Chapter 23 The Casualties of War

His fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had ended in disaster for the boy-who-lived. Now, he struggled to find a way to control an entirely new set of abilities.

Though they were discussing his options, even Harry had agreed the retuning to Privet Drive was out of the question. Extreme emotion seemed to trigger whatever it was. In addition, it was not limited to fire. In the space of a few days, he had alternated between freezing, flaming, and soaking his robes. It was however, when he slept that it became, a serious problem. While clear that emotions did trigger the elemental temper tantrums, while Harry slept, his subconscious reigned free, and the nightmares shook every piece of furniture as his magic leaked out uncontrolled.

Unlike most teenagers who are angry at the world because they are teenagers. Harry James Potter had every right to be angry, to be furious, but he had no outlet for that. Three days into his nine weeks of holidays and he barely slept. It was not the first time Marinashka had levitated the young man from his seat at the table to the bed. The room was perhaps the size of Dudley's bedrooms combined and a comfortable one. His room at the Leaky Cauldron was paid for even though he never spent a single night there.

"He sleeps, at last, husband," she said quietly, "Though for how long…" she left the sentence unfinished. Invariably, within an hour, perhaps two, he would awaken screaming the name of a witch he had watched die.

"Indeed," said Griphook, as his wife sat down next to him, "Are the wards in place?"

She nodded, "Fully protected from flame, ice, and water. Has any progress been made to find someone who can help him control his ability?"

"With what knowledge we have, I am uncertain how to proceed," said Griphook, "The Council… has given me the authority to aid Mr. … Harry and thus far, there is little that Goblin kind can do: We do not possess the necessary knowledge of wand lore.

"So our apothecaries were correct?" she asked, his silence was telling, but she pressed for an answer, "Their diagnosis is accurate?"

He hesitated, wondering how much he should tell her, even if she was his wife and an employee of Gringotts. These matters went beyond the Gringotts Code, "Yes. The fragments of his wand of holly and phoenix feather that are in his flesh allow for his magic, to leak through. The fragments of the wand still channel magic but without the wand to act as a focus, the magic itself emerges in its primal elemental form, without being shaped into an actual spell."

"He will be able to cast magic wandlessly if he desired," she said, linking the pieces together, "But it is not a matter of power or use, is it?"

"It is about control," said Harry as he walked into the living room. Sleep had come but only for a few minutes.

Both Goblins looked around as Harry bowed slightly and sat down in a single armchair, "I apologize, Harry, for discussing your, situation…"

He waved the apology aside, "Griphook, after everything you did, and you have done and still do, it is of no consequence between us." He gave Marinashka a warm smile, making it clear that "us" included all three of them, one cat curled up on a chair and an owl.

While the Goblins have mining operations scattered across Great Britain and the Headquarters of the Bank was in Diagon Alley, the Goblins did not actually live there. Their homes were a series of warrens carved into the undersides of many of the counties' mountain ranges and hills that included the Cairngorms and Southern Uplands of Scotland, to the Clwydian Hills and Rhinogs of Wales to England's own Dartmoor and Pennines. He wasn't exactly sure where he was, but with the floo, the carts, and at worst Portkey, he was never far away from Diagon Alley. It was not long before Harry was fast asleep yet again.

"Husband," Marinashka whispered, pointing a finger at the sleeping wizard, "I will take him upstairs." She levitated Harry who slept deeply, without a care in the world for the moment. With one hand maintaining the levitation spell, she pushed open the door and lowered him onto the bed. For the moment, the young wizard would sleep. She knew the burden that this young man carried, and felt a flash of pity for him, "It is not right, for any child to have to be so burdened." She thought, leaving him to his less than restful slumber.

After waking up for the fourth time, Harry got out of bed and changed. His morning workout was something to do, and rather than tire him out, it seemed to wake him, give him more energy to face the day. He had made the arrangements and joined the Custodians who were also just beginning their day with their morning exercise. While fit, for a wizard, Harry knew, he would never be able to match a Goblin, any goblin's endurance, and stamina. Harry ran in light workout clothing and could manage twelve kilometers on a bad day. The Goblins managed twice that in combat armor with a full equipment load and their weapons.

They nodded to him, and he nodded in return as he fell in at the rear of the formation, matching their military 120 paces per minute run through the tunnels. It was a blend of up and down, twists and turns but Harry knew the path well enough that when he came to a halt after seven kilometers, he could navigate the return path by himself. He arrived back at Griphook's home and disappeared upstairs to clean up. Breakfast was always a quiet affair. Harry had quickly learned that Goblins were not an "early morning" race.

He spent his days' training, honing his magical abilities keeping up with his spellwork, and struggled to teach himself the necessary control with the aid of a number of Goblin specialists such as Geomancers who could control the shape and twist soil and stone to their bidding. Chronomagi who could control the movement of time in the space around them, stretching out seconds so that they seemed to last for minutes and then reverse that with equal ease. The Headhunters could bend magic to cloak themselves in a near-impenetrable blanket of invisibility.

Each of these specialist castes, employed different means to control their magical abilities. For some, it was in the mind, for others focusing aids, such as staves, staffs, crystals, amulets, or rings.

Even if he could not channel the magic, at least he could prevent temper-related outbursts fairly well. However, to put the next phase of his plan into action, he was going to need to learn a number of different things. High on that list would be something, anything to counter Dumbledore's ability to poke around in his mind. He would need to have some protection in place before the 1st of September.

It was something extra and Harry had agreed to pay the necessary fees to learn the skill. Considering what he wanted and the time available, Harry had opted for the crash course that gave him a splitting headache after every session but worked. "Consider your mind akin to a library, but a disorganized one," explained Marinshaka, "Every memory is like a book. Each book has pages, of details, of information. Before you can properly defend your mind, you must first organize your mind. Organize. Everything."

Harry spent hours, creating virtual bookshelves for all of the books. And it saddened him, greatly when he realized that the memories of loss, pain, and hurt outnumbered those of happiness. Privet Drive was nothing but years of agony that he had to relive from the age of four. The first memory of his life was of skinning both his knees, tripping on the driveway of number 4, limping inside, and being yelled at for dripping blood on the carpet. That was his first active memory, but he went further back through the memories of his life as an infant, those few he could recall one stood out: The night his parents died.

It was hard - but he could recall it, almost all of it. Everything that happened that night, from the splintering of the front door, through to his mother's sacrifice to save him.

…one of Aunt Marge's vicious bulldogs snarling snapping at his ankles, forcing him to clamber up a tree in the back garden, while the four of them stood and laughed at him…

…the insinuations that his mother and father were nothing. Worthless. Failures. That he should have died or drowned as a "pup…"

…Uncle Vernon, screaming mad because Harry didn't mow the lawn in straight enough lines as a 6-year-old, slapping him across the face repeatedly…

….Aunt Petunia whipping him with a belt for burning a pot-roast at the age of seven…

…Harry lying in bed starving, waiting for the can of cold soup to come through the cat flap in his door for the first three summers of his life at Hogwarts…

….Dudley and his gang as they administered yet another beating, this time in the front garden, in broad daylight. His uncle yelling about Harry's blood splattering the car.….

…Snape again, dropping a well-made potion on the dungeon floor when Harry had already cleaned his cauldron…

Privet Drive was easy enough but when he came to the memories of the past year, the memories of four hours of hell, took him almost a week to live through again, as he relived the source of all his nightmares. Griphook's wife was adept enough at what the Goblins termed "the mind arts," which encompassed everything from divination, to Legillimency, and Occulumency. She was a patient teacher, taking the time, just sitting there as Harry went through it all; offer an ear to listen or silent support when he needed.

The mental library organized, she demonstrated the possible methods of attack, cautioning that these were the common approaches. They ranged from the subtlest of feather-light probes to battering ram-like assaults and pinpoint surgical attacks.

She guided and he absorbed everything. She demonstrated how to build defenses that ranged from mundane walls to traps and before long Harry had grasped a key concept that had to be discovered and experienced, by anyone who studied the mind arts from the Goblins. The mind was a place, as real as any other was. Each wizard could access their mind, walk through it, touch and feel its contents, every memory, every feeling, and experience.

She gave one of her rare smiles, taking pride in what he had accomplished in the span of two weeks. It took many of her kind several months to match his achievements. However, what made the most noticeable difference was that he could sleep. He slept deeply for the first few nights after achieving the breakthrough. "I can sleep; I don't have nightmares, because my mind is a different place. I'm asleep and know it, and I'm still in control of it." It had also cut down on the number of nocturnal blasts of magic.

He had the basics mastered, but his mental defenses would only grow stronger with time, and use of the skill, "Like a muscle Harry, you must use it constantly to build up its strength and endurance." She offered him a slightly evil grin, "There will come a time when defensive measures alone will not suffice. You must learn to attack and invade." In a word: Legilimency.

She taught, he learned and they dueled with their minds. Invariably, Harry lost but with every defeat, he learned something and applied it. He had, perhaps the greatest motivation in the world for someone his age: Revenge. Marinashka could see it clearly. Revenge drove the young man forward. It would make him the greatest wizard of his generation. However, would he be remembered or reviled… that remained to be seen.

Though the wizard and goblin seemed to be staring at each other across the table, the mental war, raged. They struck out with mental attacks that rebounded off shields, were misdirected, fed false memories, used as lines of counter-attack. Their mental duels took place every night and it was the end of July when Harry finally succeeded, withstanding her assault but also expelling her from his mind. He hesitated and she counterattacked, slamming into the outer walls like a battering ram. Unprepared for the assault, she breached the first layer only to find his secondary line of defenses. She switched her pattern of attack opting for a needle-like probe, in search of a pre-agreed memory. The needle was swallowed completely by an inky blackness as he countered the thrust.

She shattered the probe into thousands of microscopic fibers and slipped through the mental net and upon finding the second wall, penetrated through the cracks. Inside his memories, she suddenly realized that the arrangement was different. Where there had been shelves with books, there were a collection of trunks. Her hesitation proved her undoing as something swept up every fiber of her probe and bound them together. There was a snarl of rage that echoed and the probe, and with it, her consciousness was dragged, within Harry's mind, to a trunk, that was different from the rest. Others looked normal as if made of wood. This one was made of cold cast steel. It was a prison, in his mind, she realized.

She winced in pain at the forceful expulsion but launched another attack. Only to find that in those few moments, he had rebuilt his defenses, and allowed them to change to a completely different form. This was unexpected. Moreover, she ended the duel. "You've been studying on your own Harry?" she took a long drink from the glass before her.

He nodded, "I thought about what you said, about how having the same kind of defense leaves you vulnerable to probes of a specific type," he drained his glass and refilled it, "Vary defenses for varying types of attack."

"And the reconfiguration of your memories?" she asked.

"Same principle: You broke in before and knew what to expect. By changing the… storage system, I buy myself time through distraction to counterattack."

She studied him, carefully, "What was that steel trunk?"

His smile had been one of gentle pride, satisfaction in his accomplishments, "That is a place, for my enemies." The smile took on a dark edge, "Those memories, are the stuff of nightmares, the stuff my nightmares are made of."

She realized what had nearly happened in their mock duel a few minutes before, "I must caution you, Harry," she said gently, "Do not become what it is you fight against. I never knew Hermione Jane Granger, but from what you have spoken of her, from what my husband has told me about her, she meant everything to you. Do not… disappoint her." She set her glass on the table, "Now then, Harry," she wore the same grin that Griphook wore at the outset of a duel, "I challenge you to a rematch!"

Later that night, Harry was fast asleep, and the Goblin couple stayed up to discuss their young charge. The Goblins treated him as an adult because under their laws he was an adult: The last male in his family line. Moreover, as such, they sought to advise him, not dictate to him, "A month, and his only contact with the outside world has been via Owl and Fire sprite." She shook her head, "He should venture beyond our warrens."

Griphook disagreed, "He is still…fragile… is not the correct word. Hermione's death has repercussions beyond imagining. The wand he now uses is her wand. Though not taken in battle, it serves him still. Although he has control of his own mental defenses and that has enhanced his memory recall, emotional outbursts like his could burn down any free-standing structure in Diagon Alley."

She opened her mouth to object, and he held up a hand to forestall her, "I will not forbid him, nor will I share my opinion unless he asks for it, as it has always been."

"Griphook Thazdom," she ran a hand playfully through his hair, "If I did not know you better, I would say that you have feelings of… affection for this wizard." The hint of a smirk played across her lips, "What would the warriors of the Bha-zhak Kha-dorath think?!"

He smirked back at her, "They would think precisely what I tell them to think." She laughed at his reply, "Being Commander of the Bha-zhak Kha-dorath, has its, benefits after all."

In a manor house on the edge of a small village, the Dark Lord sat and surveyed what he would soon be the undisputed master and ruler of The United Kingdom. However, before he could become the ruler, he would first have to crush all resistance. Voldemort knew, full well that Harry Potter would oppose him. Revenge was a simple yet comprehensible motivation. No doubt, the bumbling old fool, Albus Dumbledore would have reactivated the Order of the Phoenix to counter his Death Eaters.

Dumbledore and his Order aside, Voldemort's primary objective for the near future was to gain sufficient knowledge to defeat his foes once and for all. However, to gain that knowledge, he would first need to locate Harry Potter. Wormtail entered what was once the dining hall of the manor house, and dropped to one knee, "My Lord," he said, "Your Death Eaters are gathered as you requested."

Wormtail rose smoothly as Voldemort stalked past him into what was a large conference room, around which the Inner Circle sat. The glasses were filled with wine but untouched. The Dark Lord seated himself and the gathering of hooded men with snake-like eyes slit masks bowed as one, and took their seats. As was their custom and tradition from before the First War, they unmasked themselves and waited. Voldemort, picked up his glass, by the stem, and swirled the blood-red wine experimentally, "Where is he?" hissed Voldemort without preamble. Only silence greeted him, "My Death Eaters, where is Harry, Potter?"

Lucius Malfoy was first to speak, "My Lord, Draco confirms that Harry departed Hogwarts for the summer holidays as usual and was seen in the station."

Severus picked up the tale, "He was also spotted in the station by members of the Order of the Phoenix but gave them the slip. He has not been seen since…" Both men went rigid in their chairs as the Cruciatus Curse send knives of burning agony shooting through every nerve in their respective bodies.

"I know this! Fools! What I want to know is where he has been for the past month!" snarled the Dark Lord as he slapped his glass down, the stem shattering as wine spilled across the table like blood.

"My lord, if I may?" said Pettigrew quietly, "Perhaps, we can draw him out of hiding…" Voldemort turned to face Pettigrew, not bothering to release the men currently doing their best to resist screaming under the curse with varying degrees of success.

"Speak Pettigrew," he finally released them, and both Lucius and Severus slumped over in the chairs, gasping for breath.

"Harry has a number of friends," said Pettigrew, "The Longbottom boy, a number of the Weasely children, Lovegood's daughter, and Colin Creevy. An attack upon one of them, or perhaps several of them, could draw the boy out of hiding." Wormtail paused, "If my Lord deems in reasonable, Victor Krum and Fleur Delacour could also be viable targets."

"An interesting proposition, Wormtail," muttered Voldermort as he stroked Nagini's head with his free hand, his yew and phoenix feather wand rolling idly between his fingers, "Do you have anything more specific?" The rat-faced man nodded, "Continue."

"I believe that targeting neither Victor Krum nor Fleur Delacour would not succeed, and it would draw international attention to our activities. The ideal targets would be the former members of his tournament "Honor Guard," Wormtail spat the words, "The ideal target would be the muggle-born Creevy. Only the children would be able to defend their parents. As targets, they would also have the added advantage of sowing the seeds of chaos and terror…."

"An interesting proposition Wormtail. I shall give it due consideration," said Voldemort, "Leave!" he snapped and the Death Eaters filled out of the room, many walking to the fireplace to Floo back to the only fireplace that connected Riddle Manner to Diagon Alley. Others opted to walk out the front door and past the wards before apparating.

Wormtail waited, knowing what was coming. It had been this way since his master's resurrection. He clenched his silver hand and the summons came as he expected. He entered the conference room and took his regular seat, two seats down, on the left-hand side of the table. "Your proposition has merit," said Voldemort, "How are the new recruits coming in their training?" Twelve men and women would hardly be enough to conquer Wizarding Britain, let alone the rest of the country.

"Not well," he answered truthfully, "The process is complicated due to its muggle science origins. We lack the proper knowledge of their science, and…" he hesitated, choosing his words with care, "the magic required is arcane. Little more than myths and unsubstantiated rumors remain. I cannot provide any guarantees."

Voldemort's wand rolled between his fingers, "We have no choice but to proceed as planned, then. Take yourself and two others - Nott and Mulciber," he decided, "The three of you should be enough to handle two teenage wizards."

"It will be as you desire, My Lord," He rose and left the conference room. Voldemort stroked Nagini's head, as she hissed to her companion, "Soon, Nagini. We cannot act prematurely. First, we must have the prophecy. Then with my army, we can bend this country to our will."

That evening in Maid Vale, it was just before supper when the Warrick Avenue Tube Station was the site of a number of crackling pops. Three wizards, robed in black with masks and hoods apparated into existence and made their leisurely way along Castellian Avenue to Number 17.

"Wards!" Anti apparition wards, anti-portkey wards, silencing charms, notice-me-not charms, privacy charms and muggle repelling charms all went up around the house, and to the rest of the neighborhood, the house simply ceased to be there. "Remember to make the filth suffer," ordered Peter. Peter himself, stood on watch outside as Nott and Mulciber got down to do what it is Death Eaters do so well.

Upon bursting in through the front door, the spellfire had been fast, and one-way. Dennis Creevy had heard of his brother's rock and roll year as one of Harry's friends and was thankful that his brother was not at home. The bone breaker curse took his father in the chest, slamming him into the far wall. The Cutting Curse drew his mother's blood as she collapsed to the floor with barely a sound. Dennis's wand was on his bedside table where he had left it and the curse felt like a rapid string of punches to the face and gut that dropped him to his knees.

Mulciber gave the three "a taste" of the Cruciatus curse and then mockingly, asked Dennis to choose, who died first. Gryffindor for nothing, he glared up at the killers, hocked up, and spat a globule of bloody phlegm, right into the masked man's face, "Harry will get you, he will. So just get on with it!" The boy did the same only to stain Nott's robes instead of his mask.

The Death Eater snarled in anger, backhanded the boy across the face, and turned his attention to the incapacitated adults, "Your mother'll be dead soon enough boy." It was true, her blood had already soaked and stained the carpet red, "But I can help your father along… Avada Kedevra!"

The young man's last thoughts were of his brother, over at a friend's house for dinner. A muggle friend who had never heard of Hogwarts, who thought that magic was just misdirection and illusion. His courage stood him in good stead. "Senium Viscus!" cast Mulciber with a grin, "Avada Kedevra is too good for you boy,"

Pain ate its way up Dennis's chest, and he looked down through eyes swimming with tears of agony, "Go ahead and scream, no one can hear you." The boy bit his lip and drew blood. He refused, and within a minute, the pain began to fade, as did consciousness, as he slumped over dead, "The Decay Curse," Mulciber kicked the corpse over, "still too good a death for filth like this."

Pettigrew pushed himself off the low iron fence and went inside. They dismantled the wards from within the dwelling, "Mordsmorde!" shouted Pettigrew. Moments later, the three vanished with the distinctive crack of apparition to different destinations, until their master called upon them once again.

The muggle police were quick to respond to the phone call from fourteen-year-old Colin Creevey, who has just returned from dinner with a childhood friend, to find his family butchered, the Dark Mark floating gently in the sky over his home.

The Ministry was quick to react when they heard about it, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement dispatched three separate squads: One of Aurors to contain the scene disguised as muggle policemen, a team of Hit Wizards who withdrew from the scene once it became clear there was nothing they could do, and the Obliviators to conduct damage control via muggle memory modification.

Mordicus Egg had written, in 1963 that muggles are capable of ignoring, justifying, and explaining any magical happening given that they refused to believe in magic. It was why the flimsiest of excuses often sufficed to cover up the darker truths. That and given the purpose of the Muggle-Worthy Excuses Committee had thought up dozens of possible explanations and cover-ups to explain all manner of magical happenings, whether good or ill.

Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Amelia Bones shook her head sadly. There had been reports that Voldemort was back, and then the Prophets reports to the contrary. No longer protected by his confidentiality agreement with the Quibbler, the Prophet had reactivated its usual strategy and had worked its way up, from general questions to specific accusations and slander against Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore. Amelia Bones realized that she would need to find the young man a temporary guardian until permanent arrangements were made. The question, however, was who?

In Riddle Manor, Nott and Mulciber screamed in agony as Voldemort unleashed some anger and frustration at the simple plan that had gone wrong, "Incompetent! Fools! I sent you out to kill four! And you return having only killed three!" hissed Voldemort, "And where is Pettigrew? You could not even see to his return to share in your pain? Foolishness beyond incompetent!"

"My Lord," Voldemort turned to find Pettigrew standing before him, "I…" the curse slammed him to the worn stone floor of the manor, and he screamed. Much to the amusement of the still twitching forms of Nott and Mulciber, but even between bouts of pain, the animagus was able to plead forgiveness, "not lost…Privet Drive… lead us to Potter…" whatever he was going to say was drowned up by his screams of agony as Voldemort poured even more power into the curse.

"You failed me! Yet again! You fail me Wormtail!" snarled the Dark Lord of the Death Eaters, "Mulciber, Nott, enjoy yourselves… make him feel my wrath!" The pair rose unsteadily to their feet, trembling as they bowed. From his fetal position on the floor, only he could see the feral grins on the faces of both men, and he quivered in fear, "Just ensure that you do not damage him… permanently." The aftermath of the curse had him trembling, and if he could have whimpered in fear, he would have.