Harry Potter and the Unlikely Gryffindor

Ron woke to room full of familiar faces, though none of them seemed happy. In fact, as soon as his head rose, their voices fell. Not understanding, he looked for his parents. The entire Order was here, except for two important people. "Where's my Mum and Dad," he asked, looking around at the gathered Witches and Wizards.

Moody seemed more...well, moody than usual. McGonagall's lips were pursed so that she had only a thin line for a mouth, and Tonks looked as though someone had doused her with a bucket of liquid gloom. Snape was still in his chair beside Hera's bed, but he made no move to go anywhere as Madame Pomphrey tended to the Malfoy. Harry and Hermione were in the middle of the discussion, but neither of them would make eye contact.

Something was wrong. Ron could feel it in the way the members of the Order regarded him with a kind of pitying sadness. Though that would only last for a second before they averted their gaze. Getting up, he walked over to his two friends, pointedly ignoring the adults around him. "What is it," but he still got no answer other than those looks.

Hermione couldn't take it any longer, and she wrapped her arms around her friend. McGonagall reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, gripping it firmly. "I'm so sorry, my dear. Your mother and father, they were killed last night,"

Harry and Hermione had to catch Ron as his legs gave out. He never asked why, though that was not important at the moment. "This was all that was left after the fire," McGonagall handed Ron a piece of neatly folded parchment with 'The Weasleys' scrolled in long flowing calligraphy on the front. Unfolding the parchment, Ronald read over the contents, his eyes red rimmed and brimming over with quiet tears.

Dear Weasley family;

Perhaps it would be polite on my part to explain my actions of the previous night. I happened to be enjoying a meal in a fine establishment, the name of which does not matter. During said meal, I began to ponder my impression of this so called 'war' with the wizard known as Voldemort. I will admit his methods are a bit messy and his followers are sometimes a tad dull, but he has managed to get the wizarding world's collective attention, has he not? Shocking as his acts may be, they do have a certain perfection to their timing, and wonderfully planned message.

I digress, I am rambling. As I was saying, I was enjoying a rather delicious meal, when this darkly clothed chap strode my way. I will admit, I was a bit put off at first, but we struck up a rather mentally stimulating conversation on this very subject. We kept our voices low, mind you. I certainly do not want the attention of certain individuals directed our way.

As I motioned for the waiter to refill our wine, a thought occurred to me. I know not why, but I suddenly began to realize the Ministry's rather static position within this gory affair with the Dark Lord. Perhaps I had been unwilling to see this before because of my attachment to the current Minister of Magic, but the how and the why do not matter now. I see this as though I was blind at birth and have just opened my eyes.

The Ministry is weak, full of Wizards and Witches who would rather hide from Muggles than be proud of who they are. We cast spells so that those hapless beings will not harm themselves and insult the various governments around the world. Father and Mother were not the first to fall, nor shall they be the last.

I am telling you here and now, the war is no longer contained within the Wizarding world. Look to the east as the sun breaks the horizon, for your doom will be soon after.

Sincerely yours;

Percy Ignatius Weasley
Loyal and willing Servant of Lord Voldemort

Ron folded the parchment back up, swallowing hard. "Do the others know? Does Ginny know," he asked, finely breaking down. He let Hermione and Harry lead him to one of the chairs.

Harry left them as he walked to the bed Hera was on. She was the same as the night before, other than she had been taken out of Snape's robes and now wore a rather conservative version of the clothing that was her trade mark. Snape was still brooding in his chair, though he was eying Moody who was standing just behind the Potions Master. Pomphrey was talking quietly with McGonagall, and Tonks, along with Diggle, Dodge, and pink-cheeked Hesta Jones. Apparently, Bill was with the bodies of his parents while they were being prepared for burial. Shacklebolt, and Hagrid were probably guarding the rest of the castle. It was not until then that Harry realized how much the Order had dwindled over the years.

"Not to make light of recent events. But will one of you tell me how you came to be here," Moody was back on form, his gruff nature his only shield against breaking down completely. Though he made sure to stay by Snape, constantly watching him with his mechanical eye. If he ever felt uncomfortable before, Severus was absolutely beside himself as his scowl deepened until the whole lower half of his face was down-turned.

"She would be able to tell you loads more than we could," Harry nodded toward Hera, who was still unconscious on the bed.

Moody snorted as he limped over to the bed. Reaching over her body, he grabbed her right arm and pulled the sleeve back revealing what was left of the Dark Mark. "And how do we know that this 'little angel' here isn't still one of them," his eye always on Snape. "Their tricky buggars, and once they go bad, there's no trustin' them anymore," although he never said it, Severus was sure that Moody directed that statement straight at him.

Harry didn't know how to respond. So he just sat down, running his hands through his hair. Ron was already going through a hard time without Moody questioning the allegiance of their friend. Harry supposed he knew how Ron felt. But then again, it was worse to have been raised by your parents and have them ripped from you than only knowing them through other's memories.

XXX

Darkness beyond blackest pitch;
deeper than the deepest night.

Hera remembered that incantation from an anime cartoon she used to watch when she was a kid. It was the episode in the Slayers series, where Lina Inverse had to cast the Giga Slave to defeat the lord of monsters, Shabranigdo.

King of Nightmares who shines like gold upon a sea of chaos,

That's almost like what her life felt like at the moment. Like a sea of Chaos.

This moment in her life was playing over and over in her mind, burning itself into her memory with each passing second until everything else was forgotten.

The air hung like stale fog, smelling of fetid cloth and rotting wood. Everywhere she looked, she could see the crest of Malfoy adorning everything from door knobs to the corners of the large picture frame that hung over the mantle. That picture had dominated the room when she had walked into it only a few days ago. Orange and green fought for supremacy as bird and serpent circled one another in an endless battle to the death.

Darkness and light fought a similar battle outside as the sky looked as though it would tear itself apart. Air and water, circled in an endless dance as fire flashed through the skies and the earth held firm. It felt like that inside her own mind. Everything in conflict as she fought with herself over whether or not to stay or run and take her chances with the storm outside. She had stayed, and watched the battle unfold in the painting.

As she watched, the serpent lunged out and grabbed hold of the flaming birds leg, holding it fast inside its serrated maw. Hera could almost hear the bird crying in pain as the snake shook its head, snapping the leg from the bird with a tremendous jerk. This sent the hapless avian falling to the ground. The bird fought to stand up as the snake edged ever closer to it, already swallowing its leg. The great Basilisk continued to stalk the wounded bird, until out of the corner of the painting, a wizard lifted a great long sword and let loose on the snake's head, separating it from the rest of it's body.

For one long moment, the body convulsed, causing the contents of its stomach to spill out onto the ground. Coating the grass in a foul smelling black mess of half digested matter. The wizard holding the sword, stepped into the muck, reached down, and pulled out what looked like a gore covered claw.

As she watched this then, she had not made the connection, but now that she reviewed this in her mind, she could see. The man who had sold her wand to her, had said something about the core being recovered by a wizard from the belly of a Basilisk. And that the wand itself had been made from an ebony that had been uprooted in the fight.

That fight had taken place over fifty years ago. If what she had heard about Harry's wand was correct, theirs had been made nearly the same time. And Fawkes had given only two feathers, so that meant that Voldemort's wand was the same age. Hera sat down in that tall chair in her mind, watching the painting play over and over again. If that was Fawkes in the painting, then that would mean that her and Harry's wands were connected, but not in the same manner as his was with Voldemort's. No, theirs were connected in the same way two victims are connected by the same crime.

It was true that only Slytherins possessed ebony wands. But only a true Gryffindor could wield one with a Phoenix talon inside. Because only a true Gryffindor could overcome their own dark natures and fight for what they believed in. Maybe that was why this had happened to her. She was being tested. Had she passed, or was that still to be determined?

She knew that outside the door lay the world outside her dream. She could hear the voices, though they were very far away, and not every word could be understood. It almost reminded her of when she had gotten in trouble and her parents were talking in another room. She had always pressed her ear to the wall, trying to get at least some idea of what was being said. She never really intended to get into trouble, but trouble seemed to find her more often than not. Just like right now.

Hera watched the storm raging outside, noticing that it seemed to reflect herself. Storms never intended to destroy anything anymore than she intended to hurt anyone by telling the truth. She and the storm were one and the same; completely out of control. But then again, that was also a misnomer. She was never really out of control. She could always reach out and steady herself on her parents and older brothers. The same could be said of the storm; all it had to do was reach a spot where it could reach out into cold air, and it would cease to rage.

And as these thoughts went through her mind, the sky cleared. Sending shafts of bright sunlight through the heavily curtained windows, turning the sickly greens into the color of leaves on a summer day. “Is it really that easy,” she got up, walking up to the windows, and threw back the curtains. The light flooded the dark room, bringing objects out of hiding she had not noticed before.

On the far wall, was a painting of a regal looking gentleman, so old the name plate had been worn smooth. His eyes seemed to follow her as she walked closer, his half-moon spectacles sparkling just like his eyes. His face was jovial, making it look like he was remembering a good joke, but wanted to keep others guessing as to what that was.

He chuckled as she walked up to him, tipping his tall hat to her. Hera tilted her head, trying to remember where she had seen this man before. That was when she realized; she had never seen him. He had been described to her. “Professor Dumbledore,” her question answered by a slow nod.

“I assume you know where you are,” and his question was answered by a slow nod from Hera. “Good, then you know what you are watching,” and again she answered with a slow nod, making the former headmaster chuckle. “Never did I believe that a Malfoy would be sorted into Gryffindor, even when I had witnessed it with my own eyes. Now...do you understand why you are here,” this time he was answered by a shake of Hera's head.

Dumbledore harrumphed, nodding to himself as though he had suspected as much. “Perhaps it would be wise to tell you then. You are here, because this was a turning point in your life. True? A moment that made a deep impression on your mind, even if you did not know it at the time,” he motioned toward the large picture where the phoenix was continuing to battle the Basilisk. “You know who that phoenix is then. Good, then you already know how your wand came into being,” Dumbledore smiled, watching the painting himself for a moment.

“Fawkes and I had received an Owl from a dear friend of mine, over half a century ago, asking for my help in getting rid of a rather nasty Basilisk that had been slaughtering his herd of Hyppogriffs. I had never seen a Basilisk that large. It must have been centuries old, living off of the wild deer. I offered my services. The chaise and battle lasted for hours, and had us running all over the countryside like scared children,” he laughed, adjusting his spectacles. “Once we had run the beast down, Fawkes went in to finish it off. Though it was a little more crafty than I had expected. It had bitten Fawkes' leg off, and was about to finish him when I took matters into my own hands. I was a bit younger then, but it still was taxing. And Fawkes was not able to stand properly until his next burning day.”

Hera watched as Dumbledore became lost in thought. “Those days are long gone, though watching youngsters such as yourself and your friends brings those thoughts back to me. I am an old man who sometimes forgets how it can be for students,” he seemed to let go of breath he had been holding for a long while. “It is unfair of me to ask this of you, Hera. But, it must be done. What do you remember of your first meeting with Voldemort?”

Hera had not expected that question, and spent a long few seconds searching her memories. “Darkness,” she answered after a long pause. “Not the kind that comes after you turn off the light. This darkness seemed to eat the light. Like it was alive, pulsing, breathing.” Hera shivered, her skin breaking out onto goosebumps. “And his eyes. Everything else is unclear, but those two things I remember.”

Dumbledore nodded as she spoke, his eyes cast down for a moment. When he met her gaze, he seemed to hold it like a starving man clutching at the last crumb of bread. “You must never let yourself be captured again, Hera. That night, when your two spells collided, something happened to you. Your eyes changed. Not just how they look, but how they perceive the world,” Hera tilted her head, not quite following. “You see through illusions, Hera. And not just cheap parlor tricks either. The illusions those Dementors had cast on them were powerful spells cast by Voldemort himself. He will want this for himself, and will do anything to get you back.”

Hera was suddenly over come with the urge to crawl under a bed and hide like the scared child in her heart. “But this is not the only reason, Hera. You above all need to be weary. Voldemort will seek to use his hold over you through what is left of the Mark. And if he gains full control of you, everything Harry and his friends have done up until this moment will be worthless.”

Hera gasped as she listened to the portrait of Dumbledore. “He wants...that from me? But why from me? Aren't there other Witches in his little cult that can do that for him,” Dumbledore shook his head at her question.

“No child. You are the purest of the pure. The last pure Malfoy in existence. Your maiden's blood is the last ingredient he would need to fulfill his threat. In your blood, lies the promise of immortality. And he would need to be the one to draw it out,” Hera suddenly felt sick to her stomach. That was why Voldemort had been so interested in winning her for himself. That was why Draco was killed, and Snape cowed.


Outside, Hera's skin took on a greenish pallor as she whimpered in her sleep.