Saving You

Choices

:::Choices:::

Winter raged on, frozen and forlorn. The days passed by, turning into weeks. The hours were long, and yet they knew time was running short... running out. The war was coming—the trio knew that, could see it on the horizon, could feel it in their bones.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat in the Gryffindor common room, silent amidst the gentle murmur of their housemates, each lost in their own grim thoughts. Harry had dreamt of the war every night for weeks, vivid, violent dreams that offered nothing new, nothing except a growing sense of dread. Each nightmare was a blur, colorful and chaotic, showing bits and pieces of an undefined picture, creating a puzzle with jagged pieces that wouldn't fit together.

The Slytherin biography he'd reluctantly bought for Hermione was in his lap, opened to one of the final pages. He was the one obsessed with it now, studying it relentlessly, trying to quell this feeling of helplessness that kept spreading wider and wider inside of him. He had all the names and types of strategies memorized, but he knew none if it meant a goddamned thing—as it was, without a full department of Aurors to defend them, the odds that their militia could defeat Voldemort's army were less than slim.

Harry's tired gaze moved to Hermione. Her eyes were dull, as if the life inside of her was slowly seeping into some dark abyss far from reach. It was like they were in some kind of time warp, like they were back to the days before Malfoy had found her on the cliffs beneath the balcony...

She hadn't told them what had changed, but somehow Harry knew she had seen Malfoy—and it was obvious that the bastard had been merciless. What else would reduce her to the ghost of a girl she'd been before he had saved her, before he'd made her believe he actually cared?

Now it was almost as if all that had never happened, almost as if she had never been happy or healthy at all. The boys tried to get her to eat, to smile, to laugh—but there was so little to laugh about now that they couldn't be convincing. Their worlds were falling apart piece by piece. The uncertainty of tomorrow loomed all around like a tornado threatening to breeze through and sweep everything they loved away in one destructive whirl of wind.

No new information had been found about the Cruor Unum, and Hermione had ceased to care. She hadn't really held out any hope on that score to begin with. It didn't matter anymore, anyway... didn't matter that she was cursed, that her life was at Voldemort's disposal, in his hands. It didn't matter that she might not live through the war—or that the curse might mean she would be the only one to live through it.

None of it mattered anymore. Deep inside she wondered if it ever had.

The truly pathetic part was that she was still in love with Draco. She laughed at herself, an empty sound. She loved someone who didn't even exist—had never existed. It wasn't even a memory she loved, but a fantasy—a lie she had believed, a wish she had never really made and so had never really come true. Yet even as all hope had become lost, as the dream had ended and reality had sunken back in, that dying ember—that single flickering flame—was the only thing inside of her that still held some warmth or glow. It was a mockery, though, and she wished it gone. She wished—for the first time, truly wished—that all feeling would die and she could be completely cold.

She could feel her body slowly weakening with each passing day, but she didn't mind. There was nothing left for her... nothing left of her, nothing but that single faded strand of love—and soon, she prayed, there wouldn't even be that. So it didn't matter. Her body could shut down completely for all she cared.

She was already as good as dead.

The air in Upton Parkinson's library was crisp with winter chill despite the fire that crackled wildly in the hearth. Draco stood stoic at one Georgian window, his hand drawing the curtain open just enough to gaze unseeingly out at the cold horizon. The landscape outside was bathed in white, the sky washed by hazed-over sun, the ground wet and thick with snow. It seemed so bright, so limitless—and so close—and yet compared to the dark study, with its curtains drawn in darkness and its candle flames flickering, it seemed to Draco like another world entirely.

Low, familiar voices murmured across the room behind him; the First Circle had been summoned for yet another meeting of the minds. They had spent these last weeks planning, preparing, until it seemed now that there were no more loose ends to tie up, no more factors to consider.

Draco stared blankly out at the place far in the distance, that long, almost invisible line where the sky met the snow. With the date of attack set in stone and fast approaching, thoughts of Hermione plagued him now more than ever. Underneath the hard stone facade, she was all that possessed him, all he thought and dreamt of—all he desired. He longed to go to her, to warn her... to protect her. But he couldn't. This was the only way he could protect her now—by breaking her heart and keeping far away.

Her reaction—that blank, distant look that had come into her eyes, the way she had silently walked out of the room, past the still-running faucet as if in some trance... it had terrified Draco. He had seen that look before, remembered it well. It was the look she'd worn that first day on the train, that haunted, far-off stare that had had him so captivated and so concerned. It was that look she'd had those first weeks of school—those weeks before he'd found her lying cold and broken on the rocks beneath their balcony.

His jaw clenched. A cool reserve had filled him. In a few days, the castle that had been his only true home would be in ruins, crumbled and conquered before his eyes. People would die before their time. People would die—and at his hand. Young children—first and second years, their potential wasted... and for what? To exact some meaningless vengeance for the Dark Lord? To get back at a single black-haired infant for unintentionally besting him years before? Wasn't that really what this was about? Trying to find power and peace for a man whose restless ambition would never be satisfied, not even if he got everything he wanted, not even if he won...

Draco had never killed a man. He had come close with Hermione's father—and would have murdered the bastard in cold blood without a single ounce of remorse. But could he channel that same emotion in this next confrontation? Could he direct it towards his fellow students—towards innocent children? The people he'd grown up with? Could he use his wand against the professors who had first taught him how to use one? He had never been a monster—he knew that now without a doubt. But in a few days, that would change. He had never been more certain. Once he had spilled innocent blood—taken innocent lives—there would be no coming back from it.

But he would be what he had to be, he thought with cold resolve. He would do what he had to do, so long as it kept Hermione safe.

Bitterness engulfed him. Funny how a black tattoo on the surface of his skin could penetrate all the way to his core. Funny how it could poison his heart and soul until those parts of him were dead. He had almost let himself believe that it didn't have to mean anything, that it was nothing but a scar, that he could live on despite it—that they could learn to accept it, as they had done with Hermione's. But there was one pivotal difference between her scars and his. Hers signified the past, one that was fading farther and farther away. His signified the future, a dark, dangerous future that he could never escape.

Draco's eyes stayed staring blindly out at the landscape. In his mind, he pictured the horizon from their stone balcony at Hogwarts. It was cold now. A blanket of snow covered the ground, he knew, and a thick layer of ice sat atop the waves of the lake. How symbolic, he thought, that their place was cold and frozen over now. There were so many memories—of beginnings, of endings. They lingered all around, but the brisk winter wind was sweeping them far away. It was as if those warm autumn days had been nothing but a dream, and this icy vista before him was the empty truth.

"Draco!" he heard Lucius snap suddenly, breaking him from his thoughts. He turned to face a dozen skeptical faces. "I've said your name three times now," his father said with careful patience. "Where is your head?"

"Thinking of his lady love," the Dark Lord answered for him, all amusement—and secret knowledge. He stood imperially before the hearth, his gaunt form haloed in red flames like some saint out of hell, his imposing shadow stretching dauntingly out before him. The flicker of flames played against his sallow skin, against the black lotus boutonniere on his lapel, the crystal of the snifter in his hand. "Isn't that right, Draco?" he prompted mildly, watching his Heir.

Draco met his laughing gaze dead on. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

No one dared react to the confession except for Lucius, who made a sound disgust at his son. Parkinson, however, couldn't help but smile jovially; he assumed, of course, that they were talking about Pansy. "Cheer up, boy," he said, coming forward and patting Draco's back sympathetically. "You'll see the little darling again soon."

"Yes, very soon indeed," Voldemort agreed, his pale lips tilting. His grin widened at the steady way the boy held his gaze in silence. "There's no need to worry over her," he reminded the younger man amusedly. "I'm sure under the circumstances she is being well looked after."

The words sounded innocent enough. Only Draco knew how provoking they truly were—whom they were really about.

The younger man's face stayed completely impassive, and only the Dark Lord knew of the danger that simmered beneath the stone façade. He gestured grandly to the empty seat that Draco had left some hours before. "Won't you come back and join us?" he asked, all exaggerated humility. "Your participation in this is paramount, after all." Draco made no move—couldn't manage it without snarling or sneering in the process. The Dark Lord's easy smile began to fade into impatience. "Or need I remind you that it isn't only your future on the line?" he asked caustically. "I trust you have not forgotten why you are here." Who you are here for... He gave his Heir a threateningly pleasant smile.

Draco struggled to suppress his murderous instincts deep down behind that mortared wall of stone. "I haven't forgotten," he assured the other man, his voice dark and dangerously low.

The Dark Lord smirked. "Good. See that you don't," he said good-naturedly. "Lives are depending on it, after all." His smile only deepened at the cold stare of his successor. Only the two of them knew he was talking about one life in particular. Again, he gestured to the chair. "Now be a good boy and come play your part."

Draco was still for another long moment, watching the older man with hidden hatred. And then slowly he crossed back to the wingback chair, willingly reseating himself in the pit of venomous snakes.

A dark vision jolted Harry awake before the sun rose on Sunday morning. Soaked in sweat and breathing hard, he sat up.

Today was the day. Even if his dream hadn't foretold it, he would have known. It was all around him, like electricity crackling in the air—in the sunrise that was just starting to break through the night.

Resolve washed through him. He didn't know what would happen, but he was determined to face whatever came, unwavering, head held high and wand held strong.

He would rise to this occasion. He would fight for the parents that had been so callously stolen from him, the years that had been spent always having to look over his shoulder, always being afraid. He would fight for his friends, the only real family he had ever known.

His whole life had been leading up to this one day. Voldemort had started something all those years ago, and today Harry was going to see it through.

Even if it killed him.

With silent determination, he dressed himself. Voldemort had been waging a personal war against him since that fateful day all those years ago, the one he'd happened to survive—the one his parents hadn't. Really, this was no different than any other day, this battle no different than the ones that had come before.

No different, except that today it would end.

One way or the other.

With a twisted smile, Voldemort watched the sun rise through the morning fog.

Today was the day. He had waited for it with ever-straining patience—and now, at last, the time had come.

Anticipation washed through him. He knew what would happen. His plan was foolproof. It had taken years of preparation and patience, but everything was finally in order. He had fitted all the parts of his machine perfectly together, and now all that was left was to turn it on and watch it plow forward.

He would win this war. He would claim victory from behind his vanguard of Eaters, his tragically loyal followers—and there wasn't a single one of them that he wasn't willing to sacrifice for the cause.

His cause. His happiness...

He had spent a cold and calculating lifetime preparing for this one day. Tom Riddle had started something all those years ago—and today the man he had become was going to see it through. He would end the years of emptiness, would fill them with an eternity of tears—the tears of a cruel world that would soon learn he could be even crueler. He would fill them until they brimmed over for want of room! He would warm his cold heart with the blood of those who dared stand between him and satisfaction, would cure the hunger that clawed inside of him with complete and unadulterated victory. And after he finished Harry Potter, the last real threat to his all his agendas, there would be nothing and no one to stop him from making any conquest he chose.

With a calm smirk, he pulled his hood secure around his face. He could already smell the blood, could hear the sobs and screams of pain. It awakened a sort of excitement inside of him, knowing that after today, his name would be feared for centuries to come. Knowing that if this wretched thing called death finally managed to catch up with him, he would always be remembered. He would always be great.

Today it would end.

And with that ending, a new era—a new legacy—would be born.

Draco hadn't slept. Wide-awake, he'd waited for the dawn.

Today was the day. It had been marked in his mind with a blood-red X—with the black and ominous image of a snake triumphantly slithering out of the mouth of a dead man's skull.

Bitterness washed through him. He knew what would happen. The strategies had all been relentlessly mapped out and rehearsed. The plans had been laid with sickening precision, and as the highest general of the dark army, Draco had no choice but to carry them through.

He would play this part. He would be the villain, the monster, the dark prince—the Heir. He would be what Voldemort needed him to be—whatHermione needed him to be. And he would act the part until he became his character completely.

Lucius Malfoy had spent Draco's entire life preparing him for this one day. His father had started something all those years ago, and today Draco was going to see it through. He would fulfill his dark responsibility. He would be all they'd hoped for, all they'd expected. And he would finally do what they'd always doubted he could, what he'd never done before—follow orders. He would face whoever was on the other side of that line and kill the ones who weren't wise enough to turn and run...

And one day, he will have grown so used to the killing that one victim's face would blend with another's. They would become like the girls he'd bedded and left behind: meaningless. They will have ceased to matter. He will have ceased to care. This game of the Dark Lord's, it was no petty diversion. These weren't poker chips they were playing with, but real lives.

And win or lose, it meant nothing. No matter the outcome, Draco was damned.

Grimly, he paced the room. He hadn't wanted this day to come and yet he had been desperately impatient for it. Because the sooner it began, the sooner it would be done with.

Today it would end.

The only question that remained: Would Draco have so much as shred of humanity left when it was over?

Hermione awoke slowly from a shallow half-sleep.

Today was the day. The air around her seemed stiller and more silent than it had ever been before, and there was the distinct feeling that any moment, lightning would strike and the ground would tremble beneath her feet.

Relief washed through her. She didn't know what would happen—she only knew she was tired of waiting, of dreading whatever it was. She was tired of the skeptical, worrying gazes, the questions every other minute about how she felt. She was tired of telling everyone she would be all right. Tired of lying.

She would face the truth. They wanted to stow her away where no one could hurt her. They didn't understand that no one and nothing could hurt her now. They didn't understand she had already spent too long running and hiding. It was time now for all of them to face the inevitable. She would come out from behind these stone walls they'd put up to protect her—and these invisible ones she'd built to protect herself. Too much had happened—she couldn't stay hidden away any longer... No matter what came, she couldn't retreat. No matter who looked on, she wouldn't falter. She would force her friends, her brothers, to let her face this with them.

And she would force Draco Malfoy to face her one last time.

All the secrets and the suffering she'd had to endure had all been conditioning her for this one day. Her father had started something all those years ago, and today she was going to see it through.

The cot where Harry had slept was already empty despite the early hour, and Hermione knew immediately that she wasn't the only one who sensed what was on the horizon. Silently, she dressed, pulling her clothing on slowly—taking her wand and holding it in her carefully wrapped palm. Calm surrounded her, inhabited her. It was the calm before the storm.

And suddenly she knew what she was meant to do...

There was a chance she may not see tomorrow. It didn't matter, had never mattered to her really. But she swore to herself that it would matter to the others. She would make it matter—make herself matter.

Today it would end...

Only this time it wouldn't be meaningless.

Dumbledore sat suddenly upright in his bed, cold consciousness rousing him with the suddenness of a slap.

Today was the day.

Awareness washed through him. He didn't know what would happen. It was out of his hands now—always had been, really. There were still things to be done, choices to be made—but he knew even the right ones may not make the difference. In the end, they could only do their best—the rest was entirely up to the turns and whims of Fate.

Whatever would be would be. Whatever happened in this life was meant—he'd known that so certainly and for such a long time, and yet now he wondered if he was really so sure. Everything had its reason. Everything had its place, it's purpose... even pain. Even death. What, then, was this disconcerting doubt—this hesitance he'd never truly felt before this moment? He'd always believed in providence. He'd felt its guiding force, leading him always onwards. Now, however, he couldn't help but wonder if it was leading them into a darkness they would never be able to find their way out of.

But he would trust in Fate. He would steel himself for the injustices of destiny—would remember that they were as necessary as its glories. After all, in times of crisis, when faith is wont to falter, it is all the more important to keep it holding strong. He would keep believing that better things were to be born out of these ashes—for if faith was lost, then so was hope.

Destiny had been laid out in the stars centuries before now, and every footstep since had been tiptoeing towards this one day. Fate had started something all those years ago—and today it was finally going to see it through.

Dumbledore bustled into action. They needed to get the children out of here immediately. They needed to alert the Ministry, summon the Order. The army needed to assemble.

It was time. Today it would end.

And no matter how it ended, no matter who came claimed 'victory,' the silent knowledge that in war you always lost more than you gained—that no one could truly win—was ever present in his mind.

The evacuation of students from Hogwarts was executed for the most part with surprising smoothness. The children were awoken from their beds while the sun was still low and the sky was still mostly dark. They were urgently, but calmly—ever so calmly—led down the staircases en masse and piled into the black school carriages that waited in a long and winding line to carry them to safety. Ignorance was what made the difference—with yawns and drowsy eyes, and garbed only in school robes slung over their pajamas, they let their elders lead them out of their dormitories. There were not many questions, nor much resistance; they followed quietly and compliantly, as drowsy children are apt to do. No, only the oldest students had the presence of mind to wonder where they were being so hurriedly brought at so ungodly an hour—whythey were being brought anywhere at all. But even they did not yet comprehend or suspect that they may never be able to retrieve what the left behind—or see whom they left behind—ever again.

The journey to Hogsmeade Station was charged with all the electricity and swiftness of a storm. The roar of hooves and the rumble of rolling wheels resounded like thunder in the stillness of the morning. The thestrals lunged onward, sprinting, slicing through the winter wind with the fierceness of lightning. Inside the carriages, many of the younger students were nodding off despite the ragged ride, still too naïve and oblivious to be overly concerned. The older ones, however, were becoming more and more aware—of what, they couldn't yet identify, except the icy sense of foreboding that was all around. Some whispered to each other, nervous, attempting to comfort, but mostly they were silent, watching worriedly out at the sunrise-soaked scenery as it hurried by.

They reached the station far faster than usual, and what followed was another organized stampede. The younger students were all loaded rather unceremoniously onto the Hogwarts Express, which for some reason was waiting there to take them to King's Cross Station despite it being the middle of the school year. This took precious time, as there were only so many doors to each car and almost the entire student body trying to cram into them at once—but finally it was accomplished. Only the sixth and seventh years remained on the platform, per the professors' instructions. They stood, about two hundred students, some solemn, some fidgeting, but all quietly waiting, dreading whatever that lingering feeling of foreboding preceded.

It was then that they became aware of Dumbledore's presence. He stood elevated somehow, though none but the people nearest him could know what exactly he stood on, or how it was his head and shoulders stuck out above the sea of students. He was solemn, too—perhaps solemner than they had ever seen him.

And suddenly they knew whatever was happening was far worse than anything they had been imagining.

He cleared his throat, and the sound seemed to echo, that's how eerily silent and still the place had become. "I am sure after the strange and abrupt manner in which this morning has developed, you all have certain questions and anxieties you would like addressed," he began. "I wanted to wait until the younger, less independent students were taken care of before I did or said anything that might be too overwhelming." Here he paused to take a deep and quiet breath. "By now most of you have perceived that we are in a state of emergency. I am sad to say that in this case, emergency may be the gravest of understatements." At that, the students began to glance around at each other, sharing tense looks and shakes of their heads. "Before I go on, I must ask you to remain calm. What I am about to say will be extremely shocking and even more distressing, but reacting with panic will only serve to make it all the more so."

He paused, not wanting to continue—knowing that he must. He swallowed calmly. "The professors and I have become aware that an attack on our school is imminent." The students immediately broke out into a buzz of gasps and oh-my-gods. Dumbledore put up his hands. "Please—please," he tried to calm them. With some urging from the professors that were peppered throughout the crowd, all was quiet again. "I understand that this is a lot to take in. But we don't have much time to waste on comforting words. As it is, we barely have time for the truth... which is, I'm afraid, as far from comforting as words can be."

He paused again. "The people who intend to come here—they are the followers of a man the entire wizarding world has come to fear. I don't think I need to say his name and so I won't. But the threat he poses is very real, and it is very nearly upon us." A solemn moment passed. "He is nearly upon us."

A nervous hum broke out again, and he raised his voice, speaking over it. "The Ministry and all other appropriate factions have been alerted, and support is arriving at the castle even now as I am speaking to you," he assured them. And then he shook his head gravely. "But I am afraid it appears that combat will be inevitable. And that lives will be lost."

All was quiet, but the crowd around him was jittering with tension. Dumbledore could see every silent fraction of fear. Hands instinctively grabbed for hands, reaching of their own accord for something strong and solid to hold on to. Anxious tears streamed down some of the girls' faces; others turned to hide against the stiff shoulders of the boys beside them. Jaws were clenched. Teeth were gnawing nervously on bottom lips. Goosebumps were crawling over skin, but it wasn't the winter cold that caused it. Shuddering breaths were drawing in and out, but the shivers weren't because of the snow.

The Headmaster cleared his throat. "This train is bound for King's Cross Station, where we have authorities waiting to convey all those aboard to safety. Parents and other guardians will be contacted upon arrival, and those who can be will be picked up and brought to their homes." He paused. "If you are not yet of the age sixteen, and if you have not passed the O.W.L. exams with at least an E in the core classes, I must insist that you board the train immediately." The crowd bristled, and he held up his hands again to pacify them. "I understand that some of you may wish to stay—and that is courageous and admirable of you. However, I cannot stand by and allow my students to risk their lives, however honorable their intentions, when I do not honestly believe they possess the ability to properly defend themselves." He gestured towards the Hogwarts Express. "So if that applies to you, I ask you to please do as I say now and board the train."

They did, some relieved to obey, others reluctant. It seemed like another lifetime before all had managed to push their way onboard. The students that remained, of which there were only about sixty, waited patiently for the headmaster to go on.

Dumbledore looked out at his most promising students with solemn awareness, wondering to himself which ones of them would live and which ones would die. He forced himself to continue. "Those of you who still stand here have proven an adequate understanding of spells and sufficient skill with a wand," he told them. "Therefore you will not be prevented from returning to the castle with me and the other professors if you are determined to do so." His eyes roamed the crowd, meeting theirs grimly. "However, I must warn you quiet seriously that excelling in the classroom and excelling on the battlefield are two very different things, and that remaining here will mean that your life will be in the gravest of danger." His gaze was dark behind his half-moon glasses. "This will likely be your only opportunity to leave the Hogwarts environs. If you do not wish to stay, or if upon serious reflection you have even the smallest of doubts, I ask that you join your fellow classmates on the train." His eyes found Hermione's, held for only a moment. "There is no shame in walking away. In fact, I importune you to do so. This is quite seriously a matter of life and death." He took a long, deep breath in. Long moments passed. "The train will be departing in five minutes, as will the carriages," he told them. "Decide carefully where you want to be."

The dispersal that followed was slow and uncertain. Some people trickled away from the crowd and onto the train, some looking guiltily over their shoulders, others looking back longingly, as if wishing they had the courage to change their minds. Some drifted back to the carriages with grim resolve, others with decidedly less coolness and certainty. The majority, however, remained where they were, looking from one mode of transportation to the other as if lost in some tug-of-war between the two. As if stuck between a rock and a hard place—not wanting to stay and not wanting to go.

When Harry and Ron each hooked an arm through Hermione's, however, there was absolutely no uncertainty about where she was headed. It had already been decided that she would not remain at Hogwarts—not by her, of course, but by the likes of Harry and Dumbledore, and even the Minister of Magic himself. They couldn't be sure what Voldemort had in store for her, they had reasoned. She would be safer at Ministry Headquarters. She would be protected there.

Hermione had listened patiently. She hadn't argued. Against their united front, what would have been the point? There was no way that the combined force of those three important and daunting figures would ever bow down to her paltry will. As leaders of the battle, they had their plans and their priorities, and keeping her out of the fighting was at the top of the list. She had ceased to have a say the second the Cruor Unum had been cast—the second Voldemort had taken her hostage, the second he'd chosen her to be his shield.

There was no use debating with them. Any action there was to take she would have to take completely on her own—despite their arrangements, against their commands. If they were going to go over her head, she would have to go behind their backs. Because she had plans and priorities of her own. She knew what she was meant to do.

They lingered in front of the Express, turning to look at her reluctantly, their searching eyes running over her unreadable face. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you want," Harry said after a while. "But it's for the best," he assured her quietly.

She said nothing. A ringlet blew lightly across her eyes. Carefully, he tucked it back behind her ear.

"Thanks for not making a fuss."

One corner of Hermione's lips tilted up tiredly. "That would have been kind of pointless, wouldn't it?"

Harry's mouth curved. "Kind of," he agreed. He pulled her into his arms, squeezing her fragile form tightly. For the first time in a long time, he felt her hold him just as close.

It was a more poignant goodbye than any words could be.

It was a long time before he let her go. When he did, Ron immediately took his place. "We'll see you soon," he promised, his face against her hair, his voice above her ear. "When this is all over-with."

"Soon," she agreed quietly, but she didn't confirm the rest.

He held her away, but didn't let her go completely. His ocean-blue eyes looked her over, as if wanting to say something else. But he had never been good with words—had been even worse with feelings. And so instead he wrapped her school robe more firmly around her long white nightgown, and without saying anything more, he reluctantly backed away.

Finally, it was Ginny's turn to throw her arms around Hermione—and she did so now without reserve. "I love you," she whispered, emotion making her voice quiver before she could manage to swallow it down.

The train's whistle sounded suddenly, breaking them apart. At the front, the bell signaling its imminent departure began to ring.

"Alright," Harry told her, swallowing. "Better get on now."

Hermione looked hesitantly between the others. They nodded encouragingly to her with feeble smiles.

Seeing no alternative, she nodded resignedly back to them. And then, slowly, she turned away.

The three watched silently as their friend drifted away from them—perhaps for the last time—climbing up the steep steps and disappearing onto the train. They watched that place even after she was gone.

The train's whistle sounded again. Bare tufts of smoke began to puff from the smokestack, rising a few feet before wisping into nothing.

"Well that's that, then," Ron stated solemnly.

Ginny sighed, nodded her head. "I never thought she'd go so willingly. I thought she'd be kicking and screaming the whole way."

Harry stared—haunted, dreading, almost unseeing—at the place where Hermione had disappeared. "I guess it's too much to ask that you follow her example."

Ginny turned to look at him, eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?" Her frown deepened when he turned to look at her, grim and determined. Awareness entered her. She was suddenly struck with the instinct to retreat. "Harry..." She addressed him soothingly, cautiously—like she would a wolf that looked as if it was about to pounce.

Her instincts proved to be not far off— because all of a sudden, he was grabbing her wrist and tugging her forward. "Ow—what are you doing?"

"I'm putting you on the train."

The words were as chilling as the resolve they were declared with, halting her in place. "What?" Realization hit her, and she ripped her hand out of his, immediately beginning to back away from him.

He stalked after her, his face dark, determined—dangerous. She had never seen him look like that, not at anyone but especially not at her. She had never been afraid of him. But suddenly she was.

"Harry—stop it." She held her hands up to ward him off. "Harry, stop!"

His hands kept reaching for hers, but she kept managing to evade him, her blue eyes staying on his all the time, trying to soothe him even while pleading with him, imploring him to let her be. But Harry didn't relent. He didn't even bother to look sorry! He wasn't going to compromise this time...

He wasn't going to compromise her life.

Patience out, he disregarded the pretense of gentleness and hauled her over his shoulder as if she were nothing but a sack of potatoes.

"How dare you! Let me down, you pig-headed bastard—!"

Apparently it had been too much to ask that she follow Hermione's example. She was kicking, screaming, clawing, cursing—fighting the inevitable with every fiber of her being. Her fingernails dug into his skin, then her palms, then her fists. Her legs flailed and squirmed, violently straining to reach the ground. Words were spewing from her lips that Harry had never heard her utter, calling him all sorts of vile names and screeching expletives until even the few stray students who remained on the platform were aware of the commotion and couldn't help but pause to watch the spectacle.

No, Ginny would never be the kind to go willingly. She would never make it easy... to say goodbye...

He ignored the hands that beat hopelessly on his back with the steel reserve of a hardened machine. He walked toward the locomotive, all firmness and purpose, all power, as if unaffected or unaware that his luggage struggled desperately to be free. "I'm putting you on this train if it's the last thing I do." He spoke the dark words under his breath, more to himself than to her.

She felt him carry her up the steep train steps, and squirmed with renewed determination, trying to push or pull or pry herself away—trying anything to free herself from the trap of his arms. "I mean it Harry—put me down!"

He did, suddenly and unceremoniously plopping her back onto her feet. Ginny's panic rose when the soles of her shoes met with the thin carpet of the train. She immediately turned and made a dash back for the exit, but he grabbed her back and held her still.

"You heard Dumbledore, Harry! Any sixth or seventh year with sufficient marks can stay." She shook her head angrily. "News flash—that includes me!"

Harry's voice was straightforward, unyielding. "Not today."

Getting nowhere and running out of time, Ginny's eyes flew pleadingly to her brother, who had followed after them onto the train. "You know my marks are higher than both of yours," she tried to reason with him. "I have just as much right to stay as either of you. I'm a Prefect, for Christ's sake!"

"All the more reason for you to be here with the children," Harry cut in impatiently before Ron could get a word out. "They need to be protected. And so does Hermione. What if the Death Eaters intercept the train?"

"You know that's not what they're after," Ginny returned with disgust. Her bright blue eyes seared through his, cutting straight past all his bullshit answers and excuses to the truth. "Don't you dare pretend this is about the children, Harry Potter. This isn't about them and it isn't about Hermione, either. This is about you not wanting me to be a part of this!"

Harry looked her straight in the eyes. "And what if it is?" he asked her quietly.

Ginny's brows furrowed, the words taking her by surprise. Her gaze searched his dark, unreadable one—but found them unrelenting. "Why are you always pushing me away?" she asked pleadingly. "I'm not the weak, incapable child you think I am, Harry. When will I finally prove to you that I'm strong enough? I'm good enough!"

Harry's eyes were suddenly haunted. "You've never not been good enough."

"Then why the bloody hell are you trying to ship me off on this damn train?" He only clenched his jaw, evoking a frustrated sound from her. "I can do this, Harry. I can help. They need me out there!"

He was suddenly grabbing her by the shoulders. "I need you here!" he insisted, shaking her urgently in his grip. And then his eyes roamed desperately over her face, her soft features. His voice became quiet—vulnerable. "I need you safe."

Ginny's eyes softened at the uncharacteristic words, and a fond smile tugged at one corner of her lips. "I'll be fine," she soothed, bringing the palm of her hand up to cover his cheek reassuringly. "I'm a big girl, Harry. I can take care of myself."

Harry swallowed. "I know," he said at last. "But I can't take care of myself. Not if I know that your life is in danger." She opened her mouth to argue, but he shook his head. "I'd be distracted," he insisted. "I'd be focused on you the whole time—searching for you, worrying about you." His grip tightened painfully on her arms, as if even his hands were trying to make her understand. "All I'd be able to think about is you." He let his hands fall away, and they fisted at his sides. "And I can't let myself do that, Ginny. It would get me killed."

The slip of a smile was gone from her face, fallen with the weight of his words. He had always guarded himself carefully—what he truly thought, how he truly felt. He'd built an impenetrable wall and kept himself on the other side of it, where no one could reach him, where no one could hurt him. Where no one could be hurt by him. He had never dared to let Ginny see what was truly inside his heart. But in a few desperate and pleading words, he'd revealed more than he ever had before.

And all of a sudden she could see what was truly in his heart... was her.

She looked up at him comprehendingly. "Harry...?"

He shook his head. "If you care about me at all, then just this once—do what I say. Stay on the train," he commanded. "If not for your own sake, than for mine."

The vulnerability was gone again, locked up deftly behind that wall—she felt it like a sudden barrier of a thousand bricks. There was no getting past it, was there? Any new ground she gained with him was succinctly ripped out from under her. She would never get more than glimpses. He would forever be shutting her out.

Only this time, he was shutting her out forever. He was shutting her out—for the last time.

Weariness filled her. "But what if you die anyway, Harry?" she asked him sadly. "What good will keeping me away have done then?"

"You'll be alive," he said firmly. "That's all that matters."

The train's whistle sounded again, and this time they heard it all around them. It was the impatient neigh of a racehorse ready to sprint its cargo to the finish.

Ron shifted, looking up and down the empty train corridor nervously. "We have to get off, mate."

Harry nodded, but his eyes stayed glued on Ginny. He gripped her face between his hands, held it so that he could look directly into her eyes. His own gaze was dark, his fingers tense, his jaw tight. "Stay with Hermione. Please. I'm begging you." His hands tightened on either side of her face, urgently willing her to listen, to understand, to agree.

This wasn't right. This wasn't for the best—Ginny knew that certainly, unwaveringly. His harsh commands—and even his desperate pleas—would never succeed in convincing her otherwise. Her every instinct and desire screamed to fight him until she won...

But she saw now with miserable clarity that she never would. He would never let her. There was no way beyond that impenetrable wall. He would never give in.

And so, shoulders slumping with defeat, head hanging, she slowly nodded her consent.

Harry's eyes fell closed and his frantic grip slackened against her face, the desperate relief and crippling regret filling him simultaneously. The possibility of her staying had paralyzed him with fear—but the possibility of her leaving and never coming back—of never seeing her again—consumed him now with just as much heartache.

He swallowed it down until it was dead in his stomach. Opening his eyes, he hardened his heart against weakness. She had to go. And he had to let her.

He only let his hands hold her for another second. And then he nodded once—a jerk of the head that was fraught with tension—and without another word, pushed past her and off the train.

Cool air hit Ginny's face where his warm hands had been, but she wasn't given time to feel it burn; her brother dragged her into his arms for a brief and suffocating hug—then he too released her and began to back away. "We'll see you when this is finished. We will, Gin," he promised when she only watched him with wary eyes. He turned and was gone before she could call after him—before she could so much as say goodbye.

The train began to tremble beneath her feet. She stared down the now-empty corridor, feeling the aloneness like a physical ache. She had never truly felt abandoned before this moment. She had never felt like she had abandoned somebody else, somebody who needed her—somebody she loved.

And then it was all too much to take, too much to keep in, and she was running down the narrow corridor and onto the train steps. Her hands gripped the vertical pole on one side of the open doorway, keeping her body from vaulting off the train in its rush, letting the upper half of her hang partly outside. Her eyes searched the station hastily—a ways off, on the other side of the platform, she caught sight of Ron disappearing into the last of the school carriages, Harry waiting to follow just behind.

"Harry!" she called urgently, but he didn't hear her at first. The train jerked and began to slowly tug forward. "Harry!"

Harry heard her voice like a distant echo from behind him. He paused on the carriage step and looked back over his shoulder, his stormy eyes finding her urgent ones like a magnet.

"I can't live without you!" she called desperately to him. He said nothing, but his eyes were suddenly alert; they stayed fixed on hers as the train carried her forward—and away—on the tracks. "Do you hear me, Harry Potter—I need you! So you bloody well better be here when I get back!"

Harry's jaw worked, but still he said nothing, did nothing—only turned, pulled himself up into the waiting carriage, and shut the door.

Ginny found Hermione near the front of the train, sharing a compartment with an uncharacteristic group of students. Gwen Carver, whose disappointing scores on the O.W.L. exams had made her ineligible to stay, was sitting with her on the same seat, staring out the window at the snowy scenery as it passed by; across from them, a fifth-year Ravenclaw boy was fiddling anxiously with a snagged thread in his robe; and next to him, a calm Slytherin sixth-year was casually examining his fingernails. Ginny seated herself between Hermione and Gwen, and the pretty blonde girl immediately laced their fingers together.

"Can you believe it?" the Ravenclaw boy asked them with nervous amazement. "It's bloody bonkers. Death Eaters—You-Know-Who storming the school."

"It's a nightmare," Gwen agreed quietly.

"Then someone please—wake me up."

Ginny's tone was dull—a strange departure from her always-vibrant voice—and Hermione looked at her with eyes that seemed to understand. For some reason, however, it made their Slytherin classmate smile. "Didn't expect to see the two of you on this thing," he observed with a cool smirk. "Couldn't hack it, eh?"

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

The Slytherin boy shrugged airily. "Well you're both of age, aren't you? And being the Head Girl and a Prefect, you can't rightly say you didn't make the cut because of low marks." Ginny's eyes went from ice to fire when she began to realize what he was about—but the flames didn't deter him in the least. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it—to be goaded on by it. "You're closer to Potter than anyone," he reminded them with relish. "You two of all people had the most reason to stay." He raised a knowing brow. "What—not so brave, after all?"

Ginny opened her mouth to lash back, but Gwen's hand tightened around hers warningly. This Slytherin idiot obviously had no idea what he was inviting. As far as Ginny was concerned, this train was as much a prison as a cell in Azkaban. Antagonizing her now was like baiting a caged animal. She was teetering on shaky ground—God only knew what would happen if she was pushed over the edge.

Gwen didn't want to find out. There would be enough carnage today.

"You heard Dumbledore," she defended her friends calmly. "None of us has done anything wrong. There's no shame in leaving."

But the Slytherin boy ignored her and kept his mocking eyes on Ginny. "Easy to play the heroes when there's nothing to stand up against, isn't it?" he taunted. "But it's a different story when danger's really knocking at your door."

"You think I want to be on this blasted train?" Ginny erupted. She let out a harsh breath—a bitter sort of laugh. "I was literally flung over someone's shoulder and dragged on." She looked him up and down, shook her head in disgust. "What's your excuse?"

His slick smile thinned, but before he could defend his own honor, the compartment door opened and a head poked inside. It belonged to one of the young professors who had been assigned the daunting task of chaperoning the now-panicked students on the train. "Everyone settling in alright here?"

Ginny's eyes glared across the little room at her Slytherin tormentor. "I wouldn't exactly call it settling in. But we'll manage."

The professor nodded once. He saw and heard the tension, but didn't waste the usual time trying to calm it or sort it out. There were other students in better need of his attention. These older ones would have to take care of themselves. Under the circumstances, it was all that could be expected. "Alright. I'll be a few compartments down with some of the younger students if you need anything." His head disappeared and the door began to shut.

"Professor."

The sound of Hermione's voice had him looking back in. "Hm?"

"Do you know if there's any kind of... utility closet onboard the train?" He gave her a strange look. "I... need a first-aid kit. To change my bandage," she explained.

The professor seemed to think. "Utility closet? Yes, I believe there is, near the back. Don't know if there's a first-aid kit in there, though. Just an old broom, a few feather dusters, things of that sort."

Hermione was keenly aware of Ginny's scrutinizing gaze on her profile. She cleared her throat quietly. "Thank you. I'll have a look." She stood and quickly followed him out of the room, not looking back—slipping away without giving her friend an opportunity to so much as send her a questioning glance.

She slowly made her way down the corridor to the back of the train. The professor had been right. There was, in fact, a closet—though it was more of a cupboard than anything, small and crammed full of cleaning supplies. There was an old, shabby broom with stained wood and broken bristles, spray bottles full of various colored solutions, feather dusters, an empty bucket, dirty rags piled in a disordered mound on a shelf. But as the professor had predicted, there was no first-aid kit.

But that didn't matter. That wasn't what she needed.

Glancing furtively down the empty train corridor, Hermione reached into the closet, carefully retrieving the old bent-up broomstick from its resting place in the corner. Pressing her wand against it, she whispered the words of the Flying Charm. No light or spark was seen, but a new energy immediately passed through the worn object, a sort of electricity that pulsated before fading away.

She considered the thing with a grim expression. It would fly, she knew. She had never struggled with that charm—or any other, for that matter. It was the next step that she had never been able to master. But there was somewhere she had to be—and she had to get there somehow. This horrid contraption would have to do.

There was an exit at the very end of the corridor, a door that opened onto that small outdoor standing space at the very back of the train. She crossed to it, beginning to reach for the handle, when a skeptical voice suddenly came from behind her.

"That doesn't look like a bandage to me," Ginny's calm voice observed, stopping her suddenly in her tracks. "In fact... it looks an awful lot like a broom." Hermione turned slowly. Ginny was considering her and the broomstick calmly, her arms crossed expectantly, her gaze direct. "There are only two things you would need that for," she stated quietly. "Please—please—tell me it's for sweeping."

Hermione shook her head. "I can't. It's not."

Ginny nodded, as if she'd already guessed. "Then it's for flying." Hermione didn't deny it, and Ginny was careful to remain calm. "Where exactly are you planning to go, Hermione?"

Hermione didn't break her gaze. "I'm going back."

Ginny wasn't surprised. She had guessed that, too. "No you're not."

"I am. I have to."

Cautiously, Ginny began to step forward, as if Hermione were a butterfly that might spook and fly away. "You have to stay on the train," she reminded her friend carefully. "There are people from the Ministry already waiting for you at the station. They're going to take care of you until this is over. It's all been arranged."

Hermione shook her head. "Not by me."

Ginny could feel the stone wall of her friend's resolve the same way she had felt Harry's only a short while before. She began to feel just as frightened by it—just as helpless against it. "I'm supposed to make sure you get there. I'm supposed to make sure you're safe!" Her voice was no longer calm, but strained and pleading.

"What about Ron?" Hermione asked her quietly. "What about your other brothers—your parents? You know they'll be headed to the castle, if they're not there already. What about making sure they're safe?" Ginny looked away, the words chipping away at her conscience. Hermione's head tilted sadly. "What about Harry?"

Ginny's dull gaze snapped back to hers. "I'm here with you."

Hermione smiled solemnly. "That wasn't my choice. It wasn't yours either," she said. "It never is, not for either of us. You were right—they're the ones on the front lines. The two of us get stuck way in the back..."

"Watching and waiting for it all to be over." Ginny remembered the words, remembered saying them. Turned back on her, they cut to the core.

Hermione nodded. "They're the ones off at battle. And we're the women waiting for them to come home." She shook her head. "Only they won't come home, Ginny. Not this time. As long as Voldemort is alive, they can't win." Ginny opened her mouth. "They'll let themselves be killed," Hermione persisted before the other girl could get a word out. "For me. Because I'm connected to him. They won't fight him because they don't want to hurt me."

"You going back isn't going to help that!" Ginny exclaimed. "It's not going to do a bloody thing, not unless you know how to lift the curse! And you don't, do you!" Something in Hermione's unreadable gaze suddenly had her faltering. Her brows furrowed slowly, speculatively. "Or... or do you?"

Hermione was calm. "I know what to do."

Ginny opened her mouth, but no words could form, and all that came was an uncomprehending breath. She shook her head. "How?" she finally managed to ask.

"I figured it out. I figured everything out."

"When?"

"This morning."

"What!" The word was sharp and incredulous. Ginny looked around consciously, before lowering her voice. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

"Because there was nothing Harry or Ron or anyone else could do to help me," Hermione said quietly. "This is something I have to do alone."

Ginny was quiet, and Hermione knew that she was considering—knew that she was sorely tempted. If there was even the smallest chance of her getting off of this bloody train—any chance of helping and having it make a difference—Ginny's instincts would be to jump and never look back. But it wasn't just her own life she was responsible for now—like it or not, they'd trusted her to make sure Hermione stayed safe. She didn't have the luxury of not thinking twice.

Hermione knew how badly Ginny wanted to say yes—knew she was clutching for reasons to stay, not reasons to go. "I can end this, Ginny. I can save them." Her voice was confident—convincing. It was the devil on Ginny's shoulder, urging her to give in. "But I have to go back to do it." Hermione's gaze lowered briefly. "I have to see him face to face." I have to see him one last time...

Ginny didn't question who "he" was—assumed that it was Voldemort, that Hermione had to be physically near him to lift the curse. At a time like this, how could she possibly think of anything or anyone else? "There's no other way, then? You need to be at the castle to lift the curse?" Hermione said nothing, only lifted her gaze to look patiently at her friend. Ginny shook her head—pressed her fingers into her eyes—knowing and hating the inevitable answer. "Fine," she relented at last. "But I'm coming with you."

"Ginny—"

"I promised Harry I'd stay with you."

Hermione gave her a knowing look. "I'm sure he meant on the train."

Ginny raised a sardonic brow. "You'll never make it on that thing without me, and we both know it. You're a terrible flier. It'll take you three times as long to get there." Hermione bit her lip, causing Ginny to roll her eyes. "Do you really want to waste time arguing with me? They need us now."

Hermione remained quiet for a long time. "You won't be safe there."

"I don't want to be safe!" Ginny insisted exasperatedly. "I never did." She shook her head and gave a breathless sort of laugh. "They can try to ship us off, but we belong there. We belong with them." She took Hermione's hand, squeezed it. "Like it or not, this is our fight, too." And then putting on a flippant smile, she held out her other hand for the broomstick. "Don't you worry about me. I'm an Amazon, remember?"

Hermione looked reluctant, but finally nodded. "You'll have to be," she said grimly, handing the thing to her. "We both will."

The Great Hall was more crowded than Harry had ever seen it, the giant room crammed so full of people that it was virtually impossible to move, or even to see past the few heads around him. The long House tables were either being sat at or sat on, until there was hardly an empty stretch of surface to be found. The aisles between tables and against the walls were all clogged, with people having to squeeze and push past each other to get by. It wasn't only Hogwarts students and faculty any longer; more had flooded in—Ministry people, Order people, volunteers—as if some silent alarm had been sounded, some emergency signal that called all able soldiers to action.

Strangely, for all that, it was quiet. It was as if every voice that spoke was soft and grim, so that all together, the noise was nothing more than a murmur.

Harry was leaning against the far end of Gryffindor Table, silent, grim, staring off at nothing, slowly drawing the zipper of his jacket up and down as he thought. The students who had chosen to come back had all changed out of their pajamas—everyone who stood around him now was dressed for a fight. Dean, Neville, and Ron were all huddled together nearby, talking quietly amongst themselves. Seamus was trying to make his way through the crowd to them—their old professor Remus Lupin following behind, counting heads, assessing their numbers as he went.

"Well. Take a good look around, boys," Seamus said as he reached them, his eyes roaming the hall with wistful humor. "It'll all be in pieces by the time this is through."

"If we even make it that far," Neville observed glumly.

Harry's gaze snapped around. "We'll have none of that," he ordered, looking between them with hard eyes. Neville looked contrite and nodded sullenly. The black-haired boy looked at them for another moment, nodded once, before turning to Lupin, who had come to stand beside him. "He's right about the castle," he said under his breath to his old professor. "Even with the Shield Charm, it won't be safe inside. The hospital wing—"

"Has been temporarily relocated," Lupin assured him quietly. "Pomfrey's set up camp in Hogsmede. Her runners will carry our wounded there." He tilted his head, examining the younger man. "Hermione?" he asked after a while.

"We convinced her to go." His green eyes were haunted as they stared into the crowd. "The Ministry will stash her somewhere. She'll be safe with them."

Lupin shook his head. "She'll never be safe, Harry. Not if she stays cursed. Where she is won't matter as long as You-Know-Who has her in his grips."

Harry said nothing. His attention was pulled to the other side of the hall, where the volume was suddenly escalating and shouting was breaking out. His gaze went to Ron, who had climbed onto the bench to see over the ocean of heads to the commotion. "What's the excitement?"

Ron watched as a mass of newcomers pushed their way into the room. "More volunteers."

Remus crossed his arms with a satisfied nod. "Good. We're going to need all the help we can get."

Ron nodded too, still watching the crowd. His eyes scanned over the men as they pushed their way through the throngs—and suddenly did a double take. "Dad?" His eyes widened at the unmistakable form of Arthur Wesley squeezing his way toward him. "Dad!" he called, waving. "Dad, over here!"

Arthur heard his son's voice over the chaos, and quickly found his gaze, which poked out above the rest.

When Ron was certain the older man had seen him, he jumped back to the ground, his head already shaking angrily. Harry came to stand beside him, sensing a storm.

Arthur finally managed to reach them. "Hello there, Harry," he greeted with a somber sort of smile. He nodded to Ron. "Son."

But Ron obviously wasn't happy to see him. "What in bleeding hell are you doing here?"

Arthur looked at him meaningfully. "This is where I'm supposed to be." He smiled ruefully at his son's red face and clenched fists. "Your mum and brothers are here too."

"Of course." Ron made a sound of disgust and walked away.

Arthur didn't stop him. Instead, he turned to Harry. "And, um... where is my lovely daughter?" he asked, looking around them, some of his uneasiness beginning to show.

Harry's gaze was dark. "On the train out of this hell."

Arthur's shoulders seemed to release. "Good lad." He nodded. "Good lad."

"If I could have your attention." Dumbledore's somber voice seemed to echo, interrupting every quiet conversation in the room. "Please. If I could have your attention for just a moment... I would like to say a few things before all this continues forward."

All eyes turned to the front of the hall, where the old professor had climbed onto the High Table and was standing now high above the rest of the room. The anxious buzz and quiet chatter slowly died down. Everyone was silent, waiting for the old man to speak, waiting to be comforted by his familiar wisdom.

Dumbledore took a long breath before beginning. "We don't have much time, so I cannot say all that I wish to say. Even if I could, I'm not sure I could muddle through with the proper words." He cleared his throat. "More than anything, I wanted to give all of you my deepest and sincerest gratitude. And tell you all that I am..." He trailed off, as if unable to find the words. "I am truly moved by this sight." His eyes roamed, taking in all that was before him. "I see before me so many faces. Some of you I have never met or even seen before—and yet there is not a person here that is not a true friend of mine now, and who does not have my... my appreciation and my respect."

He paused, took another long and troubled breath. The room was still, waiting for him to forge on.

He finally did, a troubled frown marring his brows. "I wish I could reassure you," he told them sadly. "I wish I could tell you that we will live. That we will win." He shook his head regretfully. "But I can't tell you that. Because I don't know." He swallowed, sighed, mustered up a wisp of a smile. "What I do know is that today is a day of choices." He looked out at them, meeting their eyes meaningfully. "Every one of you made the choice to be here today. You chose to stand up and fight when you could have chosen to be safe. You chose to risk your lives for what you believe is right." He nodded to himself, to them. "I admire that choice—I admire you for making it. I think it means that there is hope."

His gaze found Harry's, lingered. "There is hope," he said again, firmly now. "There is always hope." He let his eyes move on. "I think we all sense that we are about to face the end of something here." He paused, regarding them with a wistful sort of smile. "Not really the way we wanted to finish this particular story, is it?" he asked them. "But then... such is the way of things, I've found." He paused again, the sad little smile slowly faltering, fading away. He looked at them earnestly now—suddenly eager and serious. "Please believe..." He trailed off, shook his head. "Please know certainly, as I know, that there are more pages to be written." He met their gazes. "There will always be more pages. There will be another story. No matter how long and dark a winter day may be, the sun will always come out again. And it will always melt the snow." His voice was calm, serious, certain. "When it does, we will pick up the pieces and begin again."

The crowd was still silent, but supportive hands were joining together. Meaningful glances were shared. Determined nods were being exchanged.

"As many of you are aware, I do not condone the use of magic to harm people. I do not believe that is why it was created or what it is meant for. But we must not hesitate to defend ourselves," he told them firmly. "We must not hesitate to defend what we know is right." He paused, swallowed again—then raised his chin. "I want you all to know that I admire each and every one of you for your unflinching courage. I am proud to stand beside you. I am honored to call you my friends."

He paused one last time, as if struggling with emotion. Something glittered in his eyes behind those half-moon glasses. For a moment, it seemed that it was a sheen of tears. "And please know that, whatever the outcome, your being here today will mean something." He nodded to them. "It does mean something. Remember that. Believe it. As long as you do, this will all be worthwhile."

The room watched as he looked out at them for one last long moment—and then slowly climbed back down from the table and onto the ground to join them. No one clapped, but the determination and the power—the sense of moral duty, of righteousness—was burning in every man, woman, boy, and girl.

The hum of voices picked up where it left off, only quieter than before. Everyone sensed that it was time.

To face the music. To say goodbye...

Remus turned to Harry, held out his hand. "Be careful."

They shook hands, gripping firmly. "You too." They released grasps at the same moment, and the younger man watched Lupin turn to organize the group under his command. Harry looked to Ron. "You coming, mate?"

Ron nodded. He looked back reluctantly at his father.

Arthur pulled his son in for a strong hug. "I'll see you later, son," he said meaningfully.

Ron forced a smile and pulled away. "Yeah. See you later."

Together with Dumbledore, the boys strode from the Great Hall. It was time to finish this once and for all.

Outside, there was no wind. All was perfectly still—perfectly silent. The world all around was deceptively calm—the hard, uneven ground and its smooth blanket of snow; the streams of morning sun, warm and white. Harry and Dumbledore stood, watching the distant edge of the Forbidden Forest—their army waiting behind them, all quiet and still. The only perceptible movement came from the snow-covered clearing, where the Whomping Willow shook powder from its barren branches with a human-like shiver.

Harry's eyes narrowed, staring into the black spaces between the distant trees . "They're there," he said into the stillness. "I can feel them."

Dumbledore said nothing, only watched the woods.

"What do we do now?" He glanced restlessly at the headmaster. "Wait?"

Dumbledore's eyes stayed on the silent border of the forest. "No," he said at last. "We have waited long enough." Without another word, the old man began to step forward.

Harry frowned for one long moment. He felt the army becoming restless behind him—held up a staying hand, signaling all to hold their places. And then he started out after his mentor. Side-by-side and silent, the two made their way to the center of the clearing—halting when they were halfway to the edge of the woods. They waited there, looking beyond the trees as if somehow able to see what hid there in the shadows—as if fearlessly summoning whatever it was.

Long moments passed in perfect silence. And then, answering the silent summons, two dark forms drifted out of the shadows and into the sunlight. Slowly, superiorly, they began to cross the snow to meet them.

Disguised in shadow behind the edge of the forest, Draco watched with dark eyes as the opposing army assembled into position. They were too far away to tell one from the other—faceless, nameless except for that they were all called the enemy. He could see them over the silent, snow-covered clearing—the way they spread out so that their lines guarded the castle; the way they stood, so determined and grim. More and more were appearing, solemnly joining their brethren, but Draco knew that their numbers—and more significantly, their skills—were nothing to the army that was spread far back behind him, reaching endlessly into the woods.

The hooded figure beside him was watching, too, his regal arms crossed over his chest like a sultan, his red eyes bright with sardonic amusement. "Look at that, Draco. Fascinating, isn't it?" His voice was dark with rasp and awe. "They should be running for the hills. For their lives. Yet still they come." He shook his head. "They know they are doomed, and yet they do not flinch. They do not falter." He smiled to himself-—entertained to no end. "I have never seen a group of people so determined to die."

Draco watched them with an unreadable gaze. "There's nothing a person won't face," he said quietly—hauntedly. "There's nothing he won't do... if he has a good enough reason." He felt Voldemort slant a wry glance his way, but he did not take his eyes from the people who stood ready before the castle. His eyes narrowed as he examined them. "There are more than we expected."

"But not enough," the other man observed with simmering relish. "There is no hope for them now. They are merely lambs for the slaughter." He shook his head, considering them wryly. "I almost pity them, the fools. Their sacrifice is so noble." He smiled wickedly. "And so futile."

Draco's jaw clenched, but he didn't respond. His eyes were drawn to two figures as they broke away from the crowd. "I see movement." He squinted, making out the two familiar faces. His brows furrowed. "Potter and Dumbledore. Unarmed," he added speculatively. He glanced to the side. "They must want to parley."

Voldemort's smile widened. "Well then. We mustn't keep them waiting." He began to glide forward—paused when Draco didn't follow. He turned back, his smile staying in place but his eyes slicing. "Is something the matter?"

Draco looked out at the men that waited for them before bringing his stormy gaze to search the Dark Lord's. "Before I do this... I need to make sure we're perfectly clear. Hermione is safe. No one touches her. Not today, not ever again."

Voldemort watched him just as intently. "That was the bargain. I will guard her with my life." He took a step. "But that means you will have to guard mine with yours." He smiled coolly—victoriously. "You have to protect me to protect her."

Draco nodded. His gaze shifted again to the clearing. "And if I die in the process?" he asked quietly. "What happens to her then?"

Voldemort considered his Heir with assessing eyes. "She will be of no use to me if you are dead. Neither of you will be." He laughed ruefully when Draco's deadly gaze cut back to his. "I suppose there is really only one thing for it," he sighed. His smile simmered. "You will simply have to stay alive." The smile soured, however, as his gaze drifted back to Potter and Dumbledore. He glared at them with open malice. "They will be aiming to kill, Draco," he said quietly. "You would be a fool not do to the same." With one last skewering look, he turned and headed out of the wood—and Draco had no choice but to grit his teeth and follow after him.

They approached the two men, taking their time, coming to a halt when there was only a matter of feet left between them. The four men regarded each other for one long moment—one with grim determination, one with grave acceptance. One with triumphant amusement—and one with no expression at all.

"Quite the army you've managed to scrounge up, Harry." The Dark Lord smiled wryly. "Impressive."

"Sorry I can't say the same about yours," Harry spat.

Voldemort's smile twitched. "It is early yet," he replied quietly. "My Death Eaters may not make a distinctive first impression—but believe me, they leave a lasting one." His bloodshot eyes drifted to the silent headmaster. "Dumbledore," he acknowledged. "You don't look well. Why, you're as pale as a ghost!" His head tilted with mock concern. "I hope it is not an omen of things to come." The false distress slowly twisted into a taunting smile.

Dumbledore's chin raised. "I suppose there is nothing I can say or offer that will induce you to spare these people and leave this place without bloodshed."

The Dark Lord looked droll. "I have already granted you one pardon. I believe that is more than generous—and, under the circumstances, more than you should expect."

Harry's eyes narrowed into murderous slits at the allusion to Hermione—felt an extra surge of hatred at the thought that he should consider the curse a favor. "Generous?" he growled. "You cursed her. She is a hostage!"

"She is safe," the Dark Lord corrected sharply. "Her life will be spared. Surely that is what is important." He looked his young nemesis over dryly. "You should be thanking me, Harry. It is a luxury I do not usually extend to her kind." He smiled at the menacing glint that appeared in the boy's emerald eyes, and his let gaze shift focus, languidly assessing the crowd. "I do not see her," he observed casually. "Where are you keeping her?"

Harry looked dangerous. "Far away from here."

"Good." The surprised frown that creased Harry's brows had Voldemort smiling dryly. "Did you think I would want her here, amidst all the flames and fireworks?" he asked mildly. "Accidents happen that way, Harry. People get burned. I plan to keep a safe distance, myself. I only came to preside over the opening ceremonies."

"Of course," Harry retorted. "It must be nice having someone fight your battles for you." For the first time, he let his gaze shift to the silent man at Voldemort's side. "Though I would never leave such a thing in Malfoy's slippery hands," he added spitefully. "He has no loyalties, not to anyone but himself."

Draco said nothing, only continued to watch Harry, his face not giving anything away.

"You have no idea just how wrong you are, Harry," the Dark Lord told him. "Draco can be fiercely loyal. It merely takes the right person to bring that side of him out." His gaze shifted over Harry's shoulder again—instantly sharpened. "Speaking of which—what exactly do you mean by far away from here?"

Harry frowned. "What?"

Voldemort's gaze snapped back to his. "The girl," he clarified with forced patience. "You said you stashed her far away from here. I was merely wondering how far away you consider far away to be. A hundred miles?" He looked pointedly over Harry's shoulder. "A hundred feet?"

Harry's brows furrowed. Slowly, he turned. At first, he wasn't sure what he was seeing. "What the—?" And then his emerald eyes suddenly went wide.

Because there before him was the terrifying image of Hermione Granger, clad in her cotton nightgown, slowly and purposefully making her way into the clearing.

Draco saw her and instantly felt his heart drop into his stomach with horror—felt it stop, then hammer violently as terror began to seize his soul. Suddenly he could hear nothing, nothing but his own vicious heartbeat. Suddenly he could see nothing but her fragile form walking towards him in the snow. Inwardly, he was wild—screaming—cursing—pleading—praying—but his exterior gave nothing away, only watched her approach with impassive eyes. How he kept his face expressionless was beyond even him—but he did it now, knowing that her life depended on him playing his part.

Harry was stunned by the nightmare that approached him—the nightmare that was his friend, defenseless and determined, marching forth to join him in hell.

In some back part of his mind he was aware of the commotion she left behind her—the shocked gasps, the horrified looks—Ron frantically calling to her to come back. It shook him from his stupor. He desperately began to wave her away. "Hermione, stop! Hermione!" And then his brows furrowed speculatively. "Hermione?" His gaze narrowed on her skin, on something he couldn't quite make out. He shook his head. "What..." His eyes widened as she came closer, bringing the state of her body into focus.

White scars slashed across almost every inch of visible flesh—her arms, her collarbones, her throat, the backs of her hands, one delicate cheekbone. "Hermione..." Suddenly, realization cut through him like a razor—scarring his consciousness like it had her body. "Dear God." His eyes briefly fell closed.

Hermione didn't answer, didn't look at Harry as she came to stand beside him. Still, she could feel his confusion, his heartache at seeing her scars—seeing the truth—for the very first time. Surprisingly, she felt only a twinge of regret—and that was for him, for the pain she knew she caused him. The rest of her was silent, completely serene, as if somehow revealing the truth had released her from her curse. Not the Cruor Unum, but her own personal curse, the one that had been keeping her prisoner all this time. She'd lifted the spell, and somehow she'd lifted the burdens with it. She felt she could do anything now. She felt that she was free.

And she was clean. She could start tomorrow clean...

The Dark Lord regarded her as if she was some otherworldly being—as if she was some interesting puzzle he couldn't quite figure out. Slowly, he ran a hand inside one heavy sleeve—felt the raised and jagged ridges that had been hiding there against his palm. "Well, well, well. This is an unexpected development." His gaze sliced to his Heir. "Or is it?" he asked crisply.

Draco's jaw clenched. His shadowed eyes stayed transfixed on Hermione.

"Ah. I see that not all of us have been left out of the loop. You forgot to mention this minor detail, Draco," his master scolded blandly. And then looked back to Hermione. "No matter. It is of little consequence now." He tilted his head, examining her interestedly from behind the shadow of his hood. "Tisk tisk, girl," he admonished wickedly. "You should not have come here. For once, I believe all of us here are in agreement—your life is far too important to risk."

Hermione smiled wanly. "Don't worry. I don't intend on staying long."

The Dark Lord tilted his head. "Then what are you after, girl? Why did you come?"

"The same reason you did. I couldn't stay away." Her eyes shifted to Draco. "There are some things a person has to see for herself." She nodded to him. "Draco."

His eyes were dark as they watched her. "You shouldn't be here."

That pale, familiar smile tilted tiredly. "I know. This wasn't part of your plan, was it? I was supposed to be far away from here. For your master's sake." She searched his stone gaze with her soft, serene one. "Not to worry. I'll be gone again soon."

Draco's eyes narrowed, suddenly alert. "What the hell do you mean by that." A bad feeling seized him when her only answer was that solemn smile.

She took a slow step forward, another step—another—until she was standing before him, her weary, wistful eyes looking up from under his.

Draco was tense as he watched her slowly close the distance between them, his granite gaze dark and speculative on her face. Though she wore no robe over her nightgown, her fragile frame showed no gooseflesh, held no shiver—her soft lips did not tremble, only quietly curved. Her skin was translucent in the morning light, as smooth and white as the snow around them, the thin scar on her cheekbone the alabaster's only tarnish.

Beautiful...

Those eyes—they were the ones he'd seen on the Hogwarts Express... the ones that were so soft and so full of secrets. Here before him was that other girl, that alluring, impossible mystery—that exquisite ghost that could be as close as this and yet a million miles away.

Her eyes peered into his as if trying to find something long lost. But she discovered nothing, nothing but his dark eyes looking back at her. Her lips curved. "You took away the armor. You made me see truth." Her soft smile grew as she watched his brows furrow. "This time there's nothing standing between us," she told him. "There's nothing to hide behind. Only the real me and the real you. Without walls."

And then her smile faded. One long moment passed. "Don't expect anything at all," she warned him softly.

Draco frowned, the familiar words awakening some gnawing awareness inside of him. His intense eyes searched her coded ones. What was she saying? Why did it sound like some sort of secret message?

Why did it sound eerily like some sort of goodbye?

Apparently he wasn't the only one who was bothered, because Harry burst forward. "That's enough."

Hermione suddenly felt herself being seized from behind and swung up into angry, possessive arms. She didn't struggle as, without another word, Harry turned on his heel and stormed back towards the castle, cradling her protectively against his chest.

The Dark Lord watched them go with affectionate eyes. "Yes, best get her far away from here," he called to Harry's back. "Preferably farther away than the last time."

Harry said nothing, only continued to walk determinedly through the snow.

Voldemort glanced to the man beside him. "Draco. Tend to the men."

But the blond-haired man didn't seem to hear him. His dark, intense gaze was glued on Potter's retreating form—on the girl in his arms, whose fathomless eyes had never left Draco's, even as she'd been hauled up and carried away.

"Draco," the Dark Lord repeated dangerously. "Tend to the men."

Draco's jaw worked. His haunted eyes stayed on Hermione for one last long moment. And then, fists clenching, he turned and headed back to the woods.

Only Dumbledore and Voldemort remained, facing each other across the snow. They studied each other—one grim, dignified, righteous; the other cool, satisfied, wicked.

"These headstrong young people," the hooded man sighed. "They can be so difficult to keep in check." His thin mouth curved conspiratorially. "But then—you would know all about that, wouldn't you?"

Dumbledore regarded the face beyond the hood with scathing eyes. "I am happy to say that I have no such knowledge. I do not physically harm or emotionally manipulate my students as a method of discipline. And I certainly have never used my magic to control them for my own selfish purposes." He shook his head. "What you've done to those three particular young people is reprehensible. The position you've put them in—"

"They have put themselves in this position," Voldemort snapped sharply. And then he let his gaze travel to the army that waited, brave and patient, in the distance. His smile turned satisfied. "You all have," he laughed quietly. He brought his eyes back to assess his old professor. "So here we are," he observed mildly after a while.

"Yes," Dumbledore answered calmly. "Here we are."

Voldemort folded his long, skeletal fingers together. "We have been waiting for this day for a very long time, you and I," he said quietly. "Ever since that day you first came into my life." His eyes surveyed their surroundings fondly, as if somehow they could already see the chaos, before slowly finding their way back to the other man's. "You didn't know then what you were inviting into your world..."

"I knew you had power beyond your understanding. I wanted only to help you. I wanted to give you something you'd never had. A community of people like you. A sense of belonging. A chance." He shook his head gravely. "Without that, I knew you would never find your way."

"But there is no one like me, Dumbledore. We both figured that out, didn't we?" Voldemort taunted. "I didn't belong here any more than I did in that orphanage—your students were no more my equals than the feeble fools I had left behind. I always had something far greater inside of me. I was always better." He looked the older man over, his smile turning into sneer. "But you wanted me to suppress my power."

"I wanted you to harness it."

"You wanted to keep me from surpassing you."

"I wanted to save you from yourself."

"And here we are, so many years later—you with your little militia and me with my hardened warriors." Voldemort smiled slowly. "Still think I need saving?"

"Now more than ever," Dumbledore informed him sadly. "But you've chosen your path, Tom. I am afraid you have been beyond saving for a very long time." He shook his head solemnly. "There is no coming back from some roads..."

Voldemort shared none of the older man's regret. "Yes, there is only forward for me now. Only closer and closer to victory."

"Victory." Dumbledore shook his head bitterly. "Your obsession has twisted your heart, Tom. And your vision. It has blinded you to the truth."

"Then by all means—enlighten me."

Dumbledore looked his former student over with a strange mixture of sadness and scorn. His eyes searched beyond the hood for some remnants or semblance of the man he'd once known. But all he found was a stranger. A monster.

"Nothing I say can help you now," he said grimly. "It is as I always feared it would be. You have been completely overtaken by the darkness. You once controlled the power, but now the power controls you." His eyes warily scanned over sunken, skeletal features. "Just look at what you have become..."

The monster's chin rose proudly. "Yes. Look at what I have become."

His triumphant gaze was shaded from the sunlight, but Dumbledore could still see the bright red veins that cracked and bled in the whites of his eyes. "You think you have achieved some sort of greatness?" he asked in disgust. "You have made yourself a slave, Tom—a slave to your ambition. You are nothing more than your schemes now. You are nothing more than your fears."

"And you are nothing more than a sad old man who has squandered his formidable power for some false, foolish sense of decency." The Dark Lord's voice was suddenly sharp and scathing, the other man's words beginning to chip away at his smooth demeanor. "You could have this world wrapped around your littlest, frailest finger. But you douse out your own flame until it is nothing more than a flicker because you are too much of a coward to find out how bright you can burn." He shook his head. "You are the slave, Dumbledore," he accused disdainfully. "You have enslaved yourself in the prison of your precious, made-up morals. You keep your power chained down and locked away." He smiled slowly, contemptuously. "I am not afraid of my own potential. I choose to embrace my power. I choose to be free."

"At what cost? You have tainted every life you have touched, Tom. You have ended countless lives for your selfish ambition!"

"Yes," Voldemort agreed, snide and unremorseful. "And once I am finally rid of your pesky existence—and Harry Potter's—I will have no one left to stop me, and nothing to stand in my way. I will fear nothing when you are gone and I am immortal."

Dumbledore's gray brows furrowed with blatant disgust. "You are so fixated on obtaining eternal life that you cannot see you have all but killed yourself. In your warpath to immortality, you have paved the way to your own doom. All for something you will never possess. All for a fight you can never win."

"Oh, but I can win," Voldemort promised menacingly. "And I will."

Dumbledore could only shake his head resignedly. "You are still the child grasping in the dark for what is beyond his understanding. And it is your own hubris that has kept you ignorant and blind. What happens here today won't matter in the end, Tom, because you—and you alone—are the reason for your defeat."

Voldemort's red eyes became baleful slits. "You cannot tell me that immortality is impossible when I know you held the source of it in your hands and then threw it away."

Dumbledore shook his head. "There may be forces on this earth that can keep a heart beating," he admitted grimly. "But there is no spell or curse that can save a person's soul. That lies in human hands. And human choices. In your misguided quest to keep the body breathing, you have destroyed the man that was once inside." He gestured dismissively to the ravaged form before him. "You have fed this empty shell and let the soul within it whither away—and you have become so backward that you cannot even see that it is the wrong part of yourself that you've kept alive. The part that doesn't matter a whit." He let out a harsh breath. "You will never have eternal life because you are already dead," he said meaningfully. "You let Tom Riddle die long ago. And so he cannot live forever. He cannot even be revived." Slowly, sadly, he shook his head. "Your battle is already lost, Tom. It was lost long before today."

Voldemort looked the older man over with a sinister smile. "You underestimate me, professor. As usual," he said quietly. "Believe me when I say it will be for the last time."

Dumbledore's shoulders seemed to sag. "Do what you must, Tom. So will I," he said warily. "What comes of it all, we will leave to Fate."

Voldemort nodded slowly—smugly. "Indeed."

They regarded each other silently for one long last moment. And then, together, they both slowly turned and headed back through the snow to their respective sides.

Harry didn't stop as he marched Hermione through the horrified crowd and into the shelter of the castle—didn't acknowledge or seem to notice the concerned individuals that broke away to hurry after them. He set her down on the stones, raked his eyes over her—turned and paced away, overcome by what he saw. He spent careful moments taking in calming, recovering breaths. When he turned back to her, his eyes were dark and his jaw was tight. "What is this." He gestured wildly to the scars. "What is all of this!" he questioned violently. His jaw worked when she didn't answer. "Hermione!" he demanded.

Hermione's gaze fell. "I'll tell you everything when this is over. Right now there's no time to explain."

Harry let out a harsh sound. "You're bloody well right about that!" He shook his head at her, at himself. "God, I knew getting you on that train was too easy," he said bitterly. He pressed his shaking fingers into his eyes—tried to take in a deep and calming breath. His whole body was tense when he finally drew his hand away. "The castle has been closed off," he told her with brittle patience. "No one else is coming in—and no one else is going out. So what the hell am I supposed to do with you," he asked her expectantly. "How am I going to protect you now?"

Hermione offered him no answer, only watched him with those solemn brown eyes.

"We have to get her to Hogsmede, Harry," he heard Ron say from behind him. "It's the only place. She'll be looked after there."

"No doubt Poppy could use the extra hands," Lupin added quietly.

Harry didn't look at them. He didn't take his intense eyes off of Hermione. "See to it," he commanded shortly. "Now." And then he turned to storm away.

"No."

The soft and resolute word had him whipping back around. "Excuse me?" he asked dangerously.

One tense moment passed. "I said no," she repeated quietly. She met his narrowed gaze calmly. "There's something I have to do."

"Yes—" he agreed harshly, "you have to do what I say." He shook his head, incredulous. How dare she try to defy him now, when the devil was literally on their doorstep! "This place isn't safe—what part of that are you not understanding? Whatever else is on your agenda will have to wait." His brows furrowed when she merely shook her head and slowly began to back away. "Hermione..." he warned her.

Her earnest gaze pleaded with his to understand. "I'm sorry..." she softly recited his own words back to him. "I know this isn't what you want. But it's for the best."

He watched, alarmed, as she suddenly turned and began to hurry away.

"Hermione!"

He started after her, but someone grabbed his arm, holding him back. "Let her go."

Harry's gaze snapped around—and found Ginny's tawny ones staring back at him. "You." His eyes narrowed, disgusted—betrayed. He shook his head bitterly. "I should have known." He wrenched his arm out of her grasp and followed after the girl who was quickly gliding down the hallway. "Hermione—come back here!"

She only quickened her step.

"Harry, hold on." Ginny quickly caught up with him, trying again to grab his arm. When that didn't stop him, she scurried around him to block his way. "Harry, wait. Harry—" He pushed past her with a glare. Ginny didn't follow, didn't turn, only closed her eyes. "She knows the counter-curse."

Harry stopped short, turned back with a frown. "What?"

Slowly, Ginny turned to face him. She nodded meaningfully. "She knows what to do, Harry. You have to let her go."

Harry's alert gaze went back to the end of the corridor—just in time to see the girl in the white nightgown disappear from sight. He paced forward a few steps, as if he still meant to go after her—shook his head restlessly, clenched his jaw, held himself where he was. "Get yourself somewhere safe, Hermione, for the love of God!" he called down the corridor. The silence he was met with made the sound of his desperate voice echo against the walls.

When he turned again, his gaze was dark—deadly. He rounded on Ginny with murder in his eyes.

"Harry—"

"You—I could strangle you." His tense hands came up, shaking in front of her throat with restrained violence.

Ginny shook her head incredulously. "She was going to come without me, Harry. Think of what might have happened if she had!"

"Don't pretend you didn't jump at the chance to get back here," he spat furiously. "You and your bloody stubbornness will be the death of us all!"

"Ha! Harry Potter accusing me of stubbornness! Might as well be the pot calling the kettle black!"

"I told you to stay on the train!" he shouted in her face. "I begged you, Ginny! I trusted you to make sure she didn't come back here—thesingle comfort I had was knowing that both of you would be safe!" His hands seized her shoulders, shaking her a little. His eyes raked over her, raw and wretched. "Don't you see—" he said desperately, "I can't help you now. In a few minutes, this place will be up in flames." His hands slid away, as if suddenly numb. "And I won't be able to save you. I can't even save myself."

Ginny's eyes softened as they searched the haunted depths of his. Her head tilted to the side with a fond, sad sort of smile. "Do you really think Hermione and I could have lived with ourselves knowing that we turned our backs and let you die so that we didn't have to?" She shook her head when he sent her a resentful glance. "You've made too many sacrifices for us already, Harry," she told him quietly. "Now it's our turn to try to help you."

He swallowed. His eyes searched hers, dark—vulnerable. "But what if you can't?" he whispered almost brokenly.

Ginny's brave smile never faltered, but it wasn't reassuring. It was determined—grim. Slowly, she took his cold, dry hands and held them firmly in both of hers. "We started this together," she told him meaningfully. "We'll end it together—one way or the other."

Now that the fighting was imminent, the Dark Lord had made off for someplace safe, gone before anyone could think to look for him like a shadow that fades stealthily into the night. The dirty work was now left completely in his Heir's hands—the battle was completely Draco's to win or lose. And if he didn't come through with the victory—if Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore didn't lose this battle, lose their lives—the Dark Lord would make him pay.

By making Hermione pay.

His army was quiet but restless behind him, waiting for the orders that still hadn't come. Lucius stood near the front, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes glaring, not at the enemy, but at the back of his son's head. Upton Parkinson looked to him with one thick, skeptical brow raised, and he forced a reassuring—if irritated—smile. That tense smile became a snarl as soon as he turned away. His eyes immediately sliced to young Zabini—commanded the young man forward with an impatient jerk of his head.

Blaise nodded his understanding and slowly stepped forward, crossing his arms as he came to survey the people in the distance with his friend. "So... I don't know if you've noticed, mate—but the people behind you are getting a little impatient," he stated casually. "What are we waiting on?"

"Potter."

Zabini looked to the side. "Potter...?" he asked his friend knowingly. "Or Granger?"

Draco's jaw worked, but he didn't take his eyes off the rows of faces. "Now that she's here we have to be careful," he said quietly. His hands tightened into fists—resentful, resolved. "Nothing can happen to her."

Blaise looked consciously behind them, to where Lucius Malfoy was watching—and no doubt listening. "Right. Because what happens to her happens to the Dark Lord."

Draco's dark gaze glanced resentfully over his shoulder. "Right." He looked back out, searching the distance. "We need her out of danger as much as they do now. I'm not giving any orders until I know she's safe."

"Stand by. Your wish is being granted as we speak."

Draco followed his bland gaze, finding the distant but discernable form of his childhood nemesis. "Potter..."

"Sans his cursed companion," Blaise observed, watching the Weasleys emerge after him, but not Hermione. He brought his eyes around, nodded to Malfoy. "I guess that means it's time to get this show on the road...?" He twisted the words so that they were a sort of skeptical question, one that his friend would have to answer definitively—yes or no.

Draco heard the question, knew that he had to answer—knew that time had officially run out. Hermione was safe somewhere. So was Voldemort. Nothing was standing between him and Potter now. Nothing was stopping them. There was no reason to delay.

Teeth grinding painfully, he closed his eyes, watching all who waited before and behind him fade to black. In their place, Hermione appeared without being summoned, a fragile but perfect image of her that smiled behind his eyes. He spent long moments taking in deep, silent breaths, focusing on her, drawing willpower from that smile, from her eyes, from her heartbeat, which he could somehow hear in his head—and which he knew depended completely on him.

"Malfoy."

Slowly, Draco opened his eyes back to the sunlight. They were cool now, calm and utterly unwavering, the grey in them showing nothing but indomitable ice. Cool reserve inhabited him, dissolving any questions or apprehensions or regrets, making him steady and self-composed. He was all control now—all purpose, and nothing more. He was all and only what he had to be for her.

Wand gripped tightly, he took a step forward. "Wands ready!" His voice was firm, unhesitant—unfeeling—rising above the cool winter air for all his army to hear. He held his wand up high for all behind him to see. "We charge on my command," he called above the silence. "Ready..." Long moments passed. "Ready..." And then he threw his arm forward, the tip of his wand pointing decisively ahead. "Forward!"

Draco felt his people charge past him towards the castle, saw color and light flash as it ejected all at once from their wands. Potter and his lines raged forward to meet them, unafraid, parrying and attacking with decisive spells of their own.

The clearing, so calm and so still, was suddenly all violence and chaos, all devastating clashes of color and sound. Without hesitation, Draco ran straight into the blood-bright madness. He had to save Hermione. Like that fateful night on the balcony, he didn't think twice.

Harry was ducking and rolling with some primal survival instinct, dirty and drenched in winter wet as he dodged the onslaught of light. People were screaming—war cries, death cries—and blood from both sides already soaked the ground, staining it red. Bodies from both armies already lie motionless in the snow; others were moaning and writhing with wounds, waiting for runners to carry them to safety—or for death to bring them their final relief. Harry didn't stop—couldn't—not to help, not even to look—only jumped over and skirted around them as if they were hurdles, running from the spells that relentlessly chased after him.

His eyes darted alertly around the chaos. Ron was holding his own, but they'd lost Ginny somewhere in the thick of it. He searched for her now with desperate eyes. Out of the corner of one, he saw something whizzing toward him—he deflected the bright yellow light almost absently, sent it back, hitting his mark as if it was somehow second nature. The cloaked figure fell, but Harry's bright gaze was already scanning back into the madness. Where was Ginny? God, where was Ginny!

Suddenly, he felt something cool and heavy snake around his ankles and swiftly pull tight. By the time he could react, it was already too late—the chains had tightened painfully, drawing his legs together, instantly forcing him to the ground. He took a calming breath, told himself not to panic, even as the heavy chains continued to twine around his prone body. With one cheek pressed into the snow, he watched as the metal vine surged through the air to find its other victims—watched as his fellow comrades fell to the ground like a line of dominoes, one after the other, the strong metallic rope wrapping brutally around each of them as it passed. It coiled around their bodies until their limbs were constricted in the snow and their breath was all but choked from their lungs.

An older man a few feet off was struggling against the metal, flailing as the chains squeezed around his midriff, rendering him helpless. "You're pulling it tighter!" Harry choked out, but the man didn't hear anything above his own panic. "Hey!' Harry yelled. "Hey!" The man's eyes found his. "Use your wand!" Harry watched as the man felt the snow around him for the wand that he'd let slip from his fingers. But any other direction he might have given was cut off as he felt the chains constrict around his own body. Breathing through the pain of violent suffocation—and limited by the arms that were now locked against his sides—Harry spent long, careful seconds struggling to turn the tip of his wand against the iron. When he thought he'd managed it, he said something in Latin. The words came out through gritted teeth. A red light shot from his wand, but missed the metallic links, firing point blank into Harry's thigh. A sound of agony tore from his lips, and he felt blood pulse down his leg and soak into the material of his pants. Still, he wasted no time in gritting his teeth, re-angling his wand, and trying again. This time, the red light tore through its proper target, snapping the chain in two.

Harry urgently unraveled the weighted rope from around his body and pushed himself up out of the snow. Running despite the throbbing in his thigh, he helped to free the others who had been rendered completely immobile by the chains.

There were shouted commands—cries and screams, pleas and prayers—but discernable sound was lost in the chaos. Harry was sprinting through hell, all urgency and purpose—and yet he wasn't sure which way to go. It seemed there was someone who needed help in every direction. And none of them was Ginny. Ginny was nowhere to be found.

It was just as he'd known it would be. With her here in this chaos, he wasn't focused. With her life in danger, his purpose was skewed. He wasn't determined to win, or even to survive—his whole being was fixated on finding her. She was obsessing him—distracting him. Driving him out of his mind! He had said she would be the death of him—and she very nearly had been. If he didn't push her from his mind now, if he didn't focus, one of these bastards was bound to get the best of him.

But even as he told himself not to, he searched for her, his eyes alert as he darted through the turmoil. He did not look for her among the dead—didn't acknowledge the possibility that she might be one of them. She was alive. She had to be alive.

Draco was running—ducking fast—dodging a bright blue light, sending a red flame in return. He was firing spells with effortless precision—without hesitance, without remorse. He knew later that each uttered word would haunt him, but now, in the moment, he had no time for such indulgence.

Another light came streaming towards him, forcing him to change directions—and suddenly he tripped over something solid in the snow, causing him to stumble to his knees. A body, he acknowledged numbly. He scrambled back to his feet, his eyes glancing for only the barest of seconds at the man—the corpse—that had caused him to fall.

Brandon Madison.

Draco was up and running again in an instant, forcing the image—and the regret—out of his mind. If it had been any other day, any other time, he might have done differently—might have let himself experience the surprising and crippling surge of regret. How many times had he felt like killing Madison? How many times had he clenched his fists to keep from reaching for his wand, to keep from strangling the sod with his own bare hands?

But he'd never done it—never would have. Whatever their qualms, Madison hadn't deserved this. He was just a bloke, like any other—like him—so young, so bright, so full of promise. This wasn't how it should have ended. If it were any other day, Draco would have acknowledged that.

But he didn't let himself go there, not now when he needed to focus. Remorse would only handicap him now. He would have all the time in the world when this was over to be haunted by what he'd let happen and what he'd done.

Draco only got a few feet before he was forced to the ground again, this time by some stray charm that blew through him like tornado, knocking him over, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He felt more than saw someone coming toward him, wand drawn and ready to do damage. Was this it, then, he wondered absently? Was this how it ended? Was he meant to follow Madison, who lay still and silent in the snow?

Would his death, too, be meaningless? Would it be for nothing?

Dozens upon dozens of lives were being wasted—witches and wizards, some little more than children. They hadn't had a chance to really see the world. They hadn't had a chance to really live their lives.

Neither had he. He'd only had brief glimpses of life's true potential. He'd only known true happiness once, for a very short time...

With Hermione...

And then suddenly he snapped out of his mind and back into the moment. Hermione! Remembering her hardened him instantly—reminded him of his purpose. It couldn't end here, not now, not like this. Because if his story ended here—so did hers.

Willpower and strict control swiftly took the place of all the rhetoric and regret that had momentarily seeped beyond the stone. Without emotion, without anything but precision and purpose, he pointed his wand. With a decisive word, he was firing at the person charging toward him—rising and running on, not watching the man fall.

Harry and Ron were fighting side by side, hurling spells at the enemy with a strange and solemn calmness. More bodies lined the ground now—though which army had suffered more casualties, it was impossible to tell. The two friends didn't let them be a distraction, didn't even spare them a glance to see who they were. They needed to focus on the living. They needed to stay alert to stay alive.

Harry became aware of someone tearing towards him—turned with his wand drawn, ready to ward the person off. It wasn't someone attacking, he realized absently, but someone retreating—a woman trying to scramble away from some large thing that stalked after her. His eyes narrowed—then widened suddenly. "What the..." And then he grabbed Ron by the sleeve, dragging him along as he turned on his heel and broke into a run.

It was a werewolf that charged towards them, giant and ferocious, fangs gnashing and snarling with appetite and intent. But how? The sun was out and shining. There was no moon—let alone a full one!

Harry's scattered thoughts were interrupted by a new wave of terrified screams and a stampede of panicked people. Suddenly it seemed that hell had unleashed on earth as wild beasts of every kind emerged from the shadows of the forest. They came in feral packs, like demons drawn to an apocalypse—dragons, chimaeras, a manticore, a cockatrice, trolls, ghouls, and what seemed like a hundred other terrifying species. They blocked out the sun, shook the ground of the clearing, hunting the prey that they found in their path.

Harry threw spells over his shoulder, trying to help a Ministry worker being terrorized by a chimaera. But every spell he fired at it proved utterly useless—the creature remained unaffected. It was as if Harry had shot mere pellets at the animal, only succeeding in agitating it further. What were these creatures? How were they invincible?

"Harry—" He felt Ron clutch his arm in a vice grip, suddenly paralyzed by something he saw ahead. He frowned as his friend began to breathe hard, began to shake his head wildly from side to side. "No..." Ron released him and began to stumble forward, sinking to his knees a ways off in the red snow. "No, no. Oh God—no!"

Harry heard the howl of anguish tear from his friend—heard it, and felt his whole world stop. He watched, frozen, as Ron dragged two familiar forms out of the snow and over his lap—watched as he bent over the wilted bodies, sobbing as he gathered them close.

Time suddenly stood still. The chaos around Harry was suddenly silent, and all he could hear in his head was the steady pounding of his own heart. He stepped forward slowly, as if in a trance—knelt silently in the snow, his gaze transfixed on the nightmare that was all too real before his eyes.

Ginny's lifeless body was strewn over Ron's lap, her brown eyes open and unseeing, glazed over with death. Her face was as white as the snow around her, her once-pink lips straight and colorless. A strand of her auburn hair was pasted to her forehead with a sickening mixture of blood and snow and sweat. Beside her, Hermione lay pale and still, one limp, cold hand squeezed in Ron's fierce grip, the other buried underneath the snow. Her dark glassy eyes stared directly at Harry's—stared into them, through them, seeing nothing.

They were dead. Ginny and Hermione were dead. It was all that registered—that, and nothing more.

Ron was sobbing, rocking his dead sister in his arms, his wails deep and almost inhuman, as if grief was ripping out of him from somewhere inside his very core. But Harry shed no tears. He made no sound. He was like marble, unable to weep, unable to think, unable to move.

He didn't wonder if Voldemort was dead—didn't wonder if Hermione had lifted the curse first, didn't care. They were dead. Hermione and Ginny were dead. Nothing else entered. Nothing else mattered.

He didn't know how long they sat there in the midst of—and yet somehow impervious to—the chaos. He didn't know how long he stared blindly at the girls—the wilted remains of his shattered world. An eternity had gone by, untouched and silent, before the faint echo of a voice began to reach him from beyond the haze.

"Harry." He heard the familiar voice as if from underwater. It didn't register, didn't make any sense. "Harry, get up."

Harry blinked. That voice—it sounded so familiar. Like Ginny's—smooth and warm and vibrant.

But it wasn't Ginny's. His eyes were on her flaccid figure—on her pallid face, which stared blindly up at the grey sky. Those lips, the ones that had haunted and tormented him—they no longer held any of the rosy warmth of before. They were white now—and still—and irrevocably silent. No smile or pout would ever curve them; no voice would ever flow through them. It wasn't her he heard calling his name... because she was gone.

"Harry—Ron—get up, you idiots!" He felt someone seize the hood of his jacket and pull, trying to yank him up out of the snow.

Ron's burning gaze snapped up—sharpened uncomprehendingly on the familiar face—then slowly went back down to the motionless face of his sister. He was confused, uncertain, afraid of what was real and what was phantasm—terrified that he'd lost his mind with his sister.

Because there, above him, was a girl with her same features—only flushed and urgent and very much alive!

"Ginny?" he asked, his weak voice cracking. And then he scrambled to his feet and faced the girl, grabbing her shoulders, making sure she wasn't a figment of his imagination.

Making sure she wasn't a ghost.

She wasn't. She was flesh and blood. She was alive!

Harry rose, his green, unblinking eyes intent on her face.

"But how?" Ron sputtered, looking between the image of her standing before him and the image of her motionless corpse on the ground. "You... you..."

"They're boggarts," she shouted over the ruckus. "They're all boggarts! Look—" Ginny turned her wand on the bloodied bodies in the snow. "Riddikulus!"

The two bodies suddenly blinked and lifted their heads. The boys watched, astounded, as they sprung to life and, amidst the violence and turmoil, proceeded to dance a hearty jig.

"Come on!" Ginny broke into a run, and the boys went after her, tearing across the clearing towards the edge of the woods. Breathing hard, they ducked behind the wide trunk of a tree: Ron leaning back against it, catching his breath; Ginny peering carefully around it; Harry standing off a ways, his fists clenching tight.

"Bastards," Ginny spat, watching as the remainder of their army tried to fight off their deepest fears. "They had to bring boggarts into it. Like all this wasn't already terrifying enough." Wiping dirt and sweat from her brow, she looked to her brother. "Where have you two been, anyway? I've been running all over the place and haven't seen you." Ron, still panting hard, could only shake his head. Her gaze went to the other boy for answers. "Harry?"

Harry didn't respond. He only watched her intensely, his eyes burning into her as if she was some unfathomable mirage.

Ginny frowned. "Harry...?" she asked again, becoming cautious.

He swallowed. Still, he didn't move, didn't blink.

"My heart stopped beating." His voice was quiet, chilled. His gaze raked over her face. "I thought you were dead."

Ginny's brown eyes softened. She wore a tired smile. "You're not going to get rid of me that easily, Harry."

He only continued to watch her. He didn't smile back. "Hermione?" he asked after what seemed like a long time.

Ginny shook her head apologetically. "I haven't seen her."

Harry nodded, letting his grim gaze shift back out to the mayhem. He didn't let himself think that she might be out there in the middle of it—didn't let himself think that she might already be dead. She was still alive, he convinced himself. There was still a chance she could lift the curse.

He clung to that as if it was his only lifeline... and really, it was. There was no other hope for victory—for justice—for survival. He could defeat every Death Eater he came across today, could deflect ever ball of light and send back every flame. But when all of that was finished and the only person left to face was Voldemort, Harry knew he would not win. As long as the curse stayed in place, he couldn't touch his tormentor. He couldn't—wouldn't—fight him. Not as long as it meant fighting Hermione, too.

So he gripped tight to the image of Hermione hidden safe somewhere in the castle, her spell books open, her hands deftly compiling ingredients and incantations—working whatever magic she'd learned was needed to lift this wretched curse.

He didn't let go of that image, only stored it away in the back of his mind where it stayed far enough away to keep him from being distracted and present enough to keep him motivated. This was his last chance, his only chance to make Voldemort pay for what he'd done—to Harry and his parents... to Hermione... to the people here today. To everything and everyone who had been tainted by his destruction.

Harry's eyes roamed from the chaos in the clearing to the castle that had once been his only haven, his only home. Even the ancient edifice, which had once seemed so invincible, now wore the jagged scars of Voldemort's destructive touch. The stone walls were scorched with ash and splintered with cracks where stray spells had struck after missing their marks. There were holes, some so big that one could see straight through to the castle's interior, and pieces of broken rubble sat piled above the snow. Black smoke was rising in wisps from the towers, darkening the empty grey sky above.

He let his eyes run up and down his ruined home, trying to remember what it had looked like yesterday. For some reason he couldn't.

"Got your breath back?" he heard Ginny ask her brother, whose cheeks were still ruddy, but wiped clean of tears. Ron nodded. "Well get ready to lose it again," she warned him quietly.

Three pairs of eyes clashed fatefully with each other. No more words were said. With grim nods, the three friends faced the pandemonium—charged back into it, side by side.

Above the madness, from the castle's tallest tower, Hermione watched the battle with unreadable eyes. Smoke veiled the sun above her, casting a grey shadow over the blood and bright light that splattered and spilled over the white world below.

The blockade around the castle was in tatters now, the organized lines of upright soldiers scattered, some of them scraping by with their lives—more of them strewn, still and silent, in the winter snow. It was enough to horrify even the most hardened of men, but Hermione did not turn away, did not so much as blink. Her gaze stayed fixed on the nightmare before her. She had no tears, no expression—no emotion. She was calm, her heartbeat steady, her breathing even.

Across the sky, at eye level, a familiar raven soared over the turmoil towards her, its black feathers absorbing all the smoke and grey light. She studied it as it drew nearer—nearer still. It seemed to hold none of the sympathy, the softness it had had that day; that afternoon, not long before—but seeming like ages—when it had nuzzled its feathered head comfortingly against her, cool limp hand. It was not the solemn scavenger now, not the sympathetic messenger, but the purposeful, powerful one, come to see its omen pass. It was the one that waited upon the Grim Reaper, dark and dutiful—the one that had to obey, had to follow and fly to wherever there was death.

It headed for her with strong, majestic flaps of its wings. She waited in patient silence for it to come to her. But just as it swooped down, just as she was about to reach out her arm to catch it, she felt someone else's arm reach out from beside her first—felt more than saw that it belonged to the Grim Reaper himself, a tall, daunting figure draped in elegant black.

The raven settled on its master's outstretched arm, on the heavy black velvet of his sleeve, bowing its head as one skeletal hand passed slowly over its smooth feathers. Though Hermione knew him immediately, she did not run, did not cower. She did not even turn to acknowledge his presence, only let him and his bird observe the chaos with her in silence.

"Quite the view, isn't it?" he asked at length, his red eyes overseeing the madness, his voice a quiet rasp, and yet somehow silky warm. "It is like you," he told her. "Filthy. Fascinating." He slanted her a look, his hard mouth tinted with a chiding smile. "But you are standing a bit too close to it for comfort. It is dangerous here. You should not have remained."

Hermione didn't take her eyes off the chaos. "I was waiting for you."

The Dark Lord turned to examine her fully. "Oh?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

His gaze was skeptical and interested on her profile. "Well. I am here now. What is it you wished to talk about?"

Hermione slowly turned to face him, not right away, but in her own time. She surprised him by looking him directly in the eyes. "The curse," she told him simply. "I want you to lift it." She tilted her head. "That is... I'm asking you to lift it."

Voldemort's mouth tilted, amused. Impressed. "An interesting approach. I almost wish I could oblige you."

Hermione watched as he gently urged the bird off of his arm and onto the parapet, where it stood watching like some sort of guardian over the carnage. "But you can't?" she asked, searching his bloodshot gaze carefully. His only answer was a smile. She nodded slowly. "You mean you won't."

A moment passed by, long and careful. "No," he answered her. "I won't."

"But not because you can't. Not because there isn't a cure."

"No," he admitted slyly, "not because of that. There is a cure; there is always a cure. Every question has its answer, every problem its solution—it is only ever a matter of figuring it out. You may rest assured, Hermione—there is a way to lift the curse." His scarlet gaze watched her with quiet, arrogant triumph. "But I plan on keeping it close to my heart."

He patted over the area with one long, pale hand, his palm brushing a strange black boutonniere that was pinned there to his robe.

Her eyes turned speculative, considering the flower for one long moment before traveling slowly back up to meet his. "If you know the counter-curse, it would be in your best interest to use it."

"You mean it would be in your best interest."

"As you like," Hermione replied with a nonchalant shrug. "What's good for me is good for you now. What's bad for me is bad for you." Her lips tilted humorlessly. "You saw to that."

The Dark Lord watched her interestedly, carefully, as if assessing a puzzle not easily solved. "Desperate times call for desperate measures," he informed her, his gaze searching hers, waiting for her to give something away. She said nothing, gave nothing, only wore that impassive face. "You understand, of course," he went on smoothly. "When one has been clawing at a locked door for as long as I have, he does not hesitate to use the key when it falls into his lap."

"And you believe I am the key?"

Her skepticism made him smile. "Believe me, I was as surprised as you are." He watched her, a laughing sort of sympathy dancing in his crimson eyes. "Poor girl. It is not a fair game I am playing with you, is it? Rotten of me, I know." He shook his head slowly, his smile turning speculative. "But then—it appears you are accustomed to people not playing fair." His red eyes roamed meaningfully, intently over her unconcealed skin. "You were someone else's plaything long before you were ever mine." His intense gaze traveled over the white scars that crossed her body like whip marks; over the burned, disfigured skin that was stretched thin from her delicate shoulder to the elegant column of her throat. His hand came up, reaching inside his robe, fascinated by the feel of the stripes and ridges on his own chest and tight, scalded skin against his own protruding collarbone.

His red, rapt eyes shifted back to her wary ones. Yes, someone had made a rag doll of Hermione Granger. The only question was who. Who had done this to her? Why?

"What happened to you?" he asked, his gaze searching hers in wonder.

Hermione didn't answer, not right away. Purposefully, she looked over his skeletal form, his reptilian features, her eyes assessing their pallid gauntness before coming back up to calmly meet his. Her chin rose slowly, almost imperceptibly. "What happened to you?" she dared to ask back.

The Dark Lord said nothing, only beheld her in spellbound silence. What was this strange, unearthly creature, he thought as he studied her? In all his years of living, he had never come across her kind before. She was not of this world—could not be. For who, other than him, could stand in the flames of hell without burning? Who could stand before Satan himself, so stolid and poised; who could look him in the eyes, so bold and unblinking? This was no ordinary girl, no ordinary mudblood—no ordinary witch. This girl was something else, made of something else entirely.

His scarlet eyes scoured her, gripped by a surge of admiration—of wonder—that he found he couldn't help. It was as if he were staring, not at a human being—not at a mudblood—but at some strange, rare, beautiful bird. Her face, pale and translucent, was utterly serene. Her dark, fathomless eyes were clear and direct; they watched the world crumble and shatter into pieces—and yet they held no tears, no fear, he observed with fascination. She stood in the violence, and yet somehow removed from it, unscathed by it. Somehow, some way, she was impervious.

His gaze ran over her body like a careful caress. He hadn't expected this—this battle-scarred seraph, silent and serene, this ethereal vision all in white. He hadn't expected these—these marks of wars waged against her, wars she had gone into and somehow come out the other side alive. He admired the jagged carvings left by some sadistic sculptor—the stretched, disfigured skin where flesh had melted under heat. Someone had tried to tear her apart, but had only managed to slice her open. Someone had tried to burn her alive, but had only managed to scorch her skin. This war-worn angel was no stranger to the heat of battle. She wore its marks like a brand on her skin. She had been to hell before, had been there and back again a hundred times—had lived there so long that she was now immune to the flames.

Just like him...

Voldemort suddenly felt a strange sensation—suddenly felt something he had never felt before. He felt kinship to another human being. He felt there was someone else like him, someone extraordinary trapped in this ordinary world.

He felt, for the first time, that he was not alone.

Awareness weighed in his cold heart, made it feel foreign in his body. It wasn't just the Cruor Unum, he realized. They were connected by another curse—one neither of them had chosen, one neither of them had cast. It was the curse of being different—of being more than the others, of being less. It was the curse of being human and yet not being so. He and this girl—they were as different as two people could be. And yet they were the same. They were of the same inhuman breed—both trying to capture that elusive essence of light, of life; both trying to fill that empty cavern where warmth and humanity should be.

The Dark Lord knew he had never met a worthy adversary. He knew he had never met his true equal until today.

And suddenly, strangely, he was grateful that she would live, that he wouldn't have to kill her—grateful that he would be able to keep her, like a butterfly in a jar, like a bird in a cage. The thought of doing away with this scarred and beautiful creature completely left him oddly affected—oddly alone.

"You are a curious thing, Hermione Granger," he observed quietly. "I see now why the boy took to you."

Hermione's eyes drifted grimly, guiltily back out to the chaos. "For all the good it's done him..." she whispered warily.

Voldemort's red eyes narrowed, speculative. She thought he referred to Harry Potter, he realized amusedly. My, my—his Heir's performance must have been convincing indeed.

At length, he turned to follow her gaze, smiling to himself as he viewed the red fruits of his labor. "Your little friend has put forth a valiant effort," he told her. "But as you can see, it will not be enough to save them. Your army is all but defeated." He glanced to the side, to her profile. "Soon you will be all that is left of them."

Hermione didn't answer. She didn't say or do anything, only stood at his side, watching, her shoulder a mere inch away from his.

"So quiet, girl," he laughed, watching her out of the corner of his eye. "Do not censor yourself on my account. I was all prepared for your haughty banter. I was led to believe you have an opinion about everything, that you always seem to have something to say."

A whisper of a smile graced the corners of Hermione's lips as she remembered the earnest, headstrong girl with the bushy hair and the iron will. She had been so earnest, so ambitious, so imperious—always showing off, always showing everyone up. Always having to prove just how much she knew, just how clever she was, just how far she could go; always having to know more, to do better, go further, improve. Always working so hard, always struggling so much. Always trying, forever trying. Never feeling like it was enough.

The smile faded. "I might have been that way once," she recalled. "But not anymore, not in a long time." No, that girl had been silenced, all the tenacity, the energy drained from her, sucked out of her slowly, the way blood is sucked by a vampire. "Perhaps your informant doesn't know me as well as he thinks," she mused calmly. "If he did, he never would have let you attach yourself to me. He would have seen me for what I am, not for what I used to be." She glanced to the side, met the Dark Lord's gaze squarely. "He would have known that I'm a sinking ship."

Voldemort's gaze simmered as he studied her, intense, intent. "You are not sinking, Hermione. I will not let you," he informed her quietly, his red eyes watching her closely, penetratingly. The words, his eyes—they were filled with silky-dark promise; his voice was quiet, and yet the words were soaked with strange heat. "You are my vessel now. You are mine to sail, to anchor where I will. You are my safe passage to victory." He smiled the carnivorous smile of a snake. "And so, girl, I will see that you stay afloat. As long as I am your captain, you have nothing to fear."

The blood in his red eyes seemed to sizzle with satisfaction, with possession, and Hermione felt a chill prickle up and down her spine. That look, that promise—they frightened her not with their foreignness, but with their familiarity. She recognized it, knew it all too well. She knew what it was to not be a person, to not be a human being. To be a vessel, a weapon, a possession only; to be owned and used and nothing more. She had always only ever been an object, a tool that others utilized for their own purposes and pleasures, an instrument they played for their own amusement or agenda. When had her soul not been a captive? When had her body been hers to give, not theirs to take? When had she ever belonged only to herself? When had she been master of her own heart, her own fate?

Today...

Hermione felt the iron determination of her former years bolster her. With the old tenacity, the old resolve, she kept his penetrating gaze. "I may not have anything to fear. But you do," she informed him.

One corner of the Dark Lord's mouth tilted up at that, smiling jaggedly, the way a hyena smiles. "You think I can be beaten?" he taunted her sardonically. "You think your little friends can defeat me?"

"They can. And will."

"They won't touch me; they wouldn't dare. Not as long as I have you as my human shield." The broken veins in his eyes seemed to bleed, seemed to gleam. "I go down and you go down with me," he reminded her, his voice honeyed with warn, sticky-sweet venom.

Hermione's lips tilted up. "I guess we're both going down then," she said quietly. "With me or without me—you're going to lose."

He searched her gaze for a long time, so clear and so certain. "You really do believe that, don't you?" he realized.

She nodded slowly.

He shook his head, considering her thoughtfully, fondly. "You underestimate their love for you. Unassuming girl—don't you understand? They would walk into the fires of hell and burn themselves alive for you. They would die a thousand deaths to save you from even the slightest harm." His smile was slow, superior—evil. "And they will die the first of those before the day is done. The fools." He watched her warmly, kept her gaze when it seemed she might want to look away. "I have been working and waiting for this for a very long time, Hermione. I have laid the perfect plan."

Hermione only let her unreadable gaze go back to the clearing. "Nothing is ever as perfect as it seems."

She heard his quiet laughter, but did not look his way again. She had given him fair warning, had given him a chance. But he was like her—detached, determined. And he was like everyone else—looking at her, seeing only what he wanted to see, only what he could comprehend and nothing more.

She had said all there was to say. Now it was time to do what there was to do. Without another word, another look, another thought, she turned and began to walk away.

"And where, pray tell, do you think you are going?"

She paused but didn't turn back. "Away," she answered calmly.

"That is probably advised. You should never have come to begin with—though, I confess, your company has been a... pleasant surprise." His eyes were bright on her still back, on the burn scar that cascaded down one fragile shoulder to the top of her spine. He took one slow, silent step toward her. "You will be cautious, of course." He took another sly step forward. "We must take special care, wandering through chaos such as this. We wouldn't want any stray spells causing an accident, now would we?"

Hermione didn't move, didn't flinch, even as she felt him take one final step. He was right behind her—close enough for her to feel his cold breath on her curls. Close enough for him to smell their wildflower scent.

His raspy voice held a strangely silky tone; she heard it from somewhere just above her ear. "We have to take care of each other now, Hermione," he said quietly. "After all, we are going to be connected for a very long time, you and I."

She turned back to him slowly, her brows furrowing. She had to tilt her chin up to search his dark red eyes. "What do you mean?" He only watched her slyly. "You don't intend to lift the curse when this over, do you?" she deciphered in disbelief. His simmering smile was the answer. She shook her head, incredulous. "But why?"

The Dark Lord's eyes glittered with red satisfaction. "I am not finished with you, girl. Not by a long shot."

Hermione frowned. The curse was only useful so long as someone wanted her alive more than they wanted Voldemort dead. What good could she possibly be to him once that person—Harry—was gone?

She tried to sort the answers out in his bloody gaze, but the secrets that danced there merely laughed at her attempt. "Staying connected to me would only be a liability," she told him carefully. "If something happens to me—"

"I will just have to make certain that nothing ever does." His smile warmed at the sudden wariness that shadowed her eyes. "I have a quaint little place already set up for you, Hermione," he told her, confirming her suspicions, "a secret little room with no windows or doors. No one will be able to hurt you."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Or find me," she guessed.

"I will know where you are," he comforted. "You will have me for company." He tilted his head, studying her countenance with interest. "And perhaps my Heir will pay you a visit every now and again..."

Aside from an uninspired smile and the slight raising of her chin, she did not react to the mention of Malfoy. "So you plan to keep me prisoner for the rest of my life."

"I plan to keep you safe," the Dark Lord corrected amusedly. "You will be more my pet than my prisoner. I will make sure you have everything you need—food to eat, clothes to keep you warm." His mouth tilted with humor—and promise. "I will protect your life as if it were my own." Hermione looked away. "I promise you, being locked away is infinitely more favorable than being dead," he warned her. "And that is exactly what you will be the second the curse is lifted. Your life is valuable only so far as it is of use to me. Once it ceases to be useful, it shall be terminated." His eyes ran over delicate features. "And that would truly be a pity," he added mildly, his tone wry, but his words sincere.

Hermione looked back to him—shook her head with dull disgust. God, she'd had enough of all the games. It was time to end them once and for all.

"I'm leaving now," she informed him resignedly. "I don't plan on coming back."

The Dark Lord's smile was superior and flippant. "Go where you like. Run as far as you can. There is nowhere you can hide that I will not find you. We are one soul now, after all." Hermione remained still as a statue as he reached one skeletal hand up between them—didn't flinch as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear with sinister tenderness, the cool tips of his fingers just barely brushing the pale scar that ran down one delicate cheekbone. "I will see you when this is over, girl."

Hermione's lips tilted up faintly—grimly. "No you won't," she promised.

And then was gone.

The boggarts had finally, painstakingly been vanquished, and the true battle, the battle of men, had recommenced. It was a different sort of scramble now that numbers had dwindled. There was no more chaos, not exactly. The clearing had fallen quiet, occupied by more dead soldiers than live ones. They were like dead leaves that had been torn from their branches in the violence of a storm. The fight now was was less of a wild whirlwind and more a silent struggle of the sparse, straggling leaves that tried desperately to hang on. Spells were sent more sporadically than before—a bright ball of light that whizzed through the air like a flaming arrow, a dark whirlwind that tore like a tornado through the snow.

Draco took a fast survey as he ducked away from one such streaming light—ignored the singe of heat that had come so close it had almost burned him. So many were on the ground, still, lifeless—more still had been hurried off on stretchers, either in the direction of Hogsmede, where Pomfrey's makeshift infirmary was no doubt set up, or back into the woods, where the Death Eaters had likewise made camp. There was no sure way to say who was dominating, which army had lost more. The clearing was so thick with bodies from both sides, it was impossible to imagine anyone could call it a victory.

Were his parents among the dead? Was his fiancée still living? In that moment, with startling clarity, he realized he didn't care.

"Malfoy."

The sound of his name came from behind him as if it were some deadly curse. The familiar voice was ragged and bitter—filled with the kind of searing hate that only murder could quell.

Draco turned, knowing—dreading—whom he would find there.

"Potter," he acknowledged, calm—gripping his wand, but not raising it.

They considered each other in silence, not acknowledging the noise and movement that sporadically darted around them, much like they had done in the quidditch stadium so many times before. This time, however, there was no golden snitch to hunt for. This was a different game now. They were after a different kind of victory.

They watched each other, an undercurrent of violence pulsating between them, carefully restrained by a kind of vigilant patience. It was reminiscent of another time, a day when they had stood much like this... watching each other from long paces apart, alert, wands at the ready, facing off for some juvenile sense of vengeance or victory. It had seemed so important then—winning that duel, proving definitively that one was better than the other. It had seemed so dire, so life-and-death. Now, both were struck by how innocent they had really been then. They had been children in a sandbox playing at toy soldiers, pretending to understand what war looked like, what it felt like, what it meant.

But this wasn't just adolescent one-upmanship any longer. They weren't children anymore. This wasn't make-believe.

And both men knew—were excruciatingly aware—that this time only one of them was going to walk away.

Harry skewered Malfoy with his resentful gaze. "It didn't have to be this way," he told him bitterly. "It didn't have to come to this—youbrought it here."

"I know."

The black-haired man nodded slowly. "And now it's too late. There's no way out of this mess for either of us. There's no way to take it back."

Draco felt that to his very core. "I know," he said again, quietly.

Harry swallowed, but the spite didn't go down with the saliva. Accusation was in his every look, his every word. "You've left me no choice." Slowly, purposefully, he pointed his wand at Draco. "This is the ending you wrote, Malfoy. You did this to yourself."

Draco's grip tightened on his wand, but still he didn't raise it. He kept his breathing steady, kept still and alert, ready... waiting...

For an incantation that didn't come.

Potter sent no curse for him to deflect—not just yet. Instead, he pierced him with a question—

"Was it worth it?"

Hermione hadn't had any destination in mind. If she had, perhaps she would have gone someplace more suitable. Perhaps she would have gone someplace far away from here... some remote, hidden spot where she could be sure no one would intervene.

But she didn't choose the spot; her feet chose for her, carrying her where they wanted her to go. She let them guide her, even when she knew where they were heading, following where they led with silent resignation.

The balcony wasn't different—it was the view that had changed. She saw it now as if for the first time. The warm waves of the loch were flat and frozen over. Snow dusted the surface, hiding it completely from view. The sun beat down in cool grey rays, the white sky and the white world blending together into oblivion. In the back of her mind, she acknowledged the boom and crash of battle, could hear the echoes of walls—and worlds—crumbling down. She could smell smoke, though it didn't drift over her; could taste its char on the tip of her tongue. But the view—oh, the view!—it wasn't tainted... not by the bitter memories of before, not even by the grim realities of now. The place before her was clean and calm and comforting. Its whiteness soothed her with promises of peace. It looked just like that far off place she would often go to, that place where no one could reach her... that place, that only place, where she had been safe.

Beautiful...

She carefully climbed onto the stone parapet, just as she had that fateful night—sat with her wand in her lap, contemplating the horizon with a whisper of a smile. Some force had led her back here, here of all places. And now, looking out, she didn't question why. There was a sort of poetry to this, to ending it where it began—a sort of symmetry that reassured her, made it feel right. It wasn't the same as it had been the last time—there was no clawing emptiness, no maddening numbness. She felt... soft, and serene, and somehow fulfilled. She felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Her lips tilted. Perhaps this place had always been her destiny—perhaps she had known that, had felt it even then. Perhaps that was why she had jumped, why she had felt the cliffs beckon her, why she had heard the horizon call her name. Perhaps she hadn't chosen this place at all that night. Perhaps it had chosen her long, long before.

For some reason, she had survived that jump. She hadn't known why, not until today. She had been right that night—this fall had always been inevitable. But it hadn't been time yet. It hadn't been time to meet her destiny.

That night had been selfish. What she'd done, she'd done for herself. It had been about her own life—the sorry shreds of a life left behind by a monster. It had been to set herself free of her own restless nightmare. It had been to finally find peace.

But today, it wasn't just about her. It was about Harry and Ron and Ginny and Dumbledore. It was about all the lives, the thousands of lives, that were being destroyed by a monster's touch. It was about setting the world free—free of that nightmare, that plague, that monster. It was about helping them to finally find peace.

Her gaze fell to the cliffs that waited far below her. They were white, too, and softened with snow. It was a long way down, she remembered. But the endless drop didn't seem so threatening. It seemed... natural. Like the soft and peaceful fall of a snowflake.

She had told him, had tried to warn him. We're both going down...

And suddenly she knew what she was meant to do.

This was it, she thought serenely. This was the end. And the beginning.

At last—at last—there would be peace.

She thought of her friends. They were going to be angry in the morning. They were going to be furious, and confused, and heartbroken. But they would come to understand. They would forgive her eventually—and carry on, as they always did. She knew—she knew—they'd be all right.

She thought of her father. He'd be heartbroken, too. But unlike them, she knew he would never forgive her. She knew he would never forgive himself.

And then... her thoughts turned to Draco Malfoy. She didn't know how he was going to react... what he would feel, or if he would even feel anything. With liberating lightness, she realized it didn't matter. She had never mattered to him.

And, for the first time, she was truly grateful for it—grateful that at least one person would be spared the senseless pain of mourning this.

Hermione closed her eyes, turned her face up to the winter sun. Things will be different now...

Things will be better.

It was her final thought as she gently pushed herself forward and slid off the parapet. With a contented smile, she let herself become the snowflake.