The Heavens Tremble

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A/N: The idea came from my Mistress, Seren. But mostly, it's just Jo's.

He sat, staring into the fire at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Outside the door, Darkness raged. After Dumbledore’s death, nearly eight years ago, now, everything started falling apart; first the Ministry was invaded, the majority of the upper members killed. Then Hogwarts was sacked, McGonagall and the most of the rest of the staff also killed. This young man had been on a mission for the late Headmaster with his best friends at the time. It had taken them nearly five years to complete that mission, not realizing what He had been up to while they were in search of the last bits of His soul; they had decided to remain incommunicado while searching, to prevent anything being discovered. When they returned to the Burrow, it was to find it completely abandoned and nearly destroyed. They then went to Grimmauld Place, where they were met with several suspicious wands. Apparently Death Eaters had attacked the Burrow, completely decimating it; the Weasleys had managed to get to safety, however. For this, the young man was eternally grateful. The Order was holed up in Grimmauld Place, the only safe place left; Voldemort had managed to take control of most of the Wizarding World, though pockets of resistance remained. The young man was so lost in thought about the last three years, that he failed to notice someone pad into the room. He only noticed her when she pushed his long, ginger hair away from his face and kissed him gently on the cheek.

“Ron?”

He turned to look at her, smiling, the haunted look in her eyes he knew matched the one in his own, matched nearly everyone’s. Even those he hadn’t seen in over two years, despite the fact that they lived in the same house. “Hey, Hermione. What’s up?”

“Same thing as you, I presume; I couldn’t sleep.”

“I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in about six years.” They sat there on the couch and just held each other, staving off the Darkness for another night.


Meanwhile, upstairs, in the master suite, another young man sat flipping through an old and dog-eared photo album. Nearly everyone in the photos was dead; his parents, Dumbledore, Sirius, the bulk of the Order, all dead. He blamed himself and would not let anyone enter his room save the young woman who held his heart. She was sleeping on the bed next to where he sat, her dreams untroubled by the deaths he had caused. He looked over at her sleeping form, her burning mane spread out around her like a halo, a ring of fire. It had taken her nearly a year to convince him to let her into his life, into himself. Halfway through that time, he had finally shut himself up in this bedroom, only allowing her to bring him food, and then only after much wheedling. He blamed himself for so much that he was nearly paralyzed with fear. He looked at his watch, and saw that it was nearing three in the morning. He decided he could lie down, rest his body at least, if not his mind. Carefully getting under the covers, so as not to disturb her, he lay down his head. Almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, Harry Potter drifted into a deep, restful sleep; the best he’d had in years.


Downstairs, Ron broke the peaceful silence. “Hermione, why won’t he let us talk to him?”

Hermione sighed at mention of the old discussion. “I don’t know, Ron. From what Ginny says, he blames himself for everything, and it’s paralyzed him. He’s Silenced the entire room, so we can’t even yell at him and get him angry. It’s up to Ginny, I think.”

For once, Ron brought up something new. “Why do we have to wait? Dammit, sitting in a room isn’t going to bring mum and dad back! It’s not going to give Fred his eye and arm back, nor resurrect George. It won’t give Bill his mind back! Why are we allowing him to wallow in his misery when we didn’t allow it eight years ago?!”

Hermione was a bit taken aback by the vehemence of Ron’s outburst. “I… I dunno, Ron. I guess it’s because we couldn’t break into the room if we tried; he’s so much more powerful than us that I don’t think we could get through the wards.”

“Sometimes it’s not always about power, though; it’s not always the Queen that wins the game, but a lowly Pawn. We’ve been trying to use a sledgehammer when we need to be using a feather. Maybe we can talk Ginny into letting us in?”

“I don’t think we should, Ron; if we fail, and he shoves us out, he may very well kick Ginny out as well. She’s the only thing keeping him sane.”

“Then we won’t fail; we have to try, Hermione! Please?”

“All right, Ron. We’ll talk to her tomorrow when she comes down for their breakfast.”


“Harry, it’s Ginny. Open up.” The door gave a click and opened an inch. With significant looks at Ron and Hermione, she pushed the door open and proceeded into the room, flanked by Ron and Hermione.

Harry looked up; seeing his two best friends, his eyes narrowed and he scowled. “What do you want? I thought I made it clear I don’t want anyone else in here?”

“You did, Harry. Abundantly clear. But that doesn’t mean we’re just going to sit by and watch you kill yourself slowly. We love you, Harry, and we need you.”

“Of course; everyone needs the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, and I’m tired of it. All I’ve managed to do is get better people than me killed.” He held up the photo album. “Everyone in this book is dead except me. Everyone. And they’re all my fault. I don’t want anyone else to die.”

“Funny way of showing it, Potter.” Ginny started in on him. “Everyday, more people die, all because you sit here wallowing in self-pity. It’s not that we need you, it’s that you’re the only one who can kill Him. We know you can’t do it alone, and we’re prepared to help you, Harry. But you have to meet us halfway.”

Harry looked like he still wanted to resist, but he finally just folded in on himself, sobbing softly. “I’m sorry, guys. I’ve been such an idiot; if I hadn’t… if I hadn’t frozen up like this, maybe he’d be gone by now. I’m sorry.” Ginny motioned for the other two to leave while she crossed to the bed.

“He’ll be down shortly.” Ron and Hermione left the room, feeling the happiest they had in a long time.


Tonks was surprised when, about an hour later, Harry came down and sat at the table. She stared at him and prodded him, as if to ensure he was really real.

“It’s me Tonks. My friends came and knocked some sense into me.”

“Well it’s about time. I’d just about forgot what you looked like, Harry.”

“I know. I won’t do that again; as enjoyable company as Ginny is, there’s only so much I can do with her.”

“Not that we didn’t do a lot, Harry.” Ginny interrupted with a suggestive grin.

“Please, we just got Harry back; I don’t want to have to kill him.” Ron looked faintly ill.

“Fine. Tonks, I need you to gather the remainder of the Order, any members of the DA who still want to fight, and any others you think could help in a fight.”

“You mean…?”

“Yup. Starting tomorrow, we start fighting Voldemort on our terms.”


It was two weeks before Harry got the desired results, even though his ragtag band had begun the war again the very next day. They numbered around twenty, but Harry couldn’t ask for a better army. They were incredibly successful, each soldier taking out at least two Death Eaters at every confrontation; the pressure was on Voldemort. Finally, the thing that Harry had been waiting for had come; Voldemort contacted him through their bond.

/“Potter, we both know that my victory is inevitable; if you could have defeated me, you would have done so years ago.”/

/“Maybe I was just biding my time. ”/

/“Maybe I’m offering you a chance to finish this once and for all. Tomorrow, Hogwarts’ lawn. ”/

/“We’ll be there, Tom. Count on it. ”/

/“O, I will, Potter. I will. ”/


The next day dawned bright and clear; it was a beautiful day. Harry made sure everyone was up and ready for the battle; there would be time for rest later. They ate a good meal, then Apparated to Hogsmeade, or what was left of it; Hogsmeade had been destroyed when Hogwarts had been sacked. Calmly walking up the familiar path to Hogwarts with Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Tonks, and Neville flanking him, Harry realized that the rest of his army had stopped. Turning around, he looked from one petrified face to the other, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

One of the number stepped forward, a tall wizard who had joined the Order in Harry’s absence whose name was James. “We’re scared, Harry. It’s one thing to face Death Eaters, but it’s quite another to face Him. Most of us have never faced Him directly before, and we’re petrified.”

Ginny stepped forward. “You think we’re any less scared? Do you think that it gets any easier to face Him if you’ve done it before? Because it doesn’t; in fact, it gets that much harder. No one is supposed to escape from Lord Bloody Voldemort.”

Harry placed his hand on his girlfriend’s shoulder, and began a speech that would never be repeated, but would be remembered by all. “There are two kinds of brave: insane-brave, where you honestly fear nothing, and thus make foolish mistakes; then, there is normal brave, where you recognize that there is something to fear, recognize that you fear it, and move on. True bravery is not going where man fears to go, but going where you fear to go.”

Another newer member of the Order, a witch named Cassandra, stepped forward. “That’s easy for you to say; you’ve been a hero since before you can remember. I remember hearing about what you did at Hogwarts.”

“I’m no hero. To me, a hero is someone who is cold enough, wet enough, tired enough and hungry enough to just not give a damn. So maybe I am a hero, but there’s another qualification in my mind: Hero is often a title awarded posthumously. Quite frankly, I’d rather not be a hero.

“And I learned pretty quickly what fear was at Hogwarts. I also learned that surrendering to that fear is something I could never do; I forgot that. It took my friends to remind me of that.

“All I ever wanted was a normal life; I wanted my biggest worries to be school and my girlfriend. And that’s why I fight; so that when my children are fifteen, the biggest worries they will have will be OWLs and snogging their girlfriend, not the darkest wizard of the age being out to get them. I want the name Voldemort to be synonymous with the Boogie Man; a name used to frighten little children into bath and bed. And if that means that I have to die today, then so be it. That is a future I would happily die for.

“By now, many of you have heard of the prophecy, and how it’s the reason that I have to do this, but what few of you know is that I chose this. Voldemort gave the prophecy significance by killing my parents; I could have chosen to run, even after I heard the prophecy. I could have locked myself up in Grimmauld Place and let Him have whatever He would.

“But, you see, I didn’t see it that way, until I had a talk with Dumbledore; I saw it as my destiny, something I had no control over. Then Dumbledore asked me, what if I never heard the prophecy; what if there never was a prophecy, but Voldemort had still done what He did? I knew then as I know now: I would still want to kill him. I would still want be the one who finally defeated him. I remember thinking that it was like the difference between being dragged into a coliseum, and walking in with your head held high. You’re facing the lion either way, but you at least have dignity when you walk in.”

Neville spoke up, his voice starting out shaking, but getting stronger as he went on. “Right now, in Iraq, there is a war raging. I have a cousin in America; he’s a half-blood and one of his cousins is fighting in Iraq. Brian, my cousin, has told me about how the American news is calling people like his cousin a hero. But he’s written to Brian, and Brian’s written to me, that they aren’t the heroes. No one goes to war to be a hero; they go to fight for what they believe in, or because they believe it is their duty, not because they want their name to be remembered. Some call it an unjust war, but I disagree; they have brought freedom to the oppressed. I can think of no more just cause.”

“Throughout history, it is almost never the larger army that won,” contributed Hermione. “It is the little army, with inferior arms and superior hearts, who defeated their larger foe.

“Around 480 BC, an army of 300 Spartans held a pass against nearly 200,000 Persians at the pass of Thermopylae. If the Spartans had given up, the Persians would have overrun the pass, and likely destroyed the Ancient Greek civilization. Every single one of those 300 Spartans died that day, but they held the pass long enough to give the rest of the Hellenic army time to prepare. They defeated the Persians once and for all, all because 300 Spartans refused to retreat.”

“The Greeks seem to have been full of stuff like that. I read about this bloke named Xenophon once.” Ron looked at the several blank stares he was receiving. “What? Hermione’s not the only one who knows where the library is. Besides, I found this in a book on strategy.

“See, this Xenophon went with this group of about 10,000 Greek mercenaries to fight in a Persian civil war. Xenophon was just a philosopher; he was no warrior. Yet, when all of the Greek generals were killed, Xenophon was elected general. They were stranded, surrounded by Persians, so Xenophon got to thinking. It was brilliant really; he had the rear guard set up a position to fight, then had the next line of soldiers set up a line a few miles back. When the first line began to be surrounded, they spun and ran through the next line, forming up a few miles beyond them. In this way, the Greeks fought all the way to the mountains and through to the Black Sea. Ten-thousand lightly-armored Greeks against at least 20,000 heavily-armed Persians. Anyone else would have given up. They would have thought that they had to take as many with them as they could. But not Xenophon; he fought to free himself and his fellow Greeks. And he did.”

The group of Order and DA members still looked doubtful. Ginny threw her arms up into the air in exasperation. “Fine. I’m going to face my lion. ‘Bye.”

The six of them walked up to the gates, which stood open. Suddenly, Neville, who had been at the back, felt a hand on his shoulder.

“We want our own lion, too.” The entire group had come up to join them.

Harry stood staring at the still-white tomb of Albus Dumbledore. “I will raise a cry so great that the heavens themselves will tremble. I will blaze brighter and hotter than the sun. I will sell my life so dearly that my foe will question if fighting anymore is worth it. I will raise my sword and my foes will quake. If Death’s scythe swings for me this day, let it swing through the blood of my foes a thousand-fold. I raise my cry and charge.” Harry raises his wand into the air, and, for an instant, it seems like he is wielding a sword of flame. With a great wordless roar, he points down at the tall man standing by Dumbledore’s tomb and charges. A moment follows before the rest of his army follows, all with the same wordless cry.

Around them charge those who have fallen, lending their legs strength.

Around them, the voices of those who have come before joins the great roar.

And the heavens tremble.

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A/N: Well, this is my first one-shot. Let me know what you think! If you like this, check out my other fic, "I Wanna Go Back" in the Dark/Angsty section.