“Well, Gin,” Harry said as he slid heavily onto one of the tatty, overstuffed chairs in the Weasley’s parlour.  “I suppose that’s it then.”

“Harry,” she answered, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.  She sought and held Harry’s gaze for one moment and then turned towards the cheerily crackling fireplace, her perfect profile, the one he had professed to love since sixth year, kissed by the golden glow of the flames.  “It’s just that...you have never really... I mean, I do love you... I’m just not in love with you...”

“Save it, Gin,” Harry cut her off, his tone much more fatigued than he thought it should be.  He just could not dredge up the emotion needed to mimic surprised betrayal.  If he were honest with himself, it was a relief to finally hear that the problems he and his wife of ten years were having were not all caused by him.  She had admitted her part in it, had as much as said that she had fallen out of love with him.  It lessened Harry’s own burden of guilt at never having loved her as she needed to be loved. There was just one little detail that he needed to hear to make it all real.  “Is there... are you...”

Ginny stifled a sniffle before answering the unarticulated question sharply, “I’m not George, Harry.  I don’t have a bit on the side, nor do I want one.” She spat out the last words, the unspoken verbiage of betrayal stinging Harry more than his wife’s request for a divorce.  She looked away again, but not before he saw the accusation of his own longstanding yearnings for another woman in her eyes.  She knew, had always known, that Harry’s heart was compromised, filled with love for another.  Even though he had never acted upon the emotion, it was still present, a stain on the perfect life they had tried to create after the war.

Their disparate unvoiced subtext was the warp and weft of their relationship.  The resentments built over years on both their parts, never said out loud, only thought, were the reason they were sitting in her parents’ parlour on at eleven-something in the evening on New Year’s Eve, dissolving their marriage so calmly.  Harry slid his hands along the rough denim of his trousers.  He wanted to tell her that what they were going through was just a bump in the road, that he had never loved another but her.  He had given his virgin body to her, that much was true, but the year he had spent looking for Horcruxes with Hermione and Ron had taken his heart from him and he had unknowingly laid it at the altar of an unattainable woman.  She was his best mate’s girl, the woman he should have only seen as a sister, but never quite could after spending that time alone with her in the Forest of Dean.

It was a stroke of irony that he had had a better understanding of a dying Severus Snape than either of the men could have known when the professor spewed his dying memories.  Sometimes Harry thought that it was wrong that Snape had died that bloody summer night.  Snape’s punishment for the sin of loving futilely and too well should have been the same as Harry’s.  It was only fair that the two lives that mirrored each other’s so well would end with both of them sharing the broken feeling of love never attained.

Ginny sighed into the silence, bringing Harry’s attention back to her.  She rose, gathering her dressing gown around her.  It was the one she had worn when she was in hospital to give birth to Jamie, Al and Lily.  Harry followed her movement and she grimaced before saying, “We’ll work out something for the children.  This isn’t their fault.”

Harry sensed the accusation in her tone and did not rise to the bait that he might have when he was deluding himself that something could be salvaged of their marriage.  Ginny pressed past his knees on her way to the winding staircase that led to the room they shared when they visited.  “I think it’s best that you stay tonight so that we can tell the children tomorrow morning.  I expect that you’ll want to move to Grimmauld Place as soon as possible so we can have the house in Godric’s Hollow.  There will be less disruption in the children’s routines that way.”

Harry nodded, not wanting to speak so that she would hear the relief in his tone and misinterpret the emotion.  Harry had always wanted to be a father and had feared that Ginny might not have seen that he still wanted it.  He swallowed the sting of the relief along with the tears that had formed at the back of his throat, the salty tang an unwelcome penance.

Ginny moved to the stairs.  “Mum left some bedding out for you to make a pallet on the floor.  I don’t think, under the circumstances... well, I just don’t want to sleep with you anymore, Harry.  It’s just not right.”

He heard her tread on the first step, then further up, her weight making the fifth one up squeak as she walked on it.  Arthur always spoke of fixing it, but never got around to it.  There were always other more interesting or pressing problems for him to deal with.  Harry rose after he heard her shut the door softly upstairs and found the bedding laid out for him on the bay seat.  He flipped out the first blanket and laid it on the floor, folded in half so that he could get a better cushioning charm on it.  The furniture in the Weasley household had been charmed to look new too many times to transfigure it and have it hold the form.  A pallet was the best he could expect now.  As he cast the last spell, a warming charm, the clock in the kitchen whirred and began chiming.  Harry counted the chimes as he was always compelled to do and as the last bell sounded at the count of twelve, he said, “Happy fucking New Year, Harry.  You’ve really bollixed your life up now, haven’t you?”

He slid under the blanket of the pallet, keeping his clothes on, and waited for sleep to come that he knew never would.  He closed his eyes to prevent the tears from falling so copiously.

Life with Ron had always been a struggle. It wasn’t that Hermione didn’t love him.  She did with her whole heart.  It was that they had two different outlooks on life, two ways to view their marriage.  Hermione supposed that it was normal for two people who had lived together to fall into a sense of complacency.  Not that she had seen that type of relationship as she grew to adulthood.  Her own parents were still quite passionate about one another, and Arthur and Molly seemed to have a nicely intimate relationship.   It seemed that their role models for marriage were on the proper track, so why then did it feel as if she and Ron were at odds most of the time? 

They hadn’t been married more than a week before Ron took off to see a Quidditch match in France with George, claiming that his brother needed his support since he no longer had his twin to skive off with.  Less than a fortnight after that trip, Ron had accepted a position with the Chudley Cannons as their offensive coach, a job that took him all over the UK and Europe and away from her for long periods of time.  He had accepted the job without consulting her. In his defence, she had enrolled in both Muggle and wizarding universities to further her education right after she finished her seventh year at Hogwarts, without asking his opinion.  He had accepted the situation with good, if resigned, grace.  He knew that Hermione Granger-Weasley had never lost sight of her goals, no matter that she was married with children.  Now, on New Years Eve in the eighth year of their marriage, she watched him progress through the ranks of the party guests, never once looking at her to see if she was comfortable, occupied, or even the same room as he was.  Hermione felt as if she was living her married life alone. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, her life.  They were supposed to live with each other comfortably if not happily ever after.

Her mind skittered over a memory from the war; one she did not dwell upon, a memory that would spell disaster for both her marriage and Harry’s if it were ever discovered.  A quick Obliviate had taken care of Harry’s part in the event, but Hermione had to bear the sweet, sad memory alone.   Before and image could form in her consciousness, she pushed it to the back of her mind once more just as Draco Malfoy made his sneering, yet welcome presence known at her elbow. 

“I see the hubby is on his rounds again.  He’s such a dutiful employee,” Draco said into the shell of her ear, his breath stirring the tendrils of her hair that had escaped her chignon.  “When will you break away from him, and be with me, Granger?  I pine for you, you know.”

“A fact that I’m sure your lovely wife over there is quite thrilled with, Malfoy,” Hermione answered with some asperity.  Draco’s flirtation with Hermione was just one of the many things that marked their less hostile interactions since the war ended.  Ron was not pleased with their friendship, but since both she and Draco worked in the same office of the MLE, Hermione could not justify scorning him.  Besides, she had grown to like his pointed repartee, and he seemed to have truly changed since he was a child.  She also liked his wife, to whom Malfoy was utterly devoted, a great deal.  Astoria was not who Hermione had expected Draco to marry.  She was an unassuming, unaffected woman who was more at home on their sheep farm than at fancy balls.  Astoria, half-sister to Daphne Greengrass, had been raised in Australia on a cattle station with her mother and step-father which had saved her from having to experience her husband as the prat that he was during his school days.  Astoria caught Hermione’s eye and waved a tanned and toned arm before being enveloped in a bear hug by an over-lubricated Oliver Wood.  Hermione turned her head to take in said former prat’s rather resplendent, if somewhat subdued robes. “How can a man achieve such perfect grooming and not be gay, Draco?”

“Good breeding, and a homosexual stylist that is a martinet when it comes to my public persona.  You could do with an hour in Diego’s chair, Granger.  Your hair is still quite frightening,” he answered with a matching arid tone.  “Mother sends her regards.”

“How nice of her.  Please convey my warm wishes to both your parents for the New Year,” Hermione said with only a small amount of irony.  “And please tell Narcissa that I do miss our little chats now that your father is no longer under house arrest.”  Hermione took a sip from her flute of champagne grimacing at the dryness of the beverage.  Draco spared no expense for his team, but his taste in wine was atrocious. “I thought they might be here tonight since their son owns the team.”

“Father tells me Chudley orange gives him a migraine,” Draco said with a small chuckle.  “But really, they are in Venice for the New Year.  It’s become a tradition with them.  They remain disgustingly affectionate, even at their advanced age.”

Hermione chuckled at the comment.  Draco’s parents had finally fallen in love after years of marriage, a child, and two wars.  Hermione, who had handled Lucius’ case as an intern, had become a friend and confident to Narcissa Malfoy during that time, surprising both women at first.  Lucius merely tolerated Hermione still, but Hermione never felt slighted.  He seemed to hold most people at a distance.  It was just his way.

Ron finally looked up from the overly made-up matron that was clutching his hand and gesticulating with her wobbling chins and scowled as he saw with whom his wife conversed.  Hermione cringed inwardly, knowing there would be a fight when they finally made it home for the evening.  Draco inclined his head towards Hermione’s husband before he sketched a kiss over her cheek.  “You would think your husband would grow out of his antipathy after all these years.   After all, I do sign for his wages every month.  I’ll leave you to your Weasley, Granger, though I will never understand the attraction.”

Draco strode away from Hermione toward his wife who was engaged in a game of ring around the rosy with two of the newer player’s children and a wonky Oliver Wood.  Ron shot Hermione a murderous look before being once again caught up in a conversation with another important supporter of the programme.  Hermione just wished for the evening to be over so that she could be the focus of her husband’s attention, even if he was angry with her for an imagined indiscretion with Draco.

At the end of the evening, as the countdown for the New Year began, Hermione was the only person in the ballroom who did not have anyone to kiss.  Hermione had seen Ron disappear moments before with a corpulent middle-aged supporter to seal a deal over a disgusting cigar, no doubt. At the end of the evening, as the countdown for the New Year began, Hermione was the only person in the ballroom who did not have anyone to kiss.  She had seen Ron disappear moments before with a corpulent middle-aged supporter to seal a deal over a disgusting cigar, no doubt.  She sipped a bit more of her wine and went to gather her cloak.   She’d had enough for the evening.

Time had a way of slipping through his fingers in the afterlife.  Albus Dumbledore looked once more on the sleeping form of the boy turned man that he would have gladly called his own, his spectral form becoming solid this one night of the year when Janus was occupied with the closing of one year and the opening of another.   Albus had assumed that things would turn out well for young Harry  after all the sacrifices Potter had been forced to make, yet here he was, just as lost, just as bereft as he had been as a boy.  The deepened shadows and hollows of his face showed his age, but Albus had seen the shadows of those same features on the boy as an eleven year old.  Harry had always seen too much and felt too deeply for one so young.  As Albus watched sleep claim Harry, he realised that the man young Potter had become was essentially the same as the boy he was, except for a few more age lines and a few more scars. 

Albus knew he had done a great disservice to the boy that Harry Potter was.  There had been many that Albus had failed in his life, but two stood out from the crowd. Both Harry Potter’s and to a lesser extent, Severus Snape’s fates haunted him.   Both of them had been so similar in their psychology and their experiences.  Both were dark, both loved too well for their own good, and both had hated with the same burning passion.   Those were the two men in the plethora of dead and dying that littered Albus’ wake, who he had failed utterly. 

In the between of the new year, Albus whispered brokenly, “Severus, Harry, I am so sorry.”

It was almost an imprecation, the way he said the words.  He had failed Severus Snape, both as a homely bookish boy and as an intelligent taciturn man as surely as he had failed Ariana.  But while his sister was in the afterlife content and whole, Severus would not speak to him and was clearly unsettled by his situation.  And then there was Harry.  Even now, he could sense Harry’s bewildered anger, his yearning for a normalcy that would forever evade him.  Had Albus known of the abuses of the boy’s guardians, he might have pulled Harry (or Severus for that matter) from the situation, though he doubted that the Albus Dumbledore that had lived would have actually stepped in with any alacrity.  He had learned early that the more a piece of metal was hammered, the more likely a fine blade could be honed into a very effective weapon.  The Albus Dumbledore in the afterlife could see his hubris for what it was, and it shamed him.

On this night, when the doorway was both open and shut, Albus had been given one chance to change things for the better for both Severus and Harry, and tonight, the anniversary of the night Ronald Weasley had destroyed the locket, he could finally do something about it.  Albus Dumbledore would make things better for all

concerned.  He had to or he would remain a restless spirit, not quite a ghost and a soul that was still unready for reincarnation.

He closed his eyes and willed the slippery strands of time to spin backwards.  For good or ill, he would give them back that night so that both of them could live with their choices whilst not altering the course of the war.

31 December, 1997, 18:00

Headmaster Severus Snape looked out of the battlements around the Astronomy tower, letting the unaccustomed feeling of blankness wash over him.  He felt as if something had changed materially in his life in between the beats of his heart.  It wasn’t as if he were new to the world, but almost as if he had become reacquainted with his own senses after a long absence.  He tested his body which had become extremely sensitive to the flow of blood, the watering of his eyes, and the feel of the wind on his cheeks.  Inexplicable joy filled him as he sneezed after drawing a deep breath.  He hadn’t felt so carefree in years, if he ever had. 

His mind dwelt for a moment on the one time he had come close to that feeling of freedom, and he drew a well-worn and torn picture from his waistcoat pocket, his finger trembling as his eyes ran over the laughing image of Lily.  A chubby hand clutched at her chin from the section he had excised and just as suddenly as the joy came, his mood plummeted.  That little hand was the reason he was still alive, existing in a half-life of joyless days and terrifying nights.  He tried to dredge up the feelings of inadequacy and hatred that the boy Potter always brought Severus, but could not.  It was a new lack of feeling that he might have welcomed under different circumstances.   If he hadn’t killed Albus, if he hadn’t unknowingly engineered Lily’s death, if he had never said that word to her...  His path had been forever Dark, and the way lonely. 

He did not expect to live to see the end of the war.  He was Moses, leading his people to the Promised Land, forever condemned to look on it from another plane after all his hard work and suffering yet to never set foot in it.  Severus’ idea of God was what his father and the schoolyard had taught him.  God was a careless bastard who toyed with people’s lives for his own pleasure.  There would be no reward for all Severus’ service.  Pain and more pain was what he could expect until that dark angel closed her wing over him, shutting his eyes for the last time.

It was the idea of his own demise at the end of his travails that got Severus through this seemingly endless midnight.  Yet now, with his new symphony of feeling, this new spinning sensation of hope, he wanted to see what would happen after his former Lord was vanquished.   It seemed from this vantage, that something indefinable had changed in him.

Severus turned from the parapet, and climbed down the stairs that were magically attached to his office.   Albus had said this was the evening he would be needed to provide Potter with a certain Gryffindor artefact.  He mustn’t be late.

December 30, 1997, 15:45

Ron had run from them like a coward. Now that he was no longer under the influence of the locket, he could admit it. For days he had scoured the area for any signs of them, anything to let him know that they were alive.  He had only left when he had noticed signs of the Snatchers following him.  That had lit fire under his arse and he had gone to the only person he knew would welcome him, the only one he knew who would understand why he had left even if he never said it.  He stayed for a few weeks with Percy.  His brother was still a git, no matter that he was a git who was actively shuttling families of Muggleborns and so-called blood traitors out of the country at great personal risk.  Ron still didn’t know how he was doing it.  Percy wouldn’t tell him anything, which was just as well.  He suspected there may be some Death Eaters and the like who were helping him move the families but when he had asked, Percy had merely told him to shut it and mind his own business in his very Percy-ish  way. 

Percy had changed.  He’d become harder but more human, even though he was still a prig.  Ron could respect that, and he could respect that fact that Percy didn’t ask him why he had run from his friends.  Ron wasn’t sure he would be able to answer if Perce had.

Things had become hot for him in London and Ron had left Percy’s flat to follow Fred and George for a bit.  He had even got to announce for a few of the Potter Watch broadcasts, though he didn’t give his name and disguised his voice.  It was thrilling to know that he was so actively thumbing his nose at Old You No Poo.  Yeah, Ron had to admit that had been brilliant advert before the war, but not so helpful to the twins after it started for real.  They’d had to close shop and were on the run because of it.  They even had a bounty on their head based on that one sign in their shop.  Old Mouldy Warts didn’t possess as keen a sense of humour as your average Weasley apparently.

A few days ago he had hear that light putter outer thing speaking to him, or whatever it did.  He had heard Harry scream and then Hermione sobbing.  It was enough for him to panic and run away again, this time to find his friends.  Now, he sat near a clearing in the Forest of Dean looking on a scene of blood and gore, with two Snatcher’s bodies on the ground amidst it, and being sobbed on by a quietly hysterical Hannah Abbott. 

He still hadn’t figured out how she had killed them, or quite how she had come to be in the middle of nowhere in the first place.

As the shadows began lengthening and Ron couldn’t hold off the shivers from the dipping temperature any longer, he wrapped his arms around the girl and said, “Hannah, come on.  We need to find a place to sleep for the night.  My rucksack is just over that rise.”

Hannah gave one strangled sob and then fell silent.   Ron took that as a good sign and rose, pulling her up with him.  He had never noticed what a little thing she was, just coming up to his chin when they were both standing.  They floundered through the snow to the small encampment Ron had begun setting up before he heard the commotion.  He said, “We’ll need to move from here.  Can you get things packed up whilst I take care of...”He gave a sharp jerk of his head towards the clearing. “... back there?”

Hannah nodded dully as Ron turned back to the pink and red-tinged snow.

Hermione woke with a start, moving out from under Harry’s lightly haired arm, whilst trying not to wake him.  He gave a small moan and turned on his side, away from her, his glasses askew on his nose.  She took them from his face and then covered his naked shoulder with the thin, woollen blanket that she had brought to the seating area before...  She shuddered away the thought, feeling the hunger-loosened flesh of her belly jiggle a bit.  She cast about for her hastily discarded clothing, her mind repeating two words; oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck..., ad nauseum, forever and ever, amen.

She hadn’t meant for that moment of comfort to turn into the mad rush of passion to which they had both succumbed. 

Once she  charmed herself clean and she was more or less dressed, she busied herself in the kitchen area, made larger by her manipulation of wizard space before they left Privet Drive.  She went outside to gather some snow for the kettle and set it on the burner of the small camping stove that Harry had liberated from the Dursley’s former home.  They hadn’t wanted to use too much traceable magic in the last few months for obvious reasons.  She leaned against the small table that they had all spent hours around in planning sessions and card games before Ron left them.  She was still angry at him for that, but it didn’t excuse anything that she had done with Harry.  And poor Ginny...

She didn’t know if she would ever be able to face her only female friend once this was all over.

Guilt washed over her at the thought of Ginny’s devastation if she ever discovered what had happened.  Hermione gripped her wand tighter.  It would only take one spell to make things right for Harry, at least.  Hermione would have to live with her faithlessness to both her friend and her would-be boyfriend.  The thought of Ron brought a stab of fear to her gut along with a rush of hot fury all over her body.  He should have been there with them.  If he hadn’t left, nothing like that would have happened.  Hermione wouldn’t have seen Harry’s turmoil, his pain, his longing for something sweet in this completely desperate situation in which they found themselves.

Hermione jumped as the kettle began its shrieking whistle.  She moved to the stove and deftly flicked the kettle off the flame and then doused the fire with a flick of her wrist.  They’d need gas soon or they’d be stuck eating straight out of tins.  Hermione thought she might still have some of the cash she had taken from her bank account before they left Surrey, otherwise she’d have to transfigure wizarding currency to make their purchases.  She prepared her cup of tea, foregoing the last of the milk so Harry could have it.  He was fond of sugary, rich drinks.  She was sure it was something he had been deprived of at the Dursley’s, the vile bastards.  Hermione could drink hers plain if the tea was brewed correctly, and who was she to deny Harry the little pleasures?

She turned her mind to the question of Obliviation again. She didn’t know if she should tell Harry her plan or just do it.  Her normal mode was to do the thing for his own good and damn the consequences, but having slept with him...

Snape’s irony-tinged baritone, the sulphourous voice of her conscience for the past few weeks, interrupted her thoughts, I saw little sleeping going on, Miss Granger.  You fucked him like the dutiful little sycophant that you’ve always been, and now in your know-it-all way, you’ve decided what’s best for him.  You’ve always done that, starting with the incident with the troll... I say let him live with what he’s done... He’s just like his father, spoiled... arrogant... irresponsible because those around him don’t let him know how much they’ve been hurt by his thoughtless, grasping...

Hermione clutched her head, tears stinging her eyes as she whispered, “Shut up!  Shut Up!  SHUT UP!”

“Hermione?” Harry had come up behind her without her knowing and he spun her around, pinning her face against his chest over the spot she knew had a small scar from Dudley burning him with a lit match when he was six, the same spot that was scarred and twisted from contact with the locket.  She heard the rush-rush of his heart and knew she couldn’t do it to him, not if he didn’t want it.  His lips whispered over her hair, down her cheek and soon she was enveloped in the scent and taste that was pure Harry.  It was a sensory buffet of musk and chocolate, a rich, dark odour, earthy and secretive.  He finally broke the contact, the clear green of his eyes winking flatly behind his glasses.  “I’m not sorry.  It feels like I’m supposed to be. Like I should ask you to... phhhttt,” he moved his hand as if he were casting a spell, “... and you take it away from me, the memory, the guilt, the beauty of it... but I don’t want you to do that.  Not this time.”

“What?” Hermione pulled away, drawing him back at arm’s length. “What do you mean, ‘Not this time’?”

“I-I can’t explain it...” Harry said, sidestepping her grasp and making towards the cups.  “I just... I feel like it’s all happened before, you and me... like we’re in some kind of weird time loop, you know, like in one of those science fictions shows?  It’s stupid, I know, but I can’t help but think we’ve been given a chance to... Oh, sod it.  I don’t know what I mean.  Never mind.”

 Harry busied himself with the tea, slopping a bit of milk from a tin into his cup and on the table, and then taking a slurping sip.  Hermione lifted her wand readying herself to betray another person she loved, but she stopped in mid-cast.   He didn’t want her to do it; he wanted to remember his time with her.  Did she want the same?

As if in answer to her unvoiced question, she lowered her arm, sliding her wand up her sleeve with unconscious, practiced ease.  She looked down at her filthy clothes, her ragged, chewed nails, her gaunt hip bones protruding from her jeans.  She wasn’t the warm, shining beauty that Ginny was. She wasn’t even pretty in the non-conventional sense.  Hermione had no illusions about her looks, but her sense of self-righteousness had never failed her before today.  Now she was just as human as the ragged, dirty boy standing before her.  She turned from the kitchen and pulled her blanket over her shoulders before she retreated to the small alcove that had become her room.

December 31, 1998 23:45

Ron rolled over in the sleeping bag, brushing his hand over Hannah’s soft, blonde hair as he pulled her to him.  He couldn’t seem to get enough of touching her.  She nestled further under his chin, her hair tickling his nose as she moved.  He smiled, pushing thoughts of Hermione to the back of his mind.  When the sun rose, that would be the time to feel like a cheating arse for losing his virginity with the girl that slept peacefully in his arms.  Now he just wanted to feel good.

It had been so long since he had felt that way, as if he’d had a long, hot bath and a filling meal.  But right now, even the small aches that were manifesting themselves from his recent strenuous coupling felt wonderful. They meant that he had finally done it, that he had joined the ranks of men.  He now knew what it was like to sink into welcoming softness and draw sighs from a woman’s lips as he did.  It felt like power and creation.

It wasn’t as if he wanted cheat on Hermione.  He wasn’t really cheating anyway, right?   She had decided that they didn’t need to act on their feelings whilst they were on the hunt, Ron had happened to agree to a certain extent.  Harry had enough on his shoulders without having to contend with them being all hormonal when he was around.  It was what a best mate would do for his friend, except, Hermione had carried it a little far, pushing him away when they were alone, not even giving him a feel of her breast or a quick hot, snog when they got a moment together.  She’d insisted the temptation would be too great, that they’d slip up, make Harry feel worse about leaving Ginny behind, but Ron got the definite feeling that there was more to her denial than that.

Of course, that cursed locket hadn’t helped matters any.

It also didn’t help when Hannah had started talking to Ron, really talking.  Not that blab-blab that Lav-Lav had done.  Not the down-talking, bossiness that he had come to love about Hermione.  Hannah had just talked about things. What had happened since he’d last seen her, who she had thought was cute at Hogwarts (Ron had been fairly pleased he’d been on the list), how she had learned to kill like she did (her Muggle dad’s friend was a Yank who was a Ranger, some kind of bad-arsed military bloke.  After her mum had been killed he’d taught her what she needed to do.)  It all came out in her sweet monotone, no big words, no ickle kid talk, just words that told him what he needed to know without making him feel bad about himself or his motives for being with her.  Somehow, she wound up telling him about her dad, and how he had blamed her for her mum’s death.  Things had gotten bad for her at home, and she’d fled the Muggle world, only to find that she wasn’t welcome in the wizarding world anymore.  She’d found a few other wizards and witches in a similar situation and stayed with them for a while, but decided to return home when she got word her dad had some kind of grave Muggle illness.  She came too late, arriving on the day after his funeral.  The house was sold after she’d been presumed dead too.  Her dad’s mother had kept the funds from the sale and had gone to Canada or the Bahamas with it.  She rightly feared for her life, so Hannah didn’t begrudge her that, much. Hannah’d stayed around Manchester then, learned to how to steal to buy food, but had done other things when she couldn’t lift enough from a pocket using magic and skill.

That was how the Snatchers had found her, her use of magic on Muggles.  You Know Who may have had the Ministry under his control, but the bastard hadn’t cut off the tracer spells that told when magic was done around Muggles.  Bloody hypocrite was what he was.  Ron had wanted to ask what it was like with them, the Snatchers.  He figured she’d had a rough time of it with them.  They hadn’t taken her directly to wherever it was they were supposed to take helpless little girls.  But she’d looked so miserable, he hadn’t asked anything.  He figured he could imagine plenty bad, and then he’d just make it ten times worse and he’d have his answer. They’d spent some time in silence after that.  Ron didn’t want to tell her about Harry’s role in the war, because then he’d have to tell her how he’d skived off on his best friends.  She seemed to understand in her defeated way and finally suggested that they get some rest.  She had curled up in a little ball at the edge of his ‘borrowed’ Muggle tent.  He’d told her in no uncertain terms that she’d freeze her arse off, and that’s how she ended up sharing his sleeping bag.  And, as they say, the rest was history.

She sighed against his chest, bringing another wave of gratitude from Ron.  It was nice to feel like he was the strong, brave man.  He’d had so few opportunities to feel that way before.  He kissed her hair, moved his hands further down her body.  She shifted so she was under him, her legs around one of his thighs.  “Ron...”

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” he offered, hoping that she’d let him again anyway.  His hips jerked involuntarily as he spoke.

Hannah moved against him, leaving a wet smear on his leg.  “I want to.  You don’t make me feel dirty when I do it with you.”

Ron shook his head, not really understanding, but glad just the same, “All right then...”

December 31, 1997,24:30

She had been a virgin.

That was the only thought that ran through Lucius’ head as he dealt the death blow to the young girl who lay curled in a ball before him.  Rodolphus Lestrange hissed in fury as Lucius cast the curse, the green light of it burning the man’s cadaverous, sickly features into Lucius’ retinas along with the image of the small, broken form of the girl.

“You stupid bastard, I wasn’t done with her yet.” Lucius’ brother-in-law made a grab for his arm as he tugged up his trousers with his other hand.  “I knew you were soft.  You’d have to be after spending all those years denying our Lord, Malfoy.”

Lucius stepped away from Lestrange, deftly avoiding the man’s drunken tottering.  “I suppose defiling little girls makes you a man among men, Lestrange.”

“She was an animal,” Rodolphus shot back.  “No, worse than an animal, a thief and a little whore.  Nott is well shot of her, if you ask me.  You heard how she begged for it in the end.”

Lucius reeled with the urge to destroy this man he had once called brother.  Was this what they had become?  Defilers of children and killers of innocents?  The girl had been a virgin, no more than fourteen years old, a Squib daughter that the Notts had never acknowledged publicly, but had lavished love on nonetheless.  She was younger than Draco.

He swallowed the bile that rose to the back of his throat.  This mayhem wasn’t the reason that Lucius had decided to follow his Lord.  He had craved the power that had been denied the pure bloods in the new wizarding world of the seventies, but this... this wasn’t power, it was perversion. 

It was made worse by the fact that the Dark Lord himself had ordered the girl’s torture and death, saying that there was no place in the New Order for creatures that would weaken the genetic destiny of their new society.  Nott had begged for the girl’s life, begged that the stunted, weakened fruit of his loins be spared.  He had offered to sterilise her, to ensure that she would never bear a child, and the Dark Lord had laughed at him.  “Beware soft sentiment, Nott.  Your son might carry the same taint as this abomination for which you beg.”

It had been those words that chilled Lucius as no others that his Lord had ever uttered could have.  When would it be Lucius’ turn to sacrifice what was most dear to him?  When would he be forced to watch as Draco or Narcissa were found wanting and given the same sentence as the little girl that lay still and cold at Lucius’ feet?

Lucius snorted derisively into the silence left after Rodolphus’ mad rambling. “Perhaps the Dark Lord would be interested in how much pleasure you took with the girl before I carried out his orders.  He might find it interesting that you have your own little Muggle collection housed in the ruins of your familial estate.” Lucius pushed at the girl’s body with the toe of his boot, letting a mask of derision settle on his features as he said, “Your lovely, mad wife has a rather low tolerance for such things as well, I think.” Rodolphus paled as Lucius ordered, “Dispose of this thing and clean its filth from your body.  We have need of an extra wand tonight.  You’ll enjoy your duties.  We’ll be torturing important Muggles.”

Lucius strode from the room, his mind on a way to get his family away from this madness so that he could strike out against the monster to which he had tied his fate.  No one would threaten the Malfoy line.  No one.

31 December, 1997 23:45

Severus Snape regarded the image of Albus Dumbledore as his former employer and sweets pusher, now murder victim, asked for proof that he knew how to handle the Potter situation.  He felt at once ridiculous and nettled that a bit of magic-imbued gesso, pigment, and linseed oil could still reduce him to a pubescent state of sullen defensiveness.  Severus flicked his wand, a bit harder than he should have, and said the incantation that would reveal his heart’s folly to said former employer/murder victim.  The symbol of his weakness scampered around the room, gracefully clearing the leather chair that now sat in the area in front of the fireplace.  It was the only article of comfort that Severus had deigned to retrieve from his former subterranean residence of the castle.  The chair had been purchased from the Evans’ estate through a discreet third party.  It served as his last physical link to Lily. 

As the luminous spell slid out into the night and dissipated on the wind that wailed just outside the windows, Albus asked in some emotion bordering on awe, “After all these years, Severus?”

Severus turned from the painting, feeling the leaden weight of the portrait’s eyes on his back.  He merely answered, “Always.”

Severus said the word as he knew he should, but it echoed hollowly in his mind.   Once again, he had the feeling of watching himself as from a great distance and being inside himself at the same time.  It was a strange sense of déjà vu that had plagued him since that afternoon on the Astronomy tower.  He shook his hand, the one that held his wand, sending sparks across the room.  Albus asked, “What is it, Severus?”

Snape answered, his voice tight, his expression closed, “Nothing, Albus.”

“I see.”  Albus’ knowing tone grated on Severus’ nerves as it always had, but tonight it felt as if his irritation was swathed in cotton wool. 

Alarm seeped through him at the change.  He said, “It seems...”  Severus stopped himself.  Showing weakness was not his way.  The thought of turning to anyone with his concerns had been beaten out of him by the end of his fifth year as a student of the institution he served now.  He heard the portrait inhale as if to speak and Severus rushed to fill the void. “It’s nothing, Albus.  I simply need some Pepper Up Potion.”

“Well, take it so that you can be on your way.  Time is of the essence on this matter, Severus.”  Albus answered even as Severus rolled his eyes in a manner he had not done since he was fifteen.  Once he had located the potion, taken it, and gathered the things he needed for his journey, he swept from the room without a backward glance at the portrait.  If he had taken a moment to look, he might have seen the satisfied smirk on Albus Dumbledore’s face, and wondered why it was there.

31 December, 1997, 23:55

Ron Weasley moved restlessly against Hannah Abbott, his sleep disturbed by a vision of dark water and the blackest magic.  He began to stir as if to wake, but was soothed by the silvery hand of his former Headmaster, now meddlesome ghost. Miss Abbot slept on beside Mr. Weasley, her hand clutching at the sparse hair on the boy’s chest as she fought off her own dreamtime demons.  Albus wished he could spare them the pain that they were about to endure, but would willingly sacrifice their immediate happiness and well-being for the bigger picture, the Greater Good as he used to say whilst he still lived.  Mr. Weasley mumbled in his sleep and turned over on his side away from his companion’s warmth, a scowl marring his brow and drawing down his lips.  Yes, Albus acknowledged, all was not well, but the young people would only find out later.  Albus would guard them in their sleep this one important night, the night that he had chosen to launch his latest reclamation project.

31 December, 1997, 23:57

Harry didn’t know what woke him, but he was suddenly awake laying in the suffocating quiet of the tent listening to the faint rustle of snow falling from the trees onto the tent roof.  He felt fully alert and energised, not the type of waking that would allow him to nestle back into his covers and sleep some more, even though he was physically exhausted.  He stifled a low moan as he swung his legs over the side of the camp bed that he had retreated to after a tense dinner with Hermione, and stuffed his already sock-clad feet into the boots he had purchased a few days ago in a Muggle town not far from their campsite.  He shivered at the chill of the leather against his feet and cursed softly under his breath as he heard Hermione moan.  Searching for his glasses brought him into contact with the vial of Dreamless Sleep he kept by his bed, in case he was visited by another vision of V—Him, the Great Arse Who Didn’t Deserve a Name.  He shoved the bottle aside and latched onto the glasses, hooking them over his ears deftly. 

He rose and went to the front of the tent to see if the small snowstorm that had blown in earlier had abated yet, and was arrested by the site of a silvery doe disappearing into the woods.  He grabbed Hermione’s lightweight skiing anorak and pulled it on over his Weasley jumper as he slid his wand into the holder that Ron had made for him a few years ago as a gift.  He felt only a fleeting sense of remorse at the thought of his friend and what had occurred that afternoon, before it was replaced by dull anger, a more familiar and manageable emotion to Harry in his late night forays.  Once outside the tent, he saw a faint glow as the deer peeked her head around a tree, as if she were daring him to follow.  He smirked, hoping that whatever the glowing figure was trying to guide him to would be worth the battle through the snow he would have to wage to reach it.  He said with a mirthless chuckle, “I’m coming, girl.”

1 January, 1998, 00:01

Were it up to Severus’ sole discretion, he would allow Potter to drown and let Weasley deal with the repercussions.  Damn the hothead, letting his pride do his thinking whilst there was a war going on about him!  He kicked Potter’s discarded Muggle coat and the jumper of the Weasley variety that lay in the snow beside the pond, scattering them across as he attempted to calm his mind.  His position was too important for him to be involved in this little play which Albus had set up.  A bubble broke the icy surface of the water and then two more before he made his decision.

Severus shrugged out of his cloak, cursing himself for his own insistence on wearing his Death Eater garb on this particular mission.  It wasn’t as if he expected to run into Snatchers on this evening.  The Dark Lord might insist on constant attention to duty, but New Year’s Eve was an evening for revelry, and not the kind his more bloody-minded brethren might like to commit.  A well placed stash of spirits was all Severus had needed to ensure that the patrols in the area were otherwise occupied whilst he completed his duty for the Order.  Once out of the encumbering robes, Severus looked about once again, hoping that Weasley, by some miracle, would pull his head out of his arse and appear for what Albus needed him to do.  When Severus was sure he could wait no longer, he dove into the frigid water, floundering in the murky darkness for the slight figure of one Harry Potter and the elusive Gryffindor sword.

He reached the bottom, nearly panicking as he lost his bearings when the boy thrashed against the magic enhanced weight of the locket.  Severus reached for and found the sword and cut the locket from the boy’s neck as Potter sagged after one last kick.  Severus pulled the boy to him, praying to whatever careless gods watched over them that his abominable luck would give way and Potter would live long enough for him to get them both to the surface.  The locket, which Severus, somehow clutched in his hand still, whispered in his blood of his failure, his treachery, of his murderous past, present, and near future.  As much as Severus tried to Occlude, he could still feel the torn portion of his soul reaching towards it.  How easy it would be to give into the siren’s call that seeped from the metal to stop the haemorrhage of painful memories.

He felt sickened and alarmingly elated by the thought of willingly coming into contact with such vile magic. With what manner of magic had Albus armed this boy?  And of what benefit could the foul, oily, tainted magic be to the Order?  Severus cursed Albus for his Chinese puzzle box handling of his last year.  Severus should have been allowed to at least know what the boy and his meddlesome friends were up to...

Severus broke through the frigid water, dragging the boy’s head above the surface as he paddled toward the edge of the pond, the sword slapping loudly on the ice as he reached the goal.  He pulled them both free; his own teeth chattering as he lost the small insulation of the water and the slight breeze of the night seemed to cut through him.  He knew the effects of the chill would be trebled in Potter’s small, malnourished frame.  He leaned over the boy’s body, his lips unable to form the words to enervate him.  He pressed a knuckle into the boy’s chest, rubbing along the sternum, hoping the pain would bring him to consciousness so that Severus could leave without having to reveal himself to the boy.  It did, and Potter coughed weakly before a spasm hit him and he retched and coughed the black, frigid water from his lungs, nose, and gut.  Severus flung the sword weakly aside as he fumbled with numb fingers for his robe and cloak.  He threw the robes over the still convulsing Potter and drew his cloak around his own shoulders; he laid the locket to the side, glad to be away from the Darkness. He rose to slip back into the welcoming cover of the trees, hoping that Potter would not realise who had saved his worthless arse again.

“S-uh-s-nape,” Potter said, “S-s-stab it.”

Severus recoiled from the boy and Potter grabbed his ankle, a weak gesture, but commanding in its intensity.  “T-t-the l-locket.  Vol---Tom R-r-riddle’s H-hor-crux.  K-kill it.”

Severus spun around, understanding enveloping him in the horror of what he had held.  He grabbed the sword, lifting it over the locket even as it began whispering of his betrayal of Lily, and his unworthiness, saying that hated name from the schoolyard over and over. 

He was and always would be Snivellus, the pathetic, ugly son of a Muggle... not good enough for Slytherin, not good enough for Her...Tobias’ work ravaged hands spun him around to belt him for living, to beat the magic out of him, the one thing that gave the son power over the father... The image of Tobias was rapidly replaced by one of Lily’s body lying still and cold on the cement slab of an undertaker, her hands crossed over her chest, and in that nightmare way of his worst dreams, her eyes opened.  He was transfixed by the lack of life in them.  The emerald green that he had so loved had a film of white over the iris.  She raised her livid hand and caressed his cheek with her dead flesh, her only word an obscene hiss of his name...He felt his jaw open in a tendon-popping scream as she kissed him with dead lips before she drew away and the many faces of the innocent, the not-so-innocent, and the very guilty who had died by his hand... For the greater good!  The Dark Lord hissed with Albus’ face... Severus would soldier on and die an ignominious death, lost, alone, betrayed as he had betrayed everyone and everything he ever touched...

He felt the tears on his face, alien and warm against his frigid skin, breaking his frozen heart with the agony of losing her once again due to his hubris. He raised the sword over his head, a pure, blue light encompassing him as he did, and dropped the point into the locket, killing the one creature that had betrayed him the worst as the locket morphed into his beating heart, his body, his very soul.  He vaguely thought he screamed her name as the vile power escaped the locket.  He knew if he had made the pronouncement it might have betrayed his love for her, but he no longer cared.  She was dead and he still lived.  That was his punishment.

As he dropped the sword from nerveless fingers, an unearthly scream rent the air, splitting the silence of the clearing with a noxious sort of music.  It was a Dark atonal symphony, yet to the ear attuned to it, seductive in its clashing harmonies.  Severus vomited, the putrid fluids spewing from his mouth, defiling the once pristine soil.  He had followed the mad creature that had made that abomination, blithely, unknowingly, happily for a short time.  Tears leaked heedlessly from his eyes as he covered his face with his hands.  He had never been a good person, never good enough for her... never for Lily...

He felt Potter’s slim hand on the back of his neck and then his youthful arms encircle his shoulders.  “It’s okay, s-s-sir.  It’s gone now.   Y-you have to get up before we‘re discovered“

1 January, 1998, 00:07

Hermione followed Harry’s clear tracks to the pond, wand drawn.  Something was terribly wrong; she hadn’t needed to hear the screech of whatever creature it was that died to know.  She could feel the crackling blackness of foul magic against her skin and in her heart.  She took small breaths through her mouth as if that would keep whatever it was from contaminating her.  It spilled around her like blood in water and she shivered at the thought before she gathered Harry’s cloak around her and began following his tracks.

She entered a clearing by a pond and drew her wand as she noticed the black figure lying in it.  The dark shape rose, becoming two figures one small and easily recognisable as Harry with his unruly hair, the other taller.  Hermione almost cried out in recognition as she thought that Ron might have returned, until the taller man raised his face to the moon, revealing the hatchet-like features of Severus Snape.  She cast wordlessly before she thought, disarming him and shooting him back a few feet in the air.  A tree caught him and his head connected with the trunk with a resounding thunk!  He slid bonelessly to the snowy leaf litter and did not move.  She cast a full body bind on him and only realised that Harry was saying something rather frantically to her once she ensured that they were both protected from Snape.

“Bloody hell, Hermione!”  He shouted as he drew abreast of her, clutching black robes that were obviously Snape’s about his shoulders.  He shook her by her upper arms, whipping her head back as he did.  “Are you in there?”

“Of course, I am, Harry,” Hermione snapped as she pulled out of his grasp.  She began struggling through the snow to Snape’s supine body.  “What do you want to do with him?  We obviously can’t let him go now that he knows...”

Harry retrieved his wand from beside the pond and cast a drying charm on both himself and Snape.  “I don’t think... We need to get him back to the tent.  He has some explaining to do...”

“What?” Hermione nearly screeched the word. She hated that about herself, that tendency she had to turn into a fishwife when she was surprised by something.  A scowl darkened Harry’s features before she could moderate her tone.  She took a deep breath and exhaled through her nose just as her mother’s yoga instructor had taught her.  Once she felt reasonably in control, she asked, “Didn’t you tell us all that he killed Professor Dumbledore in front of you?”

“I did, but...” Harry began, but stopped as he fidgeted with something in the cloak he wore.

“What’s changed since then, Harry?  Has he suddenly decided to switch sides again?”  Hermione felt the same bitter betrayal that she had felt when Harry first told them of Snape’s treachery.  It seemed to choke her. She had defended Snape to Harry and Ron!

Hermione barely controlled the impulse to stamp her foot and start shouting her frustration. She hated not knowing, not being sure of the situation. She was tired of flying by the seat of her pants, making things up as she went.  It just wasn’t her way.  Everything needed careful consideration before she was willing to rush off pell-mell in a new direction.  That was her role in their friendship and she felt odd not using her intellect to make a decision. “Do you honestly think we can trust him?”

She turned to face Harry, irritation at him, Ron, Snape and the situation spilling over as she grabbed the piece of paper that he held out of his hands.  She dashed it to the ground.  “Harry, please, this isn’t the time to mess about.  We need to make a decision about this situation.”

“Bloody hell, Hermione!”  Harry scrabbled after scrap catching it before it was soaked by the snow.  Snape moved his head and moaned and Hermione looked his for a moment but Harry shoved the paper under her nose. “Look!  Snape said some things when he destroyed the Horcrux... and V- you know... he was taunting Snape with how my mother never loved him... that he wasn’t good enough for her...” Harry lowered his gaze to Snape’s apparently unconscious form, his next words coming out in a whisper, “I think Snape was... in love with my mum, Hermione.  Maybe there’s more to his story than we know, and maybe more to his and Dumbledore’s story than what I saw that night.   I mean... I feel like I know that I’m right about him now, like...  I’ve seen this film of his life... I’m just sure I’m right about this.”

“Just as you were sure he was evil so many times before, Harry.” Hermione was unsettled by the entire situation and expressed it with a compression of her lips and her brows drawn together.  “Fine, we’ll take him back with us, but how will we know if he’s telling the truth?  I can’t whip up a batch of Veritaserum on the fly, and even if I could, he probably has some way to counteract it.”

Harry rocked back on his heels, a small smile playing about his lips as he said, “He drew the Gryffindor sword.  Dumbledore told me that only a true Gryffindor could do that.  I think we’re just going to have to take him at his word on this one, as much as you—and I-- don’t like it.”

“How touching that you have so much faith in me, Potter,” Snape drawled, his voice rougher than it normally was.  “But could you please remove the restraints and allow me to walk to my interrogation under my own power?  I seem to remember having several contusions after the last time you knocked me out after I  attempted to save you both from a slavering werewolf. I would prefer to avoid having to visit Madam Pomfrey when I return to my post.  She is rather irritated with me at the moment.  I’m sure you understand why.”

“If you return there at all,” Hermione muttered darkly before releasing his bonds and thrusting her wand in his face.  “You’ll walk between us so we can keep an eye on you...” At Snape’s uplifted brow, she added grudgingly, “Sir.”   

Harry muttered something that Hermione couldn’t quite hear, and she shot him a venomous look, but said nothing in return.  She thought it might look bad if she and Harry started fighting whilst they held Snape prisoner.  And besides, she didn’t feel up to one of Snape’s scathing commentaries on their deficiencies.  It was late, she was tired and continually hungry, and she just wanted to get this over so she could attempt to get back to sleep.

Not that she thought that would happen after they interrogated their former professor.

1 January, 1998, 00:24

Severus sat on the chair which Granger indicated with a jerk of her bushy head before she bustled away.  The girl had lost the pudgy, swotty look she’d had the last time he had seen her.  Both she and Potter were haggard, thin to the point of emaciation, and older than they should have been in such a short time.   Potter leaned on a pole in the middle of the tent his gaze on Granger, his hair flattened out by the weight of it.  It hung in shaggy waves about his face.  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, revealing dark circles under them.  When he looked up just before putting the glasses back on his face, Severus was struck by how much his features had changed.  He was still a handsome child, just like his father had been, but unlike the older Potter, there was none of the sneering arrogance that Severus had always seen before.  What arrested Severus’ attention, were the boy’s eyes.  They were so like Lily’s, but not just in colour.  Severus, in that one gaze finally saw the compassion and intelligence in them that the boy had obviously inherited from Lily.  Suddenly, Severus was shamed by his constant belittling of Potter through the years of their acquaintanceship. 

And then the Merlin be-damned boy opened his mouth.

“So, you and my mum...”

Severus said through clenched teeth, “That information is outside the scope of your ‘need to know,’ Potter.”

The boy looked rebellious for a moment, but finally shrugged.  “Okay.”

Severus waited for the beat of a heart before he held out his hand.  “I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

Potter’s vapid look was one that Severus was sure the boy had invented just to vex him.  Potter stared at him for a moment before shrugging out of the borrowed robes.  “Yeah, I suppose you do need these.  Sorry if they’re still a little damp.  I can’t do drying spells as well as Hermione.”

Snape took the robes and set them carefully aside with a small sneer, before he returned to his original hand-out position.  “The photo, Potter.”

The boy shot him a smirk, reconfiguring his facial features to the more loathsome ones to which Severus was accustomed.  “I think that belongs to Sirius, and as his heir, to me.  I found the other half at Grimmauld Place.”

Severus stood abruptly, knocking the chair back in his haste to get to Potter and throttle him.  Potter smirked.  “It’s in the pocket you had it in.  I didn’t keep it.”

Granger returned with a pot of tea and some cups.  She steadfastly ignored Severus as she set down the tray.  “Sorry, no milk, Harry, but at least it's warm.  You must be freezing.”

Potter blushed as the girl passed a cup to him and his fingers brushed hers.  Severus noted with mild amusement that the girl avoided Potter’s eyes, but when Potter looked away her own gaze lingered on him, as a lover might.  He was certain there was something between the two, though it surprised him.  The Weasley girl seemed exceedingly devoted to Potter even now, and Albus had mentioned something in passing about Granger and the youngest Weasley boy.  What an interesting little quadrangle that would make, if Severus was correct about these two.  He picked up his cup to hide his knowing smirk as Granger began her rapid fire interrogation of him.

He answered to the best of his ability without divulging anything the Dark Lord would find damning.  He would not appease the curiosity of the swot at the risk of his own neck.  He spoke in riddles and half-said truths, all the while watching Potter’s temper raise its impatient head.  After only a few moments, the boy broke in, “You can quit talking like some James Bond film and give us the information we need, Snape.  It won’t go outside the walls of this tent.”

“But it will be rattling about that empty head of yours, Potter,” Snape scoffed.  “And when the Dark Lord once again gains access to that lump of clay which you call a mind, the situation will become extremely unpleasant for all concerned.  Most especially me.”

“Try me,” Potter stood, putting his cup away from him and tossing Severus his slim, dark wand over Granger’s always too strident objections.  “Try Legillimancy with me.”

Severus merely huffed. “You expect me to believe that you have mastered Occlumency whilst on the run, even though you refused to work on the skill when you were under my tutelage?  Please, Potter, tell me another fairy story.”

“Try... Me...”  Potter took a step towards Severus, fists clenched and jaw jutting, reminding the older man forcefully of Lily when she would fight with the unholy quartet over their treatment of him.  His heart flickered with remorse again, but he discarded the emotion as extraneous to the situation.

“Very well, embarrass yourself once again, and in front of Miss Granger this time.  It’s of no consequence to me.” Severus gave a half-hearted flick of his wand, casting the spell nonverbally.  He was met with mundane images of Potter’s life before the last year.  Nothing surfaced at his more insistent battering, merely images that were put in place for Severus to see.  He pushed harder and was rewarded with a backlash so strong, it broke the contact and left him panting and Potter rubbing his temples.  After thick moments of silence, Severus asked, “When did you...?”

The Granger girl had risen and stood between the two men, her mouth gaping open as her shrill voice joined the fray.  “Harry?”

“I woke up this morning, knowing how to do it.”  Potter said hunching his shoulders.  “I don’t know how or why, but I just can.  It feels like I studied it... a long time ago, but when I was older... I know that doesn’t make sense, but I feel like I just remembered how to do it or something.  I’ve been feeling that way about a lot of things today.”  Potter’s eyes cut towards Granger and then skittered back to Severus.

Severus had scooted forward at the boy’s words, his heart hammering.  He’d had that feeling too.  He said, “You feel as if you are in a memory, but there are new possibilities.”

“Yeah, that’s what I feel.” Potter shivered.  “How did you know?”

“It sounds like... Harry, do you remember the feeling you had when we went back to save Sirius?”  Severus snorted and rolled his eyes as Granger said, “Because you and Professor Snape have obviously been feeling the same way that we felt then.  I think... I think someone or something has been... twisting the timeline for you two or something.”

Severus scoffed even as he acknowledged to himself that Granger might be correct.  He would need to know who was behind this strangeness and to what end before he acted further on the knowledge.  He pulled his robes from the back of the chair and donned them. 

Granger asked, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To my demise, Miss Granger, if you do not let me return to Hogwarts,” Severus answered.  “You have all the information from me that I am willing to divulge at this time.  I shall be in contact with you.”

The girl raised her wand once again even as Potter moved to stop her.  Severus whirled on her, catching her under the chin with his own wand, his nose scant millimetres from her cheek.  He was so close he could feel the erratic tumult of her pulse and could smell the faintly acrid tea on her breath.  “Do not draw your wand on me again, Miss Granger.  If you do, there will be consequences.”

Granger fought against him, but stilled as Potter said as he attempted to pull her out of Severus’ grasp, “Don’t threaten her.  She’s not done anything that you wouldn’t have for one of your friends.”

Severus relaxed slightly, letting the coil of magic subside as he cleared his mind.  He pushed her away letting her stumble against Potter as he retorted bitterly, “I have betrayed all those that I called friend at one time or other.  Do not presume to think you know anything about me because you caught a glimpse of something that was none of your damned business in the first place.”

With those words, he strode to the tent flap, lifting it and peering out at the wintry scene before him.  “You have Phineas Nigellus’ portrait.  You may relay any messages you might have for me through him.”

Snape stepped outside the tent and then Apparated away.  There was a portrait with which he needed to talk.  If any being would know what was going on, it would be Albus. 

1 January, 1998 01:38

Severus Snape had long been a creature of the night.

He smirked at the thought, remembering the rumours that circulated about him to this day in these very halls in which he strode. No, he was no vampire. He bore no curses but the ones he had imposed upon himself. It might have been easier if he had been turned by Lupin on that long ago night or given into Sanguini’s heavy-handed attempts at seduction when the Dark Lord was courting the coven of vampires... before he, Severus, took the Mark. Either route, he never would have been able to take the Mark. The Dark Lord was notoriously intolerant of those who were not quite human, the bloody hypocrite.

How different his life might be without the damnable Mark, cooking sherry induced prophecies, and earnest young men who felt they had been born to save the world. How different it would be if he had never fallen in love with the first witch he met.

He walked through the castle hallways, his step silent except for the susurrus of slick leather soles on cobbles, and his expression cold. He was a Stygian patch of darkness in the already dim hallways. Night was the only time when he felt welcomed at the institution, especially after assuming the title of Headmaster. He had always been an outsider. He was too sharp-tongued, too ugly, and too much a loner to ever try to fit in with the rest of the staff. Now that he was branded a traitor amongst the people who he had once considered dear acquaintances or friends for killing Albus, he was even more a persona non grata. Each and every living inmate of the institution posed a serious threat to his authority and his health. That he secretly cheered them with the portrait Dumbledore was of no consequence. His life, always difficult before the murder, had become a series of skirmishes waged by children, old women, a half-goblin, and house elves. He was fortunate that Rubeus remained outside the castle most of the time. He doubted that he could have dealt with the enraged half-giant.

Damning himself for bringing his mind out of its darkness induced state of calm; he turned over the events of the evening.

Not a stress inducing topic at all, old man, Severus thought with a wry upturn of his lips.

A tumbler of firewhisky downed in front of Albus’ sleeping portrait (the old fraud had been awake. Severus had seen the blue glitter of his eyes through the slit of his lids) and Severus had lost the watery-bowelled fear that had gripped him once he left the tent and Apparated to the gates of Hogwarts. Another tumbler and he had discussed the odd turn his life seemed to have taken along with Potter’s, the conversation with Granger’s input, and the boy’s sudden ability to Occlude after his utter failure under Severus’ tutelage. It was a long soliloquy fraught with the sense of impending change and healthy fear. The old Headmaster woke with a snorting gulp of painted atmosphere at the mention of Horcruxes.

“Whatever brought that topic to the front of your mind, Severus?” Albus asked with feigned innocence. “Even for you, it is a Dark subject...”

Severus did not deign to give Albus a look of disgust at his transparent duplicity. He merely poured more whisky and sipped. He waited. Albus’ main strength as a mentor was in the teaching of patience. It was a lesson with which Severus still struggled, but he had made vast strides over the years. Albus finally huffed and said, “My notes on Tom’s Horcruxes are available to you, of course.”

Severus stood, tossing back the rest of his amber courage before he asked his words full of bile and ashes, “You couldn’t see fit to fill me in on this little tactical detail earlier, Albus?”

“No, Severus, I could not.” Albus’ tone was apologetic. “I could not risk Tom knowing what I did.”

Severus exhaled through his nose, trying to attain a sense of calm. “Potter, that dunderhead, Weasley, and the ever eager Know-It-All kept the information safe, I take it? This is the same Potter who failed so miserably at Occlumency.”

“Harry seems to have learned the proper discipline now, my boy.”

Severus ground his teeth, the grating sound filling the grave silence of the room. He struggled against the feeling of betrayal that swamped him before he asked, “Where might I find the information, Headmaster? I would hate to have it fall in the wrong hands. Mine, apparently.”

“Severus,” Albus said with the same tilting downturn of his head that he had employed to manipulate Severus whilst the older wizard still lived. “It is in plain sight for those who look for it.”

Tired of Albus’ machinations and marginally informative answers, Severus propelled himself from the room, and found himself walking the familiar dark halls of the castle, seeking a solace that always eluded him.

1 January, 1998 03:14

The raid had not gone as planned. Both Rabastan and Rodolphus had been killed by Muggle firearms, whilst Lucius was wounded and left to Apparate away from the military facility which they had attacked. It was rumoured that the Muggles had weapons of great power, greater than anything in the wizarding arsenal, that would end the war swiftly, if not painlessly. Apparently the Dark Lord had read about these devices from some Muggle historical tome. Lucius knew the attempt to gain information on this matter was folly, even before Severus had made his whispered admonitions of caution to Lucius days before.

Why, in Merlin’s name, would the Dark Lord think it was a good idea to alert the Muggle military to any of the wizarding world’s business, especially since the war was not going as well as could be expected? What with Potter and his little supporters still free, and the various resistance cells that functioned almost in the open. Add those minor considerations to the fact that Muggle genius lay in the very inventive ways they had devised to kill each other... Lucius tamped down his misgivings, remembering how fragile his defences were against the Dark Lord’s rapacious mind even at such a distance.

Malfoy weaved and then fell. He found himself bent over in the snow, the nose of his mask dragging in the substance. He pulled impatiently at the ties, all the while taking short, laboured breaths to keep from inhaling to deeply. Once the mask was gone he still felt as if his lungs were clogged and he was suffocating. He struggled to kneel and moved his shoulder experimentally sure that a gush of hot blood would exit his body at the gesture. In his panic to flee from the unequal fight, he had nearly splinched himself getting to wherever it was he landed. He had never done such a thing before, not even when he was a young man trying to attain his Apparition licence. He looked around to ascertain where he might have landed. All he could see was snow and trees, and that there was no light but the moon. Lucius righted his cloak about his shoulders aware of the snow melting under his knees and the burning agony in his side. He shoved his mask in his pocket as he checked himself for other injuries. In the back of his mind a niggling voice kept repeating that he too might die ignominiously from a gunshot wound as Rabastan and Rodolphus had. He pushed the voice down, under the turbulent stream of his consciousness.

He dare not die.

Narcissa was alone with the despot and worse, her own lunatic sister. Bella had made it clear that she had many scores to settle with Lucius and had no qualms about taking the payment in sisterly blood. No, he would not die. He needed to remain alive to affect his family’s escape.

Knowing his survival might depend on a thorough examination of his wound; he touched it and recoiled as he contacted the seeping warmth. He knew with sickening surety that if he held his hand before his face, it would be black with blood.

He recited the words of his long ago Apparition class, drawing on the small stores of magical energy he had left, “Deliberation, Determination, Destination.” The niggling voice filled in a fourth, “Desperation.” He waited for the familiar tug and whirl of Apparition, but realised, as the world went dark that he would not be making it home that morning, if ever.

1 January, 1998 07:42

Ron woke to a cold spot beside him where Hannah had rested the night before. He struggled to sit and pulled down the shirts and the thick wool jumper he had worn to bed, and then searched blindly for his pants. He found them inside the sleeping bag at his feet. He gave a sheepish snort as he donned them and his trousers, remembering how they had come to be in that position. The guilt he thought he might feel at shagging Hannah more than twice was absent. He wondered at that for a moment, before he shrugged into his cloak, a heavy, green wool one that he had lifted from Percy’s flat before he left. Once girded against the early morning cold, he exited the tent.

“Hannah?” he called his whispered shout throaty and hoarse. “Hannah!”

Bloody buggering hell. He’d be damned if he was going to flounder through the snow to find her. Let the bears, or badgers, (were there still wolves in Britian?) or whatever lurked in the woods eat her for all he cared. He needed to find Harry and Hermione and Hannah had already taken up too much of his time. Guilt settled on him at the thought. He had shagged her more than a few times and she’d had a hard time of it before that, probably been raped. He couldn’t in good conscience let her go again. He felt obligated in a way he had never been before. She, in that moment, seemed to be his, as if he had laid claim to her with his own randiness. He shrugged as if to throw the feeling off, but it had settled on him like a shroud. He knew whatever came, he would take her with him. He called again, “Haaannaaaah!”

“I’m over here, Ron!” the girl answered from behind a bush. “Do try to be quiet. There are Snatchers about.”

“Bloody hell.” He muttered, realising just why she would be up that early in the morning and behind a bush. He blushed painfully to the tips of his ears, as he added, “Not as many as there were two days ago.”

“I heard that, Weasley.”

After a detour to an adjacent area to relieve his bladder also (and no childish attempts to write his name with the steaming stream), he returned to the tent and pulled out a tin that he used to heat water and the last of his tea. He would share it with her and hope that he could find Harry and Hermione soon. He didn’t have money for food and his stores were sadly depleted. A quarter of a jar of peanut butter and a stale loaf of bread would be their fare that morning and maybe that afternoon. Ron idly considered putting up snares for rabbits, but rejected the idea. He had helped in the butchery of the chickens his mum kept, but had always sicked up after doing it. If he wanted to hold onto his new found ‘big manly man’ status with Hannah, he wouldn’t do it by vomiting over butchering a hare.

After scraping his hands through a bit of snow he scooped a few fresh handfuls of it into the tin and cast a heating charm on it. Sure, he could have used a spell for water, but why bother when there was so much fresh about? Besides, spelled water tasted off, stale somehow. He went back to the tent to retrieve the store of food and the small Styro plate he used to prepare sandwiches on when Hannah gave a small, terrified yelp. Ron reacted immediately, wand in hand before he was even standing.

Before he could take more than one step, Hannah was being dragged out of the bushes by a shaking, wild-eyed boy flanked by two older men. Ron recognised one as Fenrir Greyback and the other might be Marcus Flint. The Slytherin had changed, become tougher than he remembered, if that were possible for the git. Ron kept his wand trained on the trio as his heart-rate ramped up and he felt the tingling release of adrenalin in his blood. He made an effort to still his shaking hand and fixed his voice with his best steely tone as he said, “You’d best let her go.”

“Look at this, Flint. This ginger has some real fire,” Greyback said with a mirthful quirk of his lip. “I do believe you’re a Weasley I haven’t tasted yet. Come here, ickle boy and let me have a quick sniff. I won’t hurt you.... not much anyway and I promise that I’ll make sure you’re good and dead before I eat you.”

Ron blanched but held his wand on the werewolf. “Let her go.”

“Or you’ll do what, exactly?” Greyback leered at his compatriots as he grabbed Hannah by her hair and propelled her in front of him. The boy that held her stepped forward as if to stop the beast, but after a quick shake of the head from Flint, remained impassive to Hannah’s breathy whimpers. Greyback’s fingers shortened and his nails grew into pointed talons. At the sight, Hannah stopped making sounds and her exhalations took on a sharp, stuttering quality. Ron could tell she was nearly out of her mind with fear from the widening of her eyes and the way her mouth worked silently. Greyback gave her a shake and then ran his claws down Hannah’s inadequate jumper, snagging and then tearing the wool as he did. “D’you think you can hex me before I gut her, whelp? Come on, let’s see if you have the same fight in you as your delicious brother. I always thought it was such a waste that I couldn’t finish my nosh. Sweet flesh you gingers have.”

Hannah kept her eyes on Ron but was moving her hand surreptitiously to her belt where he knew she secreted a knife, the same one she used to despatch the Snatchers two days ago. Ron kept his face as unreadable as he could as he threw his first hex, a Jelly Legs Jinx, which Greyback sidestepped readily, pulling Hannah’s hair painfully in the process.

“Don’t disappoint me boy,” Greyback said, his tone irritated. “I need a good fight in the morning; it gets the blood flowing to my cock. After all, I’ve got sample this little morsel before we take her to the Manor. T’Dark Lord won’t let us have our fun after we bring ‘em in. Isn’t that right, Haversham, you runty virgin?”

The boy nodded sharply, though his gaze cut to Flint. The expression on his face seemed a bit disgusted. Ron shot a wild Expelliarmus at the werewolf, which missed spectacularly and caused snow to fly in a sparkling explosion, just as Hannah brought her knife from her waistband and slashed upwards with it. She caught Greyback in the soft spot between his chin and his neck. Hannah jerked the knife loose with a grunt, as blood spilled over her hand and down her arm. She sidestepped the werewolf’s lunge and brought her knife in front of her in a warding gesture. Greyback finally let go of her hair as he gave a surprised ‘oof’ as Haversham and Flint cast slicing curses at him. The werewolf took a step toward them but his leg stayed upright, anchored in the snow, as he pitched forward. The amputated stump jetted crimson with each beat of the fallen werewolf’s heart. Greyback scrabbled frantically at the knife as Hannah pulled his head up by the hair and gave him a proper Glasgow smile, slitting his throat from ear to ear. Blood stuttered in high, arterial arcs leaving vivid oval impressions in the snow where they landed. She only let his head fall as his mouth quit moving and the corpses’ eyes took on a glassy sheen.

The one called Haversham stepped forward, and folded Hannah in his arms as Flint toed Greyback’s still steaming body. The Slytherin said with a tone of disbelief, “A Jelly Legs jinx, Weasley? Is that the best you could think of?”

Ron felt more than a bit foolish and he flushed as the Slytherin shook his head disgustedly. He opened his mouth to give a retort, but groaned as he attempted to swallow the vomit that rose from his gut at the sight of the carnage. He spat the bitter aftertaste from his mouth as he noticed The Haversham bloke murmuring to Hannah and caressing her shoulders. Ron felt a wild burn of jealousy beat through his body at the sight. Ron stepped forward and pulled on Hannah’s arm as he said said, “Get your hands off her, Death Eater.”

A surprisingly feminine voice came from Haversham. “Merlin, you possessive prat, give the girl a minute of solace before you start manhandling her again.”

Haversham smoothed his hand over the top of Hannah’s head and came to a halt on her shoulders. He asked gently, “You okay?”

Hannah nodded as she gulped a sob down and stepped away from the bloke. “I’m fine, Mills, and Ron doesn’t know, so give him a break.”

“It’s Ron, now, is it?” Flint said, stressing them name as he gave Ron a leering smirk. “Didn’t know you were such close friends, not being a stuck –on-yourself-Gryffindor and all.”

Hannah shot the Slytherin a filthy look as she stepped away from the other boy. “I didn’t know you cared so much about who I associated with, Marcus.”

Ron opened his arms to Hannah and she slid into them as if she were made to be there. Flint rolled his eyes and said, “You need to get your gear packed. Greyback isn’t like the other two. He’ll be missed soon.”

Ron kept a wary wand trained on the two as Hannah moved away from him to break down their camp. It was only when Haversham’s face began to bubble and shift in a way that Ron had seen before, did he realise what exactly was going on. After a few seconds, the disgusting roiling flesh stopped and Ron gaped at the blue-eyed, black-haired form of Millicent Bullstrode. She laughed merrily as she said, “Welcome to the resistance, Weasley. Now go help Hannah so we can get you two to our safe house. Hannah needs to be debriefed before her next assignment.”

1 January, 1998 0745

Severus had been summoned to Malfoy Manor with a frantic firecall from Narcissa. He could only gather between her sobs that he needed to bring his healing kit.

He Apparated to the gates of the Manor which had similar anti-Apparition wards to Hogwarts, but stronger as they were effected by ancient blood magic and strengthened further by being keyed to the Dark Mark. He felt the tingle of the wards as he passed through them, and only acknowledged the discomfort they caused with a swift shrug. His mind had settled uneasily on what he might find inside the Manor. He hoped that this time he hadn’t been called to heal a victim of one of Bellatrix’s more strenuous information gathering sessions, known to sane people as torture. The last group he had been called to heal had been a family of five, ranging in age from infant to elderly. He had failed to bring the infant or the grandmother back to life and had felt the lash of the whip, wielded most happily by Bella, for the deed. Not that Severus had been trying in any material sense to save any of the poor sods. There were few things that he could do at this point to stave off the depravities of his brethren. Letting the weakest two of the family die was his only way to save them further pain. He’d had to watch as Bella tortured the rest of the family to madness and then death. It was his reward for his inability to save them all. He was sure it was karma.

His feet crunched on the gravelled path, loud in the early morning silence. His breath congealed into a foggy mist before it dissipated in the air. As he drew closer to the manor, he heard the call of Lucius’ poncy white peacocks, no doubt locked in an aviary during the cold months no doubt moulting and shitting messily as birds were wont to do. He could not abide them. Their mating call sounded as if a woman screamed for assistance and never failed to set Severus’ nerves to jangling. One sounded as if on cue, its “Heee-elp” calls seeming to scream down his spinal cord. He did what he could to tune them out, but could not shake the feeling that he was going to regret having to come to the Manor.

As he alighted the broad stone steps that abutted the pale grey stone of the facade, he saw Narcissa in the window beside the two-story door that led into the heavily embellished, neoclassical entry hall. She was ringing her hands and appeared to be as dishevelled as he had ever seen the immaculately groomed woman. Her hair was drawn back in a messy ponytail and her expensive, silk robes were covered in blood. As soon as she saw Severus, she opened the door and beckoned to him to hasten his approach. As Severus drew nearer, he saw the strain in her features that were manifested as small lines beside her eyes, and dark circles under them. She greeted him, taking him by his sleeve to propel him into the house.

“Oh, Severus...”she began with a tremor in her voice, her hands clutching at his free one. “I am so glad you came quickly. It’s Lucius. He’s been shot and the mission he was sent on...”

“That’s enough, ickle sister. Ickle Sevvie doesn’t need to know about another of your husband’s failures,” Bella said from the library. She was standing in the doorway with a supercilious smirk on her face, her robes gaping to show her meagre bosom to best effect. Severus surmised the Dark Lord was on property; otherwise Bella would not have dressed in such a slatternly fashion. The dark woman ran her fingers down her bony sternum, drawing the neck of her garment lower, neatly exposing the crest of her areola as she said, “Lucy did do me one favour, Sev dear, he got my husband and his fawning brother killed. It’s the only thing he did right on his mission.”

Severus allowed himself a moment of answering sneer to Bella’s pointed comments before he turned again to Narcissa and said, “Show me to him.”

Narcissa took his decorously offered arm as she led him up the main staircase and over to the family wing, the westernmost section of the house. As they strode through the gallery, Narcissa murmured,” Lucius was shot last night by one of those vile Muggle guns. I do not know how he made it from such a long distance, but Draco found him this morning in the forest adjoining the greens. The Dark Lord sent them on a fool’s errand, Severus...”

“Enough, Narcissa,” Severus hissed. Her eyes flashed to his face, as if she were searching for a secret before she lowered her gaze once again as if chastened.

“I am sorry, Severus. I meant no disrespect to our Lord.” Her answer rang false to his ears and he prayed that he would not be called to the Manor again to witness her torture and death if the same occurred in front of the Dark Lord or her mad sister. “I merely meant that Lucius did not do enough research on the matter. It was completely his fault that the Muggles were able to use their primitive weapons on the raid.”

She paused at the doors that Severus knew to be her chambers, not the more resplendent master’s suite. He leaned down slightly, close enough that he caught a whiff of the ambergris-based perfume that Narcissa always wore. He murmured, “Do not despair. Your words will go no further than these four walls. I do recognise the extremity of your emotions.”

Once again, her gaze swept his features this time as if they weighed his words, before she opened the door. Lucius lay on top of the silk counterpane, his chest bare except for a bloody bandage. His breathing was a stentorious rattle in the deep silence of the room. Severus watched rise and fall of Lucius’ chest as he drew closer to the man. Malfoy obviously had a deep chest wound, one that had caused at least one of his lungs to collapse as pleural cavity filled with blood.

Severus turned away from his inspection. He said more harshly than he intended, “Narcissa, his wounds require a Muggle Healer... a physician. I cannot simply Accio the bullet from the wound, give him a potion, and expect him to recover. His lung is collapsed. He needs proper medical attention.”

Narcissa bit her lip and began ringing her hands once again. “Please, Severus, do what you can. We dare not take him to St. Mungo’s, and He will not allow us to take him to the place you suggest... Lucius will die... ”

“Narcissa, I cannot...” he began gently, but broke off his words as she fell to her knees before him. Her fingers scraped frantically at the buttons on his frockcoat, loosening several as she whispered, “Please, I implore you, Severus. I will do anything you want. Don’t leave me here without protection...” She reached underneath the dark fabric, touching his inner thigh as she sought his genitalia. “I’ll do anything, Severus... even break my vows if you will help.”

“Get away from me!” Severus exclaimed in horror as he pushed her backwards. She landed with a soft thud as her body contacted the floor, her robes twisted around her legs. “Do you honestly think...? I have done enough for your family. I have destroyed all the good will I built up over the years with my colleagues... to save your spoilt, cowardly son from himself....” His fist clenched and unclenched as he tried to master the urge to strike her, an action he had promised himself he would never take against any woman. Narcissa covered her face with her hands, which further enraged Severus. He traversed the space between them and pulled her up by the scruff of her neck, his rage at so much that had occurred in the past year spilling over his control as if a dam had been breached. “I will do no more for you, Madam, your husband, or your weak get.”

“There is no one...” Narcissa began, her voice breaking as she said, “There is no one left that I can trust. They are all dead or concerned with their own safety. You... you have long been a friend to my husband, please...”

He let her go and she stumbled into the bed, eliciting moan from Lucius. As he turned to make his way out of the room and away from one more obligation, Narcissa’s soft, hiccoughing sobs tore at his abused conscience. He had his hand on the door latch when Lucius whispered, “Severus,... don’t leave... I don’t want to die... with.,. my family... in... danger... We were... friends... once...”

Severus leaned his head against the silk panel that covered the door, wishing for inspiration or at least a cessation of his never ending guilt over things that were beyond his control, choices that other people had made. He lifted his head, and turned in time to see Lucius wipe the tears from his wife’s face with his finger, the man’s normally cold expression soft and open. Severus strode to the Floo as he said, “Open this connection, Narcissa. There is one person who will feel obligated to heal him.”

Narcissa did as bade, her tear-ravaged face turned from him. As soon as the connection was established, Severus threw some Floo powder and bent into the flames. “Poppy!”

The school matron appeared in the flames, her expression made sourer by the green hue of the flames. She said sharply, “What is it, Headmaster?”

“I will be through shortly with an injured man. Prepare for our arrival.” Severus modulated his tone to mimic calm command. Too much was already spinning out of his control.

The matron’s jaws worked soundlessly in apparent outrage. She finally spat, “Snape! The school has three Death Eaters too ma...”

Severus cut the connection before she could commit treason in the hearing of loyal Death Eaters. He needed her in the position she was in too badly to allow his emotions to allow her to hang herself in front of two followers of the Dark Lord. He would reprimand her later and set some vile task for her apart from the healing of Lucius Malfoy. It was his way of handling crises when he could intervene. He turned sightlessly toward the two occupants of the room. “Narcissa, fetch Draco. Have him bring what he needs for school and pack what you will need for a short stay at Hogwarts. I will prepare Lucius for travel.”

He pushed past her. His rage subsided as he took charge of the situation and irritably disregarded the cost to him personally. He knew that no good would come from this intervention; such actions had a way of cocking up in his life like that.

 9 January, 1998 23:37

It was a stupid thing to fight over.  Hermione acknowledged that even as she flounced about the tent sullenly casting filthy looks at Harry. 

It was so stupid that she, even now, refused to look at the book as he had bid her to.  Instead, she had retreated to the kitchen area and was currently looking at the dismal state of their larder.  They were already on quarter rations.  In a few days, she would have to cut back again. She was so hungry that she was willing to eat anything, but foraging had become too dangerous.  Just a few days ago, she and Harry had been out looking for anything edible in the forest and came across a bloody corpse.  Harry said he thought it was Fenrir Greyback, but he wasn’t sure, the body's face was frozen to the snow-littered ground.  Hermione had not been able to look past the blood on the roiled snow without wanting to sick up.  The corpse made the war too real and she had retreated before Harry had to tell her. They had come back to the camp empty-handed and hadn’t gone out since. That thought alone sent her into another paroxysm of anger at Harry, Ron, Professors Snape and Dumbledore, and especially that stupid git, Voldemort, the one she owed the most of her anger.  He had started this.  She had been blissfully ignorant of the magical world, after all, blithely accepting that she was different in some respects, but normal.  She didn’t ask to be a witch, to be a Muggleborn, and she certainly didn’t ask to be in a war.  Or starving half to death because of that war and on some life-threatening quest that most definitely did not involve that book... Or not getting her education...  Most especially she did not ask to live half a world away from her parents.

The last thought gave her pause. 

She did actually send her parents half a world away, not that they would know, but the rest she most definitely didn’t ask for.  Not one single iota of this trouble, including the Mountain Troll in first year and the being changed into a cat her second, though both of those really were her fault too... And now this stupid fight with Harry over a stupid children’s book and what it might mean for the war.  As if a fairy tale had any bearing on real life.

She giggled as she realised just how silly that thought sounded coming from the brightest witch of her age, as Remus Lupin, the werewolf, had called her.

Her life had become one gigantic fairy tale, complete with giants, werewolves, vampires, a Half Blood Prince, and a whole list of scoundrels that served as fine evil henchmen to a dastardly snake-faced villain.   An unladylike snort of laughter escaped her before she could stop it.  She heard Harry rustle some paper, probably the pages of that damned book that Professor Dumbledore had willed her.

She lurched suddenly from her crouched position behind the counter, a position she had assumed to keep Harry’s determined, stone-faced visage out of her line of sight.  However, she forgot the cabinet door that she had left open on the top tier of shelves in her look at their pitiful stores.  She hit the wooden door so hard that she saw stars and staggered a bit before falling on her bum.  A dark torrent of something warm and salty spilled down her face and into her gasping mouth.

Her last thought before she lost consciousness was, “Is that blood?”

&*&*&

“She has a severe concussion, Mr. Potter, which resulted in a comatose state.”  Hermione heard Professor Snape drawl. He held her wrist in his sandpapery grip as he spoke.  “I can see no other choice for you two...”

“No... Sir. You can’t risk your position...”Harry said as he did something to make a loud rustling noise. “Besides, aren’t there other Death Eaters besides you at Hogwarts?”

“Potter,” Snape said making the word snap.  Hermione willed her eyelids to open so that she could see what was going on, but was unable.  Snape continued over Harry’s continued objections, “How long has it been since you two have eaten a proper meal, taken a bath, or even rested for more than a few hours?  You are doing no good for the war effort by remaining in this primitive hovel on this fruitless quest.  Don’t martyr yourself for the cause just yet.  There will be time enough for that later.  Now pack your things.  I shall take Miss Granger to Hogwarts and be back to fetch you.” Snape spoke without interruption over Harry’s objections, “As I said before, there are more hidden places than you can imagine at the school.  You will be safer there than here. Don’t be such a rash Gryffindor, like your father.”

Someone, probably Harry, inhaled a sobbing hitch of breath. A muffled third voice that she recognised as Phineas Nigellus said, “He’s correct, boy.  Listen to him.  You could dwell in the Chamber of Secrets for years without discovery.”

Harry spoke over the portraits remonstrations, “It’s always the same with you, isn’t it, Snape?  I’ll never be anything other than James Potter’s son and an annoyance to you.”  Movement caused more rustling, and then Harry said from further away, “Well sod off.  I can take care of her if you’ll just leave some food and the potion.”

Snape gently let go of her arm and moved away, if she could tell by the jouncing of the camp bed.  “Don’t be ridiculous, boy.   Miss Granger’s injury is only exacerbated by her malnutrition.  When your rations run out again, which they undoubtedly will, what will you do then?”

“What I’ve always done.  It’s certainly not the first time I’ve been without food, as you well know, Professor.” A loud smack of metal on metal sounded, and then Harry said, “Or was I mistaken about what you learned about my wonderful family from those Occlumency lessons?”

Hermione tried to fidget out of her body’s self-imposed binding.  After a few charged moments, Snape answered softly, “No. You were not mistaken.  Tuney was always a nasty piece of work.”

“Well then, you see, I can do without.” Harry’s voice was closer.  Hermione tried desperately `to say anything, but only made a small moan.  Snape returned to her side, she could tell by the bitter scent of Darjeeling that clung to him.  Harry finally said in a tone of capitulation, “But you’re right, she shouldn’t have to do without.  Take her someplace safe and I’ll continue on with my task.”

“Don’t play the hero, Potter.  Miss Granger is essential to your quest.  I do believe she was the one to solve my riddle in your first year, and the one to brew Polyjuice in your second.”  Snape smoothed his work-roughened hand over her brow, lingering over a tender spot as he continued, “She has demonstrated her usefulness to you, time and again, especially recently, if I am not mistaken.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”  Harry’s voice sounded guilty; as if he were remembering the time they had let their hormones dictate their actions.  Hermione cringed at the thought that perhaps Snape knew of it too, somehow.

Snape’s voice whipped across the distance between the two men as he hissed, “I am still the adult in this situation and the most senior Order member, Mr. Potter, and as such, you will speak to me with a modicum of respect.”

“I will when you deserve it,” Harry answered sullenly. “And don’t speak about Hermione as if she’s some kind of tool to use.”

To that, Hermione gave another moan, knowing that the two would come to hexes or blows if she did not intervene.  Not that she really understood why it was important to placate Snape.  He was still the murderer of Albus Dumbledore, he was still suspect, no matter what Harry said he saw when Snape destroyed the Horcrux.

“Why don’t you go kiss Volde—“

“Potter, do not speak his name.” Snape interrupted.  “There is a jinx on it.  Why do you think it is never spoken?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Well now you do.”

“Why did Professor Dumbledore say it all the time?” Harry asked, his tone still defiant.

“You are no Albus Dumbledore, Potter.” Snape sighed, a morbid sound in the silence. When he spoke again there was heaviness to the tone.  “Perhaps he did because he was a more powerful wizard than the Dark Lord, and unafraid of his former pupil.  Perhaps he was mad.  Who knows why Albus did what he did.”

“Especially when he trusted you,” Harry muttered and Hermione could sense imminent violence as Snape stiffened.

“Ha—rry.” Hermione finally managed, her voice cracking on the second syllable.

She was able finally to open her eyes.  She focused on the great black expanse that was Professor Snape.  “Why are you here?”

Snape’s stern, waxy face swam into focus as he answered, “You have been unconscious for three days, Miss Granger.  Mr. Potter finally summoned me this evening to ascertain the cause of your state.”

“Three... days, you say?” Hermione struggled to sit, but Snape pushed her back with a steady pressure on her shoulder.

“Hermione?”  Harry was suddenly in her line of sight.  He was paler, than she remembered him being, his face more haggard.  He must have spent the entire three days on watch.  A jolt of guilt ran from the tip of her head to her gut.  He tried to smile, but it came across his face in a wobbling of his chin and lips. “You gave me quite a fright.”

She felt a hot rush of tears and she closed her eyes.  “I’m sorry, about the fight and everything...

“Miss Granger, you need medical attention which I am unqualified to give to you,” Snape said.  “Madam Pomfrey can be made available to you, if you accompany me to Hogwarts.”

“I know, sir. I heard.”  She opened her eyes again.  Snape sounded different than he did when he was speaking with Harry, almost concerned even with his normal superior tone.  It was quite a change from the way she remembered him being.  Without deliberation, she blurted, “Why are you being so nice to me?  You never were before.”

She waited with pent up breath for the explosion of his temper to rain down on her, but he merely chuckled darkly.  “I am not without compassion, Miss Granger, all evidence to the contrary.”

Harry leaned over her, “Do you want to go with him?”

“Only if you come, Harry.  He’s right... We’re not doing any good out here.  At least we can do research if we go to Hogwarts...” Hermione stopped and turned her attention back to Snape. “Wait, how will you get Madam Pomfrey to help me?  Does she know of your supposed role for the Order?”

“Let me take care of that detail, Miss Granger, whilst you focus your considerable intelligence on convincing this dunder-- Potter to join you.”  Snape huffed, his thin lips twisting into a tight, wry smile as he once again picked up her wrist between his thumb and forefinger.  She felt her pulse beat as he pressed his finger into the notch where her artery was located.  Hermione regarded him as his lips moved whilst he looked at a pocket watch.  He looked older than his thirty-eight or nine years, older than he had seemed the year before, with the creases in his forehead and new, deep worry lines by his mouth.  He glanced at her, his gaze sharp and forbidding and Hermione looked away a dull  feeling of dread in her chest.  Once done, he announced, “Your heart rate is still too rapid.”  He turned his attention to Harry as he asked, “What will it be, Potter, your damnable pride or your friend’s life?”

Harry threw his hands in the air in capitulation.  “Fine.  We’ll go with you.  I just hope this isn’t a mistake.”

Snape looked as if he might agree with Harry, if only just this once.

12 January, 1998 07:13

Lucius had always hated being ill.  When he was a child it had been impossible to keep him abed no matter how high his temperature rose, or how much his personal house elf threatened to inform his parents.  Yes, he had always been a man of action and it galled him that the injury inflicted upon his person by a primitive Muggle weapon could lay him so low.  It was a week and a few days, and he had yet to recover from the removal of his damaged lung and the loss of blood.

He had developed an infection from the bullet which had nicked his stomach on its path of destruction.  Madam Pomfrey, still a martinet after all these years, forbade him to set foot out of the bed for an entire week.  He could tell that the mediwitch loathed his presence but was, fortunately for him, still guided by the Hippocratic Oath.  She was bound to care for him, though she expressed her disgust at his presence in her domain each time she attended him, with her firmly pressed lips and the sharp way she spoke to him.  It was also fortunate that his presence in the infirmary jeopardised the school.  Due to this fact he was afforded an unused apprentice’s lodging near enough to the hospital wing. It was private and protected by the ancient wards set down by the Founders, so that apprentices would not be abused in the wizarding world in the way they had historically been abused in the Muggle one.

Narcissa had returned home a few days ago to smooth his way back into his own manor house.  The Dark Lord had been quite perturbed by Lucius’ incapacitation and the loss of two of his lieutenants.  Because of the deaths of Rabastan and Rodolphus on a mission headed by Lucius, he knew that his reception upon returning to the Manor would not be pleasant. 

He feared that Narcissa and Severus both had already felt the pain of the Cruciatus for his absence.

Pomfrey bustled into the room, her demeanour stiff as was the norm since he awoke.  Lucius suffered her silently cast diagnostic spells, only chaffing a little when he realised he could not read them clearly.  She ran through the rest of her medical routine and when she finished, she snapped, “You’re well enough to get out of bed now.  Don’t overdo it, or you’ll relapse.  And for Merlin’s sake don’t go outside the room.  Your presence here has caused enough problems.”

She snapped her wand back into its holder and fussed some with Lucius’ bedding.  He bestowed a frosty smile upon her as she retreated to the window to flick the curtains aside.  Light sifted through the window, watery and pale. Once done with her daily routine she bustled to the door, but then paused as if considering something of great import.  Lucius waited, a sardonic cast to his expression, eyebrow raised as if in question.  Pomfrey heaved a sigh and brought something out of her pocket.  She sat it on the bedside table.  Lucius glanced at the object, a miniature portrait etched on ivory  of the Gryffindor Fat Lady, who sat preening until she saw him.  She then gave a shriek and disappeared.  Malfoy gave the school matron a look of wry amusement.  “How thoughtful, Madam.  You’ve brought me a fearful Gryffindor portrait.  I shall cherish it forever.”

Pomfrey huffed, “Don’t thank me.  Another portrait requested it.” He stifled a chuckle with a cough as she added, “Probably to keep an eye on you.” 

It was no wonder that Severus had an exasperated fondness for the mediwitch.  She was certainly unafraid.  Lucius idly wondered into which House she had been sorted.  She turned on her heel, a precise movement that was at once graceful and dismissive.  “Do try not to overexert yourself today.  I do not have time to deal with a patient who has no regard for others, especially with all the extra work your friends have made for me.”

Lucius remained silent until she left the room, not quite understanding how Severus had made extra work for her.  The current Headmaster had argued against the implementation of the Dark Lord’s more radical teaching methods to his physical detriment most of the time, even though he was victorious more often than not.  If she spoke of the Carrows, Lucius most certainly did not consider them friends and could not fathom that those two incestuous buffoons had been able to retain control of their classes, much less cause damage that might require medical attention.  He turned his attention to the portrait, curious if the Fat Lady would return to scold him for his political views and general Slytherin nature.  The portrait remained empty, blank except for the sketchy background.  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the weakening effects of his invalid state.  His muscles thrummed as he stretched experimentally, moving his toes toward the slippers left him by Narcissa.  They faced inward to the bed and he cursed softly as he scooted them around so that he could slip them on without bending.  Narcissa knew better than to leave the slipper toes turned toward the bed.  Fairies, while generally standoffish, could not resist wreaking havoc on a sleeping human, and slippers turned toward the sleeper were almost guaranteed to give them ideas and a toehold.  It was no wonder that Lucius’ dreams for the last few nights had been peppered with omens and portents. 

Once his slippers were on, he cast about for his dressing gown that lay at the end of the bed.  It was his favourite, the quilted silk one he wore in the winter months, dark as mahogany and soft from years of careful wear.  He noted that one of the sleeves had a frayed edge.  He would command one of the house elves to fix the material when he returned to the Manor.  The dressing gown was one of the few things that Lucius clung to sentimentally.  It was the last gift his mother had given him before she died. 

Once he was relatively comfortable he attempted to stand.  After the third try, he managed an approximation of the posture, his hairline  and nose dripping sweat, his heart pounding with the effort as he remained bent over slightly to catch his breath.  It when his vision quit swimming that he heard a soft cough issue from the portrait.  The hairs on his neck prickled with the awareness that only a person under observation could experience.

He should have been unsurprised that the watcher who peered out from the miniature was none other than Albus Dumbledore, yet he felt his jaw constrict and his eyes narrow at the old man’s intrusive gaze.  He could not abide the man when he was alive and doubted the older wizard’s attitude had softened towards Lucius himself even after death.  He bestowed a superior sneer on the former Headmaster and waited for the portrait to speak.  As head of the most powerful pureblood family in England, he refused to bow and scrape to a mere portrait. 

The portrait finally relented, its tone mildly amused.  “I see nothing has changed with you, Lucius.”

Lucius felt his knees give way and he plopped back to the bed as ungracefully as a newborn foal.  He managed without the wheeze that he usually felt creeping on his speech, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Dumbledore?  Have you come to spy on me?  See that I don’t commit rapine and pillaging?”

To that comment, the portrait remained silent, choosing instead to regard Malfoy with a steady gaze behind winking, painted glass.  Lucius fought the urge to fidget as if he were a student and instead began buffing his nails upon the silk, liking the sheen the silk gave them when he stopped. 

After a short period of time, the portrait said, “I cannot help you, Lucius, if you do not speak to me about your fears.”

Lucius shot the portrait a hard-eyed look, the grey of his irises subsuming his pupils as they contracted with the jolt of fear that went through him at the words. When he thought he could speak without stuttering he said with a cotton dry tongue that seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth, “I don’t follow, old man.  I am here to recover from folly of my own making.  I serve the Dark Lord without question.”

The portrait’s glasses shimmered, flashing with the cerulean and titanium pigment used to create them.  “Certainly, there is no doubt that you serve him, Lucius.  I would never gainsay that fact.  It is, however, a matter between the two of us if you have begun to question his methods and his aims.  Privately, of course--  I would never wish to jeopardise a potential ally, or even a person considering the prospect.”

Lucius jerked his head up sharply at the comment, but said nothing.  It was well and good that a portrait thought nothing of his inner turmoil, as long as the loquacious bit of pigment did not broadcast the news to all and sundry.  Especially since that same portrait had access to the current Headmaster, no matter that Snape was the author of Dumbledore’s death.  The living man had always seemed a little dotty, there was no accounting for how much the painted creature retained of that particular personality trait.

The portrait sighed, “Well, Lucius, I shall leave you to your important grooming duties.  I simply thought I would let you know that your fears are shared by many in your organisation.  Perhaps you should think of a way to harness the energies of those who are dissatisfied.  Please feel free to keep this portrait with you as a reminder of this conversation.”

Lucius gave an almost imperceptible nod before he slowly began manoeuvring his legs back onto the bed.  Communication could sometimes be extremely tiring when one contemplated plotting treason.

His hand moved to the portrait and he pocketed it, one step closer to a decision about his future.

12 January, 1998 09:45

“Poppy, a word?” Snape said as he strode through the hospital wing’s doors.  He passed several filled beds, not acknowledging the children in them in various states of healing.  He rarely visited the infirmary during the day.  His time to prowl the ward was late at night, well after all and sundry were asleep. It was in those late night forays that he could give into the impotent fury each stricken child’s feature evoked.  He was their headmaster and he could no more provide safety for them than he could fly to the moon astride a broomstick.

A child moaned to his right, another sobbed quietly a few beds down.  Severus steeled himself against the intrusion of those sounds, ones that had become all too commonplace after he ascended to his post.  He was the Headmaster of the injured and broken.  The other inmates of the castle were just awaiting their time under the lash, their run-in with an Unforgivable. 

Severus said louder, “Poppy!”

The Matron poked her head out from behind a screen, her eyes suspiciously red as she frowned down the aisle at him.  She snapped, “Yes, Headmaster?”

Severus strode to her office, saying as he did, “I have need of your skills.”

He opened the door and gestured impatiently for her to follow him into the dimly lit space.  Pomfrey returned behind the screen and then bustled out with a blood-reddened cloth.  Another student must have incurred Amycus’ ire, or his twisted lust.  Severus dare not ask what had happened or on whom the cloth had been used.  His conscience pricked him enough these days, and he could not face more failure of his own making, not today of all days.  The matron brushed past him with a sniff and regally assumed a seat behind her own heavy desk, causing Severus to have to take one of the smaller ladder-backed wooden seats reserved for students.  He stifled a smirk as he sat.  Poppy had always been a formidable strategist.

She summoned a house elf for tea, indicating with a lift of her brow that Severus was unwelcome to join her, but he could if he insisted.  Once the elf delivered her beverage, she lifted her chin imperiously, asking in a tone that conveyed her disdain for his request, “What do you require of me this time, Headmaster?  Did that man you follow injure you in some way?”

There was a time in their association in which Severus had been addressed as her ‘Dear Boy’.  Those days were long gone, and Severus tried not to dwell on the loss of the term and what it meant in a personal way.  He didn’t even know why it bothered him.  He was not a man on whom one bestowed endearments or false sentiments, and he had certainly never encouraged the Matron in her use of the term.  He shifted in the ridiculously uncomfortable chair, designed no doubt, to discourage malingering.  After he ensured more than usual privacy for a healing consultation with specialised wards he had designed himself, he asked, “How much do you know about mind-healing and medical Occlumency?” 

Poppy’s chin raised incrementally even as Severus noted that her fingers gripping the handle of the cup had turned white.  She said after a moment’s hesitation, “I am proficient, though I haven’t practiced since you mur-- the end of last school year.”

Severus ran his hand over his chin, realising he had more than a bit of stubble.  He blinked rapidly against the sandy pricking of his eyelids.  He couldn’t remember the last time he slept for more than an hour, much less the last time he shaved.  Moving the two Gryffindors into his old rooms had taken more time than he expected and he had gone without even the meagre hour of rest he normally managed.  It was his own fault as he had forgotten all the wards and security counter-measures he had emplaced in the suite.  If his situation weren’t what it was, he might worry that he was more than a bit paranoid.  He closed his eyes for a moment, suddenly weary beyond measure.   When he opened his eyes, Poppy regarded him with more than professional concern.

“Are you... quite all right, Headmaster?”  Her tone had softened, and he noticed new worry lines which caused her face to crease deeply beside her mouth. “Mi—Minerva and I were discussing how strained you appeared recently.”

Severus surmised from her expression that the discussion was prompted more by gloating than concern.  He rose, the effort to remain upright almost too much for him.  “I have need of your skills, Poppy, but if think you cannot refrain from gossip, I will have no other choice but to Obliviate you.”

Poppy had the good grace to look chagrined at his set down.  “I am a professional, Headmaster, no matter under whom I must serve.”

Severus swept his black-clad arm, releasing the warded space and with a sour nod, he indicated she should follow him. 

&*&*&

Harry watched Hermione sleep whilst he attempted to concentrate on the book that had been the ultimate cause of her accident.  He caught himself staring blankly at the page, chewing on a bit of dry skin on his thumb that had been bothering him for days.  He lowered his hand, aware of how much he needed to do before Snape returned with Madam Pomfrey.  He was just too exhausted from the prior three days to stir more than a few feet without his heart pounding painfully in his chest and his breath coming in short, burning gasps.  Hermione stirred and gave a low moan.  He knew she would be more comfortable out of the bloody, days old clothing she had collapsed in, and possibly much more comfortable with a sponge bath to wash the months of grime off her, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.  It seemed too much of an invasion of her privacy.  It also provided too much temptation for Harry to reminisce about what happened between them, if he were honest with himself. 

His mind drifted back to New Years Eve and what they had done.  He knew he should feel guilt about it, or some other emotion, but all he really felt was relief.  He couldn’t explain why, but when Hermione hadn’t Obliviated him, he knew that things were going as they needed to.   Before they had... done the deed, Harry hadn’t seen Hermione as a girl, not in any real sense, anyway.  Always up to the battle that was Harry’s life, to him she had always been one of the boys. 

But Harry knew that wasn’t the exact truth. 

He’d developed a little crush on her after the Yule Ball, but thought he hadn’t a chance with her if she were attracting people like Victor Krum.  Then she and Ron had acted as if they were going to get together and a bloke just didn’t move on the girl his best mate wanted, he thought even as that nasty voice that sounded vaguely like Dudley’s reminded him of his recent actions with her.  Harry readily dismissed the voice, with the thought that it was too much a risk to feel much for anyone. That’s why he had broken it off with Ginny.  Or, at least that’s what he told himself to ease his conscience when it panged him about leaving her behind whilst he tramped about the country at least marginally free.

Ginny.

His stomach lurched as the situation struck him once again.  He’d been wrestling with his conscience over making lo... having sex with Hermione.  It wasn’t like they were going to repeat it, right?  It was just a one off, and no feelings were involved.  No emotions past a sense of release, and a lessening of tension.

He had to keep telling himself that so that he could face a night with his fears, his nightmares, and his frustration without her soft body to sink into. 

He must have dozed for a moment, even with the swirling conundrum in his brain, for he was jerked to full alertness as the Floo flared in the next room.  In an instant, he had his wand in his hand, ready for battle, even though the wand wasn’t his own. 

During their mad scramble from the Bagshot house, Hermione had broken his.  At the time it had seemed like an omen, but Hermione, who had obviously been a Girl Guide in her life before Hogwarts had secreted an illegal wand, which she had bought from Mundungus Fletcher at some point in their association, in her bag, the one Ron dubbed “Hermione’s Little Box of Wonders.”  Ron always said that with a filthy little smirk that made Harry fight off guilty laughter.  It was a good thing she had never heard either of them, or Harry mightn’t have a replacement wand. 

He hoped Ron was well and not lying in some shallow grave, or worse, captured.

Harry moved to the door, careful not to reveal himself until he saw first Snape and then Madam Pomfrey step through.  Snape made a beeline to the bedchamber even as Madam Pomfrey balked at following him.  He gestured for her to follow him, his impatience made evident by his scowl and jerky movements.  Harry heard her murmur something that he couldn’t catch, though he knew from the tightening of Snape’s mouth that it wasn’t complimentary.  He suddenly felt a hitch in his throat at realising how hard Snape had it now.  Not that Harry thought he was any less of a git, but somehow knowing that Snape was still Dumbledore’s man made  Madam Pomfrey’s lack of trust seem worse. 

At least he hoped Snape was still Dumbledore’s man and not doing some kind of self-serving Slytherin gobshite.

Hermione stirred and he turned back to her.  He heard Snape say, “I needn’t remind you that what you see in these chambers is to remain between us, and your demeanour outside these rooms cannot change toward me at all...”

“Yes, Headmaster.”  Pomfrey sounded less than pleased and more than a little terrified, if two such opposing emotions could exist in one person.

Snape drew the door open and Harry blinked owlishly at the sudden shift in light.

“Merciful heavens, Severus Snape, what have you got yourself into?” Pomfrey exclaimed on an outward breath as Harry stepped into her line of sight.   She paled and drew her shawl around her neck as if to ward off whatever evil spirit Snape had conjured.

Harry said into the strained silence that settled over them, “Hullo, Madam Pomfrey.  Hermione’s just over here.”

15 January, 1998 14:36

Lucius made his painful way up the stairs to his suite.  His wounds had reopened after his little homecoming tête a tête with the Dark Lord and the newly widowed Bellatrix.  Narcissa walked regally by his side, her hand on top of his arm as decorum dictated until they were out of view of their house-guests.  Lucius knew that if he showed weakness and allowed Narcissa or his son to levitate him to his rooms, Bellatrix would take advantage of the situation.  Lucius’ position was precarious enough without that bitch smelling defeat on Lucius.  Once out of their line of site, but well aware that observation could still be effected by the Dark Lord, Cissy gave up all pretence and hooked her arm under his as he swayed.  Her motion caused his side to jerk upwards, and he bit his tongue to keep from screaming as a fiery tearing pain seared his side.  He fought the buckling of his knees as his vision swam between bright shards of light and swirling blackness.  Draco followed behind his parents, his expression stonily cool until Lucius’ plight was made manifest by the steady dripping of blood onto the Italian marble of the stairs. 

The boy rushed forward, much as he might have done earlier in his life if such unsightly haste had been allowed.  Narcissa gave a terse nod and Draco hooked his shoulder under Lucius’.  Somehow they all made it to family wing without more incident. 

Draco helped Narcissa with Lucius, whose strength had given out just as they opened the door to the richly masculine suite.  Once Lucius was settled, Narcissa sent Draco to fetch broth for Lucius and luncheon for them both. Draco left the room his face tight, his eyes haunted.

Narcissa eased onto the bed and began stripping Lucius out of his robes, helping him roll to his side, careful of his newly opened wound.  She hissed as she saw the damage of the bullet for the first time.   Lucius knew that the Muggle bullet weapon had entered with quite a small hole and exploded out his back, laying bare his bones and muscles, leaving little of the dermal layer for Pomfrey to knit back together.  When he had seen the scar, laid over the silvered scars from canings at the hands of frightened tutors and an indifferent father, he had wanted to vomit even though the tissue was just beginning to knit.  It was an ugly purple blotch on his pale skin, drawn up in a tight fist of ruined flesh. 

Narcissa, after her initial exclamation, worked methodically with the healing spells that Pomfrey had taught her before Lucius left the relative safety of Hogwarts, against Healer advice. His situation and that of his family had become even more perilous with his continued absence.  He had been surprised that the mediwitch, though still grumbling about the danger his presence posed to the students, had fought him so vehemently.  Lucius could honestly say that no one, not even his mother, had ever championed his welfare.  The entire situation even with its surreal quality, had touched Lucius, or at least warmed the surface of his cold, patrician facade.

Once done, Narcissa cleaned the blood from him with a thoroughly applied Tergeo.  She retreated to the ornate and authentic Louis Quatorze chaise she normally chose on her visits to his suite that required discussion rather than more intimate physical exertion.  Once Narcissa was arranged artfully on the ornately embroidered silk, she cast a spell Lucius could not quite discern, one that caused his ears to buzz until she spoke.  “You’re keeping something from me, Lucius.”

“You know I have not had a mistress in years, Darling,” Lucius said as he struggled to maintain his equanimity in the face of his wife’s determination.  She frowned, a slight crease forming around her lips, as sure a measure of her determination as there could be.  He relented, saying, “Now is not the time for such discussions, Cissy.”

Narcissa shot a look of pure venom at the door and then returned her gaze to Lucius, her expression once again serene.  “Severus taught me some interesting spells whilst you were at Hogwarts.  Ones that he invented himself for the express purpose of spying.”

Lucius felt his cheek twitch as he asked, “You trust Severus that much?”

“No, but I tested the spells myself.  They are undetectable and quite private,” Narcissa answered with a serene smile.  “I do wonder which side he invented them for, however.”

“Do not question...”  Lucius began, but bit the words off as he heard footfalls in the hallway. Once the person had passed, he said, “It is not wise to question anyone’s loyalty right now, Darling.  Not with all the recent events.”

Narcissa waved her hand airily.  “I would never question Severus’ loyalty outside these rooms.  He did, after all kill Dumbledore...”

“Yes, he did.”  Lucius answered, settling deeper into his down pillow as he attempted to feign somnolent relaxation. 

“... to save our son.”  Narcissa rose quickly from the chaise, her dark, flowing robes falling like ink around her ankles.  “I spent time in the Headmaster’s office with Severus during your illness and it was quite odd, but the old Headmaster was quite at ease in his murderer’s company.  It was almost as if he were quite pleased with the way things went at the end of the school term last year. It does make one think, doesn’t it?”

Lucius turned his face away from his wife and closed his eyes, as if he had drifted to sleep.  Narcissa said softly, “We are going to lose, Lucius, no matter which side wins.  It’s a matter of degrees at this point, the way I see it.”

“Cissy...” Lucius warned.  “Do be quiet.”

“I am merely saying that you might consider committing our entire family to the side that will at least ensure the Malfoy name will continue, and that our son will live.”

Narcissa sat on the bed gingerly, her slight weight causing Lucius to sink towards her only marginally, not enough to cause pain in his wound.  She ran her fingers through his hair, a gesture she had not done voluntarily in years, not since before their betrothal.  She leant down, bestowing a kiss on his temple.  “I think we both know which side that is, don’t we, Darling?”

Lucius swallowed audibly in the yawning chasm of buzzing silence.  Narcissa whispered into the shell of his ear, “Don’t fail our son, Lucius.  Make the right choice, even if it won’t be the easy one.   I will stand by your decision.”

Lucius took his wife’s hand in his and felt like sobbing for the first time since he was a child.  He knew what he needed to do, but he had to ensure that his son was convinced of the rightness of his change of heart.  Draco was no longer a child and had been fully indoctrinated in the mystique in which the Dark Lord surrounded himself.  It would be no easy feat to convince Draco of his father’s infallibility, especially not for Lucius, the father in question.

21, January, 1998, 15:34

Ron was hungry, exhausted, and worst of all, he could smell himself.  He stood in formation in a basement of an abandoned Muggle factory in Liverpool, one of the training facilities that the magical branch of the U.N. had set up to help in the fight against Voldemort.  He was with nineteen other men all of varying age.  A younger man coughed asthmatically into his sleeve, trying to stifle the noise so that their Sergeant wouldn’t hear him.  Ron knew the man was desperate to fight against the Death Eaters, and would not let anything, including illness, stop him.  The man’s desire to fight had something to do with his wife, but Ron had never heard exactly what it was.  He did know the man had volunteered for the most dangerous duty possible.  He was to take a position as a spy.  Ron, himself, was to be sent to the medical corps, but had to complete combat training to be deployed in the field.  Once he completed the combat portion, he would be sent to one of the World Health Organization’s field hospitals to get hands on training in wizarding and Muggle healing methods. 

Primitive slashing flesh with knives Muggle healing methods.  He couldn’t stand the thought of butchering an animal for food when he was near starving, how could he be expected to embroider human skin together?   Or whatever Muggles did to heal wounds.  He felt ill just thinking of it.

It had been three weeks since he had joined the resistance, a fortnight since he had seen Hannah.  She was still acting as bait to catch Snatchers and to gather information.  Ron knew her role was necessary, but it scared him a bit when he thought of what might go wrong for her out there.  They hadn’t parted well because of that fear.  He was like Mum when he was worried.  He’d storm and scold trying to gain some control over the situation and not feel so helpless.  Hannah hadn’t taken his high-handed proclamation that she couldn’t go on her mission very well at all.  Flint had to take her wand to keep Hannah from following through on the threat to hex his bollocks and other protruding bits off.  Ron had only cooled down after Hannah left on her mission, but by then it was too late and damned near impossible to communicate with her. 

“Weasley!”   The hard-faced Yank that was in charge of his unit shouted as he entered the room.  Ron stepped forward on shaking legs, wishing that the man would find someone else to pick on, anyone but him.   

“Yessir, Sergeant Hopkins, sir?”   Ron hated having to address the tyrannical Sergeant with such extreme respect.  Snape had been a sweet little cherub compared to this man, especially since the traitor had mostly used a soft, menacing voice to get to you, not a full on shout straight into your ear as the Hopkins did.

“Front and centre!” Hopkins commanded, his black eyes glittering out of his equally dark face, the man was the archetypical Yank military man with a square jaw, deeply lined face that might break if he smiled.  He and Ron hadn’t gotten on from the beginning, not that the Sergeant got on with anybody, really.  Ron expected the man made his wife salute and call him ’sir’ before he mounted her.   He suppressed a groan and he began walking forward as Hopkins shouted, “The rest of you ladies, fall out and make yourselves pretty.  Chow’s on in the main hall and you know how testy the Colonel is about offensive B.O. where he eats.”

As the others made their groaning, clattering way out of the room, Ron drew in front of the Yank, wondering what rule he had broken this time.   Hopkins indicated that Ron follow him with a jerk of his head.  As they made their way from the training basement to the ground floor, Hopkins said over his shoulder, “You’ve got a visitor.  You’ll have liberty for the night, but don’t expect any favours tomorrow.”

Ron rolled his eyes at the man’s back, giving the ‘V’ sign where he was sure the Sergeant couldn’t see, but answered, “No sir, I won’t.”

As they drew close to the guest quarters, Hopkins waved Ron ahead.   “PT is at o-six-hundred. I’ll expect your full attention and happy participation.”

“Yessir.”

“Have fun, Weasley,” Hopkins said as he retreated into the dim interior of the building once again.  Ron thought he heard the man chuckle, but wasn’t sure until he heard, “But not too much.”

Ron smoothed his hands over his shorn hair, more stubble than hair, really.  It was some kind of stupid Muggle military custom, but he’d had to do it if he wanted to stay with the Resistance.  Ron really didn’t see any other option since there’d been no word about Harry and Hermione in forever, and his presence at any of his family’s houses would be too dangerous for everyone.  As his arm passed his nose, he wished he’d had time to catch a quick shower before he was summoned. He could live with his own smell, at least for the time being, but doubted who ever was visiting would be as forgiving. 

He knocked softly on the half-open door, and entered. Hannah stood in the centre of the room, nervously pressing her palms against a wrinkled, khaki skirt that was a few sizes too large for her, her pale hair was plastered against her head as if she’d just showered, and she had dark circles under her eyes.  She smiled hesitantly, “Hullo, Ron.”

Ron answered, “Hullo, Hannah.  How’re you?”  He cursed furiously at himself thinking, Great, Weasley.  Brilliant apology!   It’s a sure way to get her to hex you.  He cleared his throat which seemed thick with spittle and choked out, “I mean, I’ve... How have you been?”  He swallowed thickly, spreading his damp palms on the heavy, cotton fatigues he’ been issued by one of the Yanks assigned to combat training.

Hannah’s gaze flitted to his hair and then back down to his face.  “They cut your hair.”

“Erm... Yeah, some mad idea about us recruits being uniform,” Ron answered as he rubbed his head self-consciously.  “I look like a tall, bald orang-utan, I expect.”

Hannah tittered nervously and then crossed to him.  She stopped in front of him and said with a shy lift of the corners of her lips, “I’ve missed you.”

Ron folded her in his arms, closing his eyes against the sudden relief he felt at her words.  “I’m sorry, Hannah.  I shouldn’t have tried to bully you into doing what I wanted you to do.  Let’s just call the whole reason for the row a family trait.”

“I know it is.”  Hannah answered.  “My mum knew your mum in school.  She told me about your mum the first time I said I liked you—o—r ... erm... your family.”

Ron felt his own face heat at her slip, but said nothing.  Instead, he leant down and kissed her, easily pushing any remaining guilt over Hermione out of his mind.

&*&*&

&*&*&

5 February, 1998 01:35

One month was all the time it took to change the course of Ronald Weasley’s life forever.

Ron rolled over on his side, his hand automatically latching onto a breast through a filmy confection of silk and heavy Bruges lace, borrowed from a much larger Bulstrode, no doubt.  Hannah moaned, “Not now, Ron, I just got to sleep...”

He chuckled darkly, his breath huffing against sweat matted blonde hair as he slid his hand to her hip.  She grabbed his fingers, her newly placed wedding ring jarring against his as she moved his hand back to her swollen breast.  “Have I told you how much I appreciate that you’re a proper, old-fashioned wizard?  A Muggle bloke wouldn’t have... well thanks for marrying me Ron, even if it was at wand point, so to speak.”

Ron pulled Hannah tighter, his voice gruff and only feeling a little guilty that he hadn’t been able to tell his parents about the sudden nuptials.  As it was, the only Weasley that knew, aside from the two currently in the room, was Percy.  He had been able to contact him, and good ol’ Perce had stood up for him, after a lecture on contraceptive charms and something that Muggles took to control birth.  “Aw, Hannah...”

“No, I mean it.  Most blokes, even wizarding ones, would have told me to get rid of it or take care of it myself.”  Hannah’s voice had taken on a strained quality, as if she were holding back tears.  “As if a baby were a thing to be put out with the rubbish...”

Ron kissed the back of her head and down her neck, a strangely protective surge of emotion cresting as he answered, “Shh.  Love, it doesn’t matter how we got together, just that we did.  It’s our wedding night.  Let’s not waste it on talk.”

“Ronald!”  Hannah flipped over, thumping her fist against his chest before dissolving into a fit of giggles.  “Mum was right about you Weasley men and your one track minds.”

“Naw, that’s just me.  Percy’s a proper prig, and I don’t think Charlie’s interest is in women.”  Ron pulled her onto his chest. “Wait, how would she’ve known about Weasley men?  Or, do I want to know?”

Hannah kissed him full on the mouth , no doubt to shut him up.  He giggled unmanfully as her thick hair slid down his side, sending shivering tickles up his neck.  Later, when they had thoroughly exhausted themselves, he said, “I know we didn’t start out the proper way, but I swear to you, Hannah, I’ll make you a good husband.  Weasley men are very domesticated.”

“You make it sound as if I’ve bought a prize bull.”

“Oh, you have.   Remember, there are seven of us in our family.   We are a fertile lot, us Weasleys,” Ron said with a little chuckle and then added, “How do you think I got you up the duff so fast?”

Hannah sat upright, as if she had been loaded with springs.  “Ronald Weasley, that is not funny at all!”

Even as she said the words, a small hiccough of a laugh escaped her and soon Hannah was draped across him again, her fingers curled against his neck as she drew him to her laughing lips.  Later they slid into exhausted slumber, their bodies entwined in sated somnolence.  Ron was sure it was only wistful dreaming that caused him to think he heard Hannah’s whispered confession as he slipped into that twilit world. “I love you, Ronald Weasley. I always have.”

&*&*&

“Sodding, merciful, tit-wanking hell!”  Ron said under his breath as he rolled over on his side to switch off the alarm, a Muggle concession he had made to his new military life.  Spells were fine and good, but didn’t always wake him at four in the morning after an evening of strenuous activity.  He slapped at the offensive noise, knocking the wind-up clock over the side of the table, where it jangled intermittently as its clapper caught in the red, shaggy carpet, a remnant from the days when the enlisted men’s flats were part of a brothel or something equally seedy.  Hannah mumbled and kicked him in the shin as he scrambled over the side of the bed to fetch the clock, pulling half the bedclothes with him and onto the floor.  

It was to be his first day in the field hospital.

He slid all the way out of bed once he caught the clock and turned it off.  PT came first thing and then he would make his way through Liverpool to a Portkey office which would give him his bit of rubbish that would take him to his new billet in the north of Dorset; close enough to Wiltshire where intelligence had You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters, and where many of the battles so far had taken place.  It wasn’t much of a stretch for Ron to guess whose family had opened their doors to Him.  It had to be the sodding Malfoys and their poncy manor house. Ron would only return to his flat at HQ on his days off.

He hurriedly dressed in the dark, a thing he had to learn early on in his friendship with Harry.   As he sat on the edge of a wooden chair,  he pulled on his trainers and then slung his rucksack over one shoulder.  He’d packed it the day before and he still worried that he might have forgotten something, even though he’d made a list.  His gaze strayed to the slumbering lump on the bed in the bedroom area; not so much another room, but a space separated by a curtain.  Hannah’s gleaming hair was sexily tousled, spilling down her back, her knees childishly curled under her belly, her bum in the air.  All Ron really wanted to do was crawl back into bed and start the day off with a proper shag, but duty awaited, and so he settled for a quick trip across the room and a soft kiss to her shoulder.  She stirred, but didn’t wake.

5, February, 1998 09:12
 
Severus was not without contacts in the school who would provide him with much-needed information when necessary.  The Bloody Baron was one such contact, a useful one, who had in the past given crucial information on the goings on in the Slytherin common room that would have otherwise escaped his notice.

One recent bit of intelligence was the defection from the Dark Lord’s camp of both Marcus Flint and Millicent Bulstrode.  Bulstrode, always a quiet girl who cultivated an air of brawn over brain, was actually the author of Flint’s defection, as they had become involved over the summer holidays, a surprise in itself for several reasons, one of which was Bulstrode’s parentage.  Not many knew of Miss Bulstrode’s half blood heritage, her Muggle mother long since fled to parts unknown.  It was a topic she had learned early on to keep to herself, just as Severus himself had years before.  There was a great deal of substance to Miss Bulstrode, academically as well as magically.  Severus had concerned himself in particular with the girl’s treatment in Slytherin, though he could do nothing about the perceptions she fostered in her associations with other houses.  

The other information which the Baron had willingly supplied was in conjunction with Draco’s recent rescues and subsequent care of victims of the Carrows’ specialised lessons.  Young Malfoy, it seemed, had cultivated, if not a friendship, at least a healthy respect for the youngest Weasley, who had directed him to the makeshift infirmary in the Room of Requirement.  The Baron had, on more than one occasion, seen Miss Weasley and young Malfoy in earnest discussion, always out of sight of corporeal prying eyes.  Severus was at once relieved and frightened by the boy’s nominal participation in the ongoing rebellion at Hogwarts.  He drew solace from the fact that he himself had taught the boy Occlumency and thus he was as close to being a master as one can be at seventeen, but was alarmed by the thought that a precipitous action on the boy’s part could end Severus’ existence.  The terms of that damnable Unbreakable Vow still held Severus’ life in the balance.  

It was slightly ironic then, that Severus was going to use the boy to clear out the Room of Requirement to aid Potter on his quest.  Not that Severus had planned to give so very much away to the boy of his own double role so soon, but the need was pressing.  He was no fool.  A Malfoy could be taken at their word only so long as it was expedient for them to follow a course of action, yet it had been a fortuitous bit of theatre that had allowed Severus to stage that late-night conversation between Granger, Potter and himself.  It was a test of sorts, demanded by the portrait Albus to take the measure of Malfoy’s resolve, and Draco had passed with flying colours.  Not a single mention of the special guests had made the rounds of the gossip network that was the student body.  There had been no doubt in Severus’ mind that the boy who had been teetering on the edge of defection had passed that point the night he saved Miss Lovegood from further torture.  Severus would have never taken the chance otherwise.

Albus, of course, was at first against using the boy in that manner, wondering if the boy’s actions before the former Headmaster’s death warranted trust, or if the boy’s soul were too tainted.  Another bit of irony, given that  it was the state of Draco’s soul that had supposedly concerned the old man before his death, and that Draco’s  involvement in this plan was certainly a smaller penance for the boy to pay for taking the Dark Mark than was demanded by the former Headmaster for Severus’ own youthful indiscretion.  Of course, the boy did not have the death of his only love on his conscience, but the various victims of his botched attempts on Albus’ life certainly required some atonement.  The Bell girl had not been the same since her run in with the cursed necklace.  No, Albus had used the boy’s soul as a carrot and stick to push Severus toward the role he now played as titular head of this crumbling institution of learning in the madhouse that was the Dark Lord’s utopia.  That fact was quite evident in Albus’ views on the boy’s usefulness at the moment.

A soft knock on the door to his office interrupted Severus’ meditations.  It was time for his very important conversation with Draco Malfoy.  If the boy wanted to take on the role of hero, Severus would give him the opportunity in spades.

5, February 1998, 15:46

Ron arrived at the field hospital, only to be immediately ordered by an Asian woman with a delicately pretty face and an American accent, to suit up and help.  She’d shoved him towards a closet where a clerk gave him a yellow paper smock and some blue things to cover his feet, latex gloves, a face mask, goggles, and something to cover his hair. Ron felt ridiculous donning the items over his clothes, but did so and was directed to an area of intense activity by the clerk while he handed out the same to the next person in line.

Ron surmised that there had been a Death Eater attack in the area and that Muggles were involved.  Those patients who were obviously not magical were being shuttled to a different area of the tent hospital, to be treated by a team of physicians who would better be able to preserve the statute of secrecy.  If it had indeed been a Death Eater attack, Ron didn’t much see the point.  He was set to carrying those victims on a gurney with another corpsman, a West Indian bloke who wore a UN blue ascot.  The fellow didn’t seem to have any magic, so Ron helped him trundle the gurneys with brute force.  He had spent much of the day fetching, carrying, and being ordered about as if the were a house elf.  If Ron hadn’t had his military training, he might have got his back up, but things had changed for him.

It was all so overwhelming, the blood, the noise, and the stench of burnt flesh.  He tried to become numb to the trauma and screaming all about him, but Ronald Weasley had always been a little on the sensitive side when it came to suffering.  He’d been tested as a child and was found to have a large physical empathy quotient.  That was the reason he had been put in the medical corps in the first place.  

The injured and dying had slowed to a trickle, but there were still those few who had waited all day to have their minor wounds healed.   A short female wearing both a Healer’s and physician’s caduceus on her scrubs stopped Ron as he plodded towards the next body to lug.  She had warm greenish-hazel eyes, and a tumble of auburn hair, stuffed back indifferently into one of those claw clips that he had seen Hermione sport over the summer.  The woman looked done in, with dark circles under her eyes, and strain lines around her mouth.  She looked to be no more than thirty, though perhaps Ron was wrong.  She asked, “You’re Weasley, right?  The new guy?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Ron’s conditioned response was to salute, and he did so smartly.  

She laughed, even if it sounded a bit tired, and with her hand held out said, “I’m Dr. Dance, with the World Health Organisation, not military.  Don’t salute me, and don’t call me ma’am, it makes me feel old.  Off-duty, I’m Toni.”  As Ron shook her hand, firmly, in a manner he’d been taught that Americans liked, she moved her head in a deprecating manner to indicate the general disorder of the area.  ”Sorry about the chaos.  You’ll get used to it, unfortunately.  Come with me, and we’ll get a cup of joe and some grub in the mess, then I’ll show you what you haven’t seen already.”

Ron sputtered, “But...I was told...there are still patients...”

“Just get rid of this in the trash,” she said, pulling the sleeve of his paper smock.  “Don’t worry about them.  Your shift wasn’t supposed to start today.  It was just shit luck that you showed up after a battle.”

Ron followed her across the compound into a tent.  It smelled of coffee and food.  His stomach rumbled and he blushed as she headed towards the serving line.  “I’ve starving too. Let’s eat, and then I’ll fill you in on your duties.”

They went through the line and he followed Dance, whose plate was piled as high as his, to a long table that had a few other personnel seated at the other end.  Dr. Dance didn’t wait for Ron to sit before she started ploughing through her food.  She looked up as a sallow-skinned, though handsome, man entered the room.  Ron immediately didn’t like him, even though Dr. Dance waved him over with a smile.  He grabbed a cup of coffee and came over to the table.  Once there, he bestowed an absent kiss on the doctor’s cheek.  

She said, “This is Dr. Thierry  Bertrand.  He’s with WHO too, and my fiancé, right, Honey?”

The man gave a condescending nod, reminding Ron of both Snape and Lucius Malfoy.   Dr. Bertrand excused himself, “Cheri, I must attend an unexpected meeting.  I will be late.”

Ron watched the woman’s face cloud and she said something sharp in French.  Bertrand coloured, and his dark eyes flashed as he gave a sharp bow.  “Private Weasley, Antonia, my apologies.”

Ron half-stood and made an equally swift bow.  He sat again and Dr. Dance said, with forced cheer, “So, I guess you need the lay of the land.  That runty Asian woman in line is Dr. Phuong Nguyen.  She’s from my home state of Oklahoma by way of Vietnam.  She’s practices holistic Eastern medicine—you know acupuncture and the like—she is also a Healer and holds a medical degree.  She’s absolutely brilliant, but she’ll never let you know it.  Behind her is our Potions Master Osman Yildirim.  He’s with NATO and so is his wife, Marie Claire.  She’s a Muggle Belgian and our pharmacist.  I think she’s still filling scrips right now.”

“So, how many are wizards here?” Ron asked, after painfully swallowing a mouthful of half-masticated food.

Dr. Dance gave a quick wave to the Asian doctor who had been the one to press Ron into service that morning.  The woman waved back but proceeded to a table on the edge of the tent.  “I think there are a few Squib corpsmen, and a couple of Muggles who have married into magic, but everyone here knows about this world, just so there’re no day-to-day Statute problems.  You Brits really have separated the worlds quite effectively.”

Ron almost bristled at the comment, but asked evenly enough, “And you Yanks?”

“Oh, we follow the Statute too, it’s just that so many of the framers of the Constitution were wizards,” the doctor answered dismissively.  “And then, there’s the whole Native culture, and the African Voodoo in the South... it’s just different at home.   Oh, and just so you know, there are Brownies serving here.  You’ll want to be polite to them, don’t order them at all.  Always ask.”

“Brownies?”

“A freed house elf with attitude.  They are an entirely American species.”  Antonia took a sip of her coffee, grimacing because it had cooled.  She cast a warming charm on it.

“Kind of like Dobby,” Ron muttered.  The doctor lifted her brow in question, and Ron launched into an explanation, excluding the relationship he had with Harry, wisely deciding that it would seem like name-dropping.  He didn’t want to draw that kind of attention to himself, especially since he had abandoned his friends in their moment of need, though the guilt he had felt earlier was somewhat alleviated by his new duties.

After minutes of silence in which Ron finished his food, the doctor said, “Had enough?  It’s time for your official orientation.”

He followed her lead, putting his used dishes in a waiting tub, and they exited the room.

5, February 1998 22:17

Lucius swept through the Manor, his usual cool facade firmly in place.  It didn’t matter than his knees felt watery and his guts were clenched in icy fear.  He had one mission this evening, and that was to betray every person he had ever claimed as friend and many of his relatives.  He was going to actively work against the Dark Lord.  There was no other option for him if he wanted to preserve his family and way of life.

The youngest Flint son, Marcus, had been uncovered as a traitor to their cause.  He had been exposed when he attempted to lure Goyle senior to the site of Greyback’s murder.  An ambush awaited the older man who, through sheer stupid chance, had been able to escape before the girl who was to kill him could strike the death blow.    Flint and the girl, a Muggle soldier from all accounts, had died at the scene, thus sparing him the knowledge that the rest of his family had been tortured to death by various members of the brotherhood, in front of all assembled.  Lucius had been the only one to cast Avada Kedavra on his victim.  The others, directed by Bellatrix, had been much more inventive in their approaches.  Only Severus and those students who bore the Mark had been excused from the horrifying exhibition.   Lucius doubted that he would ever be able to get the reek of blood and bowel out of the Manor’s ballroom.  He knew that he would never be able to enter it again.   

That thought sent another shaft of white-hot fury through his body.

When he and Narcissa had started their life together, it had not been a love match.  They had little in common besides social circles and pure blood.  They had bonded over dance during the first years of their marriage.  Lucius had always admired her grace, and she apparently had admired his mastery of the complex steps.  It was during their first ball as a married couple that Lucius had initially realised he might be able to love Cissy.   It was during their last before the first war broke out that he had told her he had come to do so.

He made his way to his chambers where Narcissa waited.   She arose from her chaise, her face pale and marred with tears, as he fished in his bureau for the Gryffindor portrait that would hopefully let him contact Order of the Phoenix.  That was, if the group still operated.  His fingers fumbled over the surface of the ivory, eliciting a small shriek from the Fat Lady as he pulled it out of the drawer.  He cast the spells that Narcissa had taught him, only from ordinary caution. The Dark Lord was in Europe and Bella was... doing unspeakable things to several Muggles captured in the morning raid near Avebury.  

The Fat Lady peered up at him and squeaked, “I suppose you wish to speak to the Headmaster.  I’ll fetch him.”

She disappeared from the portrait and shortly another figure appeared.  Dumbledore asked, “Yes, Lucius?”

“I’ve made my decision, old man.  I wish to... move.” The words left Lucius’ mouth with an accompanying air of unreality.  “If your Order is still active, I wish to become a member.”

“As do I, Lucius,”   Narcissa said.  “We do this as a family.”

Dumbledore’s portrait smiled beatifically.  “I always knew there was goodness in you, Lucius.  You’ve made me proud.”

It took a great deal of restraint for Lucius not to hurl the miniature across the room.  He didn’t need the man’s pride.  He needed to ensure his family’s safety.

Chapter 9:  In the Heart of Slytherin

7 February, 1998, 06:27

“This had better be good, Malfoy.”  The Weaslette said as she entered the room.  Her hair was dripping wet, as if she had just emerged from the bath and her cheeks were dewy and pink.   Draco flicked his wand and shut the door to the unused classroom, warding it the way Father had shown him.  

He smirked and withdrew a small basket from the seat beside him.  He patted the chair and said with a knowing quirk of his brow, “Sit and eat.  I know you’re hungry.  I heard about the half-rations you and your ickle boyfriend, Longbottom, were put on for your last little show of defiance.  Really you should learn to temper your outbursts.  You’re already too... visible, especially for a Gryffindor.”

The Weaslette scoffed and toed the edge of a flagstone that had worked loose over the centuries still making no move toward him.  He withdrew a croissant and began smearing thick clotted cream over the surface.  It flaked as he bit into it and he was aware that her eyes followed the crumbs as he unhurriedly brushed them away.  “Eat, Weasley. It’s not poisoned simply because I touched it.”

“Tell that to my brother, Malfoy.  He knows all about how much you like to use poisons to get your way,” the girl spat, but moved closer as Draco pushed the basket further from him.

“Ouch,” he said in the mildest tone he could manage as he rubbed his chest theatrically.  He regretted that incident more than he cared to admit to the boy’s sister at the moment.  Weasley had deserved some payback for being such a prat, but killing him seemed a bit extreme even to Draco.  

The Weaslette stepped closer, darting to the table to grab a sticky bun and a croissant, and then retreating again.  She secreted them in her school robes as she said, “Well, I’m waiting.”

Draco suddenly felt ill seeing the girl’s obvious distrust.  Not that he, over the years, had given her reason to want to be chums with him, but he was just tired of it all.  This was his last year in school and it should have been spent worrying about his studies, chasing pretty girls, and Quidditch.  He hadn’t asked for any of this nightmare any more than she had.  Besides all that, the Weaslette was very attractive, and Draco knew he would never have a chance with her, not with all there was between their families.  

Snape’s words of only a few days before came back to him.

“I know you observed me the other evening, Draco.”  Snape’s ascetic face, so marred by the stresses of the last years fell into sharp definition between his sheets of lank, inky hair.  For the first time in ages, Snape’s expression was open, not the stoic, shuttered one he presented to the world.  “Tell me, why have you not taken this very juicy bit of information to the Dark Lord? It would certainly cement your family’s place in the Dark Lord’s favour.”

Draco had shoved his hands under his thighs, clamping his fingers painfully against the rough horsehair cloth, abrading them mindlessly as his mind raced through the ramifications of the conversation.   He needed time to think.  If Snape was truly working for the Dark Lord, and leading Potter and the Mudblood on a merry chase before he betrayed them, Draco could destroy his entire family by divulging his intent. Yet, if Snape were truly working against the Dark Lord, Draco’s position was similarly untenable.  He felt a weak trickle of sweat roll down his back as he considered his options.

Snape poured a small amount of tea in two cups and brought a vial from his robe pocket.  He raised it to the light, letting Draco see the clear liquid within.  He then dropped three drops in each cup. “I will level the playing field between us, Draco.  We can either both drink and speak the truth for a few moments, or I can Obliviate your memories of that little scene and let you forever remain in your father’s shadow.  It’s your choice.”

Draco took the cup and gulped the tepid liquid, waiting for the effects of the Veritaserum to take control of his mind.  Snape sipped from his cup, a small secretive smile playing about his mouth.  When Snape finished, he up-ended his cup on a waiting saucer, saying, “I see you’ve already decided.  From here on, Draco, you are to follow my instructions.  There is no room for error or waffling.  Our lives and the lives of everyone we know depend upon your actions.”

“Yes, Sir.”  Draco fought to swallow against the icy fear that seemed to clutch his throat. “Ask me what you want, Sir.  I think I feel the effects of the potion now.”

Snape chuckled, a rich, dark sound that seemed out of place in the light that bathed them from the high, arched window. He stood and crossed to his desk scattering papers as he searched for something.  He returned with a strangely familiar Galleon marked not with dates but with times and places.  On the other side was a small ‘D.A.’ cut into the surface of the metal.  His gaze darted up to Snape’s as the Headmaster said, “I have no questions, Draco, and that was not Veritaserum, only water given as a little test for you.  Remember that there are eyes everywhere in this castle, and the portraits have taken a particular interest in your activities around the Room of Necessity.  Keep that coin on your person.  When I have need of you, it will heat and then tell you where to meet me and at what time.”

Draco leaned back in his chair.  “Why?”

“Speak clearly, Draco.” Snape said in an almost avuncular tone.  “Why what?”

“After last year, why do you trust me?”  Draco asked, almost fearing the answer.  “Why would you believe that I’ve changed?”

Snape pulled out a flask took out the stopper and swiped the surface with his thumb before pouring a measure in both cups.  “I think you know, Draco.  Why was it that you took over the interrogation duties assigned to young Goyle after refusing to do your Aunt’s bidding the first time?”

“I—I couldn’t let Greg-- or Lovegood-- get hurt.”  Draco answered after a brief moment of panic at the thought of admitting non-compliance to the Dark Lord’s mistress.  Her word, while not law, was close to it when the Dark Lord was out of the country doing Merlin knew what.  He slammed the firewhisky down in a single gulp, aware that Snape’s knowing eyes were turned toward him.  Aware also that he had just embarked on something that could go arse over teakettle with one little slip. “And it was just... wrong, sir, what she wanted me to do to her.  Mother would have never been able to look at me the same way if I hadn’t at least put up a small amount of resistance.”

“Well, now, I suppose she will be able to look at you with some pride when this is all over.” Snape’s features seemed to be carved of stone, but something in his eyes glinted that looked closely akin to pride.  “You will also be a hero in certain circles.  I’m sure that will yield greater benefits than more onerous service ever could.”

Snape dismissed him with a wave of his hand as someone rapped sharply on the door to the Headmaster’s office.  

“I need you to clear out the Room of Necessity for a few hours tomorrow night,” Draco said wincing at his own bluntness.  “I can’t tell you why.”

“The room of... Oh, yeah, sure whatever you want.” Weasley snorted, “Go on, Malfoy, you’re having me on.  You expect me to trust you with that Mark on your arm?”

“With or without the Mark... I need the room cleared for at least an hour if not longer,” Draco drawled in an unconscious imitation of Snape, letting his fair eyebrows inch up his face as he added, “Or is that too much work for a Gryffindor to accomplish?”

“If you can’t tell me why, then why should I do it?” Weasley inched forward, chin jutting.

Draco stood, closing the distance between them as a noise sounded at the door. “I just need you to do it, Weaslette, by nine o’clock.  There’s a secret passage that will take you and the others to the Hog’s Head.  I’ll show you the way and you can check it out for yourself this afternoon.”

The door inched open and Draco dropped the wards as he simultaneously drew Weasley to him with one arm.  She fought like a wildcat as he pulled her to him and kissed her.  Alecto Carrow entered the room and shouted, “No wards!  You know the rules... Oh, Draco.”  She affected a simper as soon as she saw him grope further down Weasley’s back as the redhead bucked against him.   “I see you’re taking my brother’s population talk to heart. Try not to hurt her too much. She still has to attend classes even if she is a blood-traitor.  Dark Lord’s orders.”

The door shut and Draco let go of Weasley who was dangerously close to unmanning him with her knee.   She tottered at the quick release before gaining her balance.  She scrubbed at her face with the back of her arm and spat, “Fuck you!”

“There will be none of that with you, Weasley.  Unlike some, I have standards.”  Draco replied with an evenness he did not feel.  Who knew that the Weaslette could kiss like that?  It almost made him envy Potter.  Almost.

7 February, 1998 24:30

Harry followed behind Snape under his invisibility cloak as they picked their way through the darkened hallways. Aside from the shush-shush of blood in Harry’s ears, there was a silence that he had never experienced in those hallways on his many night-time forays.   Harry tried to copy the way Snape moved in the resonating stone hallways, and was glad he had his trainers on instead of the hard-soled walking boots he had bought for their endless camping quest.   Snape glided through the darkness as if he were made of the inky night and silence that surrounded him.  Harry paused as Snape stepped around a corner. They were almost to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, and soon would be in the Chamber of Secrets to retrieve basilisk fangs so that they could destroy the diadem when they found it.  

Harry had been the one to think of it, and was glad since Hermione had hugged him when he suggested it.  If he clung overly long, moved his cheek closer to her mouth, or dipped his nose to sniff her hair, she didn’t acknowledge it, but she had pulled away from him, cheeks flushed and pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.  Snape had not said anything, but Harry knew he noticed.  How could Snape not with all the stammering that Harry did afterwards?  The whole situation with Snape being present might have been embarrassing if Harry hadn’t been so exultant over the actual hug and almost kiss.  

Snape motioned Harry forward. They had worked it out where Snape would go in first and Harry would follow right on the older man’s heels so that there would not be any strange door-openings and closings that could not easily be explained away if there were prying eyes about.

Harry stepped through the door and waited for Snape to do a sweep of the toilet stalls before he drew the invisibility cloak down to his shoulders.   Once done, Snape turned suddenly, his robes only a little billowy.  He asked, “Well?”

“Oh, erm... it’s this middle one right here with the snake on it.”  Harry indicated a tap and then began speaking to it, peripherally aware that another being had joined them.

“Ooh, Harry Potter,” Moaning Myrtle’s squeaky voice sounded right beside his ear.  “So brave, so noble... so bad that you haven’t come to see me since you’ve been back, you scoundrel.  You must not love me anymore”

“Myrtle now’s not the time.”  Harry answered and resumed his recitation of the Parseltongue that was needed to open the portal.  Since the destruction of the last two Horcruxes, the language of snakes had come haltingly to him, as if he were losing his connection to Voldemort in spots.  

Myrtle flitted through him, an oily, cold feeling that left him speechless for a moment.  “And ickle Sevvie.  It’s been years since I saw you in here.  Not since those Gryffindors who hated you so chased you in here with a bloody nose.  As I remember, you were also covered in slime, blood, and were snivelling.  Poor boy, you should have seen him, nose bloody, red-rimmed eyes, and all because of one of your relatives, Harry.   It’s no wonder he hates you...  especially since Evans that he was so taken with...”

“Not now, Myrtle, or I’ll send the Grey Lady to you for company.” Snape said in a strangled tone as Myrtle began to wail and flitted to one of the stalls, the noise continuing in the pipes below as she resumed her customary spot.  Harry dared a look at Snape’s face.  His expression was stiff and neutral, the one he had when he was about to lose control of his temper or when he was terrified.  It was hard to tell with Snape.  Harry returned to his task, but darted a glance at the Potions master again as he spoke.  There was a sheen to his eyes, and his mouth was moving as if he wanted to speak but the words were being held inside him by force of will.  Harry stopped again, sudden worry shooting through him, the same type of worry he had felt when he discovered he was speaking a different language unknowingly.  “You did remember that I spoke Parseltongue, right?”

“Just get on with it, Potter,” the Headmaster snapped before he compressed his lips in a thin line of disapproval.  Harry wondered what he had done this time.  After a moment, Snape said, “I have unpleasant associations with that language. “

The pediment started to swing out; drowning out the ghost’s muffled wails with the grinding of stone against stone.  Harry blew his fringe out of his eyes and looked into the hole.  A faint whiff of decay wafted up from it, making Harry dread the prospect before them.  “Erm, Sir?  You might want to cast a bubblehead charm on yourself. I don’t think... you see, I killed the basilisk, and I don’t think that Professor Dumbledore thought about anyone going down there again to do anything about it... so it’s probably pretty foul...”

“You’re babbling, Potter.” Snape smirked as he drew closer to the edge.  

“There are no stairs,” Harry volunteered after a few beats of silence, “We’ll have to jump.”

Snape sniffed and said, “After you, Mr. Potter.”

Harry jumped first, landing lightly as he could on a pile of mouldering animal bones.  They poked the soles of his feet before crumbling to dust.  Harry goggled as Snape seemed to float down, the current of the air and crackle of magic surrounding him sending his hair up in little wisps around his head.    He had only seen one other wizard fly like that.  “Vol-- he taught you to fly like that, didn’t he?”

Snape, not looking at Harry, said, “Quite the converse, I assure you, Potter.  Locomordres is a spell of my own devising, created when I was much younger and more ambitious.  It involves the use of Dark magics which I assure you I am fully capable of using on impertinent young men.”

“Wow,” was all Harry could manage before Snape cast a bubblehead charm on himself.

“I believe we are here to gather the means to destroy a Horcrux and most definitely not to hear my history, Potter.”  Snape motioned Harry ahead with an impatient wave of his hand.   “Lead the way.”

Harry cast his own charm before venturing down the corridor that had housed the basilisk.  Even with the charm, he felt as if he could still smell the decaying flesh.  He took shallow breaths through his mouth only to hear Snape admonish, “Don’t be daft, Potter, with such shallow breathing you’ll hyperventilate.”

“I didn’t know you cared, Professor.”  Harry said with a cheeky grin.  Harry thought he could hear Snape’s eyes roll in the silence.  

“Do shut up, Potter.”

&*&*&

Severus rolled his eyes, recognising the boy’s cheek for what it was.  It was whistling in the dark, as Lily used to call it, bravado in the face of fear and pure Lily.  How could he, the master spy, the one who observed all, have missed how much of the woman he had supposedly loved that was in the boy?  Had he been so blinded by his bitterness, his disappointment, and his anger at his own failure, that he could not see what had been before him the entire time?  

The resounding answer was yes, even though he would never let Albus’ infernal twinkling portrait know that fact.

How Severus would hate to see that gleeful twinkle break through the portrait’s surface over such a trivial matter, especially since the twinkle could have been in person had Severus realised the fact sooner, had he seen the boy for who he really was while Albus was still alive and uncursed.  Some days he missed Albus’ physical presence.  He could have used the older man these past few months, but then, had Albus been alive, Severus would have never had need of the support Albus represented.  Severus would still be teaching dunderheads and Albus would still be headmaster.

Potter’s tread slowed as they approached the horror that used to be the basilisk.  If Severus had not had so much experience with death, he might have found the sight of so much decay as disgusting as Potter-- who was even then emptying the contents of his stomach on the cobbles-- obviously did.  He felt almost moved to comfort the boy, but did not know how to do it after all his years in emotional exile.  He merely moved his wand to his hand and began the arduous task of removing the fangs from the skull.  

It should have bothered Severus that the boy was slacking off on the gathering of the materials needed to defeat the Dark Lord, but in a way it heartened him as no words of praise or empty gratitude could.  Potter was still just a boy, no matter what he had seen or what he had yet to do.  Severus was glad to let the boy be squeamish, as long as he recovered well enough to help him carry the stinking mass of basilisk teeth out of Slytherin’s lair.

Severus gave his best approximation of the man that he was before he entered this odd state of peace with Potter as he said, “When you’re quite finished, Potter, I could use some help pulling these teeth.”

A soft popping sound and a squelching noise emanating from the rotten basilisk caused Potter to once again heave, bringing nothing up but bile.  Severus’ lips twitched as he continued his task. 

8 February, 1998, 01:22

She was used to being the brains.  She knew what her role in the strange friendship was to both boys throughout the years.  Yes, she fancied Ron, and she supposed he fancied her back at some point, but really, Hermione’s role had always been part mother, part sister, and part walking library.  

To both Ron and Harry.

There was the heart of the problem.  Ron was gone, Harry present, and Hermione was an inconstant bitch in heat... worse than Lavender Brown ever thought of being.

She paused in her pacing of the room to listen for the tell-tale sound of the wards being brought down.  Silence greeted her and she once again prowled the breadth of the room.

Had she wanted Harry to kiss her just that afternoon?  Had she completely given up on ever being with Ron, the one she pined for over their years of friendship?  It seemed that, yes, she had.  

Was it a bad thing?  

She just didn’t know.  She had never seen Harry in that way, not ever.  She had bullied him at times into doing the right thing, into studying, into protecting himself.  Their relationship had been more of older sister and younger brother than any type of romantic involvement, yet...

Seeing him over the months mature, harden into the man she knew he might be had been... well... quite a turn on.  Was she one of those girls?  The wilting flower that had to be saved?  A damsel in distress?  Her mother was a brassiere burning feminist who had gone to Columbia University in the States in the seventies.  Her mother had taught her better than to expect Harry or any man to step in and save her.

Hermione stopped in the middle of the room.  Perhaps what she wanted was to be indispensable to Harry and somehow that desire had become entangled with her id.  Perhaps, psychologically she was searching for a hero that she could save.  Maybe she was unconsciously playing into a Jungian goddess archetype or a twisted Florence Nightingale syndrome.

It was all such utter rot, and she knew it.  She wrenched the hair tie out of her hair, wincing as it tangled in a knot at the base of her neck.  As she worked it out and then put the mass of frizz up in a messy bun anchored by the treacherous, hair-eating tie, she knew that whatever was between Harry and her was more than mere sexual attraction, more like love.  There was no element of hero-worship or the Florence Nightingale syndrome that she could see, and Hermione was certainly no goddess.

Then she was awash with a flood of guilt as her thoughts brushed on Ginny.  For years, Ginny had pined for Harry and Hermione had encouraged her friend’s infatuation, yet Hermione had betrayed her friend’s trust once and was contemplating doing so again.  

Part of her wished that she would have followed through with her original plan and Obliviated Harry.  She wished she could forget it all herself, but it was so much water under the bridge since she hadn’t.  She would just hope for the best outcome for them all.

She resolved to let things happen as they would.  If Harry wanted to come into their borrowed rooms tonight and ravish her upon entry, she would let him, and damn the consequences.  

 The distinctive hiss of wards releasing caused her to turn towards the door.  She readied herself, unconsciously opening her arms to give Harry a proper lover’s greeting.   

The door opened and an indescribable stench entered followed by a vomit covered Harry and a very amused-looking Snape.  “Miss Granger, would you please draw a bath for Potter?  Apparently bubblehead charms don’t go well with dyspepsia.  They tend to keep things in as well as they keep them out.”

Romance apparently, wasn’t all it was said to be in the cold light of reality.  Her knight was covered in sick and her goddess wanted no part of it.  She fled the room, glad to be out from under Snape’s sardonic glare and that horrible stench.

6 February 1998 15:30

It was a ridiculous proposition of which Lucius would definitely take no part. The portrait of Dumbledore leaned against the edge of the ivory panel, lounging indolently as only a painting could do at the end of the ancient, mirrored sallé , issuing instructions to both Lucius and Narcissa.

The Dark Lord, Bella, and the toadying Pettigrew had been abroad for the last few days, thus freeing Lucius to use the Manor almost as he saw fit. To be sure, his ancestral home contained a dark aura about it, and the three inmates held in the old wine cellar turned dungeon were not conducive to a peaceful state of mind, nonetheless Lucius felt a sense of freedom and lightness that had been absent from his life for quite some time, especially since their induction into the Order.

He flicked his wand, uttering the Latinate words with little intent to bring them to life. "Expecto Patronum!"

A pale bluish-white light emitted from the tip of the wand, falling in a murky spiral to the floor, only to dissipate almost immediately. Lucius smirked as Narcissa's wandwork failed almost as abysmally as his did, even as the Old Fool congratulated her on the less than perfect effort whilst he ignored Lucius' own labours. It had been the same way whilst they were in school also. Lucius’ work had never been acknowledged at all by Dumbledore, and it had the same effect as Lucius felt the burning of envy in his chest, even as he tried to tell himself he was above such things now.

Lucius cast again, putting more of an effort into the spell, attempting to remember one perfect moment of happiness, no matter how transitory it might be. He pictured the first time he saw his son laying in Cissy's arms, a squalling mass of red skin and translucent-silver hair, his fist waving under his nose as Narcissa jiggled him. Lucius remembered the almost crowing pride with which he bestowed the Malfoy name upon his son. He cast, but knew he would fail as the memory of his son's infant face was replaced by the many memories of how Lucius had failed Draco, the latest being the largest failure yet, as Draco took the Mark to save both Lucius and Narcissa. Lucius tried again, his frustration mounting as each blissful memory was replaced by darker, more recent ones.

There was nothing in Lucius' life that was untouched by the Dark Lord's poison, nothing in which he could find joy.

He lowered his wand, a new one acquired during a battle in a small town on the coast. It was an inferior one to his own much-missed wand, but still worked, as it should. Failure to complete the spell satisfactorily was not the wand's fault at all, it was the Lucius'.

"Lucius?" Dumbledore's insistent tinny voice sounded over the length of the well-insulated sallè . "What seems to be the problem?"

Narcissa turned to her husband, her normally unmarked expression drawn into the now ever-present lines of concern that pulled down her brows and creased the skin around her mouth. Lucius could blame himself for those lines in her face as well. He raised his wand, and tried to picture anything that would not remind him of the utter fuck up his life had become and uttered the words once again. The tip of his wand emitted a pale glow and then the light sputtered to its death, the spell remained unborn.

"Darling." He felt Narcissa's hands on his shoulders, her breath on his cheek as she drew him to her. He glanced up and saw her face alight with concern and something deeper, something he had only seen fleetingly in her eyes as they coupled, an emotion that remained politely contained behind masks of civility and culture, its existence too plebeian for rarefied pureblood homes. "Dance with me?"

Lucius tamped down his frustration at his inability to cast such a simple spell of memory and took her hand in his. She rarely asked anything of him these days, the least he could do was grant her such a small boon. He sketched a bow as he kissed the air above her fingers. "I would love to, my dear."

As was their custom in the early days of their marriage, when all interaction between them was constrained and polite, he began humming the Minuet in G, a quaint, pastoral air by Beethoven. Their form was perfect as they passed through the steps, light seemed to suffuse the room as Lucius passed Narcissa under his arm and she ended up in his arms to complete the airily intricate footwork. Unconsciously, he slowed and then stopped as he smiled down at her. He dipped his head, stealing a kiss as he had done the first time they committed this dance in public the day of their wedding. She blushed prettily, even though the only witness to his impropriety was a painting, and Lucius deepened the kiss, letting loose the need and hunger he had always felt for her. She returned his fervour, a rare enough occurrence that Lucius felt momentarily nonplussed, even as one hand snaked into her hair and another down her back, drawing Narcissa into full contact with his suddenly eager body.

Later, breathlessly laughing as they stole kisses and caresses between the donning of the clothes they had strewn across the room in their abandon Narcissa observed, "I don't believe I've ever told you I love you, Lucius. We have been married over twenty years, and it seems that you can still surprise me with just what a wonderful man you are."

She turned to modestly don her long shift over the French lace lingerie he had purchase for her as an apology for his long, enforced absence last year. Lucius paused in his own labours, suddenly feeling out of sorts and gauche. He watched as she slid her hair over her shoulder, the flaxen colour turning to spun gold in the afternoon light streaming through the high windows. He grunted softly as he slid his foot home in the leather boot he customarily wore, taking a stumbling step before he adjusted the heel.

"Lucius?" He glanced up to see his wife's once again troubled gaze on him. "I know you don't like outward shows of affection. I am sorry if I offended you. It just seemed the right moment to..."

"I love you too. I have for years even if the words were never spoken outright." Lucius blurted. "I was raised very differently than you were, Darling. You Blacks have always been more expressive and open about your... emotions... your admiration. I... do not always have the ability to express softer sentiments. You know this about me, if you know nothing else."

He turned away from her and bent to retrieve his other boot. He slid into it with a bit more force than necessary, pulling a strap at the top loose as he did. He felt his wife's arms twine around him, her cheek against his back. "I've known for years, Lucius. You never needed to tell me with words."

Lucius stood slowly, his breath coming out roughly as desire for her rose in him again. "I think our lessons are over for the day, Dearest. Perhaps I might show you just how much I admire you, starting with your delicate toes and working my way up."

Narcissa slid her hand in his, another rare occurrence, her cheeks taking on a becoming rosy hue as she answered, "I think I might like that a great deal, Lucius."

They left the room unoccupied except for the small painting in the corner. Dumbledore opened his eyes slowly, his face more careworn than it had been in life, his brow drawn down in contemplation. Death seemed to have softened his perspective, given him more understanding of the human condition than he had ever had before. For a moment, a faint stirring of dread filled his two-dimensional figure before it dissipated just as quickly. He would think on the sense of foreboding later, after he spoke with Severus. He suspected all three Malfoys would play a major role in the coming months, he simply hoped that they could be trusted to act out of more than self-interest.

He, Marcus Flint, was supposed to be dead.

Goyle Sr. was the one who was supposed to have dispatched him, but here he was, in the tunnels outside Exeter taken over by the rescued Muggleborns and their families. It was quite a shock to the injured Flint that Percy the Prat Weasley was, contrary to most people's beliefs, a key player in the Resistance. Weasley had been the one moving most of the Muggleborns and their spouses out of harm's way even as he was forced to set in Umbridge‘s kangaroo court and take notes. Flint had just never expected to find the safe house to be where it was...

The abandoned tunnels of the Mutley stop between Exeter and Plymouth.

That was the place Weasley had taken him so that he might recover from his battle wounds, might mourn the death of his family...

Flint fought the tears that rose each time he thought of his family. Pucey, another turncoat, had been the one to relay to him about what happened, what Adrian had witnessed and what had caused Pucey to join the resistance. Flint still held the letter letting Flint know in gruesome detail of the death of his entire family. Said missive was in the front pocket of the Death Eater robes he had been wearing since Weasley dropped him in the tunnels.

The robes set him apart from the other bedraggled refugees; he knew it but couldn't justify getting rid of them. His mum had charmed them to be impervious to moisture and dirt and she had added a special warming charm of her own. She had been proud that he had taken the Mark. He wondered what her last thoughts on him were, if she felt more betrayed by his actions, or by those committed by the monster she had encouraged him to serve. He would never know. The Dark Lord had taken her from Flint as he had taken so many lives. Flint had known the half-man was mad, but had not considered that the madness would touch his own life so thoroughly.

He wished he could get word to Millie, to let her know he was alive. She had been the reason he originally turned. Her and her family, that is. Her Muggle mum had been dead for years, of some Muggle ailment she said. Her dad, in his early hundreds, was in failing health, and would not last the type of privation Millie knew others that were deemed blood-traitors did. She had contacted Marcus when the Ministry fell, knowing that Flint had always had a soft spot for her when he went to school. He had certainly stood up more times for Millie than he had for any other firstie.

He hadn't counted on her growing into such a beauty, and he most certainly hadn't planned to fall in love with her. He had never intended on turning his back on his family's beliefs, but he had and all for her.

A dust up was beginning at the front of the tunnels, no doubt over food or more likely lack of it. Flint had seen the aid workers, their jackets emblazoned with the Red Cross emblem; drop off food more-or-less once a week. It was time for them to return, and there was always some greedy soul who had hoarded their food, stole from their neighbours, or were making themselves an arse. Flint turned away from the scene. He wasn't well respected here, was barely tolerated because of the Mark he bore. He could understand, but he also knew that the rag-tag remnants of the Dark Lord's purges wouldn't last without a strong leader, and so far, no one had stepped up.

Not Flint's problem at all, when he considered what he had to deal with right now.

He tended to ignore his still unhealed wounds from the fight that was supposed to kill him. His leg had been lacerated with a cutting curse. The curse had severed muscle, tendons, and flesh. It had begun to heal, but an infection had set in, sending Marcus' health on a dangerous, downward spiral. Conditions in the refugee camp didn't help his recovery any. Marcus’ self-applied healing charms didn't work well on the cut and the last Healer who had seen it was more intent on working on worthier, un-Marked subjects, and had barely looked at it. She couldn't be bothered to heal someone who was Marked, no matter that they had turned from their original allegiance. No matter who they had lost for becoming a turncoat.

He coughed weakly, sudden tears filling his eyes, as if he were still a child. He wanted Millie and his mum. He wanted the comforts of his family's snug cottage near Dartmoor. He wanted his life to be what it was before the Dark Lord returned.

A young Indian man in Healer green approached, his wand alight. He looked about as if searching for something. Flint considered calling him over to have him check out his wound, but couldn’t work up the energy to do so. The Healer frowned as he noticed the corner in which Marcus lay, the detritus of several days littering the floor around him. The Healer made another sweep with his wand and started to move toward Marcus.

Flint stirred himself, attempting to sit rather than sprawl. The Healer pushed him down with an impatient cluck as he began casting diagnostic tests. Marcus settled back, turning his face away from the man's openly concerned gaze, knowing that once he came to the Mark on his arm his concern would flag for Marcus.

A woman's terrified scream at the front of the tunnel tore Marcus from his thoughts. He had become quite the connoisseur of those types of screams and knew more was afoot than the common disaffected anger or paltry phobia. He pushed the Healer out of harm's way as he moved painfully to a crouch behind an ornate Victorian ironwork, his wand in hand. He saw a streak of red, a spell cast at some hapless refugee, and heard several more whiz around the interior, echoing and ricocheting off surfaces as they created clouds of concrete and rust dust. A child sat next to the body of a fallen woman. A figure in Healer green bent and took the child in its arms before running toward the entrance, through the melee. Both the Healer and the child fell as they reached the outside, a spray of blood littering the churned slush.

Flint gestured the Healer forward and began moving gracelessly in a half-crouch, down the tunnel, dragging his bad leg behind him. He was careful to avoid notice or exposure as spells were fired blindly from both sides. . He began whispering to the refugees he came across, telling them to follow him, even as they shrank from him.

Then the unthinkable happened and some young dolt in the ranks of the Death Eaters released Fiedfyre. Marcus was barely able to cast a shield around him, the Healer and a small child who was screaming. Marcus glanced back and was sickened to see the boy, no older than seven, pulling at the charred stumps of his mother's arms. He jerked his head towards the boy and addressed the Healer, sweat popping out on his brow as he said, "Shut 'im up, will you? Can't hold the spell with him caterwaulin'..."

The Healer pulled the boy to him and fussed with the child before adding another layer of shielding behind Marcus, unknowingly pushing Flint closer to the edge of his own protection. Flint screamed as he felt his flesh bubble under the still intense heat of the Fiendfyre that scorched even with the shield. He felt as if his brain were boiling and that his eyeballs had popped under the pressure of the shield that held him in place, unable to escape. The last thing he knew was a sensation of falling and wishing he could have told Millie just what she really meant to him.

Lucius cursed as he made his way through the twisted wreckage of a Muggle caravan park. Screams of the injured and dying, which had bothered him little before, suddenly set his teeth on edge. He scanned the park for signs of life and when he found it, he surreptitiously stunned the victim so that they would remain quiet and possibly unnoticed by Doholov, Goyle Sr, Crabbe, and the two werewolf Snatchers who had accompanied the Death Eaters. Doholov, who stood above a crouched body, waved the blocky figures of Goyle Sr and Crabbe away as he cast a spell. The crouching figure flew apart, splattering the area with black blood, and effluvia. Doholov turned to Lucius, "Come get in on the fun, Malfoy. There's a sweet little morsel inside the caravan, just waiting to learn who is her superior."

Lucius raised his wand as several pops of Apparition sounded above the roaring sound of flames and battle. Several identifiable members of the Order spanned out, taking cover and shooting spells at the Death Eater contingent. Lucius dove for cover behind a burning car as a spell whizzed past his head. Crabbe lay just behind a large boulder. He shot Malfoy a delirious smile as he raised his head above the surface of the stone. He fired off a spell blindly as another arced toward him. Crabbe fell, the insane smile still plastered below dead eyes. Lucius was spared only a second before an agonising burn spread up his own legs. He rolled to escape the effects of the unknown spell. It was then that he saw Doholov stalking a pale figure. If it had not been for the distinctive ginger and the glint of spectacles, Lucius would have assumed Doholov cast a succession of Diffindos, his favourite spell, at yet another Muggle. The Weasley boy-- Percival, Lucius thought-- fell under two of the crushing spells as Doholov stalked forward. Blood ran black down the younger man's face out of a mouth that worked soundlessly, begging for some sort of aid.

A third spell fell on him from Doholov's wand before Lucius was finally able to cast a non-directional shield spell on the boy. Doholov hissed, looking for the culprit who took away his fun, his eyes glancing over Lucius before continuing onto a more likely target, a young Auror. Lucius stood and desperately cast the Patronus spell, willing himself to be able to make any sort of creature form so that he might get a message to St. Mungo's. He brought his only untainted memory to the fore of his mind, the moment only a day before when Narcissa uttered her words of love. His heart swelled, feeling as if were bursting from his chest even as he pushed the feeling of desperate urgency to the back of his mind. All that mattered at that moment was Narcissa's love.

A thin light fell from the tip of his wand, faltering before coalescing into a tiny form. Lucius looked at it closely, from the tip of its ridiculously pointed nose to the short hands held at its breast and down to the small bush of a tail. He groaned inwardly even as he gave the form its orders.

It scampered off, its quick movements belying its ungainly body and timid nature. Of course, Lucius couldn't have a Patronus that matched his vision of himself. His animal spirit couldn't be stately and sedate, or even showy and gorgeous. He watched it disappear into the night, its long thin feet scampering atop the field of battle, a small meerkat made of light and shadow.

A spell whizzed past his face, stirring his hair. He slunk back to his hiding place, damning his luck even whilst relieved that he had saved one more Pureblood life from the Dark Lord's depredations.

Lucius returned from the battle, sodden, stinking of diesel fuel, and sick unto death of war, killing, gore, and fanaticism. He slunk past the room that had been the site of so much despair and torture in the last months, hoping to be able to get to his rooms without incident, when he heard a soft scuffle and then a loud wail, followed by Bella's mocking laughter. He knew he should investigate, for if his lovely sister-in-law were in residence then so was the Dark Lord, but his weary feet kept him on the path towards the stairway, away from the Darkness that had consumed his once proud demesne. He was sure, no matter what the outcome of the war that the Manor would never be home again.

Just as Lucius put his boot shod foot on the bottom stair leading to the family wing, the doors to the room that the Dark Lord had claimed as his throne flew open. A shaft of light blinded Lucius as he heard Bella's high-pitched squeal of pleasure. "Lucius, darling, I have great need of your opinion on a matter of import."

Lucius turned to her warily. If Bella in a bad mood was fearsome, Bella using that falsely bright tone spelt disaster. He twitched his robes into a semblance of order, before answering with the same false brightness. "Anything for you, Bella dear."

She waved him toward her, impatiently tapping her tow against the marble even as he hastened to her side. He looked past her to the scene of devastation beyond her. The form of the Lovegood girl lay at the foot of the dais that the Dark Lord had erected for his newly installed throne, procured on his last voyage to the continent. The girl moaned as Pettigrew prodded her with his foot, his expression at once avid and disgusted. Lucius followed Bella into the room, and came to stop metres from the scene, finally noting the disarray of Pettigrew's robes and the small, dark blotch of blood staining the girl's thighs. Lovegood twitched and then opened her eyes, staring blankly past him, tears spilling down her cheeks as Bella asked, "How certain are you of your son's allegiance to our cause, Lucius?"

"Very," Lucius said over the roaring of blood in his ears. "Did the blood traitor's daughter intimate something differently?"

Bella tittered. "She did not need to speak, Lucius. Her body did it for her."

Pettigrew gave a squeal of mirth as the girl slowly dragged herself up to a crouch, covering her nudity as best she could with her slender arms. She said in a strangely high and clear voice, her once unfocused eyes now resting piercingly on Lucius, "Draco has always been a gentleman to me, sir."

Bella wheeled around, slashing the girl across the face with her nails. Lovegood recoiled, throwing her arm across her face as the older woman bore down on her. "Do not speak, filth, unless told to do so."

The girl drew a foolhardy breath, opening her mouth as if to speak again. Bella flicked her wand at the girl. "I warned you.... Crucio!"

The girl writhed on the floor, her clear voice growing hoarse as Bella drew out the curse for a full minute. Lucius felt his stomach roil, wanting to empty it as the girl screamed wordlessly. He finally grabbed Bella's wand, stopping the agonising display. "I'm sure, Bella, the Dark Lord would not be pleased if you broke her. She, after all, has her use for him, else she wouldn't be here. I'm sure he desires further use of her."

Bellatrix sneered at him, her corroded beauty subsumed by the expression. "I am well aware of our Lord's desires, Lucius, since I am held in such high esteem as a widow of one of his highest lieutenants for whose death you are still disgraced."

Pettigrew snorted, but squeaked when Bella turned her gimlet eye on him. She said her voice cold. "Why do you think it is that when your son was given the order to despoil the girl, that he did not, in fact, do it? Why is it that the blood traitor's daughter remained a virgin until this very evening, Lucius? I think our Lord would be quite interested in discovering the failure of yet another Malfoy to carry out explicit orders."

Lucius let his wand slide into the palm of his hand, readying himself for battle, even if it doomed him. Bellatrix could not be allowed to carry tales, no matter how true they were, to the Dark Lord about his son. It would be the end of the Malfoy line, if the Dark Lord took exception to the boy's inaction. Perhaps if he got word to Snape before his own death, Draco could be saved or at least hidden.

"I'm the one who countermanded your order, Bella." Narcissa's voice sounded from the hallway. "I am his mother, and as such, I have the final say in whom he beds. It is our way, as you well know. If our parents had chosen as wisely neither of us would have been saddled with such... specimens as mates. No, Bella, I simply did not want my son's first experience to be with such a puling creature. It might weaken his seed."

Narcissa strode to Lucius' side, sweeping him with a look of utter disdain. Only Lucius saw the tension in the line of her neck and the slight, nervous tremor in her hand both indicative of Narcissa during duplicity. She was a terrible liar for a born and bred Slytherin. Bellatrix glared between her sister and Lucius, as if sensing duplicity even though, by design, he and Narcissa had fostered the appearance of discord in their public dealings since taking their vows with the Order. It was a matter of expedience if either of them were revealed a traitor to the Dark Lord. After tense moments of scrutiny, the older women finally turned her scathing attention to Pettigrew. "Leave us."

The man scurried from the room with a backward, gloating glance at Lucius.

Bella levitated the girl carelessly, her head lolling on her neck like a broken stalk of wheat. "You are correct that the Dark Lord has his uses for the girl, but I do find it suspect that you put so much effort, brother dear, in your defence of the blood traitor. In the future, perhaps you should temper your arguments-- that is, unless you want the ickle whore for yourself... you and my late husband were apparently more alike than not."

Lucius bristled, but before he could speak, Narcissa forestalled any precipitous utterance with a scornful laugh. "Leave us, Lucius, and take this thing with you since you so obviously want it. Merlin knows I can no longer get a reaction from you."

Bellatrix cackled and let the girl fall to the floor in a boneless heap. Lucius lifted his wand and used the same spell to raise the girl up, propelling her before him until they were out of sight of the room. He brought her to the kitchens, a place he knew no human eyes would pry and he lowered her onto a low-lying table used by the elves for food preparations. The girl moaned, her eyes fluttering, her skin almost translucent in the flickering of the witch lights that illuminated the space. An elf appeared at his side and Lucius barked, "Fetch some flannels, warm water and the girl's clothing from where ever it is."

The elf popped away from Lucius in that disquieting manner in which they had, and Lucius began taking a catalogue of her injuries. The obvious ones were bruises from Pettigrew's assault, but spell damage was causing her face to swell on one side and the prolonged Cruciatus exposure wracked her body with tremors. Lucius was lucky that Severus had been such a close ally, for he had a well-stocked potions cabinet for such emergencies.

He Accioed the nerve tonics and bruise pastes that Snape had formulated over the years. The girl's eyes opened as Lucius raised her head and put the first in a series of bottles against her lips. She smiled sweetly at him. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. I feared..." Her smile faltered. "I feared I might not..."

"Drink, you silly girl." He tipped the bottle and she complied. His mind raced with possible scenarios in which her presence did not cause things to go tits up for them all. Bellatrix would most definitely use Narcissa's lie against them all. The girl, if she were to disappear... perhaps Snape would help. He seemed to be less a Death Eater and more an educator when it came to the students at the school... perhaps he could be importuned to intervene... Lucius dismissed the thought as too dangerous.

He needed rest; he needed a clear mind to think... he needed... his wife, as much if not more than he needed the girl gone.

The elf reappeared and the girl swung her attention to it. "I think I can take care of myself now, Mr. Malfoy. If you will just... take me back to the dungeons."

He was struck by the trust in her tone, and the strength. That faith was why the Dark Lord would lose, that faith and the type of strength that lay in the girl's iron-willed courage.

Lucius would affect her escape. He had to, in order to safeguard his son.