Unofficial Portkey Archive

Life and Times

Rating: R

Ship: HHr (main emphasis)

The (unlovely) procedure: all rights go to JKR for previous plot and characters, Scholastic, Warner, and whoever else has their hands in HP.

…Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end - Luna Lovegood

***

Chapter Sixty-Nine - Storm

***

August 1, 2002

London, England

3:21 AM

10 Downing Street

"Right… Right. Chief, keep me updated. Anything else happens call me straight away. All right. Thank you very much, yes-I'm fine. Okay. Good bye."

Tony Blair hangs up the telephone, sitting at his desk. He places his elbows atop it and looks out the nearest window at the pouring rain and thunder outside. Lightning strikes, sending a shiver down his spine. His eyes detract when he hears the coming of footsteps on the carpet, the soft pitter-patter of shoes, his Minister's door open. He gazes at a man of dark skin in plum robes, his broad shoulder nearly equaling that of the distance between the doorframes.

One can see the single-loop earring in his ear, even in the darkness, a single-lit lamp on Blair's face.

"Everything check out, Royal? I want the truth."

"The Muggles will be safe and secure, Minister."

Royal's deep voice reassures Minister Blair who doesn't reply, his eyes moving back towards the panes of the bludgeoned window, to the chaotic thunderstorm outside.

***

August 1, 2002

London, England

3:29 AM

During a BBC newscast

"Fiona, what is going on there? Do you have any word on what caused the fiery explosion minutes ago?"

A blonde with an umbrella and raingear on stands in front of a chain-linked fenced off area of what used to be a coal factory, now abandoned. A sign, tilted off its fastened hinge, behind her reads, "KEEP OUT!" The winds pick up, delivering the raindrops sideways as she tries to keep the water from her face, an umbrella in her hand with a microphone in her other. One can see from her incessant blinking the sheer blows of the zephyrs.

"Fire crews and police are ensuring us that they have the flames, which are spewing the blackest of clouds I've ever seen into the night's sky, contained and that this incident is under control. Prime Minister Blair has released a public statement addressing, again, the swift actions of the rescue crews on scene and how there will be a full-length investigation into the matter."

"The flames look brutal!" announces the news anchor, split-feed from BBC headquarters.

The camera zooms in at the fire, an evident hole in the top most right side of the building showing, the orange-and-black giving outline to its enormity. The camera zooms back out to Fiona.

"They do indeed, and the residence in-and-around the neighbourhood are wondering why this happened. The factory has been abandoned for quite some time. There were no warning signs, nothing at all according to some; though, Missus Wilkerson stands to my side, her home not too far from here. She's with me to shed at least some light as to how this occurred."

Missus Wilkerson, an elderly lady with a shawl and a yellowed, off-white rain slicker on, hugs herself in the strong winds and rain. Fiona, as they draw closer together, shares her umbrella as the old woman chimes in.

Missus Wilkerson points over yonder at the factory, stating in an aged tone, trembling vocals, "I'd just taken the last of the laundry from the line before the rain set in when suddenly the factory wall over there blew up."

"Blew up, you say? Like a bomb?"

"It could have been, and with all the terrorist attacks happening-but, the factory hasn't been used in ages. My late husband worked there, and when the plant shut down two decades ago he had to look for other work."

"How long has the factory been closed?"

"Maybe 22, or 23 years ago. And it was a travesty to see it let go. The government wanted to change from coal to cleaner electricity-but what they don't see is my husband and our friends in this neighbourhood who were left without work for some time."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Missus Wilkerson."

"Sometimes, though, we see lights shining at night around the factory. Maybe it's the spirits of those wanting to return to work."

Fiona and Missus Wilkerson chuckle.

"They're probably squatters. I hope no one got hurt."

"The fire and police squads have yet to find any bodies."

"That's great news, dear. I'd hate to hear those poor, lonely souls have died-whoever was in there trying to survive."

"You said you saw something before the explosion? We were talking before going live."

"Yes, love. I saw what looked like purple smoke trails. I thought I'd gone mad, and in a blink they were gone. So, I gathered up the rest of my whites and then that's when the ground shook. That's when the fires erupted."

"Could this have been a terrorist attack?" asks the BBC anchor, splitting, once again, the feed between Fiona's live commentaries. "Is that why Prime Minister Blair has been said to have called the London police chief?"

"Nothing adds up, Grace," says Fiona into her microphone, turning to look at the camera lens. She gives the umbrella to Missus Wilkerson to hold as she readjusts the receiver in her ear, drenched from head-to-toe. "The question is: why would anyone want to bomb-if that's what it turns out to be-an old factory?"

***

August 1, 2002

London, England

3:13 AM

The Quibbler Headquarters

A man of obsidian skin, and thick, almost scale-like, followed Luna Lovegood throughout the wings she traverses. Talking briefly, she received updates on the news her fellow reporters and journalists, her intellectuals have gotten inside and about the Death Eaters and their present objectives. He'd stop, his tattered cloak shifting as he did, ever-vigilant of the golden locks in his red-eyed sight. Hair of purest white gave framework to his youthful, yet war-ridden face, and his armor, more than that of the brethren around him, gave precedence to a higher, skillful position among his kin.

On her way back to her office, desk after desk in a flurry of speeches and Quick Quills, did the Dark Elf say in silent whisper, "I sense something in the wind, Miss Lovegood."

He stops, and as he does, Luna turned to meet him, his rosewood irises flicking to the ceiling, to the wall aside them.

His sixth sense.

"Balthier," she stated in her signature sweet and innocent lofty Luna way, and with a brilliant smile. She placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "Everything's going to be o-"

…Egyl tol…

Balthier heard Him in the winds; but, his reaction not in time. He saw first the brick and mortar, the wall press in, each individual rock blown weightlessly across them. He went to reach out, to see the stone hit her. She went down, unable by the surprise attack, to go for her wand. As if in slow motion he stepped above her allowing each shattering brick to pummel him. He fell atop her, covering her form, cradling her to him until another powerful explosion rocked aside them. He was cast in the opposite direction, a hand out as Luna was flown, too, against a surviving wall within the headquarters.

Balthier, grunting, gritting his teeth, pushed from the hard rubble he landed on. He saw as he pressed forward, inching from his knees off the disastrous floor, fire, thick, black smoke clouding his site. He saw beings, black forms, reaching the lifeless innocence of what had been a chipper Luna Lovegood from the now gaping hole in the roof. They flew in, the Quibbler employees beginning to fight back, colours of the rainbow lighting the night which drew forever inside, the lamps shorting out.

He felt the coldness they brought, the dastardly masks of which covered their face as one looked at him, and then found Luna yards away.

He saw the Death Eater's wand, and with every ounce of strength he had lifted himself. In seconds, and with a shout, he unsheathed his bow and let loose a fiery arrow, the arrow inflamed by only his touch. The bolt sailed in an instant towards its target, and with precision, the green death glowing at the tip of the Death Eater's wand went out. The arrow had struck his skull, backside-in, cracking the mask he wore to mere dust of what it was.

Balthier let loose another, seeing his arrow through the man's head, through his eye socket, turn to him, his wand at the ready. A purplish shield didn't protect him, the arrow penetrating evil's intentions and struck, this time, his heart. He heard the man scream, saw his one eye now unveiled behind the mask look at him before succumbing to the Maker. The Death Eater fell to the ground beside Luna, starkly contrasted to the faultlessness in which he had so readily wanted to take.

Balthier climbed over large portions of what once was the perimeter of Quibbler HQ, pushing them away to get at the one he put his life on the line to defend. At her, he saw her eyes closed, the cut across her face and where the first brick had landed on impact, a splotch of red oozing from her golden crown. He shed a tear as he hastily reached for her jugular to feel of her pulse, to her chest to feel her heart still in beat. He heard his brethren in fight, his beautiful language intermixed with the deathly chants spewing forth from the malevolent.

He had to get her out, to get Luna out as much as he found remorse in leaving his brothers and sisters behind.

He scooped up the delicate, listless form in his arms and leapt from one of the many holes having cratered the rooftop.

***

Commercial District, Violet Hill

A thinly, bird-like woman plays itself on the various screens throughout the city, on every road, on the buildings, anything the Prophet Media News Network could control-did.

"This is a warning to anyone who goes against Minister Nolpho's Word and the Ministry itself. Lay down your wands and come peacefully. If you do not accept this decision, then you surely seek death. Anyone not abiding by the Laws will be arrested, their last rites given, and killed. I repeat, this is a warning to anyone who goes against Minister Nolpho's Word and the Ministry itself. Lay down your wands and come peace-"

"Reducto!" A man had had enough, taking liberty as he runs by, fires ablaze-the only lights left in the Commercial District main square-to relinquish the droning noise repeated on every corner. The screen fizzles, short-circuits and explodes, raining down slivers of light.

Voices shout and screams are heard amongst shadows. Magical citizens and creature alike have taken up their wands. They fight in the streets, shielded behind magic and concrete, wood, whatever they can find as terror rains down upon them. Death Eaters in droves circle the skies, dropping in, within their black smoke, to chase a person or people as they counter and cast their spells in tandem.

A Hungarian Horn-tail swoops down from betwixt buildings, raking and clawing his way southward. He latches onto a fleeing group, chanting spell after spell towards the dragon as he breathes flame in defense. Having grabbed a hold of a few, he begins his ascent into the sky only to have an assault of arrows after him. They strike his thick hide, and he belches fire in anger, ripping backward with the flailing creature and kin in his grasps. Elves descend from atop roofs, anchors at the ready as they use hooks to secure themselves from falling off. Tearing the Horn-tail's flesh, they try in struggle to get at its head.

The dragon falls, a thunderous boom echoing when it lands on its side. Elves have already gotten to its underbelly, sawing off his talons, freeing those still alive. Others have plucked out his eyes, tactically bled the monster until its fight slows, and then stops.

A goblin, running for his life is caught between a dead-end and an ogre unleashed into the frenzied masses. His beady black eyes widen, sensing only death upon him when a traveling group of vigilantes, humans, hear him, and then see the wailing goblin.

"Avada Kedavra!" shouts a woman in the crowd, striking the backside of the ogre's head. The ogres head is lopped off, rolling down from his shoulder as blood spews against the stone alley. It buckles at the knees, dead, and lands with a thud.

"Thank you!" cried the goblin. "Thank you!"

"No time!" The same woman reached for the goblin. "We've got to move!"

"Watch out!"

Black smoke appears behind the clique, miniscule in size of three, family even. Behind their backs, only the goblin witnesses the Death Eater's forming shape. He says something in gobbledygook before the humans realize, raising his tiny hands and blasting back the Death Eater before he could aim his wand.

White cloaks push back the larger groups of black, chasing them in midair. Those on the ground can only look up to see trails of black screeching in the sky, and not too far behind a trail of white. Some, as they zip by, release such an enormous spout of magicks the screens, the droll from the repetitious pointed-nose woman are drowned out, suffocated, and one by one burst with a sea of light.

An Elf stood at the ready, setting himself and his bow aligned with a rampaging mountain troll tearing through the downtown. He aimed, and just as he was to fire came barreling from behind, and then atop him, a werewolf. He struggled, trying to find his dagger in his tunic, but is a lost cause, even when his kin see him. They take down the werewolf, and more as they come, smelling fresh blood, but it is too late. The elf is left without much of a throat and shoulder left.

On the outskirts of the city, the Auror resistance takes the advantage, pincer attacking a collective of Death Eaters between them and Centaurs. When the Death Eaters retreat, running wildly for the hills, they are faced with the half man-half horse creatures. One of the Centaurs even smiles when he sees the soul in a Death Eater's eye fade. After the battle, those Centaurs and Aurors look back at the horizon engulfed in flames; and, although exhausted physically and mentally, charge right back into the Violet Hill limits.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of Dark Marks litter the skies above the city.

***

When I landed, I landed on my backside, and to say the landing didn't hurt would be an understatement. I fell on a concrete floor tiled with what looked like marble, and the pain shot from the end of my spine and upwards. I made a gasp for air, and began to get up, my olfactory senses immediately sensing the smell of sulfur and gaseous fumes. I took my shirt and had it act as a buffer between the stench of iron and the heavy smog carrying the room between flame and smoke.

I couldn't see straight ahead of me, my vision impaired. I looked at the decaying ceiling, burnt as much as those walls around me. I saw what looked like desks, chairs-offices of some kind? The Daily Prophet newspaper was still in my grasps, and as I went to sit up did I see something amongst the upturned, inside-out room…and to say it were a familiar face…

A mask of horror, built of skeleton loomed at my side.

He had a wand pointed at me, as if waiting for me all this time to appear here, wherever I was.

A trap? Was this all a trap?

The doe…Severus…

I couldn't think, the wand glowing green at its tip.

My very pupils grew in size.

It's over.

I closed my eyes.

No way around it, there was no way I could get to my wand fast enough.

Death had found me, and I waited, the promise of seeing Harry on the other side my only relief.

Every fibre in my being tensed, gathering what I only dreamt would be the minute of distress before leaving mortality. I hoped it would be quick, hearing Sirius through Harry how death was but a sleep into the next life. I hoped it true.

I could see the viridian through my closed eyes, and I saw it like a light at the end of a long and arduous journey, a tunnel.

Kings Cross station, the Hogwarts Express and Harry's outreached hand to receive its new passenger…

"Avada Kedavra!"

Frozen, I flinched…

And, the light was gone, darkness my sight once again.

I opened my eyes…

…Wishing to see the brightness of the otherworld, and Harry's lovely face…

…To see, still, the flames, the soot, the acrid odor burning the inside of my throat and nostrils.

Water in my eyes, I flipped around to see where the voice had come from…to see…

A mishmash of a disheveled woman, and unlike I've ever seen before… Her locks of blonde a mess, hanging from her shoulders rather than up and rigid. Her spectacles hung far from the bridge of her nose, so far they've set to fall off her face. Her cheeks were ashen, her dress far from beautiful, scorched at places and whatever colour left in the material now fell victim to the thick blackish environ. Her talons, or lack thereof, more human now, gripped the sides of what used to be an office cubical, a side panel of broken, burned wood.

She leaned her weight atop the panel, and looked as if to topple in any moment…her wand still pointed in my direction, but downwards and at the fallen Death Eater. Her wand lay still on the Death Eater for fear the corpse would somehow bound back and strike again. She was breathless…a shell of her former self, shown to have been through Hell and back.

Rita Skeeter.

I realized…

We were inside Prophet Media, inside the heart of the Daily Prophet.

The newspaper…a portkey…here…

"Rita…?" Climbing from the floor, I watched her eyes, her glazed over sight remain on the dead Death Eater a moment, and then look at me…as if I were some ghost from the past, too.

Her body finally slid down, powerless and without strength, and me, my arms, hands, helped-or tried to-stabilize her woeful release.

"It's not safe here…," she gasped with me on my knees aside her. She wouldn't look at me, she only looked about her, the destruction, her kingdom fallen. "…I knew no one else who would understand."

"The portkey-"

Her dark eyes looked at me, and she was frail, old, she looked nothing like the Rita we all knew and loved. She nodded at me. She raised her trembling hand to touch me, and I took her into my own. She smiled, feeling my cheek. "…I'm sorry…for everything…"

Tears appeared from my ducts and fell, running and ruining the ebon colour which subsided on my pale cheeks. I couldn't hate her…after everything… Her remorse was honest, and I felt her calling repentance for her past… I couldn't hate her any longer. It was not the time for that.

I just shook my head, my brunette tangles shifting. I allowed her to feel of me, her fingers, as if she knew not of why I answered…nor if I were truly there. "…I'm sorry…Harry…you…the Ord-"

She sputtered into a coughing fit.

My head flicked around when I heard something go off, an explosion having me jolt. I couldn't see passed where we were, the distance clouded by the black smoke and falling, burning debris.

I turned back to her. "I've got to get you out of here-it's not safe-"

She shook her head and let her head fall back to the wood panel. "My only children dead…they abused them, and now they lay here…gone…I can't leave them-"

"There's a cottage on the outskirts of Cornwall, by the sea-it's a safe home to lay low-"

"Hermione…," Rita breathed in that awful air, coughing. She shook her head. "…I've nothing left to fight for…Quincy killed what remained of my family…to exact revenge on my insolence…when we fought back, they killed Shade…she's dead…me-"

"…I helped do that," she whispered, her enlarged eyes never leaving mine. "I've blood on my hands."

A lengthy pause came as we both stared at one another, the epitome of what once considered enemy-and-enemy now sharing humanity, commonality and confession.

"I can't leave you here…," I replied. The revelation of Shade, of her family… I tried to put it aside, my open heart readily wanting Rita to live. I could see her pain, feel the pain from her very fingertips…and I could feel, if I were not there, that she really would give herself up.

"A portkey-" Rita coughed, and I patted her back, tried to get her to put something over her face like me so she wouldn't continue to breathe the horrid air in. She refused, swatting my hand back. "No-"

"You must!"

She dismissed me. "There's a portkey…in my office…down the hall…chocolate frog card on my desk…"

"Use it," she wheezed. "Use it."

She gripped my hands, shook my hands as if to emphasize the dire need.

"Where will it take me?"

"To him."

"Him?"

"Draco."

"What are you doing?" she insisted.

I told her again, as I began helping her to her feet, "I'm not leaving you here!"

I had her arm about my shoulder, and we walked ever-so-slowly down the hallway. She wanted to sway, but I wouldn't let her fall, keeping easy pace. The state she was in, the lacerations on her body, the limpness of her form… Death had nearly found her. I was grateful she didn't struggle; though, with any strength left I could see her doing so.

"I've got you," I said when I could feel her losing grip. "I've got you."

"Leave me!"

"No!" I lashed out. We hadn't time for this.

We had made it into her office, a golden plaque above the door having a blurred burnt mark across her elaborately cursive-written name. One couldn't see what used to be a gorgeously stained wooden floor. Great wooden beams and concrete block fallen everywhere. With her, I took step first and helped her along step by gentle step.

"Hang onto me!" I retorted when I could feel her letting go. "Hang onto me, damn it! Don't you dare let go of me!"

I grabbed a fistful of her sooty dress, attaching myself, and I saw a little bit of Rita's signature wry smirk…albeit more sincere. She looked at me as I reached for the chocolate frog card of Albus Dumbledore on her scrap-ridden desk. I didn't even recognize the irony, someone so equivocally against Albus now having set a portkey through one of the last remaining entities of him.

"Hermione…," Rita said through a cough.

My eyes went to her, and I could see warmth behind them.

"You-the Order-," My fingers took hold of the chocolate frog card, and we were instantly pulled in; but, not before Rita echoed with:

"You truly are our last hope."

***

August 1, 2002

London, England

2:58 AM

From a secured position within the Department of Mysteries

Draco, on his father's cane, peers upwards at a blank portrait of what used to be Albus Dumbledore sleeping in a chair. Now, the chair laid bare-and having been since last year after Harry's death. Draco stared in wait, his focus intent, anticipating something that never came. He was alone with his intimate stance, his unblinking eyes carefully set and stayed.

He swallowed hard, his makeshift sanctuary reiterating the swallow. The candlelight led a glow against his face, against the golden frame of the portrait which imitated the same hue upon Draco.

"I hope you've prepared them well," He spoke to the painting, solicitation readily in his voice. The portrait remained silent. "Hear me; we need your guidance now more than ever, Albus."

The door to the office swung open, and with it came a white cloak, a scout, "We've initiated first attack against them, sir!"

Draco had swung around on his cane.

His gaze remained on the adrenaline-pumped scout a while before he gave the ultimate statement, "It has begun."

***

{Author's Note: I went back to the soundtrack of both part one and two of Deathly Hallows and really tried to absorb the dual emotions of helplessness and hopefulness from the pieces. And after many Southern Comfort commercials on Youtube, I believe I've succeeded in showcasing those two strong feelings with this chapter and the past consecutive chapters. Also, of course, our dancing scene in DH1 and the powerful lyrics of Nick Cave inspired.}

Document created with wvWare/wvWare version 1.2.7

-->