[ React | L E V I A T H A N S E A ]
Posted by Jessica on 9/5/2004, 6:06 pm When he'd finished securing his most able weapon, he turned his attention to his left, just beyond his shoulder; Albus Dumbledore stood there, relaxed against the wall, seemingly sleeping though Harry knew far better than to assume as much. The elderly man, his lined face yet more lined with time's able passage, seemed almost content in the moment (as much of the Order did), knowing well that nothing could come to pass that would not be easily handlable by the remainder of the Order. Why, they were all below ground now! for the first time in long weeks were they clustered together (though we forget the Weasley boys, Fred and George, who seem to have remained atop despite the disturbance) and seemingly safe; Harry deeply inhaled, closing his eyes as he did so and allowing himself to slump against the wall facing Dumbledore. He slid down the damp face of the bunker, finally coming to rest with his knees pulled to his chest; he wrapped his arms about his calves, drawing himself into a secure pose and allowing his head to lean heavily against one knee. It was not sleep that overcame him in those first moments below ground, but rather a certain kind of peace that comes just before the storm; and storm, certainly, was approaching -- but Harry knows it not, and Dumbledore knows it not, and the Order is safe for a few more moments of false solemnity. He lifted his head moments later, shifting his sleepy gaze to his right, where the notebook he'd only recently cast aside was resting; without hesitation he grabbed for it, finding his quill and ink resting beside. He lowered his knees, so as to provide a more secure surface upon which to write, and lifted his now inked quill to the aged paper. A few scratching annotations as to the time of day, their location and an explanation of the preceding moments came first, though it was not this that he long dwelled upon. No, it were the entry that he toiled over for the better part of five minutes, scrawling out long sentences with able punctuation, and though we are party to his writings it were better that this entry go undisturbed and unread by others into the annals of time. Fortunately, there were no disturbances for the shifting mintues, allowing for elegant sprawling letters which faded into shakily penned words -- what in Heaven's name was making such an earth-quaking racket above-ground? Harry's eyes bolted upward and locked with Dumbledore's own; "Professor...?" he began, the damning tremor kept from his words thus far, "what is that?" The fiercely protective sheen that came over Dumbledore's eyes then was a reassurance, though more of an omen of impending doom to one who had known its appearance previously; Harry stood immediately, making his way through the huddled Order to the base of the hallway that led to the surface. His eyes were ready, his hand upon the hilt of his wand and the other braced against the frame of the doorway; there was no questioning now the approaching steps of something great, something... and there was silence as whatever came drew to a hasty halt. Members of the Rebellious Order of the Phoenix, you are discovered, your treachery unearthed. We have you surrounded, there is no escape for you this day. He recognized the voice, damned if he wouldn't, and paused in a caricature of himself, a young man poised upon the brink of his own destruction; he did not move, nor breathe, but rather lifted his eyes without lifting his face, to focus heavily upon the door at the pinnacle of the staircase. Certain that he'd magicked it shut, though uncertain of any ill-methods of forcing it open, he began forward to find a hand upon his shoulder drawing him back into the room: Dumbledore. "No, don't Harry." Harry swallowed heavily, but never one to long ignore his Headmaster's orders he acquiesed; he took a step back, resumed his former position (now with wand drawn and held to the ready) and inhaled. There was no sound amongst the members of the Order then, though Bill had taken hands with his sister and seemed to be squeezing Ginny's fingers so tightly that all that remained on the younger woman's face was a sort of grimace. However, Harry surmised, it could be attributed to the voice now puncturing every wall of their defense, surely magnified a hundred thousand times with a Sonorus charm. You will surrender yourselves to us or you will perish. Extraditing Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore shall earn you leniency in the court of our esteemed Lord Voldemort. For now though, I would like to express my sincere thanks to Nymphadora Tonks, without your help we would have spent another week looking for this hole. And indeed
a hole it is. Harry did not breathe. Harry could not breathe; the heavy sounds of destruction above resumed, though it was beyond his grasp to assume precisely what allies Lucius had called hither to make such... and then, with a shudder he knew: giants. One quick glance in the direction of Hagrid proved his assumption correct, though he did not dwell long upon the half-giant's rather bemused expression. Rather, he turned his head to Dumbledore who still stood behind him, hand on the younger man's shoulder, with almost an apology in his eyes: I'll go Professor... This is my battle, I'll go, let them have me to appease their appetite for blood, and you get the others to safety... let them have me... But of course he did not say it, no one would allow it, they would die before handing Harry to the Dark Lord - - but he would die before them, so swore it to himself, he would die protecting what they had no reason to die for... it was his battle, his battle... his battle... Harry glanced at Tonks; "It would have happened, regardless of your scouting. No worries, then, Tonks." It was almost an apology for the placing of blame upon the young woman by Malfoy, and though he turned his head away at the same time he did not long shift his gaze from her eyes. However, the rising cacophony of the surface drew him from his reverie, as Malfoy cleared his throat once more with a gleeful malevolence. Until we hear otherwise though
as moles we shall dig you out. As the giant's tools rent the earth about them, Harry turned to the remainder of the Order, his eyes devoid of any kind of recognizeable emotion; they were clustered in portions, the Weasley's together, the Professor's together, Dumbledore and Harry standing motionless together at the mouth of the cave - - and as the two men exchanged a single look, Harry began to realize that the gleam of duty had overtaken the fatherly glint of Dumbledore's eye, and was strengthened by the presence of such a companion. But this was his battle. It was his battle. His battle. He drew his wand from the ready position and swung to speak to the remainder of the Members of the Order; "It was bound to happen. What do we do?"
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"Shit..." Harry muttered, bending at the waist to wrap his now steady fingers about the hilt of his wand; it had fallen from his grip moments after he'd come in from the upper-levels of the rather decrepit bunker, slipping from his hand to drop heavily to the ground. The soft clatter of wood against stone shattered the momentary silence which had descended upon the Order of the Phoenix, now certain for a moment that all were safe and fully accounted for. So Harry, his hair now far more disheveled than common, stooped and laid hand to the wand he'd carried for longer than a decade, it's once elegant exterior blazoned with scratches and marks of long usage; it was evident that this wand was no mere accessory to the common Wizard, but rather an extension of the Boy's own body. His fingers easily found their grooves against the hilt, and as he stood he allowed his eyes to roam over its expanse; it was still smooth in places, but rather battle-scarred, rather damned by the circumstances of its existance. However, it knew him well (if indeed a wand can become conscious of it's Master), and as such treated him as he treated it. Slowly, and with some sort of reverence, he twisted the long body of the wand back toward his hip, where it took its place against the long line of his waist; it resided there, through waking and sleep, without fail or mistake. He'd never been without his wand long, and now it were as though it's taking would create some rift in his psyche, a rift he'd rent and tear and piece back together until again the wooden instrument was recovered... but this is not something that Harry commonly worries over, and as such gives little thought to a world without his Wand and instead lodges it securely against his waist.
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