|Harry Potter and the Long War
Author: Empty Words PM
The War has been raging longer than Harry Potter's been alive. With the whole of the British Isles lost and Voldemort reigning supreme, the Order is in exile, still fighting the good fight. Alternate Universe setting.Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama/Adventure - Harry P. & Hermione G. - Chapters: 10 - Words: 10,502 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 8 - Follows: 6 - Updated: 02-07-13 - Published: 02-01-13 - id: 8968048
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Harry Potter and the Long War
The Channel was a right bloody mess as a storm raged across the whole of south England. At forty thousand feet in the air, Harry Potter, was above the lightning, thunder, and whipping rain, but it didn't stop him from cursing his ill luck.
No one bothered to divine the weather on this most auspicious of nights. Most likely they had taken the word of some Frog wizard without double checking. Everyone knew that the Frogs were only halfheartedly involved in this war so what did they care about missions into the heart of darkness?
"Who's bloody idea was this anyway?" he muttered.
"Who amongst you English cares so much about the fate of every man, woman, and child in your lands/" A feminine voice with a delicious trace of a French accent said into his ear.
Harry grinned as he glanced to his left to see a witch flying beside him on her own broom. Fleur Delacour, beautiful, petite, and the most dangerous woman he'd ever had the luck to share a bed with. She arched an aristocratic brow at him.
Bloody bleeding Minister of Magic in Exile, Severus Snape. There was a war to be fought and here they were, the best of the Order riding straight into the maw of the Death Eaters for what looked to be a purely PR endeavor.
"Give them hope," Snape had said. "Give the people hope."
Harry fished out a pocket watch from his robes and glanced down at the storm below. Well, if he didn't want to be above the British coastline, in a storm, and with his arse hanging out for all to see, he bloody well shouldn't have volunteered for the mission in the first place. He cast a smile back to Delacour.
"Let's give some Death Eater hell, shall we, love?"
Delacour gave back a predatory smile.
DEFENSE PLATFORM 42
Lord Gregory Lackheart, Pure Blood Death Eater; second class, regional commander of the Southern British Defense Network, glared at his subordinate.
"What do you mean, you felt something?" he demanded.
The subordinate, some mudblood that didn't deserve to be in his presence, huddled at his feet. "The net, m'lord, something passed through it."
"Something? Something?" he snarled. He kicked the mudblood and stormed off to the net. "I should hang you for such drivel."
A dozen goblins cranked and twisted knobs on a machine of brass and steel. They looked up at the Lackheart and moved a tad faster at their work. Their lord was in a foul mood and they knew what that brought, death.
Lackheart stopped before a great tapestry mounted on the wall. It showed all fifty defense platforms that were under his control, the southern line of defense from the mudblood invasion that was brewing across the Channel. He peered at the net, a fine silver thread that crisscrossed the tapestry.
Something blipped on it. Right over his platform. Number 42.
"What the-" he began.
An explosion erupted and Lackheart was thrown into the tapestry.
A hole twenty feet across and twice as high was blown into the main wall of the defense platform. Goblins ran, knowing that there was going to be some bad things going down. Meanwhile, the small detachment of guards scrambled to the hole, wands held high.
A figure marched through the hole, a broomstick over a shoulder and a wand in his other hand. He grinned down at the milling guards.
"Oi, I'm Harry Potter and I've got a message for you beloved lord and master, Voldie. 'He's a fuckwit arsehole.'" Harry said.
The guards stared at him.
"Bloody hell, I'll just tell him myself," he said, tossing aside his broomstick.
The guards rushed him and Harry smiled.
LONDON, MINISTRY OF CONTROL
"Sir! Sir!" a half blood courier cried.
Ronald Weasley, Pure Blood, Death Eater; second class, and combat auror, stopped and watched as the young woman caught up with his long strides. She carried a scroll that she handed to him after bowing. Ron read the message and looked at the woman.
"Lord Voldemort commands me so?" he asked.
"Sir, a few minutes ago there was a report that said there was an attack upon the Southern Defense Line." The courier said, bowing again. "The Advisors think it's just an Order probe, but Our Lord wishes further investigation."
"Lackheart, he may have the bloodlines and connections to achieve a command position, but lack's more than just heart," Ronald glared.
"Sir…" the woman said terrified. "I was just told to deliver the message."
Ronald looked down at the woman and smiled apologetically. He slipped the briefcase he had been carrying into the woman's arms. "Please, tell Lord Voldemort that his will shall be done."
The courier bowed and backed out of his sight.
Ronald pulled out his wand, took a breath, and apparated.
DEFENSE PLATFORM 42
Smoke filled Ronald's lungs. He coughed and waved his wand to clear the air. Immediately he knew that it wasn't just a simple raid or probe into the defense line. This was a full out attack. Fire and destruction filled the main control room and there weren't any workers to be seen anywhere.
Rage filled Ronald as he marched through the fire and smoke, his eyes locking upon a writhing figure on the floor. A half blood guard lay in a pool of his own blood, he looked pleadingly at Ronald.
"Help, sir," the man whispered.
"What happened here?" Ronald demanded.
"It was Harry Potter, sir. He's here."
"Harry Potter! Why wasn't this message sent to the Ministry!" He flashed the guard and stormed into the smoke and fire, following the sounds of fighting.
A guard stumbled away, his face on fire. Harry pulled out his pocket watch and sighed.
"Sorry, gents, but this wizard is going to have to call it a night." Harry slipped the watch back into his robes.
Harry whirled around and saw a flash of red before he was thrown to the ground. His breath was knocked out of him and he cursed himself for not being faster. He rolled to his feet, a spell on his lips, but something hard, bright, and painful struck him in the chest. He went down to his knees.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, spitting blood.
"Look at me, Potter!" a voice screamed.
Harry looked up to see a tall ginger bloke standing over him. The features and hair were familiar to him.
"A bloody ginger, must be a bleeding Weasley," he said, laughing.
"I am Ronald Weasley and you're going to die tonight, Potter!" the man yelled.
"Didn't I kill one of you buggers in Belgium? How many of you are there?" Harry got to his feet, watching as the man's faced flash to a crimson that almost matched his hair color.
"His name was George and I'm here to avenge him!"
With that, the ginger charged.