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Harry Potter and the Final Adventure by What contented men desire
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Harry Potter and the Final Adventure

What contented men desire

Some names, locations, characters, and objects described in this work are © J.K. Rowling. In these cases, the names, locations, characters, and objects are used without permission under the Fair Dealings provision of the Copyright Act of 1976, USC 17 §107. Other names, locations, characters, and objects that are referenced, implied, or alluded to are © their respective owners, and are used under the same conditions. The remainder of this work is licensed by the author under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share Alike 3.0 Unported license. To view a copy of this licence, visit http://creativecommons. org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California 94105, USA.

Chapter title attributed to an anonymous soldier in Samawah, Iraq: "It takes two sides to make war. It only takes one side to make a massacre."


Chapter 4: It Only Takes One

'I have to hand it to that receptionist,' Harry thought, referring to the receptionist at the Apparition test center in the Ministry's Department of Magical Transportation. 'She certainly can keep her cool.' And what a sight they must have been, Harry and Ron shuffling through the door behind Mad-Eye Moody, with a rather bored-looking Mr Weasley bringing up the rear. But the toughened old witch didn't bat a grey eyelash, even when Moody quietly growled that Harry Potter was there to take his apparition test. Stranger still was the man. It may have been his imagination, but Harry was convinced someone had followed them from the alley where Mad-Eye's portkey had dumped them.

Sparing a glance out the office window, Harry could see him. His face was obscured by shadows, and the glow from the cigarette in his mouth revealed only the shadow of an unshaven shin and the end of a nondescript nose. The man was tall, almost unnaturally so, and wore a black three-piece suit. Everything visible about him was dark, his slacks, his wingtip shoes, his vest, his double-breasted jacket, his shirt, and his tie. He even wore black leather gloves on his hands. He had been standing in the same spot for the entire hour they had been waiting, and the five minutes since Ron had departed for his test. The only movement he had made was to reach into an interior pocket of his jacket for another cigarette.

After what seemed like an eternity, Ron came out of the testing room with a smile on his face. Before he could even ask, though he could see the result written in his best friend's face, Harry was called into the room himself. The testing room was not very remarkable; it was simply a spacious hall with a few shapes painted on the ground in various spots. Directly in front of him was a man Harry recognized as Wilkie Twycross, the Apparition instructor who had visited Hogwarts the previous year. Wilkie gave him an once-over before addressing him. "Well Mr Potter, lets see what you can do." He flicked his wand and suddenly Harry's vision was obscured. "Don't panic, it's all part of the test." The elderly man soothed. "Now, picture a red painted triangle on the floor and apparate to it."

Harry concentrated hard on the image, and turned on his heel. The familiar sense of being stuffed through an extremely small tube overwhelmed him, but it seemed he had reached his destination. "Excellent Mr Potter, most excellent." Light assaulted Harry's eyes as his vision was restored, and he found himself at one end of the hall standing on top of a red triangle. The tester pointed to the other end and Harry could see a small platform jutting out from the wall. "Try apparating over there." He requested. Harry complied, and quickly found himself standing on the platform. Fortunately the squeezing sensation seemed to lessen with each attempt, or else apparition would be an extremely uncomfortable means of transportation. Twycross beckoned, and Harry apparated in front of him. He was handed a picture of a comfortable looking sitting room. Understanding, Harry concentrated very hard on the image, and found himself in the room depicted. An old, frail-looking woman was knitting in an armchair.

"Go on and apparate back to the testing room dear." She instructed him in a pleasant, but weary voice. He did so, and was met with a beaming Wilkie Twycross.

"Spectacular Mr Potter! Let me be the first to congratulate you on receiving you Apparition licence." The ancient instructor handed Harry a piece of parchment and shook his hand with a vigour that belied his frail form. Feeling quite pleased with himself, Harry exited the room.

Mad-Eye immediately rose to his feet. "About time. I don't like the looks of that fellow." He pointed behind him, indicating the man Harry had noticed earlier. Receiving various indications of agreement from the party, the heavily scarred man led the way out of the office. He seemed to receive some grim satisfaction from the fact that the mysterious man in black did not stir, though he was gone when Harry looked back before turning a corner.

Moody's fears seemed unfounded, and they had actually made it all the way to the Atrium without incident. In fact they hadn't met anyone at all, apart from the people in the testing center and the mystery man, until Kingsley Shacklebolt suddenly ran up to them. "Alastor, you need to get out of here. Death Eaters have attacked the Ministry. They…They have dementors! Hundreds of them!" Kingsley's normally calm voice was laced with fear.

Moody, being Moody, did little to help him cope. Instead he laid a heavy-handed slap across one of the Auror's cheeks. "Pull yourself together. What happened?" He ordered, brimming with a sublime authority that seemed out of place in his rough and bad-tempered manner.

Kingsley took a deep breath, but any words he would have spoken were cut off by a gurgling noise in the back of his throat. With a mighty choke, a mouthful of blood spewed from his mouth and splattered on Moody's cheek. He wiped it off on his hand without changing his expression and flung it to the floor. Suddenly a gratingly high-pitched voice echoed from behind the tall dark man, whose eyes had widened considerably and was choking horrendously. "The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout" It sang. Kingsley sucked in a breath, and choked up more blood onto Alastor's face. This time the Auror did not move to wipe it off, but his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Down came the rain and washed the spider out." Breath. Choke. Splatter. "Out came the sun and dried up all the rain." Breath. Choke. Splatter. Now a head appeared over Kingsley's left shoulder. It was quite wrinkled, with a receding line of dark hair quickly greying. Mad-Eye seemed to know the face, and he stiffened. "So the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again." Breath. Choke. Splatter. Kingsley's eyes acquired a glassy quality, and he fell on his face. A small dagger was protruding from his spine. He was quite dead. The one, solitary silver lining of this horrific event was that Harry could now clearly see his attacker. He wore long, deep purple robes and a black tunic, black slacks and boots. The Death Eater, for there was no question about that much, bent over to retrieve his knife, savouring the blood he licked off of it like a fine wine. He regarded Moody curiously. "Well I'll be, if it isn't old Alastor. How's the eye I gave you?" He asked in his irritating voice, which Harry now identified as Welsh.

Moody spat some of Kingsley's blood onto the floor. "Travers." He growled. He evidently had a very low opinion of this Death Eater. Travers only grinned.

"After all these years that's all you have to say? Tell me, how is Marlene these days?" He asked slyly.

At that moment, something inside of Mad-Eye broke. He was shaking with rage as he pulled a wand from its holster on his right hip, and sent another shooting into his right hand with a flick of his wrist. "Arthur, you need to round up the rest of these bastards. This one is mine." He ordered the Weasley patriarch. Mr Weasley nodded and hurried off to do just that; Moody's voice brooked no argument. "Potter, Weasley, you two need to get back to headquarters. GO!" He shouted, all semblance of control gone as he roared and launched himself at Travers.

Harry grabbed Ron by the arm and ran towards the nearest lift. Ron immediately hit the button for level one, the offices of the Minister for Magic and his support staff. "Why that one?" Harry asked his friend.

"Went there once to see Percy's office, before he turned into the king of the prats." Ron replied, a little bit short of breath. "There's an apparition point in all of the offices, the narrow hallways make it hard to set up an ambush, and it's closest to surface level." Harry was thoroughly impressed. With one sentence, Ron Weasley had proven his usefulness beyond any shadow of a doubt; it was a sound, well-reasoned strategy and afforded them the best chance to get out with their skins intact. In another display of momentary genius, Ron shattered the mirrored wall of the lift with his foot and selected the largest broken piece to use to look around corners.

"First floor: Offices of the Minister for Magic and support staff." The cool woman's voice declared as the golden grill opened, depositing the duo in a narrow corridor. Ron led, wand in one hand and mirror in the other, Harry following behind with his own wand at the ready. One, two, and three corners passed the scrutiny of the mirror, until the walls of the corridor exploded, and Harry's world blurred.

He was vaguely aware of someone yelling "RUN," but he would be hard-pressed to identify who it had been. He knew that curses were flying, narrowly missing as his legs propelled him in the opposite direction, totally independent of his rational mind. He was also aware of the icy chill that shocked him back to himself as surely as a bucket of water. Dementors. He could feel them coming down one branch of a three-way intersection. The nameless enemies he had fled from were down the other, and the final led back to the elevator. No exits; nowhere to go. He heard an indistinct rumbling behind the wall he was pressed against, and took off in the direction of the elevator just as it blew apart, sending shards of plaster past his ears, but was hindered by a powerful hand on the scruff of his neck pulling him through the hole, lifting him onto a shoulder, and running.

A deep part of Harry's mind, unfazed by the chaos surrounding him, recognized that he was moving at a rapid pace, totally independent of his legs. Another, significantly smaller portion, translated the shards of plaster striking his face into the understanding that whoever was carrying him was also bursting through walls. This same part recognized when the mysterious entity made a sharp ninety degree turn, bursting through a flimsy wooden door into the rear stairwell. Harry faintly felt himself being deposited against the wall, and was aware for the first time that Ron had also been carried this far. The man, for that was obviously what it had been, was visible as little more than the back of a dark suit retreating towards the door.

Calmly, unhurriedly, he withdrew a cigarette and squashed it against the wall and backed away, now extracting a small silver lighter. Beyond his large frame, Harry could see the billowing robes of a Dementor swarm approaching. "What are you doing?" He yelled at the man, at the same time struggling to his feet.

"Stop." The simple command, delivered in an icy Russian accent, stopped him dead. Harry, for all his hot-headedness, was not an idiot; he knew that some people you just do not cross. The man watched the door ceaselessly, watching the Dementors approach, until the first of them was barely a foot from the door. Harry could feel the waves of despair wash over him, as well as the impulse to run, but neither seemed to affect this man. Little emotion could be detected in him, beyond the slight tightening of his jaw, when he pushed down on the lighter and, with a click that seemed to echo, the door exploded. A piercing shriek filled the air as the surrounding masonry collapsed on the Dementor unfortunate enough to be in its path. The end result was a massive pile of rubble that the dementors would be unable to penetrate. He knelt down next to Harry, presumably to check for injuries, giving the young man a chance to see the face of his rescuer. There was actually little more to see. The man had dark grey hair, a high forehead, and concealed his eyes behind heavy dark sunglasses. Close inspection revealed the silvery lines of scars that would never disappear scattered around his face. After a moment, he straightened.

"I will be back. I need to find a way out of this place." The Russian informed the two friends before disappearing into the shadows. Harry struggled to his feet, keen to get away before the strange man came back, but he had only started helping Ron up when two quick immobilizing spells hit them from the stairwell. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted a hooded and robed Death Eater ascending the stairs towards them.

"Well well, look what we have here." The Death Eater exclaimed. Harry recognized the voice as Avery. "I'm sure the Dark Lord won't mind if I have some fun with the great Harry Potter before I turn him over." Harry could sense the twisted smile forming on Avery's face as he bent over to gag Harry and Ron. Before he could rise, though, he was lifted bodily into the air and flung against a nearby wall, crumpling at the base. In his place stood an icily stoic man in a dark suit, the Russian saviour, who quickly released Harry and Ron from their bonds and helped them to their feet.

"Come." He ordered simply, turning to lead them out. Harry stood his ground. Sensing this, the Russian turned and approached Harry menacingly. "Come with me. Now." He commanded in the firmest, iciest voice Harry had ever heard.

Harry did not budge. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me who you are and what you're doing here."

"There is no time for chatter. We leave now."

"No." The two stared each other down, Harry staring at where he hoped the man's eyes were. Damned sunglasses. Who the hell where sunglasses indoors anyway?

Ron was getting visibly agitated. "Come on Harry, you heard him; we need to get out of here before more Death Eaters show up."

"Your comrade is correct, Potter. The forces attacking this building are far superior to our force. We must flee, or die." Harry didn't respond. He wasn't going anywhere as long as this man was a stranger, and all three of them knew it. Pursing his lips in a highly displeased look, the man relented. "My name is Aleksandr Ivanóv. I was hired by certain members of the Order of the Phoenix to protect you."

"Prove it." Harry's eyes were as frosty as Ivanóv's voice.

"Number 12 Grimmauld Place." The Russian said simply, catching Harry rather off-balance. "Now come with me. There will be time for questions later." Harry still wasn't entirely convinced, but at least he knew that he wasn't in any immediate danger. Reluctantly, he followed the Russian.

He led them down several flights of stairs, before finally leading them out of a door leading to the courtrooms. Of course Murphy's law dictates that if something can go wrong, it will. So naturally Aleksandr was blasted against a wall by numerous high powered curses. Unfortunately his assailant fled, to be replaced by a single dementor.

"Expecto Patronum!" Harry cried out, pointing his wand at the cloaked shape and focusing on his reunion with Sirius. But it wasn't enough. The dementor's presence was too powerful and it continued to approach. The report of a gun echoed deafeningly through the hall, and Harry was astounded to see that the dementor had suffered a wound. A small hole had appeared in its body, and the dark presence was being inexorably drawn into it, leaving nothing but a small black spot and Aleksandr, stowing a large black handgun into his jacket.

Ron had submitted some time ago, but Aleksandr seemed satisfied that he would not suffer any permanent damage. Tossing the redhead over one shoulder he wordlessly motioned for Harry to follow him down into the blackness of the hall. "Don't ignite your wand." The Russian cautioned, disappearing into the shadows. The only part of him that was visible was the faint colour of Ron's hair, which Harry followed to a loading elevator at the rear of the Courtroom floor. After a short ride it opened into an alley where a black 1975 Dodge Charger idled. Aleksandr deposited Ron in the back and Harry clambered into the passenger seat. The Russian took his place behind the wheel and sped off.

Though he really didn't want to irritate a man who carried a 9 mm handgun under his arm which could eradicate dementors, Harry figured that now would be a good time to wheedle some more information out of this enigmatic soldier. "How long have you been protecting me?"

Aleksandr never turned from the road. "Seven years." He replied simply. "I was hired after you received your Hogwarts acceptance letter." Evidently not a very sociable fellow, but Harry was unperturbed.

"And where the hell have you been in all of that time? When I was locked in my bloody room without food? When I was attacked by dementors? When I had to outfly a bloody, sodding, DRAGON?"

Ivanóv was silent for a moment or two. "In no situation were you in enough danger to warrant my direct intervention. Rest assured, your existence would have been far more unpleasant had I not been present." Sensing that Harry was about to interrupt again, he interjected one final thing. "The terms of my employ are not subject to your approval."

Harry was silent for many miles. Finally, he hit upon another point of contention in this arrangement. "You're a mercenary." The Russian nodded. "So how do I know that Voldemort won't give you a better offer?"

"You don't. But I assure you Potter, there are more important things in this world. Even to a mercenary."

Despite his brusque manner, Harry could tell that his host was not actually irritated. As such he felt it safe to ask one of the other questions that was bothering him. "Your gun, how did you kill the dementor with it?"

Ivanóv actually smiled. The look did not suit him. "Trade secret ребёнк."

After a short drive they turned down a very dirty road that was most certainly not on the way to Grimmauld Place. "Where are you taking us?" Harry asked, nervously eyeing the decrepit warehouses that lined the road.

"A safe house. I have contacted my employer and you will be moved to Headquarters as soon as possible." Ivanóv replied, moments before an unseen force lifted his vehicle from the road and deposited it in an inverted position. At least it woke Ron up. Aleksandr righted himself inside the car, drawing his gun and a pine wand from his jacket. "There are anti-apparition wards on this entire street. Get beyond them and apparate to safety." His voice carried the undertone of a man who knew he was about to die, but he climbed out of the cramped prison to face death on his feet. Harry and Ron both drew their wands and followed suit. Not far in the distance they could see Aleksandr, a swirling cloud of muzzle flash and magical energy, surrounded by waves of Death Eaters. The teenagers took the opportunity of a distraction to race down the street, towards where they had been told the edge of the wards lay.

Suddenly, they both stopped. A familiar, and unwelcome, chill had descended on their bones. Dementors. And they were still several meters from freedom. With nothing to lose the two began running once more, only to have their path blocked by a group of nine dementors. Neither Harry nor Ron were quick enough with their wands however, and two of the crowd held Ron in place, while six went off to fight Aleksandr, and the final approached Harry. Despite his valiant efforts, Harry was unable to break free of the monster's iron grip. It slowly lowered its hood, and Harry was once more greeted with the sight of the rotted flesh and gaping maw of a dementor's face. Resistance was futile as the creature's powerful jaws clamped down on his own, and he knew no more. His last thought before descending into darkness was 'I only wish I could see Hermione one more time.'


ребёнк is Russian for child. My Russian is just as bad as my Latin, so forgive me if it's not exactly right.