lived a life without honor.” Harry spoke softly. “You can at least die with some dignity.”

But Munro was not prepared to die. “See that ship?” He pointed at one of the large trading vessels that flanked the pier. “It’s loaded with imported drugs from Asia. I know you work for the Order of the Phoenix. You can take it all! Sell it! Help fund your cause! Just please spare my life.”

Harry looked at the ship that Munro indicated. It was a massive ship, capable of hauling tons of cargo. “Whom were the drugs intended for?”

”Fudge.” Munro whispered, tears streaming down his fat cheeks. “He was going to resell them to foreign diplomats to help finance military operations against the Order. I didn’t have anything to do with that! I’m just a go-between! I swear!”

Harry exhaled deeply, trying to control the anger that welled in his chest. If possible, his loathing for the Ministry increased. To endorse the trade in drugs, the very bane of society was unthinkable.

”Is there anyone on that ship?” Harry asked.

“No one.”

Harry nodded, and then with a violent twirl slashed open Munro’s neck. The fat merchant gasped and grabbed his neck, trying to staunch the flow as it bubbled between his fat fingers. He fought for life for a few moments, longer than Harry would have expected from someone of Munro’s character, but finally gave in to death’s luring call.

But Harry was not done. As soon as he was sure Munro was dead, he lifted his wand and pointed it at the trading ship hauling drugs. He muttered an incantation under his breath, and suddenly a violent explosion ripped through the docks, sending a wave of heat crashing over them. The cargo within the boat’s belly ignited, and a series of detonations from within blasted upwards through the deck, sending fragments of wood soaring into the air. A dozen fires broke out, greedily consumed the great ship, lighting up the night sky.

Ron raised his arm to shield himself from the flame’s intense heat. He whistled low as the conflagrated ruins sank into the ocean, like a burning tomb lowering itself into a watery grave. He spotted Harry out of the corner of his eye, and for the first time in a long while, Ron could have sworn he saw a satisfied smile on his friend.

Harry walked away from the burning wreck and slid his wand back into its sheath. “We’re done here.” He said.

--

“It’s so good to see you again, grandfather.”

Fudge smiled at the young lady sitting across from him. She was only eighteen; freshly graduated from Hogwarts. Just looking at her reminded Fudge of his own daughter. They both shared the same slim attractive features, hazel eyes, and long, curly brown hair. But his daughter was dead now, and the girl was all that was left.

In truth the girl was only distantly related to Fudge by blood. Her parents were muggles, people not blessed with the gift of magic, but in some way, shape or form, she fit into Fudge’s own family tree. When Fudge’s own daughter passed away after fighting an incurable disease, it became aware to Fudge that he only had one surviving relative left: a young girl born to muggle parents who resided in the remote countryside.

Burdened by guilt and believing to be partially responsible for his daughter’s death, Fudge took it upon himself to become guardian over the last remaining heir to his family line. He was not deterred by the fact that she was a mudblood, and instead accepted her as the daughter fate had cruelly robbed him of.

From then on he had ensured that the girl had the best life had to offer. She remained living with her parents, however, much to Fudge’s displeasure. At the time he was not yet Minister of Magic and did not have the authority to remove her from her parent’s guardianship. Nonetheless, he financed her education at Hogwarts, watching carefully over her from his office in London.

“It’s good to see you too, Hermione. I trust your travel went well.”

The girl, one Hermione Granger, responded, “It was uneventful.”

“Would you rather have it not be?” Fudge inquired with a small laugh.

Hermione also laughed, a hollow sound devoid of any real humor.

“I…I’m sorry about what happened to your fiancé. It is most regrettable.”

“As am I.” Hermione responded. She looked away from her grandfather and stared out a nearby window. “It was the terrorists wasn’t it? They murdered Theodon and his father?”

Fudge nodded gravely. “We believe it to be so. They are determined to destabilize our government for their own selfish purposes at any cost. Tragically, they decided taking out a firm pillar in our society like Samuel and his son was the quickest means to do so.”

“Did…did Theodon suffer?” Hermione asked. Tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them back. For weeks now she had endured sleepless wondering these questions. Now she would finally find the answers.

“No.” Fudge answered. “It is reported he fought valiantly against his attackers to defend his father before dying. I’m sorry.”

“You haven’t caught the assassin yet.” Hermione said plainly.

“Why do you say that?” Fudge asked.

“There would have been something in the paper.” She pointed out. “There’s been so little good news over the past month that the ministry would print even the slightest of successes.”

Fudge suppressed a smile. Hermione was clever for her age, possessing a quick and savvy mind that rivaled even some of the sharpest politicians he knew. More than that she was also book smart, brilliant some would even say, and highly skilled with the wand. She had been fast on the road to becoming a successful witch before this tragedy entered her life.

“You are correct. But now, enough of this depressing talk. You’re probably tired from your travel. I’ll have one of the servants show you to your room.”

Hermione rose and smoothed out her robes. While living amongst muggles she wore muggle clothing, but she was still well versed with the customs of the magical world. “Thank you, grandfather.”

One of Fudge’s many servants appeared in the room and took Hermione’s luggage. “Please, Miss. This way.” He motioned towards the front door.

“I’ll see you for dinner, tonight, Hermione.” Fudge called to his granddaughter as she was escorted from his office. “And please, stay in your room until I call for you. These are dangerous times.”

”Of course.” Hermione answered.

“Oh, and please have my servant call in Mr. Bishop from the ante-chamber please. I need to speak with him.”

Hermione nodded again and then disappeared from the office.

Fudge’s façade of calm composure slipped as the doors to his office opened and Bishop stepped through. His eyes burned with fury, and he wished nothing more than to strike down the incompetent traitor standing before him. It had been years since Fudge had killed another man with his own wand, but so great was Bishop’s blunder that he was almost willing to dirty his hands once more, just to gain a sense of satisfaction in dispatching the fool personally.

“Bishop, you disappoint me.” Fudge said before the other man could speak. “I spoke with you less than twenty-four hours ago and already you have failed in your duty.”

”Minister, there was nothing my men or I could do about Munro.” Bishop responded.

“Munro’s death I can forgive. The loss of that cargo I cannot. Munro was expendable and easily replaceable. The goods on that ship were invaluable to Ministry interest, Bishop, and its destruction will put our plans to stomp out the last of the terrorists months behind schedule.”

“The Aurors received no information concerning the transportation of important cargo, Minister. There was no way we could protect something we knew nothing about.”

Bishop and the Aurors obviously could not be informed of the cargo because of its somewhat… illicit nature. The Ministry outlawed the drug trade decades ago, and public knowledge that the Minister was financing his war against the Order using profits from drugs would cost him his job and only bolster support for the rebels. At the same time, the Ministry desperately needed the funds from the drug trade, and as long as no one knew where the flow of income originated from, no one else in the Ministry much cared.

“Your job is to protect the people and the Ministry.” Fudge said. “And you have failed miserably.”

Bishop shook his head, no longer bothering to restrain himself pointless formality. He slammed his hands on Fudge’s desk and roared, “I refuse to resign my position and I will protest this outrage to parliament!”

Fudge smiled. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Bishop.”

The office doors opened again with a soft creak, and before Bishop could turn, an arc of magical light slashed across his back. The old Auror gasped in surprise, and fell across the desk, blood pouring from the wand across his back. He looked up at Fudge, reaching towards the Minister with the last of his fading strength, accusations forming on his lips.

”Goodbye, Bishop.” Fudge sneered. “And good riddance.”

He looked up and saw that two men had entered his office, one a man and the other little more than a young boy. “Greetings Lord Voldemort and Mr. Malfoy.”

The older of the men was tall with light brown hair that hung over his eyes. His skin was unusually pale as if it had never seen the sun, and his face clearly reflected his personality. His face was not unattractive, yet there was something about his eyes that made it disturbing to look at. On the surface he looked calm, yet his every movement gave off an unmistakable aura of death and fear. There was something more ominous lingering beneath the surface, of that Fudge knew for certain.

This was Lord Voldemort. He was the leader of the Death Eaters, a man unrivalled with his skill in the wand and his gift of killing. No one knew quite where the man came from, and no one bothered to ask. A path of blood followed wherever the man went, a trail of dead residing in his wake. He quickly became the thing of legends, a dangerous government killer who would wipe out you and your entire family without a second thought.

One particular story chronicling his infamous exploits came from nearly twenty years ago when Fudge’s predecessor had ordered Voldemort and his Death Eaters to wipe out a small, poor, rural, farming community who had refused to pay their taxes. It was said after the initial raid, Voldemort went from house to house, executing everyone inside. Men, women, and children –no one had escaped the Dark Lord’s wrath.

“Minister.” He said.

The younger man nodded in greeting as he stowed away his wand. He was a head shorter than Lord Voldemort, and his hair was a light blonde that was neatly arranged in a short ponytail. His light blue eyes seemed to shimmer with glee as they examined his own morbid handiwork, and a small grin formed on his lips.

“Exceptional wand work, Draco.” Fudge commented.

“Thank you, Minister.”

“I trust you’re prepared to take your father’s place amongst the Death Eaters?”

”He is.” Lord Voldemort said. “We were pulled away from pressing government work in Ireland, Minister. I presume this is important.”

Fudge sighed. “It is. If you’re not aware we have a rebellion on our hands. A lone proficient assassin is wrecking havoc amongst our ranks, striking without warning at some of the Ministry’s most valuable assets. He’s killed as many as five important personnel in the past three days, and God knows how many during the war so far.”

”One man?” Voldemort asked. It was hard to tell if this impressed him. His voice conveyed little.

“Yes. We also believe him responsible for your father’s dead, Draco.”

Draco Malfoy’s eyes widened. “He killed my father?” He laughed. “He must be good then.”

Fudge blinked surprised. “You seem rather un-upset about the mentioning of your late father’s demise.”

Draco shrugged. “He’s dead. There’s nothing more I can do for him. But my father was a powerful wizard. If he was slain with such apparent ease that must mean his killer is most skilled. I would delight in the chance to fight and kill such a man.”

Truly a Death Eater, thought Fudge, bloodthirsty and completely indifferent to the memory of the dead.

“Our Aurors have had little success in tracking down this man. That is why I am forced to assign the Death Eaters to find this assassin as soon as possible and kill him.”

“Kill the killer.” Voldemort mused out loud. “Consider your little problem taken care of.” He said to Fudge. “I have just the man for the job.”

”Just one man?” Fudge asked skeptically. “Let me remind you the assassin wiped out an entire security squad of Aurors.”

Voldemort laughed, a cold sound that echoed throughout the office and sent a chill up Fudge’s spine. “Aurors, Minister, Aurors. Believe me, your assassin won’t defeat my Death Eaters so easily.”

Author’s Notes
Thanks a ton for the positive feedback I’m getting. Don’t be afraid to say anything critical though. I need critical feedback! Trust me, no matter what you say (well to a certain extent) I probably won’t be offended. Writing this is so much fun because of its intrinsic dark nature and for some reasons its compatibility with the Harry Potter universe. It’s proven to be quite simple to match up characters so far, and a lot of the characters’ personalities were pretty much in synch as well. Have I mentioned I love getting reviews? There’s nothing better than coming back home from a grueling day at school and seeing what people thought of my stuff. But you guys are tired of hearing that by now I’m sure.

I personally felt this chapter was simultaneously easier and harder to write. The dock scene was a blast to write, but the lengthier dialogue scenes between Fudge and Hermione and Fudge and the Death Eaters were a bit more challenging to craft without making it sound too stagnant. I hope it came out OK. That and my vocabulary is becoming more and more limited if I don’t want to become repetitive. What’s another good word for “nod”? I notice I’ve used that a lot.

Oh and can someone explain to me why Portkey sometimes recognizes the bold and italics and sometimes doesn’t?

Now for some author feedback to some of the reviews and emails I’ve received:

Anthraxus the Decayed inquired if Hermione and Tomoe (her obvious Samurai X parallel) would share the same fate by the story’s end. To answer that, I’m not entirely sure what will happen her. I refuse to say one-way or the other because while I wish to remain faithful to the Kenshin storyline, I also want to keep this story as fresh and original as possible.

To everyone who commented on my incomplete stories don’t worry. I’ll finish this one. I swear. Unless I get killed or something, this will get finished. I already have a story to work with, there’s no real reason why I shouldn’t complete this story.

Thanks to Carla who gave me a recommendation in the forums. Thanks. That made me want to do a back flip, but I can’t so I was content with just being happy.

5. Trust (Part V: Internal Affairs)

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 V: Internal Affairs

Harry and Ron’s satisfaction of another job well done was short lived. As they approached the Three Broomsticks to be debriefed, they noticed an unusual lack of activity in the tavern. Instead of the usual drunken patrons stumbling in and out, a half dozen stern looking witches and wizards stood watch outside the door, as if on guard against something. Something important was going on inside.

The leader of the guards lifted his chin slightly as Ron and Harry approached, approving them to enter. Madam Rosemerta was there to greet them, obviously excited about something the way she hurriedly ushered them in, not even taking notice of the bloodstains on Harry’s robes.

“Hurry,” Madam Rosmerta whispered. “You’re needed up stairs. Quickly! Dumbeldore and Yale are here!”

“What?” Exclaimed Ron. “Dumbledore and Yale?”

Albus Dumbledore and Cyrus Yale were two of the most important figures of the rebellion, signifying the leadership of southern and northern England respectively. Former politicians themselves, the two men had seen the corruption in the government, and using their individual talents had spent the last five years forming an army composed of the lower classes of society. Alone the northern or the southern cells of the Order of the Phoenix had neither the influence nor strength to topple the Ministry, and that was why the talks between the two leaders were crucial to the success of the rebellion.

It was rumored for weeks now, however, that recently the leaders had begun to argue. The rebellion was finally large enough to achieve its purpose, but now with their goal so close in sight, the two brilliant minds could not come to an agreement on how to proceed.

As the two men walked up the stairs they could hear the thunderous roar of a dozen voices permeate the walls and filter into the hallway. Though Harry and Ron had never met Dumbledore or Yale, they both had heard them speak on many occasions and could easily pick out their voices amongst the rest. Hostility was evident in the argument, confirming the rumors that all was not as stable the Order as one should hope.

As they passed another set of guards, Harry suddenly stopped as a man turned the corner ahead of them. The man was older, dressed in a plain white cloak and his long black hair was tangled and messy, like a man who had just awoken from a long sleep. The man looked at Harry, and for a moment their eyes locked.

“Harry Potter.” The man said.

“Sirius Black.” Harry responded.

Ron looked from man to man in bewilderment. Their faces remained completely impassive, mirrored images of each other, content to stare at each other in the long silence that ensued. Ron cleared his throat sheepishly and muttered something about go ahead to the meeting. He disappeared around the corner.

A few more moments of stillness passed before Sirius’s lips formed a small smile. He gave a short laugh. “You’ve grown insolent in your time away from me. Once you used to have the humility to look away in the face of your master.”

“Former master.” Harry corrected.

Sirius was the closest thing to a father Harry had ever known. His own parents had died when he was only a few months old, and that was when Sirius, a long time friend of Harry’s father, had taken Harry under his wing as his own. Lacking both the money and the social status necessary e to send Harry to a prestigious academy Hogwarts, Sirius had spent Harry’s early childhood years educating him to the best of his abilities.

“Yes, former master.” Sirius conceded. “How long has it been now? Three years since you left, my foolish pupil?”

Three years…had it been that long since Harry had runaway from home to join the Order? It seemed like such a long time ago.

“Why have you come to London, Sirius?” Harry asked.

“So quick to dispense pleasantries with the man who once called you son?” Sirius asked. There was nothing in his voice, no signs of any hurt or anger at Harry’s abrupt rudeness.

“You’ve never had any use for them before.” Harry replied. “Now tell me why you’re here.”

Sirius exhaled deeply. “Walk with me, please.”

“I have to go to the meeting.” Harry objected, but when Sirius set off down the hallway Harry found himself involuntarily falling behind him.

”I have my own reasons for coming to London,” Sirius said as they walked. “The first was to see if my idiot of a student had managed to get himself killed yet. You’ve seemed to be doing well for yourself. You’re still alive at any rate, but I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised. You’ve always been decent with the wand.”

You would know best. You only taught me everything I know, Harry thought. Sirius was a master fencer, and from a young age Harry had been educated in the arts of dueling. He embraced Sirius’ lessons with gusto, hungry to learn more in order to augment his natural ability with the wand. It was Harry’s success with the wand, however, that would eventually cause the rift in the relationship between student and teacher, father and son.

“I also came to London to speak with Dumbledore.” Sirius continued.

“What business do you have with Dumbledore?” Harry asked quickly. “You’ve never affiliated yourself with the Order.”

Their differences concerning the Order was what eventually caused the breaking point between the two, and was the reason why Harry had not seen his second father in three years. When word of the formation of the rebellion reached Sirius’ home in the countryside, Harry was fifteen and already an expert duelist, capable of holding his own against even a master of the trade. It was then that Harry decided to answer the rebellion’s call, to offer his wand to help the cause.

He remembered the heated conversation he had with Sirius the night before Harry ran away. They were sitting at the dinner table that evening like they had for the past fifteen years when Harry announced his intentions of joining the Order of the Phoenix. Sirius had expressed his distaste for the Order’s ambitions, but Harry was still not prepared for his mentor’s response.

“I forbid you to leave!” Sirius had yelled across the table. “I will not have you running off to get killed for some hopeless, idealistic cause!”

Harry became livid and matched Sirius’ outrage with his own. “And abandon my fellow Englishman in their time of need? Sirius, you taught me how to fight for a reason! Not to sit back and watch as people die all around me!”

“I taught you to duel to defend yourself!”

“I can defend so many more than just myself with my wand, Sirius! I will not stand by and watch as our country falls apart at the hands of greedy tyrants! You see the suffering and oppression of our neighbors, Sirius, of our people, and yet you refuse to help?”

“You’re a fool, Harry! Had I known your weak mind would be so easily influenced by this idiocy I would never have let you pick up a wand!”

That was the last time they had spoken until now. That night, Harry had packed up his few belongings and snuck away to rendezvous with a group of youth who were enlisting into the Order as soldiers. Sirius made no attempt to locate his wayward student, and before long Harry became what he was today, an assassin, the Slayer.

“It was a personal invitation, one I felt might warrant my time.”

“And did it?”

Sirius paused in mid step and faced Harry. “Listen to me well, Harry.” He said with serious urgency. “I overheard some of what Yales and Dumbledore are discussing in the next room, and to be honest it is lunacy. Horrible things for England are in the making tonight, things you do not want anything to be apart of I assure you.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

”I want to give you one last offer to get out while you still can.” Sirius said.

Harry laughed coldly. “You waste your time.”

Sirius looked him in the eye and gently touched Harry on his shoulder. “Then there is nothing more I can do for you.”

--

The streets of London were so much more peaceful at night. Somehow with the flurry of pedestrians, horses and cartridges, something was detracted from the city’s natural beauty. The cobblestone seemed smoother, the air clearer, and the entire city all the more welcoming. It was already past midnight, and London was asleep. Even the local taverns had closed for the night, their patrons and owners gone home. The streets were deserted save for one figure that roamed about aimlessly, staring up into the sky.

Twinkle twinkle little star Hermione hummed. She loved the muggle lullaby when she was a child, and she tried to smile at the fond memory. She could not, however. Smiling was a luxury she no longer had, a moment of bliss that she had taken for granted before Theodon’s death. Her world was so much more despondent with his absence. It refused to allow the occasional rays of sunshine of enjoyment and hope to pierce through the gloom that shrouded her existence.

She involuntarily glanced behind her to make sure the Aurors who were supposed to be watching her had not become wise to the trick she was playing on them. Sneaking out of her room was surprisingly simple. A few well-placed charms here and there now convinced the two wizards assigned to her that she was still asleep and not exploring the streets. She was a big girl, more than capable of protecting herself from anything that might threaten her.

Besides, she needed time to think and be by herself. In the countryside with her parents she was offered the isolation necessary to reflect and help cope with the sadness in her heart, but then the invitation from Fudge came. Her parents had not been happy about her going to London, feeling that immersion in the type of society that had killed Theodon in the first place was the last thing their daughter needed.

And they were right in more ways that one. In the country everything was so simple, upfront and honest. Scheming, manipulation and duplicity were commonplace in the city and nothing could be taken at face value. Here, trust easily lead to betrayal. That was the way of life. Trust nobody. Even though she loved her grandfather, deep inside of her Hermione was not certain he was telling her everything about how and why Theodon died. Everyone had secrets, some more terrible than others.

I don’t belong here, Hermione thought. I wish I had never come.

Author’s Notes

Ack. Personally I didn’t like writing this chapter very much. Not enough happens and it spends way too long explaining things that I should’ve spread out in the past four chapters. A lot of the things brought up in the reviews (Why didn’t Harry go to Hogwarts? Where did he learn to kill? Etc) had to be answered, and so I decided to bring in Harry’s mentor and father like figure Sirius Black (who actually is opposite of who he is in the book, but a lot more his anime counterpart) to help me out. Not sure if I’ll use him in a later chapter or not.

Next chapter is almost done. Updates will be limited to around once a week if I’m luck. Damn exams, and then winter break is almost upon us where I will be preoccupied with family activities and wasting time with friends.

Some people have commented on what this fic is based on. It’s a Japanese anime OAV called Samurai X and the portions Trust and Betrayal are divided into four segments available to download through Kazaa or purchasable on Amazon or Ebay. It serves as the prologue to the anime series Rouroni Kenshin (which is also awesome) and sports a seriously darker and bloodier atmosphere. Highly recommended.

Oh, and can someone PLEASE tell me how to fix the upload errors I keep on getting. Sometimes it adds spaces, indentions, bolds or italics and sometimes it refuses to upload them. It’s driving me crazy.

6. Trust (Part VI: Waltz in the Rain)

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 Watsuki and Shueisha Jump Comics. The fanfiction is the product of JA_Japster and should not be reproduced in any fashion without permission.

Trust

Part VI: Waltz in the Rain

“Well things could have gone better.” Remarked Ron, walking briskly to keep up with his partner as they made their way through the hallways and back to the tavern. The meeting had ended somewhat unceremoniously with the pair having been more or less kicked out from the room following an equally brusque remark that Harry had made.

“You know,” Ron said, “when Dumbledore invited us to observe the meeting, emphasis on observe, I don’t think he really wanted us to say anything.”

“What did you expect me to do?” Harry. “Let them proceed with this madness undeterred?”

“We’re soldiers, Harry, not politicians.”

Harry scowled and said nothing.

“What I mean was perhaps being so brazen in your comments to Yale of all people was not pertinent.”

“And letting that fool burn London to the ground is?”

The meeting had not gone well for the two. They had sat with Dumbledore, listening intently to the argument made by the leader of the southern division of the Order, Yale. He was proposing a radical plan to light hundreds of fires around London simultaneously, and in the ensuing confusion, launch a full-scale attack on the Ministry and seize it by force. It would end the war in a week, he pointed out, and reduce casualties on both sides.

Several other lesser officers in the Order agreed. It was an ingenious plan that would work according to their strategists. Dumbledore, however, was staunchly opposed to it. Unaware of the building rage in the young assassin beside him, he began to speak only to be interrupted as Harry leapt to his feet.

“You fool!” He bellowed. “If carry on with this sort of madness we won’t have much of an England worth saving!”

The meeting room fell silent and a dozen pair of eyes stared at the raven-haired young man. Yale turned and glared at Harry icily. “And just who are you?”

“He’s a soldier.” Dumbledore said hastily. He tried to pull Harry’s sleeve so that he would sit back down, but Harry resisted.

”And does this soldier have a name?” Yale was an older man, complete with a short white goatee that gave him a refined sophisticated look, but even his elderly appearance could not disguise the inferno that suddenly lit up his eyes.

“His name is Harry Potter.” Harry said. “And he thinks you are an idiot.”

“Silence!” One of the junior officers yelled. He waved to one of the guards nearby. “Remove this man immediately!”

“No, let him stay.” Yale intervened. “I’d like to hear the idealism of an ignorant youth. Harry…Harry…yes, I’m familiar with that name. A common foot soldier renown for his insolence and disrespect for authority, but I had no idea you were such a coward as well.”

Harry did not visibly react. His cover of being an ordinary soldier in the Order was necessary to veil his true purpsoe from the Ministry. “I’d rather be a coward than a murder. If your plan goes through God knows how many innocent will die in the uncontrolled flames.”

”A necessary cost for the preservation of England.” Yale responded.

“And what will we be remembered as?” Harry spat with contempt. “Murderers? History will be built on the bodies of civilians and the Order’s name will be stained with their blood. I refuse to have any part of this madness.”

--

“Yale may be rash, but he is no fool, Harry.” Ron argued as they made their way down the stairs. “He’s helped get the Order this far. Perhaps there is some wisdom in his plan.”

“Killing a couple hundred thousand of our fellow countryman sounds brilliant, Ron.” Harry said sarcastically.

“Well, Dumbledore won’t be shifting on his position in the matter anytime soon, so I can safely say we’ve reached a bit of a stalemate. Yale won’t act without Dumbledore’s support. In any case, Dumbledore gave me some instructions. He wants the both of us to make ourselves scarce for a while, then to come back here and he’ll speak with us.”

“He wishes to speak with us?” Harry asked.

Ron sniggered. “Don’t be so surprised. Who do you think has been assigning us all these missions?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders. After bidding a farewell to Madam Rosmerta, they exited the Three Broomsticks and headed out onto the streets. It was quiet, peaceful in contrast to the raucous meeting they had just emerged from.

“What say we go get a bite to eat while we wait?” Ron asked. “Leaky Cauldron sound good?”

Harry was about to respond, when a voice called out to them from behind. They turned and saw a short, balding man leave the Three Broomsticks and walk up to them. He was dressed in tattered robes, and from the stench radiating from the man; it had been quite a while since he had last bathed.

”What do you want, Pettigrew?” Ron asked curtly.

Neither of them much liked Peter Pettigrew. He was the kind of person who just as quick to boast about battles as he was to run away from them. He bragged a lot, drank more, and generally acted like a complete ass whenever he got the chance, which was quite often. Dumbledore seemed to trust Pettigrew enough to permit him entrance into the Order, and that was the only reason why Harry and Ron reluctantly tolerated his presence.

“Well, hick, I think I had a little bit too much to drink and, hick, I was wondering if either of you chaps would, hick, mind helping me home?” He said this with a wide, drunken grin plastered on his grimy face.

“Sorry, Peter. Places to go,” Ron said, “people to see, girls to meet, and- Oh God! Peter! Disgusting!”

Peter had just vomited all over Ron, covering the red head’s robes with some vile liquid. He collapsed against Ron, sobbing apologies, and trying to wipe his vomit off him, smearing it and making things worse.

“Get off me!” Ron yelled, trying to pry Peter off him.

“Why don’t you escort Peter home.” Suggested Harry. “I’ll meet you at the Leaky Cauldron, alright?”

“Yeah, sure thing, Harry.” Ron said, rolling his eyes as he dragged Peter’s semi conscious form down the street. “Jesus, Peter, could you possibly weigh –Bollocks! You just threw up on me again!”

Harry shook his head and stalked off in the opposite direction.

--

Two hours had past since Harry left Ron with Pettigrew, and he had never shown up at the Leaky Cauldron. He didn’t worry about it too much, though. Peter had probably forced Ron to stay and nurse him back to health while he continued to wallow in his own self-degredation. It wouldn’t be the first time anyway. Figuring he would just meet Ron back at the Three Broomsticks, Harry paid his bill and went back out on the streets.

The night air was cold with a bit of a frigid nip to it as a cool wind whipped at the bottom of Harry’s robes. It was a decent walk back to the Three Broomsticks, but Harry did not mind. Their really was no alternative mode of transportation these days with a ban on appapration being enforced all throughout the city, and brooms and portkeys to much of a hassle to risk. He’d grown up traversing the steep cliffs of mountains and the rugged terrain of rocky hills. The smooth cobblestone of London was luxurious in comparison.

He glanced up at a signpost lit dimly by the light of a street lantern. It read Ravenclaw Road. That put him less than three kilometers from the tavern. A casual stroll would put him there in less than twenty minutes. He was in no rush.

Before Harry could take another step, however, something in the darkness caught his eye. A quick movement blurred past over the rooftops, but then disappeared before Harry could get a better look. He blinked. Again, the shadowy figure appeared for only a brief moment as it leaped from rooftop to rooftop without difficulty, and again it vanished before Harry could identify it.

Just a cat he thought with a dismissive shrug. He took one more step, and then turned, flinging aside his cloak and pulling his wand. It’d have to be one hell of a cat he decided.

“Where I come from,” Harry yelled into the night, “We don’t hide from our enemies like cowardly dogs! Show yourself!”

A deep voice answered his challenge. “Be careful what you wish for, Potter.”

--

Hermione was now officially lost. Not only was London less pleasant than the countryside, but it was also a literal labyrinth of twisting stone corridors, unwilling to be navigated by someone like her. Leaving mansion without an escort might not have been smart. Leaving without a map perhaps even less. But leaving and wandering aimlessly about without any clue how to return made her question how exactly she’d graduated from the top of her class.

Stupid she scolded herself. What time it was she could not begin to guess. She’d been wandering for hours now, and hunger and weariness wracked her body. She couldn’t even summon the energy to conjure something to assist her.

She turned the corner and headed down another street that looked familiar. A quick glance told her it was called Ravenclaw Road. Not familiar after all. She sighed dejectedly and was about to return the way she came when a loud voice echoed nearby. Her heart leaped. Someone was awake and might be able to help her.

--

Harry’s assailant leaped down from the rooftop and landed in a puddle of water. He was garbed in black robes like Harry, and a white mask disguised his face. From beneath his robes he produced not a wand, but a pair of metal objects that looked like short swords. One in each hand, he twirled them, leering through the slits in his mask.

”Hair the color of night and a scar the shape of a lightening bolt.” The assassin said. “You must be The Slayer that Fudge is so afraid of.”

“And you are?”

“You will soon be dead. My name is unimportant.” The masked man moved forward, whirling his blades in front of him like a protective shield as he charged towards Harry.

Harry had heard of wizards like this. Men who had exchanged their wands for weapons made of iron and steel, based on the muggle designs of old. They relied on close quarter combat to overwhelm opponents reliant on magic, and then utilizing their expertise to get in close enough for a quick kill. Harry himself was trained with muggle weapons like knives in case of an emergency, but the man he fought now was clearly an expert with his chosen tool.

Harry ran forward to meet his attacker, but before their weapons clashed the assailant took one of the short swords and hurled it at Harry. With lightening fast reflexes born of countless encounters, Harry ducked out of the way just in time as the sword flashed overhead. Undaunted, the attacker continued his assault, his lone sword held before him.

“Solidifisus!” Harry bellowed, and instantly his wand solidified into a material the consistency of the weapons his attacker weld. Their weapons met in a hail of sparks, and for a moment their eyes locked as each combatant fought to overpower the other.

“You’re good.” The masked man whispered through gritted teeth. “Better than I expected!”

Harry didn’t reply, focusing all his energy on knocking aside the man’s sword so he could quickly counterattack and end this confrontation. Their weapons grounded against each other until finally Harry managed to push the man’s sword toward the ground. Without hesitation, he lashed out with his elbow, shattering the man’s mask.

The assassin howled in pain and retreated, one hand keeping Harry at bay with tactical swings of his sword, and the other ripping off his mask. He flung it to the ground, and his face, a grotesque mask of blood and gore, was finally revealed. Harry was not surprised he didn’t recognize the man. He was obviously an expert assassin Fudge had imported to hunt him.

“I’ll kill you!” The man roared.

“Come!” Harry countered, holding his wand at the ready.

The fighters met once again, slashing, parrying, countering, locked in a sort of deadly dance of flashing blades and flying sparks. They waltzed in the rain, experts at their own style, dancing to the music of death.

Harry lunged at the man’s face, but before the spell could connect, the assailant blocked it with his short sword. The man retaliated swiftly and brutally, and Harry had to move quickly to defend himself. The force of the blows were amazing, enough to send vibrations up his wand and through his arms, momentarily paralyzing him.

The assailant took advantage of Harry’s handicap and attacked with a wordless cry. Harry responded equally, raising his wand, preparing to strike. Their weapons struck together with enough force to shake the Earth, knocking both opponents’ weapons out of their hands. The assassin’s sword and Harry’s wand flew into the darkness, out of sight.

“It seems we’re at a stale mate.” Harry said.

The man grinned wickedly. “Not for me it isn’t!” He spread out his palm into the open air. Accio swords!”

Harry inhaled sharply as the man’s swords soared towards his waiting hands. The assassin could use wandless magic! Even something as rudimentary as a summoning charm without the aid of a wand was an arduous challenge and displayed exceptional skill and power.

“Prepare to die, Slayer!” The man yelled as he ran towards Harry, his swords held high.

Author’s Notes

And that’s the end of chapter six. Sorry it took so long to finish, but quite a bit of the chapter had to be re-written and I’m still not entirely satisfied with it. But, it’s been a while since my last upload so I’ll put it up the way it is. Not much to say about this one, probably because I’m so tired right now, but I did have fun writing the fight scene. I toyed extensively with the idea of using regular weapons to further implement old school Japanese swordplay into the magical world. I always wondered how wizard duels were carried out. They all seemed rather brief and unexciting, so I pretty much make them into the equivalent of dramatic sword fights. That was cool.

Oh, and just saw Blade Trinity. That movie was pretty cool. Not much room to put vampires in right now though. Too bad.

Thanks for the reads and reviews folks! Keep them coming!

7. Trust (Part VII: Fateful Meetings)

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 VII: Fateful Meetings

The assassin was elated. Through his expertise he had rendered his opponent unarmed, and now he would sweep in for the final blow. He could only imagine Lord Voldemort’s pleasure at the news of the infamous Slayer’s death. Perhaps his master would even grant him a promotion!

The boy had fought well, the man conceded as his razor sharp blades tore through the air towards his opponent’s heart. But it was clear who was the victor, who was the more skilled. Even the Order of the Phoenix’s best assassin could not stand before his might.

The boy did not move. He did not seem the least concerned by the blade as their final approach as if he resigned himself to his inevitable fate. Suddenly, however, just as the assassin’s short sword was about to sink into his flesh, the boy’s left arm moved and a long, thin object appeared in his hand. Something that looked suspiciously like…

“You’re not the only who has a few surprises.” The Slayer whispered.

Oh my God! The assassin’s mind screamed. He has another wand! It was his last thought, for suddenly he found himself floating in the air, the world suddenly very far away.

--

Harry raised his arm to shield himself as his spell tore through the assassin’s body, tearing him in half and sending a mist of crimson spraying through the air. He heard the audible thump of his assailant’s upper torso hitting the ground several meters away, and then a second later, another thump when his legs fell as well.

He lowered his arm and surveyed the carnage of his making. Blood was everywhere, drenching the walkway and the walls, as if the street had been doused in a bucket of red paint. The air was thick with the pervasive stench of death, but Harry did not take any notice. He was used to this.

He collected his lost wand from the ground and sheathed it, but left the other out, hanging loosely from his left hand. During the fight he had detected the presence of an observer in the vicinity, and whether they were another hostile or not Harry needed to determine. Quick shallow breaths silent to the untrained ear thundered loudly in Harry’s ears, and he methodically began tracking down the origin of the sound.

“I know you’re out there.” Harry called. “Come out and I won’t kill you.”

The shallow breaths abruptly ceased as Harry’s quarry tried to escape him, but their heartbeat was deafening, a pounding staccato of fear. He hastily followed the noise down the road until he arrived at a small gathering of bushes that grew along the side of a wall. He leveled his wand at it.

“This is your last chance.” He warned.

Ever so slowly, the bushes separated, and out from it emerged a young woman covered in blood. She was shivering from head to toe, her eyes wide and unblinking, gaping at Harry with unadulterated terror. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came forth.

Harry’s wand lowered, and he reached forward and touched her gently on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” He asked.

The young woman, and before Harry could react, her eyes rolled back and she fainted, falling against a shocked Harry.

Harry looked down at the lady in his arms, and for a moment the elegant fragrance of something beautiful assailed his nostrils, drowning out the repugnant stench of the dead. It was intoxicating, a foreign smell that startled and confused Harry.

Something wet dripped against Harry’s fingers. He glanced down to see a pool of red staining the young woman’s bloody robes. Cautiously, he put her back down on the ground and carefully touched her torso, checking for a wound and simultaneously wondering how the hell it had happened. It was magically inflicted, that was no doubt. The cut was too precise to have been done by a normal blade and that meant it probably was the result of one of Harry’s curses. His form was perfect, but had his curse been too powerful? And if so, how much damage could it have done to the wounded lady?

Stay alive, he begged. She was still breathing, that was always a good sign, but with every breath blood poured out from her shoulder where a large gash was located. Without thinking, Harry tore open the young lady’s robes…and then stopped.

He flushed involuntarily, suddenly realizing exactly what he was doing and that the young lady he was trying to treat was in fact quite beautiful. He shook his head irritably. There was no time for that!

He finished tearing at her robes until he located the cut. Using his wand he cut off a piece of the sleeve of his own robe and pressed it tightly against the wound. Still, blood continued to pour, quickly soaking the rag and spilling over on to her paling skin.

He was using muggle remedies. He was trained to kill, not too heal. He knew nothing of healing magic.

Her chest rose and fell slowly with each shallow breath. The wound was bad and she would bleed to death if she didn’t get help soon. Only magical healing would repair the damage his curse had done, and he couldn’t trust that the magical authorities would find her quick enough. At the same time he had to get off the streets quickly. No doubt someone had already alerted the disturbance to the city watch, and Harry did not desire another unnecessary confrontation. Finally, he made a decision.

Hello?” He whispered, lightly slapping her cheek. “Can you walk?”

There was no response.

“Shit.” Harry muttered.

--

“You good for nothing buffoon! How could you have just left him all by himself?”

Ron flinched, trying to ward off the onslaught of blows his mother rained down on him with her tiny fists. Upon hearing of the attack on Harry, Ron had rushed back to the Three Broomsticks only to find out that his mother and father, who were both sympathetic to the Order’s cause, were already there. Harry had spent a good amount of time in his youth at Ron’s home, and the Weasley’s considered him one of their own. Suffice to say, Mrs. Weasley was none the least bit happy when Ron arrived.

“He could have been killed!” She roared.

“But he wasn’t, mum!” Ron replied.

“That’s not the point, Ronald! So much responsibility lies on that poor boy’s shoulders! He has enough to worry about right without Ministry assassin’s trying to harm him! I should go right now and demand that Dumbledore remove him to someplace safe!”

Ron rolled his eyes and was swatted smartly across the face for it. “Harry knows the dangers of his profession, mum, and I guarantee you he’s more than capable of handling it.”

What his mother did not know was the true nature of Harry’s chosen occupation. She, like the rest of the Order, was under the belief that he was simply a courier. Only a select few knew of Harry’s alter ego as the Slayer, and Dumbledore wanted it to stay that way.

“You stay with him from now on, Ronald!” Mrs. Weasley yelled. “And God help me if I don’t transfigure you into something more suitable if I hear another bad report.”

“Yes mum.” Ron said.

With another dangerous snarl, Mrs. Weasley left. Ron’s father patted his son on the shoulder, gave him an encouraging hug, and then followed, leaving Ron alone in the waiting room of the Three Broomstick’s healing ward.

The door behind Ron opened, and Harry stepped into the waiting room, half soaked with blood and looking completely exhausted. He crossed across the room and sat down on a chair, placing his head in his hands with a weary sigh.

“How is she?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded silently.

“You alright, mate?”

“I almost killed her, Ron.” Harry whispered. “She almost died, and I would have been responsible.”

“Mistakes happen.”

Harry shook his head fiercely and said, “I can’t afford to make mistakes like this. Mistakes that might cost someone their life. I have been fighting this entire war to protect the innocent and in one night, one night Ron, I almost compromised everything.”

“But you didn’t. She’ll be just fine. And you’re not losing your edge. I’ve seen you fight before. There was something else that brought about this chain of events.”

“You mean fate?” Harry asked skeptically. “I don’t believe in fate.”

“We all have one.” Ron patted his companion on the back as he stood to leave. “Now go get some rest. Trust me. You’ll need it.”

Author’s Notes

Sorry for the upload delay. This chapter was shorter and a bit rushed, so I apologies. Next chapter will be better, promise. I just got back from a family vacation at Trang, one of the islands off the southern coast of Thailand. Beautiful place with wonderful beaches and ever better rock climbing. Highly recommended if you’re ever out there. The eleven-hour drive back to Bangkok wasn’t great though. Lots of personal time between my GBA, a copy of Final Fantasy Tactics Advanced, and I. Good times though. Also contributing to my lengthy delay is becoming completely absorbed into Knights of the Old Republic II. Have any of you played that game? Addictive! I swore I wouldn’t shut my Xbox off until I got my lightsaber, and unfortunately that didn’t turn out to be until ten long hours later.

Be sure to drop a review and, Merry Christmas!!

Update: And I got a wicked flu. Great way to spend the holidays. Next chapter is going to be delayed a bit. Sorry.

8. Trust (Part VIII: Stray Cats)

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 VIII: Stray Cats

Fire surrounded him, engulfing his body and soul in a searing inferno. Burning, scorching, licking at his flesh like a thousand hungry tongues, the flames danced with glee, torturing his existence. He looked desperately around for a means of escape, but the world was blind to him. An eternal night ruled supreme, and in the darkness, a menacing cackle resounded endlessly.

Harry Potter was in hell.

He ran into the engulfing maw, trying to retreat from the ravenous pyre, but everywhere he went his world was filled with the blistering heat of a towering blaze. A deafening sound filled his ears, driving him to his knees at its piercing resonance. As he rolled on the ground in agony, he suddenly realized what the horrendous noise was. It was the sound of his screams.

He clambered to his feet and sped blindly onward. He ran and ran, but still the flames pursued him tenaciously, nipping at the hems of his robes. Blistering smoke filled his lungs and stung at his eyes, be he did not stop. He ran and ran for what seemed to last for an eternity, and finally his endurance was rewarded with the end.

Running before him was a river of lava, thick with fire, redolent with ash. Translucent white vapor, souls of the dead, fell from the sky and struck the surface with a brilliant flare. On the opposite bank was a horde of men, dozens of men who Harry recognized instantly. They were the dead. The men he had killed.

“Join us brother!” They called. The columns of dead advanced, stepping into the lava unaffected, trudging through the flames towards Harry.

Harry pulled out his wand “Get back!” He yelled. But they would not. He sent a curse slashing through their ranks, reducing some to dust, but for every one that fell, a dozen more arose from the sea of flames.

Again and again he attempted to destroy them with his wand, but it soon appeared futile that in this battle the strength of his wand would not prevail. Harry fell to his knees, his wand falling from his limp hands, and closed his eyes.

The dead surrounded him, looking condescendingly at the man who had slain them. “Murderer.” They said.

“The cause was just.” Harry whispered.

A face looked out from the crowd, a young face, a man Harry had killed early in the rebellion. “I was only twenty, newly married and prepared to live a life of happiness. But you ended it even though I had never harmed you. Was that just?”

“It had to be done.” Harry replied. “I have no regrets.”

“And me?” Said another voice.

“And me?” Said another.

The accusing cries echoed in Harry’s mind, refusing to be silenced.

“And me?” Said one last voice, a voice Harry had never heard before. He opened his eyes and glaring down at him was the young lady whose name Harry did not know. “Why did I have to die?”

“Join us brother!” They cried, and then the mob closed in.

--

Harry awoke to the same darkness, bathed in sweat, gasping for air. His hands involuntarily fell to his wand, clenching its handle tightly, his eyes sweeping the room for any signs of danger. Slowly, when he verified that he was indeed alone in his room, he let himself relax, reclining back and resting his wand back into its sheath. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

It had been a nightmare, he told himself. Only a nightmare.

Then why does fear still clench your heart?

He stood up and with a flick of his wand opened up the curtains. Sunlight streamed in, bathing the dim room in the sun’s rays. It was already mid morning. Harry smirked. It had to be one of the first times he had slept in that long in ages.

Harry quickly bathed and dressed himself in a fresh set of robes provided by Madam Rosemerta, discarding the blood stained ones from the night before. The robe was probably ruined beyond repair, but maybe the cleaning staff would be able to do something with it. He double-checked the room, ensuring that it was as tidy as he had found it, and then departed into the hallway.

“Good morning.” Said a quiet voice.

Harry turned and his eyes widened. The young lady from the night before was standing there, dressed in the attire of one of Madam Rosemerta’s cleaning staff, her long brown hair put up in a neat bun. She was holding a set of clean towels in her hands.

He bit his lip, trying to think of something to say, an apology, an explanation…anything.

“I wanted to…thank you for what you did last night.” She continued.

“Wait, what? Thank me?” Harry asked confused. “Why?”

The young lady flushed. “My untimely arrival put you risk. And yet you still took it upon yourself to save my life.”

“I almost cost you your life.” Harry replied bitterly. “And for that I must apologize.”

She smiled sweetly, and that same odd feeling clenched at Harry’s heart, a sudden breathlessness and light-headedness…a strange sensation that he had never felt before. She touched his hand gently. “You are forgiven.”

“Thank you.” Said Harry.

The lady bowed politely, and Harry watched as she walked down the corridor, eventually disappearing around a corner. He suddenly recalled that he still did not know her name and felt a momentary impulse to follow her and ask her for it, but decided not to. There was something about that girl that made him feel different somehow…and Harry wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.

“She sure is something isn’t she?” Said Ron as he appeared from a nearby doorway. When his friend did not immediately reply, still staring where the stranger had departed, he leaned against the wall and snickered in amusement.

Harry was adept enough at hiding his emotions not to flush with embarrassment, but he quickly changed the subject nonetheless. “Who is she?” He asked.

“Her name is Hermione of the family Granger. She supposedly is from the rural countryside, no real connections in London. She tells us she was just visiting, possibly considering relocating into the magical community here.”

“Granger?” Harry inquired. “That’s not a wizarding family. Is she muggle?”

Ron shook his head. “No. Her parents are muggles, but she’s a witch all right. We found a wand on her and everything.”

Harry nodded. It wasn’t that uncommon for muggles and magical folk to marry, and their offspring might or might not possess magical talent. It was a mystery how one was determined to be magical or not prior to birth, and Harry figured it would probably remain that way.

“She’s a looker isn’t she?” Ron asked with a sly wink.

Harry didn’t answer. “Is that background check thorough?”

Ron rolled his eyes at Harry’s evasive rhetoric. “Pettigrew has contacts in the countryside, and independent agents have confirmed it.”

“So she’s clear?” Harry asked. Ron nodded. “What are we going to do with her?”

“Well for starters Madam Rosmerta has offered her a job at the Three Broomsticks under the same conditions that all her staff follow, namely forgetting that the Order operates here at all. Hermione accepted, and has been at work ever since Madam Rosemerta let her out of bed. Ideally, Dumbledore wants to eventually offer her full membership into the Order.”

”I didn’t know the Order was in the habit of bringing in stray cats like this.” Harry muttered.

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but wasn’t it you who brought her here?”

”I didn’t have much of a choice.” Harry protested.

“Then live with it.”

“I think we should just adjust her memory and let her back on the streets.” Harry said vehemently. Get her as far away from us as possible.”

“What?” Cried Ron. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“She’s a security risk. A potential threat.” Harry argued. “What if she’s a ministry spy?”

“C’mon, mate. You know how unreliable memory adjustments are. Say the Aurors pick her up? Torture her? Break our memory charms. Find out exactly what happened from then ‘till now? That’s even more of a risk don’t you think?” Ron asked rhetorically. “I think you’re still a bit on edge from last night. We’ve done a background check. She’s clear and Dumbledore trusts her.”

Harry shook his head. “People make mistakes. There’s something not right about this. I don’t believe in coincidences, Ron. There is a reason why her coming into the Order and the assassination attempt occurred simultaneously.”

“Harry, what the bloody hell are you trying to get at? You’re not making any damn sense. Are you sure there’s not something else you’re not telling me about?”

“No!” Harry replied.

“Harry,” Ron urged. “A little honesty here please.”

Harry sighed. He looked up at the ceiling, lost in thought, and then finally spoke. “Last night when I met the girl, Hermione, I felt a sort of attachment to her. I can’t explain it Ron, but this abrupt attachment made me act irrationally.”

He swore and slammed his fist into the wall. “I should have never brought her here!”

Ron stared curiously at Harry. “You think her being near you will somehow affect you?”

”I don’t know, Ron. But I can feel this…unexplainable connection between the two of us.”

Ron was silent. He knew his friend’s sudden concern was not the same rambling of some love struck fool about mysterious, and often unfounded, connections between them and their lover. Harry rarely spoke unnecessarily, especially about things like this, and if he spoke this strongly about something then it definitely warranted Ron’s utmost consideration.

“This connection frightens you?”

Harry nodded. “More than I can say.”

--

Night had fallen and the Three Broomsticks’ usual frenzy of activity had subsided. Customers had returned home, and most of the staff had retired for the night as well, extinguishing the lamps as they made their way to their quarters. Few roamed the hallways at this hour of night, which made it unusual that Harry Potter was found lurking through the dark corridors, his wand held tightly in his hand.

He was trained in the arts of stealth, and his movement made only the slightest of noise, not enough for anyone to detect his presence. He was far away from his usual quarters, and was instead roaming the west wing of the tavern where Madam Rosemerta’s waitresses slept. He crept slowly through the silent wing, stopping every so often to listen, and then continued on.

You should have never brought her here, Potter. Harry’s mind scolded him. Her blood will be on your hands.

His teeth clenched and he froze, sweat dripping from his brow. He glanced at the doorway in front of him. It was the right one. It must be done. There is no other way.

He tapped the doorknob with his wand and a soft click announced it unlocked. He gently opened it, and stopped beside the solitary bed occupying the room. She was fast asleep, exhausted from the long day’s work, completely unaware of the intruder’s presence. In sleep, her face was so serene…so pure…

Hermione, I’m sorry.

He reluctantly rose his wand, its tip hovering inches above her head. He exhaled slowly, but was horrified to see that his wand arm was wavering. He tried to steady it, but despite all the skill he commanded he could not put himself at ease. His eyes kept falling to her face, beautiful and innocent, and his lips would not bring themselves to pronounce her death sentence.

Do it!

His own words that he had shared with Ron that morning came back to haunt him. Security risk. Potential threat. Ministry spy. Harry knew he was being overly cautious, but it was necessary. He would not allow one person possibly endanger the entire Order. Thousands of lives and the entire future of England could be at risk if she was indeed a spy for the Ministry. It had been Harry’s mistake to bring her within the Order, and so it would be he who would rectify it.

For the Order…for England.

But it was more than that. This girl, Hermione Granger, bothered Harry more than he could openly admit. He had spent a lifetime honing himself into a perfect killer, completely free of the liabilities of emotion. He did not even know the girl, but the mere sight of her sought to bring forth the very thing he had buried deep within his soul. She posed more than just a threat to the Order…she posed a threat to him. Not to Harry Potter, but to the Slayer he had become.

For me…

His wand steadied on her forehead. Her death would be swift. She would feel no pain. That was the most he could offer her now. His eyes closed, unable to witness the atrocity his hands were forced to commit. His mouth moved without thought, forming the words of killing that he had used countless times before.

“Avada Kedavra!”

--

Harry gasped as he snapped violently awake for the second time. Perspiration dripped from his brow, and his breathing was heavy as if he had just run a mile. Suddenly, a blinding pain shot through his forehead and he fell backward, his hands grasping wildly for the source of the pain. It was his scar; it felt like it was on fire, searing into his brain. But just as he was about to go mad with pain…it suddenly vanished.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He lay still, gasping for breath, trying to pull himself together. He rubbed his scar, but felt nothing. Never before had it hurt him so greatly, threatening to tear his skull in two. Could it’s unprecedented reaction been a product of the nightmare? It was possible, Harry knew. Sirius had once told him most curse induced scars carried magical properties even after they’d been healed. Perhaps this was a random reaction…or perhaps not. With the pain gone, it no longer really concerned him. What worried him more was the nightmare itself.

He had been dozing lightly, killing time before the rescheduled afternoon meeting with Dumbledore, when suddenly his latest nightmare had struck without warning. It had been so real, like he had actually been there. It disturbed him that any part of him, conscious or not, might be willing to sacrifice Hermione for the greater good like.

A man like Cyrus Yale would not hesitate for a second, but I’m nothing like that. He thought. I would never do anything like that.

Time will tell. His mind whispered.

Never. Harry promised.

A soft knock was heard on his bedroom door. Harry sat up and propped himself against the wall, too weak still to stand. “Enter.” He managed to say.

Ron walked in and spotted Harry’s disheveled appearance. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Harry said quickly.

“It’s time for the meeting.” Ron said. “Dumbledore is really concerned about the assassination attempt on you yesterday; that’s the main reason he wants to speak with us.”

”But why?”

Ron’s face suddenly became grim, the usual lighthearted wry grin vanishing, replaced by a mask of dead seriousness. “He thinks we have a traitor in our midst.”

Author’s Notes:

I’m glad I was able to finish this up so quickly and get it up before New Years. Let me say I was almost disappointed when in the first day of publication; chapter seven received only two reviews. Alas my fears that people were losing interest in this story were laid to rest when another eight came in within two or three days. Maybe it was the holidays that kept people away from their computers. I really appreciate the feedback. I’d like to say I only write for my personal pleasure and the reviews are just a bonus, but that’s a lie. I honestly write to see what others think, to see if my writing is actually decent enough to win the approval of my readers. Thanks a lot for the steady stream of feedback. It helps a lot.

Warning: It gets pretty trivial after this. Feel free to skip it and drop a review.

Thanks to those who wished me will with recovering from my illness. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was and I recovered quick enough to enjoy Christmas with my family. I got several movies, two Xbox remote controllers, an awesome Master Chief figurine to adorn my bedroom, and A FREAKING BADASS KATANA from my friend. Let me reemphasize: A FREAKING KATANA! THAT CHOPS AND KILLS PEOPLE! HUWAAAAAAAAAAaaar!!!

On a more sobering note, if any of you have been following CNN, an earthquake/tidal wave has wrecked havoc all over Southeast Asia, killing around 20,000 people. This has me really wierded out since I was just in one of the southern islands of Thailand, Trang, three days before this. Had my vacation been scheduled just a little bit differently, I might be dead with a lot of those poor souls. It sure is humbling that either I’m extremely lucky, or there is someone up there watching out for me. It sure has put a damper on the festive atmosphere though.

Oh well enough of that. Happy pre-New Years folks, and remember, drinking so much that you can’t remember what happened the night before really isn’t a good idea.

-JA_Japster

9. Trust (Part IX: Traitiors in Our Midst)

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

10. Trust (Part X: Men of War)

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.

11. Trust (Part XI: Love and Hate)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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 XI: Love and Hate

The brooms and dust pans danced down the hallway as if controlled by invisible strings, cleaning the floor of any dust. The parade of cleaning apparatus continued until the corridor was spotless, and then in a flash of light, all but one of the brooms vanished in thin air. The remaining broom floated in the air for a moment, and then fell in the waiting hands of Hermione.

She twirled it with the dexterity of a carnival performer, and then planted it on the ground. A small smirk formed on her lips as she flipped it back up, caught it with one hand, and then spun it around expertly, swiftly cleaving the air. Her arm struck faster than the eye could follow, plunging the broom back and recalling it with the speed of a striking snake.

Suddenly she paused, realizing how absurd she would have looked if someone had stumbled upon her. She blushed involuntarily. As a child her parents had insisted in educating her in basic self defense, and while those methods would be useless in a wand duel, the technique was both invigorating and relaxing. The urge had overcome her, the boredom of menial labor weathering her usual firm self control.

The cleaning work was easy…too easy in fact. Hermione was a thinker, and if not properly occupied, boredom quickly settled in. She would do almost anything for something more intellectually stimulating or involved than this, cleaning hallways or making beds. A normal uneventful life seemed so tame after only a few days living around the intrigue of rebels and assassins. Men like Harry.

Harry…

It had been nearly three weeks since she had last seen him climbing the stair case, still bleeding from the wound on his face. It seemed like an eternity ago.

Dumbledore suspected with good reason that the traitor within the Order was working out of the Three Broomsticks, and concerned for Harry’s safety, shifted his and Ron’s area of operations to another undisclosed safe house somewhere in London. Because of this, Hermione seldom saw the two. Once in a while they would show up unannounced in the middle of the night, but only to converse with Dumbledore or one of his lieutenants. They never spent more than a few hours at the tavern; never long enough for Hermione to attempt to speak with Harry again.

She was still uncertain if she should feel saddened by Harry’s absence or relieved by it. Ever since that rainy night two weeks ago, her thoughts had scarcely left the raven haired assassin, and more and more she found herself unable to sleep, kept awake with fear. At first she thought that if she did not see him, gradually she would forget about whatever her feelings were for Harry and get her life back in focus. It would seem that was not to be, however.

Hermione sighed and leaned against one of the broomsticks. Part of her wanted to hate Harry for what the Order had done to her life. They had stolen her fiancé, the man she loved. And yet the other half of her was madly attracted to him, and it was this conflict of will that fascinated her heart. The indecision, the perilous balance between love and hate created an intoxicating sense of excitement that enraptured her thoughts.

“Miss Granger?”

Hermione looked up and saw a young red haired lady walking towards her. It was Ron’s younger sister, Ginny, who also lent help to Madam Rosmerta. Though they worked in the same building, Hermione knew little of her. She was a strikingly attractive girl, a year younger than Hermione but still unmarried. Some of the other works gossiped that Ginny was waiting in vain for Harry to finally take notice of her.

Hermione smiled. “Please, call me Hermione, Ginny. We’ve only worked together for almost a month now.”

“Sorry, Hermione. Force of habit.” The red head said. “What are you doing?”

“Just thinking. I’m a little bored.” Hermione replied honestly.

Ginny laughed, and smiled, her eyes flashing playfully. “You were thinking about Harry.”

Hermione lurched so quickly the broom clattered noisily to the floor. She made no move to pick it up, blushing furiously. “How did you know?”

Ginny smiled wickedly. “I didn’t.”

With a flick of her wand, the broom sailed back into Hermione’s hands. She narrowed her eyes at the younger girl. “That was very shrewd of you, Miss Weasley.”

“Oh come on,” Ginny said. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re –how old? Twenty?”

”Eighteen.” Hermione corrected.

“Just about Harry’s age then. You’re both young and available. Why wouldn’t you be interested in him?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Hermione insisted.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “We’ve all seen it, how you’re light is always the last one to go off when Harry is out, how you’re eyes always seem to light up when his name is mentioned. Things like that.”

See, that voice whispered, I’m not the only one who sees the truth.

“Coincidences.” She snapped, suddenly feeling very irritated and wishing more than anything that the conversation would end. “Now if you’ll excuse me I need to get back to cleaning.”

Ginny grinned, her eyes surveying the immaculate corridor, and with it the apparentness of Hermione’s lie. “Sure.” She said. She turned and began walking away, but then stopped halfway down the hallway and turned. “There’s one thing I should tell you though.”

“What’s that?” Hermione replied impatiently.

“There’s a lot more to Harry than even he probably knows. Dark things. I would be careful around him.”

“Ginny, honestly, I have no idea-“

”Right, right, you have no interest in him.” Ginny said shaking her head. “Forgot. Sorry.”

Hermione watched as the girl turned the corner, but even after she was gone Ginny’s departing words lingered in her mind. Had her warning been sincere, or was it just a childish scare tactic to intimidate a possible rival for Harry’s affection? Harry was a dangerous man…but an evil one? No…she was sure. Harry fought and killed for a cause that he believed was just, there was no evil in that? Was there?

Men like him killed Theodon. Was that not evil?

But Harry did not kill him!

Are you so sure?

Well…

And if he did, would it make any difference by whose hand your lover was slain? If Harry killed Theodon could you forgive him?

I could never forgive anyone for murdering Theodon.

Then could you forgive Harry?

No.

Then is Harry not evil?

I don’t know…

Do you love him?

I don’t know…

Do you hate him?

I don’t know…

Could you ever forgive the man who stole your world?

I don’t know!

--

Harry sat outside under the shade of an oak tree, reclining against its stout ageless trunk, his eyes closed in silent meditation. He was aware of the argument ensuing in the lone house neighboring his private spot, but he felt no need to get wrapped up in the midst of it. In there he would find himself tangled in the deceptive web of politics, but out under the open sky he found freedom in nature’s calm embrace. He was a soldier, and soldiers were meant to carry out orders, not create them.

You’re a tool.

Harry smiled. He felt no shame. He was a part of something, an integral component that would one day shape the future of England. He was needed. He had purpose. He had happiness.

The slight noise of approaching footsteps caused Harry’s eyes to spring open and his hand to involuntarily reach for his wand partially concealed under his arm. It was Ron. He plopped down beside Harry and sighed.

“Do you ever feel like quitting the Order and just returning to your normal life?”

“No.” Harry answered truthfully.

Ron smiled. “Spend three hours with those obstinate bastards and you’ll feel differently, my friend.”

“So what was the verdict?”

“Indecisive.”

It was the first time the two factions of the Order had met since their last meeting at the Three Taverns almost a month ago, and from the increasing volume radiating from the small meeting house it seemed like its outcome would be no more productive. Following the Death Eater’s ambush on their assassin squads, several cells of the Order were in favor of a swift retaliation to avenge their fallen, something once again that Yates was devoutly for and Dumbledore staunchly against.

“Their faith in Dumbledore is weakening. Their beginning to think he’s complacent and weak, and that he’s lost his stomach for a fight. ” Ron continued. “And I don’t know, maybe he is. People died in those ambushes, friends I knew some of them. It doesn’t seem right to leave the Ministry’s treachery unanswered.”

“Was their ambush any better than what we do?” Harry mused.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ron asked pointedly. When Harry didn’t answer, Ron stood and glared at his partner. “You’re brothers and sisters were killed, and you just think it’s nothing.”

“I think it is war.” Harry replied. “They knew the risks, just like you and me.”

”Let me guess. You’re siding with Dumbledore?”

“I think Dumbledore knows what he’s doing. Retaliating now, especially with our traitor still unexposed, would be foolish. More people will die for absolutely nothing.”

Ron scowled. “You kill so remorselessly sometimes I wonder if you even have any value for human life.”

Harry shrugged. After a long moment of silence it became apparent that Harry had nothing more to say, and Ron turned his back to him angrily. “Dumbledore wants us to go back to the tavern and keep a low profile there for a while until we receive new orders.”

“You disagree with these orders.” Harry stated.

“Damn right I do.” Ron hissed. “Yale is talking about breaking away from Dumbledore if he refuses to cooperate. He’s talking about initiating his plan tonight if Dumbledore doesn’t see it his way.”

The raven haired assassin closed his eyes and shook his head mockingly. “What children our leaders are. If you don’t play the game I want to, I’m going to set London on fire and murder thousands of muggles.”

”I want to join them.” Ron declared.

“Don’t be stupid, Ron.” Harry said.

Ron’s face flushed red with rage. “You’re the stupid one, Harry!” He yelled. “Blindly following a man who wants to win this war through pacifism. All those killings, Harry, every single one we’ve carried out was Yale’s idea! Dumbledore opposed them too, and look how far they’ve gotten us. Don’t you see what will happen if we follow in Dumbledore’s folly?”

“And what will happen if we follow Yale’s?” Harry shot back. “How the hell do you propose we save England when we’re going to burn half the country to ashes?”

“It’s better than standing around doing nothing!”

Harry hesitated. He had used those words once. He had shot them at Sirius’ face with the same anger and conviction that Ron was using now. Harry had believed himself to be so right back then, so how could he only see idiocy in his friend’s plan? Did Sirius see the same thing when Harry had confronted him all those years ago?

“Don’t do it, Ron.” Harry urged.

But Ron would not listen to reason. With a snarl of annoyance, he turned and stormed off in the distance. Harry watched his friend leave, an uncomfortable knot forming in his stomach. He wanted to call out to him, to urge him to return, but he could not. It was not his choice to make. It was Ron’s. He could not make him do what he wished no more than Sirius had.

For the first time Harry realized this was the first time Ron was not at his side, as a companion, as a friend. Without him there, Harry suddenly felt very alone in the world.

“Ron.” He whispered.

Author’s Notes:
Sorry about the long delay and that this chapter is really quite uneventful and not that well written. I had A LOT of stuff to do this past week with finals coming up. And to add to all the mayhem my computer had the bad graces to die on me, meaning I lost my first draft of chapter ten. When I wrote this, it was pretty late at night, so I might go ahead and rewrite this later on if I decide its crap when I look at this again in the morning. I’m going to become increasingly more busy as my school’s drama program is about to start production for The Music Man in which I am going to be dancing and acting in…I’m not sure if I should be happy or sad about that.

Thanks for all the good feed back! Keep reading and reviewing!

--

12. Trust (Part XII: The Worth of a Killer)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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 XII: The Worth of a Killer

As ordered, Harry reported to the Three Broomsticks alone. Dumbledore was not due back for another few hours at least, so he dropped off his report with one of Dumbledore’s aides. Without anything else to do at present, and the night still too young to retire to his room, he then decided to head to the tavern for something to drink.

“Evening, Mr. Potter.” Madam Rosmerta said. There was something different about the land lady, Harry observed. She looked more weary than usual, her voice missing its trademark cheeriness and her eyes marred by shadows. He elected not to comment on it.

“Good evening, land lady.” Harry said, accepting the pint of ale Madam Rosmerta served him and taking a small sip. They shared a brief but polite conversation, neither of them doing much to hold up their end of it, and before long Madam Rosmerta excused herself to the backroom. That suited Harry just fine who returned to his drink.

He usually did not drink. He seldom touched ale and never dabbled in anything stronger than a taste of whiskey. Spirits was the worst enemy to a warrior, Sirius had told him, because even the most disciplined fighter could seldom resist its alluring taste. Right now, for some reason, Harry could not find the will to care and down the pint without hesitation. It was bitter to his tongue, but made him feel slightly better.

Harry set the glass down with a clank and slumped against the counter. His mind was still on the short but violent confrontation with Ron, and the unforeseen loneliness he felt now that he was gone. It was strange. He had always thought of Ron as a partner, but never really a friend. He could not afford friends, friends that might distract him in the middle of battle and jeopardize the Order. But if Ron was not truly his friend, then why did he find himself missing his partner’s presence?

He tried to push the thought aside and filled up another pint. This one he rationed slower, enjoying the burning sensation. But the glass was soon empty, and again he had nothing to distract him from the dilemma he wrestled with.

He was angry. Not as Ron so much, but with himself. Should he have foreseen Ron throwing in with Yale’s lot? Surely Ron could see that the violent, excessive aggressiveness of Yale’s plan would only result in catastrophe. Or would it? He remembered what Ron’s words, that Dumbledore’s milder approach to the rebellion was just holding the Order back, and that all the assassinations Harry had carried out were contrary to his will.

Harry did not want to believe that. He had a sort of trust for the wizened wizard, and it disturbed him that the killings he committed might actually be in keeping not with Dumbledore’s plan, but Yale’s. He did not doubt Cyrus Yale’s motives for reform, but he did question his methods. Raw violence could not settle England’s problems.

Then what were the assassinations if not raw violence?

He wished Dumbledore would return so that he could speak with him. However, at the same time he was grateful that the old man was still gone. While he would benefit from Dumbledore’s wisdom, the old wizard had a way of making Harry feel even worst, and often incited the sort of mental quandary that Harry was suffering with now.

Thoughts…complications…hesitation…death…

As a warrior he was supposed to keep his mind as free of thoughts and emotions that would slow him down in battle. But it was this war, this battle that seemed to conjure the very emotions and issues that troubled Harry’s indecisive persona. Could the two be linked like Dumbledore believed? Could Sirius have been wrong?

He was about to call for another fill, when a familiar voice interrupted his

“Good evening, Peter.”

That voice…Hermione.

Harry turned and surveyed the tavern out of the corner of his eye. He spotted her easily in the tavern’s relative emptiness, speaking with a very inebriated Peter Pettigrew at a nearby table. The Three Broomstick’s was always barer these days as more and more of its usual patrons sought else where to drown their sorrows. Now, it felt lifeless, its usual welcoming warmth absent.

“Evening, Hermione.” Pettigrew slurred with a jolly smile, hiccupping periodically between words. “Well, guess I’d best be going now.” He tottered to his feet and staggered outside.

Without evening realizing it, Harry had risen to his feet and was walking across the tavern to speak with Hermione. She looked up when he approached, smiling happily when she saw him.

“It’s good to see you again, Harry.” Hermione said.

”And you.” Harry replied. He noticed a folded up piece of parchment on the table beneath one of Peter’s tankards and reached for it. “Looks like Peter forgot something.”

Hermione looked at the parchment, and she suddenly snatched it up before Harry could take it. Harry gave her an odd look as she pocketed it away. “I’ll give it to him the next time he comes around.” She explained quickly. Harry let it go.

“It’s been so long since you’ve been here. I wasn’t sure if you were ever going to be back. I trust you’re not going to be leaving right away?” She asked hopefully.

Harry shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

Hermione frowned, trying to guise her disappointment by the ambiguous answer. “Where’s Ron? Isn’t he always with you?”

It was Harry’s turn to frown. Still angry about the unexpected turn of events, he did not trust himself to speak freely about the sudden absence of his partner. So instead of saying what he truly felt, he merely said, “We had a difference in opinions.”

Those words seemed to convey the implicit message anyway, because Hermione nodded as if she understood which she probably did. Though Harry still did know the mysterious waitress very well, he knew enough from speaking with her before that she was smarter and cleverer than the average person.

“Did you need something, Harry?” Hermione asked suddenly.

Harry was momentarily taken aback, but he recovered well. “I didn’t know I needed a reason.”

She smiled playfully. “Everyone needs a reason for something.”

“I guess it was just to say hello, then.” Confused and feeling more than a little embarrassed, Harry was about to walk away when Hermione grabbed his hand. He instantly stopped in his tracks.

“I have a better idea.” She said. “I’ll be going off duty in a few minutes. Would you like to take a walk with me?”

“A walk?” Harry asked, his surprise not entirely abated.

“Do you always give every girl this hard of a time?” Hermione teased.

“You were the one who said everyone needed a reason.” Harry reminded.

She chuckled at having her own words being used against her. “I don’t know you very well, Harry. I’d like to get to know you better.”

“That’s your purpose, but not your reason.”

“Let’s just say you interest me.”

Harry smiled inwardly. They were in the middle of a duel of words, each exchange as significant as a parry or thrust, probing the other’s defense while revealing none of their own true intentions. However, he could see no real immediate harm in her request. A walk might help him clear his mind.

He nodded, and Hermione’s eyes lit up with joy.

”It’s a date then.” She said. Harry meant to say something, but before he could think of anything profound, Madam Rosemerta called Hermione from the backroom. Hermione glance fleetingly at Harry again and then reluctantly pulled way.

A date…

--

Ron glanced at the piece of parchment he carried in his hand. Under the luminous light of the moon he could barely make out the hastily scribbled instructions on it, but he was pretty sure that the empty lot he stood before was the right place. He twisted the parchment as if looking at it from a different angle might give him a better perspective of its content, but when nothing was revealed he stuffed it back into his robes.

Just give it a go, he thought. Drawing forth his wand he bellowed, “Manor of Marche!”

Instantly, a giant building materialized magically in the empty lot. It was a manor, built in the fashion favored by muggles, grand both in proportion and detail. The front door opened, and a pair of wizards walked towards Ron, eyeing him suspiciously.

“What is it you want?” asked one of the wizards.

”The moon screams for blood,” Ron replied, following the instructions that had been written on the parchment. “And the flames of hell shall deliver it forth.”

The wizards hesitated, but then stepped aside, motioning for Ron to enter. “Hurry,” said one of them. “The meeting has already begun.”

Ron quickly obeyed. He stepped through the double doors, and almost gasped when he came out the other end of them. Instead of the traditional maze of corridors and stairwells that the exterior of the manor had suggested, he found himself in a relatively small room, Spartan in furnishing and with only a balcony leading outside on the other side. A dozen wizards, the leaders of different wizarding provinces in southern England, sat around the perimeter of the room, glaring at the intruder.

“What do you want?” asked an old wizard that Ron recognized as Cyrus Yale.

“To help,” Ron answered.

Cyrus Yale stood, getting a better look at Ron. His eyes widened slightly. “You’re one of Dumbledore’s lackeys! What in the hell are you doing here?” He demanded.

“I am not a servant of Dumbledore, but of the Order of the Phoenix.” Ron returned staunchly. “My faith in Dumbledore’s methods has deteriorated, and now I offer my aid to you.”

“Really?” Yale snarled disbelieving. “And what of your friend, the rude ignorant young man who had the audacity to stand against my proposal? What happened to your faith in him?”

“Harry is a coward,” Ron said quietly. “And a fool. I can no longer rely on him to assist us in our needs.”

Yale’s harsh demeanor softened slightly. He gestured to a vacant spot on the wall. “Then you’re welcome amongst us, the true members of the Order.”

Ron nodded and sat down. He realized what he had done. He had forsaken the two people whom he had considered his most trusted friends, but he had no regrets. They would not bring about their dream of liberation of the weak. They had failed them. But he would not.

Yale also took his seat. “Now that we are all here, my brothers, it is time for us to carry out our final plan, a plan that will usher in a new era of prosperity and equality that the Ministry had long denied us. Before we act, however, I must have each of you confirm your loyalty to our cause. You must know from this moment on, there shall be no hesitation, and no turning back.”

“We are ready.” said a small wizard across the room from Ron. “When your order is given, Cyrus, my men are prepared to attack.”

“I have a legion of dwarves at my call,” said a different wizard. “They and I are prepared to die for you.”

One by one the leaders gave their oath of fidelity to Cyrus, until only Ron had remained unspoken for. He stood, acknowledging the anticipating stares of the others, and firmly declared, “I only have my life and wand to give to the cause, but I give it willingly.”

Yale smiled proudly, his gaze sweeping over the twelve other men assembled in the room. “Then tonight, London shall burn to the ground, and our long awaited victory shall be guaranteed!”

--

Lord Voldemort unfolded the piece of parchment that a courier had delivered to him. He read over its message, and a menacing smile, the sort of smile that sent chills up the spine of men, split across his lips. He turned to Malfoy who stood nearby.

“Gather the Death Eaters, Captain. Tonight we spill blood.”

--

The night was cold enough to warrant the pale black cloak Harry for such occasions. He draped it over the plain black leathers he always wore, and waited patiently outside for Hermione. A few minutes later she appeared, wearing similar attire, though Harry had to admit it looked a lot better on her.

“Thanks for waiting for me.” Hermione said, giving him a radiant smile that only she seemed capable of creating. “Shall we go then?”

They walked together in silence for an hour or so, far away from the Three Broomsticks, reaching the outskirts of the city. Buildings and street lamps faded away and were replaced by trees and fields of grass as they progressed further away from London. The air became cleaner, and the atmosphere seemed lighter, devoid of the political scheming and deadly strife that gripped the heart of England. They walked even further until the noise of the city had vanished, and suddenly only the stillness of night could be heard.

They finally came to a stop at grassy embankment bordering a clear stream of water. Hermione sat down on it, and Harry followed suit. Neither spoke content to let the river’s flow and the night’s chorus fill the void between them.

“I stopped by this river when I first came to London.” Hermione said at last. “There used to be a field of roses here. Now look.”

The grass around them looked healthy, but the lack of flowers was evident. Their roots lay strewn about the decomposing corpses of other flowers that had once possessed their own unique glory. This field would be the next target of the muggle’s industrialization; already the botany was being destroyed to make room for their expansion. However, amongst the graveyard of flowers, one rose remain alive, a beacon of life in the middle of a field of death.

She touched the petals delicately, careful not to injure it. “This field was once beautiful.”

“Do you still think so?” Harry asked.

“Yes. I do. This one rose retains its essence. But it won’t remain beautiful forever.”

“Nothing ever does.”

Hermione smiled. “But if I were to never see this rose again, it would always remain beautiful in my memories.”

“But that would not be the truth.”

“The truth is ugly.”

”Would you rather live a lie and be happy?” Harry leaned back and rested his head in the cool grass. “To find solace in deceit?”

“Maybe. We only have one life, so why not live it in happiness? But if I find contentment in lies, where do you find your happiness, Harry?” Hermione asked, lying down beside Harry. He suddenly realized how close she was to him, but did not found it at all unpleasant. He found a strange comfort in her warmth.

“Fighting for the Order,” Harry said automatically.

“You find happiness in killing others?”

“Saving others.” Harry corrected.

“Taking lives to save lives. A logical paradox.”

Harry stirred uncomfortably. He did not like where this conversation was going. “I try not to think about it. I follow orders. If the death of a person contributes the ultimate goal of liberation of the oppressed, then so be it.”

“And if your death is necessary?”

“Then I would have no remorse.”

Hermione laughed, but it did not contain any humor. Instead it was full of something akin to pity. “You’re a rare person. You have found what most men search their entire lives for and never find: a cause worth dying for. And yet, at the same time, you lack what most men find.”

“What is that?”

”A cause worth living for,” Hermione whispered in the darkness.

“I look at you, Harry, and where other people only see an assassin,” continued Hermione passionately, “I see a child who found acceptance in the Order infused with your confused sense of fundamental morality. I look in your eyes and I see a scared little boy who has never known love or real friendship.”

”Other people just complicate my life.” Harry replied uncertainly. His voice shook, rattled by the unprecedented verbal assault that hit so close to the truth that he’d been denying his entire life. Did he have any friends? Did anyone truly love him?

Ron…

Your partner, but not your friend…

Dumbledore…

You’re leader, but not your ally…

Sirius…

You’re mentor, but not your father…

Suddenly feeling very tired, Harry finished weakly, “They bring out emotions that impair my ability to fight.”

”And if you can not fight then you lose your worth as a friend, as a soldier, as a human.”

“That’s not true!” Harry yelled, sitting up, making no effort to conceal his emotions any longer.

”You exist only as the Slayer. Without the killer in you, you are worthless.”

Worthless…

Rejected…

A man without value…

A man without need…

“I am not the Slayer!” Harry said fiercely. “I am myself! I fight for a purpose!”

What purpose?

Justice?

Necessity?

Definition?

“I am not a killer! That is not my only worth!”

Then what is your worth? You’re entire life you’ve trained for only one thing: To kill. You’ve immersed yourself in this world; you can not do anything else.

Killing is your only value.

Killing is your only worth.

You are the Slayer.

And that is why you fear her…

You fear your emotions for her…

That they will take away your gift of death…

And then take away your purpose…

Harry collapsed back into the grass, feeling lost and confused. With the introduction of Hermione Granger into his life, the world no longer seemed so simple. She was destroying him…

They lay there for a long time, and for a moment the rose and their worries were forgotten as they found comfort in each other’s company. Hermione touched Harry’s hand and squeezed it caringly.

“You’re sad, lonely man, Harry Potter.” She whispered in his ear.

--

Author’s Notes:

I wrote this chapter surprisingly quickly in a little under two days, but while there’s very little action I like it. If any of you have seen Samurai X, I’m pretty sure you have an idea of what’s going to happen next. The next chapter will be the last part of Trust, and then the next after that will begin Betrayal. I’ve already mapped out two alternative endings (both of which I feel are very original and dissimilar to Samurai X’s) but they’re so substantially different I’m having trouble choosing which path to follow. Oh well, plenty of time to think about that later I suppose.

Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read and review. It is impossible to relay how much I appreciate your feedback.

-JA_Japster

13. Trust (Part XIII: Tears of a Child)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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 XIII: Tears of a Child

Draco Malfoy glowered at the manor distastefully. It had been previously concealed under spell of cloaking that accurate instructions from Voldemort’s spy and a potent counter charm had rendered useless, and now lay exposed to Malfoy and his attack squad. He did not need to examine the floor plans of the building to plan his assault; he knew the building from memory. He had seen it before; on one occasion he had even dined with its owner, Alfred Marche, within these very walls.

Alfred Marche. Up until three hours ago he was one of Fudge’s closest supporters in the war. How mistaken they had been if a man like Marche secretly harbored the leaders of the rebellion within his home. It disgusted Draco that duplicity in the government ran this deep, that even trusted friends turned against each other over petty political differences. But it made little difference to him. Marche had decided where his alliances lay, and now he would pay the price with his life. Malfoy would see to that personally.

“What are we waiting for, Malfoy?” asked Brutus the Bastard gruffly.

Malfoy ignored the half-giant. He loathed Brutus’ presence almost as much as he despised the mixed breed’s existence. A firm believer in the pure blood ethic of the wizarding race, he viewed someone like Brutus as an abomination that had by chance earned the favor of Lord Voldemort. It irked him to no end that the fool was assigned at the last moment to Malfoy’s meticulously assembled assault team, but he would by no means allow Brutus’ habitual failure to endanger their chances of success.

As planned, he and a dozen of his most trustworthy soldiers would spearhead the attack against the rebel leaders, and Brutus would play rear guard during the operation. It was a humiliating assignment for such an important mission, but Brutus knew better than to argue with their shared master so soon after his earliest failure. The manor itself was lightly guarded according to their spy’s reports; the rebels were relying more on anonymity than soldiers to protect them. But Malfoy did not underestimate the fighting prowess of the men they would soon face. There were around a dozen highly skilled wizards inside, one to each of Malfoy’s elites.

”Remember, lieutenant,” Malfoy said to the Death Eater beside him. “Strike swiftly. Everyone inside is our enemy. Leave none alive.”

With those last instructions given, Malfoy stepped from beneath the spell of invisibility that disguised him and his troops and walked towards the manor. As expected, when he got within a hundred steps of it, the entrance’s double doors split open and two wizards stepped forward. They walked towards Malfoy, wands out and at the ready.

“What do you want?” One of them asked.

Malfoy waited until the double doors closed, sealing out noise from the outside as well as the two men’s fate.

The two rebel guards never knew what happened as a pair of Death Eaters suddenly appeared behind them. In one fluid practiced motion, they clamped a hand over the guards’ mouths and in unison stabbed them through the back of the neck with a serrated dagger. The two wizards died instantly and without struggle, and their bodies were lowered noiselessly to the ground.

The first Death Eater motioned to their captain, who smiled with satisfaction. The death of the two guards meant they could not alarm the manor’s occupants, giving the Death Eaters the element of surprise. Malfoy unsheathed his wand, and behind him a dozen other masked men did also. He pointed it at the targeted house, an unspoken death sentence to all those within.

“Attack!”

--

Hermione lagged a few steps behind Harry as they made their return to the city, watching him from behind pensively. Since their last words by the river, he had shown no inclination to continue their conversation, and Hermione had not persisted. Only now with a moment to reflect did she gain an understanding of the scathing nature of her previous words, and the wounds they may have inflicted on Harry. For his sake she did not wish to harm him further.

There was a grim irony to that. Harry Potter, an assassin who was unrivaled in battle could be so easily humbled by a sharp tongue aided by the truth. Even the way he walked, silent and brooding, was only an indication of the emotional beating he had sustained. Just watching him made her feel guilty about what she had done. She had tried to free him from the illusion he entertained, but had it been necessary?

Finding solace in deceit.

Harry had been content, happy even doing what he did. Hermione had threatened his happiness by voicing the questions that Harry had purposely ignored his entire life. Why had she done that? His sense of happiness might derive from something she found appalling, but why could she not find happiness in other’s contentment?

Because men like him stole my happiness…

Theodon Locke was dead, and with it any chance of joy in her future. Her hopes had been buried with her lover, and now she was left as a wander in search of a new purpose…not that all different from Harry. Maybe that was why she found peace in his presence, knowing that despite the façade of a heartless assassin, deep inside he was just as lost as she. His cries of denial earlier had confirmed that, what a confused lonely child he truly was.

You find comfort within his pain…

After a half an hour past with only silence passing between them, Hermione quietly, but whole heartedly said, “I’m sorry I said what I did. I had no right to judge you.”

“Men must all face the truth one day. What they do when confronted with it reveals who they truly.” Harry replied. There was no anger in his voice as he spoke, but then there was nothing else either. No emotions. He was closing himself up again, Hermione saw, trying to revert back into the Slayer.

“Then what will you do?” Hermione asked.

“I do not know.” Harry said.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps from in front of them assailed their ears, and Harry cautiously drew his wand. As the noise grew closer, Hermione could make out the form of a small pudgy man race towards them in the darkness, heaving in exhaustion. Harry also obviously recognized the telltale signs of Peter Pettigrew because he relaxed and stowed away the wand.

“Harry!” He gasped when he reached them, falling to his knees. He looked up at them, and the look of fear in his eyes relayed his message clearly. An ice cold chill ran down Hermione’s back, and she involuntarily grabbed hold of Harry’s arm

“What’s the matter, Peter?” Harry asked.

“There’s trouble! Death Eaters have attacked Marche Manor!”

“What? Why?” demanded Harry, suddenly alert. Then it occurred to him. “Ron?”

Peter nodded. “Yale was holding secret talks there to secede from Dumbledore’s faction. I saw Ron heading in that direction.”

“Damn!” Harry swore.

“Go and support them!” Peter urged. “I’ll go get reinforcements.”

Not needing any additional encouragement, Harry nodded, and before Hermione could stop him, he broke away from her grasp and broke into a sprint down the path. Hermione took after him. Neither saw the broad elated smile break across Peter’s face as they left him behind.

--

Malfoy’s relish of his first taste of combat in London was short lived as he slew the third wizard in only a few moments’ time. He had been the first man through the manor’s door, leading the attack. Honor dictated nothing less. As predicted, the Death Eaters had caught the rebel leaders completely by surprise, and at least four of them were struck down by an array of spells before they even moved to arm themselves.

Draco normally found battle enthralling, the smell of blood and cast magic stimulating him like nothing else, but he could not bring himself to enjoy this mindless slaughter. Combat was an honorable thing, but there was no glory to be found in this massacre. If it were not for his orders from Lord Voldemort, he might have assigned his lieutenant to finish the job. None of these wizards had the talent necessary to challenge the captain of the Death Eaters, and without a worthy opponent he quickly became…well…bored.

He swung around, parrying an attack from the left, and retaliated, cutting off the wielder’s arm with his wand. Unable to defend himself, the offending wizard could do nothing as Draco came in for the coup de grace, neatly taking off his head in a fountain of crimson. He turned away from the decapitated man, already preparing himself for the next opponent.

It came soon enough. Another of the wizards, a younger man this time with flaming red hair, lunged at him swiftly. The new wizard’s speed was unexpected, and surprised Draco when his opponent’s spell managed to rip the side of his robe. He fingered the small tear and smiled wickedly.

Finally! Someone who can entertain me!

Draco surged forward at the red-haired man. Curse after curse rained down mercilessly upon the young rebel, overwhelming him. He backpedaled clumsily, holding up his own wand in a futile attempt to ward off the onslaught.

“Not good enough!” Draco cried. The wizard attempted a clumsy blow at Draco, but he sidestepped it and lunged, plunging an invisible magical blade into his surprised opponent’s chest. The young rebel gasped, his eyes widening as he gazed in wonderment at the blood flowing freely from his chest. He looked up at Draco.

“Damn you, Death Eater!” He hissed. The defiance and hatred in his eyes still blazed as he fell to his knees, never extinguishing until death finally claimed him.

--

Harry and Hermione found the Marche Manor without complication. The problem lay in the giant blocking their path. Hermione had never seen a pureblood giant, but the man was large enough to have been at least a half-blood of the mountain race. Foul and disgusting, the brute barred their path to the manor with a battle ax easily the size of four men put end to end.

”Stay back, Hermione.” Harry said as he stepped forward to meet the giant, drawing forth his wand.

Hermione looked fearfully at the ax-man’s towering form. He was easily the largest man she had ever seen, and suddenly even the lethal fury that Harry was capable of seemed small and insignificant in comparison. She clenched a handful of his sleeve in her small fists. “You don’t have to fight him, Harry.”

“I am Bane the Bastard!” The half-giant roared. “And you shall not pass!”

“I don’t care what your name is!” Harry screamed. He effortlessly shrugged off Hermione’s hand, and with a wordless battle cry, he rushed at the giant ax-man.

With a roar that seemed to shake the earth, the half-giant hoisted his battle ax and swung it at the charging assassin. Hermione screamed in terror, but the gargantuan blade passed cleanly over Harry’s head as he ducked under harm’s way. Not to be discouraged, Brutus let momentum bring the ax halfway across his back, and then brought it around for another swing. Again, Harry quickly dodged out of reach, but this time it was enough to break Harry’s wild charge and force him back a step.

“I am disappointed in you, Slayer!” Brutus crowed gleefully. “I expected more.”

The raven-haired assassin charged again, faster, but the half-giant only laughed and swung at his diminutive opponent.

“Harry! Look out!” Hermione screamed.

Harry barely saw it coming out of the corner of his eye. It was only because of Hermione’s warning was he able to shift his weight to the side at the last possible moment and avoid the brunt of the blow. Still, he felt the razor sharp edge of the battle ax as it whipped past, painfully grazing his shoulder.

”Harry!”

Blood splattered the cobblestone, but the Slayer ignored it. The pain was excruciating, spreading through his body life fire, but he willed it away. The half giant was faster with that battle ax than his humongous size suggested, and Harry knew that most of the curses in his arsenal would not penetrate Brutus’ armor-like, thick skin. Anger filled him as he cursed himself for rushing into battle so blindly and unprepared, allowing his concern for Ron to let his guard down. He heard the giant’s mocking laughter, and it only fueled the flames of fury that grew within Harry’s mind.

“Harry!” Rushing over to Harry, she gently dabbed at his wounded shoulder with a strip of clothe she had torn from her sleeve. “Please,” she begged, tears forming in her eyes, “Reinforcements will be coming soon. We can still go.”

“I can’t.” Harry replied through gritted teeth.

“You have a choice, Harry.” Hermione insisted. “You don’t need to throw away your life now!”

Harry shook his head. “I never had a choice. Please, get back Hermione.”

But Hermione would not listen. She grabbed his hand, wishing she had the strength to pull him away from this fray, away from the inevitable bloodshed, away from the death. But she did not. No matter how much Harry denied it, the outcome of this night was entirely Harry’s decision.

“Where does your worth lie?” She asked.

Harry did not reply and slid into the dueler’s stance Sirius had taught him all those years ago. Please help me, Sirius. He closed his eyes, tuning out his surroundings. The fear, the anger, the passion –all these emotions that raged around him he channeled out of his body, drawing serenity from the void in his soul. And there, amidst the chaos of battle, Harry Potter found peace.

His eyes snapped open, and he grinned. Hermione could only stand and watch helplessly as Harry charged once again at the half-giant. Like before, the ax man waited until Harry was almost upon him, and then with a bone-rattling bellow brought his ax down with his entire strength. This time, the earth did shake as concrete crumbled and broke under the force of the blow, but Harry would not be deterred. He continued his attack, dancing out of range of the half-giant’s ax as it slammed into the ground over and over again, like a man attempting in vain to squash an irritating insect.

“Damn you!” Brutus yelled. He feinted at Harry, and his heart soared as the Slayer fell for his ploy. Mustering his energy into one final blow, his battle ax came crashing down on the assassin. He cried triumphantly, but his joy was short-lived, for when he glanced down at the ruined cobblestone where the head of his ax lay imbedded, he found no sign of his opponent’s body.

Panic and confusion overtook the half-giant’s small brain and he glanced around frantically for his adversary. But he was nowhere in sight. Finally, he looked straight up. He almost screamed in surprise. Descending from several meters overhead, the small wizard soared through the air like an arrow, his wand pointed directly at his face.

How the hell…Brutus wondered stupidly. It was the last thing he thought or ever did, because a moment later a flash of green filled his vision.

The curse tore right through the half-giant’s eye, exiting out of the back of his head in a spray of blood and bone. Brutus stumbled backwards, dropping his precious ax from his loose fingers, and then fell to the ground with a tremendous thud. Harry landed casually beside the half-giant, rising and wiping his wand clean. When that was done, he glanced at Hermione. Too stunned to speak, Hermione could only shake her head slowly, affirming that was safe.

Harry returned the nod, and turned to head to the house when he tripped and fell to one knee. He gripped his shoulder hard, blood spilling through his fingers. Hermione moved to help him, but he waved her away. Struggling, he stood, and holding his wand with one hand and applying pressure to his wound with the other, he stumbled towards the manor.

I need to help, Ron.

I may not have been his friend…

But he was mine…

“Harry! Please, don’t!” Hermione called after him.

Hermione…

Before he could decide what to do, the manor’s closed doors burst open and out spilled three of the masked men Harry had fought before. They looked at Harry in surprise, obviously not anticipating his arrival, but when they recognized the Slayer standing before them, their mortal enemy, they were all too obliging to draw their wands for combat.

Harry did not even remember the fight. One moment the three Death Eaters rushed at him, and the next moment two were dead. Somehow he had sustained another injury, this time across his chest, and he assumed it was responsible for why he was lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood. He groggily opened his eyes and groaned when he saw the third Death Eater, his face hidden behind their hideous masks, pointing his wand at him.

“Die, Slayer!” He yelled. But before he could form the words to finish the curse, a flash of light tore off his arm. He screamed in pain, grasping at the bloody stump, but he did not suffer long because another blast of light took him in the chest, killing him.

What the hell?

He must have blacked out. When he opened his eyes, he saw Hermione kneeling beside him, her face grim and serious, and her wand out. Had she killed the Death Eater? He did not have long to dwell on it. He passed out again, and the next time he came to he was floating on a magical stretcher that Hermione had conjured.

“We need to leave, now!” Hermione told him.

Harry groaned and tried to rise. He was too weak to protest, but he could not just leave Ron behind to die. Pain shot through his entire body, and he collapsed back into the stretcher’s soft embrace as it carried him away. He could not do anything. He was helpless. Through his waning vision he could make out the manor in the distance engulfed in flames, thick clouds of smoke filling the night sky.

Forgive me, Ron.

He passed one last time, slipping back into a blissful world of darkness.

--

Hermione watched Harry rest. Dried tears from hours of crying streaked her face, and more would come later. A crumpled piece of parchment lay next to her, but she dared not touch it again. She had read it once, seen the damning message it contained. In one night everything had fallen apart. In one night everything had been lost. In one night the world had been destroyed.

I’m so sorry, Madam Rosmerta.

I’m so sorry, Ginny.

I’m so sorry, Harry.

Harry smiled, and Hermione realized that it was the first time she had ever seen him do so. He could because he did not yet know the painful truth of the horrors last night held, able to relax peacefully in his rest. She did not want to wake him up to this cruel world they lived in. In sleep was the only place Harry could be free of the pain that followed wherever he went. He deserved to sleep, to reside in the happiness and contentment he had been continually denied his entire life.

More than anything she wanted to be with him, to feel his reassuring presence beside her, to have someone to comfort her sorrow…but no, she would not awaken him.

She had dragged Harry’s unconscious form for over two hours after her spell had worn off. Too tired to conjure another stretcher, she had spent the better part of the night making her way through London with Harry until she found the sanctuary of a remote grassy field several miles away from the city and the prowling eyes of the Aurors who swept the city for the remnants of the Order.

It was not until several hours later when the first glimpses of the sun could be seen on the horizon did Harry finally regain consciousness. He awoke slowly, stretching like a cat under the rays of the rising sun, sitting up and ruffling his blood stained hair.

“Good morning, Harry.” Hermione said shakily, afraid she might burst out in tears again.

“Good morning, Hermione.” Harry said. He looked down at his bare torso and noticed the numerous clean bandages adorning it. Slowly, his eyes wandered back to Hermione’s. Gravely, he asked, “What happened?”

She could not hold back the tears anymore. Gently, she lifted the piece of parchment that had been delivered by owl the night before and handed it to Harry. He took it and unfolded it. He read it. He read it again. The letter dropped from his hands. With unsteady legs, he stood and walked off into the distance.

And then Harry screamed, a blood curling sound full of pain and despair that shattered the calm morning’s silence. Hermione shut her eyes and covered her ears.

I’m so sorry, Harry…

He screamed until his lungs could stand it no longer, and then only his pitiful sobs of grief could be heard.

Tears flowed freely.

Tears of sadness…

Tears of pain…

Tears of a child…

Author’s Notes:

That’s the end of Trust. I’m going to take a short break while I prepare the first chapter of Betrayal and the plot that extends from there. Might be a little while until I upload again. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

14. Betrayal (Part I: Fisherman's Village)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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.

Betrayal

Part I: Fisherman’s Village

Patrick Langley grunted with exertion as he pushed the hulk of a small fishing vessel back into the decaying frame of a wooden shed nearby. He exhaled wearily, wiping the sweat from his broad forehead, his face flushed with exhaustion. Running a hand along the boat’s smooth surface, Patrick despaired over the jagged crack along the bottom that marred its otherwise flawless craftsman ship. It was the third time this week that a stray rock on the beach had disabled the small craft, and fixing it would be no easy task, even for a master carpenter like himself.

He walked out of the shed, locking it behind him, and walked toward a cottage near the sand. The house was in an equal state of disrepair as the shed, but twenty years of operating his fishing business out of it had convinced him that it would not collapse on him any day soon. White paint chipped off as he walked up the stairs, and the door squeaked noisily on its rusty hinges as Patrick threw it open.

“Janus!” He roared, squinting in the cottage’s ill lit interior. It was cramped and a mess, untouched by a woman’s hand for some ten years now ever since his wife had left him. Fishing nets and half constructed rods lay scattered over the floor along with a collection of empty tankards, and recently caught fish hung from the ceiling to dry in the blazing mid afternoon sun.

Suddenly, from somewhere beneath the wreck, a man appeared in a hailstorm of trash, startling Patrick. The burly fisherman stumbled backward, letting loose a string of vulgarities in the direction of the man.

”God damn it, Janus! Don’t do that!” Patrick yelled.

The man’s head cocked sideways comically, and rubbed his tousled mane of white hair. He was much younger than Patrick’s forty-seven years, probably only around his mid-twenties, but he still acted too childish for his age. He was a handsome man with hair the color of snow and eyes as red as fiery coals, leading many of their neighbors to believe he was a demon incarnated into a human’s form. These rumors were quickly dissuaded by his quirky sense of humor and natural charm that put even his most harsh critics at ease.

“Sorry about that, Patrick.” Janus O’Meara replied embarrassedly. His words were under lined not by the coarse English accent native to the region, but that of an Irishman like his surname implied. “Was there something you needed?”

“I hit a rock on the way in.” Patrick told the younger man. “I need to see if you can patch it up.”

Janus sighed exasperatedly. “That’s the third time this week, Patrick. Where would you be if I weren’t around to save you all the time?”

Patrick snorted and replied gruffly, “I’d probably better off, only with all the food and supplies you’ve been nicking for the past five years.”

The white-haired Irishman smiled and bounced to his feet. Like all of the fisherman in the village, he wore loose clothing suitable for the beach’s hot climate regardless of the time of day, and therefore had no need to change. “Sure enough,” he said, chuckling to himself as he exited out of the cottage.

He sure is an odd one, Patrick thought. At first, Patrick thought Janus was just another one of the roamers that frequently came and left the fisherman’s village. He was right about the first half. The Irishman showed up one day out of nowhere, but had never left. Instead, he had become first an apprentice for Patrick’s small business, and eventually over the years had become his partner and friend.

Janus was a nice guy, sure enough. He had the entire village’s available young females chasing after him, but his friendly demeanor could not mask the eccentricities that lurked within. For starters, take the fishing boat for example. Normally it would have taken a skilled craftsman like Patrick a half week of intense labor to repair the damage, but he was certain that Janus would have it up and going before the day was out. He had done it twice already, never explaining how.

“Magic.” Janus had always replied with a small impish smile.

Magic. What a load of nonsense.

But that was not the end of it. Every so often the white haired Irishman would entertain a steady parade of the oddest people. Always clad in black robes inappropriate for the beach’s sweltering heat, they would arrive at all hours of the day, stay for only a few minutes, and then depart without a word to Patrick. They never messed up anything or distracted Janus from his work, and that was the only reason why Patrick tolerated their presence.

The strange men had just shown up three days ago for the first time in over a year. This time they lingered for a few minutes longer, speaking with Janus about something Patrick did not hear, and then left. When confronted about what the men wanted, Janus shrugged.

“Nothing important,” Was all he said.

Patrick did not believe him. He was sure Janus was hiding something from him. Janus seldom spoke of why he had journeyed from Ireland to England, but Patrick suspected those men might have something to do with it.

Bah! It was probably nothing. And more to the point it was probably none of his business what his partner had done in the past. Everyone had secrets, and Patrick knew he had enough of his own. He walked back out of the cottage into the inviting sun. There was still much work to be done.

--

Hermione trudged wearily after Harry down the well worn path, perspiration dampening her forehead from the humid climate that had steadily grown as they traveled. Over the past five miles the dirt roads she had grown accustomed to had given way to sandy trails, and the warm air was occasionally punctuated by a refreshing breeze that carried the scent of the sea. They were somewhere miles away from London on the northeastern coastline of England, just like the letter had instructed.

The letter…

She frowned just at the memory of the single scrap of parchment that had confirmed all their worst fears, changing everything. Harry had destroyed it long ago, but even now Hermione could remember the message perfectly. It had been concise and to the point.

Harry,

All safe houses in London have been compromised. All friendly contacts along with the leaders of the northern faction have been exposed and terminated. Take Hermione and head north east until you reach a place called the Fisherman’s Village, a small muggle fishing community which is unlisted on maps, but the locals will be familiar with it. Watch after Hermione and protect her; she is all you have now. Contact a muggle named Jerome at the village. I have forwarded a letter to him. He will provide you with what you need. Hurry, and be wary of whom you trust. The spy is still unknown. Watch after and protect Hermione, she is now all that you have left.

I have managed to escape the Ministry watch along with other leaders and are in hiding. I can not tell where in case this letter is intercepted. Keep a low profile, and I will contact you when the time arises.

Dumbledore.

So Ron was dead, and the Three Broomsticks raided. Hermione had little hope that Madam Rosmerta, Ginny, and her other friends there were still alive. She was familiar with the Ministry’s policies on the rebellion, and that they made no distinction between the rebels and those who aided them. More than likely they had all been executed. In one night the Death Eaters had shattered Harry’s world. They had taken away everyone and everything he had ever known, leaving him with nothing but Dumbledore’s last orders to follow.

He has me too, thought Hermione. Not that that’s ever done him any good.

The two had been traveling for a week now, and since that fateful night Harry had not spoken. During the long hikes they would through open prairies, dirt paths, and twisty mountain ranges, Harry would only say enough to communicate their destination or next course of action. Occasionally they would risk taking a faster form of muggle travel like a horse drawn carriage, but even when confined alone in the spacious compartment, Harry slept or stared listlessly out the window. He ignored all of Hermione’s many attempts at conversation, content with the silence.

At first Hermione thought it had been a result of the shock ever since he read the letter, but now his self pity was beginning to irritate her. It was not as though she did not sympathize with Harry’s loss, but having an unresponsive traveling companion was beginning to test her patience.

But then why would he want to speak with her? All she had ever done so far was to hurt him. She wanted to apologize to him again, wishing that with those simple words she could make things right, but she knew it would be pointless. Harry’s wounds would have to heal in their own time, and nothing Hermione could say or do would expedite to the process.

“We should make it there by morning tomorrow.” Harry said when they stopped to rest. In the distance, Hermione could see the sparkling blue ocean lap against the beachfront, sending foamy waves crashing onto the sand. The last time she had seen the ocean was when she was only a young girl. She smiled. Seeing it again brought back fond memories of better times.

“Do you know who Jerome is?” asked Hermione.

Harry shook his head. “He’s supposed to be expecting us. He owns a series of cottages near the beach; that’s all I really know.”

Hermione glanced over the assassin, pleasantly startled. That had been the most Harry had said since they left London. Maybe now that they were almost safe, he would begin to relax a little. She hoped so.

“What will we do once we get there?” She leaned back and rested her head against one of the lumpy sacks of meager supplies they had scourged along the way. She had been sleeping on these for the last week, and the invitation of a regular bed and a substantial meal was not unappealing.

Harry shrugged and lay down beside her. “Lie low until Dumbledore contacts us, I suppose. It shouldn’t be too long.”

“And if it is?” She asked.

“It won’t.” Harry replied firmly.

“How do you know?”

“It won’t.” Harry insisted. “I have no intention of rooting myself down here. With any luck, I’ll be recalled to London before long and we’ll go our separate ways.”

Hermione turned her head away from Harry to disguise the sudden hurt in her eyes. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

A long unsettling silence filled the air, and Harry murmured ruefully. “That didn’t come out right.”

“Did it?” Hermione asked bitterly. “Or are you really so anxious to return to London? For what? To avenge those who died two weeks ago by killing more people?”

“No-“Harry began, but stopped himself, realizing the lie even as he spoke it. He hung his head and turned away from Hermione’s accusing stare. “The Order has suffered a serious blow, one which we may never recover from. I feel my talents were best allocated back in London. That’s all.”

Hermione snorted disbelieving. “And this is not at all motivated by a desire to get revenge on those who have harmed you?”

”And what if it is?” demanded Harry angrily. “You were there! You know what the Death Eaters, what the ministry has done to our friends and comrades! What is wrong with revenge?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.” She said distantly. “It’s just if you go and kill to avenge the dead, and then others go to avenge those you have slain, where will it end? When will the killing ever stop?”

Harry did not answer, and instead rose to his feet and picked up his sack. “Let’s go.” He said, concluding their brief discussion. Without waiting for her, he set off down the path.

Hermione sighed sadly, watching him depart. Well, at least he’s talking to me again, she thought dolefully.

Author’s Notes:

Well that’s the first chapter of Betrayal. Guess my break was shorter than I thought. Just can’t stop writing I guess. In this portion of the story, there will be a less emphasis on action and killing, and a lot more time spent on character development and interaction between the story’s two protagonists. I’m going to introduce a few new characters into the mix (like Janus the albino Irishman) as well to add another dose of originality to the story.

Thanks to all those who have reviewed! Keep ‘em coming, because I need people to bolster my perpetually waning self esteem. Well, not really. I just really like reviews.

15. Betrayal (Part II: Fruits of Our Labor)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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.

Betrayal

Part II: The Fruits of Our Labor

Patrick looked out at the vast ocean, breathing in the soothing aroma of the water’s salty mist. The boat rocked gently beneath his feet, riding the ocean’s waves smoothly, floating in the middle of the endless expanses of blue while its owners trolled for fish. With a flourish of his hands, the burly angler cast his nets into the water, and then sat down to wait.

He reached into a pouch and removed a small paper cylinder, placed it in his mouth and lit it with a match. He sucked on it, savoring the smell and taste of burning tobacco as it trickled down his throat before blowing it back out in a cloud of smoke. Far cheaper than the fine cigars imported from the Americas, rolling tobacco was one of the few luxuries that fisherman like himself could afford, and one he had grown to enjoy immensely.

“You know,” Janus remarked, plucking the cigarette from Patrick’s mouth and sticking it into his own, “These things will kill you.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and fished into his pouch for a new one. After he lit it, he leaned back against the wall of the boat. While he loved fishing with a passion, the more lucrative methods of using a drag net quickly grew dull. With nothing else to do to pass the time, the two men spent many uneventful hours in situations like these, smoking idly and chatting.

“How did you fix the boat so damn quick anyhow?” Patrick asked. True to his predictions, Janus had repaired the hole in the boat before they had set sail early that morning. His work was flawless; by the time he was finished it looked like the boat had never been damaged.

“Magic.” Janus replied.

“Liar.” Patrick said scornfully.

“Family secret of the trade.” Janus said earnestly. “My father would resurrect himself just so he could kill me if I ever told.”

Patrick glared at him. “You are so full of shit, Janus, it’s coming out of your ears. This week it was the boat, the day before that you fixed George Elfman’s wagon wheel, and three days before that you made the shattered window at the church as good as new. You’re a good guy, Janus, but let’s face it you’re no miracle worker.”

“I help people who need help.” Janus said defensively. “Why is that any reason to get worked up about?”

“Well when you put it that way…nothing I suppose.”

After they had finished their fishing for the day, and had pulled anchor to return home, Patrick sat down on the bottom of the boat and glanced over at his partner. As usual, Janus was sitting on the bow, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, staring wordlessly at the hypnotizing beauty of the sunset with the same strange smile he always wore.

“Why haven’t you gotten yourself a girl yet, Janus?” Patrick asked.

Janus shrugged, pausing to flick away a few stray embers. “Not interested, Patrick, I’ve told you that before.”

Patrick grunted. He already knew this from a billion similar conversations that they had in the past. The lad had literally dozens of beautiful girls to choose from, and yet he was content to maintain the care-free life of a single fisherman. It was discomforting to be honest. It was like being offered an elaborate meal, but electing to continue eating the same plain food day in and day out.

“It’s not healthy.”

Janus laughed pleasantly. “I have everything in the world that I want here. People I care for, people who care about me, a little bit of money, a roof over my head, and all the fish I could ever eat. I am wonderfully blessed.”

“But alone.”

“So are you.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m happy.”

“So your happiness left with your wife?”

“In many ways my entire life did.” Patrick sighed. “Gods, I do miss her sometimes.”

The white-haired Irishman sat up straighter and gave him a wry look. “Weren’t you just raging on about what a lying whore she was just this morning?”

“What?” Patrick asked in disbelief. “Couldn’t have.”

“No seriously. It was just after breakfast.” Janus insisted.

“You’re crazy.” The older man said. “I loved Cynthia with all my heart. I would have never said anything like that.”

“Right up until she slept with your neighbor.”

Patrick stopped and thought for a moment, and then chuckled heartedly. “Yeah, I guess I did call her that this morning.”

It had been ten years since Patrick’s wife left him after an affair gone horribly wrong, and Janus knew the scars had long since healed. Where there was once much pain and regret, now there was only humor. A sort of vindictive humor had all at the expense of Patrick’s adulterous wife perhaps, but still better than the alternative.

Neither spoke for a while. The setting sun faded away and darkness filled the sky as their boat bobbed calmly on the ocean’s current, taking them back home.

“You’re a cheeky bastard, you know that?” Patrick asked.

“Aye, I do.” Janus replied.

They both laughed.

--

Harry and Hermione found the house with surprisingly few complications. It was a small wooden cabin that looked like it had been around for just about forever and been out of use for just as long. Neither of them was quick to mention that, however, to the man who had emerged from the cabin and identified himself as Jerome Hanford. He was a huge muscular black man easily two heads taller than Harry, but he possessed a kind demeanor that compensated for his intimidating figure.

“Just got in?” Jerome asked as he showed them around the area.

Harry and Hermione nodded, following close behind their guide. They were about a mile away from the beach, hidden in the middle of a small forest. Harry liked the spot. It was close enough to the muggle population and just secluded enough to avoid unwanted notice.

“Do you live here?” Hermione asked.

Jerome shook his head. “No, I live a couple miles east of here with my wife. I’ve just been living out of the cabin for the last couple of days waiting for you.”

“Sorry about that,” Harry said. “We ran into some trouble along the way.”

“No problem.” Jerome replied casually. “Dumbledore wrote ahead telling me you might take a while. You newly weds be James and Lilly Evans is that right?”

Harry nodded and Hermione blushed. The newly married part had been Dumbledore’s idea, assuming that a couple would create less suspicion. Only Harry knew the names Dumbledore chose, James and Lilly, were the names of his deceased parents. Evans had been his mother’s muggle surname, and would be unfamiliar with the Ministry.

Jerome led them into the cabin, and both of the travelers were surprised to find it quite decently furnished and nothing like the dilapidated exterior suggested. They sat down at a small wooden table, and Jerome made tea. The three drank in silence, before Hermione asked, “How is that you know Dumbledore?”

Jerome lowered his cup and smiled. “Great man, Dumbledore. He helped me out in a pinch several years ago when he was passing through the area. My twin daughters, Elisha and Rosa, caught a horrible fever and the village doctor had little hope for then. Then, one day, completely out of the blue, this man with a great big beard shows up and heals her like magic. Been friends with Dumbledore ever since. My family owes him so much.”

Hermione grinned at the irony of the usage of the word magic.

“How is Dumbledore doing anyhow? Haven’t heard from him in years and then suddenly I get a letter telling me you two are coming.”

Harry sipped his tea, but quickly put it back down, disguising a scowl of dislike. He preferred ale. “Dumbledore has been very busy these past few years, I’m afraid.”

“Not getting in any trouble, I hope.” Jerome said anxiously.

“Oh, no.” Hermione said. “He’s fine, but very dedicated to his work.”

Jerome looked relieved. They talked for a little while longer as they finished their tea, and then Jerome tossed Harry a set of keys to the cabin along with a sheaf of bills that Hermione recognized as English pound notes. “This should take care of you for a while.”

Hermione looked dumbfounded at the money. Even without counting it, she knew it was a generous sum. “We can’t accept this.” She protested.

The large black man waved his hand dismissively. “Like I said, my family owes Dumbledore more than money. You’re invited to stay here as long as you like, and don’t hesitate to ask for any help you might need.”

“Do you know where I might be able to rent a fishing boat?” asked Harry. Hermione shot him a surprised look.

Jerome nodded. “You might want to look up Janus O’Meara near the beach. He and his partner might have a boat that they’d be willing to lease you. You can’t miss him. He’s probably the only albino Irishman in England.”

“He’s from Ireland?”

“Yes, but don’t let that fool you. He’s actually a pretty good guy.” Jerome said with a laugh.

Harry stood and shook hands with Jerome. “Thank you for everything.” The other man nodded and turned to leave.

Once they were alone in the house, Hermione looked at Harry. “A fishing boat?” She inquired curiously.

“Something I’ve always wanted to do.” Harry said. “And now that we have some time I wanted to try it out. That is, if you don’t have any objections.”

Hermione smiled. Had it only been yesterday that Harry was voicing his objection to settling down here? And now he was already making plans, actually trying to enjoy himself even. She could only imagine why kind of drastic transformation had taken place in her companion. “Of course I don’t have any objections.”

“Well then, we should get some rest before we head down there.” Their eyes simultaneously swept over the single large bed that adorned the cabin. A quick inspection showed that there was no other bed or mattress present. Hermione flushed red and looked away.

Harry, on the other, didn’t miss a beat. “Looks like I’m sleeping on the floor.”

Hermione shook her head impatiently and drew her wand. With a wave of her wand, the bed was engulfed in a bright light, and when it faded two separate beds stood in its place. Suddenly, however, with lightening fast speed, Harry ripped the wand from her grasp and returned the bed into its normal state.

“No magic.” Harry hissed, thrusting her wand back to her, his temporary good humor vanishing. “Just because we’re away from London, don’t think we’re safe. If we’re exposed as magic users, not only will our cover be compromised, but we’ll have Aurors on us within an hour.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. She had not thought of that. Her lip began to quiver as the very real reality of their situation sank in. How could she have been that stupid? They had barely escaped death in London, and she had almost put them at risk again. Just because no one was inside the cabin did not mean no one was still watching them, and her careless spell casting could have easily attracted unwanted attention.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered.

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “No, I should be the one apologizing. I’ve been on edge for a while now and…”

The tears Hermione had been valiantly fighting back suddenly sprang forth, and she rushed over and hugged Harry, catching him off guard. He looked confused at the young woman who clutched him tightly, sobbing into his chest, unsure of what to say or do. He decided to say nothing, and just stood there, stroking her head comfortingly.

“I’m so sorry.” She sobbed. She glanced up at him, and Harry was struck by just how beautiful she looked with tears streaming down her face. “About Ron, about everything…”

“It’s not your fault. Harry said, but Hermione didn’t seem to hear him. He grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her gently. “Listen to me, it wasn’t your fault.”

It was mine.

I could not save him.

I killed to save others, and yet I could not manage to help him.

I failed.

“It was my fault.” Harry said quietly.

Hermione’s sobs quieted. “What do you mean?” She asked.

“I was weak.” He whispered, looking down at the floor. “I should have been able to save him.”

“You’re being unrealistic. How could you have saved him? You tried your best, what more could anyone have expected? You’re a skilled fighter, Harry, but you’re not invincible.”

“I should be!” Exploded Harry violently, pushing Hermione away from him. “I thought I could save others! I thought that through violence I could restore peace to England! That is what I earnestly believed, and now…”

“Now you no longer believe that?” Hermione asked hesitantly.

“I no longer know what I believe. Through killing I failed to save one life, one life that meant a lot to me. I can’t help but wonder if the other people I have killed…I wonder if their deaths were just as fruitless.”

“Do you believe you were trying to bring good to the world?”

“I want to believe that, Hermione.” Harry said weakly. “But if everyone I have killed was for nothing then…”

He looked at her, terror in his eyes. “Maybe I am just a killer.”

Hermione cautiously approached Harry until she was standing only a few inches apart. She reached up and brushed his hair away from his eyes until she could gaze into their emerald splendor. “I look at you now and do you know what I see?”

“What?”

“A man named Harry Potter.”

“What happened to the lost, confused child you saw earlier?” Harry asked.

Hermione smiled. “Maybe the child is beginning to grow up.”

--

”Hello there, Janus.”

Janus O’Meara glanced up from the freshly caught fish he was preparing, and waved warmly at the sight of Jerome entering the cottage. He set aside the fish, wiped his bloodstained hands on the apron he wore, and walked over to the larger man, shaking his hand in greeting.

“Jerome, how is the family doing?”

“Very well, thanks. The twins are growing bigger than ever, and Sheila wants me to thank you for the repairs on that vase of hers. She says it looks better than it ever had.” Jerome grinned and scratched the back of his head embarrassedly. She’s been bugging me to take it into town for weeks now, but I just haven’t found the time.”

Janus laughed. “Not a problem, my friend.” He pulled up two chairs, and they sat down. “Can I get you anything? Drink? Cigarette?”

“No, no...I’m fine. Don’t see how you and Patrick can suck on those things.” Jerome said, glancing at the cigarette dangling from Janus’ lips. Janus grinned, and considerately spat it out the window. “Thanks.”

“So what can I do for you, Jerome?”

“Well, a pair of newly weds just moved into one of my cottages, and the husband was asking around if for a fishing vessel. I thought I’d point him in your direction. Think it’ll be a problem.”

Janus shook his head. He reached over to a nearby table and produced a sheet of parchment and a quill. “No, shouldn’t be. I think Patrick has a spare boat in the back that I can get into manageable condition. What was the couple’s name?”

“Uh…let me think…Lilly and James, I think. Yeah, that’s it. Lilly and James Evans.”

The Irishman paused in the middle of his writing and set down the quill. “Evans?” He asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Potter?”

“No, I’m pretty sure it was Evans. Why? Do you think you might know them?”

Janus quickly shook his head. “No, I guess I was thinking about someone else.” He finished writing down the names on the parchment and stowed it in his pocket.

“Well, I guess I’ll be on my way then.” Jerome announced, standing and heading for the door.

“Sure thing. Say hello to the girls for me.” Janus said. After the door closed, however, the smile on his face faded slightly. He leaned back into his chair, and produced another cigarette, lost in thought as he stared silently through the rising smoke.

Lilly and James…

Never thought I’d hear their names again…

The white haired fisherman frowned. Just hearing those two names brought back bad memories, memories he had been trying to forget for the past five years. It was inevitable though, he supposed, and it meant nothing. That was all they were names. The people he had known were dead and buried. They no longer affected him. Nonetheless, no matter how hard he tried to reassure himself of this; he sat by the window for a while before he returned to his work.

Looks like you’re past is catching up to you.

Author’s Notes:

Writing Betrayal is going to be challenging. I’m not very good at writing romance having never really done it before, but I have confidence I’ll be able to make something of it. If anyone has any suggestions please email them to me. I’d really appreciate it. Some people were commenting on the shortness of the chapter. I usually space out my writing so that perspectives don’t shift more than twice in a chapter, and that results in shorter chapters most of the time. I’ll try to work on making them longer in the future.

Thanks for all the advice and positive reviews. Keep them coming!

16. Betrayal (Part III: Shedding His Past)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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.

Betrayal

Part III: Shedding His Past

There are too many people, Harry thought as he and Hermione made their way through the busy marketplace. Around them, dozens upon dozens of traders stood behind their wooden booths hawking their goods, everything from the freshest catches of fish to the latest fashionable clothing. He disliked crowded places. An assassin could hide far too easily amidst a sea of strange faces, stealthily approaching to hex you while your back was turned. His eyes flashed rapidly from person to person as they approached, his fingers never straying too far from his concealed wand.

Hermione noticed this and jabbed Harry subtly in the ribs. He winced and looked at Hermione who gave him a warning look. He nodded understandingly, and tried his best to act casual. It was difficult. Even though they were miles away from London and the Ministry, he still could not feel perfectly safe. Any of these new faces might be a possible threat to him and Hermione.

“Honestly, Harry. You can relax.” Hermione said after they broke free of the crowd and were making their way down the beach. “They’re muggles. They’re not going to try to kill us.”

He ignored her. “My orders are to protect you.”

“And you’re acting so inconspicuous right now.” Hermione retorted sarcastically, rolling her eyes. Harry flushed red, realizing she was probably right. Slowly, he allowed his hands to relax at his side. Hermione grinned encouragingly. “See? That’s better.”

Suddenly, she grabbed his hand and continued walking down the beach. When Harry looked at her questioningly, she nonchalantly replied, “We’re a married couple, right? We should start acting like one.”

“How do married couples behave?” Harry asked as they continued their stroll, only now holding hands.

“I don’t know. Think about how your parents acted.”

Harry frowned. “I never knew my parents. They both died when I was young.”

Hermione grimaced, regretting her question. “I’m sorry.” She said quickly. “I didn’t know.”

He shrugged indifferently. “I know you didn’t. I never told you before.”

“Well, often time muggle couples hold hands or touch each other.” Hermione explained.

Harry looked confused. “That doesn’t make any sense. How does touching one another communicate love?”

She laughed. “Actions sometimes speak louder than words. My father once told me that words are just noises in the air until they are transformed into actions. An action like the touch of one human to another helps display their affection to one another.”

The raven-haired wizard suddenly pulled her closer to him and wrapped his arm around Hermione’s shoulder. She stifled a gasp of surprise, not having expected that. Her surprise quickly gave way to elation, however, and she made no move to pull away. Harry looked down at. “Something like that?” He asked.

Hermione smiled. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Jerome’s instructions concerning the whereabouts of a boat rental had eventually led them down to the beach where inevitably all business was transacted in the Fisherman’s Village. The shore was the soul of the village, where people from miles around came to meet together to trade or share the latest gossip, and today was no exception. Scores of people either were sprawled on the sand or were frolicking in the surf, enjoying the morning sun. Harry had stopped a few locals to ask some quick questions, and they had pointed them in the direction of a small cottage a half mile to the south.

“It doesn’t look too impressive.” Harry heard Hermione mutter when they found the cottage in question, and he could not help but agree with her. It had definitely seen better days. A knock on the door produced no answer.

“I wonder if no one is home.” Harry mused aloud after a few moments. As if on queue, however, the door suddenly sprang open, barely missing Harry’s face. A man with the most brilliant white hair either of them had ever seen poked his head out of the door, and grinned when he saw the two.

“Hello there.” He said, emerging from the house. The man was young, probably no older than thirty, and unlike the rest of the fisherman who sported darker tans, his skin was unusually pale. He was dressed in loose floppy leathers that seemed endemic to the village, and Harry made it a point to purchase some as soon as possible. He and Hermione stuck out wearing the same traveling leathers they had worn since leaving London.

“Hi.” Grunted Harry, rubbing his nose to make sure it was still on. The other man scratched his head sheepishly.

“Sorry about that.” He said. “I was in the back room and uh…well anyway, my name is Janus O’Meara, assistant operator of this fine facility.”

Hermione almost laughed, but contained herself. Harry quickly intervened. “My name is James and this is Lilly. We’re new to the area, and looking to try our hand in the fishing business.”

Janus smiled warmly. “Fishing huh? Well, you came to the right place. Jerome told me you would be stopping by. Evans is that right?”

Harry nodded hesitantly. There was something about the way the white haired man had said, “Evans,” that unnerved him, as if the name meant something to him. “I was curious if you might have a boat for rent.”

“That I do.” Janus said. “Not the finest vessel you’ll find in England, but for a beginner angler like yourselves it should be more than suitable for your needs.”

Hermione looked at him suspiciously. “How do you know we were beginners?”

The fisherman grinned boyishly. “Ah, you can tell those sorts of things once you’ve been on the sea long enough. Now then, I can get you suited up with a boat by as early as tomorrow morning if you’d like.”

”That’d be great.” Harry replied. “How much do I owe you?”

Janus waved his hand dismissively. “We’ll work something out later. Well, I got some work I need to attend to.” He tipped an imaginary hat in Hermione’s direction. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lilly. James.”

And with that he was gone.

--

“I thought he was a very nice man.” Hermione remarked after they had returned to the privacy of their cabin. Harry frowned in disagreement. “What is with you, Harry?” She asked irritably.

“There’s something about him that I don’t trust.” Harry said lamely.

“You’re being paranoid.” Hermione said as she reached down and selected one of the many pairs of clothing that she and Harry had purchased from the market place. Satisfied, she retreated behind a makeshift curtain that they had set up and began changing.

Harry quickly looked away from the suggestive shadows that suddenly appeared behind the curtain. Trying to keep distract himself from it, he said, “He spoke as if he knew the name Evans.”

“So?” Hermione’s voice carried over to him.

“Lilly Evans was my mother’s name. James Potter was my fathers. ”

“Evans is a common name, Harry. Maybe he knew a different Evans.” She reappeared from behind the curtain, now dressed in clothing not dissimilar to what most of the other fisherman’s wives wore. It was nicely tailored blouse and skirt that seemed to accentuate her trim form. Harry thought it looked very nice on her.

“Maybe.” Harry said reluctantly. “But if there’s even the slightest chance that he recognized me for who I really am…”

“Harry, he’s a muggle.” Hermione argued. “I didn’t feel any magic resonating from him. Neither did you. Muggles do not know about wizards and witches, therefore there is no possibility Janus might know about us and the Order.”

“But did you see how he waved aside the issue of payment? Hermione, I have never met a muggle who didn’t care about money.”

“People might just be nicer here.” She protested unwavering.

“I’m just saying it’s a possibility.”

“And there’s a possibility Death Eaters have followed us every step of the way from London. You need to learn how to relax.”

“The only reason why we’re still alive is because I haven’t relaxed.” Harry muttered bitterly.

She smiled at him and touched his arm. “And I appreciate that, Harry. I really do. I just don’t see any reason to be afraid of an albino Irishman. That’s all.”

Harry sighed and went to change. After he finished, he saw Hermione was holding a pair of metal objects that resembled sheers to cut sheep’s wool only smaller. He recognized them as something muggle’s called scissors and was used to cut people’s hair. But there was nothing wrong with Hermione’s hair. Why would she need a pair of scissors for anyway? Unless…

“Oh no, you’re not touching my hair.” Harry objected firmly, raising his arms up to impede Hermione’s approach.

“You don’t see other guys wearing their hair long.” Hermione reasoned. It was true, but Harry was not about to admit that. He backed away from her, and Hermione followed.

“I like my hair the way it is.”

“It looks silly. My mother taught me how to do this. It’ll look fine.” She pleaded.

“No.”

“Stop being a baby.”

”I’m not being a baby. I just don’t want you touching my hair with a pair of sharp sheers.”

All of a sudden Hermione lunged, intending on knocking Harry over, but he was ready. With practiced ease, he grabbed her wrist and used her momentum to throw her on the bed. Before he could stop, however, he found himself following through the familiar steps, twisting Hermione’s wrist behind her back until the scissors fell from her grasp, and pinning her body into the bed with his own.

The springs in the bed squeaked.

Warmth…

A very uneasy silence filled the air.

Pleasure…

“Uh…Harry? I can’t breathe.” Hermione gasped.

Reluctance…

Realizing how wrong this would look if someone accidentally stumbled upon them, Harry quickly got off of Hermione, his face involuntarily blushing a shade of magenta he didn’t even think he was capable of. Hermione rose off of the bed, her face also unusually red. She shook her wrist out, flinching as if it hurt.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked with concern.

Hermione grinned wickedly, mischief flashing in her hazel eyes. “I might be…if...” She gestured to the fallen pair of scissors.

Harry groaned, but defiantly said, “You are not cutting my hair, Hermione.”

Twenty minutes later, and with hair cascading before his eyes, Harry groaned again, wincing with each methodical snip that the scissors made as Hermione went to work. A pile of black hair covered the floor, hair that had once been his. He stared at it mournfully.

“It doesn’t look bad at all.” Hermione assured him. “Your hair grows so quickly I’ll doubt if you even miss it.”

That was also true, but Harry refused to take solace in that fact, fuming silently. She had taken his hair! His hair! He never thought of himself as vain, but there was something wrong in the world when a woman could so easily subdue a man into taking something that he valued. He touched the top of his head, his fingers moving delicately where his hair had once grown in a long ponytail.

“Here’s a mirror.” Hermione said, glaring impatiently whenever Harry scowled or flinched. He took it, and glanced at his reflection.

It really doesn’t’ look bad.

It looked pretty much the same, only shorter and neater. He ran his fingers through it. It even felt the same.

“Not so bad is it?” Hermione asked rhetorically.

Harry returned the mirror, and answered, “No. You were right. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“Forgiven. See, you should stop doubting my opinion all the time. I do occasionally know what I’m talking about, you know.”

“You’re referring to Janus I take it.”

“Of course. We found someone who can help us out in the village. It seems foolish to just toss him aside because he’s a bit odd.”

Harry sighed resignedly. As much as he hated to admit it, Hermione was probably correct, just as she was increasingly gaining the tendency to be. He could not put aside the discomfort that the man created in him, but for Hermione’s sake at least he could ignore it for the moment. “Yeah, you’re right.”

--

After the two new comers had left, Janus quickly rushed out of sight behind the cottage and collapsed on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. The pretense of normalcy had been hard to maintain. Tears filled his eyes, streaming down his cheeks and mixing with the sweat that soaked his body. He inhaled painfully, trying to regain control of himself, but the more he tried the harder it seemed to take his next breath. After what seemed to last an eternity, he crawled and leaned against his back against the cottage.

I knew it…He thought sadly. He’s Potter’s child. He looks just like James…except for his eyes. He has Lilly’s eyes.

With trembling hands he fumbled for a cigarette and quickly lit, letting the slow burn relax his troubled mind and soul. Just seeing the boy brought back painful memories again. His resemblance to James was stunning, as if it was the man himself reincarnated and walking the earth once again. Janus wondered vaguely if the boy knew the truth about his parents’ death, and if that was why the son of Potter had finally found him.

They’re coming back for me. Lilly and James Potter deserve their revenge And I deserve to die.

Author’s Notes:

Quick short update. Right in the middle of semester finals right now. Hardly getting any sleep these days. Gah. Not fun. Can’t wait until I graduate and go to college where more lengthy exams and papers await me. Oh wait a minute…

Thank you to all those who reviewed!

17. Betrayal (Part IV: Strangers in the Dark)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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.

Betrayal
Part IV: Strangers in the Dark

The sensation of the open sea hit Harry like a physical blow. He grinned out at the sky, enjoying the relaxing eastward wind whip through his newly cut black hair, tickling at his skin as it bathed his body in its cool embrace. A howl of jubilation threatened his lips, and he fought hard to maintain the pretense of composure. Standing at the bow of the rented fishing vessel, surrounded by the peaceful aquatic paradise, Harry felt for the first time in his life peace with the world.

“It's great isn't it?” Harry asked Hermione. She glanced up from a book she had been reading and smiled the same sort of smile that always served to relax any trepidation Harry might have had. He jumped down from the bow, landing gracefully beside his companion.

Contrary to the low opinion Harry and Hermione had formulated about Janus' questionable fishing business, there was nothing about the vessel either of them could complain about. Though he was no seafarer, Harry knew admirable craftsmanship when he saw it, and there was no question in his mind about the quality of the boats structure. It was state of the art, seamless in construction, so perfect that Harry had momentarily entertained the thought that it might have been the result of magic. A lot of love and care had been invested into the boat, and Harry was honored to rent it from the white haired fisherman.

Hermione chuckled. She would have never thought Harry, the once cold hearted assassin for the Order, could be capable of acting this way, bursting with barely constrained excitement. And what more was that a smile on his face, just begging to be released?

“You can smile, Harry.” Hermione said. Unable to keep his happiness bottled up any longer, Harry obeyed, laughing and dashing back to the front of the ship with a cry of bliss. The dream that he had desired for years now had finally come true, and he did not want to miss soaking up a second of it. Hermione smiled faintly, and settled against the back of the boat. Despite the contagiousness of Harry's glee, something else unsettled Hermione's soul and kept her from sharing in his happiness.

He's so happy. Hermione thought. He's finally found something in his life that he can genuinely enjoy.

He lives in a fantasy world built on deceit and misconceptions. Her conscious replied. That is the only way he can ever truly be happy.

Harry has found something worth living for. How can I disturb that?

You will have to.

I can't, and I won't.

You fear losing him as you lost Theodon.

No, that couldn't be the truth…could it? Had her short ventures with the assassin someone how replaced Harry with Theodon's place in her heart? She had loved Theodon, more than anything else in the world. But now he was dead, slain by the people she despised most of all.

How much longer can you keep living for the dead?

But to betray Theodon's memory?

But to betray yourself? Your true feelings?

What were her feelings for the mysterious Order assassin? There was no denying that she felt something for him, but what was it? It was far more than that of a casual camaraderie between allies. It delved deeper than friendship, perhaps love? How could she love him, a man whose every facet she found revolting?

Every facet?

No…not every. He killed for a cause, not for money. For an ideal not for fame. For the greater good instead of selfish ambition. Beneath the killer, Hermione knew was an emotional wreck of man who desperately sought nothing else than to find purpose in his distraught existence. He did not want to be an assassin, but life had given him a curse which he could not elude, and given no other option had succumbed to it.

But are you any different? Did you not kill to protect him?

I killed a man who wanted to hurt Harry. There is no comparison.

No murder can be justified.

Can it?

He risked his life to protect me, and I will return the deed.

But at what expense will you protect your sworn enemy?

He is not my sworn enemy! The gutless assassin who took Theodon away from me is!

The voice laughed mockingly. You are both living in an illusionary world, my girl. Only the truth will set you free, but I fear neither of you will like it very much.

Harry returned to Hermione's side shortly after, carrying with him two wooden rods that Janus had thrown in with the boat. He handed one to Hermione, and then sat down beside her, studying the instrument carefully. It was amusing watching the young wizard fumble with the simple rod, obviously searching for some crucial intricacy he had overlooked. Finally, Hermione took pity on him and mercifully took it. While no angler herself, her father was devout fisherman, and she remembered enough to successfully thread their lines.

“Amazing,” Harry whispered in awe. There was something astounding about the sophistication behind something so simple, that a basic piece of wood, string, and hook could become the foundation for an entire community's survival. He reached into box full of soil and removed a small earthworm, and neatly speared it on the end of his hook.

“Do mine.” Hermione said, handing her rod to Harry. “I can't stand worms.”

Harry grinned, but obliged and returned the rod. “You had no problem curing my wounds, but you're squeamish about a couple of worms?”

“It's different. Worms are gross and icky, the way their squirm and-” Hermione began, but stopped when Harry laughed in response. “It's not funny.” She remonstrated. Apparently he did not agree the way his laughter persisted.

“What a pair we make.” Harry remarked, grinning roguishly. “A coarse assassin and a delicate girl who can't stand worms.”

Hermione scowled irritably. “There's nothing delicate about me, Harry Potter.” She said, slugging him hard in the shoulder. Harry only chucked in amusement.

They spent the rest of the morning and afternoon fishing, casting out their lines again and again in relative silence. Occasionally one would declare a catch or a groan of disappointment, but primarily the only sound that could be heard was the rushing wind and gentle lap of waves brushing the side of the boat's hull. It was simultaneously enjoyable and relaxing, and both found themselves wishing the day would never end. It did of course, and far sooner than either wished the sun began its gradual descent through the sky.

“Had fun?” Harry asked as he adjusted the sails so that the wind would return them to the beach.

“Loads.” Hermione responded cheerily. “Did you?”

“I would have had more if you hadn't caught all the fish.” Harry grumbled half heartedly. Hermione had caught almost the entire portion of the day's catch, leaving Harry with only a couple of insignificant miniscule fish to show for himself. He did not seem to mind, however, judging from the smirk on his face and the silent laughter communicated in his words.

“Sure you didn't use magic?” Harry asked with mock suspicion.

“Of course not.” Hermione responded. She smiled wickedly and asked, “Is the great and mighty Harry Potter upset because a delicate girl who is scared of worms beat him?”

Harry shrugged off the jibe good naturedly. He turned his attention back to fixing the sails like Janus had taught him earlier that day. “I think I enjoyed myself today more than I ever have in my life.” He said in a pause from his work.

“I did too.” Hermione replied. “And it was more than just the sea and the fishing that made today so special.”

”What else then?” Harry asked.

“Being with you,” Came her answer.

Harry's hands fell to his side and he stepped away from the sails. He looked over at Hermione, and his emerald eyes gleamed with a life that she had not seen before in them when he spoke. “I enjoyed being with you too, Hermione.”

Janus inspected the fragmented pieces of pottery resting on the table before him. A passing glance at just a piece told him that it had been an exceptional piece of artwork, created by a master of the trade and easily worth a half year's income from a good fishing vessel. Poor folk of the village could seldom afford pottery of its caliber, and that meant it worth a lot more than just money to the person who owned it…it was a priceless treasure.

An elderly lady from across the village had walked all the way down to the cottage to give it to Patrick. She had been in tears, grief stricken by her carelessness that had lead to the destruction of her late husband's final anniversary gift. Rumors of Janus' uncanny talent at repairing things had one day found her, and so the desperate old lady had braved the long journey to the cottage. She would not return home disappointed, Janus decided the moment he met her.

The damage done to the pottery would be irreparable by a normal man. It was too extensive, and Janus was certain the dozens of shards that was left of it would be impossible to place back together. But Janus O'Meara was no normal man; his abilities not limited by the frailties of the muggle blood that ran through his veins. He had long since learned to overcome the boundaries of his mortality, and had learned to tap into the infinite pool of magic that burned within his soul.

Slowly, he relaxed the mental restrained he constantly enforced, the only thing that kept the magic from freely flowing out of him. Blue flames leapt to his fingers, spreading down his skin until it covered both of his hands. He could feel it; he could feel the overwhelming power as it coursed through his body and mind. The omnipotence that filled him was intoxicating, blinding him with a euphoric light, and for a moment his control almost slipped.

Hastily, Janus recalled the magical flames so they burned faintly on the tips of his fingers. His entire body shook and sweat poured down his forehead, dripping loudly on the table in rhythmic drops. Taking deep a deep breath, Janus wiped the perspiration away, silently chiding himself for his loss of focus. He knew better than anyone else the danger that came attached with his incredible powers, that one mishap no matter how trivial when wielding it could be catastrophic. Better spell casters than he had died in such a way.

Returning to the task at hand, Janus pressed his fingers against the pottery. Instantly, the flames spread from his fingers into the pieces of pottery, transferring some of the magic into. They disappeared momentarily in a blaze of blinding light, and when it faded the shards had vanished. In its place stood the finished product, a ceramic bowl it seemed, completely restored to its original form without mark or blemish.

Janus smiled and set the bowl aside. There would be no money for his work, but he wanted none. The joy that the old woman would experience when returned the repaired pottery was reward enough. Villagers like Patrick had done so much to embrace Janus as one of their own; this charitable act was a small way to repay them.

“Close the door,” he suddenly said. “You're letting in the bugs.”

A door behind him slammed shut, and from the shadows emerged a man cloaked in a dark robe. He pushed back the cowl, revealing a young man with light blonde hair who laughed softly. “You're instincts haven't waned the slightest, Janus.”

“What do you want, Malfoy?” The albino Irishman asked darkly.

“Is that any way to speak to one of your old comrades?” Draco Malfoy replied, feigning hurt.

“I'm going to ask again. What do you want?”

Draco laughed again, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “I have a message from our master. He wants you to kill him.”

Janus sneered unpleasantly at the Death Eater. “He has a thousand assassins, get one of them to do his dirty work.”

“The Slayer is different. Already he has killed almost a dozen of our own, including Twin Blades and Brutus the Bastard. Lord Voldemort insists Potter require special attention.”

“Why me?” Janus demanded. “I'm sure you were begging the Dark Lord for this task.”

Draco nodded shamelessly. “I won't deny it. However, Lord Voldemort thought this a more apt task for you.” A cruel grin formed, and he added, “Especially given your interesting past relationship with the target.”

The fisherman glared at Draco. “Get out, Draco.”

“You refuse the Dark Lord's orders?”

”I'm not the man I used to be seventeen years ago. I've moved on.”

Malfoy chuckled disbelievingly, and backed away until he merged with the shadows once again. As he left, though, his parting words permeated the veil of darkness and were clear. “You can't deny who you are. Once a Death Eater always a Death Eater.”

Author's Notes:

What's this? A short chapter and a long delay between updates? Sorry about that, but with the press of homework, still recovering from semester finals, dips in internet connection, and helping my family pack up our house to move closer to school, I'm somewhat pressed for time. Ok, that's not entirely true. I've also become obsessed with the anime Naruto (it kicks copious amounts of ass) and my eyes bleed from long anime marathons.

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18. Betrayal (Part V: The Necessity of Murder)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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.

Betrayal

Part V: The Necessity of Murder

Twenty Eight Years Ago…

Dublin, Ireland.

Sitting in the shadows of a dark alley, a young boy huddled in the mass of dirty rags that surrounded him, searching in vain for warmth to keep the bitter winter chill at bay. He was small for his age of seven with hair as white as the snow that fell, flickered with specks of dirt and ash. His arms and legs were like twigs, and his body was thin and bony, like a skeleton wrapped taunt in a costume of flesh. The boy was like the hundreds of other homeless urchins that roamed the streets of Dublin, desperate, afraid, and slowly starving to death.

He had survived this long by sneaking into the nicer parts of the city and routing through their garbage bins. Hunks of stale bread from bakeries, slightly rotten vegetables –one man’s garbage literally became a treasure for those barely hanging on to life. But lately the larger bullies and street gangs had become more active than usual, and smaller children like him had to be careful lest they attract attention. Being noticed by the bullies was always bad. It meant usually meant a severe beating and getting your food taken away…or worse.

He was used to going long periods of time without eating though. Hunger was a regular part of life for him. But it had been five days since he had last eaten, and he was beginning to get scared. His frail body was stricken with periodic pains of hunger, but there was little he could do. He was too small and weak to steal food, and the good people of the city had stopped caring about people like him a long time ago. He would no support from them…or from anywhere else for that matter.

He was all alone…

A tear rolled down the boy’s cheek, but he bravely brushed it away, sniffling. He would not cry…he could not cry. Here on the streets he was on his own. There was no one to pity him, no one to shield him away from the cruelness of the world. His mother had abandoned him, and his father was dead. No one loved him. No one cared about him.

Unappreciated.

Unloved.

Unwanted.

He was all alone…

“What the hell is this?”

Terror shot through the boy’s body as if someone had doused him with a bucket of ice cold water. He looked at the mouth of the alley, and just as he had dreaded, a gang of three larger boys, the bullies, were standing there, glaring at him. The boy did not know the boys in the gang nor had he ever bothered them before. It didn’t matter though. He was in for it now.

“Oh, it’s the weird one.” Said one of the boys sneering.

“The fag.” Chuckled the largest and ugliest of the trio. He must be the leader, the boy thought.

The other boys laughed and began walking toward him. The small boy stood up quickly and began backing away. “I don’t have anything to give you.” He stammered. He shot a glance behind him. The main street where pedestrians walked, his only hope of escape, was far away. His small legs could not outrun the larger boys.

“You don’t?” The leader said. “Well, that’s not good.”

“Think we’re going to have to teach him a lesson.” Said one of the others.

He was still back peddling, but as he did the other boys were still advancing on him. He needed to buy some time. “Please…I’ll have something for you next time. I promise.”

The leader smiled unpleasantly, making his disfigured face appear all the uglier. He slapped his fist into his hand and growled menacingly. “Nope. Besides, even if you did have something valuable, I still wouldn’t take it. Beating up little shits like you is fun.”

RUN!

Realizing the futility in trying to negotiate, the boy span around and raced for the end of the alley. He had no hope of reaching it in time. The pounding of footsteps chasing after him thudded in chorus with his beating heart, and all too soon he felt a heavy hand clamp around his shoulder and spin him around.

“Too slow.” The leader whispered. He punched the boy hard in the face, knocking the kid back into the alley, blood streaming from his lip. The small boy fell in the snow and struggled to get back up, but another of one of the gang members pushed him down.

DON’T HURT ME! DON’T KILL ME!

The blows came faster and faster, bruising flesh and breaking bones even though he was defenseless, huddled up in a ball, crying in pain. He shut his eyes tight and threw his hands over his ears, trying to block out the harmful worlds that assailed him like the fists that pummeled his helpless body.

”Faggot!”

“Fucker!”

DON’T KILL ME!

The onslaught continued. A wild blow caught him in the middle of his chest, and he vomited violently, staining the snow red with blood. No one would stop these brutes from beating him to death. No one would see him die. No one would care.

I DON’T WANT TO DIE!

Then do something about it…

Like what? These bastards were bigger than him, tougher than him. They would rip him to shreds without a second though. He was just a small weak kid. What chance did he have against thugs who were born and raised to prey on people like him?

Then what are you going to do? Roll over and die?

No…but if I fight back…aren’t I just like them? An animal, an ignoble savage only capable of obeying his most basic instincts?

Then die. Die being the good guy. Die because you’re too stupid to realize that no one gives a damn what you are. No one loves you, no one cares about you, so why do you care what people think about you?

No one loves me… I’m all alone. I’m going to die. And no one will care.

Go crazy.

I’m all alone.

Go nuts.

I’m all alone.

You are what you are. Society hates you. Do not conform to their imposed standards. People hate you. Do not strive to be loved. Stop using your soul, your emotions, your feelings –they chain the only thing that will save you now.

The savage within each of us…

You’re all alone…

I’m all alone…but I don’t care anymore…

Anger that he had never known blossomed within him, and suddenly, his body moved. It moved without thought, without hesitation, without command, feeding on the boy’s innermost innate desires. Rage, hate, desperation, fear –they spontaneously exploded inside his mind, fueling the fires of violence that he had up until now refused to give into. But now there was no reluctance or fear of consequence. There was only necessity. The necessity to stay alive.

“I don’t want to die!” He screamed screwing his eyes shut tightly. His fist shot blindly into the air and connected with flesh. Something pleasantly warm doused his hand, covering his arm and splashing against his face.

For a long moment there was only silence. The chilling winter wind blowing past was deafening, and the only other sound present was the soft staccato of something wet dripping on the snow. And then one of the young boy’s attackers screamed a shrill sound of terror that was quickly echoed by the rest of the gang. The boy could hear their footsteps as they turned and fled…and then there was silence again.

Slowly the white haired boy’s eyes opened, and when they he quickly snapped them shut again. Blood was everywhere. It covered the once pure snow. It was splattered against the alley walls. It soaked him from head to toe in the vile smelling liquid.

What have I done…?

His eyes creped open and gazed upon his handiwork. At the scarlet painting he had created. The unmoving body of the leader of the boys lay on the ground, most of his chest missing in a mass of twisted flesh and spilled blood. He was unmistakably dead; the frozen look of horror in his eyes told it all.

How could I have done this…?

The small boy had hated the gang leader. He had feared him more than anything in the world. But despite the pain he inflicted, the boy never wanted his antagonist dead. But now the other boy was, slain by his hand. He had killed the older boy. More than that, though, he had wanted to kill him.

I’m a murderer…

The boy suddenly felt sick and he threw up again. Fresh tears sprang to his eyes, and this time he made no effort to fight them. He had killed someone…he had taken another person’s life and for what?

To protect my own…

And that is all the justification I need…

But the gnawing feeling of guilt in his stomach told him differently. He fell to his knees and shook the dead boy’s arm as if trying to rouse him from a deep sleep. He did not know why he was doing it. He knew had had killed the other boy, but his mind had long since transcended reason. He did not want the boy to be dead any more. He wanted the gang leader alive even if it meant another beating. He wanted to turn back time, to make now into then…

This is not what I wanted…

What did I want?

To be loved…

Now what do I want?

To be left alone…

“Are you alright?” A voice from down the alley said. The young boy spun around, fear gripping his body as he turned to see an adult dressed in black robes approach. The man ran a hand through his disheveled brown hair and crouched beside the body of the dead boy.

“I didn’t mean to!” The small boy cried, crying remorsefully. “I didn’t want to!”

Surprisingly, the man smiled. He touched the boy’s shoulder, but the boy flinched away, unused to the touch of another. “Are you alright?” The man repeated.

Why is he smiling? He’s going to punish me, isn’t he? I’ve done something wrong!

The boy nodded slowly.

“Good. Here, wipe away those tears.” The man said handing him a handkerchief.

“Who are you?” The boy asked.

“My name is James Potter, but you can call me just James if you want.”

“Why are you here?”

The man, James, laughed. It was a different laugh than the kind of laughs the boy normally heard. Not coarse or the product of amusement at someone else’s misery. This one rang with genuine kindness, devoid of any mockery. “I was looking for you.” He answered.

“Looking for me?”

“Yeah. I’ve already introduced myself, so now it’s your turn. What’s your name, kid?”

The small boy hesitated, and involuntarily shrank away from the man. He was unused to any form of kindness, and it confused him momentarily. No one paid him any heed unless they wanted something. Did this man want something from him? And if so, what? Or was he just being paranoid? Maybe this man’s friendliness was sincere. He had no way of knowing for sure. He had never had a friend before.

“My name is Janus. Janus O’Meara.”

Now

London, England.

Draco Malfoy could only imagine how old the man sitting across the table from him was. He appeared to be in his late thirties, but Draco knew that not to be true. Lord Voldemort, as he become to be known, had served the ministry for over a hundred years now if the tales were to be trusted. Rejuvenation potions would help facilitate the façade of youthfulness, but Voldemort did not strike Draco as the type who would divulge in such vanity.

The two men sat in the middle of an extravagant restaurant. Even without looking at the gold embroidered menu, Draco guessed that the price of a single meal could feed a large family for a month. While he had grown up in nobility, Draco did not revel in it like the elitists that sat around them, dressed in their elegant dress robes. Still, he did enjoy partaking in some life’s luxuries from time to time, especially if it was for free. Tonight they would dine at no expense of their own no matter how much their meals cost. Such was the respect and fear they, the Death Eaters, commanded.

“So Janus refused my offer.” Voldemort whispered.

Draco frowned, the fine food in his mouth suddenly tasting sour. They had not even finished their meal yet and already the Dark Lord insisted on discussing business. As much as Draco respected his leader, Voldemort had no appreciation for the finer things in life.

“He did.” He replied.

“As expected,” Voldemort said. He turned and smiled knowingly at his subordinate, already anticipating the question Draco was about to ask. “No, I don’t want you to kill him yet.”

Draco was momentarily taken aback. “He defies you and you’ll let him live?”

Voldemort nodded. “The sharpest swords still cut their masters on occasions. But would you discard it for such a trespass?” He smiled. “I think not. That is the inherent consequences for possessing such a weapon.”

“He will still be useful then?” Draco wondered.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Something nagged at Draco so urgently that for a moment he forgot his manners and blurted out, “Forgive me, my lord, but I believe you’re being too lenient on him. I thought the price of betrayal was death.”

“It is, captain. But Janus O’Meara is not a traitor. Not yet at least. All Death Eaters, no matter how old they grow or how much they change, always retain the old ways at heart. Janus will be no different, and when he is willing to release his full potential on the Slayer…”

“If he is willing…”

“If he is unwilling, then I shall delegate the task of both his execution as well as the death of the Slayer to you. Does that satisfy you, captain?”

Draco nodded. “It does.”

Voldemort rose. “Then this meeting is concluded.”

Showing his impatience and irritation at his subordinate, Voldemort rose swiftly and strode out of the restaurant before Malfoy could salute. Draco exhaled deeply, ignoring the frightened stares of the patrons who dined around him. He was fortunate that Voldemort valued him enough not to kill him for being so impudent. He was even more fortunate that the Dark Lord could not read thoughts, or he knew for a fact he would be dead. He would have to be more careful in the future, especially since he had now decided to go against his master’s orders.

Voldemort did not want Malfoy to move against either the Slayer or Janus personally for some reason he chose not to disclose, but Draco did not think this wise at all. If Janus either did not hasten to kill the Slayer or refused to, there was a very real chance that the Order assassin might slip away and disappear back into London. The Ministry did not want that, especially since it was confirmed that the Minister of Magic’s granddaughter was supposedly under the assassin’s protection. They did not want that at all.

It had been over a week now since the Death Eater’s partially successful assault on the Order of the Phoenix. They had achieved their primary objectives of destroying a key cell in the Order’s structure, but they had failed in apprehending the Slayer or recovering the Minister’s granddaughter. If Fudge had been angry back then, he was apocalyptic now about the Death Eater’s lack of progress in rescuing her from the Slayer. Voldemort did not seem worried about the Minister’s angry protests, therefore Malfoy did not either. He had more important things to worry about right now.

Malfoy usually respected his master. Seldom did Voldemort do something that Draco felt was unwise much less stupid, but at the moment Malfoy could not help but doubt the wisdom in his leader’s decision. If they allowed the Slayer to roam freely for too long, he could cause a vast amount of damage, damage that the Ministry could ill afford. Voldemort wanted to trust Janus with this task, but as a Death Eater Malfoy could not. Too much was at stake here.

Draco paused in mid thought, his mind working as only his could. Analyzing, calculating, processing. Suddenly, he grinned as he came to a decision. He would never get away with directly attacking the Slayer or Janus, but if he played his cards right he might able to work out a way to force Janus’ hand. Theoretically he would not be disobeying Voldemort, yet at heart he still would be. If all went well, maybe his master would actually thank him for taking the initiative. Doubtful, but still a possibility. Life was full of risks.

A waiter appeared at Draco’s table, bearing a small glass full of reddish yellow liquid atop a golden tray. Very carefully, he placed it before Malfoy. “Your Crysia, my lord.” He whispered before bowing and disappearing again. Malfoy smiled and gingerly picked up the glass, peering at it with admiration.

Concocted from the blood of a newborn dragon and fermented in the bowls of unicorn for centuries, Crysia was one of the most expensive liquors one could order…and also one of the most illegal. It was a crime in itself that the highly potent drink required the death of two beautiful magical creatures, but the content of Crysia itself produced a hallucinatory affect unrivaled by any narcotic available in the underworld. When consumed, one would feel nothing but absolute bliss for up to an hour without absolutely any side affect when it wore off.

Draco smiled as he toyed with the glass. There was a catch, however. One could not hope to flirt with heaven without risking hell. Whenever anyone drank Crysia, there was always a one in fifty chance that it would stimulate a violent chemical reaction that inevitably resulted in a violent and painful death. It was impossible to predict when the drink would kill, and therefore even the boldest of men seldom chose to sample Crysia’s deadly taste even once. This would be Draco’s thirty-second time. Another one of life’s little risks.

Taking a deep breath, Draco gulped down drink and slammed the glass down on the table, shattering it. Blood flowed from where shards of glass had pierced his hand, but he did not even notice. His earthly problems disappeared in a flash of happiness. Nirvana had instantly dominated him, transporting his mind into paradise where pain and worry no longer existed, and there he would remain until the drink’s affects wore off.

Draco smiled and leaned back into his chair. It could be only too soon.

Author’s Notes:

Sorry about the incredibly long delay between updates. I changed houses about two weeks ago, and I still haven’t had a phone line installed yet which means my access to the internet is limited at best. The next update probably won’t be until I get my phone line which won’t be for another few weeks at least. Writing is also a little slower these days with school work so demanding, but hopefully it isn’t decreasing the quality of my writing. Be sure to drop reviews if you read. The amount I receive gives me an indication of how many people are actually reading, and I’ve noticed the review per chapter ratio has been steadily slipping. Not a huge deal, I know, but having a lot of people give feed back always makes me happy.

19. Betrayal (Part VI: Ill Tidings We Bring)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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.

Betrayal

Part VI: Ill Tidings We Bring

The cool mid-afternoon breeze was a welcome reprieve from stagnant humidity that had gripped the Fisherman’s Village for the last several weeks. The scorching temperatures had forced most of the fish to seek cooler havens away from the coast, and the sudden shift gave hope to the fisherman that they would soon return. Many had already taken to the docks or to their boats to test their luck and try to recoup their losses from the unproductive weeks before, and among them, drifting aimlessly several miles from shore, was Harry and Janus. The two anglers stood on opposite sides of the small fishing vessel, rods in hand, looking out into the endless blue expanse that surrounded them.

Harry grinned as he felt a tug at his line, but had to force himself not to bring it in. Still living well off the funds Dumbledore had provided them, Hermione and he had not suffered from the recent famine of fish. Janus and Patrick, Harry knew, had though and it did not seem right for him to deprive the Irishman of any catch today by taking it as his own. Reluctantly, he let his line go lax and watched as the fish swam away.

Janus looked over at Harry and smiled. “You didn’t have to let him go, you know.”

“What?” Harry asked surprised. He was about ready to feign ignorance, but the knowing smile on the other man’s face stopped him. He shrugged. “You needed him more than I did.”

“You could have always given him to me.” Janus suggested.

“But you wouldn’t have taken it.” Harry replied.

Janus nodded. “That is true.”

Harry already knew this. They had been fishing together, either alone or with Patrick, for almost two months now since he and Hermione had arrived in the village. During that time, on many occasions Harry had offered to share his catch with Janus when luck had been unfavorable to the Irishman, but every time Janus would flatly refuse. When Harry, who had no real need for the fish, persisted Janus had looked at him much like an adult would look at a particularly slow child.

“There is no honor in taking something you don’t deserve.” Janus had said flatly, putting an end to any attempt of Harry’s to persuade Janus otherwise.

Honor. It was a word Janus used a lot and it was the central foundation for his entire life it seemed. Everything he did had to agree with his unwavering sense of honor as if a code of unwritten laws dictated his every action. Harry found the notion confusing. He liked to believe he lived an honorable life, but at the same time, his chosen profession of killing men sometimes seemed to contradict the idea. Everyone he had killed had been in combat and he was selective in his targets, and that was honorable, but an assassin with honor? Society would call it an oxymoron at the very least.

Another fish bit at Harry’s line. Deciding that Janus would not be pleased if he let the opportunity go by, Harry sighed and flicked his rod. At the other end, securely hooked, was a large handsome trout that flipped and flopped on the deck in search for air. Janus smiled, but said nothing. Another hour past without either anglers receiving a bite, but just before noon Harry reeled in another fish.

“You spend a lot of time fishing with me, James.” Janus abruptly said, surprising Harry who was expecting something more along the lines of his recent catch. Humoring the Irishman, Harry nodded not quite sure what to say. It was true that during the last two months Harry had accompanied Janus out to sea quite frequently, but he couldn’t figure out what that had to do with anything.

Harry waited patiently for Janus to continue, but when he didn’t, Harry prompted, “And?”

Janus smiled awkwardly and rubbed the back of his head. “Stop me if this isn’t any of my business, but is everything going all right between you and Lilly?”

Again, Janus’ question caught Harry off guard. “Of course,” Harry replied quickly. “What makes you think something might be wrong?”

“I don’t know,” the white-haired fisherman replied with a shrug. “I guess it’s because it seems you spend more time fishing with me than you do with her.”

”What?” demanded Harry indignantly.

“Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy your company.” Janus said hastily. “It’s just that you don’t act much like newly weds. Not any I’ve ever seen before anyway.”

“I’m not following,” the younger man said in a purposely obtuse manner as if wanting to skirt the issue by feigning a frustrating amount of ignorance.

But Janus was not to be dissuaded. “You don’t act like you love each other for starters. It’s not even because you don’t hold hands or kiss in public or what not. I’ve seen the way you look at her. There’s something in it, but it seems more noncommittal than anything. I mean, you do love her right?”

Harry’s natural inclination was to say “yes” and be done with, but the unexpected barrage of questions made him hesitate…or worse, think. Did he really love Hermione? The answer should have been right away no, but the fact that he hesitated to think only proved that his immediate response would not be correct. Everything he stood for as an assassin barred the possibility of love, but then how else could he describe what he felt for Hermione? It was more than just a physical attraction or a simple friendliness. It extended far beyond that, but where exactly it stood Harry was unsure. Just thinking about it made him feel uneasy, and made him realize just how complicated his life had become ever since Hermione was introduced into his life.

No, he thought in a weak attempt to bring clarity to his fuddled state of mind, She’s just a mission objective. Someone I must protect for the Order. Nothing more.

Liar a little voice in his mind whispered.

“Yes.” Harry said, but even as he said it his words sounded hollow and insincere. If Janus noticed, he did not say anything. Feeling it not quite right to hold up his end of the conservation with a continuing stream of monosyllabic responses, he turned and asked, “Did you ever love anyone?”

“Yes.” Janus replied. “A man.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“The only father I ever had.” The fisherman continued.

Harry’s eyebrow lowered. With an air of someone deprived of an expected treat, he complained, “That’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?” Janus queried. “Love, romantic or otherwise, is still built upon the same foundation.”

”What’s that?” the raven-haired wizard asked curiously.

“Trust and loyalty. Together they make the primary ingredient to any successful relationship. Without it, you have nothing.” Janus chuckled as he said this. “It sounds sappy doesn’t it?”

“It does.” Harry admitted.

“Sappy or not, though, it is true, you know.” Janus said. Suddenly, his voice became more serious, and his face adopted a pensive look as if recalling something that he wished he hadn’t. “I lacked in those two areas and ended up losing my father because of it.”

“Your father stopped loving you?” Harry asked carefully.

Janus shook his head. “No. I couldn’t love him the way I should have, the love a son should have for his father. I was…a disappointment you could say.”

“We all are.” Harry replied sullenly, remembering the disdain Sirius had felt for him when he decided to join the Order. It had been a long time since then, but even now the memory still hurt a little. It was never pleasant disappointing someone you held in great esteem.

Janus reached into a case on his belt and removed a cigarette. He offered one to Harry who refused, and then lit it. He sat down on one of the boat’s benches and took a long drag, forgetting about the fishing pole that hung precariously over the edge. Sadly, he stared up into the sky and said, “I regret those days. I wish I had known more about love then.”

“Do you think things might have been different if you had known how to express your love?” Harry wondered.

“Do you mean if I had been more loyal and trustworthy?” Janus asked rhetorically. He thought about this for a moment then nodded slowly. “Yeah, I think they would.” He flicked off the charred embers of his cigarette into the ocean and stood, pacing back and forth across the boat.

“My father was a good man. Everyone who knew him respected and liked him.” The Irishman told Harry. “But one day he had a falling out with some people he worked with at a company where I also worked. The company alleged that my father stole some very important documents to give to a rival company. I didn’t want to believe it, but the evidence they presented to me was crystal clear.”

“So what did you do then?” Harry asked.

“I did the wrong thing,” Janus replied. “I was young and too stupid to realize that my father betrayed only the company’s trust, but not mine. I took it personally, as if he had intentionally stabbed me in the back. I put my duty to the company before my duty as a son, and agreed to help the company expose my father’s crime.”

Harry frowned, obviously disagreeing with Janus’ conclusion. “I think you did the right thing. You were given orders. It was your job to obey them.”

“And at what cost?” Janus countered. “At the expense of our humanity? At the expense of the lives our loved ones? My father may have betrayed the company, and that was wrong, but what was worse was for me to betray him out of some corrupted sense of duty. Because my priorities were messed up, I ended up condemning my father to prison.”

To Harry, that didn’t seem too horrible. Certainly in the magical realm wizards had devised all sorts of nastier punishments than the cells muggles used to confine their criminals. “Did he ever forgive you?” He asked.

Janus shrugged. “I don’t know. He committed suicide shortly after unable to bear the shame. He may have died by his own hands, but the blood…” His voice trailed off. “That kind of guilt rides heavy on your shoulders.”

“It was your father’s choice to kill himself.”

Janus laughed unpleasantly at Harry’s selection in words. “Choice,” He scoffed, “Is for people with power. Back then I was a pawn, and I allowed myself to be used like one. I obeyed orders unquestioningly like a fool, absorbed in the youthful idealism that my unwavering obedience would benefit the company. After my father’s death, I realized how stupid I had been and left.”

I’ll do whatever is necessary for the Order…

Harry’s own words echoed in his ears.

I’ll kill for the Order…

I’ll die for the Order…

Then Janus’ voice rang clearly in his mind.

I obeyed orders unquestioningly like a fool…

Suddenly, Harry’s eyes narrowed and he looked at the fisherman suspiciously. “Why are you telling me this?”

The other man smiled, undisturbed by the stern tone that Harry’s voice had adapted. He stretched his body out, kicking off one sandal and dipping his feet in the water. “I’m an old man compared to you, James. I just want to make sure you don’t make the same mistakes that I did. That’s all.”

“I’ll think on it,” Replied Harry. Inside, though, his mind was working feverishly. Was this entire story a reference to Harry’s supposed marital problems, or were implied subtitles inlaid within the tale? It seemed innocent enough on the surface, but for an instant, Harry could not help but thinking that everything was not as one dimensional as it appeared.

Janus observed his contemplation smiled, taking another puff from his cigarette. “If only life were simple.” He remarked.

In the time Hermione spent with Harry Potter tucked away from the rest of the world in the Fisherman’s village, days melted into weeks, and weeks into months. People in the village did not let the clock dictate their lives; in essence it seemed they lived their lives one moment at a time. When they were hungry they ate, when they were restless they worked. Their lives rotated around themselves and their neighbors and the politics that seemed to dominate London was completely non-existent in the village. No one ever spoke of it or if they ever did, never in public. London, the ministry, and the rebellion seemed so far away, and at times Hermione could almost forget about them.

But she was not sure if Harry felt the same. Though he too had gradually fallen into the custom and lackadaisical lifestyle of the village people, Hermione could not believe that Harry had forgotten about the severity of the situation back in the city. Whenever she looked at him, he looked happy and smiled often. He even laughed now. However, there was still certain sternness to him. The characteristic coldness of the assassin that lurked within him told her his cheerfulness was only a façade, a mask hiding the monster that lurked within him.

On one occasion, for example, a man had confronted the two of them at their hut. He had been the sole survivor of a roaming bandit group that muggle soldiers had hunted down and destroyed. Desperate and unaware that Harry was also inside, he had brandished a knife and attempted to force open the door when Hermione answered it inside. Within moments, Harry had rushed to her aide and had the man on the ground. True to their agreement, he had not even used his wand, but still managed to break nearly every bone in the bandit’s body with his bare hands. While Harry had defended her, the raw savagery in his actions could not be disguised by the dismissive smile he had put on when Hermione expressed her concerns to him.

“He’s lucky I didn’t use my wand.” He had said with a small chuckle.

You wanted to hurt him. Hermione privately thought. You would’ve killed him if it were not for me. You want to protect me not only from harm, but to shield my eyes from the death that you willingly bring about.

Often she would wonder if it weren’t for her if Harry would have returned to London long ago to assist the Order. His loyalty lay with the Order and its cause, but he still had his duty to guard over her in the village. In the same way, she also feared that she might be the only thing caging the beast that made Harry into such a proficient assassin. Perhaps her company might be the only thing that kept him from transforming back into the Slayer. Maybe he enjoyed being with her so much that he didn’t want to return to the Order…

But deep inside she knew that was not true. They were supposed to await orders from Dumbledore, but several weeks had already past and she could tell Harry was beginning to grow restless. Sometimes he would sit on the porch for hours at a time, staring into the sky as if waiting for an owl to deliver a message giving him permission to go back. This pained her for she was beginning to grow used to his company…and in truth enjoy it.

Hermione sighed and looked down at the bundle of flowers that she had been assorting on the grass in front of their cabin. Hermione’s mother had tried to expose her daughter to some of the more feminine aspects of life like bouquet arrangement, but Hermione had never received them very well. Her interests lied more in academics and magical studies; tedious muggle hobbies had little place in her life. Now though, with magic no longer an option, she was forced to revert to the kind of activities that she once looked down on.

As she arranged the flowers she vaguely wondered how her parents were doing. No doubt they were worried about her, but when Hermione had gotten word to join her grandfather in London, they all knew it was time for her to go her own way. She hoped that would alleviate some of their anxiety though she really did not expect it would. They were protective over their only daughter, and would be mortified to know of the kind of company she kept. That was why she had not written them once since she had left home. It was better that way. The less they knew the better.

She put the last flower into place and examined it skeptically. She had worked hard picking the flowers in a nearby pasture, but nonetheless the arrangement still looked terrible. She smiled. Harry would like it anyway once he returned from fishing down at the beach.

Harry spent a lot of time fishing these days. While Hermione would accompany him from time to time, the novelty of fishing had worn off as the days past. Harry, on the other, genuinely seemed to love it and disappeared for hours at a time with Janus, Patrick, or one of the countless other fisherman. She found herself missing him when he was gone. There were not many women in the village her age that she could relate to, and so she spent most of the time either reading or eagerly awaiting Harry’s return. He would always arrive as the sun set, laden with fish that he would cook for them using muggle techniques he had learned from Janus.

Janus…

After renting the boat on once, Harry had befriended the white-haired Irishman. He spent a lot of time with him, talking at one of the pubs on the beach or going fishing. They seemed to get along great together, which caused some discomfort to Hermione. For some reason, she did not like the man much. He was friendly enough, but there just something about him that gave her bad vibes. Harry also seemed to notice her dislike for his new friend, and considerately never invited him to their cabin for dinner.

Maybe I’m just being jealous because he spends more time with him that he does with me…or maybe there’s something else. There’s definitely something…something familiar about him that I just can’t pin point.

Wiping sweat from her brow, Hermione placed the flowers in a basket and took a few steps back towards the hut. Suddenly, she stopped and whirled around, and the pair of pruning sheers she had been holding suddenly went tearing through the air. They embedded themselves in the trunk of a tree nearby…right next to a familiar face.

“Draco Malfoy,” Hermione whispered.

The blonde Death Eater smiled and tore the shears from the tree. He casually tossed it back to her and said, “Is that anyway to greet a fellow comrade?”

“What do you want, Malfoy?” She said coldly.

Malfoy sighed and mocked hurt. “Why is it that everyone I meet these days says that? Never a ‘hello Draco,’ or a ‘how have you been doing, Draco?’ Really, I’m beginning to get the impression that people don’t like me very much.”

“People not liking a Death Eater? I would have never imagined.” Hermione said sarcastically. She turned away from Malfoy and began walking back towards the cabin. Draco followed her.

“I’m here to get your status report.” He said.

Hermione stopped on the steps, her hands clenching on the handle of the basket until she thought it might snap in her grip. Slowly, she replied, “I have nothing new to report.”

“I don’t believe you, Hermione.”

“Then you can just go to hell.” She snapped angrily.

Malfoy laughed derisively, unaffected by her harsh retort. “You’ve been with the Slayer for weeks now, and you want me to believe that you have made no progress in finding any weakness he has? For some reason, I think you’re trying to protect him from me.”

The words struck so close to home that it almost made her flinch. Regardless, she forced herself to shrug and continue walking as if nothing were wrong. Draco, however, would not be put off so easily and chased after her.

”Why are you protecting him?” Draco called.

Hermione ignored him.

“Are you siding with the Order?”

She did not reply.

“Are you betraying your grandfather and everything he stands for?”

She refused to speak.

“Or is that you’ve fallen in love with him?”

Without warning, Hermione dropped the basket sending flowers scattering and whipped out the wand in her pocket. She was quick in spell casting, but Draco was a quicker. With lightening fast reflexes he slapped aside her wand, and with a swift kick knocked her to the ground breathless. Snickering, Draco scooped up her wand and waved it tauntingly. She glared at him murderously, but the Death Eater only grinned.

“Looks like I guessed right.” Draco laughed.

“I’m going to kill you, you bastard.” Hermione snarled.

Draco pretended not to hear that. He was used to death threats, and the impudence of a spoiled little witch was no reason to become worried. Granddaughter of the Minister of Magic or not, at the moment her loyalties were questionable and was to be considered as a liability. Bending down, he lifted the girl’s chin up with his hands so that he looked her in her hazel eyes.

“Why?” Draco asked. “Why do you love him?”

“It’s none of your business, Death Eater. It’s nothing someone like you would understand.”

Draco nodded. “You’re right. I guess it’s something I would not understand.”

Hermione looked up at him confused. It was not the type of answer she had been expecting. “Y-you agree?”

“Yes. I grew up as an unloved child and spent the rest of my life killing people. I know little of the mysterious power known as love.” He smiled. “But it makes me wonder if you’re lover knows anymore than me.”

“Harry’s not the murderer you are.” Hermione spat.

“Isn’t he? We’re of the same breed, the Slayer and I.”

“Don’t call him that.”

”What? The Slayer? I’m sorry, Hermione dear, but if you refuse to see the truth then you’re just setting yourself up for an unpleasant surprise. Harry Potter is the Slayer just as much as I’m a Death Eater. Nothing will ever change that.”

“I love him for who he is, not what he was.” Hermione said with an air of finality.

“Really?” Draco shot back. “Would you still think the same way if I were to tell you it was Harry, your new lover, that killed Theodon?”

His words were like a slap in the face. For a moment, Hermione could only stare at him in wordless astonishment, but surprise quickly gave way to anger. “You lying bastard!” She screamed. “You lying piece of shit!”

Draco laughed at her fury and stepped away from her in case she became irrational enough to attack him even without her wand. “A bastard and a piece of shit I may be, but a liar…well occasionally, but not right now.” He said smoothly.

Heaving breathlessly, Hermione glared daggers at the Death Eater whose glib smiles only served to infuriate her more. “I don’t believe you!”

”What do I need to do? Get written orders from the Order telling you boyfriend to kill your fiancée? Think about it, Granger. I know you’re a smart witch. Surely you can put the pieces together. He’s an assassin; your fiancée was accompanying his father who was a target.” Draco frowned as if in thought. “God, I wonder what could’ve been the result of that!”

Hermione could say nothing to that. As much as she hated to admit it, Malfoy’s logic was flawless, and his accusations were not unlike some of the fears she retained in her mind. Deep down inside she suspected that Harry, the Order’s most potent assassin, was behind Theodon’s murder, but every time she had firmly refused to believe it. Maybe it was because she wanted to love Harry so much, and the knowledge that Harry killed the only other man she ever loved would destroy that possibility. Still, Draco’s word was not enough. She needed more evidence than that.

“Ask him. Ask if he knew Theodon.” Draco urged.

“I will.” Vowed Hermione, meaning it. She had put off the question far too long. Tonight she would discover the truth.

“And what will you do if he did in fact kill your fiancée?” Draco asked.

Hermione paused. What would she do? She had sworn to avenge her fiancée’s death, but could she betray her love for Harry if it came to it? Taking a deep breath and summoning resolution she did not feel, she turned and said, “Then I’ll kill him myself.”

Author’s Notes:

Whew, that took far longer than I expected. While writing this chapter (which took four very different drafts before I was satisfied) I also began drafting later chapters and it looks like Betrayal will have a total of thirteen chapters as well. In case anyone still thinks the storyline is too much alike Samurai X…well…just wait. I promise it’ll be vastly different. Still no phone line in my new house, so updates are still going to be coming pretty slow. Thanks to all those who read and reviewed.

20. Betrayal (Part VII: Betrayed By a Kiss)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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.

Betrayal
Part VII: Betrayed By a Kiss

The wizard died easily.

He had been occupied with trying to remain undetected by the muggles that he had not noticed a shadow stalk up behind him, nor the dagger that suddenly plunged through the back of his neck. It wasn’t until he spotted the blood pouring from the ghastly exist wound in his throat that he realized he had been killed, and by then it was far too late to cry out for help. His life quickly fading, the wizard’s head twisted around to gaze into the face of a masked man. His eyes widened in surprise and his mouth opened to voice his last words, but the opportunity perished when the knifeman brutally ripped the knife out, spraying blood all over the grassy floor.

The masked man slowly lowered the dead wizard on the ground and paused to clean the blade on his cloak. The knifeman sighed deeply and removed his mask, revealing the frustrated face of a man known to the dead wizard, a man who went by the name of Peter Pettigrew.

Peter sheathed the blade and stooped down beside the dead man and rummaged through his cloak until he found what he was looking for, a rolled up piece of parchment bearing the crest of the Order of the Phoenix. It was identical to the scrolls that the last two messengers had carried when Pettigrew intercepted and assassinated them. Without breaking the seal he already knew what the messages contained. They were coded orders from Albus Dumbledore to his precious pet assassin, orders that Captain Malfoy of the Death Eaters did not want Harry Potter to see…not until it was time at least.

Peter pocketed the parchment just like he had to the other confiscated messages, then with his wand, transfigured the dead man’s corpse into a pile of sand. A stray gust of wind picked it up into the air, and within moments had carried it out of sight.

For more than two excruciatingly monotonous months Pettigrew had been hiding on the outskirts of the village intercepting these persistent Order messengers. This was the third in a month, and Peter feared that before long Dumbledore would notice the failure to deliver the orders. Running messages was always risking business, but necessary with the Ministry watching owls coming into and out of the city, and the danger that came attached to the profession might excuse one or two undelivered letters. But three would soon warrant the attention of Dumbledore, maybe even enough for him to come to the village in person to meet Harry, and Peter did not want that.

His worries were assuaged ever so slightly by the conversation he had had with Malfoy the day prior. The Death Eater captain had told him things would soon be happening and that Peter should be prepared. And he would. He might be a traitor, a sneak, and a liar amongst many other unsavory qualities, but no one could argue that Peter Pettigrew was efficient. Soon the Order would be crushed, and Lord Voldemort would reward Peter handsomely for being so instrumental in its downfall. Nothing could please him more.

Stowing away his wand, Peter put his mask back on and quietly slipped away back in the trees.

---

It was almost evening when Janus found himself trudging back towards his cottage across the sandy beach, fishing pole and bucket of freshly caught fish hanging behind his back. He was exhausted from the long day of laboring under the intense sun, and to top it all off his skin would not even benefit from it. No matter how long his milky white skin bathed in the sun, it never darkened. He sighed. He would never find a girl in this village at this rate. They seemed to fancy tanner skin for some strange reason. Such was his curse…

He smiled to himself. While he was getting older, he felt no immediate urge to run off and get married like all of his friends in the village counseled him to do so. Love was not something you just rushed into it. It took years sometime to build, and if it could weather the storm of time then it must be firm. Or that was what someone had told him during his adolescent years. It seemed meaningless then, and even now its value was still questionable in Janus’ opinion. There was some truth in it, perhaps, but he really didn’t feel the inclination to dwell on it any further. The time on the boat debating about love on the boat with James had been more than enough.

Kids… Janus thought. It was hard to believe he had been that young at one time, so prone to the luring temptations of the world and so quick to stumble and fall on every obstacle life threw his way. But that had been then, and this was now. Now, guys like James were the young ones, and Janus was the wizened elders who watched amusedly while they made the youth made their mistakes.

Janus felt a sudden weariness in his arms and he paused to set down his load. It wasn’t just the sun or his work that tired him. No, he had been doing this for three years and was well acquainted with the strain it put on his body. It was because of the kid, James or whatever his true name might be. It was exhausting holding up the masquerade of ignorance, pretending like he didn’t know the truth or at least some of the truth.

He knew the kid’s name wasn’t James nor was his wife’s name was Lilly. They were aliases. The boy was James’ son; Janus could discern that much with a casual glance. But the girl was harder to pinpoint. They were both magic users and powerful ones at that. The aura that only a fellow magician could detect was evident enough. Why they insisted on using their fake names and hiding out in the village was probably linked to why Draco and the Death Eaters wanted the boy dead so badly. Janus didn’t know the specifics, and until he decided to ask it would probably remain a mystery.

And that was completely fine with him. Janus was in the village for no glorious reason, and he was sure the newly weds had their own reasons for staying incognito. It was none of Janus’ business what they were doing here, and besides, they made for good company. The girl was friendly and polite on the few occasions he had met her; not at all like the snobbery which most magic users regarded muggles with. And the boy…he reminded Janus a lot of the boy’s father. They were very much alike.

Finally, he arrived at the cottage. With a weary sigh, he dumped his gear on the front porch and kicked open the door. “Patrick, I’m back!” He yelled while casually kicking off his sandals. He blinked. No response came. Curiously, he peered into the cottage.

The place was a mess, even more than usual. The few pieces of furniture that they did have had been shattered into pieces, and the air was thick with the stench of blood. What was the cause of his carnage did not remain a mystery for long, for standing in the middle of the room was Draco Malfoy.

“Hello, Janus.”

“Malfoy.”

Draco smiled evilly. “A friend wants to say hello.” He reached into the darkness and pulled what appeared to be a person into his arms. It took a moment for Janus to realize that the person was Patrick, and that the blood that covered the floor belonged to him. Bound and gagged, he unconscious and bleeding from countless cuts all over his body.

“I told you to accept my offer, Janus.” Draco said. “Now what do you think?”

But Janus was beyond words. His teeth were clenched with rage and his fists were closed so tightly small trickles of blood had begun to form from where his nails and torn into his skin. Fires of insane fury sprang up in his eyes where they burned brightly in a brilliant pyre of blazing madness. From across the room, Draco could not recall seeing any wizard looking quite as fearsome as the Irishman did now. He jabbed his wand harder into Patrick’s torso and was satisfied that this seemed to keep Janus in check. At the very least it kept the wizard from immediately leaping at his throat.

“Let him go, now.” Janus said in a deathly whisper, the menace in his voice evident. Each word was underlined with a deadly threat grave enough to send a chill through Draco’s spine. Draco had seen raging Hippogriff’s look friendlier than the albino wizard right now. Nonetheless, he managed a shaky grin of defiance.

“Muggles are sure a tough lot,” Draco laughed, trying to push aside his fear. “I used nearly every torturing curse I knew and the bastard is still alive.”

It was the wrong thing to say because a moment later the flames that radiated in Janus’ eyes transferred to his right hand. Only this time the flames were real. A blue ball of fire had formed around Janus’ hand like a protective gauntlet, crawling up his flesh without burning it and radiating light in the dim room. Draco had heard stories about the Irish Death Eater and the fire that he commanded, and the stories always ended with one sagely piece of advice: If you see it, run. But Draco’s determination was firm, and even ominous tales of the immense power that the man commanded would not deter him. Not until his objective was complete.

“What the hell do you want, Malfoy?” Janus roared.

“You know what I want.” Draco replied. “I need you to kill the Slayer.”

“Why?” Demanded Janus angrily. “Why the hell do you want to kill the boy so goddamn much?”

“He’s an enemy to the Ministry. He’s killed dozens of high rankings Ministry officials.”

”So kill him yourself! Or is it because you’re too afraid of his power?” A cruel smile crept across Janus’ lips. It mocked Malfoy. “Yeah, I’ve felt the boy’s potential. It’s immense, more than his fathers, more than my own even.”

Draco glared at the other Death Eater and momentarily forgot how afraid of he was of the small orb of fire that danced in Janus’ palm. “I would kill him in an instant if my master would allow it,” he sneered. “But the situation such as it is…”

“I’ve told you before I’m done killing people for you.” Janus bellowed.

“And I should care?” Draco asked. “We’ve tried dozens of times over the last few years to get you to return to us, to your family, but each time you have refused. Now it has come to this. Obey the orders and Lord Voldemort will forgive you for your crimes against us. He’ll grant you amnesty for leaving us.”

The white-haired wizard laughed scornfully. “I don’t need his forgiveness. The only forgiveness I need is the kind no one can grant.”

“Forgiveness for killing Lilly and James Potter you mean?”

Suddenly, flames erupted from Janus’ left hand and the Irishman held up both balls of fire for Draco to behold. Malfoy could feel perspiration dripping down his brow, but he told himself it was from the humidity in the room. Not from fear, from fear of the evil eyes that glowered at him or the lethal blazing orbs that were wielded by a man who sought nothing more than to destroy him.

“That’s right.” hissed Janus. His eyes had changed once again. Not content with just being aflame, they had transformed to being cold as ice. They portrayed nothing, no anger, no hate –nothing. They were the perfect eyes of a killer. If Draco had been scared before, he was terrified now.

“Touch me and I’ll kill him,” Draco warned, prodding his wand against Patrick’s back. “And even if you do kill me, what do you think will happen next?”

Janus paused, and the flames on his hands faltered.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Draco leered. “Kill me and legions of Death Eaters will come down on this village in swarms. They’ll kill everyone without mercy. But you can save the village, Janus, you can save them from this fate. All you have to do is…”

“Kill the Slayer.” Janus whispered tonelessly. His face fell, his shoulders slumped tiredly, and the orbs of fire extinguished themselves in a cloud of smoke. No longer did he look remotely as evil or fearsome as he had only seconds ago. In fact, Janus looked exactly like the harmless fisherman that he had aspired to become for so many years.

Draco grinned viciously. No matter how tough Janus might be, everyone had their weak point and Draco had just discovered it. The Irishman loved his precious village and its people more than life itself. He would not dare endanger it in anyway, and would do anything to see that it came to no harm. How typical for the strongest, most deadly wizards in the world to have a soft spot for the weak. It was noble in a sense, but equally stupid.

“I’ll do it.” Janus said in defeat. “Just tell me what to do.”

Draco nodded. “Here’s what I need you to do…”

---

Harry moved swiftly through the undergrowth of twisted branches and leaves as he followed Hermione through the gloomy forest. Sun did not shine through the thick overhead canopy and there was no break in the trees for light to penetrate. The woodlands seemed devoid of animals as well; as if the forest creatures that frequented the village shunned the ill lit woods. He did not know where Hermione was leading him nor why. Several miles away from their hut and the beach, these were areas he had yet to scout out, but Hermione somehow knew the way. Every now and then she would make a turn, and Harry would compliantly do the same. The two had been walking for over an hour now and still there was no end in sight of these trees. Every so often Harry would try to ask Hermione where they were going, but she had been adamant about remaining quiet, leaving Harry to silently speculate about their probable destination.

Harry frowned as he ducked underneath a particularly large branch that threatened to snag the nape of his shirt. Ever since he had returned from fishing with Janus this afternoon Hermione appeared to be less calm and composed than normal. She denied it of course, but there was an underlining urgency in her behavior that did not go unnoticed by Harry. For example, she had practically shoved him out of the door and insisted that they travel to these remote woods without so much as an explanation. He found this curious and a little unnerving for some reason he could not quite place. Still, Harry was a soldier and used to obeying orders blindly. This was nothing outside of routine for him.

“Are we almost there?” Harry asked. Hermione paused and looked back only long enough to shoot an annoyed glance at him before pressing on. She looked exhausted, but yet she insisted on continuing. Harry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. What could possibly be so damn important that she would wear herself out like this?

They walked in silence for another hour when suddenly a break in the trees appeared. Sunlight streamed in through the cracks, revealing a grassy valley that waited for them beyond the tree line. Even from where he stood, Harry was amazed by it. The grass was a brilliant green, and flowers of every assortment and variety blinded him with a dazzling array of colors. A small smile crept across Harry’s face. Maybe this was why Hermione wanted to come here so badly. Hermione motioned Harry to follow, and with a shared sigh of relief, they left the forest.

“Wow,” Harry whispered. “It’s fantastic.”

Hermione nodded. She walked further into the valley to where a large tree sprung from the ground, its umbrella of leaves shading a small area beneath it. She sat down and patted the spot beside her. Harry kicked off his sandals and walked to join her. The grass was cool and still moist. It felt great.

“I remember you telling me you always wanted to see a place like this,” Harry said, recalling the conversation that they had shared beside the river on the outskirts of London not so long ago. While he had thought the riverside once appealing then, its beauty was greatly eclipsed by the awesome display of nature he and Hermione were in the presence of. “Is that why you wanted to come here?”

“Yes…” Hermione said hesitantly, “And no.” Regarding Harry’s puzzled look, she added, “I came here to talk with you.”

“About what?” He asked.

Again, she seemed to think about what to say, as if carefully selecting her words as to not relay something unintentional or offensive. But what did she have to hide? “Are you happy here with me?” She asked.

“Of course,” Harry replied. “I love it here.”

“Would…would you want to stay here with me?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

”Would you…” Hermione began tentatively, and then spilled out the rest, “…leave the Order and stay here with me?”

“What?” Harry asked alarmed.

“You said you loved it here, Harry.” The young witch explained. “I’m sick of the bloodshed and death, Harry…and I hope you are too. We can leave forever and live here in peace. We could be happy.”

Harry was up on his feet in an instant and was involuntarily backing away from her, as if her way of thinking was contagious and might infect him. “Hermione, are you crazy? I-I can’t leave the Order. They need me!”

“They haven’t called for us in months, Harry.” Hermione argued. “It might be destroyed for all you know. So many people have already died. I don’t want you to die too.”

So this was what she had been leading up to. Harry silently cursed himself for not seeing it earlier. She was right in so many ways that it pained Harry to admit it. They both loved their new home so very much. They had become attached to it, and giving it up would be hard. But he knew the time would come to rejoin the Order, and he had always been prepared to do so. But it seemed Hermione had not. Somewhere along the way she had lost her passion for the Order’s goals and had fallen sway to the luring temptation of peace that the village offered.

“The Order needs not only me, Hermione.” Harry said quietly. “They need both of us. I can not forsake my comrades to death just so I can live in peace. Had I wanted that I would never have joined.”

“Even a life of peace with me?”

Harry did not want to answer the question, to see the pain on Hermione’s face that would accompany his response. He didn’t want to hurt her, he never wanted that, but she had to see the truth. Only harm could come from maintaining this illusion. “Even with you.”

Hermione bit her lip, trying to hide the tears that sprang up in her eyes. She looked away so that he wouldn’t see her cry.

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I care for you deeply, but…”

“But what, Harry? You are no longer their assassin, the Slayer.” Hermione said. “Once I called you a killer, a man without worth, but you’ve changed Harry. Harry Potter, not the Slayer. You’re different than before.”

“Am I so different?” He wondered.

“You smile, Harry. Here, you’ve learned how to enjoy life. Amongst friends and those who love you, you have found another purpose. Not as a killer, not as a soldier, but as a human.”

A human…a person…a being with intrinsic value.

This was why Sirius had warned him about friendship and loved. It slowed you down, it made you hesitate, and it made you think. Gone was the clarity of Harry’s purpose, his purpose as an assassin to make way for a new peace in England, shrouded by the plethora of emotions that bombarded his mind. He wanted peace for England…but he had found peace here with Hermione…and part of him did not want to let it go.

Taking a deep breath, Harry said, “I know where my loyalties lie.”

--

The words cut through Hermione like a knife, only the stab of a knife would have hurt less. It penetrated through her body and into her soul, tearing away at her heart and bringing a fresh wave of tears to her eyes. She had fought to convince Harry to turn from the path of bloodshed and death, honestly she had, but with those last words he had forced Hermione to betray her love for him. She loved the man, the assassin, but as Harry had just said, she too knew where her loyalties lay.

From her pocket, Hermione’s hands fell across the cold pommel of a dagger that Draco had left her. It was small, barely larger than her hand, but incredibly deadly. She was under no illusion that she could kill Harry by herself, but Draco assured her that a single cut from a blade dipped in the most potent of poisons would kill anyone instantly. He would feel no pain. Hermione tried to comfort herself with that thought.

“Even if we did stay here,” Harry said, looking out into the field. “The war would continue. One day it would come here, and the peace we enjoy would shatter. And then once again we would find ourselves emerged in it. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Peace, even for a little while is worth all the gold in the world, Harry.”

“But it would not be real. It would be fake, a world we build for ourselves on the foundation of false hope and deniability. We don’t want war, therefore we won’t have war. But it doesn’t change the fact that war is still there waiting for us to make a difference. With my wand I can help bring in an era of peace that will last longer than any peace we build for ourselves here.”

He was right. Hermione knew he was. The passion in his voice was so sincere it could convince anyone of the righteousness of his cause. But he was still the enemy, a foe of her grandfather and the Ministry. He opposed everything that Hermione’s life stood for, and yet she loved him for it.

Hermione reached down and plucked a red rose from the grass and twirled it between her fingers. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She asked quietly.

“Aye, it is.” Harry agreed.

“If only we could be this rose, Harry.” Hermione said. “It grows, it flourishes, and it dies.”

“It has no goals, no ambitions, and no desires.”

“But it has no worries either. People see it and adore its beauty. It knows nothing but peace and love.”

“Hermione…I…”

She stood and stood behind Harry. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face into his back. From her pocket, the dagger slipped into her hands. She loved him. She loved him so much. But now was the time. Now was the moment of truth. She could wait no longer.

“Harry, can I ask you a question?”

Harry smiled. “Of course you can.”

“Do you promise me you’ll answer is truthfully?”

“Yes.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “Did you ever kill a man named Theodon Locke?”

Harry froze. “Why?” He asked.

“Just tell me.” Hermione insisted.

Harry did not answer.

“Harry, please, tell me. I must know.”

In the distance, the sun was setting behind the trees, bathing the field and the flowers in a wash of orange light. The wind was still. The sky was clear. Not a sound could be heard.

“Yes. Yes I did.” Harry replied. “He was the son of a target. I told him to leave, but he decided to fight. I had no choice.”

You had no choice…

Tears welled in her eyes. Tears of grief, grief inspired by the thought of what now had to be done. She loved Theodon, loved him as much as she now loved Harry, and it was her duty to avenge his memory. It had to be done. Only with the death of his assassin could he find rest.

I have no choice…

Harry Potter must die…

“Did you know him?” Harry whispered.

Hermione nodded silently, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry.”

You’re sorry.

Harry turned around and faced Hermione. Her eyes met his, and for a moment she could only stare into those hypnotizing green eyes. There was pain in them, regret, remorse lurking within the pool of emerald. “I’m sorry I have caused you pain, Hermione. You have given so much to me and taught me so much. And-“

He suddenly kissed her on the lips. Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise at the soft touch of his lips on her own, at the warmth that enveloped her body. She found herself responding to his kiss, drinking it in and unconsciously returning it. All too soon the kiss was over, and Hermione found herself breathless, wanting more, her body craving for the joy that filled her mind in that moment of pure bliss.

“-I think I love you…” Harry said.

“I thought an assassin could not love.” Hermione replied.

Harry smiled playfully. “It’s like you said, I’ve changed.”

“Good, because I think I love you too, Harry.” Hermione whispered into his ear.

He kissed her again. Hermione closed her eyes, and the knife fell from her fingers and landed lost in the grass where it would remain forgotten. She reached up to hold him around the neck. They lay down on the ground, locked in each others arms, oblivious to the sun as it disappeared from sight or the moon as it claimed its nocturnal throne. It was a long, long, long time before either spoke again. They were far too occupied to even think of talking.

Hidden in the shadows, a pair of eyes watched the lovers kiss. A look of disgust crossed the person’s face, and a moment later they had disappeared back into the night.

---

It had taken all of the healing spells Janus knew just to drag Patrick away from the precipice of death, and even then his condition was uncertain. After applying basic bandages and putting Patrick in bed, it had taken Janus several hours to draw the magical runes and seals that would mend the powerful curses that had all but destroyed Patrick’s body. Activating them had been a lesson in agony. Already tired, Janus’ endurance was pushed to the breaking point as magic was sucked out of his body and sacrificed to energize the seals. But he had done it. Exhausted beyond imagination, Janus had collapsed wearily but satisfied in his chair, bathed in the blue light of the glowing runes as they went to work.

Now all he could do was wait.

Several hours later Patrick’s breathing began to stabilize and Janus thought he had awoken for a moment. That had helped the Irishman relax if only a little. Patrick was tough. Once he had been attacked by a bear, and it had been up to Janus to patch him up before the muggle doctor arrived. The wounds had been nearly as bad as these, but the old bastard had still managed to survive.

But Janus’ friend’s health wasn’t the only thing on his mind that night. Not by a long shot.

Draco’s words still lingered in his mind. He had told Janus about the mission at hand, the last job Janus would ever have to take on before finally he could be left in peace. All Janus had to do was kill one person. One person and it would all be over. But that person just had to be his friend…a boy named Harry Potter.

Harry…so that was the boy’s name. Harry Potter, son of James and Lilly. It had a nice ring to it. And the girl was Hermione Granger, adopted granddaughter of the Minister of Magic. So it was an assassin and a young girl, two of the most important personnel on opposite sides of a war, hiding out together. What a pair they made. Janus vaguely wondered if the poor boy had any idea who he was traveling with…and falling in love with.

A deep sadness filled Janus. They were just children, kids that had been given such a huge responsibility years before they should ever be burdened with such tasks. And now, because of that Janus’ hand would be forced against them. He wished it were not so. He wished that Harry had never picked up a wand or that he had never met Hermione. Perhaps then Janus would not have to betray him…just as he had betrayed Harry’s father all those years ago. But now was not then. History was repeating itself, and Janus was powerless to stop the tide of progressively unfolding events. He was caught in the midst of it, like a child caught in a tidal wave, doomed to be swept along.

“Please forgive me, James.” Janus whispered to the ceiling. “I have no choice.”

And he did not. If he chose to refuse the orders, then he would condemn the village to destruction. Hundreds of innocent would die for his selfishness, and Janus would not allow that. He had no choice in the matter. He never had. Not now. Not then.

Harry Potter had to die.

Janus walked over to a nearby closet and rummaged around in it before he withdrew a large dusty chest. He brushed it off, and then magically unlocked it with a snap of his finger. Inside were a plethora of items. Clothing, books, artifacts were neatly stacked inside –souvenirs of his bloody past that he had tried to forget about. But now they were back to haunt him, to remind him of the path that he once walked and would now have to walk again.

Janus reached into the chest and withdrew a set of black robes, arm braces graced with magical runes of protection, and lastly a faceless white mask. It was the uniform of a Death Eater. Quietly, he doffed his normal attire and put into the new ones. They fit seamlessly just as they had when he first put them on all those years ago. Every aspect of his garb was tailored specifically for him, accentuating his identity. These clothes told him who he was. They were made for him, just as he was made for them. There was no denying it. He was who he was, an assassin, born and bred for one purpose: to kill.

Janus slipped the mask on and peered at his image in a shard of broken glass that littered the floor. No longer did the white haired fisherman gaze back, but the face of a hardened assassin. The man he had tried unsuccessfully to bury had been reborn.

I’m sorry, Harry. I have no choice.

Author’s Notes:

The next few chapters should hopefully come quicker. Between homework and exams, I’ve been pretty busy studying and have had little time to write. Sorry about that. Argh, and the romance scene here was hard to write. Let me reiterate, I am horrible at writing them. It was the hardest 180 or so words I have ever written. Be sure to drop a review when you’re done reading. Thanks!

21. Betrayal (Part VIII: The Slayer Reborn)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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.

Betrayal

Part VIII: The Slayer Reborn

Hermione sat quietly, looking at Harry as he slept. They had returned to the cabin late at night and both had promptly fallen asleep in each others arms from sheer exhaustion. She had awoken only moments ago, sitting up in the bed they had shared for together for the first time, staring at the assassin. She wanted to touch his skin, to feel his warmth, to tousle his hair lovingly, but she could not. The slightest movement might awaken him, and Hermione could not allow that while she was still there. Were he to awaken, she might not be able to bring herself to leave.

She loved him, but it was time for them to part paths.

She couldn’t kill him. No matter how much she hated the breed of assassin that Harry was undeniably apart of him, she could not bring herself to plunge the dagger into his heart as she had been instructed. The day before, she had been agonizingly close to fulfilling the deed, but a single kiss; a single selfless act of love had changed all that. Suddenly the past no longer mattered. All that was important was now, the present where Hermione loved the Order assassin no matter what his transgressions might have been. Suddenly, she could forgive him…

But forgiveness was not enough, not in this case. The world was so much bigger than just the both of them. They were star-crossed lovers, caught in a bloody war that was dividing England. Their love would never survive. As much as Hermione loved Harry, she was rational enough to see the truth in that. They could run away and hide, but as Harry had said before, it would accomplish nothing. She would only be living a lie; taking solace in the illusion of a peaceful world that could never exist.

I wanted it to…I wanted it to exist so badly…

Peace. How she craved the word. She wanted to find a world without war and hate. Where she and Harry could live together and not fear assassins or betrayal. But that was not to be. Harry had denied her happiness with Theodon, and now fate denied Hermione her second love…

Quietly, Hermione gathered her few belongings, sorrowfully regarding the spartan cabin that the two had shared. There was so much love here, so much happiness in the simple room. She was about ready to turn and leave when something caught her eye. Lying on the kitchen table was the red rose that Hermione had shown Harry in the valley. She smiled with bittersweet sorrow and gingerly picked it up.

Harry had taken it with him to commemorate that precious moment. He had rolled over and kissed her on the lips and smiled. “Whether I die tomorrow or in a hundred years…I’ll remember today for the rest of my life.” He had told her.

“I’m sorry, Harry.” She said to the night, placing the rose back on the table. “But it wasn’t meant to be…forgive me.”

She silently crossed towards the cabin door. Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, Hermione cast a parting look at Harry. Then, she was gone, the door noiselessly closed behind her as she made her way through the grassy field and toward the forest. A man cloaked in the shadows waited for her.

“I don’t suppose you killed him.” Draco muttered. Hermione shook her head. Draco rolled his eyes. “No matter. He’ll be dead in a few hours anyway.”

“Let’s just go,” Hermione urged, tears threatening her eyes. She did not want to be anywhere near when Harry awoke…nor anywhere near when he met his death.

Draco nodded. “Alright, let’s get going. It’s a half days walk to the site, so I hope you’re ready to travel.” He turned and disappeared into the trees, but Hermione remained behind for a moment.

“Goodbye, Harry.” Hermione said. With one final tearful glance behind at the cabin, she followed Malfoy, slipping away into the night.

---

Harry yawned sleepily as his eyes opened to meet the rays of the early morning sun, running a hand through his disheveled mat of hair with a smile. Stretching like a waking cat, he sat up, rubbing away sleep. He had never had such a good night’s sleep before. Maybe it was the extra warmth of a loving woman lying beside him that made it so much more luxurious, but seldom had he felt better and more rejuvenated than he did now.

“Good morning, Hermione.” He said. His gaze fell upon the empty space in the bed where his love should have been. A stab of fear froze Harry’s heart, but he forced himself to relax. She had probably woken up early and went to buy breakfast for them in the village or gone for a walk. There was nothing to worry about.

With that thought, Harry slipped out of bed and changed into his normal attire. Maybe Janus would be up for more fishing…or better yet maybe Hermione would be willing to resume what they started the day before once she returned. He smiled. Nothing could possibly please him more.

Harry walked out onto the porch and stood there, watching the rising sun. It would be almost be full morning in a half hour so. Hermione had never been gone this long without before telling Harry. After all, he still was her bodyguard. But the intoxicating bliss that still lingered from their ventures the afternoon prior convinced him that nothing was amiss. Hermione would have no reason to leave…she had him here.

“Harry!”

In the distance, emerging from the tree line, a man came running towards the cabin screaming Harry’s name. He was dressed in long wizard’s robes, and that caught Harry’s attention immediately. Leaping down from the porch, he rushed out to meet the man. Gasping with exhaustion, the wizard fell into the assassin’s arms.

“Peter!” Harry exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Peter Pettigrew looked up at Harry, his eyes wide with fear. “Death Eaters! Here! They’re coming! Right behind me!”

“What are you-“ Harry began, but cut off immediately when two more robed forms sprung out from the trees. They were clad in black, white masks covering their faces. From their belts they drew not wands, but long, deadly looking daggers. Without introduction, challenge or warning, the two men raced at Harry and Peter, their weapons held ready to strike.

Harry pushed Peter away from him and prepared to meet the first attacker, cursing himself for forgetting his wand inside the cabin. It was only a few feet away, but Harry could not risk turning his back to his attackers long enough to retrieve it. The assassins rushed in blindly, and Harry moved to confront one, allowing Pettigrew hopefully to handle his partner.

“Look out for their knives!” Peter yelled. “They’re poisoned.”

Harry swore. This was serious. No longer was this just a simple battle where he was in no real danger like when the brigand had attacked Hermione. Two trained killers were against him, men just like himself whose weaponry was far superior to his own. Things had just gotten a lot more serious.

If what Pettigrew said about the Death Eater’s poisonous blades were true, Harry could not allow himself to even be grazed by them. This proved easier said than done, because the assassin Harry faced was not only as young as he, but quite familiar with the weapon in his hand. The two men circled each other, looking for an opening. The Death Eater lunged in, feinting high and then stabbing low at Harry’s torso, but the Slayer skillfully caught the man’s wrist and pushed him away. The assassin backed away a step, undaunted by his failure to secure a quick victory, and he moved in again.

Harry hazarded a quick glance to his left to see make sure Peter was still alive, but quickly averted his attention back to the Death Eater as he charged in. The blade stabbed in and out, searching to find purchase in the young Order assassin’s body, but Harry’s quick reflexes kept him out of reach. The assassin surged forward, launching a punch at Harry’s face and bringing in the knife with his free hand at the same time. Harry’s arm shot up to shield himself from the first blow, and pivoted to the left to avoid the blade. Swiftly, Harry lashed out viciously with his leg at the man’s face, connecting solidly. The assassin’s nose cracked loudly as bone and cartilage broke, and he staggered backwards, swearing loudly.

“I’ll kill you slowly for that!” He snarled, blood dripping from his face. The venom tipped blade weaving back and forth, like a seamstress at her tapestry, the Death Eater retreated briefly, collecting himself for a third assault.

The situation was not good. The man Harry faced was both armed and skilled, and Harry could not even afford to check on Peter’s progress in fear of the assassin rushing him. He needed to end this fight quickly or sooner or later the Death Eater would get lucky and land a blow. The Death Eater came in fast, but instead of waiting for him to attack, Harry rushed in to meet him.

The assassin stabbed at Harry’s face, and the Slayer slapped away the blade and followed it up with a brutal right hook that shattered whatever remained of the Death Eater’s nose. Before the assassin could reel in pain, Harry grabbed the man’s hand holding the knife, twisted it around, and without hesitation jammed it straight through the bottom of the man’s mouth. The assassin choked as blood rushed up through his throat. He fell to the ground, the hilt of the knife still embedded in the bloody mess of flesh that had once been his mouth, twitching in agony. His pain did not last long, for a moment later the poison claimed the unlucky assassin’s life.

Harry looked up and saw Peter walking towards him. The other Death Eater was dead also, lying on the grass a few feet away. “Think that’s all of them,” The balding wizard said. He wiped his wand clean of blood and then stowed it away.

“What the hell is going on, Peter?” Harry asked. There was blood all over his hands, but he did not think of washing them.

“How about some tea first, eh?” asked Peter hopefully. A murderous glare from the Order assassin quickly vetoed that idea. “Well, let’s at least get indoors first. Muggles and all you know?” Harry reluctantly allowed himself to be ushered into the cabin where Peter started making tea on the stove anyway.

“Dumbledore has been trying to recall you for some time,” Peter said, fiddling around with a tea kettle. “Almost a month and a half now.”

“A month and a half!” Harry exploded. “B-but no one…”

“Has come, yes we know.” Peter said regretfully. “We’ve sent a number of runners out here, but as I feared I believe they have already been intercepted.”

“By the Ministry?” Harry asked.

“None other.”

Mentally Harry cursed himself again. How could he have not noticed a ring of Ministry hit wizards surrounding the village? His time here had really made him let down his guard if all of this had happened without his notice. It was time to fix that. Another attack from the Death Eaters could come at any moment now that an Order runner had reached him. It was crucial for him to collect Hermione and leave as soon as possible.

“So you’re the first one to break through.” Harry observed. “Well, what are my orders?”

Peter moved the kettle over to the table where Harry sat and poured two mugs. He passed one to Harry and began sipping at his own. Harry did not touch his. “There’s been a problem. You recall that…incident that occurred nearly two months?”

Harry snorted. Of course he remembered. It was the reason why he and Hermione were here in the first place.

“A month or so ago a number of our spies infiltrated into the Ministry detected a leak in the Order…a mole if you will.”

“Yes, I already know that. Has the mole been taken care of?” Harry demanded impatiently.

“Not exactly. It was important that we found you, Harry, and its Dumbledore’s greatest regret that we could not get to you sooner, but we had to be careful. If we rushed to you we would expose to the Ministry that we knew their spy and they would recall them. But the alternative, it appears, took far more time that we had predicted.”

Harry scowled. “What the hell are you talking about, Peter?”

Peter sighed and set down his mug. “The spy is Hermione Granger, Harry. The girl you’ve been with us all this time. We tried to tell you-“

But before Peter could finish, Harry reached over the table and grabbed the messenger by the nape of his robes.

“You liar!” Harry screamed. Without thinking, he pulled Peter over the table, knocking over the mugs and spilling scalding tea onto the floor. “You lying bastard!”

“Woah! Calm down, Harry!” Peter yelled, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I’m just telling you what I know!”

But that did little to calm Harry’s rage. With a cry of anger, he threw Peter across the cabin, sending him crashing into the wall. Groaning in pain, Peter slowly crawled to his hands and knees just in time to see Harry approaching again, murderous intent on his face.

“Harry, Dumbledore has it written!” Peter hastily reached into his robes and pulled out a scroll. “Orders from Dumbledore himself!”

Harry snatched it from Pettigrew and snapped the seal. His eyes scrolled across the parchment, widening as they perused each line. Pettigrew inwardly smiled at dawning horror on the Slayer’s face. Harry opened his mouth to speak, to try to refute the damning evidence written first hand by the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, but no words came forth. He was too numb, too shocked to even begin thinking what to do next. The scroll slipped from his fingers, and his legs gave way. He collapsed to his knees, staring blankly into space.

How…

Why…

What…

Each fragmented thought flashed through Harry’s mind, unable to complete themselves in the flurry of confusion. Nausea filled him, bile rising from his throat and filling his mouth, and before he could stop himself he vomited on the ground. Hacking and coughing, Harry fell on his hands, trying to rid himself of the sickness. But it was not a physical sickness that could be cured by a potion. It felt like a part of him, an essential component of his being had just been brutally torn out.

It can’t be true… he thought. It just can’t…

Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Harry asked with a shaky voice, “How do you know?”

“Following the attack on the Three Broomsticks,” Peter said, “We made a more in-depth investigation concerning Hermione’s background. Her past was very well guarded and it took a considerable amount of bribes to reveal the truth…”

“She’s an Auror, isn’t she?” Harry asked, fearing the truth.

“No,” Peter said. Relief filled Harry. Perhaps some of what Hermione told him had been true…perhaps he could not entirely condemn her for that. “She’s the grand daughter of the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge.”

Harry threw up again.

“She helped orchestrate the attacks on the Three Broomsticks…” Pettigrew continued.

How could you do this to me, Hermione?

I loved you…

And you loved me…

So how?

“I can’t believe this.” Harry whispered. “Why…why Hermione?”

Peter chuckling, savoring the agony playing across Harry’s face. “I should think that pretty evident, Harry.”

Harry looked at Peter, confused. “How?”

“Weren’t you listening? She is the granddaughter of the Minister of Magic. Everyone knew she was to be engaged to the son of Samuel Locke…and Samuel Locke was a man you assassinated if I’m not mistake.”

Realization struck Harry like a physical blow to his gut. His eyes widened with horror. “Oh my god…” He whispered. “I killed…I killed…”

The conversation from the day before flashed through his mind.

“Did you ever kill a man named Theodon Locke?”

Oh god…

“Just tell me.”

Please lord no…

“Harry, please, tell me. I must know.”

“I killed Theodon Locke. I murdered her fiancée.” He gasped. No wonder…no wonder she hated the Order. No wonder she wanted it destroyed. No wonder she betrayed him.

I kissed her…I kissed the lover of the man I killed…

I assassinated her husband…and I’ve been traveling with her all this time…

I took everything from her…in one night I destroyed her life…

But then suddenly the memory of that night appeared. The flames. The bodies on the ground. The lifeless form of his best friend, Ronald Wesley. Hermione’s betrayal had killed them…

In one night she took everything from me…

Harry clutched his head, pulling at his hair in wordless agony and confusion. He groaned, cradling his face in his hands.

She said she loved me…

Lies…

She said she wanted to stay with me…

Lies…

She kissed me…

Lies…

She hates me…

I took her husband from her…

Her hatred is justified…

“Hermione…” He said. The name no longer brought joy as he spoke it. Instead, it filled him with overwhelming sadness and regret. “I loved you…”

How could you love? How could she love me?

“She betrayed us, Harry.” Peter said consolingly. “Her treachery jeopardized the entire Order and killed countless members.”

Why, Hermione? Why…

“She’s left, hasn’t she,” Harry said. It wasn’t a question. Suddenly her absence this morning was explainable. She knew a messenger was on the way and that her secret would soon be revealed. He would never see her again…

Hermione…

“I’m afraid there’s more.” Peter said.

How could there be more? Have you not tortured me enough?

”Hermione Granger is a traitor. Dumbledore had declared that she should be executed as such.”

“Executed,” Harry repeated. “Dumbledore wants me to kill her…”

“Yes.”

“I can’t kill her. I can’t kill Hermione.” Harry said.

I love her…I can’t kill her…

This was why Sirius had taught him. No attachment, no friends, no lovers. They restrict you. Slow you down. Harry had ignored his advice and now…now he was paying the consequence.

I can’t kill her…

“You must, Harry.” Pettigrew said. He kneeled down beside Harry. “There are many in the Order who think your allegiance suspect because of your prolonged stay with Hermione. Some think you may have betrayed us as well.”

Harry was too numb to even take offense at the notion of someone thinking him disloyal. He would have to kill Hermione to prove his loyalty, to be welcomed back into the Order and resume his duties. With her death, he could embrace his old life once again.

“Remember, Harry. Hermione is the enemy of the Order of the Phoenix. Of you. She must die.”

She is my enemy…

She betrayed me…

She never loved me…

I never loved her…

Everything she told me was lies…

Our happiness was an illusion…

She hates me…

And I hate her…

Hermione Granger must die…

“I spied her leaving only an hour ago with another man. I think he was a Death Eater.”

“Where are they going?” Harry asked softly.

“There’s no port keys stationed in this region, and apparation is still banned in and out of London, so probably to a clearing several miles to the north of here. It’s the only place suitable for teleportation scrolls.”

Teleportation scrolls where rare, single use magical artifacts that allowed the user to instantly transport from one place to another, bypassing the usual barriers that a wizard might emplace to keep trespassers away. It took a series of complex spells and regular upkeep to maintain an anti-teleportation scroll field, and because that it was impossible to place one over the entire city of London. It was really the only way in and out of the city without being detected, and the Order was known to use them from time to time.

“I know the place.” Harry said. He had spotted the place on his way into the village, mentally recording the location incase he ever had need of it.

“Then you have your orders. If you move quickly you should be able to catch up with them.”

Harry turned away from Peter and began walking away. He was sick of talking to the man. The mere sight of the messenger made him feel ill even though it was no fault of Peter’s. He was just the unfortunate bearer of bad news, but nonetheless Harry did not think he could stand another moment in the man’s presence without throwing up again. Supporting himself against the wall, Harry hobbled over towards the far end of the cabin where a leather sack that lay propped up against the wall. It the same sack that he and Hermione had carried to the cottage when they had first fled London.

From the sack he removed a pair of fresh clothes, not the fisherman’s attire but the wizard robes and leggings he wore as an assassin, and his wands. He cast off the blood stained clothes he wore, not caring where they fell, and dressed once again in the garb of the Slayer. The robes were frayed and torn from the countless battles they had been through, but they fit well and served to remind Harry of the old life he was returning to.

Harry Potter the fisherman was dead. Long live the Slayer.

Lastly came the wands, his instruments of death and destruction. He twirled them expertly, slashing them through the air, regaining the feel of his weapons after months of being unused. It came back quickly to the assassin. The flow, the rhythm, the raw fury of his fighting technique –the mere touch of the wooden pommels sent memories of combat and blood shed coursing through his mind. A smile touched his lips, but it was not the pleasant, humorous smile that he had shared so freely with Hermione. It was grim and cold, as cold as the ice that formed in his eyes at the thought of the woman betrayed his love.

“I’m coming for you, Hermione.” He promised.

---

Author’s Notes:

Hm…not a whole lot to say about this chapter. Took a while to write it actually, longer than I anticipated because I realized I’m pretty bad at the entire angsty stuff too. Oh well. Thanks for all of those who have read and reviewed. Keep them coming! Just five more chapters left!

22. Betrayal (Part IX: The Exiled Death Eater)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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.

Betrayal

Part IX: The Exiled Death Eater

They had been traveling for hours now, sweating under the blazing sun without reprieve or stop for rest. Draco seemed feverishly intent on reaching the spot he had selected as soon as possible so that they could leave this place. It was as if something unnerved the Death Eater. As they walked, he periodically glanced over his shoulder to check for anyone that might be following them, and Hermione was certain the beads of perspiration that dripped down his forehead was not just from the heat. He was nervous; fearful maybe even that the Slayer, Harry Potter, was already in pursuit of them.

Hermione did not need to wonder. She knew Harry had awoken already to find her gone, just as she knew Draco’s assassins would not be sufficient to kill him. She had seen the man fight, and no one could match the speed and power of his wand. What Harry would do after that Hermione did not know. Perhaps he would return to the Order grief stricken. She prayed so. Then she might never need to meet him again, to feel the guilt in her heart renewed at the sight of the man she loved and betrayed. However, she knew this not to be true. Harry would not let her betrayal lie. He would hunt them down, like a mother bear deprived of her cubs. He would come to her no matter what.

Draco too seemed to sense this the way his eyes darted around the forest at the slightest of noises. His wand was drawn and his body was tense, anticipating an ambush at every step of their journey. Even though he had made every precaution to guarantee a quick, safe extraction from the village, he knew the attack would come –it wasn’t a matter of if, but when.

Suddenly, Draco froze. Hermione peaked around him. Something up ahead blocked the path. She groaned.

Ahead, standing in the middle of the road, blocking their way was a man dressed in frayed black robes. He was faced away from them was a hood obscured the back of his head, concealing his identity. He did not turn to meet their gaze as the sound of their footsteps assailed his ears. Not even when Draco raised his wand to address the newcomer did he stir. Though they could not see his face, the powerful aura of magic that radiated from the man was unmistakable.

Hermione sighed and closed her eyes. She had hoped it would not come to this. She did not know how Harry could have tracked them down so quickly unless of course…

She shot a horrified look at Draco, but he paid her no heed. Draco had orchestrated this! He had told Wormtail where they were going, just so Harry would race to confront them! How could she have been so naive as to trust a Death Eater?

“Slayer!” Draco yelled.

At the sound of his name, his true name, Harry turned.

“I should have never trusted you,” he whispered. His words were so soft that they were barely audible, but the hurt in his voice and the regret in his eyes as he spoke were painfully clear. Hermione began to say something, wanting nothing more than to deny his accusations, but she could not. Harry was right. Her betrayal was now complete. Tears overwhelmed her, and Draco quickly ushered her aside out of view. He turned and smiled gleefully at the Slayer.

“That was your mistake.” Said Draco.

Harry shook his head. “No. It was my choice.”

“Harry…” Hermione called as Draco tried to push her back. Fighting desperately, she broke through his arms, and between sobs yelled, “I love you!”

Harry did not respond, and Hermione was not sure if he had even heard her. His face conveyed nothing of the hate and the anger that boiled within his soul. Slowly, he reached into his robes and removed a small scroll. With a swift gesture, he snapped the seal and unfurled it for her to see. Hermione’s face paled and unconsciously backed away when she read the message inscribed on it. It was concise, the message clear.

“It’s from the Order,” Said Harry, “Calling for the death of Hermione Granger, granddaughter of Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, and traitor to the Order of the Phoenix.” He tossed the scroll at her feet.

“Harry…” Hermione pleaded, tears streaming uncontrollably from her eyes, but Harry was in no mood to listen. He continued steadily, ignoring her plaintive sobbing.

“Hermione, you have betrayed your friends, your comrades…” He hesitated and then added softly, “And the man who loved you. For these crimes, I have no choice but to carry out my duties as primary assassin of the Order.”

“Harry, please listen to me!” Hermione yelled. “I-I never wanted it to end like this. Yes, I was working undercover for the ministry, and yes I lead the Death Eaters to the Three Broomsticks, but I never wanted you to get hurt. I love you too much to let anything happen to you.”

Again, Harry did not react to her words. She might as well have been talking to a stone wall for all the response she received. She wanted to scream, to yell; to do anything so that Harry would be convinced that her love for him was sincere. She would have done anything for him to believe her…but it was too late for that. Harry hated her, and Hermione could not blame him. For what she had done to him, for the pain she had caused, she did not deserve his love.

”I’m so sorry, Harry.” She said.

“I really hate to interrupt this touching scene,” Draco interrupted. He glanced around. They should be in range of the teleportation area. “But we really need to leave.” From his robes he removed a scroll covered in markings of teleportation, and flicked it open.

Harry’s eyes widened and dashed towards them, his wand leaping to his hands. He could not let them escape. Words for the incantation for a killing curse formed on his lips, and with a wordless cry, whipped his wand forward to deliver a lethal blast of energy. Before he could finish, though, something grabbed his wrist and redirected his wand so that the curse shot off course and dissipated harmlessly in the air. Alarmed, Harry whirled around, shaking himself free of his unseen assailant’s grip, and leaped backwards.

“Ah, Harry.” said Draco, gesturing to the white haired Irishman. “I believe you’ve met, Janus.”

“Janus!” cried Harry. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The fisherman turned to face the young assassin. He was no longer dressed in the casual attire of his occupation, but was clad in the somber robes common to wizard attire. “Hello, Harry.” He said. “But I can not allow you to go any further.”

“What are you talking about? And what’s with the clothing? Wait a second…how’d you know my…” Harry questioned angrily. Realization hit him like a blow to the side of his face, and he shook his head from side to side, mentally denying the apparent truth. “No…please no…”

Hermione was a traitor and Janus was a wizard and also a Death Eater. His mind wondering if it could endure any more abuse, Harry looked at his friend. “So you betray me too, Janus?” He groaned hoarsely.

“I’m afraid so.” Janus replied calmly. He glanced at Draco. “I’ll take care of this, Draco. It’s time for you to go.”

“Yes, we’ve wasted enough time here.” Draco agreed. He bit his thumb and smeared a line of blood across the parchment, muttering a quick spell as he did so. A ring of light formed around them, shimmering brightly as it prepared to whisk them away.

Not content to give up, Harry leaped toward them, preparing another curse before the scroll could complete its work was complete. Before he could reach them, however, Janus intercepted him and roughly shoved him backwards. Harry snarled angrily and instinctively lashed out at Janus, hurling the prepared curse towards the Irishman. At close quarters such a spell should have killed him instantly, but much to Harry’s amazement, it barely grazed the side of Janus’ cheek as it tore past, leaving only a small rivulet of blood.

“Get out of my way, Janus.”

“No.” Janus replied. “I was given strict instructions to keep you from pursuing.”

“I don’t want to fight you!” Harry yelled.

“Neither do I, Harry, son of James and Lilly Potter.”

Harry smirked. “So you know my parents name. Hermione told you I guess.”

Janus chuckled. “No, she did not. I knew you were their son the moment I saw you. You have Lilly’s eyes.”

Harry paused and looked at the Death Eater. “What did you say?”

“You have Lilly’s eyes.” Janus repeated.

“Her eyes? You knew my parents?” Harry asked. He had never known his parents and any piece of information about their past had always been a source of interest to Harry. Sirius, however, had never divulged much in that respect.

“Indeed. I was an orphan when your father took me under his wings to train me. I studied with him for several years. He was, you could say, the only father I ever knew.”

“The only father-“ All of a sudden Harry recalled the story Janus had told him on the boat. Janus had told him he had ended up condemning his father to death through his betrayal…. “You lie. My father did not die in prison. He was murdered.” Harry said.

Janus smiled slightly. “So you remember my story. I confess I did alter my story ever so slightly so that it would fit somewhat better in context, but the essence of it remains intact. You see Harry, your father was a Death Eater, just like me.”

“What?”

“He was one of our best men. A great fighter and a brilliant tactician. But one day he decided he could not stomach the dirtier work we sometimes are needed to do, and left. The Death Eaters would not allow this.”

“So they killed my father? The Death Eaters killed my family?” Harry asked. With each word his voice grew until he was practically screaming.

“No,” Janus replied softly. “I did.”

Harry attacked without thought. He was too angry, too hurt, to formulate any strategy. All that he wanted was to hurt something, to kill something, and Janus just happened to be the only outlet for his rage. Curse after curse lashed out at the white-haired Death Eater, but Janus was quick to defend himself. With the grace of a dancer, he leaped out of the range of the deadly flashes of magic until he came to a landing several yards away from Harry. He smiled at the assassin and brushed some dirt off of his cloak.

“Why, Janus? Why?” Harry screamed. He did not expect an answer nor did he wait for one. He raced after the Irishman, his wand ready to strike. With a bellow, Harry swung his wand, sending an arc of light at Janus’ head. Without lightening fast reflexes, Janus ducked under the curse, and then rolled out of the way of several other curses that tore chunks of dirt out of the ground. Harry raced after him, pressing the attack on his reeling opponent. So consumed was Harry in his bloodlust, that he almost did not notice the surreptitious hand gestures flashing on Janus’ right hand.

A hand seal!

Swearing, Harry broke off his assault and leaped backwards a moment before a tower of flames leaped from the ground where he had been standing. Fire singed his robes, and he could feel the heat from the blaze that he only just escaped. Scorched dirt and blazing embers rained down from the sky, but Harry did not shield himself from the fiery storm. His attention was locked on the Irishman, too wary of the amazing power Janus had just exhibited to take his eyes off of him for an instant.

Hand seals were a form of wandless magic that allowed witches and wizards inept with a wand to access the vast powers of their birthright. They channeled a wielder’s internal magical energy through their hands which became a conduit, a tool used to manifest their powers into the real world, not unlike a wand. Various formations and movement would create different spells and so on. While seemingly ideal for magic casters, a grave danger came attached to the usage of hand seals. A single careless mistake would unleash the users’ magic, raw and unrefined, into the world and the results would be catastrophic. There had been stories were many knowledgeable wizards would attempt it after years of study only to destroy themselves and their villages. The quest to acquire the coveted art claimed so many lives over the years that the Ministry banned its usage several centuries ago. It was simply too dangerous.

And yet Janus had successfully formed a seal without any hesitation. This feat alone told great lengths about the man’s hidden skills.

Harry’s eyes flashed wide with alarm as Janus’ hands began moving again speedily, transitioning from one seemingly meaningless gesture to another until they flowed together into one continual motion. Harry knew a little about seals, but not enough to begin to guess what manner of attack Janus was preparing. There was no need to. Janus ended the incantation with an ancient word that rang with the magic power it contained, and the next instant a trio of fireballs materialized in thin air and shot towards Harry.

Harry’s wand slashed wildly ahead of him, conjuring a shield to deflect the blast. The first fireball exploded against the magical barrier, spraying fire across its invisible surface, and the second went wide, streaking into the sky. The third, however, crashed at Harry’s feet, sending fragments of burning rock ripping at his unprotected legs.

”Damn!” Harry muttered. His wand swished expertly in the air and a strong gust of wind shot out from the end of its tip, blasting away the flaming shrapnel back towards it creator. Janus smiled and carefully ducked under the scorching missile.

Harry backed away from the Death Eater. This was all happening too quickly. First he had discovered that Janus was a wizard, and know he was learning that his former friend was incredibly strong as well. Harry had thrown himself into this fray unprepared, confident that his anger would overwhelm any opponent, but now that would change. Slowly, he shed his outer cloak so that he was standing only in his black leggings and tunic, and then he removed his second wand.

“Impressive.” Harry heard Janus whisper. “Not many have mastered the arts of duel wielding.”

Harry ignored his comment and twirled both wands, holding one high across his face and the other low near his waist. Though he was an expert in the art of duel wielding, he seldom practiced it as it required a great deal of energy and concentration. Only when it was absolutely necessary would he bring it into play. If he wanted to secure a victory over the white-haired Death Eater, he would have to give it his all.

Moving in slowly, Harry approached Janus. The albino wizard did not react at all, so Harry lunged, bringing in his right wand in a vicious arc at Janus’ head. Without waiting to see if it landed, Harry was already moving into the second stroke, whipping himself around and slashing with the left wand at Janus’ midsection. Like a dancer going through a routine, Harry’s wands struck with equal precision and speed. The blows came in swiftly from all angles, blazing multicolored light, in an unpredictable pattern unknown to all aside from Harry. Against any other wizard in England, the onslaught should have quickly overwhelmed them. But through sheer luck, talent, or foresight, the Irish Death Eater stood his ground, dodging every single one of Harry’s relentless strikes.

Letting his impatience get the better of him, Harry did not back off and reanalyze his strategy but instead charged back in, letting his wands do his thinking for him. Time and time again, a curse would come so close to touching the Death Eater, but each time Janus would miraculously bend or weave just the right way to avoid death. Harry did not know how the Irishman was doing this, constantly staying one step ahead of the tapestry of death he created. He just could not hit the bastard no matter how hard he tried.

“Damn you, Janus!” Harry yelled.

Janus just smiled in the face of his former friend’s rage.

---

Janus was impressed, honestly impressed by the range of skill that the young Potter boy exhibited. No wizard as young as he should not be able to wield two wands simultaneously for so long nor should they be able to command the level of spells that Harry so freely cast at him. His form of dueling was flawless as well, derived from the art that James had shared with his friend Sirius Black. It was swift and deadly, and the boy controlled it beautifully at such a young age. Surely this boy was James’ son. It was a shame that Janus needed to end the boy’s life. Harry’s potential was so great that Janus had no doubt in his mind that Harry would one day grow into a very powerful wizard.

But that was not to be. Harry Potter had to die.

Janus calmly stripped off the upper portion of his robe, leaving him only clad in a pair of black, loose fitting leggings. He smiled faintly at the look of justified revulsion on Harry’s face as the younger man gazed upon his torso. While lithe and muscular, it was not a beautiful thing to behold. It was redolent with countless scars, each more horrendous than the one before it. Janus, however, was not ashamed of them. Each scar on his body was a testimony to a battle that he had earned from battles where he had survived and his foes had not. They were as much apart of him as was the power that dwelled within him, the cursed magic that had dictated his fate from childhood until this very moment.

For five blissful years Janus thought he had escaped from his past of gratuitous bloodshed and death, but now he saw he had only been fooling himself. He had tried to hide from the assassin that lurked beneath the surface, his true nature, and his best friend had almost ended paying for Janus’ stupidity with his life. Painted in blood, Janus’ fate was clear. He had killed before, and now he would kill once last time. It was inevitable. He was what he was, and nothing could ever change that. Once a Death Eater…always a Death Eater.

“My turn,” Janus said.

---

Harry blinked and almost missed it. One second the Irishman was standing across the path, the next he had disappeared, streaking towards Harry in an untraceable blur of color. Janus suddenly reappeared right in Harry’s face, his fist thrusting right at Harry’s face. Harry quickly dispelled his surprise and sidestepped around it, but before he could retaliate, another fist rocketed towards his chest.

This time a gasp of amazement escaped Harry’s lips as he took a step back, his wand weaving in coordination with words flowing from his lips. The ground shook and a thick concrete wall exploded from the dirt to guard himself from the Death Eater’s attack. It was not good enough. Janus’ fist plowed through the barrier as if it didn’t exist, giving Harry only a split second to move out of the way before it shot past in a hailstorm of torn rock. Using the debris as a cover, Harry spun away, flinging a string of curses blindly into it to keep Janus from pursuing.

Can’t let him hit me, Harry thought, fighting for breath. A single blow will kill me. But why?

“What the hell are you?” Harry asked between giant gulps of air.

The placid smile did not waver from Janus’ face. “Have you wondered why I don’t use a wand, Harry?”

“Why?”

Janus presented his hands towards Harry and only then did he see the black paintings on his arms. A closer look revealed that they were not paintings, but long, intricate strings of ancient text written in artistic calligraphy. They were runes, Harry realized, runes of suppression and sealing. A thought dawned on Harry.

“They keep your magic in,” Harry murmured.

“Correct,” Janus told him. “I can suppress my powers on command whenever I wish which was why you and young Granger could not detect my true nature until now. In addition, they allow me to manipulate my magic however I wish. With a simple thought, I can make it resonate from my hands and feet, giving me the ability to hit harder and move faster than any wizard could ever dream of.”

“You’re a freak!” Harry snarled. He used his anger to disguise the fear growing within him. Janus was indeed incredibly fast and a master in unarmed combat. While Harry had a little training in it, he would not be able to stand toe-to-toe with an expert for long especially since Janus could channel magic through his fists and feet.

Janus charged forward again, launching a wave of swift deadly kicks and punches that Harry knew he could not counter. Instead, he swished his wand, conjuring a magical shield that he hoped would absorb the force of the blows. It deflected the first punch, but the second was enough to shatter it, sending Harry reeling backwards, fighting desperately to ward off the barrage of attacks. Janus’ leg streaked from the corner of his vision, and Harry was forced to clumsily throw himself backwards to avoid it.

He hit the ground hard, rolling back onto his feet in one smooth motion and grinned. Janus was fast all right, but he could still keep up with him. Just as he thought that though, his vision began to wane. The world shifted, back and forth, and before he could stop himself, he vomited violently, spewing forth blood. Confused, Harry collapsed to his knees, stifling the flow of blood that seeped from his lips with his hands.

What the hell? I blocked his attacks…didn’t I?

He tried to stand, but his entire body screamed in protest. Tottering unsteadily on his feet, he gingerly touched his torso, and a sharp stab of pain from his ribs reported that at least a few had been broken. Blocking or deflecting the blows weren’t enough it seemed. The aura of the powerful magic that radiated from Janus’ hands and feet could still cause tremendous damage even if they didn’t make direct contact.

Can’t even let the bastard get close to touching me…but how?

Suddenly, Janus leaped back several yards away, surprising Harry who had been anticipating another attack. This might have been a prime opportunity to launch another offensive, but he was too weary to move much less attack. Instead, he watched as the Irishman extended his arm until his palm pressed flat against the ground. In a hushed whisper, Janus began whispering words so intricate and complex that Harry realized they could only belong to an incantation of immense potency. Most of them were ancient, and a few Harry recognized were forbidden words of magic that wizards of old had branded too destructive to utter. Icy cold dread formed in his veins, creeping up his spine as he watched the spell progress.

Blue flames leaped to Janus right palm, but it wasn’t the normal fire that burned when he released his powers. This time the flames intensified until sparks danced wildly from the burning pyre, but even then it was only the beginning. The sparks evolved into bolts of crackling electricity that wrapped around his palm, hissing and snapping as they grew larger and larger, dancing up and down his right arm.

“Let’s end this,” Janus said.

---

Author’s Notes:
Sorry it took so long to finish this chapter. I’ve been lazy I know and I haven’t been all that motivated to write right now. I know it’s probably hard for Trust and Betrayal to pick up new readers because it’s grown to be so large (only four more chapters!) but I hope that everyone who reads this drops a review of some sort. I don’t mind short ones, I just need some affirmation that people are still reading.

23. Betrayal (Part X: Flames of the Phoenix)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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.

Betrayal
Part X: Flames of the Phoenix

“You’re dead, Harry.” Janus whispered softly to the shaking young boy clinging desperately to him. Janus was surprised the Order assassin still drew breath, still held so obstinately on to the sliver of life that he still had. Countless skilled wizards Janus had flawlessly killed with his most sacred technique, yet the boy continued to live. It would not be for too much longer though, no matter how powerful Harry might be. Janus’ technique had never failed to kill –the Slayer’s death was inevitable.

Blood was everywhere, soaking both men’s robes. The boy had done a fine job dodging Janus’ attacks up until then, but against the lightening fast speed of his flaming fist, he had no chance at all. Harry never saw the blow coming, and probably felt little pain as Janus’ fist tore through his chest and exited out through his back in an explosion of blue fire and spraying blood. Instinctively, Harry’s trembling hands shot out and grasped Janus, his eyes wide with shock from the mortal blow. He tried to say something, but nothing came out except for the steady stream of blood that seeped from his open mouth.

“Just lie down,” Janus said into his ear as he laid the boy down on the ground. “Close your eyes and sleep.”

But Harry would not die. His breath came as rasp shallow gasps for air, and a crimson stream flowed from the gaping hole in his chest, but he struggled to rise. His hands flailed futilely for his dropped wands, and Janus did not stop him. The shock from the massive wound had probably blinded the young assassin, and it would only be a matter of time before death claimed him. Janus admired the young assassin’s determination. He picked up Harry’s wand and placed it gently in his hands, happy to oblige the dying wish of such a formidable opponent.

With genuine sorrow, Janus said, “I’m sorry about this, Harry, I truly am. But please, do us all a favor now and just die.”

--

Just die…

Harry was surrounded by darkness. It was everywhere, stretching on into an endless abyss of gaping nothingness. While his eyes could not see anything, in the distance he could hear voices, human voices, permeating the void. He reached out but felt nothing even though he could hear the voices so clearly. It was as if an intangible wall separated him from the rest of the world, trapping him in this maw of eternal night.

Please, do us all a favor and die…

It was Janus’ voice.

Janus. Harry could not remember much. The last thing he recalled was the electricity glowing on the Death Eater’s hand, and then he found himself in this new dimension, whatever it was. He looked around, searching for a doorway of some sort that would transport him back to his world so he could resume his battle with Janus. He would kill the Irishman and hurry to make up for lost time in hunting down Hermione. But first he had to figure out how to get out of here…

“Welcome, Slayer.”

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, piercing through the veil of darkness. It echoed around the empty realm, booming loudly in Harry’s ears.

“Who is there?” Harry demanded. “What do you want from me?”

“Who I am,” The voice replied, “Is of no consequence. What I want from you is to decide.”

“Decide?”

“You stand on the doorway to death, young Potter. You have been all but slain by Janus O’Meara. Your life force is waning, and soon all connection you have with the real world shall be severed forever.”

“What must I do to return?” asked Harry desperately. He could not die here. Not yet. Not until his revenge was complete.

“Decide.”

“What the hell do you mean decide?” bellowed the assassin angrily. “Decide what?”

“Decide how much you wish to live. You are a pathetic creature, Harry Potter, a man existing for only one purpose which is revenge. You’re life has no meaning aside for the single moment of retribution that you crave.”

”I can not allow this betrayal to lie!” yelled Harry.

The voice adopted what Harry could only guess was a sardonic tone. “Betrayal –for that you wish to toss away everything, every joy that you had never experienced until you met the woman you loved. You are a traitor to England, Harry, by the law’s perspective and that is all life is: perspective.”

“She’s a traitor. I loved Hermione…yes. But now that love is gone.”

“Why?”

“Because she sides with my enemy. How can I love my enemy?”

“She loves you.”

“No she doesn’t.”

A booming laughter filled the darkness. “You assume to tell me what I do or do not know? But then, you have always been arrogant. It is one of your greatest attributes…and weaknesses. That self assurance that everything you think is right. Tell me, Harry, why do you think she hates you?”

”I killed her fiancée.”

“Ah, yes, Theodon Locke. You killed him. It is done. She has forgiven you for your sin, but you can not bring yourself to accept this. You can not comprehend the limitless forgiving nature of love. You are so sure that you do not deserve this mercy that you convince yourself that she hates you just so you can gain some sense of understanding. ”

”Shut up!” Harry screamed.

“You can’t stand the idea of her hating you because you loved her so.”

“Shut up!”

“So you deny your love…and turn to the only thing you have left.”

”Shut up!”

“Your hate.”

“You don’t know anything about me! Hermione lied to me. She lied to me about everything including her feelings for me! She tried to have me killed!”

The voice sighed.

“Just let me leave so that I can do what I must.” Harry said.

“Is that your decision? The road you choose to walk is not one without consequence.”

“I am certain.” replied Harry. “What must I do?”

In response, the darkness shimmered, and suddenly before him a unicorn appeared. It was a beautiful creature with white hair that glowed, dispersing the shadows. It trotted over to Harry and nuzzled its soft, warm nose against Harry’s face. The touch of such a miraculous beast sent shivers down Harry’s spine, and involuntarily his anger drained away. He could not help but feel a fond adoration for the creature, and unconsciously he reached down to stroke its silky man.

“Kill it.” The voice said.

“What?” Harry asked in horror.

“Slay it with your knife

Harry glanced down and saw that indeed a blade had somehow appeared in his hands. He wanted to toss it aside in revulsion, disgusted by the idea of killing the innocent beast. “Why? It has done nothing!”

“That is the only way you can return to seek your revenge. Kill the unicorn and drink its blood! Only that can save you now!”

“No!”

“Then you’re desire for vengeance must not be as strong as I thought.”

“But…”

“Decide!”

Harry hesitated and took turns looking at the ornamental dagger in his hand and the unicorn. He could not fathom what kind of sadistic entity tested him like this, but for some reason he did not believe any deceit was present. If the death of this poor creature could purchase his return to the realm of the living…could he do it? Would he sacrifice one life so that he could attain his justice?

I can not die until I’ve seen Hermione again…

I can not die until I’ve avenged my parents…

I can not die until I’ve avenged myself…

Revenge is the only thing that matters…

I will do anything for it…

Because until it is achieved I will not know peace…

I have no choice…

I can not die…not yet…

I must kill…

Before he even realized what he was doing, the dagger plunged into the unicorn’s neck with a sickening sound of muscle and flesh tearing. The unicorn reared up in alarm, shrieking in terror and agony as blood gushed from the deep cut.

Kill! Kill! Kill!

The knife landed again and again, splattering blood with each stroke. He slashed at the helpless beast, deafened to its cries of pain by the haze of rage and hate that engulfed him. He continued to brutally stab the once beautiful creature until its moans finally subsided and its struggling stopped. With a primal cry, Harry tossed aside the knife and without hesitation plunged his mouth into the bleeding unicorn carcass, greedily drinking the blood that flowed from the dozens of ghastly wounds. He drank, lapping up the crimson flow of the innocent, uncaringly, until he could drink no more. Whipping back his head, he glared into the darkness, blood dripping from his mouth like a savage animal.

“I have done it!” He screamed into the night.

The voice sounded sad when he spoke again. “So you have.”

---

Janus had begun to walk away from Harry’s body when he heard the words. It was barely more than an audible whisper, a faint breath that formed the fading cry of “Avada Kedavara!” Regardless, the Irishman reacted instinctively and threw himself to the side and barely missed being struck by the flash of green light that tore inches over his head. He landed in a roll and sprang back to his feet, more than a little surprised to see Harry sitting up, wand pointed menacingly at him.

Janus’s red eyes widened his surprise…no utter shock. He had reserved that technique for the finishing blow. It centralized all of the user’s magical energy into their right arm, creating an unstoppable blade-like attack that was capable of cutting through anything. Bone, flesh –anything it touched was instantly annihilated. Its initial failure to instantly kill Harry had been mildly interesting, but there was no way anyone could have suffered its killing prowess and lived to tell about it. No one could have survived being struck by it, no one, not even Harry Potter.

“I promised you…” Harry said, his voice low and threatening. “I would kill you!”

He should be dead, much less able to stand. Janus thought in wonderment.

Suddenly, flames sprang around Harry, as if his body had caught aflame. Fascinated, Janus watched as the flames wrapped around Harry’s torso, swirling up and down his arms and legs, growing larger as if feasting on Harry’s flesh. But the assassin appeared unscathed by the flames; he acted as if he was completely oblivious to them. His eyes were locked on Janus, blazing with fury as hot as the inferno that encircled him.

The flames abruptly stopped their dance, and began to rescind into Harry’s body. As they returned to Harry, Janus noticed flesh started to reform where his attack had rent them open. Wounds melted together as if they’d never been inflicted, and bones and muscle magically mended back together in an instant. When the last of the fire had died away, Harry emerged from the smoldering embers completely unharmed.

Then it dawned on Janus, and an impressed smile formed on his face. “The Flame of the Phoenix technique. Simply amazing.” He said, clapping his hands together.

The Flame of the Phoenix technique was a skill as ancient as the world itself, but since its creation by the earliest of wizards only a handful had ever used it, and none mastered its power. When triggered, it would rescue the user from any injury no matter how dire, enveloping them in its healing fire. No one had ever learned how to use it on command, and it was said that only the most powerful wizards could ever hope of summoning its powers, and then only unconsciously and purely by chance.

While incredibly useful and rare, Janus knew of its major flaw. The technique could heal any wound, but the users magical energy was the price paid to fuel the remedial flames. The user might survive a fatal blow, but they would be left incredibly weak. And if they did not have any energy to capitalize on the sudden turn in fate and change defeat into victory, then it would do them absolutely no good.

“You are as powerful as James…maybe even stronger.” Janus remarked. He looked at Harry and saw that his theory on the Flame of the Phoenix technique was indeed correct. The younger assassin looked exhausted, as if just remaining standing was requiring all of his concentration.

“Shut up about my father, Janus, you traitorous bastard!” Harry yelled. “That’s right, a traitor, that’s all you are, you scum. You were my friend and know what Hermione has done to me, and yet you still protect her!”

“I have no choice, Harry. I must do this.”

“Why?”

“Because I am what I am, Harry, and you are what you are. Assassins. Killers. We are wolves, Harry, predators. And for that reason we are born to fight. We are born for only one purpose, to kill and to die.”

“I didn’t want to be a killer anymore!” Harry almost screamed in frustration. “I wanted to live with Hermione and be happy! I thought I had found purpose here!”

Janus shook his head pityingly. “It is an illusion, Harry. We are to never know love or happiness. That is our curse, our fate. I thought I could escape from that life of bloodshed…and no my foolishness endangers the lives of everyone in this village.”

“We were friends, Janus! Friends! Friends do not do this!”

The albino Death Eater was silent for a moment. “Yes, you were my friend, Harry, just as your father was mine also. But like I said, I have no choice in the matter. I never have; I never will.”

“We always have a choice, Janus. Whether or not you want to make it is up to you. How long are you going to let yourself be manipulated and used? You are smarter than that, Janus. Open your eyes.”

The Irishman frowned. “I am sorry, Harry. I truly am. But I’m a Death Eater, obliged to follow orders until death.”

“Then I can not save you.” Was all Harry replied.

“Let’s end this,” Said Janus. He placed his palm on the ground again, and within moments the same electricity blazed brightly on his arm. Harry nodded and crouched down into a dueling stance, his wand ready to strike. He had no illusion that he could beat the Irishman’s speed, but he was desperate and ready to try anything. He would not hold anything back.

“Good bye, Harry.”

“Good bye, Janus.”

---

This is it…I’m going to die…

With a wordless scream, Harry charged forward, rushing forward to meet Janus. His eyes closed, and time seemed to drag to a crawl. Each step towards his enemy…no his friend lasted for an eternity. The thud of each footstep resounded thunderously in his head.

I won’t be able to avenge you mother and father…

I won’t be able to avenge you Ron…

I’m sorry…

He never remembered forming the words for a deadly cutting curse, nor did he recall his arms moving to perform the spell. He must have, because he heard his voice cry out the incantation. Yet, it seemed so unreal. So distant…as if none of this was happening at all. As if this was all some terrible nightmare that would be dispersed when…

…He opened his eyes. Something warm splashed across his face and onto his chest. He felt no pain. He felt nothing…nothing at all. His hands touched his body, searching for a wound, but they discovered none. The blood was not his own. .

Harry turned around just in time to see the Irishman stumble to the ground. He was holding his stomach, his fingers vainly trying to staunch the flow of blood that spilled between to stain the earth. He did not try to rise, content to lay there in crimson river pooling beneath his body. Slowly, hesitantly, Harry walked over and kneeled beside Janus.

“You’re faster than I thought…” Janus whispered weakly. Already whatever blood that his pale face once had was quickly draining, but despite that he managed a shaky laugh.

“Don’t try to lie to me, Janus.” Harry responded, almost angrily. “We both know I couldn’t beat you.”

“Yeah…yeah, I know…”

“Then how-“ Harry glanced at Janus and saw the humorous twinkle in the other man’s red eyes. Suddenly, Harry understood. “You didn’t even attack. You didn’t even try.”

“Smart boy.”

“I don’t understand…” The young assassin said confused. “You said…you said you had to kill me. That you had no choice.”

Janus chuckled. “I’ve never made a choice in the past, foolishly resigning myself to the will of others. I’ve always been a pawn for others…but you were right, Harry, you were so right. A pawn can also become a queen, free to make any choice. Whether to live or not, to give you the opportunity I denied your parents –that was my decision, and I finally made it.”

“Why are you letting me live? Why are you dying for me, Janus?” Harry demanded. “Why?”

The dying Death Eater shrugged. “Maybe it’s because I feel guilty about killing your parents. Maybe it’s because deep down inside I hate the Death Eaters. Maybe it’s because I really do like you Harry. Or maybe…” He grinned boyishly. “Or maybe it’s just because I can.”

“You idiot,” Harry muttered. He was confused. He had wanted to kill Janus, but suddenly his hate for the Irishman had dissipated as quickly as it had arisen. He could not bring himself to be angry at his friend. “You told me people don’t deserve what they don’t earn.”

“I’m a murderer, Harry. Being a hypocrite doesn’t make me any worse of a man, does it?” The Death Eater asked. He coughed violently, spewing forth more blood.

“It’s time for you to go,” The Irishman said. He reached into the pocket of his leggings and removed a scroll identical to the one Harry had seen Draco use. He unfurled it and wiped some of his own blood on it. “It’ll get you to London. What you choose do from there is entirely up to you. I made my choice; now it’s time for you to make yours.”

Harry said nothing as he accepted the scroll, staring at his dying friend. “I’m sorry, Janus.”

“For what?” The Death Eater scoffed. “I’m a killer –this is my fate.”

“No one deserves to die this way.”

“All wolves deserve to die this way.” Janus replied. “I couldn’t change who I was…but maybe you can.”

“I don’t think so, Janus. You know what I have to do next”

“Yeah, I know.”

Harry gripped the scroll tightly, trying to fight back the tears that welled in his eyes. The older man noticed them. “Shed no tears for me, Harry.” He said. “I’m dying not because you killed me…I’m dying because I chose to. Because you were my friend. Now go, get out of here.”

“But…we can still get you a healer, someone to…”

”It’s time for you to go.” Janus interrupted lightly. “Please…go.”

Harry nodded and turned away, biting his lip and screwing his eyes tightly to hide his sadness. He held the scroll out and quickly whispered the incantation. Immediately, a wall of blue light formed around him, and through it he looked at Janus for the last time.

“Goodbye, my friend.” He whispered.

---

Janus was dying. Already the world was growing dimmer and dimmer, and soon the soothing blanket of death would completely consume him. He might have been able to conjure some spell to heal his wound, but frankly even if he could he did not want to. It was best for him to die…to make his death mean something. He would die like he always wanted to, in a blaze of glory, sacrificing his life for a greater purpose. He would die helping a friend, something he should have done a long time ago.

“Please forgive me, James and Lilly.” Janus whispered to the air. With any luck he might see them again soon and be able to beg their forgiveness in person. He hoped they would. He hoped his helping their son would grant him some redemption. He glanced around at the forest and his thoughts traveled to the Fisherman’s Village where his friends were wondering where he had gone. When he died, the Death Eaters would have no business with the village He hoped they would be all right. His only regret was that he had not said goodbye to them…especially Patrick.

With shaking hands he removed a cigarette from his pant’s pocket, lit it, and stuck it between his teeth. He let the smoke sooth his nerves, relaxing him for the journey into the great unknown.

He took a long drag from his cigarette. All alone, no one saw it fall from his lips.

---

Authors Notes:
Wow. First off, I want to thank you all for the huge amount of reviews I received for the last chapter. I apologize if it sounded like some desperate plea for attention; it wasn’t meant to be that way. I honestly just wanted to get some idea of how many people were still reading. From the large response, I gather Trust and Betrayal still has a large audience, and that pleased me so much I hastened to finish chapter ten. Thanks again.

This chapter was hard to write as it signaled the death of my only original character (Janus) and the complete transformation of Harry from assassin to gentle lover back to assassin. I hoped I handled it OK without dipping too far in the pool of angst clichés. It’s been in production since the beginning of Part II (which was several months ago) and has gone through many drafts. I think this final one is draft seven or eight I think.

Once again, I thank you very much for your reviews. I’ll try to get back to some of them soon.

24. Betrayal (Part XI: One Final Request)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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.

Betrayal

Part XI: One Final Request

Icy cold wind nips at my exposed skin, like a saw tearing its rusting blades into my flesh. The torn robes that barely cover my nakedness prove inadequate to keep the bitter chill at bay as I awake, shivering on the rough cobblestone of some nameless road in London. Waves of nausea hit me as I regain consciousness, the kind of nausea that eats away at your gut and shoves bile up through your throat and into your mouth so you can taste it. My head spins like I had downed one drink too many; the inevitable after effects of magically teleporting hundreds of miles in the space of a few seconds. Just thinking of it makes me feel dizzy, and it takes everything in me to keep from retching on the ground. Painfully, every muscle in my body screaming loudly in argument, I rose to my feet and unsteadily lean against a nearby wall to keep from toppling over. One step at a time, I make my way out of the gloom of an isolated alley and into the city beyond. Loud noises assault my ears. The clangor of machines, the footsteps of pedestrians –the raucous ambiance of London is a jarring awakening, an unpleasant welcome to the reality of the world.

My head is not working right. I’m seeing doubles, phantoms dancing on the edge of my vision, taunting me for my failures with devious smiles and malicious laughter. As I stumble down these forsaken streets, people stare, horrified by the bloody monster that lurks down the paths of the civilization. I don’t have the energy to care; sleep calls to me with promises of its warm embrace, but foolishly I deny with fervor born of purpose. The rancid stench of blood, Janus’ blood, that imbues my cloak reminds me why I’m back in London and not standing at the gates of death. A lamb of sacrifice had earned me this opportunity, selflessly granting me what I did not deserve. I will not let Janus down.

A knot forms in my throat at the thought of the former Death Eater, a knot of guilt and regret. Tears blur my vision, and a muted sob demands exit from my lips. I mourn the man I killed, and I can not understand why. It eludes me. Because of his betrayal my parents are a mystery to me. Because of his betrayal I now hunt for the blood of my lover…

Because of his friendship…I’m alive.

I take another step when my left leg gives out. Too weary to even break my fall, my head slams into the uncaring concrete, and a chorus of bells echo inside my skull. I lie there for a long time, too exhausted to even move myself out of a pool of my own blood. Darkness hovers at the corner of my eyes, seductively offering an escape from my pain. A shake of my head and the darkness rescinds, but only for a moment. It will return. Like a bad galleon, it’ll always come back.

I want nothing more than to storm the gates of the Ministry of Magic single handedly and find the bitch that has tormented me with her lies of love and loyalty. My hands crave to wrap themselves around her neck, to squeeze the living breath out of her traitorous mouth, but fortunately my mind has cleared enough to realize that this possibility is not in the cards at the moment. The Flames of the Phoenix technique might have repaired my shattered body, but it had also drained whatever energy I still had. I’m a walking corpse right now, useless to everyone until I get some rest.

My eyes close, and darkness engulfs me. When they open, the smog filled skies are replaced with a young face. A woman’s face, pretty with red curly locks that poke from under the cowl of her robes. I’ve seen the face somewhere before, but it’s a scrap lost in the archive of my memories, and I can’t recall where. She knows me, and she kneels down and gently touches my face.

“Harry! Harry!” She whispers. Her eyes dart back and forth, full of fear and undisguised nervousness like she’s expecting Aurors and Death Eaters to appear at any moment. “We need to get you out of here!”

An understatement, but I’m in no condition to say so. My legs won’t respond and all I can do is bleed and stare at her, unable to help as she tries her best to lift me with her small arms. I want to tell her to leave me before the authorities get wise of the maniac that roams their streets craving blood, but the words die in my throat. As much as I hate to drag her into the mess I’ve caused she is my only hope right now. Lady luck is a real fickle friend, spontaneous and unpredictable One minute she’s screwing you over, and the next she’s the paragon of generosity. The girl’s comrade arrives from nowhere, an angelic savior, and together they carry me.

I can no longer contain the darkness. As it eclipses my sight, the girl’s voice reaches my ears, and I hear the first bit of good news all day.

“You’re in safe hands, Harry. We’re taking you in.”

---

Harry awoke to a world of white. It took him a moment to realize it came from a dozen brightly burning lanterns that hovered above his head. He was in a bed, a clean white sheet pulled protectively over him, and thin tubes that lead from jars of green potions were plugged into his arms. His mind filled in the blanks and concluded that he must be in a hospital, not Saint Mungo’s or any hospital affiliated with the Ministry, but an Order headquarters’. None of the other bunks were filled, but he could hear activity of passing nurses and healers on the other side of a nearby door.

So the Order of the Phoenix was still active. That was good. Whether or not they were winning or losing the war remained to be determined. The door opened, and in stepped a young woman dressed in robes of white with the insignia of a healing witch clearly displayed on her sleeve.

“You’re awake,” The young healer said smiling pleasantly. It was a pretty face with eyes that bespoke of her obvious Asian heritage –a race of wizards and witches that hailed from the eastern regions of the world -and Harry was glad he recognized it.

“Hello, Cho.” Harry said. He glanced beneath the covers of his bed to make sure he was decent, and was pleased to see he was dressed in a pair of white robes. He slowly sat up, careful not to disturb the lines that fed potions into his weak body. “It’s good to see you again.”

Cho Chang had a smile that seemed to light up the entire room. She placed a tray of food beside Harry’s bed and sat herself by his feet. “It’s been nearly two years since I last saw you, Potter, and that is all you have to say?”

“Yes.” Harry replied simply.

Cho chuckled. She had only been teasing. Dumbledore had briefed her on Harry’s situation and she had not been expecting him to be open to jest quite yet. If the reports and rumors that were circulating around headquarters like wild fires were true, Cho was surprised Harry’s psyche was entirely unhinged already. She couldn’t even imagine the trauma that he must be going through. “I’m sorry to hear about Hermione.” She said quietly.

The reaction was unexpected and violent. Harry’s eyes sprang open, and before Cho could react he reached forward and roughly grabbed her by her lapel. The tray of food was knocked aside and clattered on the floor, and bottles of potions toppled over and shattered on the floor as Harry pulled her face close to his. Cho was too scared to resist and could only stare into the wells of anger that had formed in Harry’s eyes.

”Don’t say her name again.” He snarled.

“Harry, that’s enough.” A gentle voice said. Harry’s head whipped around and spotted Albus Dumbledore standing framed in the door way. Harry blinked, and his rage subsided, leaving only shame in its place. Embarrassed, he muttered an apology and released Cho.

“That’s enough Miss Chang,” Dumbledore said. Cho nodded and hastily retreated from the room. The aged wizard crossed the room and stopped beside Harry’s bed.

“I’m sorry about that, sir.” Harry said. “I’m not sure what came over me.”

“It is understandable considering what you’ve gone through. I’m sure Miss Chang understands.” Dumbledore replied with a reassuring smile. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Potter.”

“I’m afraid I could not fulfill my orders.” The assassin reported monotonously.

Dumbledore sighed. “Forget the orders for a moment, Harry. I’m more worried about you right now. Please, tell me, what has happened since you left London?”

Over the next fifteen minutes, Harry related him the story, leaving out no details from the moment him and Hermione had fled London to the moment Janus died. Dumbledore listened attentively, never interrupting until Harry was content that he was finished.

“…and then I was picked up by Order agents and brought here.” Harry concluded.

“Is that all?” Dumbledore inquired.

“I believe so yes.”

“I was afraid of this.” Dumbledore told Harry. His face was grave, and there was no hint of the usual friendliness that usually resided. “The Order has not one traitor, but two.”

“Two? What are you talking about?”

“You say that Peter Pettigrew contacted you and gave you orders to kill Hermione?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Harry, I never sent Peter to you. All this time I have not fully trusted him, but now your story confirms my worst fears. Peter Pettigrew was the mole in the Order. He’s been leaking information from our meetings to the Death Eaters all this time.”

”Peter?” Harry exclaimed. “What about Hermione?”

“She was his accomplice.”

It took a few moments for Harry to master his anger, to keep him from impulsively smashing something like his mind craved. It all made sense now, and once again Harry was enraged that he did not see through Peter’s duplicity earlier. He had been so obtuse to think he could trust a worm like Pettigrew, and his failure was catching up with him now. That would change. That would change very soon. Mentally, Harry added another name to the steadily growing list of people he needed to kill before he was satisfied.

“They orchestrated the ambush on the Three Broomsticks and on Yale’s faction,” Harry logically concluded. A sad nod from Dumbledore confirmed his guess. “I see. What must I do now?”

Harry saw the hesitation on Dumbledore’s face, the voiceless conflict raging in the old wizard’s mind, and this irritated Harry. Dumbledore thought he was too weak to still fight, that his emotions for Hermione had dulled the deadly blade that he once was. Costly mistakes had been made because of the woman Harry thought he had loved, but those would be atoned for with her death.

Revenge must be satisfied, and only blood can do that.

Casting aside his sheets, Harry tore the remaining lines from his arms and slowly climbed out of bed. Though he stood a foot and a half shorter than the leader of the Order, his green eyes firmly matched Dumbledores’, telegraphing his resolute vow for retribution.

“I will kill, Hermione.” Harry promised.

However, Dumbledore did not smile in response. Sorrow filled the old wizard’s blue eyes, and when he spoke the reluctance was obvious. “Her betrayal can not go unpunished.” He agreed.

“What must I do?”

“Something big is being planned a few hours from now, Harry, something that might prove to be a turning point in this war. For the last several months, ever since the attack, the Order has been campaigning for support from Yale’s faction without success. They fear that raid has crippled us, and will not join us until we’ve proven otherwise. Yale’s faction alone is several thousand wizards strong, enough to give us an advantage over the Death Eaters and Aurors.”

“What do you have in mind?” Harry asked, fascinated. Only an hour ago he had feared that the Order would be on its last leg, but now…Could the war truly be so close to an end?

“Our spies within the Ministry have smuggled us several maps of the compound.” Dumbledore explained, reaching into his robes and producing a sheet of parchment. He handed it to Harry. “In approximately three hours, that is 0300 hours; four squads of Order soldiers will storm it and attempt to assassinate the Minister of Magic. Either the death of the Ministry’s leader or an attack that will evidence the Order’s true strength will convince the Northern faction to side with us once again.”

“You want me to assist in the attack,” Harry said. He glanced at the parchment. Outlined on it were blue prints for the compound, weak locations in the walls, and even the patrol route for the guards. For years the Order had desired to launch a raid on the Ministry, to humiliate the elitists and show them the Order was not to be taken lightly, but the large presence of Aurors had vetoed any such idea in the past. But now, if the map was true, a swift night time raid would be more than possible.

“Partially.”

Harry looked up and wrinkled an eyebrow. “I thought-“

Dumbledore cut Harry off. “I have on final request of you, Harry. I want you to lead Lion squad on the south gate. Badger, Serpent, and Raven squads will be taking care of the other gates. But while they’re objectives are to locate the Minister Fudge, Lion squad will assist you in locating Hermione Granger.”

“Hermione is Fudge’s granddaughter. Won’t they be together?” Harry wondered.

“The Aurors will try to split them up for security reasons,” Dumbledore assured the assassin. “Now-“

The sound of the door opening interrupted Dumbeldore.

“Excuse me, Dumbledore, sir?” A calm sort of fatigued, sad voice came from behind the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, and Dumbledore stepped aside to reveal a man in black robes. He was many years senior to Harry with black hair speckled with traces of gray, but his face possessed a weariness that belonged on a much older man. Dark shadows under his eyes marred his otherwise comely features, and Harry could not shake the impression that the newcomer might drop dead at any moment.

“Ah, Remus, thank you for joining us,” Dumbledore welcomed the man warmly. “Harry, this is Remus Lupin, commander of Raven squad. He’ll be coordinating the assault with you.”

Remus extended a hand, and Harry was surprised to find his grip strong and healthy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry. I knew your father, James, and I assure you he’d be very proud of you.”

Another of his father’s old friends. Harry wondered how many more he would run into before the week was done. “Time shall tell.”

Remus smiled faintly and then, to Dumbledore, he reported, “All members of Raven squad have reported in, sir. We are ready for battle.”

“Thank you, Remus. That will be all.” Dumbledore replied.

Harry waited until the door closed behind Raven squad’s commander before asking, “Is he up for the task?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Don’t worry about Remus. He gets a bit peaky around the full moon, I’m afraid. Couldn’t ask for a better squad commander mind you. We still have a few more hours before we depart so I suggest you use it to rest.”

“I have questions I need to ask you.” Harry said.

“They can wait.” Dumbledore replied. He held up a hand to cut short Harry’s interjection. “They can wait, Harry. For now, I insist that you gain your strength. You’ll need it for tonight.”

---

The few hours of sleep Harry had managed while unconscious and in the sick bay, and the potions of energy replenishment had fully rejuvenated the young assassin. A quick bath had cleansed him of the stench of blood and sweat, and a little food and water had helped clear his muddled mind. Now he was in the Order’s armory collecting the last of what he needed before embarking on his mission. Garbed in a new set of black robes, he sat at a table and studied his wands, carefully polishing them.

He did not know how Dumbledore had retrieved them. Harry was certain they were lost during his battle with Janus, but the older wizard had handed them to him in the sick bay without an explanation. Amazed, Harry had gratefully accepted them. It took sometimes days to find the right wand for a wizard, and Harry had not been looking forward to going through the arduous process again.

The doorway to the armory opened and closed, but Harry did not look up from his work. He knew who it was from the footsteps he had heard coming down the hallway. Each person’s stride was different and could be distinguished with enough practice, but identifying the rhythm of a man whom he had spent fifteen years of his life with was easy.

“Sirius Black.” Harry said plainly.

“Harry,” Sirius replied. “Still as impertinent as always. I see your recent misfortunes have taught you nothing.”

This time Harry did look up and Sirius did not miss the momentary flash of anger in his former student’s eyes. They were quickly brought under control, and Harry shrugged off Sirius’ comment. He returned to polishing his wands. “What are you doing here, Sirius?” He asked.

“I’m here to see you.”

“What for?”

”I thought we should talk.”

Harry snorted derisively. “About three years too late for that don’t you think?”

“Maybe.”

An awkward moment of silence passed between the two men. Neither could stare at the other in the eyes, and instead they cast their gaze down at the floor.

“I met Janus O’Meara.” Harry said. “Did you know him?”

“I did.” Sirius replied.

“I killed him.” The assassin continued.

“Really.” There was nothing to Sirius’ voice that aided Harry. No delight to hear that his best friends’ murderer was dead. No impressments at Harry’s achievement. Nothing.

”Before he died, he told me my father was a Death Eater. Is that true?”

Sirius’s eyes widened, and the master duelist frowned deeply. Sighing, he sat down on the bench opposite of Harry and crossed his arms. “I had hoped you would never ask me that question, Harry.”

“You were afraid of me knowing the truth, the truth about my own father?” Harry asked angrily.

“Whatever else James was, he was my very best friend and I did not want his own son thinking that he was associated with a band of murdering scum!” Sirius shot back.

“Then it is true.” Harry whispered. “My father was a Death Eater.”

Sirius leaned forward and grasped Harry around his shoulders. “You need to understand, Harry, that there was a time when being a Death Eater was not synonymous with being an assassin. Once, to be a Death Eater was a badge of pride; it meant you were the elite of the elite –the best law enforcement wizards and witches that were assigned to handle missions too dangerous even for the Aurors.”

“You were a Death Eater too.” Harry realized.

“Yes…yes I was. Your father and I were both recruited out of Hogwarts to become Aurors, and from there it was only a short while before we were accepted into the Death Eaters. Our wands helped guarantee peace for England.”

“What happened then?” The young assassin demanded. “If the Death Eaters were so glorious and noble, why did my father betray them?”

“For the same reason you betrayed the Ministry, Harry. Steadily, our missions became centered on assassinations. Not of deadly terrorists or criminals, but of political leaders with ideas adverse to the current Minister. Your father saw the growing corruption in the Ministry, and decided he could no longer stand for it. That was when he joined the underground…”

“You didn’t try to stop him?” Harry asked.

“I did.” Sirius assured the younger man. “By God I tried. I begged James to be reasonable, to see that he had a wife and a year old son, but he would have none of it. He joined their lot, and shortly after…”

“Janus killed him and my mother.”

Sirius nodded sadly. “Yes, that was what happened. The underground movement James was trying to join was crushed, and all members were subsequently executed. I resigned from the Death Eaters in protest and managed to steal you away from the orphanage.”

Harry smirked. “So that’s why you didn’t want me to join the Order. You didn’t want me to end up like my father.”

“Yes. I failed.”

“It was my decision,” Harry disagreed. “And I made it.”

”And now look at you.” Sirius sneered. “You have the blood of dozens of men on your hands, and you’re out to kill a girl! A girl, Harry! Look at what the Order had turned you into!”

Harry stopped and looked down at his hands. He could almost smell the bitter essence of blood that had seeped into his skin. Theodon’s blood…Janus’s blood…and soon Hermione’s blood. Standing from the bench, Harry crossed over to the doorway and paused there. He looked at his teacher. “It’s too late for me, Sirius. I have chosen my path, and now I must walk it to the end.”

“It’s never too late, Harry. You can still decide.” Sirius urged. “Turn away now and come back with me.”

Harry smiled. All this time, Harry had wondered if his mentor every truly cared about him. The harsh, cold exterior had just peeled away, revealing the true nature of one of the most hardened men Harry had ever met. “I thank you, Sirius, but I know what I must do.”

“Goodbye, my foolish pupil.” Harry’s teacher said coldly. “I doubt we shall ever see each other again.”

Harry simply nodded and left the room.

---

Author’s Notes:

The beginning of this chapter somewhat pays homage to Frank Miller’s Sin City. A casual fan of the graphic novels, I recently saw the movie in theaters and to be frank, I was astounded by the boundless creativity and artistry utilized by Robert Rodriguez, one of my favorite directors. It is highly recommended if you can legally see it and can stomach intense violence and incredibly gritty themes. Anyway, the grim sort of first person noir-esque type of writing was adopted for the beginning of part eleven. If you like the writing style, my other incomplete fanfiction Harry Potter and The New Order (featured in my writer’s profile) is written entirely in it.

Thank you for your kind reviews. Please, continue reading and reviewing, and mostly, enjoying the story. It’s almost over now.

25. Betrayal (Part XII: Until Death...)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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.

Betrayal
Part XII: Until Death…

“Only a little while longer,” Jonathan Keyes muttered to himself, sipping at a cup of coffee long gone cold.

While Jonathan would tell someone over a pint at the Leaky Cauldron what an honor it was to defend the home of the Minister of Magic; truth be told it was a mind numbingly boring task. Standing his post on the southern wall, he resided in one of the four heavily fortified stations that formed a perimeter around the inner compound housing the minister and many other top witches and wizards in Fudge’s cabinet. No one, not even the rebellion would dare launch an open attack against the best defended location in all of London. The southern wall alone had a squad of Ministry Aurors and a half platoon of law enforcement wizards on hand. There were also several muggle policemen stationed outside, but they were purely ornamental, used to keep curious muggles away more than anything.

The young wizard sighed deeply and stifled a yawn as he took another sip of his tepid brew. Boring task or no, keeping a watch on this wall was still his job, and he could ill afford to lose it, not with the economy as perilous as it was. He had a young wife and a child, whom he loved dearly, to feed. Enduring hours of tedious guard duty was the least he could do for them.

Jonathan glanced out the window overlooking the quiet London streets. It was still early morning, and gloom half obscured the solitary walkway that ran past the wall. A slight movement caught his eye, but then disappeared. Jonathan dismissed it. It was probably a dog or something. It was nothing to be alarmed over. Even if it was something worthy of his attention, any intruder would have to figure out how to bypass the dozens of magical wards that surrounded these walls if they wished to enter without going directly through the dozens of wizards that guarded the entrance stations.

He yawned again and checked his watch. His shift ended in an hour or so. He might actually be home in time to see his son off to school this morning.

The young guardsmen picked up his coffee mug and was about to refill it when a powerful explosion picked him off his feet and threw him against the far wall. For a moment, all he could see was darkness, but slowly it faded so that he could see the blurred outline of men running back and forth frantically. Rubble was strewn everywhere and smoke and dust filled the air. Jonathan scrambled up, not even realizing the deep gash across his head dripping blood down his temple, and looked about for the source of the confusion. Down the hallway, cragged hole had been blasted in the supposedly impenetrable station wall, and masked men clad in black robes were spilling through it.

“What the hell?” Jonathan whispered out loud. He was confused that he didn’t even think about drawing his wand. Other of his companions were though, and soon curses were being flung through the air. One of the men in black went down in a flash of green light as an Auror’s killing curse struck him full in the chest, but another of the invaders quickly took his place and cut down the Auror.

What was going on?

---

The grenades had worked surprisingly well. They had been muggle tools, small orbs stuffed with black powder, that the Order’s potion masters had gotten their hands on, and now they worked better than any curse known to wizard kind. Just one bomb had torn through a full meter of concrete, forming a hole large enough for Lion squad’s assault team to get through. Harry had gone last, covering the team’s rear. His squad was composed of season veterans and knew the plan well, and he was counting on them to be able to use their brief distraction to their advantage. Sure enough, by the time he had waded his way through the smoke and flames, most of the security forces were down, either dead or wounded. A handful of Aurors, however, were still fighting.

Harry saw one of his men go down, hit by a curse, and Harry ran quickly to assist. He leaped over the fallen man, and swiftly brought down his wand, slaying the surprised Auror. He twisted to his right, sending lethal blasts of energy at anything wearing a uniform that did not belong to his team. They did not have time to duel. They needed to clear the station and move into the compound before back up could arrive. No doubt the deafening explosion would soon bring wizards down on their position before long.

“All clear!” One of the Order soldiers said.

“No, wait, we got a live one over here,” said a young sandy haired soldier named Seamus Finnigan, Harry’s second in command. Harry walked over to where a security wizard lay propped against a wall. Somehow he had survived the barrage of curses flying around with only a small cut across his forehead. The man tremblingly looked up at Harry, his hands, paralyzed by fear, still clutching the shattered remnants of a coffee mug.

“What should we do with him, sir?” Finnigan asked.

Harry’s response was to aim his wand at the man’s head. “Avada Kedavara!” He hissed. A jet of green light exploded from Harry’s wand, driving the life from the young security officer in a loud gust of wind. The man slumped over, and as his body hit the ground his head pitched sideways so that his sightless eyes glared accusingly at the young assassin.

Harry averted his gaze, and then noticed the other Order soldiers staring at him wide eyed, horrified at what they had just witnessed. Harry knew what they were thinking. It was honorable to kill in combat, but to kill in cold blood....that was murder. He silently scoffed at their shock. It was that kind of mentality that Janus had believed. It was the kind that gotten him killed.

“They would have done the same to us,” Harry snapped angrily. The men looked away. He jammed his finger at the door that would lead into the courtyard. “Hurry up, let’s move out!” He bellowed. Quickly, Lion Squad obeyed. Harry paused to wipe some blood that had splattered on his wand, and then followed. The early morning air was pleasantly cool, alive with the sound of roaring alarms signaling the presence of the Order of the Phoenix.

Harry Potter was dead, killed in Fisherman’s Village because he had been weak and stupid. The Slayer would keep him alive.

--

Alone in her room, Hermione could hear the alarms wailing. From her vantage point, she could see the columns of smoke billowing up into the sky from where fires had sprung up at the guard station in all four walls. The still early morning atmosphere was shattered with the screams of fighting men and the roar of cast magic. Footsteps raced frantically outside her door, and every now and then she could feel the building rumble as another explosion went off somewhere in the distance.

Hermione smiled sadly.

Harry was coming.

--

Things were going well. Harry’s team had already made their way across the courtyard and through half of the exterior rooms that they had to get past in order to reach the Minister’s quarters where they suspected Hermione would be. Casualties were minimal, and resistance had been light so far. In the confusion, it was hard to pin point exactly where the four swift assault teams were, and hopefully they would be gone by the time the Aurors figured out what was going on.

Somewhere along the line, Harry had divided Lion Squad into two teams, one to watch their back and the other to advance. The advance team was stuck, pinned down in hallway at a T-junction by some violent wand action by a squad of what appeared to be Aurors. Seamus, leaned over to Harry and screamed above the din of cast spells.

“Around the corner there’s a squad of Aurors,” He yelled. “We can’t take them out from here!”

“Can we go around?” Harry asked impatiently. Every delay gave the Aurors more time to regroup.

“Negative!” Seamus replied.

“Damn.” Harry cursed. He thought for a moment, and then decided. “I’ll clear the way!”

Before anyone could protest, Harry grabbed one of the grenades from his belt and raced out into the hallway. A hailstorm of curses lanced at the young assassin, but he ignored them, reflecting some with his wand and nimbly dancing around the others. With a prod of his wand, the fuse on the small bomb began to hiss, and Harry chucked it down the hallway before darting for cover. People screamed as the bomb detonated in a glorious cloud of flame and rock, and when the smoke cleared, the Auror team was no longer there.

“Let’s go!” Harry yelled.

--

“What do you mean you’re not leaving?” Cornelius Fudge asked exasperated. He stood across from Hermione, looking even more pale and weak than he usually did. There was a tremble to his clammy hands that were not there before, Hermione noted as he placed them around her shoulders. “The rebels will be here soon!”

“My place is here.” Hermione insisted. To prove her point, she sat down on her bed and looked out the window, beholding the carnage illuminated by the faint traces of the rising sun.

“Hermione! I am the Minister of Magic, and you are my granddaughter! You must come with me!” His voice was authoritative, the kind of tone he would adopt when he demanded obedience of Hermione when she was younger. But she was no longer a little girl. Her wings had spread. It was time to fly.

Hermione shook her head. “It’s time for you to go, grandfather.”

”Hermione-“Fudge began to protest, but a female Auror suddenly appeared from outside and grabbed his arm urgently.

“We have to go sir, now,” she said firmly. “Our defenses can’t hold much longer.”

“But my grand daughter…”

“I’m staying, Grandfather.” Hermione said resolutely. “Harry has come for me. I can’t disappoint him.”

Fudge’s mouth dropped. “You mean, that boy? The Slayer?” Hermione nodded. “But Lord Voldemort told he was dead!”

“Not Harry. I know him too well. He won’t die…not until he gets what he wants.”

“He has the nerve to attack the Ministry! What does he want so damn bad?” Fudge snarled furiously.

Hermione smiled and laughed softly. “Me.”

“You?” The Minister of Magic balked.

“As apart of…our plan, I betrayed him.” She replied. “In more ways than one. I wounded him greatly, and now…now he wants to bring…closure to our relationship.”

“With your death?” Fudge asked exasperatedly.

“Perhaps,” Hermione replied. There was no fear in her voice. It was calm, almost resigned to whatever fate decided to deal her. “I suppose I’ll find out pretty soon.”

“Hermione, I can’t leave you-“

“I must stay, grandfather. Please. It’s time for you to go.”

”She’s right, Minister.’ The Auror said, tugging at the old man’s arm. “We need to leave now!”

Fudge pulled himself away from the Auror and hugged Hermione tightly. “I love you, Hermione, like the daughter life robbed me of.” He grabbed her shoulders tightly and looked her in the eye. “Do what you must, and then hurry up and escape.” To the Auror he snapped, “Leave all your available personnel stationed outside this door, and get the Death Eaters here as soon as possible. I don’t want anyone coming in.”

”Yes, sir!” The Auror said, sounding almost relieved. With a last hug of farewell, Fudge backed away with the Auror, and then disappeared from sight, leaving Hermione alone in the room once again. She sighed and closed her eyes, quite aware of the stream of tears trickling down her cheek.

Hermione knew Harry all too well. All the Aurors and Death Eaters on the planet could not stop him from getting to her. “Goodbye, grandfather.” She whispered, knowing that she would never see him again.

--

For a moment, Seamus thought they were done for. The operation had gone smoothly up to this point. Lion Squad was ahead of schedule, and the other three squads were tearing through the once daunting Ministry defenses with the slightest of trouble. But then, suddenly Harry’s advance team had turned a corner leading to the Minister of Magic’s chamber when they ran into it. A trap. A full platoon -two score of Aurors- were waiting for them, their wands raised to meet Lion squad in a hail of curses. Two of Lion Squad’s point men were instantly killed in a blaze of death, and more would have surely died had the Slayer not acted.

Harry was everywhere at once and yet nowhere. He leaped into the pack of Aurors, his wand flashing, and not once had he stopped moving. He charged through the crowd, one wand parrying the curses and spells that rained down on him, and the other lashing out at random, bringing down an Auror with each slash. The Aurors fell into confusion, unable to use killing curses in such close quarters in fear of hitting their own, but also unable to stop the deadly assassin that could not be seen. Harry would appear suddenly, hack down another Auror, and then disappear before a counter-spell could be cast.

“Look out!”

“He’s over here, over here!”

“He’s on the walls! Get him!”

“I can’t see –Ah!” Another Auror went down, his throat slit open by a cutting curse. Blood erupted everywhere as the unfortunate wizard fell on the ground, twitching wildly.

Seamus watched in impressed fascination. No wonder Harry’s mantle was the Slayer. Never had he seen a man move so fast or use the wand so skillfully. In moments, he had reduced a full platoon of fearless Aurors into a terrified rabble only a dozen strong now. It was a beautiful, and yet horrific sight to behold. Here was a man who had perfected an art, the art of killing. Blood was his paint, his wands his brush, and the world his canvas.

Harry leaped from the pack, covered in blood, but none of it was his own. With a feral grin, he ran towards the Aurors again, one wand held high and the other low. A few stray curses shot at him, but he sidestepped these easily, never breaking pace. He collided with the first Auror, disemboweling him with a passing slice, and then with his other wand cut down the second. Weaving his wands back and forth, casting a magical shield that reflected the fresh torrent of curses directed at him from the remaining Aurors, Harry advanced towards them.

An Auror screamed and charged at Harry, but the Slayer easily parried the wild blow up high. Harry dropped his left wand, and instead used his free hand to grab the Auror’s wrist and twist the man around to serve as a shield. No sooner had he done so, a killing curse smashed into the Auror, and Harry quickly tossed aside the dead man. Only four men were left now.

“Accio wand!” Harry bellowed. The wand he had discarded leaped to his hand, and without waiting, Harry attacked the remaining Aurors once again. They quickly folded under the onslaught of vicious blows, and within moments only Harry was left standing. Covered from head to toe in dripping red, Harry inhaled deeply, aware of the fatigue that settled in his weary arms. He looked around, at the field of unmoving corpses that surrounded him. The Slayer grinned.

“You alright there, Finnigan?” Harry asked. Seamus nodded dumbly, still unable to believe what he had seen. Harry did not seem to notice. He wiped some blood from his eyes and shook it off. It did not seem to even faze the young man how many lives he had just wiped out in the space of five minutes. How many futures he had destroyed with a sweep of his wand did not unsettle him in the slightest.

This is what the Slayer is, Seamus thought. Suddenly, the glorious wonderment he had held the young assassin vanished as the dark, sickening truth set in. A killer without a conscious.

“Secure over here, Seamus.” Harry muttered. He took a step towards the doorway that waited for him at the end of the hall, the quarters of the Minister of Magic, and dimly he recognized the prosaic pain in his leg. He spared a look at it, and scowled at the flow of blood running down his leggings. Somewhere during the fracas, a stray curse had deeply pierced it. Already so drenched in blood, Harry had barely even realized it. Oh well, it didn’t matter.

He made it to the door, leaving a crimson trail in his wake. Breathing heavily, he reached for the doorknob and turned it. He didn’t know what to expect. What to say. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. All that he knew was that Hermione waited for him behind the door. Nothing else mattered besides that. He didn’t know why he wanted her, why he needed her. He just did. Until he saw her again, he would not know peace.

Harry flung open the door and there, standing in the middle of the room, was Hermione Granger. She was beautiful as he remembered, but no longer was she playing the role of an insignificant fisherman’s wife. Back then, being clothed in provincial garb had only served to accentuate Hermione’s features, but now, dressed in elaborate robes and her hair fashionably done, her true beauty was free to radiate across the room, overwhelming the young assassin. Harry’s breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard. She was stunning.

“Hello, Harry.” Hermione said.

“Hello, Hermione.” Harry replied.

---

Author’s Notes:

Sorry. This chapter was sort of rushed due to time constraints because of final exams, but I wanted to get this up anyway. Just one more chapter left and then the epilogue! The last chapter is going to take a while to write because I want it perfect (or as perfect as I can get it) so expect it in about a week or so.

Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed!

26. Betrayal (Part XIII: It's Beautiful Isn't It?)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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.

Betrayal
Part XIII: It’s Beautiful Isn’t It?

Again, Harry opened his eyes to see to the familiar sight of absolute darkness. It was everywhere, enveloping him in its voluminous folds like a miniscule speck wrapped in an overcoat. The same world of nothingness that had appeared to him during his duel with Janus now was laid spread before him. Patiently, he waited for the omnipresent voice to speak, to make some absurd demand of him that would expedite his return to London. Minutes past and nothing happened. Harry’s patience was quickly waning, and silently he wondered what sort of cruel trick was in the working. To allow him to get so close to obtaining his revenge and then to purposefully delay him could be nothing short of malevolent trickery upon which only the master of this realm could be blamed.

“What the hell do you want of me?” He screamed into the night. His voice rebounded off some invisible barrier, echoing in his ear.

What the hell do you want from me?

But no answer was forthcoming.

Suddenly, the world around him changed. In a flash of blinding light, the darkness vanished and the veil was removed. Harry blinked, unable what his eyes were seeing. Replacing the darkness sprawled a field of green grass where flowers of every variety could be seen bathed in the moon’s illuminating light. A calm breeze whipped through his hair, and in the distance, the tranquil current of a running river could be heard. It was so peaceful, so wonderful, that for a moment his mind forgot to be skeptical of its existence.

Harry walked through the field, enjoying the tickling sensation of grass brushing against his bare feet. As he took it all in, the field, the flowers, everything –it all seemed too perfect to possibly be true. Could he be dead and this was the afterlife that awaited him? No. His body was whole, unscathed and garbed in fresh, white robes unsullied by the blood of men. His wounds were healed, and it was oxygen in the cool air that he breathed.

Where was he?

Then it struck him why this place seemed so familiar. Taking it all in, Harry’s memory returned to the paradise he and Hermione had discovered in the Fisherman’s Village. Where they had confessed love for each other, and where they had been able to be completely happy without fear or worry. It had only been a few hours that they shared in each other’s warm embrace, but it was enough to permanently impress a feeling of euphoric joy in Harry’s mind. He could feel it here, that same feeling. Wonderful and beautiful, this pasture of flowers felt like a physical manifestation of all the happy moments he and Hermione had ever shared.

And then Harry saw her, walking toward him from across the grassy field. Hermione Granger. No longer was she wearing the elaborate robes of nobility and aristocratic, but the same simple robes Harry also wore. If possible, the Spartan garb only served to emphasize her natural beauty, a beauty that easily put jewels and diamonds to shame. She spotted him and smiled.

Unconsciously, he walked toward her until they stood only a foot away from each other. He could not fathom what kind of magic could have brought them far away from London, but suddenly it didn’t seem to really matter anymore. They were there…together. Hermione leaned forward, drawing Harry closer to her, and their lips met.

But something was wrong. The kiss did not feel right. It did not give him happiness or pleasure like before. It confused him. Something was not right.

It was the kiss of a lover…

The kiss of a traitor…

Violently, Harry pushed Hermione away, and without thinking he lunged forward and wrapped his hands around Hermione’s throat. Her kiss, her very touch enraged him. It disgusted him. It was not the kiss from the woman he loved, but that of an enemy. Anger exploded in his mind, blinding him to the utopia around him and deafening him to Hermione’s startled gasp as his fingers closed around her neck in a brutal vice. He shoved her into the grass, his eyes lighting up with a passionate lust for vengeance that could only be fulfilled with her death.

KILL HER!

Her skin felt soft against his hands, warm and inviting like the blissful nights they spent together in their cabin. Harry shook his head fiercely, letting his hate for her destroy the happy thought. She was dead to him. He no longer loved her. He no longer cared for her. The only thing that mattered to him was her demise.

“Harry…I love you.” She rasped.

LIES! YOU LIE TO ME, YOU EVIL BITCH! YOU NEVER LOVED ME!

No, she did love me. Just as I loved her. But fate had other plans.

YOU BETRAYED ME! YOU DESTROYED MY HAPPIENESS! YOU DESTROYED WHO I WAS! YOU USED ME! YOU DID THIS ALL AND YOU LAUGHED!

She destroyed one happiness, but gave me another.

WHAT HAPPIENESS? SHE NEVER GAVE ME ANYTHING! SHE STOLE MY LIFE! SHE STOLE THE ORDER FROM ME! SHE STOLE MY FRIENDS FROM ME! SHE STOLE MY PURPOSE!

She gave me a new purpose. I became her friend, her protector, her lover…

SHE LIED AND BETRAYED ME! I CAN NEVER FORGIVE THAT!

I already have…

“Harry…” Hermione said breathlessly. “I’m sorry.”

LYING WHORE! I HATE YOU!

But I love you…

I HAVE TO KILL HER! FOR THE ORDER! FOR ME!

And resume the life that forced her hand against me?

I AM WHO I AM!

Harry Potter?

THE SLAYER!

Tears formed in his emerald eyes, falling from his face down onto the hands that slowly were taking the life of the woman that he loved and hated. All of a sudden doubt filled his mind. He did not want to do this…and yet he did.

I love her…

Her eyes began to glaze as death beckoned.

SHE BETRAYED ME…

I forgive her…just as she forgave me.

Suddenly Hermione smiled causing Harry’s breath to catch. His eyes widened out of terror, out of horror, out of confusion. His hands trembled. Time seemed to stand still, and the only sound that could be heard was the steady rhythm of their hearts. Slowly, Hermione’s hand reached and caressed Harry’s cheek gently, tracing a line where dried tears had left a path.

The scent of roses filled the air.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She whispered.

Who am I?

An assassin for the Order? The Slayer?

Or just a young man named Harry Potter?

The choice was his.

It was time to decide.

-The End

---

Author’s Notes:

Extended author’s notes will be included at the end of the Epilogue entitled “Reflections.” Oh, and before anyone accuses me of blatant plagiarism, this chapter was End of Evangelion inspired.

27. Trust and Betrayal (Epilogue -Reflections)

Trust and Betrayal

By: JA_Japster

Inspired and partially based on the OAV “Samurai X”

Copyright Notice: 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 and Betrayal

Epilogue –Reflections

Peter Pettigrew was a dead man. He already knew that. The moment news of the Order’s successful raid on the Ministry came to Peter’s ears he knew his fate was sealed. Already reports of massive attacks on Ministry facilities all across the country were spilling in, and it was only a matter of time before the Minister of Magic resigned to negotiations. He could scarcely believe it, that with one final act of desperation, the Order had altered history. Reformation would only be the beginning.

He groaned just thinking about it. How could he have gambled so much only to lose? Only a week ago, the Order had been on the brink of destruction. But now…now he had lost everything. The Order had won, and Dumbledore had returned his attention to snuffing out their traitor. The old wizard’s legion of assassins now prowled the city thirsty for vengeance, all dying for the opportunity to meet the man who had betrayed the Order of the Phoenix.

“Damn you, Malfoy,” He cursed the Death Eater Captain. The blonde haired Death Eater had promised Peter protection from the Order in case of any attempts at reprisal, but apparently amidst the chaos Malfoy had forgotten his word. The Death Eaters, as far as Pettigrew was concerned, had disbanded at the first signs of the Ministery’s defeat, and were now busy trying to save their collective hides. No one knew for sure all their identities. They would blend back into the magical community, biding their time, waiting to serve their new master.

It was as Peter had once overheard Lord Voldemort tell Malfoy, “We serve England. Not the Minister.”

But a whole lot of good that did Peter. He had been lucky so far avoiding most of the assassins that Dumbledore had sent after him, and if he could survive the night he might be able to slip away to the Americas aboard a cargo ship. Peter had lost everything in that raid on the Ministry of Magic, and starting fresh with a new name in a new country was not unappealing. He might be a wreck now, but in time he would recoup his losses.

One good thing, perhaps, had come from the raid. Malfoy had told him personally during their last meeting right before the bastard of a Death Eater had disappeared. The Slayer and the Minister of Magic’s granddaughter had been killed. They were dead. Harry and Hermione, possibly the two people Pettigrew hated most and accredited for his downfall. The news of their death did little to nullify the hate Peter felt for the Order, but at least it made him smile, if only for a moment.

Of course, no bodies had been uncovered of either of the two. Peter had shrugged that piece of information off. No doubt a curse or something had incinerated their bodies. It was not unheard of, and if anything the Ministry might have gone ahead and done that themselves to cover up their gross failure. Peter really didn’t really care either way.

Peter exhaled deeply. His legs hurt from hours of walking, but he dared not stop. He could not afford to rest in an inn or any other public place in fear of being spotted by Order supporters. They would lynch him on the spot. His only hope was to roam the deserted London streets until morning came when the first ships would be departing from the docks.

He turned and set off in a new direction, walking aimlessly. His path eventually took him into a set of alleyways that twisted and turned; giving way to the mouths of more alleyways until eventually they formed a labyrinth of narrow passageways that connected half the city together.

“Pettigrew,” a voice called suddenly in the night.

Peter froze. He involuntarily drew his wand, glancing back and forth in fright. “Who’s there?”

From the gloom emerged a man dressed in strange robes. The top portion was pulled down and wrapped around his waist revealing a sinewy torso covered in bandages. In fact, from his waist all the way to his head, every inch of skin was enveloped in white bandages as if the man suffered from some dire disease of the flesh. He looked more like a mummy from Egyptian lore than any man, Peter thought, but the bloodshot red eyes that stared out from beneath the man’s tendrils of brown hair were all too alive. They gazed hungrily at Peter, like the bloodthirsty stare of a wolf eyeing his prey.

“What do you want?” Peter demanded, already knowing the answer. He prided himself with the job he had done avoiding the Order so far. But it seemed his luck had finally run out.

The man smiled wickedly, chilling Peter’s blood. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper, a guttural rasp that struck fear into Pettigrew’s soul. “I have come for you, Pettigrew. For your life. For your soul.”

The bandaged assassin had not drawn his wand yet, but Peter pulled his out anyway. He laughed shakily, trying to reassure himself more than anything. “I have trained with Death Eaters, assassin. You will not find me such an easy target as you would like to believe.”

If possible, the man’s smile widened. He pivoted to the left revealing a curved scabbard dangling loosely from his hip. With his right hand he pushed the wrapped hilt upward with his thumb, presenting the blade that lay. It shimmered brightly as a stray beam of light reflected off the polished steel. Slowly, he drew forth a sword that Peter had never seen before. It was as long as a rapier, but possessed a light curve in its blade that was foreign to English swordsmanship. The assassin pointed it at Pettigrew.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be quick,” He assured Peter.

“You fool!” Roared Peter. “Don’t underestimate me!” Screaming, the traitorous wizard lunged at the assassin. The bandaged swordsman just smirked. He did not even wait for Peter to attack. His blade swept up and flashed, creating a luminescent arc of light in the dim alleyway. Blood splashed against the concrete wall, dripping down to seep between the cracks in the cobblestone.

Even before Peter’s body hit the ground, the assassin had already turned away, wiping his sword clean of blood. He sheathed it and tucked it away from view, and without a backward glance at the corpse that lay in his wake, strode away.

---

Patrick Langley struggled to stay awake as he poured over the latest logs that sat atop a rickety old crate that doubled as his personal work space. It was tedious work that required little skill but lots of time, and the aging fisherman wished he could say bollocks to all of it and take a boat into the sea where he belonged. He was like a bird in its cage, and the seductive call of the ocean that lay waiting for him in the distance was like a sadistic keeper poking him through bars. He shook his head, clearing the grogginess inspired by boredom and the stifling heat, and turned back to the stacks of parchment.

He cursed softly as a sharp pain at the base of his neck made him wince. He reached and massaged the spot softly. It was but one of several injuries that were left over from his accident one month ago. Fortunately none of them were dire enough to render him unable to work, but this one and countless others all over his body served as a constant reminder of their presence.

The strangest thing, however, about it all was that Patrick could not recall how he had injured himself. He had merely regained consciousness, heavily bandaged, but with absolutely no recollection on how it happened. In fact, no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember anything of any importance that had transpired over the last several months. It had disturbed him, but when he consulted the village doctor, the old man could only conclude it was a mild bout of amnesia, no doubt incurred by whatever injury Patrick had befallen.

And then there was Janus…

The small cottage seemed so empty without the Irishman’s exuberance to light up the dimly lit shack. He gazed longingly at the fishing nets that lined the floor, recalling the long hours that they had spent repairing them. Those had been good times. Patrick sighed wistfully and leaned back in his chair. It had been over a month since a villager had found Janus’ body up in the mountains and brought it back for a burial, and still he found himself missing his friend. No one had witnessed Janus’ death, and the reasons behind it were many. The mountain paths were known to be perilous territory, the romping grounds for bandits and wild animals. Anything could have happened.

He was a good man, that Janus O’Meara. It was disheartening how life seemed so set on robbing the world of all the things that made it worth living in. Fisherman’s Village would never again be the same without him.

A cool breeze wafted through the cottage’s open door, disturbing Patrick. Involuntarily he looked up and gazed out the window. In the distance he could make out a pair of indistinct shapes approaching, and with a pang of remorse, Patrick half expected them to belong to Janus and one of his friends from the tavern returning from a hard day at sea. As the shapes came closer, the fisherman recognized the outline of a man and a woman heading his way.

Grateful for the distraction from the monotony, Patrick rose from his desk and walked out on the balcony to meet the new comers. They were a young couple probably still in their teens, and the clothes they wore were ragged from what Patrick could only guess had been a very long journey. The man had black hair the color of the night and the brightest green eyes Patrick had ever seen, and the woman was a pretty young thing with hazel hair and eyes. For some reason that Patrick could not place, they seemed awfully familiar.

“Do I know you from some place?” asked Patrick curiously, shaking the man’s hand. “I swear I have seen you before.”

The raven haired man smiled wryly. “I’m afraid not. We’ve just arrived.”

Patrick nodded, feeling somewhat foolish but still unable to shake that eerie feeling that he had seen them before. It was an indistinct memory, a blurry image of the raven haired man sitting idly at the helm of one of his fishing vessel’s, but every single time he tried to focus in on it, it would fade away, leaving only that nagging feeling of vague familiarity behind. He shook it off and reached under the desk for a long roll of parchment that held the name of all their previous customers. In the past, Patrick had seldom bothered with it, delegating the tedious task to Janus, but now that he was gone Patrick had taken it upon himself to continue his friends’ work.

“So what can I do you for?” He asked.

“We’re looking for a good fishing vessel.” The man said.

“Alright, and what’s your name?”

The man exchanged a glance with the woman beside him. They smiled at each other, a twinkle in both their eyes as if a joke had been exchanged that only they could understand. The raven haired man turned back to Patrick.

“James and Lilly Evans.” He said.

---

Author’s Notes:

Sorry about how long it took me to get the epilogue out. I re-wrote it a total of three times. The first time was the depressing ending that was just OK. The second was the inconclusive ending that actually I liked a little bit more. The third (this one) was the happy ending that I knew more people would like and ending up sticking with. I knew the ending was confusing and inconclusive (purposely so) but in the end I decided it wouldn’t be right to deprive all of you of a good ending to my first complete writing project.

I was also planning on making a lengthy set of author’s notes to explain the different angles of the story that I tried to implement, but I figured it would just be repetitive so I cut most of it. I had an awesome time writing this fusion of Harry Potter and anime (see how many examples you can find –a cookie to those who can list them. Hint: It borrows a lot more than just from Samurai X). My next writing project might be something along these lines again, but I’m not going to start anything new until Book Six comes out so I won’t have to rewrite anything.

Thanks to everyone who took the time to read and review my work! Your opinions, thoughts and comments have made this such a fun experience.

-JA_Japster