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Chapter Text

All That Burns, All That Rises

Part 1: All That Burns

Twenty-one years after the birth of Harry Potter

Six years after the second rising of Lord Voldemort

“Compromise is said to be the way of the world, and yet I find myself feeling sick trying to accept what it has done to me.”

― Douglas Coupland 

Severus Snape

Minister Severus Snape apparated to London, reflecting on how to best irritate the Carrows. It was just before nine o'clock, and the autumn dew still darkened the cracks between the pavement on Charing Cross Road. He stopped, looking down the street, his instincts as a spy kicking in. For a moment, it felt as though someone were watching him. But the only people passing by were oblivious muggles. He shrugged it off. He had more important matters to attend to. 

Inside the Leaky Cauldron, the waft of fried chips and ale offered a companionable ambiance. But the patrons hunched over their tables, silent, the only sound the clattering of plates in the kitchen. Severus stayed long enough to make his presence felt - it wouldn't do to look as though he'd left for their comfort. After another moment of strained silence, he strode into Diagon Alley, taking the path that went past Twilfitt and Tatting’s, and ended at the Prisoner's Yard.

It was much like one of those damp September mornings of Hogwarts, when he'd walked the grounds with Albus Dumbledore. Long walks, sometimes full of companionable silence, but more often a place where he shared the Dark Lord's plans, of who had died in the last attack. 

There is still hope, Severus. Have you seen signs of dissension in the ranks? Of someone like yourself?

He had snorted. Among these Death Eaters? There is no hope to be found. They have been too corrupted by what they've done, and what was done to them. 

Even the Malfoys? Every day, Draco becomes more withdrawn. Surely, for the love they have for their son—

It's too late for them. They committed to their course. 

A pity. I had hoped once they realized what such a life would do to their son, they would make a different choice. I tried to talk to the boy, but he wouldn't listen to me. I wish the house rivalries were not such as they are. I think he might have found a friend in…

The memory faded, but Dumbledore's words of hope remained. The belief that someone, somewhere, might make a different choice. That there was, somehow, some future beyond this war, this life. Those words were his drumbeat on his morning march. 

He headed for Twilfitt and Tatting’s. The Carrows mentioned they would visit the shop before flooing to the Ministry of Magic. They'd ordered new velvet robes. If he ran into them outside the Ministry, they might have their guard down and divulge a little too much.

But beyond that, he needed to be in Diagon Alley - it was important for a minister to make the rounds, and to be seen making the rounds. To avoid the Prisoner's Yard, or to pass it with downcast eyes—such actions suggested one did not celebrate the glorious new world brought about by the Dark Lord's regime. He couldn't afford to look as though he mourned the past. Every action flashed his intentions like a Dark Mark in the sky. 

A sensation crawled up his back, like he was being watched. He slowed his pace, making a show of staring into a shop window. Instead, he used the reflection and scanned the street behind him. The usual patrons, looking for some bauble to take their mind off the war. No one out of the ordinary. And yet, he couldn't shake the feeling.

At Twilfitt and Tatting’s, a clerk swallowed heavily and put on a smile. "How can I help you, Minister?"

Severus waved him off, and the clerk gratefully slipped into the back. The shop was small and almost empty, and the Carrows were hard to miss. He resisted the urge to check the time. There was still a quarter of an hour before the Carrows would be at the Ministry, which left enough time to visit the Yard. A place he did not want to see, but where he needed to be seen.

The Yard was a flat area between a small charms shop and a boarded-up book shop. Dragon fire still blackened the pavement and the sides of the neighboring buildings. The execution stage in the center had been rebuilt, but the smell of ash and smoke still lingered, embedded in brick and stone. Goblins had brought in a new breed of dragon to guard Gringotts some years ago. It hadn't ended well. 

The execution stage was empty at the moment. Too early in the day. In the air above the stage, names blazed to life, accompanied by a disembodied, accusatory voice: 

Bridget Bishop

Sarah Good

Ursula Kemp 

A steady scroll of history, of those executed for witchcraft. A reminder, and a promise of things to come. 

The crowds grew thicker near the edge of the Yard, at the place informally called the Market. A recent prisoner revolt had damaged the wooden pens, and they’d been rebuilt quickly. The wood was so new that the edges bled sap, and pine cut through the air. Inside the pens, prisoners of lesser crimes stood with their arms bound. Outside the pens, money changed hands. 

There were sharp eyes in the crowd. Ones that he'd seen before. The sensation of being watched returned, although now it was justified. Watchers, writing names in their little books. Names of those who looked away. Who did not attend. Who never bought. 

Those eyes didn't need to watch here. The routine didn't change. Bids were made, money exchanged hands, and another prisoner moved from warden to owner. 

Severus knew a few of the buyers. An older witch who worked in requisitions at the Ministry, who'd grumbled about needing someone to tend house whilst she worked longer hours for the war effort. He saw the familiar blond hair of Lucius Malfoy, arguing angrily with a vendor. A younger wizard—McClough, that was it—had lost his wife years ago, and the scarring on his face kept him from finding another. He pointed to a young witch, his eyes downcast. He might not look her in the eye, but he still handed over his money. And an older wizard who'd lost his whole family to the war and to the Dark Lord's purges—he stared at the names written in fire, his face twisting, and checked his pockets for Galleons. Severus wondered if he would find comfort in having someone to blame, someone to punish. He would know if he looked into his mind. He didn't look.

"You don't understand," said a middle-aged man who was led out of a pen and given to a wizard in silk robes. He jerked his head, as if something had torn loose. His voice was hoarse, and his gaze did not meet the wizard, but ended at a frozen spot between them. "I have to go home. To my Hannah." His wispy hair floated with each shake. "She's only fifteen." 

A young woman was led out next, her robes lovingly embroidered and her feet bare. Her shoulders tightened as Warden Umbridge and another witch haggled over the price.

The woman broke free from her guard, but she didn't run. She stood her ground, staring at the warden and the witch. Her voice was steady. "You exchange your gold and silver and say you own me, but it means nothing." 

The guard grabbed her and pulled her back, but she wasn't deterred. "Who are you to decide my worth? With your numbers in your little ledgers?" Her voice rose. "You have no right. We were fighting for something. We won't be forgotten!" 

The guard used a stunning spell, and she went limp in his hold. The warden and the witch exchanged glances. Clucking her tongue in disappointment, she handed back a few silver sickles to the witch. 

A notebook snapped shut. A figure with dark red hair slid through the crowds and back towards the Leaky Cauldron. Ambitious, that one. And observant. He reviewed his own behavior. Had he shown some sign of sympathy or weakness? Surely not. 

But the woman was correct. They had been fighting for something. They didn't deserve to be forgotten. Severus once again imagined being that dragon and burning the entire Yard to the ground. He kept walking in measured steps. One hundred and eighty-four steps would return him to the Leaky Cauldron, and from that fireplace to the Ministry, and that many more minutes through the day. It had taken two hundred and twelve steps to get from his rooms to Dumbledore's office. It had been over five years since the school had been closed, but he remembered counting, remembered the solid thud of the Headmaster's door.

We need you, Severus. If the war comes—and I think it will—we cannot win it without you. You must help him.

Help him. But who was he supposed to help? It had disappeared into the fog of the past. Had he truly forgotten? He could remember the steps, remember the air warming and drying as he ascended, but not the words they had said. Perhaps years of occlumency had that effect. Or perhaps he had run Dumbledore's words through his head too many times. They'd been rubbed smooth and shapeless, like old prayer beads. 

Re-entering the Leaky Cauldron, he flooed to the Ministry of Magic. A guard near the entrance fireplaces in the Atrium offered a nod that was nearly a bow. Brushing the floo powder from his ministry robes, Severus scanned the crowds in the large room. Neither of the Carrows were here. Most likely, they were in their office upstairs, finalizing their plans for the next attack. They would resent his intrusion, his mocking smile, his implication that they did not have the intelligence or imagination to track the resistance. They would point out the brilliance of their plan, chests swelling like engorged ticks, and he would have his information.

He ran over his strategy, thinking of their reactions and how he would respond. Choosing his words beforehand, rehearsing it like a play. He did the same thing as a child in his attempts to make friends. Oh, are you reading Jigger's Potions book? He was quite an interesting fellow. Did you know he used to poison rabbits?

He'd since learned that acquiring information was easier than acquiring friends.

As he passed the Magic is Might monument, snippets of conversations circled his mind. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Lupin, all talking to him about something that he couldn't quite recall. A fog covered them, voices muffled with cotton, words lost. 

That fog, swirling through his mental landscape. He'd dismissed the bleached-out memories so many times before. But when had it all slipped from his mind? Last week? The week before that? Months? Or was it years? 

He circled the Atrium, past the guards who nodded respectfully, until he came upon the lift. After the Dark Lord took the Ministry, rebels had sabotaged the floos in the Atrium, and the lift had been installed as a temporary solution. But it remained even after the floos were repaired, as the Dark Lord had his own ways of entering and exiting the Ministry, and no one felt inclined to bring up the topic with him. 

The lift worked magically, of course, sliding sideways and diagonally and through floors that existed only in wizarding space. The Dark Lord would not abide muggle technology, but even so, it gave the impression of mechanics, gears grinding as it moved. He wondered if the house-elves that installed it had simply thought the sound was part of the charm, like the brass doors and the glass-covered buttons.

Upwards led to the Carrows, to his own office, to the Dark Lord's throne room. Downwards led to the dungeons. 

A broad-chested guard stood near the lift, his thick body leaning forwards in a half-bow. "Anything I can help you with, Minister?" 

Deeper in the Atrium, another set of eyes watched, well-manicured fingers scribbling in a notebook. He'd darkened his hair shortly after his family had been declared blood traitors, muting the red. The ambitious one. Percy Weasley.

"No," Severus said. "I seem to have... forgotten..." This was absurd. The Carrows would finalize their plans and leave for their mission soon. He knew the two locations they might attack, but he needed to be certain. All of this forgetting could be chalked up to natural memory loss. He was simply getting older. He was...

He was forty-one. Hardly decrepit, especially for a wizard. And he'd spent twenty-four of his years honing his mental focus. This was no natural memory loss. Something had gotten through his defenses. A charm. A magical object. Or a person.

Percy snapped his notebook shut and slid it into his breast pocket, tapping the corners until they aligned with the seam. He strolled to the lift and parceled out a smile. "Good day, Minister. Not having any difficulties, I trust?"

"Taking over lift maintenance, Weasley?" He traced the outlines of the panel buttons. Floor Two, Three, Four... too many witches and wizards, with too many agendas. He couldn't get a sense of where the memory spell was coming from. 

"I'm only concerned for your well-being, Minister." Percy's voice pricked like a needle. "You've heard about Minister Threstle?" He shook his head, his eyes downcast. "Tragic. So tragic. They say it was werewolves."

"Is that what they say?" He was losing the shape of it, the tide of the past dragging down any sense of what he knew and what he'd forgotten. He tried to hold on to it, that feeling of something, of someone, just out of reach. Someone that wanted to stay out of reach. At the edge of his perception, never quite worth his full attention. 

"Threstle did have a tendency to wander about in the dark. What do you think he was doing, skulking in his office in the middle of the night?" Percy smoothed his tie, flicked non-existent lint off his fingertips. "I shudder to think."

Severus knew perfectly well what he'd been doing, and so did Weasley. Threstle was muggle-born, and it had been a full-time job to cover that fact under a mountain of documents and a web of freshly spun ancestors. Behind that office door, papers rustled with quiet desperation. 

"It appears the investigation has closed," Severus said. "His office name-plate changed."

Percy stroked the edge of the notebook, nestled in folds of silk. "Just in time, too. My work requires a suitable amount of space. Still. To think of his grubby hands touching everything. I had the place thoroughly scrubbed. New door, too. Oak." 

Oak, seven feet. He watched the sliver of Weasley's smirk. With a hemlock core. 

But he was no better. He'd listened to those papers rustle past closing, and walked on. He couldn't afford to martyr himself for Threstle. That was the way it was. Someone whispered in someone else's ear, and the name plates changed. Another whisper, and they changed again. A quiet game of musical chairs. Only one floor housed permanent residents. The one with stone walls and solid locks. 

That niggling worm in his mind had eaten away at his memory for a long time. Not months. Years. 

He knew where he needed to go. "I trust you'll keep better hours than Threstle," he said, pressing the lift button. "See that you don't disturb me." 

"Of course, Minister," Weasley called as the doors shut. "You'll never know I'm there..."

Severus let out a breath as the lift descended into the dungeons. Shadows seeped across the walls as the lift trundled down. The musk of mildew and unbathed bodies oozed in. He had been locked up here for three weeks, many years ago, and questioned on his role in the war—the first war. The smell of smoke from the torches reminded him of how he had paced, fists clenched until his knuckles ached, and wondered if Dumbledore could convince the judges, if Dumbledore was truly a man he could trust. 

Silt had settled onto the stone floor, muffling his steps. At the main juncture, he paused, holding onto the loose threads of the past. The closer he got, the harder it was to remember what he was searching for. If he didn't stay focused, he imagined he would find himself blinking in the dim light, wondering why he had needed to explore the dungeons. It was an odd feeling to plunge in the direction of the mental fog. 

In a crumbling alcove, one cell stood against each wall. A guard paced in front of all three, his wand whap-whapping against his palm. A large rat scurried from the tray slot in the bottom of a cell door, searching for crumbs. 

The guard stabbed his wand at the rat. "Crucio!" 

The rat tumbled onto its back and convulsed. Its grey fur rippled as it squealed and twisted. 

Grinning, the guard brandished his wand with an imperious flourish, as if he imagined himself in Death Eater robes. "Avada Kedavra!" Green light flashed, and the rat fell silent. 

The searing light of the curse left the guard blinking and squinting as Severus approached. "New prisoners are down that hallway, fourth corridor on the right," he said. It wasn't until Severus stood in front of him that he straightened to attention. "Minister Snape. Sir."

Legilimens. Severus used the spell silently, creeping into the guard's mind. The man blinked, but Severus kept his presence to a whisper. The man's thoughts were thick and slow, like old men crawling through the mud. Not what he was looking for. "The prisoners," he said. "Who do you guard?"

"All down this hallway, sir," the guard said, nodding vigorously. "I've one of the bigger sections. Said I was up for the responsibility, they did. Said I showed potential." He lifted his chin. 

"Did they say to spend your time practicing curses instead of patrolling your section?"

The guard deflated. "No, sir. But I'm not shirking. I was told to pay special attention to this block here."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Well, I was told... you see..." The guard coughed and ran a meaty hand through his hair. "I don't rightly recall at the moment, sir, but it was very important."

"I see. Who is there?" Severus pointed at the first cell.

"Herman Nesterly. Attempted sedition."

"And there?"

"That's Melinda Opperwright. Not there anymore, though. Execution last week."

Severus stared at the door. Execution last week. This week. Next week. And so often he had to watch, as another good witch or wizard died. 

We all make sacrifices, Severus. How many more would die without your information? How many more will die if we lose the war?

For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to leave these dungeons. What difference did it make if some prisoner wanted to be forgotten? The days at the Ministry would be blessedly easier if he could forget what was under his feet. The people he could help only existed outside these walls, and they were waiting for a message from him. He should go to the Carrows, get the information. Do his duty to win the war. Even though he knew: they weren't winning the war. There would still be another execution, another prisoner at The Market. 

You have no right.

He pointed at the final cell. "This one?" 

"That's... that's... one of the prisoners. Been here a long time."

"Name?"

"He's... well..." The guard frowned, rubbing his chin. "It's on the tip of my tongue."

Something stirred in his chest. "Open the door."

The guard held the keys out apologetically.

Severus nodded. The keys were charmed, and only an official seal from a minister could set them to work. He didn't have his seal with him, but the Dark Lord ensured the keys would know a minister. 

A diffindo spell sliced his hand, and blood dribbled on the keys. The Dark Mark emblazoned on them glowed for a moment, the teeth elongating and changing so they would fit the locks they were intended for. 

The guard fumbled with the keys a long time, the lock for the third cell stubbornly refusing each one.

Severus noticed a second key ring with only one key, still hanging from the man's belt. "That one."

The guard patted the ring absently. "Oh, that's... that's for something else... special prisoner... something like that."

"Use it."

Another drop of blood, and the key slid in. The lock clicked, but the door had rusted in place. The guard gave it a shove. 

It screeched open and slammed against the wall. Severus couldn't see far into the darkness, but he could feel the closeness of the heavy walls, the cold and wet sloughing off them. It was like being smothered in clay. A stench permeated the cell, a mixture of human waste, sweat, and rot. 

Something scuffled, somewhere in the back. His pulse quickened. 

"Come on, then," the guard called into the darkness. "A minister's come to question you." He slapped his wand against his palm. "You don't want me to come in there and get you."

More scuffling, but in the darkness, it was impossible to tell where it was coming from. Severus lifted his wand to cast lumos.

Something wet grabbed his leg, and he recoiled. In a rush, something—someone—scuttled between the two of them and out the door. The prisoner slithered, low to the floor, hugging the wall. 

The guard growled and jabbed his wand into the air. "Crucio!"

Severus shoved him aside. A wall shivered as the curse bounced off it. The prisoner was moving fast, trying to reach the corner. He took aim. "Stupify."

The guard flushed. "If you'd let me—" He jostled Snape's arm, throwing his shot wide. 

He wanted to slam the man's face into the wall. "Move aside."

The prisoner zigzagged as he reached the corner, anticipating a shot. Severus strode after him, keeping his hand steady, and threw three spells in quick succession. The second one hit. The prisoner slumped to the floor. 

Severus was halfway to him when the forgetfulness ebbed. He knew what he'd find when he turned him over. 

The prisoner had a thin face, marred from fractures to a cheekbone that hadn't healed properly. He searched the web of mottled skin that ran from the fracture to the forehead. One bit of scarring had nearly disappeared into the web. But it was still there. Shaped like a lightning bolt. 

"Potter. That's it." The guard squatted, studying him, and poked the damaged cheekbone. "Been round the block a few times, hasn't he?" He laughed. "I wager you'll have fun with him, as well." 

Severus closed his eyes, but Dumbledore was silent. So he repeated the mantra to himself: The war, Severus. Sacrifices. This is not your battle. The Carrows. The resistance. They're depending on you. They're waiting.

The guard toed Potter in the ribs between the remnants of his clothing. The sole of his boot left a grid of black mud on the pale skin. "I'll have to owl Minister Lestrange. I remember now, she used to love to pay visits. Generous with her tips, she was." He shook his head. "Harry Potter. Can't believe I forgot him." 

His smile faded when he faced the point of Snape's wand.

"Obliviate," Snape said.

* * *

"Ah, Minister."

Severus froze. Potter hovered vertically in front of him, head slumped against his chest, hands curled in tight contractions. He'd passed several ministry officials and other visitors in the Atrium so far. They all saw the hovering prisoner and their mouths contorted for a second. Their stares moved to Snape's official Ministry robes, his face, his wand. And they hurried out of the way, gazes passing through Potter as if he didn't exist. Everyone except Percy Weasley. 

Weasley had his notebook open, ready. He eyed Potter and frowned. "Interrogation?"

Potter's hair had grown long, and it hung in tangled snarls over his face. Weasley angled his head, trying to get a better view. 

He only needed to move a few hundred yards to reach the exit fireplaces. He flexed his fist around his wand and watched Weasley's peering face for any sign of recognition. "I was unaware you'd been promoted since we last spoke. Should I now call you Minister?"

Weasley turned away from Potter, his mouth tightening. "Rank is not an issue here. We both work for the Dark Lord. And for the good of the wizarding world, of course."

"Of course. And you can surely realize that, for the good of the wizarding world, important Ministry matters should remain confidential. I cannot share sensitive information with a... what is your title again? File clerk?"

Weasley straightened. "Court Liaison. I track convictions, incoming criminals, cataloging and storing their property. I'm in charge of many powerful magical objects. Wand destabilizers, even ward breakers. I'm essential to the war effort." He eyed Potter again. "And I track outgoing prisoners. One simply can't move these dangerous convicts around indiscriminately."

"One can. If one is addressed as minister." He pressed on. The exit fireplaces were thirty feet away. "Don't fret. I'll return him when I'm finished. And if there's nothing left to return, I'll be sure to fill out the appropriate paperwork. I'll leave it for you to file. I understand filing is an important duty of the... liaison."

Weasley blocked his path. "He finds my services invaluable, you know. He's told me what a great help I've been. How important to the war effort."

"He told you?" Severus stared hard at Weasley, saw the nodding approval of Lord Voldemort behind his eyes. But his blue eyes were feverish, and it was difficult to tell what was real and what was the fantasy he liked to rehearse. 

Weasley tapped his notebook. "I send in my reports. They'll see what you've been up to. How you disregard the rules." He shook his head. "I must say, Minister, this is not the sort of behavior I would've expected from you."

"And you, Mister Weasley." Severus could still see him at fifteen years old, in his Hogwarts uniform, his prefect badge polished to a sheen. Huffing loudly as his brothers elbowed him in the dining hall. "This is not what I would've expected from you."

Weasley's gaze faltered for a moment. He watched the press of people walking past, gazes darting to him and looking away. Gripping his notebook tightly, he stared back at Severus. "A name, at least." He squinted at Potter, as if trying to see through the layers of dirt. "Distinguishing marks. Scars."

"That would also be confidential." Severus lowered his voice to a whisper. "I've no doubt that your services are invaluable, Mister Weasley. Perhaps you should see to them, rather than loitering about the Atrium. I would hate to speak to him about your interference in ministry business. I abhor tattle-tales." 

Weasley paled, his mouth going slack. Severus tugged the notebook out of his hands and slid it into the neatly hemmed silk pocket. Weasley flinched as he tapped it into place. "But I'm afraid I would have to. Open communication with our superiors is so important. To the war effort."

Weasley swallowed, his hand covering the spot where the notebook lay, fingers plucking at the pinstripes. But he didn't pull it out again. Severus stepped towards the fireplaces, Potter still hovering a few feet ahead. He could feel those blue eyes staring until he stepped through the fireplace and was whisked away in a gust of floo powder and ash. 

Chapter Text

Severus Snape

Potter sprawled on the floor in the front room of the house on Spinner's End, and Severus tried to work out whether he'd made a serious error in judgment. He knew two things for certain. If he'd left Potter there, he was unlikely to remember to come back for him. Not for years, if his past mental fog was any indication. And Potter was unlikely to survive several more years in that cell.

And one other thing, the bits of scattered memory finally coming together: You must help him, Severus.

He performed several diagnostics, each one deeper than the last, and each one leaving him grimmer than the last. Curses riddled the young man's body. So many that it was difficult to track them all. He'd been right on one account: Potter wouldn't last several years. Dark magic liked to reach out tendrils, and many curses had grown, sinking into the flesh. Their damage would soon be fatal. 

The deep hollows in Potter's face, the puckering of the scars, and the patchy beard made him look older than he was. Fifty, instead of twenty… or was it twenty-one? He never bothered remembering birthdays, and certainly not Potter's. But then a familiar weight settled on his shoulders as forgotten words came back to him—words he had so eagerly carried back to the Dark Lord. Born as the seventh month dies… A fatal mistake that had led to his promise to protect him: the son of the first person to ever show him kindness. It had been the most heartfelt promise he'd ever made. And what an excellent job he'd done at that.

Long black hair scattered on the floor in matted clumps, and he smelled like a pile of sunbaked dragon dung. He stirred, as if in a dream, fists spasming, head thumping against the floor, mouth twisting in a grimace.

Severus frowned. Stupefy should have left him unconscious and immobile for hours. He had cast the spell in a hurry, but… no. It was not the spell.

"You've been learning new tricks," he murmured. He set to work immediately, untangling a muscle-weakening curse that had worked its way into the coronary arteries. The heart beat with an irregular rhythm as it struggled against the damage. Potter's own latent magic must have been fighting it and slowing its progress, but in his debilitated state—

Potter's eyes snapped open.

Severus paused, wand still pointed at his heart. "Potter—"

Dirty fingers seized his wrist. Potter's other fist opened and revealed a flake of grey stone, honed to a razor's edge. His grip tightened, and he slashed.

Snape's sleeve split open, the rip loud and harsh. The blade slid up his arm, deep into the artery, a seam of red in its wake. The stone met the Dark Mark, stuttered, and slipped out of Potter's hand.

The air liquified, the blade caught in a downward current so slow he could count the rotations of the stone. It struck the floor and skidded into a corner.

He came to his senses, and time sped up again. The wound erupted. He dropped his wand and clenched his arm, blood spurting between his fingers and spattering across the floorboards. His heart pounded as red heat rushed over him. You idiot.

Potter scuttled to the door on his hands and knees, reaching for the locks. The deadbolts opened with a click-click-click.

He hadn't re-set the wards over the house yet. Idiot. He let go of his arm and fumbled for his wand. It slipped out of his wet hand, clattering as it bounced and rolled under the sofa.

Potter scrabbled at the door, still on his knees. His calves were thinner than the rest of him, flattened. His feet jutted at odd angles, as though barely attached. Straining, he pulled himself halfway up by the door handle and released the security chain. He fell back to his knees and threw the door open.

"Accio wand." His wand flew back into his hand and he gripped it tightly, pushing away thoughts of lacerating pain and blood. "Petrificus totalus! Incarcerous!"

Potter dodged the petrificus, but the incarcerous caught him, the rope wrapping his arm up to the elbow and lashing him to the door handle. He yanked frantically, pulling himself loose.

He cast petrificus again, and Potter dropped to the floor.

Severus shut the door and clasped his wrist again, pressing on the opened vein. His black robes didn't show red, but the front was slick and warm to the touch. He stared at the sheen of the fabric, a buzzing growing louder in his ears as the folds blurred into each other. His arm didn't seem a part of him anymore, just a glistening red creature that quivered and contracted. 

Injured. Yes. Forcing himself to focus, he chanted the words that would mend the wound. He couldn't see the cut through the blood, but felt the sliding of wet skin against skin as the wound closed. He wiped the edge where the injury had been, revealing the black head of the writhing snake. It was pure chance that Potter chose the arm with the Mark, as dark magic had stopped the cut. No simple blade could mar the serpent and skull.

The room was far away, a pinprick at the end of a tunnel. Blinking, he willed it closer, willed his feet to remain steady. "Such a delightful greeting you reserved for me," he rasped out, partly to himself and partly to Potter's immobile form. "But all I need is a blood replenishing potion to set things right. And all you need is a good thrashing."

It looked as though an axe-murderer had finished up work. Blood ran across the floor, and a red hand print stood in stark contrast to the white paint of the door panel. He cast a cleaning spell over the area, himself, and Potter's filthy frame. Frozen with a gruesome rictus, Potter had one arm twisted uncomfortably behind him. Severus moved to unfreeze him, but hesitated.

The diagnostics were clear. Powerful curses infecting his legs, his lungs, his heart. Weaker curses affecting everything else. Stomach shrunk like a dried apple. Bones hollowed out, as his body slowly ate itself alive. "You're no match for me." His voice was not as assured as he'd intended, but he carried on, determined to show he was in control of the situation. Drawing himself up so he towered over Potter, he doubled down on the condescension. "In your pathetic state, you're no match for anyone."

And yet… did he just blink? Severus gripped his arm protectively.

He kept Potter frozen, secured him with incarcerous, and re-set the wards over the house. It was too much magic after such blood loss. Dark spots appeared in his vision. He stumbled through a door into the kitchen, crashing into the hanging pots, grabbing the wall to steady himself, and knocking down an old family photo. Another door led to an extension that served as his potions room. The last of his blood replenishing potion was gone in two swallows.

He set fires under three cauldrons and quickly added the ingredients, stirring one when the others needed to set, increasing the temperature with his wand whilst scrutinizing the expected color change in another. He soon had three bubbling potions: blood replenishing, marrow-building, and a sleeping draught.

He considered the wisdom of the sleeping draught, of magically imposed unconsciousness. For Potter's health—and his own—he needed to sleep. But stupefy had lessened the forgetfulness spell Potter used, and he suspected it was not just himself and the guard who had remembered Potter in that moment. The remarkably specific memory loss was widespread—he could not recall any of the Death Eaters mentioning Potter, not for a long time.

They had been torturing Potter—he had tortured Potter, under the Dark Lord's watchful eyes, his guts twisting as Potter screamed. On the nights when the memory of those screams burned away any possibility of sleep, he stayed up until the ghostly light of dawn, working on a way for the boy to escape. He hadn't shared details with the resistance—the less they knew the better, until everything was prepared—but he had been investigating feverishly, discovering the secrets of guards who were ripe for blackmail, waiting for a time when the Dark Lord would be away from the Ministry and he would have a few days to get Potter to the resistance before his absence was discovered.

And then he forgot. They all forgot.

He fingered the spot on his sleeve that hid the Dark Mark. Over an hour now since Potter's spell had been broken, and no burn penetrating his flesh, no summons from the Dark Lord. Either the interruption of the memory spell had not reached everyone, and the Dark Lord remained unaware of Potter's existence… Or the Dark Lord remembered, and had shut Severus out of his plans. The thought chilled his blood. Those who lost the Dark Lord's trust did not survive long.

There was nothing he could do about it now. He could only hope that, for once in his miserable life, luck had gone in his favor and the Dark Lord remained in blissful ignorance. The longer the rest of them stayed unaware of Potter's existence, the better. Perhaps he shouldn't risk breaking the spell again. He drummed his fingers along the edge of the cauldron that held the sleeping potion, but the cauldron only offered a metallic staccato beat and no answers.

"There's nothing for it," he told the cauldron. He needed Potter quiet and motionless whilst he worked on reversing the damaging curses running through Potter's body. "I can't fight those curses and Potter at the same time."

He set up a fourth cauldron and carefully combined the three potions, weaving together the magic of each whilst mixing in ingredients that would prevent any undesired interactions. Pouring the final brew into a cup, he made his way back to the kitchen, running his thumb along the rim. He paused, thinking about how to explain its purpose to Potter. To explain his purpose. If Dumbledore were still there, he would've had the words. Severus is only trying to help you, Harry, or some such words of kindness and comfort, and then he would have offered a sweet, and he and Harry would have had a heart-to-heart over tea. Severus had been on the receiving end of enough talks to know how they would go.

But Dumbledore was gone, and he had to struggle on without the gifts that the headmaster possessed. He could attempt to explain himself to Potter. In fact, I spy for the resistance. I rescued you. I'm only trying to help you. But he bristled at the idea. He was going to explain himself to Potter? He was going to reveal his true loyalties, the secret that he didn't allow anyone else to keep?

The thought of that secret being revealed gave him cold sweats in the dark of night, knowing what the Dark Lord did to traitors. It was not even the pain. He had endured the pain of cruciatus. It was the unrelenting days, weeks, months of it, until it reduced him to a quivering weakling in front of them all, crying and begging for release. He would give that secret, that power, to Potter?

Impossible. He knew where his strengths lay, and it was not in heart-to-hearts over tea. Let Potter think his loyalties were with the Dark Lord, that his abduction of Potter was part of some Death Eater power play, or some relentless desire to humiliate him further. Let Potter think whatever he wanted, as long as he submitted to his healing methods. And Severus would make sure he submitted, if it took every bit of magic and manipulation he knew.

Perhaps, with the right manipulation, he could learn Potter's secrets. This new memory magic of Potter's could be more than valuable—it could be vital. A resistance that was forgotten until it struck could quickly weaken the Dark Lord's strongholds and turn the tide of war. He only needed to discover how he'd managed it.

Assuming he could get any information from Potter, as it was unclear if he still understood language. There had been damage to his mind as well, and he'd not yet discovered how much. The only course was to start the treatments, and see what emerged.

He strode into the front room, brandishing the cup. "Potter," he said, and stopped. The room was empty. Potter was gone.

"Homenum revelio." But the spell didn't unveil anyone. He checked the wards over the house, but they were still in place. The only thing they noted was that he and Potter had entered the premises. Before that, months of only himself and the owls entering and leaving. They made no mention of the cat, but they never did. He searched downstairs, levitating the furniture, yanking open doors and slamming them closed. And then upstairs, and back to the kitchen. He examined the wards again, checking to see if Potter had somehow altered them to hide his escape.

No. Potter was here. He could feel it. He would go over every inch of the house if need be. It had to be done quickly, because without the physical reminder of Potter, he had little defense against this new magic. Then he wouldn't find Potter—Potter would find him. He'd have the comfort of remembering him one last time as Potter sliced a blade across his throat.

He heard a noise and tensed. But it was only the cat—a large ginger cat who padded across the room, his meow a soft inquiry.

"I reinforced the wards," Severus told him. "How did you get in?"

The cat leapt on the table and sat like he belonged there, tail curled around him like a wreath.

He had been about to do something. He was quite certain about that. He glanced at his sleeve, as if he expected to see a sign. But it was just his sleeve, looking slightly cleaner than he remembered. The sense of something important slipping away was strong, and he stood there, staring, willing it to come back. But the cat waited, and that meant others were waiting.

Severus poked at the fur under the collar, stifling a sneeze. It had to be a cat. Not an owl. Not a pigeon, even. He'd grown up showered in coal dust, bathed in pollen every summer, and he hadn't much noticed. But cats. Bloody cats. He blinked the sting out of his eyes and found the slight bump on the felted underside of the collar. The scroll was miniaturized to such an extent that it took several spells to resize it, and another several to decode it. The final code was muggle-based, one not prone to decoding spells. Clever, that. He had a fair idea of who had come up with that one.

The cat rowrred an inquiry.

"Quiet." He squeezed his eyes shut and gave several hearty sneezes. "Why don't you wait by the door?"

The cat twitched his tail and rubbed his head against Snape's arm.

The message was terse: where and when is the next attack?

He'd narrowed the possibilities to two: Baker's Field this evening, or Saltpeter Row tomorrow afternoon. Both known hideouts for the resistance. He was nearly certain it was Saltpeter Row, but had gone to the Ministry of Magic to speak to the Carrows again.

He'd gone to the Ministry, but… somehow missed them. Sidelined by Weasley, who'd gone on about reporting him for some infraction or other. It was all a bit fuzzy now. But the Carrows might still be there. He could go back, do the job he should've done this morning.

He frowned at the parchment. They needed an answer now. They couldn't afford several hours whilst he confirmed his information. He scratched out his reply, noting both locations and the likelihood of attack. He hoped it was enough.

Re-coded and miniaturized, the parchment slipped back inside the collar. The cat slitted his eyes at him in acknowledgment, padded to the door, and rowrred.

"You got in well enough. You can find your way out."

The cat looked at the door with great intensity, as if he couldn't quite fathom the concept of closed. He swiveled his head and stared at Severus.

"One thing muggles got right." He strode across the room and swung open the door. "They don't give their post to rat-eaters."

The cat slid out, the tip of his tail waving like a tuft in the breeze. A skinny grey cat in the street took one look at the ginger visitor and darted away.

Severus watched through a window until he disappeared round the corner. The tea kettle hissed softly, a steam valve slowly releasing. He wished he'd had more time. Their messages had gotten shorter as the war raged on. Desperate. In the beginning, they used to be full of personal requests. Non-essential information, as he'd thought of it. Wanting to know the status of prisoners: friends, family, loved ones.

They used to ask about someone, a long time ago. Someone.

Please let us know if you've heard… nothing since the Triwizard Tournament… banned the newspapers from mentioning… but we think that if Harry…

 …if Harry…

Potter.

The morning flew back to him. The Ministry. The front room. The blood.

The kettle hissed again. But now that he listened, it didn't sound like a kettle. Too short, ragged. Hissing in, hissing out. It occurred to him that he hadn't put on the kettle.

He kept his gaze on the window and felt for his wand inside his sleeve. Got a good grip. Slow, discreet movements. He let his heart pound. The adrenaline would help.

Another hiss, another indrawn breath. Close.

Severus whirled, stupify on his lips. But he saw no one. And he remembered. Potter couldn't stand.

Something stabbed him in the back of his ankle. Pain lanced up his leg, hot and white. His leg gave out and he crashed to the floor.

Potter was on top of him, the smell of infection on his breath. He gripped a wire from a sofa spring, thick and flecked with rust. Holding it like a garrotte, he closed in.

Snape's ears rang, but he didn't flinch. He hardened his face and summoned the tone he'd used for years at Hogwarts. "Potter," he barked. "What do you think you're doing?"

The years at Hogwarts ingrain certain habits. He saw it in Weasley, sometimes in Draco. Years of tensing as he hovered over their potions, of freezing whenever he caught them breaking rules. Potter hesitated for a fraction of a second, the garrotte hovering above Snape's throat.

A fraction of a second was all he needed. He wrenched the wire away and rolled, pinning those gaunt arms against the floor.

Potter wriggled a leg free and bucked, kneeing him hard in the ribs.

Severus saw sparks of light. He was bigger, though, and held on, using his weight to his advantage. He pushed down, pressing them both against the floor.

Potter twisted, all bones and sinew, his breathing becoming high-pitched and raspy. His eyes widened, his skin turning chalk-white, and he coughed, chest heaving with violent jerks.

It took a moment to understand. Potter was terrified. Terror so intense, he was about to be sick. Severus turned him over and he retched, yellow bile and blood splattering on the floorboards.

Holding Potter by the shoulders, he stared at his shuddering back, torn between seizing him in a vise grip and cradling his head. He'd never been good with sick students. It was his job to prepare the potions. Poppy was the one to say that's all right and it'll be better in the morning as she tucked them into bed. He wiped away the sick from Potter's mouth whilst he coughed and shivered, sweat dampening the spots where Severus held him.

What he understood was enemy combatants. Potter wouldn't remain docile for long. His ankle throbbed. A broken bit of quill protruded from it, blood running into his shoe.

Severus transfigured the sofa, elongating it and widening it into a bed. The old afghan on it blossomed into a duvet. He aimed at Potter, levitating him toward the bed.

Potter liked that as much as he liked being held down. He twisted in the air and screamed like a man possessed. His progress to the other side of the room halted, and he wobbled in the air, flailing his arms, reaching for something to pull himself free. Magic pulsed through the levitation spell, stuttering the rhythm of it.

"A feeble attempt," Severus said, sneering. But he was growing more impressed—and worried—over these new abilities. He pushed through the opposing force and laid him on the duvet.

Once released from the levitation, Potter leapt up, darting for the edge of the bed.

But Severus was ready for that and slashed his wand in quick movements.

The wards sprung up, and Potter slammed into them like a newt in a jar. The wards were supposed to be invisible, but light crackled in tiny pinpoints where his hands touched them.

Severus added reinforcement spells, and the light subsided. Only then did he feel comfortable taking his gaze away and examining his wounds.

One rib bruised, but none broken. The quill fragment protruded just behind his ankle. He made sure it wasn't near a major artery, then gritted his teeth and yanked it out. It hurt less coming out than it did going in, but not by much. After a skin-knitting spell, the bleeding slowed to a trickle and finally stopped. He was going to need blood replenishing potion with his daily tea, at this rate.

He studied the room. Less damage, this time. Near the writing desk, the cupboard under the stairs gaped open, the books and boxes of stationery inside pushed to the back. He hadn't thought a person could fit into such a small space.

The flesh near the ankle started to redden and swell, still damaged. Ink from the quill left a black splotch under his skin. "Wonderful. Another tattoo." He limped into the kitchen as Potter growled, a wolf denied his prey. It raised tingling hairs on the back of his neck.

He sat in the kitchen and repaired his wounds. Slashing the skin again would allow him to siphon out the ink, but it didn't seem worth the trouble. Nothing did. The sense of purpose he'd felt this morning was rapidly disappearing. Potter was mad. Feral. Dying. "I can't help him," he muttered.

Of course you can, Severus. Harry needs you.

He could see Dumbledore's clear eyes. So sure that he could rely on Snape, that theirs was a bond that could not be broken.

"He doesn't want my help. And I don't feel inclined to give it to him."

You'll find a way. I trust you completely, Severus—

"Oh, shut up, you useless old git." Severus buried his head in his hands.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger

Hermione pressed her back against the sandy rock wall, using the narrow crevice to keep herself in shadow despite the bright morning in Cornwall. The cliffs along the beach could be a forbidding presence, but now she found comfort in their solidness after her whirlwind of apparations. 

She'd been careful and hidden her most precious possession in the ruins of Hogwarts, apparating through several safe points before Voldemort's Dark Guard had found her. Enough safe points that her magical signature couldn't be traced if they threaded their way backwards. They couldn't find what she'd hidden. They couldn't. In a year of defeats—in the years of progressive defeats—this was finally something to hold on to.

She'd deliberately taunted them, staying just out of reach to encourage them to follow her instead of investigating where she'd come from. And once she was sure the full unit was concentrating on her, she moved through her safe points again, spelled to scrub the trace magic with each apparation. After the last safe point, the only place left to go was back to the base. Still, there was always a possibility that they'd created a newer, stronger spell.

Straining her ears, she listened through the breaking waves and the screeching gulls for the murmur of gruff voices or the crackle of spells. Remembering her mental training, she took silent, deep breaths of the chill September air, and the smell of saltwater refreshed her. The morning crispness made her realize she hadn't cast a warming charm, but she didn't dare at the moment. Not until she was certain. 

Slowly, she drew her cardigan closer to her neck. The brisk wind bit at her and she looked down. A hole at the elbow, the frayed threads waving frantically. She waited, legs aching from keeping still, heels sinking into the sand. Waves and gulls, but no voices. Another deep breath and she let herself relax. A touch of her wand and a quick spell and the fluttering threads wove themselves together again. If only everything were so easily mended. 

Keeping to the overhang of the cliff, she scanned the shoreline. A gull stared back at her, and a few plump sandpipers hopped in the swirling foam. No sign of anyone, but that didn't mean she was alone. She whistled the distinct call of a nightingale and waited. 

A long howl rose above the crashing waves. It almost sounded like it came from the surrounding cliffs, but that was the distortion of sound that happened in this area. She wound her way round the cliffs to a flat rock protruding from the sand. 

A lanky black dog sat atop its lichen-covered surface, staring out at the sea. At the sound of her step, it turned and gave a happy yip of recognition. 

Lowering its head, its body rippled, the torso thickening and extending, the stifle and hock joints in the back legs reshaping into human knees and ankles. Brown and olive-green fabric unfurled in ribbons from the curls of dark fur, fusing together to form a tattered sherpa jacket and loose-fitting trousers. With a final, dog-like shake, Sirius Black flipped over from his hands and knees, sitting carelessly on the rock with his legs hanging over the edge.

"All clear?" she asked. She hadn't seen or heard any sign of the Dark Guard, but Sirius in dog form could pick up scents on the wind. 

"Nothing to report, Captain." He cast his patronus and the silver dog bounded to the surf and slipped beneath the waves. "Could use a cuppa, though."

She tsked. "How long have you been out here this time?"

He shrugged and looked away. "Not that long."

"You know I can ask the others how long—"

"Yeah, all right. Twenty-four hours, but,"—he held up his hands to stop her from interrupting—"Moony took the midnight shift whilst I slept out here. A nice, restful sleep that left me happy and healthy and so on." 

She nodded, fighting the urge to say more. The last night he'd spent inside the thick stone walls of the base, he'd woken everyone with screams about dementors. They were all used to it by now, but he seemed more troubled by the embarrassment than the nightmares. The days weren't much better, as he wore a groove into the floor from his pacing. She wanted him happy and healthy and so on inside the base, where he wasn't at constant risk. But they did need a lookout, and he was always the first to volunteer. Perhaps he needed to feel useful as much as he needed the open horizon stretching out before him. 

He watched her as if expecting an attack, and when she said nothing, his shoulders loosened. "Care to join me?" After a wave of his wand, the sand below the rock parted and a full tea tray appeared, hovering at table-height. Both of the chipped cups were mercifully charmed to repel stains and other grime, considering how much time they spent outdoors. The teapot wobbled as steam escaped the spout. 

"Thanks." Hermione poured for both of them, scalding her tongue with the first sip and not caring. She'd been running for hours. 

"Anything for our captain." 

She eyed him over her cup. "You had to give me that nickname, did you? I should make you walk the plank."

"What? It suits you." Sirius smiled, but there was a sadness to it. "Far better than me."

She couldn't stop herself from saying it again. "That battle wasn't your fault—"

"It wasn't? Funny. Tell that to Fred and George."

Her tea sloshed over the rim. "We all miss Fred and George, but that doesn't mean—"

"That I didn't tell them to jump into battle when we could've retreated and regrouped? That I didn't lead Death Eaters straight to us when we made camp in that mine?"

"The mine was dark and cramped and horrid. We all had nightmares that night."

"But yours didn't cause the silencing charms to break." He shook his head. "Unintentional magic at my age. Pathetic." 

"Stop it." She tossed her cup on the sand and leaned on the rock next to him, gripping his arm. "Every leader loses people." She thought of Moody and Flitwick, the green light of avada kedavra enveloping them. "I've lost people. What you're doing isn't helping, so just stop it." He still looked stormy, so she gave his hand a gentle pat. "That's an order from your captain."

He let out a long breath and nodded. "Aye, aye." 

She knew he wasn't through internally berating himself, but she didn't know what else to do. These were the things you didn't find in books. With no one else to give her advice, she had to figure it out on her own. And she sensed that talking about it more would only aggravate things. She made herself another cup of tea and they stood together, sharing the rest of the pot in silence.

A silvery figure splashed to the surface and paddled frantically to shore. Another dog, but this one was smaller, its ears flopping in the wind and its pointer tail cutting a line through the water. Ron's patronus.

Sirius watched its progress. "He was out here at dawn, levitating more fish out of the sea. We won't need to ration our protein for a few days."

Hermione relaxed a bit. "It's a shame to move again. But we've been here too long already."

"He asked about you. We thought you'd be back hours ago."

She glanced at the cliffs. The sun was still low in the east, but it was well over the horizon. 

"It's five after nine." Sirius tapped his wrist, which sported a black leather watch, gifted to him by James Potter years ago. Tiny stars scattered across the indigo dial, like the night sky. "I always track the time you're gone. I like to know how long I've been worrying about you."

She knew, and she was sorry. But the information she had was dangerous enough that she was unwilling to share the burden. "I was delayed." 

Sirius glanced sharply at the surrounding cliffs. "Delayed how? Anyone after us?"

Hermione smiled grimly. "Always. But I waited until the trace magic dissipated. If we were going to get any visitors, they would be here by now." Still, she couldn't help scanning the landscape herself. "Any sign of Crookshanks? We can't move bases until we know the location of the next attack."

The silver Jack Russell terrier pattered up to them, offering several yips before it dissipated. Ron was on his way. Sirius straightened, gesturing for Hermione to join him in a walk along the shore. "No sign of your furry friend." He gave her a mock bow and grinned. "Your other furry friend. But he could be back at the base by now. There was some excitement earlier after Ron and Moony got back from a mission."

"Excitement?" 

Sirius shrugged. "I was off patrolling and only got a message. Don't know the details." 

She nodded. "They're all right, though?" 

He gave her a curious glance. "Still fretting over Ron?"

 She tensed. "I worry about all of you, that's all. Ron and I are just mates now."

"Didn't mean to re-open old wounds." He picked up his stride. "Here he is now."

About thirty meters from shore, the rolling waves split apart. A thick-walled bubble the size of a small kiosk emerged, containing a familiar red-headed figure. He was thinner—they all were—but his freckles and his slouch gave the impression of a seventh-year. On the outside, at least.

Once he reached the shore, Ron waved his wand, and the bubble broke with a light pop. He grinned at her. "I've got news." 

"I heard there was an unplanned mission. New intel?"

"Maybe. We got one."

"Got one?"

Ron tapped his forearm. 

Her blood chilled, but she stayed focused. "You're certain?"

"The skull, the snake. Hard to forget. And this one was bound to be in the inner circle."

"This one? Who—"

Ron grinned again. "Oh, you'll want to see for yourself."

Her impatience rose. He was always like this, teasing her when she was trying to get information, or run a meeting, or do anything as a leader. "Ron—"

"We used those handcuffs you charmed. They work like a… well, you know." 

"Won't you just—"

"Can't cast a single spell. Assuming he could even manage that, wandless."

"Ron, this is no time for surprises. There's a war going on. I need to—"

Like a cloud covering the sun, his face changed completely. "You think I don't know that?" His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the waves. His gaze shifted to Sirius, misery in his eyes. Sirius stared back with a nearly identical expression. Sirius's canine tendencies made him a pack animal, and Fred and George had the high spirits Sirius missed from his old Marauders days. He'd felt their loss deeply. But not as deeply as Ron. 

She shook her head. Why couldn't she ever find the right words? "I know you do. I…" But her voice grew hoarse as well until her throat closed up, and they both stared past each other in silence.

Sirius laid a hand on each of their shoulders. It was a reassuring presence.

Ron looked down at the beach and took a breath. "Just a bit on edge. I kept thinking of Fred and George, how they'd jump at the chance to go on another mission, and another. You were gone all night, and I don't understand why you can't…" He firmed his jaw, holding back the words, but she knew what they were. Be here. Why can't you be here? It was the question he asked her when they were still together, and the question she asked herself now that they weren't. Why couldn't she be here, for him, for Sirius, for all of those who were grieving and worried and looking to her for guidance, for a plan, for some assurance that they would get through this?

But that was the reason she couldn't be here. She had to be there, out there, securing bases and finding weapons and laying the groundwork so that she didn't lose any more of her people, so that they could one day fight the enemy and win. "I'm sorry, Ron." And part of her was sorry, but not the part of her that made decisions for the resistance. She couldn't afford to be that sorry.

When he looked up at her again, his eyes held that old hopefulness. We'll get through this. You and me. It'll be just like old times. 

She didn't say that things wouldn't be the same again, and that some things couldn't be fixed. He knew that. He just didn't want to know it. "It's fine," she assured him. 

Ron reached for her hand, but she sidestepped him. It was partly her fault. It was easy to fall into old habits, even when they both knew that it would just fall apart again. Better to not send mixed signals, even if the temptation for comfort was strong. She glanced back at Sirius and kept her voice light. "Coming?"

Sirius shook his head, stepping back and heading to his lookout spot. She blinked, and the black dog was sitting by the shore, gazing at the horizon.

At the edge of the water, Hermione cast her wand in a wide arc. Another air-filled bubble encircled them, muffling the waves until there was only the sound of their breathing. The bubble only held breathable air for a short time, but it would be enough. She sent it floating onto the sea, keeping the impromptu vessel steady on the waves. Ron stared stonily ahead, his arms crossed. 

"You're right," she offered in a conciliatory voice. "I'll see the prisoner soon enough. If you want to keep it a surprise… I suppose that's a bit of fun."

Ron, looking out at the swirling waters, spared her a brief glance. "It's Malfoy."

Very mature, Ronald, she was tempted to say. 

When she started to ask more, he turned away. There was nothing she could do about the awkward silence, so she focused on directing the bubble under the surface. The water rose, lapping the sides. 

They caught Lucius Malfoy? She felt a stirring of excitement. This could be a true win for the resistance. There were many units of the Dark Guard, but there were only a few who bore the Dark Mark of one of Voldemort's inner circle. The information he had could turn the tide. 

A school of red mullet darted away as the bubble traveled down. The color of the water changed from aquamarine to deep blue to nearly black. She cast lumos, and the surrounding water glowed, revealing an undersea tunnel. Shifting her stance to steady herself, she navigated the tunnel, the bubble rocking as the passage turned upwards. 

They broke the surface in a cave pool and drifted to the sandy edge. Ron broke the spell for the bubble, and the cool air and the smell of sea salt surrounded them. 

The rough-hewn cave had been opened and leveled by magic. The base had a large main cavern, enclosed by a curved roof thirty feet overhead and smaller passages leading to living and storage spaces. Glowing honey-colored stalactites hung high above them. They cast a warm light on the rough wooden crates of supplies being prepped for removal. A few of the stalagmites jutting upwards had also been spelled for illumination, but most were used to hold the discarded coats and scarves of other resistance members. 

The base was one of Hermione's favorites. At least, it used to be, when it was bustling with witches and wizards, everyone full of energy and determination to defeat the enemy. The whole cavern seemed to radiate warmth as people gathered in clusters, making plans or breaking into laughter. 

That was years ago. These days, the cavern felt too big—a large, damp chamber that echoed the scuff of her steps. So many killed or lost to prison camps. Their group was now too small to raid Camp Arswyd or Camp Dreygar to break out their comrades, to say nothing of the restored Azkaban. And even if they could, they didn't have enough food for an influx of prisoners. The cavern seemed to emphasize all of it, the empty space overwhelming the few rebels and crates of goods. 

"He's in the cell with the stone door," Ron said. "He hasn't been able to make it budge. You designed it perfectly."

"It's based on a design from a wizard in this area, Romuald Fincherly," Hermione said. "The tunnels built for the telegraph machines during World War II intrigued him, and he thought they might serve an additional purpose if the Nazis ever overtook the country. He came up with impenetrable doors and secret exits." She glanced at him and shrugged. "A literal underground resistance."

Remus Lupin joined them as they reached the stone door. He gave a nod to Hermione. "I've been watching from the two-way mirror. Brilliant muggle invention, that." 

"Two-way," Ron repeated. "I mean, you can only see one way—into the room. Shouldn't it be called a one-way mirror?"

"He's cuffed?" Hermione asked. "No magic?"

Remus nodded. "We'll be right behind you."

Hermione steeled her face and walked in. She wouldn't let them see how it affected her. The Death Eaters had killed people right in front of her and tried to kill her. But when she saw the man on the other side, she felt her mouth droop. "Oh."

Draco Malfoy paced the length of the cell, twisting his arms, trying to wriggle out of what looked like ordinary muggle handcuffs. He wore wizard robes that cost more than all the meals she'd eaten that year. Although these robes were as rumpled as he was. 

Ron looked like someone dumped coffee on him. "It's a good catch, isn't it?"

Malfoy rushed for the door, trying to barrel his way through. Remus and Ron formed a wall and shoved him back into the room. He sputtered until his gaze fell on her. "Granger?"

She shouldn't have expected them to pick up one of Voldemort's inner circle. She'd told them not to even try. They'd get killed. Draco Malfoy might not be as dangerous as the rest, but…"You're certain he had the Mark?"

Remus nodded. 

"He wasn't in the inner circle the last time I saw him. At least, he never mentioned it. And he definitely would've mentioned it." But that was years ago. They'd all had enough time to make poor decisions since then. Quite a few of the Slytherins from Hogwarts hadn't been seen in years, and she'd wondered if they'd ended up part of the Dark Guard, or spies. It made sense for Malfoy to be a Death Eater now, with his connections. And that meant he might have valuable information. Plans of attack, of where they were vulnerable. 

Malfoy stared at her like she was a blast-ended skrewt. Then he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. "Well, this is all right, then." He gestured at Remus. "You can talk to this… This…"

"Professor?" Remus suggested. "Honored academic? Member of the resistance?"

"Now, listen." Malfoy paced across the room, frowning. "There are rules in warfare. Conventions." He pointed accusingly at Remus. "I was in mortal danger."

Hermione didn't need to check a calendar. "It was a waxing gibbous moon last night. You've got days before you're in mortal danger. Besides, Remus is in charge of prisoners." 

Malfoy's eyes bulged. "A werewolf with a job? A job where he's in charge of people?"

"Do attempt to see it from my point of view," Remus said. "What if purebloods were banned from working? Wouldn't that seem unreasonable?"

Malfoy barked a laugh. "There are reasons behind anti-werewolf laws. Good reasons."

"What if they banned stuck-up gits from working?" Ron advanced on him. "How would you feel about that?"

Malfoy shied back, gaze darting between the two. "Don't blame me. I don't write the laws. Take it up with the Ministry."

"It's never your fault, is it?" Hermione said. "Always doing as you please, completely blameless of any consequences."

An odd expression went across Malfoy's face as he stared at her, like his breakfast was disagreeing with him. "So, your two most trusted lieutenants are a werewolf and a blood traitor? Must be getting desperate."

"We've got a job to do," Ron said. "The things happening with you lot in charge. More are disappearing every day. Squibs, muggles. People who—"

"People," Malfoy said, as if it were a punchline. 

That's right, Malfoy, they're people, no matter what you or your cronies may think. And unlike you… Hermione stopped the diatribe in her head. She wasn't here to win old arguments. They needed more information, something the Phoenix couldn't tell them. They needed something that would turn the tide. And Malfoy was the best luck they'd landed in a long time. "Where'd you find him?" she asked Remus.

"A couple of your muggle contacts spotted him on their rounds. Those two you knew from grammar school? They found him at that abandoned wizard's house near the docks," Remus said. "Coming out of the floo. They knocked him out when he wasn't looking with a well-thrown rock."

Malfoy rubbed the back of his head, avoiding her gaze.

"Kim was always a fair hand at rounders." Getting her muggle friends involved in a wizarding war, no matter how small their role, was terribly dangerous for them. But they'd volunteered when she'd told them what was happening, and they were so short-handed these days. She was breaking all kinds of rules about muggles and magic but couldn't be bothered to care at the moment. She frowned at Malfoy. "What are you doing on the south coast?"

"Heard it was good weather for a swim. Thought I'd give it a go."

"You realize you're in our hands now," Hermione said. "It's best if you cooperate."

"Oh, all right then. Shall I hand over the state secrets now, or do we shake hands first?"

Ron ground his teeth. "It's nothing to joke about."

"This is absurd." Malfoy addressed his remarks to Hermione, as if the other two were a figment of his imagination. "I'm one of Dark Lord's most valued servants. You're mad to hold me here. He'll bring down all his forces on you."

He's already bringing down all his forces on us. "I've seen what the Dark Lord does to servants that displease him." She'd seen the results, at least. It amused Voldemort to post such pictures in the Daily Prophet. "How do you think he'll react to the news that you were captured by muggles? He doesn't seem the type to handle humiliation well."

Malfoy shuffled his feet. "But he doesn't know yet, does he? That I was…" he frowned.

"Captured by muggles. Questioned by a werewolf, a blood traitor, and a muggle-born," Remus said mildly.

"I can't talk like this," Malfoy said. He pointed at Remus. "I don't see why one of them needs to be here. It's like having your pet stare at you whilst you're trying to shag."

Ron scoffed. "As if you know anything about being shagged."

"And you do?" Malfoy glanced at Hermione. "Oh, right. Hypocrisy at its finest. 'Equality.' 'Blood status doesn't matter.' But look who lured a pureblood into her bed." He lowered his voice as he spoke to Ron, as if confiding to a friend. "Sad, desperate purebloods are magnets for status-hungry mudbloods."

"Let's hear you say that again," Ron said, advancing. He kept his fists at his sides, but his knuckles were white. Remus joined him, standing shoulder to shoulder.

Malfoy backed away, his Adam's apple bobbing. 

Hermione realized that while it would be nice to watch Malfoy get pushed around by Ron and Remus, it made her appear as if she were in need of having her delicate honor protected, and that wouldn't help her during an interrogation. "It's fine," she said. "Let me talk to him alone."

Remus looked like he was about to argue, but Hermione gave a slight shake of her head. "All right," he said. "I'll check on supplies."

Ron gave her a look. "I'll go over the Keyes report."

Code for I'll be on the other side of the mirror. Hermione nodded. 

When they were gone, she turned to Malfoy. "All right. Why were you at the docks?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I visited the seaside. Wizards do that all the time."

"Wizards like you? They certainly do. When they're on a mission for their master."

"No mission. It's…" Malfoy swallowed. "My mother's birthday. I was getting her a present."

"At the docks."

"Well… she's thinking of getting a boat."

How did someone so terrible at lying ever get so far in Death Eater circles? "You must be part of a lot of meetings with the Dark Lord."

Malfoy went white. "Well… yes. I… see… the Dark Lord. I'm very important." He nodded, a combination of bravado and utter terror on his face. Hermione almost felt sorry for him. But he'd chosen to be there. He'd wanted to be there. 

"What has he said about the resistance? What are his plans? His next attack?"

Malfoy's jaw clenched tightly. 

Well, it was worth a shot. Malfoy seemed like the type who would break under the slightest pressure, but fear of Voldemort's wrath kept many of his supporters quiet. Fortunately, they had the Phoenix to rely on for tactical information. 

Still, Malfoy might be useful. She tried another tack. Softening her eyes and tilting her head, she said, "I imagine you've had a rough morning. Why don't we take a break?" She waved her wand, murmuring a spell that took a few supplies from their kitchen. A cup of tea appeared alongside a crumbled scone that had long gone stale.

He poked at it. "You expect me to eat this? Is this punishment for not talking?"

"Things are hard all over." She gave a dismissive sniff. "Although I don't suppose you've any idea what it's like to do without."

As expected, Draco bristled. Peacock that he was, he had to be admired for everything, even his deprivations. "You think I haven't sacrificed? We had to do without truffle-stuffed quail eggs for nearly a year. Something to do with food shipments."

Now this was something. The food supplies for the enemy had been going strong, whilst they'd had to scrounge. If even some of those food shipments could be re-routed, they'd have enough for an influx of freed prisoners. 

She nodded sympathetically. "Your father must've sent some strongly worded letters over that."

Malfoy warmed to the subject. "You've no idea. Apparently, there's an entire office that deals with food shipments from muggle areas. And somehow their muggle contacts got the idea that we're"–he raised his cuffed hands for finger quotes—"anti-muggle." He shook his head. "It's been a nightmare."

"Perhaps we can help each other out," Hermione offered. "I know my way around muggles. I could talk to these contacts."

He snorted in disbelief. "And what? I give you everything I know?" He fiddled agitatedly with the cuffs. "Doesn't matter, anyway. I'll never eat quail again." He darted a glance at Hermione and straightened. "Because you're not going to let me go, are you? I'll be stuck with stale scones the rest of my life."

"Perhaps not even that," she said dryly. This was their last batch of scones until they procured more butter and eggs, or at least money to buy enough butter and eggs for the camp. "But no, that's not the plan. We're not in the business of running prison camps." She sharpened her gaze at him. "Unlike some. If you play nicely, we can obliviate you and dump you in the countryside. You'll have no memory of the last few days." It wasn't the complete story, but she wasn't going to get into all their techniques for prisoners of war. "If you don't play nice, the obliviate will be much stronger. You'll be lucky to remember your own name. But either way, one of your relatives will no doubt find you. You'll be back to dining on quail in no time."

He grew still. "You're sending me back?"

She frowned. Why had Malfoy been at the docks in Cornwall, just a stone's throw away from the border? "Don't you want to go home?"

"Of course. What's better than home? But dumping me anywhere. And taking my memories." He tapped his fingers together in a staccato. "Death Eaters who get taken prisoner… That is, the Dark Lord will want to question me." 

"Yes, Malfoy," she said patiently. "That's why we obliviate."

"Listen." He wet his lips. "Perhaps we could skip the obliviate, and you could drop me at some predetermined location. I'm sure there's some agreement we could come to. Some other way–" 

He stumbled back, as if struck by a thunderbolt. "Potter," he murmured, frowning. Then looking up, his face bright. "Potter!" he shouted. 

Hermione's veins turned to ice. "What about him?"

"Harry Potter," Malfoy said. "You know, the savior of the Wizarding World and all that. Our side captured him years ago."

"I know." She wasn't going to give an inch. Not one expression. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "It's not as though I've forgotten him."

"No," Malfoy said, and frowned. "Why would anyone forget him? That… doesn't make sense." He fell silent, studying the floor as if some great puzzle were inscribed on it.

It does make sense, though. She closed her eyes, wishing the thought away. It made sense to forget Harry when every thought of him still squeezed her throat, still caused her to lose the thread of what she was saying. When the reasonable thing would be to focus her energy on the living and mourn him when she had the luxury for such things. She tried her best to do that. But her memory of Harry was like a bright light that wouldn't be put out. 

She knew she wasn't the only one who couldn't let him go. After information on Harry's whereabouts had dried up, they'd gotten in terrible rows about what to do next. Ron would start in on how he must still be a prisoner somewhere, that they should check the camps, break into the Ministry again, despite the fact that they no longer had the resources for such raids. And Sirius had some wild idea that Harry escaped long ago, and was out there somewhere, running his own resistance. They only needed to find him and the war would be won. 

It broke her heart to listen to them. She'd stopped arguing with their theories and let them believe what they wanted to believe. Harry's bravery and steadfast friendship had kept them all alive. It only made sense that they wanted to keep Harry alive, even if it was only in their heads. 

But this wasn't the time to dwell on it. "Your contacts who work with food shipments?" she prompted. 

"Wait, I know about Potter, I mean… I saw him. Surely that's worth more than some low-level officials." 

Another theory about what happened to Harry. She couldn't bring herself to listen to it, but she hated when she had to say it. Those leaden words. "Harry's dead. No one's seen him in years."

"I have," Malfoy insisted. "Not long ago. Just… six weeks. I think."

"Is this some attempt to play on my heartstrings? You think I'll get tearful over your false hope and let you go? I want actual information, Malfoy. Something we can use."

"No, I saw him. I'm sure of it. He—" His face contorted briefly. "It was in the throne room."

She kept her face hard. "Tortured?" 

He blanched. "Well… questioned. I mean, prisoners are questioned."

Hermione felt a faint spark. Was it possible? "Who questioned him? Who was there?"

"Aunt Bella. And my father. The Dark Lord. And Nott…"

She closed her eyes. Why did she do it to herself? Why did she get her hopes up every time? "Nott was killed at the battle of Foreman's Square. Six months ago. You're lying."

"No! Maybe Nott… Maybe I was wrong about him." He pressed a hand to the side of his head. "It's all muddled. Whenever I try to think of Potter, it gets… Nott, right, he was killed. Maybe it was Snape. Yes, I'm sure it was him—"

"Our sources tell us that Snape was on a mission up north six weeks ago." She shook her head, trying to dispel her growing anger. Malfoy was only trying to save his skin, to avoid whatever punishments Voldemort doled out to those who gave the resistance information. In his mind, it was better to tell a fanciful tale of a long-lost friend than something that would help them in the here and now.

But there was something strange about what Malfoy said. Did he truly not remember Nott being killed? They were both in the inner circle, and Voldemort wouldn't have let such a defeat go unpunished. And Snape? His absence six weeks ago would've been noticed. 

"I'm not privy to every little thing each Death Eater gets up to, but I know the essentials, all right?" He waved his confined arms awkwardly. "I've a general idea of where they are. And battle plans. I've definitely heard some things there." He nodded his head vigorously.

She nodded slowly. "Battle plans would be crucial to our efforts." After studying him for a moment, she gave him a false smile. "Those cuffs look like they're uncomfortable. Why don't you let me loosen them?"

"Oh, now that I have information, you're worried about my comfort?" Malfoy wrestled with the cuffs, looking like he was practicing a bizarre dance move.

"Just trying to make things easier for you. Here, hold out your hands." She gestured with her wand. 

With a look of relief, Malfoy held out his hands, palms up. 

She didn't waste a second. "Petrificus!" As Malfoy froze in place and began to teeter, she cast a sticking charm to root his feet to the floor. He swayed slightly back and forth, reminding her of a wobbly penguin toy she'd had as a child. His upturned palms were still held out, side by side. She approached him and rolled up his sleeve as he made muffled screaming noises.

There was the Dark Mark, its snake writhing within the skull, just like all the other Dark Marks she'd seen over the course of the war. Memories of battles flooded her. Screaming and the burn of ash in her nostrils. She took a deep breath, tried to calm the pounding of her heart, and forced herself to study it. A murmured detection spell and a sharp tap on his wrist, and the Mark shivered, the snake and skull wobbling against the skin.

Frowning, she probed at the Mark, and then, with a sinking feeling, she whispered, "finite incantatum." The mark bled like wet ink, the glamour slipping away, to reveal another Dark Mark underneath - one that had been slashed through. The mark of someone banished from the inner circle. 

She looked into Malfoy's pleading eyes. But all she felt was bitter disappointment. He wasn't in the inner circle anymore. If he hadn't known Nott had died - that meant he'd been shut out for at least six months. Any information he had was hopelessly out of date. He probably knew less than the resistance did.

He was still making strangled noises, some of them sounding like words that were decidedly unsavory. She stared him down until he quieted, skin flushing as he was forced to stare back. Good. He deserved to be uncomfortable. All this time wasted on someone who had never been useful for anything more than stuffing his face with quail eggs. It was far past time to obliviate him and move on. She unfroze him and unstuck him, and he collapsed into a chair.

He shook down his sleeve and leaned forwards. "Listen, Granger. It's not what you think. A misunderstanding, that's all. I need a little time to sort it out, and then…"

He kept on like that, going on about his importance to people in high places. How he was actually quite secure within the inner circle. Half-truths and lies. She tried not to think about how he'd soon be wandering the countryside, in an obliviate-based stupor. What the enemy would do to an exile once they had him.

The resistance couldn't afford another mouth, especially one as worthless as Malfoy's. She held out her hand to stop his wheedling. "If you don't have information to share, then our business is at an end. I'm sorry, Malfoy, but—"

"Money," he said, seizing on the word. "I have money."

Hermione paused. "I'm listening."

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger: Cloak and Dagger

Hermione Granger

Just past Bourgin and Burkes, Hermione pulled up short by a wanted poster of herself. It was a new one, announcing a higher reward for her capture. The photo had been taken when she'd been in one of the early prison camps. Seventeen years old and glaring at the camera, her hair puffed up like an angry cat.

"Flattering," Malfoy said.

"Shh." She pulled the invisibility cloak tighter around the both of them. They were full-grown adults, so it was a tight fit, and he seemed to deliberately poke his elbow into her side whenever he moved.

Knockturn Alley had changed little over the years. The sun sank behind a row of buildings, lengthening the shadows, and the area wakened, lights going on in windows and proprietors moving inside their shops.

A steady clomp of boots made them freeze. The Dark Guard didn't patrol Knockturn Alley, but occasionally an officer would wander through, collecting his payment from proprietors for his inattention to their activities. The man who turned the corner, though, was a wizard with reddened eyes and dirty grey robes. His gaze stared through Hermione to her likeness behind her before moving on towards The Spiny Serpent.

When he was out of sight, Malfoy exhaled at length. "Can we take this off now?"

She pulled the invisibility cloak off, revealing their faces in the dingy light. Malfoy's glamor had only changed his face to something less pointed and his hair to something less irradiated, but his stiff body language was still recognizable. He immediately ran his hands over his hair, checking for flyaways, as if a hair had any hope of breaking free of the gunk slathered on it.

"Merlin, Granger. That smells like the inside of a dog's mouth. Where did you get that thing?"

She carefully folded the cloak, running her fingers along it tenderly before putting it in her bag. She wasn't going to cry over Harry again, not here, not now. Not in front of this pretentious nitwit. "You know perfectly well who it belonged to."

He was still fussing over his hair. "I don't see why it was necessary. Or do you not trust your ability to cast glamors?"

"They test for glamors at the random checkpoints. Or weren't you high enough up in Death Eater circles to know even basic security information?"

He waved that off. "You just bribe the right officer in the Dark Guard, and you can skip the checkpoints. Everyone knows that."

She nodded curtly. "Perhaps when I have my money, I'll do that."

"My money, you mean." He crossed his arms and huddled in on himself as she led the way. "I don't understand why you wouldn't let me see the new base. You said you'd let me stay if I paid you off."

She frowned at the term paid you off, as if she were one of those officers that took bribes. But she didn't have the energy to get into another argument over semantics. She'd spent three days watching over him at their old base and had felt every minute. "I didn't say you'd stay with us. I said I would use a light touch when I obliviated you. Just removing enough details so you won't be able to find us, or send anyone after us. I won't leave you in some blissful haze, to be picked up by the Dark Guard or Death Eaters. Assuming you cooperate."

"But if I'm not at your base—"

"We've got better things to do than babysit you." She paused and took a breath. Three days of this. Three days of waiting for an attack that never came, whilst the poster boy for bellyaching gnawed on her last nerve. The Phoenix hadn't provided further information, and she'd finally given the go-ahead to move to an established base at Dumbledore's old house, well reinforced with protection charms. It had never been detected, and staying in the old base for too long would've been a risk. "After I'm paid off, you're on your own. Although it would be helpful if you actually told me why you're avoiding—"

"I did tell you. We had a difference of opinion."

"That hardly explains—"

"Why don't you try working for the Dark Lord? See how you get on."

They passed a street vendor, his robe fastened to his thin frame with several straps and buckles, as if he expected to be carried off by a strong wind. He'd piled his cart high with spellbooks, their bindings bent or missing, the jagged pages held together with little more than charms and wishful thinking. Few could pay for entire spellbooks these days, especially the forbidden books collected by this vendor. She'd bought a few defensive spells herself, ripped out and sold by the page. There had been a time when she would've been outraged at the idea of destroying a book. Such feelings were luxuries she could no longer afford. 

The vendor gave no sign he knew her at all. At least the glamors were working. Whenever she'd bought from him, he'd never asked what she planned to do with the spells, or why. In the end, those who made their trade in Knockturn Alley were not interested in light magic or dark magic. They were only interested in grabbing the next galleon to keep the wolves from their door.

When they stopped at a set of stairs by Markus Scarrs Indelible Tattoos, Malfoy stared up at the sign of a white dragon and the contempt briefly fell from his face. "The White Wyvern? I didn't think you'd be seen dead in a place like this."

"Don't get excited." She angled her way round two elderly wizards just exiting and headed up the stairs. "We're not here to buy poison or cursed objects or whatever else you get up to. I've found a way to access your gold without going to Gringotts." The goblin bank had several security checks that tested for both glamors and polyjuice. Not that she could get her hands on the ingredients for polyjuice these days.

He followed, looking none too pleased.

A single spindly candle burned on each of the rough-hewn tables, releasing trails of smoke that gathered in the rafters. The support posts were decorated with the carved runes of past patrons. She recognized a grouping that gave the incantation to summon the spirits of murdered souls. Another series of runes simply spelled out that one should fire-call Lucile if one was looking for a good time. 

They found a table littered with half-empty glasses under the mounted head of a sea serpent. The serpent had been animated, much like a magical portrait, and it had not improved its disposition. It glared balefully at them as its tongue roved through the air hungrily.

A witch in violet robes stared in amusement at the sea serpent until her gaze fell to them. Her eyebrows scrunched together as she studied them.

Hermione resisted the urge to check her glamor. She'd cast it with a variation that would sound a quiet buzz in her ear if it failed. Patrons in The White Wyvern always looked dodgy and watched new customers, searching for any information they could sell. She'd been here several times without incident, and there was no reason to back out now.

Malfoy shoved the half-empty glasses to the side and fidgeted in the dim light, tugging at the cuffs.

"Will you stop it?" she hissed. "I cut the chain so they wouldn't be noticeable. Don't bring attention to them."

"Take them off," he said, "and they won't bring attention. You've already got my wand. What do you expect me to do?"

"I expect you to sit there and sign whatever form I give you."

He raised an eyebrow. "All this skulking about. I thought the goblins were your allies. Those were the rumors, anyway. Don't you trust Gringotts to keep your secrets?"

She pressed her lips together. But they couldn't do this without him gleaning some information, and he would be obliviated later. "Some goblins are allies. Others maintain their neutrality."

"Neutrality, right." He shook his head, a half-smile on his lips. "I genuinely didn't think your little rebellion would last this long. Gryffindors have no head for this sort of thing."

The witch in violet robes had disappeared, slipping away into the back of the pub. Hermione squeezed her hands together and took a deep breath. "What sort of thing?"

He gestured at the smoke-filled pub. "This. Subterfuge. Negotiations. Feeling out who's your ally and who's your enemy. The very idea of neutrality… No one's neutral in a war, Granger. Everyone's out for themselves. You should be intelligent enough to see that."

"Not everyone's like you. Some people care about what's right."

"What's right." He scoffed, tugging at his cuffs. "What's right is… fluid. Changes all the time."

"For a shameless opportunist, perhaps."

"For everyone." He eyed her. "Nearly everyone. If you had to fight an enemy to protect your family, would you?"

"Of course I would. I have."

He moved an empty beer stein back and forth in his hands, tapping at the glass in a sharp staccato. "I've fought the enemy to protect my family from the Dark Lord's wrath. So that means I'm in the right."

"Your side is evil. They've killed people—"

"So has yours—"

"In self-defense!"

"It's all self-defense in a war." He leaned back. "You're telling me that if it were a choice between hurting your family or doing the right thing, you'd hurt your family?"

The words she'd readied died on her tongue. She'd altered her parents' memories to remove herself from their lives. It had been for their protection, but sometimes she wondered if she'd had the right to take that from them. To alter their lives so drastically. Had she hurt her family to do the right thing? Was what she'd done even right?

He studied her and shrugged. "I know they're muggles, but they must have some value to you."

She kicked him under the table and nearly unseated him. "You're trying to get a rise out of me."

He gave her a sharp grin. "I'm making a point. Stop trying to do the right thing and take advantage of every opportunity the moment you spot it. Do it for yourself, and do it for what you care about. Because believe me, that's what everyone else is doing."

"You mean be greedy and ruthless, like you and your lot? No, thank you."

The sea serpent above them grumbled, its feelers swaying gently. She wondered if it was laughing at her. 

"Fine. Be noble and kind and brave. But bravery is no match for cunning."

"Cunning is no match for loyal friends and allies."

He crossed his arms, shaking his head. "You're hopeless."

"How about we skip the idle conversation? It's bad enough that I have to—" She stopped. "There he is."

A baldheaded goblin in a green velvet coat stood in the brightest—which is to say, least gloomy—part of the pub. He raised a pale hand and fluttered a red and gold striped handkerchief. The same pattern woven into Hermione's scarf, which she unwound from her neck and waved back at him. Their signal.

His eyes narrowed when he saw Malfoy. He stopped at the table but did not sit.

"Hello, Griphook," she said in a low voice.

The goblin pointed a long finger at Malfoy. "He is not one of your group. This one has made many visits to Gringotts. I can smell the wealth."

Malfoy preened at that. She flicked her hand at him in introduction. "Draco Malfoy. You must've known I would bring someone along. I need to withdraw from his account. "

Griphook rubbed his chin. "I did not think it would be this one. This one works for them. This one is no friend to your cause."

"This one never said he was." He huffed.

"But you will let the other side withdraw from your account?" He stepped back and tilted his head to gaze under the table. "She does not have you at wandpoint. You do this willingly?"

"Willingly but unenthusiastically," he groused. "It's not as though I've much of a choice—"

"He defected," she chimed in. Griphook had been willing to ignore the new rules for Gringotts imposed by Voldemort's regime, but even he might balk at breaking the established prohibition of withdrawing money under duress. "Joined our cause. He insisted that his first act should be to supply us with new funds."

Malfoy gaped at her. "I hardly volunteered—"

"Yes, you did." She smiled sweetly at him. "You were the first to mention your account at Gringotts. Don't you remember?" She turned to Griphook confidentially. "He has a terrible memory, I'm afraid. Always forgetting things." She turned back to Malfoy, dropping the smile as she stared him down. "I certainly hope you don't suffer any major memory losses."

He swallowed. "Ah, yes. It's all come back to me." He schooled his features and gave Griphook a winning smile. "Can't wait to open my coffers to this just and noble cause."

Griphook blinked at him. "That is most fortunate." He glanced at Hermione. "By my calculations, you were due to run out of funds in a matter of weeks."

"Calculations?" he asked. "You've been calculating when the resistance would fail?" He shot her a smug look.

Griphook ignored him and addressed her. "Only out of concern. Goblin history is full of losses we've suffered due to the inability to gather resources or wealthy allies. We lost many lands during that time, and many rights. It's why we devoted ourselves to mining gold and cultivating wealthy accounts." At this, he nodded at Malfoy. "We've found it to be the best protection against further incursion."

"Of course." She patted the chair next to her. "You fought in the first war, didn't you? It's why you wanted to help us." She couldn't help shooting a look at Malfoy. See? Some choose willingly to do the right thing.

Griphook nodded and settled himself. "My family was not involved with Gringotts. We wanted to live an independent life. Farmers and shopkeepers." He shook his head. "We lost everything in the war—and then were accused of greed when we sought restitution." The candlelight burned in his eyes. "I learned quickly that when you are a goblin, gold is the only thing that gives you a voice in the wizarding world."

Malfoy nodded slowly. "Money is power."

She became uneasy at the direction of the conversation. "And allies. Victories are impossible without allies."

"Yes, allies." Griphook clasped her hand. His long fingers were calloused, but his palm was soft between the deep creases. Seeking her gaze, he tightened his grip. "I hope you understand what our alliance has meant to me. It's reminded me of my time before Gringotts, when my life was my own."

She was touched. "Of course. I'd like to think it's more than an alliance. You've been with us through thick and thin. And there's been a lot of thin."

"I did my best to push back against other voices in the brotherhood." He hesitated. "Ones that mention goblin-made artifacts. "We have need of magical objects to guard our gold. There have been difficulties with dragons, and our next transport of their hoards…" He waved his arm broadly, as if to say the problems were too numerous to count.

Nodding, she thought carefully about how much she could say. She could depend on obliviate to keep her secrets, but there was such a thing as being reckless with information. "Such objects should be cherished and used wisely."

He nodded with a resigned look and released her. "Perhaps we should get on with the business at hand." With a sweep of his arm, a rolled parchment bearing a Gringotts seal appeared on the table.

Malfoy sat ramrod straight, his head cocked as if listening to a bird call only he could hear. "Right. Time to make this official."

Her heart beat a little faster. Funds at last. Money they could use to buy potions ingredients, to treat injuries, to buy wolfsbane for Remus. And, of course, to buy information. To buy allies, who waffled until one side showed them galleons. Griphook had been right about that. It was disheartening to think how much the tides of war turned on gold. But that didn't make it any less true.

Griphook unrolled the parchment and snapped his fingers at the candle, which grew brighter. "A moment, if you will." He produced a quill and scratched away.

Malfoy stopped fidgeting with his cuffs. He sat, almost unnaturally still, staring at the parchment as Griphook worked. The sea serpent above gnashed its teeth, snapping mouthfuls of smoky air.

A chill ran down her back as she studied Malfoy. "What is it?"

He gazed at her serenely. "Just making peace with the money I'm about to lose. It's different for me, Granger. I'm used to the better things in life."

She found herself unable to shake a tightness in her chest. "No tricks," she warned.

He raised his hands lazily. "It's an official Gringotts document. What could I do?"

She glanced at Griphook. "What if he gets access to his vault? Can he—"

A strange light entered Mafoy's eyes. "Right, my vault. All sorts of little mementos in there."

She frowned. "What are you thinking?"

"Hmm? Nothing." He shook his head.

Feeling cold, she rubbed at the goose pimples on her arms. "If he gets access to his vault, can he cancel the transfer?"

Griphook remained focused on the document, but shook his head. "The owner of the account can shut it down, canceling all transactions. But the younger Malfoy is still in trust. Once he has signed the transfer, it's out of his hands."

"So suspicious." Malfoy chuckled. "Perhaps there's hope for you yet."

Griphook finished scratching in entries and paused. "The amount?"

"Ten thousand galleons," she replied immediately. Malfoy had spent days trying to argue her down to a few sickles, right up until they'd left the underwater base for Knockturn Alley. But she'd held firm, reminding him that his money was useless to him if she left him without memory or wand to be captured by Death Eaters.

But now, he said nothing, only twitching once as Griphook recorded the number. He took the parchment and quill and signed in a fluid script, the tail of the y underlining the rest of his name before twirling off to the margin. When he lifted the quill, the name swelled, rising slightly until it stilled, embossed on the surface.

Griphook nodded and pushed the parchment and quill over to Hermione.

The transfer amount was written clearly enough, but the rest of the document was in the legal jargon of Gringotts. She mentally kicked herself for not studying legal terms used in magical banking, but the last few years had been devoted to spells for concealment and combat, with little time for anything else. She pointed at a line in a dense paragraph. "AELOC? What's that?"

"Artifact equity line of credit. If Mr. Malfoy did not have sufficient money to cover the amount, a line of credit would be extended, based on the Gringotts-appraised value of any goblin-made artifacts in his vault."

Malfoy looked at him sharply. "But I have plenty of galleons. No need to liquidate any artifacts."

Griphook slitted his eyes at him. "Not to worry. Your artifacts are safe."

She pointed at another phrase. "And this? 'Use of archival methods for delivery of funds per the GWTA 1481?'"

"The Goblin Wizarding Transactions Act of 1481." Malfoy sighed heavily. "Merlin, Granger, don't you know anything? It's standard language in any transfer of funds at Gringotts, to ensure the proper amount is received by the parties concerned. Any pureblood with two sickles to rub together would know that. His lip curled. "Although that explains why you haven't a clue. This is exactly my point." He pulled the quill out of her hand and wagged it at her mockingly. "Some people just aren't built to be in the wizarding world. Either you're too naïve to pay attention to what's really important, or you're incapable of grasping the subtleties of a culture you simply don't belong in."

"At least I belong in the human race, unlike some people." Realizing her poor choice of words, she glanced at Griphook. "No offense meant."

"Not at all," the goblin said smoothly. "To be sorted with humans would be far more offensive."

Studying the document again, she felt her frustration rise at each unfamiliar term. Should she have consulted Sirius or Ron? They probably knew more about Gringotts. Realizing that she was actually thinking that purebloods were more qualified to do this than muggleborns, her face heated. She snatched the quill back and signed. The ink wriggled again, embossing her handwriting. "I'm perfectly capable of handling the wizarding world," she told Malfoy. "You don't have to have certain parents to be intelligent. Or an idiot. And soon we'll have more than two sickles to rub together, thanks to you."

He looked away from her, his shoulders tense. "Right."

Griphook reviewed her signature, nodded, and rolled it up, sliding it into an interior coat pocket. "I'll return to Gringotts and begin the process immediately. Would you mind waiting? It shouldn't take long, and I can bring you the first payment now."

She glanced at the door, thinking of her friends at the new base. And then back at Malfoy. She slumped a little. "That'll be fine." It would be over soon, and she'd hopefully never have to look at his stuck-up face again. 

With a quick bow, Griphook departed.

The silence that followed would've been awkward if she hadn't far preferred it to making small talk with an insufferable git. She kept an eye on the witch in violet robes at the nearby table, who had reappeared and now seemed to look at everything in the pub except for them. This felt more suspicious than her attention before. The witch finished her drink slowly, taking small sips, and then finally paid, giving them a final lingering look as she left.

Malfoy, after going through an entire routine of fidgets and twiddling, cycled back to picking at his cuffs. He focused on the part where the two halves joined around his wrist, poking at it with a fingernail. A rippling shadow passed across his face and hands, momentarily revealing his real features. He looked up, clearly pleased with himself.

Her stomach lurched. The glamor wouldn't hold forever, and his attempts to access his magic were interfering with it. "Stop," she hissed. "Your glamor is wavering. Do you want to be recognized here?"

 "It's not my fault your magic is shoddy. I've cast plenty of glamors and they've never faltered this quickly."

"It's because you keep pushing against the magic of the cuffs. If you'd leave them alone—"

"If you'd take them off, then there wouldn't be a problem. You have me out of your precious base, and you have my money. What more do you want from me?"

"I'll have your money when it's in my hands. I wouldn't put it past you to try one last deception." She moved a seat closer and slipped out her wand. Blanching, she placed her hand over his, holding the band still with two fingers while subtly casting a reinforcement spell. His skin had the softness of an idle life that she expected, although it wasn't as cold as his reptilian manner suggested.

His eyes gleamed in amusement. "Granger, I didn't know you cared."

She ignored him, intent on the nonverbal spell. When she finished, she leaned close and fluttered her eyelashes at him. "You'd think I'd tire of telling you to shut up. But I never do." Removing her hand, she settled back in her old seat. As soon as she did, she felt a familiar weight brush against her leg and a furry tail swat her calf.

Oh, Crookshanks. Why are you here now? Please be patient. And quiet. She didn't want to explain his presence to Malfoy or anyone else.

"Reinforcement spell," he said, shaking a wrist. "You may cast silently, but I know the wand movements." He went quiet, gazing into the distance.

She had a good idea of what he was thinking. "No point in working out how to reverse it. Once the transfer is complete, I'll take you to a secluded spot, cast obliviate, and release you."

"Still, it's a useful charm for restricting magic. More temporary than wand-breaking." He paused. "I will get my wand back?"

She nodded. If she hadn't seen his Mark slashed through, she wouldn't have dared. But even if he wasn't on her side, he was no longer on theirs. And leaving someone–even him–unarmed and at the mercy of Death Eaters was something she couldn't stomach. 

He still didn't seem satisfied. "You have it with you, then?"

She did—well-concealed and protected from accio in one of her bottomless bags—but something about his questioning made her uneasy. "It's not here, but I'll get it. It won't take long."

He crossed his arms and frowned. "How did you get an account at Gringotts, anyway?"

"We have our ways. It took a few years. A bank account was hardly our highest priority." Crookshanks was still pressing against her leg. She glanced at Malfoy. He hadn't noticed the cat. She slipped a hand down and tugged the message from its hiding place.

"You think I'm shallow, worrying over money."

"Don't fret. I thought you were shallow long before this."

He rolled his eyes. "People respond to money. They like to claim that they're not that sort of person. But they're all that sort of person."

"Not all of them. Some hold on to their principles." She held the note in her lap, rolling and unrolling the edges. The pub was dark, but not so dark that he wouldn't see her decoding spells. She leaned forwards. "We could still make a different deal. Less money, more information." She glanced about the pub. "Do you see anyone you recognize? Anyone you know something about?"

He gazed at the other patrons. She took the opportunity to decode the message as quickly and quietly as she could.

"Strange," he said.

"Hmm?" She only half paid attention, focused on her spellwork. The incomprehensible squiggles transformed into Ron's blocky handwriting, although still written in one last muggle-based code.

"The place emptied out. It was twice as full when we entered."

"Perhaps we caught the end of the dinner crowd."

"In The White Wyvern? No one comes here for the food."

"Then perhaps everyone concluded their shady dealings and has gone to catch a bite elsewhere before committing further crimes."

"You're one to talk." Malfoy glanced at her. "What are you fussing with?"

"A to-do list. I'm crossing off 'tolerate an annoying dolt.'" She mentally deciphered the final code to a blunt message:

The Phoenix wrong.

Attacking us now.

She jumped up, rattling the glasses on the table.

His eyes widened. "What's gotten into you?"

"We need to go."

"You haven't finished robbing me." But he got up willingly enough. "Where are we going?"

"We're—" she stopped. She couldn't take him with her. Not back to the base, in the middle of an attack. He'd escape, or just get himself killed. She had a few mates in her old neighborhood who had helped her out. She hated to risk them, but right now… "There's a flat with some muggles where you—"

He blocked her way. "Muggles? You'd leave me, helpless, with muggles? Are you insane? You said you'd remove a few memories—"

"Later. Right now, I need you out of the way—"

"Sorry I'm inconveniencing you. I'm only funding your war effort."

"What do you care? I'd think you'd be happy to hold on to your precious money for a little while longer."

"I'm not going to be held captive by muggles! Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?"

She shoved him towards the exit. "Learn to suffer the indignities. I've got no other place for you."

They'd almost made it to the door when a well-honed instinct for survival told her to look behind her. It barely registered, but it was there: the familiar scrape of a boot and the murmur of her name that sped like a dart across the space.

Two men in dark robes were following them. One raised his wand, and the loose sleeve fell away to reveal the sleeve of a starched jacket with a green armband: the uniform of the Dark Guard. His wand lashed out, and a spell hit her directly in the face. A thousand needlepoints touched her forehead and cheeks and then she heard the buzzing in her ear that told her the glamor had fallen.

He grinned maliciously and threw a volley of curses at her. She dove to the side and cast a levitation spell, yanking a table away from a startled witch. It spun in the air between herself and the men. Their curses hit it head on, blasting it into splinters.

Malfoy yelped and dropped to the floor as shards of wood rained down across the pub. The rest of the patrons scattered in all directions.

Sending several more tables flying at the guards, she dragged him to his feet and ran for the exit, but it was crammed with a mob, all trying to leave through the single door. She turned and raced around the perimeter, searching for another way out. "Doesn't this place have a fire exit?"

"Take the cuffs off," he begged. "I can fight. I can help."

The guards were in pursuit, sending chairs flying to clear a pathway. A cruciatus struck the wall above her head. She summoned the broken glass strewn across the floor and hurled it towards them.

The guards cast a shield, but not quick enough. A few shards got through, and they swore as the glass embedded into their upraised arms.

Taking the brief reprieve to scan her surroundings, she realized there were no other doors, not even a window. She cast an incendiary spell at the wall behind her, hoping to burn her way through, but the flame died out. Fireproof walls.

The guards split up, coming at them from either side. Soon she would be cornered.

"Hold your breath," she told Malfoy. "You're not going to like this."

The guards were readying another volley when she cast a spell at the floor. Grey-blue slime seeped from the floorboards, gathering into a large puddle that crept towards the guards. The stench hit her immediately.

Malfoy made a choking sound. "What on earth is that?"

"Fish guts hex. Chases the nearest target and sticks to them. Smells like nothing else."

He stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. But she was focused on the head of the sea serpent behind the guards, which was salivating in dripping streams. She unstuck it from the wall and sent it hurtling towards the guards.

The guards, hands over their mouths and noses, didn't see it coming. Its teeth sunk into the first guard's shoulder. He screamed while the second guard stumbled back, slipping on the goo and landing in it. His robes were soon soaked in the gluey stench.

The sea serpent's gaze snapped to the man now covered in fish guts. Hermione sent it flying again, and it landed on top of him. The first guard stared down at his wand hand, as if the force of his willpower would make it move. He blinked slowly as his arm hung there and toppled, unconscious, to the floor.

She ran for the now-empty exit, Malfoy close behind. They kept running once they were clear of the pub, making several twists and turns until she was sure they weren't being pursued.

Finding a dark alley which smelled only slightly better than fish guts, she leaned against the brick wall and caught her breath. "I wonder who tipped them off."

Malfoy wheezed heavily. No doubt the only exercise he got was lifting his silverware. But he still managed to glare at her. "Not… me. Couldn't." He rattled the cuffs in her face.

"The undercover ones make regular patrols of the area," she conceded. "But I wish I knew how they spotted us." She didn't have time to think about it now. She needed to hand him off and get to the base. Pulling out the invisibility cloak, she beckoned to him.

Scowling, Malfoy turned his back to her. "I'm not going anywhere. Certainly not to any muggle hovel."

All she could think about was the seconds ticking away, each one keeping her from the base, from helping Ron and Sirius and the others defend their lives. She gripped her wand. "I can give you plenty of itching and stinging hexes that will keep you occupied all night."

His shoulders hunched, then sagged. "Fine. I suppose none of those books you read ever offered lessons on tact or manners." He turned on his heel too quickly and stumbled on the cobblestones.

She leaned down to help him back up. Malfoy's elbow shot out and struck her in the face. The pain was sharp and blinding, and she fell, scraping her hands and dropping her wand.

Malfoy grabbed for it, but she blocked him with her body, forcing her throbbing eye open until she spotted her wand again. She kept a tight grip on it as he yanked at her hair, snapping her head back.

She spun and aimed a kick at his groin, trying to clear her vision. She missed and banged against his thigh. He stumbled back, giving her a chance to get up and get a better grip on her wand.

Before she could utter a stunning spell, he launched himself at her, shoving her down, and she slammed her head against the stones. Whiteness erupted everywhere. She curled both hands around her wand, refusing to let him near it. "Petrificus totalis!" She cast it awkwardly, with both hands, and the spell missed its target, hitting a dustbin.

He growled, ripped the invisibility cloak from her, and took off down the alley.

"No!" she shouted. She fired off another stunning spell, but her vision was spiked with bright spots. He ducked behind the dustbin. She ran after him, but he wasn't there. She heard footsteps, though, getting more distant. A puddle near the entrance of the alley splashed upwards, although nothing she could see had landed in it. Malfoy. She dashed after him.

Speeding through Diagon Alley, she dodged between witches and wizards and shopping bags. She could mark Malfoy's progress by the shouts and shoved people in his wake. Whenever she lost him, all she had to do was listen. Eventually she'd hear clomping feet, shouts of surprise and irritation, and a gap where someone was pushed to the side.

She got close enough to hear his panting, but when she reached out to grab the cloak, she found only thin air. A door slammed to her right. A large clothing shop stood with a heavy glass door, the shopkeeper staring back at her undisguised face. Behind him hung a large wall clock, ticking away.

She stood there, her head pounding, watching the hand tick off the seconds. She could spend hours tracking him down the aisles of that shop and across Knockturn and Diagon Alley, and all the while, she risked being recognized and arrested. And if she were stuck in a cell whilst her friends were attacked, she'd never forgive herself. Every second she spent here was a second she could be at the base, fighting. Keeping her friends alive.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she whispered. "I know what that cloak meant to you." But Harry wasn't there, and he never would be. She had friends who were still alive that needed her. Turning aside, she found a secluded place and apparated away.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape

The dark magic diminisher filled a whiskey tumbler near the window by the kitchen sink. The tumbler itself was cloudy from overuse, a faded Stitcher's Inn etched on it—the name of the local pub his father had frequented and from which he'd purloined their glassware. The liquid inside glowed softly, attracting sunlight and transforming the dingy glass into something bright and ethereal. The vial of strengthening potion gave off a peppery scent that Severus could detect from across the kitchen. He'd brewed it in such a way that it targeted the vital organs, repairing them and easing recovery. The sleeping potion could take on many colors, depending on the length and depth of the sleep required. This one had a rose tint to it, indicating it was one of the lighter brews.

Severus sat on a wooden chair at the small kitchen table, ignoring his uneaten pot noodles in favor of staring at his potions. In theory, they were a solid beginning to recovery. In practice, they were exercises in frustration.

Every few seconds, an electric crackling came from the front room. Severus knew what he would see if he opened the adjoining door: Potter, still within the confines of the bed, fighting the wards. He'd spent the last three days kneeling by the invisible fields with contorted fingers, tiny sparks flashing where he touched, leaving behind a fading glow.

Severus had tried again that afternoon to note the movements of his fingers. If he could learn this new magic, he might have a better idea of how it was keeping him alive. If it was as innovative as he suspected, it may be something the resistance could use. The memory spell, in particular, would reap immediate benefits, as an enemy that could not be remembered would be nearly impossible to fight. But Potter had a sixth sense about being observed. Severus had busied himself with a book, only watching out of the corner of his eye, but Potter had caught a quick glance and immediately stopped.

So he sat in the kitchen and stared at his undrunk potions instead.

The pot noodle soup on the stove bubbled. He ladled some into a bowl. "Diffindo." The surface of the broth rippled as he sliced the noodles into smaller bits his nearly toothless companion could swallow.

"Toothless," he murmured, thinking of the garotte wire. "Ha."

He gathered the potions and soup on a scratched commemorative coronation tray. The bowl perfectly fit over the queen's face, giving her a surreal look straight out of a Magritte painting. Setting an anti-spill charm, he levitated the tray and brought it into the front room.

Potter wore a clean nightshirt, as Severus had removed and vanished his old rags at the earliest opportunity. He'd held those filthy garments at arm's length, his wand in the other, but had stopped before that final flick. A few inches to the left of the disintegrating shirt's front placket was the Triwizard insignia, the one worn by all the tournament players. Six years ago, he'd watched his least favorite student go into that maze, thinking him an arrogant fool. He hadn't seen him again until months later, in a thickly warded vault, when he'd finally convinced the Dark Lord of his loyalty. Six years. It felt like centuries.

Little remained of that arrogant boy. Despite the clean nightshirt and a scourgify, he had the look of a mummy discovered in a glacier after thousands of years. When he spotted Severus, he retreated to a corner of the bed, near his hoard of grimy crockery and spoons. After each meal, he added the newest additions to his collection, like a magpie. When they began to levitate away, Potter had covered them with his body, holding onto each rattling bowl for dear life, until Severus had relented and let him be. One might pity him, except for the eyes. The eyes stared at him and burned.

Levitating the tray of soup and potions, he carefully navigated it to the bed. Potter watched the tray pass through the wards with shrewd eyes, but Severus had woven the spells carefully and only used silent incantations. He could move things through the wards, but Potter could not get out.

The tray settled into a hovering position a few inches above the bed. He nodded at the bowl. "I'll have this one back. I'm tired of transfiguring new tableware to add to your collection."

Potter ran a crooked finger—snapped in half by a Carrow, his memory helpfully supplied—along the edge of the tray, eyeing the potions warily. He slid his gnarled hand—crushed under a boot heel—through the steam wafting from the broth, then brought his palm to his face, sniffing the scent clinging there. He took a few wheezing breaths, clutching his side—unknown or forgotten curse, likely burrowing into his lungs or pleural space until the lungs collapse and the victim asphyxiates. Dipping the spoon into the bowl and then pulling it out vertically, he extended his crusted tongue—excessive exposure to a potion with psychotropic properties—letting the tip gather a single drop. His gaze darted to Severus, studying his face.

Severus had too many years of practice to give away any hint of what he was thinking. Not that there was anything to hide when it came to dinner. "You can eat it. There are no potions in your pot noodles." Not anymore, at least. He'd already tried that. "And the potions on that tray are to help you. Do you understand?" Did Potter understand anything he said? Or was he simply madness and hatred, with nothing left of the boy—the human—he once was? A thought he'd refused to acknowledge finally rose to the surface, unbidden. Would it be a mercy to simply let the curses run their course? To let this wretched creature die?

No. He'd spent years preserving the life of Hogwarts' most infamous student, despite Potter's best efforts to end it. He would not lose a battle of wills to a feeble wizard who'd learnt a few tricks. He would take his medicine, one way or another.

Potter retreated from the tray, his gaze on the wand until Severus pocketed it. Then he watched Severus's hands.

He knew it would be another twenty minutes before another infinitesimal sip. It was an effective technique for detecting potions: wait and observe any effects before ingesting more. There were some poisons that could kill with just a few drops, but the damage could be limited or reversed by being cautious. He'd used the technique himself.

What he couldn't sink into that skull was that it was unnecessary. He'd explained he was attempting to reverse damage, but Potter either didn't understand or didn't believe him. Every one-sided conversation left him ready to scream incendio until the walls burned. 

Potter's gaze flickered, and he crossed his arm over his chest, a clear sign of sharp pain. His Adam's apple bobbed as if he could barely swallow. Severus held his breath, wondering if the curses had reached a fatal point.

But he took a shuddering breath and dropped his arm. Another reprieve. How many did he have left?

It put his teeth on edge, this futile watching, knowing there was a chance he could save him, but unable to do a thing. He was so bloody tired of watching. He wanted to stun Potter into unconsciousness and pour the potions down his throat, set his bones, and carve away the darkness festering in his body.

The only viable answer was what he'd done in the dungeons: stun him into unconsciousness. But that had led to an influx of previously blocked memories. How much had the memory spell been inhibited by that lapse of consciousness? Like that blasted cloak of invisibility, the spell kept Potter alive. It protected him by hiding him. How much more would Potter be exposed if he were stunned again? He searched his mind for other possibilities, but came back to the only option: stun him, feed him the potions, then work his best counter-curse magic until Potter roused himself enough to fight back.

He took out his wand again. The time for waiting and watching was over. "I'm afraid I must use more robust measures."

Potter tensed, and something flared in his green eyes. It was too quick to catch, but Severus suddenly flashed on that day in his fifth year, when he'd said that terrible word and lost his best friend—his only friend, until Albus. That look in her green eyes immediately after. She hadn't been surprised. Even though he'd begged for forgiveness after, he'd known. In that moment, he'd known she'd been waiting for him to break her already fraying trust.

With Potter, it wasn't even fraying trust. It was the barest thread, the merest chance that Severus might not curse him, hurt him, force him to be helpless. Unlike all those other times, in the throne room.

Stupefy. The incantation was in his head, but he didn't say it, didn't point his wand. He couldn't do it. That thread, that slender thread of believing there was something worthwhile left inside him. Maybe it wasn't real, maybe Potter didn't feel it. But Severus felt it, and he couldn't bring himself to break it. It was all he had.

Impotent fury rose in his chest. He snarled and shifted his aim to an empty spot at the foot of the bed. He wanted to shred the sheets to pieces. "Reducto!"

A spot in the air above the bed sparked, but nothing else happened.

He frowned. The spark had appeared where the wards surrounded the bed. Touching the spot, he felt a warm, fluttering pressure at his fingertips, followed by a stony hardness when he tried to push further. He tried casting a cleaning spell on the bed. No effect. Circling back to the spot where he levitated the tray in, he gave it an experimental tap. Not a single place where he could get through.

"You couldn't escape the wards. So you altered them."

Potter kept his gaze trained on the wand.

He angled his wand and considered dropping the wards. But what then? Judging from Potter's taut muscles, he was ready for that. He crouched near the pile of crockery. Two of the bowls had fallen—or been deliberately broken. The sharp edge of a shard threw a jagged shadow onto the sheets.

He sank onto his stiff-backed desk chair and considered the stack of blank parchment. Perhaps it was time to inform the resistance. Concede defeat. If he couldn't help Potter, then it was best to send him off to someone who might get through to him—someone who wouldn't end up with a broken quill in his ankle.

He'd have to use obliviate to avoid any leaks about his attempts to heal him. Not that Potter was the chatty type these days. The perfect company for a spy. A pity his silent associate was so intent on murdering him.

To H. G., he wrote. Please see one bound wizarding savior, enclosed.

He crumpled the letter and rubbed his forehead. Now was not the time for levity. He needed to communicate the seriousness of Potter's condition, so they could…

Could what? Perform elaborate counter-curses in their scores of free time? Rely on their decades of experience in wielding dark magic?

If only he could restore his status as a double agent and rejoin the resistance. Heal him whilst his friends assured him of his good intentions.

To H. G.,

You're familiar, I'm sure, with Severus Snape, Death Eater and minister of the Dark Lord's regime?

You may find this somewhat implausible, but…

He vanished that letter, and the one before it. He knew he'd never send them the moment he began. He couldn't leave his post. He couldn't reveal himself to those who didn't have his ability at occlumency, and would betray him with their very thoughts if captured.

And if they knew Potter was alive, they'd want to retrieve him. They'd trust the Phoenix with information but not their precious Chosen One. He'd need to bring Potter part of the way, which was impossible in his present condition. Secret passages, undetected floo networks, evading capture whilst on the run. And Potter crawling behind him, or levitated and screaming.

He almost wrote a third letter. Dear Poppy… But it was another he couldn't send. Madame Pomfrey had been one of the many who disappeared into the prison camps. They'd both have to do without her skills in healing wounds and soothing agitated souls.

Potter dribbled three drops of the broth onto his tongue and swallowed slowly. Touching the glass that held the dark magic diminisher, he dipped a finger inside and examined a droplet, frowning.

"Moonflower ash, charred by dragon fire. A combination of newt's blood and lemon balm allows it to work with your own magic and fight what's afflicting you."

Stiffening, Potter's gaze snapped back to Severus's hands.

Brushing imagined dust from the cuff of his sleeve, Severus pretended not to notice. It was disconcerting to be stared at in such a way. When he was a boy, there had been a dog like that on his street. Tail missing, matted fur, and cigarette burns across its back. It never looked at anything but hands. Once, when he moved to pet it, the dog had yelped and ran away. His mam had scolded him. "Go near a cur and he'll have a bite of you, like as not."

He shook his head. Potter was not an animal. It took intelligence to create such spells. He was in there, somewhere. Thirsting for a way to use magic. "Would you like to know how it's brewed?"

Potter did not look away from his hands. But he remained still, head slightly cocked.

Opening a drawer in his desk, he withdrew a battered green case-bound journal. He knew all the brew instructions inside by heart, but it never hurt to keep old notes on hand to refresh his memory. He glanced at Potter. Especially these days.

"Inveni dark magic diminisher," he told the journal. It sprung open, the pages chattering as they parted and snapped into place on either side.

The brew was his creation, in his own cramped handwriting, but legible enough. "Geminio."

A page sprung into existence, a perfect replica of the one in the journal. Even down to the yellowing paper and torn-off corner. A memory flashed: Don't worry, Sev. You can use my notes. Geminio! And a freckled hand pushing loopy scribbles towards him. Such simple kindness, so freely given. It had always been so easy for her.

Watching Potter warily, he pressed the paper against the wards, the writing side facing the bed. The wards sparked, but the paper didn't burn, merely fluttering as if from a light breeze.

Potter pressed his hand against the wards on the other side. For a moment, Severus felt nothing but the rippling of the page. Then his hand sank slightly, and another hand met his, the thin paper separating them. Hard and bony, but warm against his palm.

The paper shimmered and a light electric tingle ran across his fingertips. Potter plucked at the edge of the paper and peeled it away from the wards.

"So there is a way through," he murmured.

Clutching the paper, Potter retreated to his corner. He held it close to his nose, scanning the page. 

No glasses. It had been so long, he'd forgotten Potter wore them. "There are potions that can improve vision. Challenging, as they need to be tailored to each individual. But I'm eminently qualified. Interested?"

A single bony finger touched the bridge of his nose where his glasses used to sit. His hand trailed down to his fractured cheekbone, his expression unreadable.

Severus pointed to the potions. "Then drink."

One hand clasped the paper close to his chest. The other clenched and unclenched, as if miming the movement of holding the tumbler.

Severus held his breath. Perhaps he'd finally coaxed him into listening. Or worn him down, or offered a tempting trade. He truly didn't care at this point, as long as he took the potions and complied with a proper healing regimen. Once there were clear signs of improvement, he'd stop fighting so much, surely. He'd follow—

Heat pulsed in his forearm as his Dark Mark flared to life. Sweat broke out on his neck and the angles of the room lengthened and sharpened. Unable to do anything without incurring suspicion, he'd waited for the Dark Lord's response. Three days since he'd taken Potter from the dungeons, and this was the first time he'd been called. Did the Dark Lord remember now, as he did? If so, why hadn't the call come sooner? Was he being summoned for an inquiry or an execution?

The call was always painful, always accompanied by fear. But he'd managed not to grab his arm, like so many Death Eaters. He refused to show his pain to others if he could help it. He thought he hid it well.

But Potter knew. His gaze darkened, moving to Severus's arm. He slammed against the wards, as if to reach through and tear away the sleeve to reveal it. The wards sparked around his hands, brighter than before. He gave a full-body twitch and fell back, his mouth and eyes wide, clutching at his chest. His lips moved as if to call out, but the only sound was a gurgling choke. He jerked again, falling onto the bed and convulsing, sending sheets and cups scattering as his limbs flailed. The spasms quieted, then stopped altogether, his body going limp. His features fell slack and those burning eyes went still, like a mask with sightless eyes staring out from behind it.

A shiver rolled down Severus's back as his throat tightened. It had happened. He hadn't pushed hard enough, forced Potter to take the potions, and some curse had gotten to him. He stared at the body, willing it to move. It did not. The stillness seemed to chill the room. It had all been useless. He had been useless. Not quick enough, not clever enough, and now someone else was dead. He wanted to curse. He wanted to hex himself. But none of it would do any good. Nothing he did ever seemed to do any good.

You're worse than useless in this state. He took a deep breath and let it out. Clear your mind. Another breath, and he found the empty black place with thick stone walls, the place where nothing could get in. The snarl of his inner voice, the rapid thump of his heart—they were all outside. Inside, it was easier to move forwards. He could see what was necessary, no matter what he felt about it. 

Potter… No. It was not Potter, not the person he swore he would… It was a body. He would put the body into stasis until he returned, until he knew how much the Dark Lord remembered. That would determine its placement. Returned to the prison cell, no one the wiser. Or found near the Ministry as part of a failed escape attempt. 

A bitter bile filled his mouth. If only he could take Potter back to his friends to be buried, at least. To be remembered. He approached the bed, crouching until he was at eye level with the twisted figure. His friends would grieve, but they could lay him to rest. 

You're letting in emotions. Clear your thoughts. He pictured the thick walls settling, not a single crack between the joints. Nothing got in, not even light. 

Physically bringing the body to the resistance was too much of a risk. He never gave the resistance physical items unless absolutely necessary. Too much evidence to trace back to him. Reflexively, he stood and cast scourgify, removing any trace that he'd ever touched the body. He would need to scourgify the body as well. 

Concentrating on steadying his hand, he silently cast the spell. A spot on the wards brightened, but nothing else happened. The bits of food residue under the broken fingernails remained. 

Potter's alterations to the wards were still in effect. Unusual. A shiver ran down his core. Some spells remained after the death of the caster, in the right conditions. Or perhaps…  

Clear your mind. Do not hope. Observe. He crouched again, bringing his face mere centimeters away from the wards. 

The body lay on its side, the drape of the nightshirt obscuring any possible rise and fall of the chest. No movement around the nostrils, but the lips were partly open. Inconclusive. 

Fine droplets scattered across the temple. This was normal for bodies, of course—the sweat glands release water upon death. Two droplets succumbed to gravity, running towards the face and into the corner of one eye. The eye didn't blink, didn't cease its blank stare. But there was the barest twitch. A post-mortem muscle spasm. Perhaps. 

Long hours of study and practice had made him precise in his spell-casting. It was at times like these that it was worth it. He verbally cast the spell to drop the wards around the bed, but added a wand movement and a silent nonverbal addition that caused the wards to reset nearly instantaneously.

The body reanimated with lightning speed and pounced, holding a ceramic shard. The sharpest point slammed into the wards, centimeters from Severus's jugular. The wards rebounded with force, throwing Potter backwards.

Severus leapt up, nearly dancing on his feet. "Not this time, Potter," he crowed, sending sparks along the surface of the wards, illuminating the boundaries that still surrounded the bed. He cast again, using his regained control of the wards to turn the sparks into little fireworks. "Did you think you could fool me with your childish deceit?"

Potter snarled at him, baring his toothless gums.

If I'd dropped the wards, I'd likely be dead. Adrenaline surged through him, fear and jubilation making the edges of the fireworks shimmer. He shook his head and focused on the man in front of him. Potter kept testing him, kept thinking he could get the better of him. And that habit needed to be quelled. He leaned against the wards, towering over the figure on the bed. Potter scooted back, and Severus's relief mixed with the pleasure of besting someone, being faster and smarter and putting a dangerous enemy in his place. "If this is how you plan on using my kitchenware, perhaps it's time to limit my generosity." He spoke softly, savoring every small flicker in Potter's face." You can lap up your dinner off last week's newspaper, like the cur you are."  

Potter spat at him. The spittle sizzled on the ward, hanging in the air between them.

Severus smiled, knowing it made him look twice as unpleasant and happy for it. He pointed his wand at him. "Stupify it is, then. I'll get those potions down your throat whether you like it or not."

Flinching, Potter shoved his hand into the sheets, searching for his shard whilst his gaze stayed on the wand. But then he stopped, firming his jaw. He pulled his gaze up, staring directly into Severus's eyes. Slowly and deliberately, he shook his head and tapped his forearm. 

His wand already in position, Severus froze. It had been several minutes since the Dark Lord's call. He didn't have much time left before his absence would be noted. 

Potter drew a line around his neck and into the air, miming a collar and lead. He gave the lead a jerk and pointed at him with a mocking smile. The message was clear. You're the cur. Go to your master.

Severus stared back, more taunts filling his head, more ways to bend Potter to his will. But the instinct that kept him alive drew tight, dragging him back to that empty place inside. Clear your mind. The Dark Lord will not wait. He broke off the stare and turned away. When he reached the door, he heard a new sound: a dry, jagged aspiration. Potter was laughing behind his back.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape

The throne room had been the first change the Dark Lord had made to the Ministry. He'd blasted his way through the Department of Muggle Relations, hollowed out the rooms above and below, and transfigured the simple plaster walls into dark granite. The throne sat at one end of the cavernous space, raised on a platform over six feet high. Floating candles flickered weakly around the edges of the windowless room, creating perpetual twilight. The Death Eaters surrounded the throne, standing stiffly.

A massive mosaic of a serpent and skull dominated the vast wall behind the throne. Whole and broken wands embedded into the granite formed the serpent. The skull through which it writhed was made of the polished bones of muggles. A lone wand hovered in front of the mosaic, between the serpent's fangs.

Bellatrix Lestrange stood over a kneeling hooded figure within the circle of Death Eaters. The area around the eye holes had darkened from tears. Either from fear or from the spell that pulled at the eyelids, preventing them from blinking. The figure's head was frozen in an upturned position, locked in a gaze with her.

"Show me where he is," she said a little too loudly, no doubt to show off the intensity of her mind magic to the others. "Show me your memories. The brat couldn't have taken them all." The figure shuddered despite the immobilized head. Under the shapeless prison robes, something metallic rattled.

Severus's throat constricted. So much for the hope that Potter's magic had kept them from remembering. The interrogations of Potter's friends had begun. He mentally prepared himself to show no reaction if the figure turned out to be someone he had once known in another life.

"Severus," the Dark Lord greeted him. "I'm so pleased you could join us."

The position of the throne and the candles kept him shrouded in darkness. Once seated, he dwelled in shadow, sensed only by the flash of a pale hand, the glint of a wand, or his glowing red eyes. And his low-burning voice: hissing, rasping, then sharply crackling back to life.

Severus had met with the Dark Lord enough that he could picture him clearly. In recent years, his skin had lost its sheen, growing mottled and dusty. He'd grown thinner, nearly skeletal, and his back now hunched. The dim light and draped robes hid these changes to the less observant. But even the dullest Death Eater couldn’t miss his gleaming teeth. His canines had elongated and sharpened. They often sliced through his bottom lip, and he'd taken to the disconcerting habit of darting out his thin tongue to lap at the blood.

Nagini slithered at the foot of the throne, winding and unwinding in wide coils. She flicked her tongue at Severus.

He suspected Nagini tasted fear and conveyed the information to her master. He buried his thoughts, buried his feelings, and let old memories rise. His father's rough voice and rougher hands, his body wearing away from hard work and harder drink. How desperate Severus was to escape the same fate for himself. James Potter and his gang, and how that arrogant voice brought sharp fear and helplessness. Wanting to be near the Dark Lord, needing to be near someone so powerful. Someone who understood.

Before all this, before he took the Mark, he'd thought of leaving England to travel, perhaps to gather exotic ingredients unavailable in his little corner of the world. Go to the jungles of the Amazon or the Mindoro rainforests of the Philippines. At night in the Mindoro rainforests, for a few weeks in the spring, a magical variety of the jade vine blooms. The flowers tumble like tresses, glowing a deep blue-green in the moonlight. The petals, properly brewed, are said to clear the mind and heart. Difficult to cultivate from seed, but he would've liked to try, to wander the moonlit forests and listen to pattering rain in the canopy and mimic the echoing call of the Mindoro hawk-owl. He would've liked to clear his mind and heart.

But that was not the life he had chosen. His choices chained him to the here and now, and there was no shaking them off.

"Some of you may already know why we've gathered here." The Dark Lord's gaze swept over Lucius and Bellatrix, finally landing on Severus. "If you don't, you will soon enough."

Severus stilled the surface of his mind. But there was a new undercurrent, deep and chilling. It pulled at him until a thought emerged: you made a mistake. You are in danger.

"I've asked a guest to attend." The Dark Lord indicated the hooded figure. Bellatrix released him and stepped away as the floating candles darted forwards, surrounding the figure in a bright circle of flame. The hood and prisoner robes tore away, revealing the uniform of a low-ranking guard. "Please welcome Mister Arlo Boyce." A sweaty man with thinning hair looked up, his gaze darting from one Death Eater to the next.

The name was unfamiliar, but the face struck a ringing blow. It was the guard who'd stood outside Potter's cell.

"I've asked Mister Boyce," the Dark Lord said, "to explain a peculiar mystery to me. I'm afraid he's not been obliging."

Sweat dripped from the guard's forehead. "M'lord, I don't know what you're talking about. I swear I don't."

Nagini wound her way down the throne, towards the guard, curving around the stone railing on one side of the raised platform. Grotesque stone heads capped the balusters, each one in a different state of agony. The one mounted on the post at the foot of the stairs was the face of Charity Burbage, the muggle studies professor. Severus had witnessed her slow and agonizing transformation into stone. Her last look had been directly at him, each knotted line around her eyes and mouth captured forever.

The guard had a similar look now as the Dark Lord eyed him speculatively.

"It took me quite a while to find you, Mr. Boyce. I'd forgotten about you. But Nagini hadn't." He roused himself from his throne, slowly straightening his back until he stood at full height and descended the stairs, watching the snake's progress fondly. "She tracked the scent of the boy all the way to the cell you guarded."

Severus silently sent thanks to his own paranoid nature that he'd cleaned his robes of any scents before arriving.

Nagini's tongue flickered, and the Dark Lord smiled. "She thinks she's going to feed tonight. Tell me, where is the prisoner now?"

Boyce trembled, his eyes wide, his gaze fixed on Nagini, who now slithered around his knees. "My lord, I can't remember, I..." His gaze roved frantically around the room, landing on Severus, then Lucius, then Severus again. "Maybe... Maybe someone..." he struggled with his words, lips working, trying to piece together any semblance of a memory. "Maybe he was transferred to another prison."

The Dark Lord stroked his wand thoughtfully. "Or perhaps he escaped."

Nagini hissed.

"No! No, I wouldn't let anyone escape, my lord." He shook his head fervently, bowing, and the keys on his belt jangled.

A frisson of terror ran down Severus's back. The keys. The key that opened Potter's cell hung there, on its separate ring. He'd spilled his blood on it. And Nagini knew the scent of every Death Eater: the scent of their fear, and the scent of their blood.

Slitted nostrils flared. "I would hope not, Mr. Boyce. Well?" he called out to the assembled Death Eaters. "Tell me, my elite company of dark witches and wizards, my most skilled casters and cursers. How did Harry Potter disappear without a single one of you noticing? Would anyone like to explain? Lucius? You've been a particular disappointment as of late. Perhaps you'd like to redeem yourself."

Lucius Malfoy stepped forwards with his usual haughty posture, but there was a hesitancy in his step. He knelt. "My lord, I have news—"

The Dark Lord's breath quickened. "Of Potter?"

Severus composed himself, giving Lucius a look of mild curiosity. Breaking cover was for cowardly men, and he was no coward. He would hold back his fear and find a way through. He must.

Lucius stopped, his mouth working. "No, my lord, but—"

"I have no interest in your prattling reports. Potter is what you should focus on." He contemplated Lucius. "As if your very life depends on it."

"Of course. But I…" A light shone in Lucius's eyes. "His rebel friends might have broken him out. He might be at their base at this very moment."

The Dark Lord waved the suggestion away. "They would have announced it if they had. Given hope to the mudbloods that their so-called savior has returned."

"They may wait for the right time. It's a possibility, surely?" Lucius had kept his head down, but now risked a glance upwards.

"Perhaps." The Dark Lord drummed his fingers against his lips. Red cracks ran along the nails and the cuticles had blackened. "But such speculation does me no good. I want Potter now."

"My lord, it doesn't need to be speculation. That's my news. The goblins have turned."

Severus's focus narrowed to Lucius's voice. Roughened from fear, but not from deception. He was telling the truth, at least as he knew it.

"Ah, finally. Much more of their neutrality and I would've blasted Gringotts apart. There was one stubborn holdout, wasn't there?"

Severus knew this was an empty threat. Destroying their source of goblin gold—the only type of gold that couldn't be magically replicated—would destroy their economy. Even in his most fevered moments, the Dark Lord understood the need for funds in war.

"Yes. Griphook, my lord. But with enough pressure on his family, he came to his senses. And just a moment ago, the Granger girl signed a transfer, agreeing to the use of archival methods for delivery of funds—"

The Dark Lord stiffened. "Get to the point."

Albus had told Severus about the Dark Lord's impoverished roots. He likely knew very little about Gringotts banking regulations and was loath to admit it.

"Of course, my lord," Lucius said hurriedly. "It means that if the girl isn't present at Gringotts to receive the funds, they will deliver them to her current residence. And to know her current residence, Gringotts is able to trace her to—"

"Their current base." The Dark Lord gazed into the distance, his eyes fixed on a point only he could see. He held out a hand. "You have the location?"

Lucius got to his feet but remained at a half-bow, carefully placing a scrap of parchment into his upturned palm.

He read the fragment and smiled. "A perfect place to end that miserable little rebellion."

They were going to attack the base, and he had no way of warning them. He thought quickly. "My lord, may I suggest sending a few scouts first to see if this base is even real. The goblins have only recently joined our cause. Sending all our forces to a place they suggest—it's a sign of trust they've not yet earned."

"Hmm. What do you think, Lucius? Is it not possible that the goblins are deceiving you? Attempting to lure us into a trap?"

Lucius shot an icy look at Severus and then focused on the Dark Lord. "My lord, if Potter is there, we should attack immediately, before he slips away. We can bring several units of the Dark Guard as well. The rebels are rapidly dwindling. Even if there were a trap, they couldn't hold us."

Dread reached up and grabbed Severus. He'd spent too much time focused on trying to heal Potter and not enough time on his duties as a spy. He should've discovered the turn of the goblins and been informed of the location of the new base. Stopped the leak of information or sent a message to warn them. The tiny resistance was no match for a horde of Death Eaters and several units of the Dark Guard. "My lord, let me go in advance to observe. I'm well versed in detection spells, and can disable any the rebels cast to alert them of our coming."

"I'm also experienced in detection spells," Lucius said smoothly. "At any rate, such spells will do them little good. We'll set anti-apparation barriers before we close in. All the warnings in the world won't help them when they've nowhere to run."

A deft strategy. Severus felt a spike of fear. "My lord—"

"Enough." The Dark Lord raised a hand and turned to Lucius. "Go. Set your barriers and attack. But not our entire force. Surely it's not needed for that feeble band." He listed off half the Death Eaters in the room, but Severus was not among them. "Take your troops and lead the charge. If you do well, then perhaps your family will be redeemed in more ways than one."

Lucius gave a quiet nod, his face flushed with excitement.

"But Lucius… You must bring back Potter alive." His gaze roved the room, landing on each Death Eater. "I want him alive. If he dies…" His hand caressed his own throat. "Anyone who's even indirectly responsible will know tenfold the pain Potter has known."

Silence filled the room. Quietly, Lucius and the assigned Death Eaters shuffled out.

Severus wanted desperately to follow them, but knew that leaving in defiance of the Dark Lord could mean torture or death. But perhaps he could depart soon after them, whilst they were still setting the barriers. He could work against them in the shadows, hobble them, and they'd blame the resistance. He only needed a location.

He'd barely had the thought when the Dark Lord crumpled the scrap of parchment in his fist. Red light flashed through the skin, illuminating grey hand bones. When he opened his palm, powdery ash slipped through his fingers, adding a bitter taste to the air.

"My lord," Severus said, working to keep the misery out of his voice. "The likelihood of Potter being at the base—"

"Oh, I know. That ragged handful of miscreants breaking into the Ministry and stealing Potter? They never managed to do that when they were still a force to be reckoned with." He let out a long sigh. "Potter, however… He's a different matter. I'd forgotten him completely. What power could overcome my own memory? Unless…"

The Dark Lord grew meditative, staring into the distance. It continued for so long that Severus wondered if he'd forgotten the rest of them were there. That had happened a few times of late. He would begin to speak and then fall into silence, sinking into his own thoughts so deeply it seemed as if he would disappear from sight. And the rest of them waited, sometimes for hours, none willing to be the first to leave his presence without permission.

But this time, he roused himself. "We've other matters to attend to. This escape must have some explanation. Bellatrix? What did you find?"

Bellatrix came forwards, her twitching hands reminding Severus of Potter drawing on the magic around him to escape. "My Lord, the memories are gone. I found no sign of…" She frowned, pressing the heel of her hand against her temple. No sign of…"

The Dark Lord growled and slashed the air. Blood spurted from her ear and dribbled down her long neck. She cried out, her eyes wide in confusion.

"No sign of Potter." He pointed at her. "Do not heal it. Let it serve as a reminder."

She nodded fervently. "Potter, of course. His mind magic."

He snorted. "Perhaps I should carve a new Mark. Engrave that wretched name on you and anyone else who forgets."

Her gaze roved the room, full of fear and calculation. It landed on Severus. She'd made it clear that she resented his position in their circle, lowly half-blood that he was. "Mind magic… yes. But there are all kinds of mind magic." She smiled, a jagged thing pulling at her features. "Severus, you are so clever with mind magic. Perhaps you could help us." Her look was sly. "I sometimes get the feeling that you so desperately want to help."

The Dark Lord looked at him curiously. Severus approached and knelt. The guard wheezed near him, his keys frantically rattling.

His face reflected in the black marble floor, calm and thoughtful, not betraying his hammering heart. He shut it out of his thoughts and considered his options. Alive. The Dark Lord wanted Potter alive. Moments of Potter's previous torture flashed, sparks amid the fog of forgetfulness. Had the Dark Lord wanted to keep Potter alive before? He'd directed the torture sessions from his throne or, frequently, close to Potter, his eyes shining, urging them to draw out each step. That had kept Potter alive, too, but they'd all known it was a matter of time before the inevitable.

Potter's new magic had made him valuable again. The Dark Lord didn't know the extent of it, of his ability to alter spells. But the memory spell clearly fascinated him. Forgetting the existence of a person—just as it would be an asset to the resistance, it would be an asset to the Dark Lord. Severus nearly shuddered, thinking of the possibilities. He would be unstoppable.

And Potter. If he were found, it would start again: the tortures, the games, each Death Eater having their turn casting curses, breaking bones, slicing skin. Kept alive while the Dark Lord invaded his mind, trying to find his secrets. And if by some miracle Severus kept his cover, it would mean taking part in the torture, blotting out whatever tentative humanity still remained inside that feral shell.

He knew quite a lot about clinging to meager scraps of humanity. 

"Severus?" The Dark Lord inquired.

He only had a moment before the Dark Lord entered his mind. "My lord, I suffered from this magic as well. I'd forgotten Potter's existence until a few days ago. But one morning—"

"The spell—or curse—broke. Yes. I knew you'd be able to fight it. Unlike these simpletons." He swept his arm out at the other Death Eaters, glaring at Bellatrix.

Bellatrix shot a look of fury and frustration at Severus, but quickly switched to babbling apologies at the Dark Lord.

Voluminous black robes swept across the marble floor, the hem brushing Severus's knees. A cold, skeletal hand caressed his throat. His mouth went dry and he swallowed. Elongated nails lightly scratched against his bobbing Adam's apple. The fingers pressed under his chin, and he looked up into crimson irises threaded with black veins.

"But you remember. You're special, Severus. We're so alike. That drew you to me." The Dark Lord smiled, his sharpened teeth glazed in blood. His breath had a cloying scent, like incense and fermented honey. The edge of his nails ran along his jaw and scratched under his chin, like he was a favored pet. "You can bend mind magic to your will. If you don't think Potter is at the base, then find him. Find some clue about his escape. Fight this spell and give me your memories." The cool presence of the Dark Lord prodded at his mind, preparing to enter.

As if by reflex, a familiar eagerness pulled at him. His younger self, so eager to take the Mark. The one who believed that the Dark Lord was the only one who had ever truly seen him, seen the intelligence and skill so ignored or mocked by others. He let this version of himself bloom as his real self faded into the darkness. Yes, the Dark Lord valued him as no one had ever valued him. He yearned to bring Potter before him, to please him. The Dark Lord was a great wizard and to be cherished by him was an honor few could achieve. But Severus had, and he would do everything in his power to keep that regard.

In the darkness, his shadow self trembled, his thoughts as insubstantial as mist, gone before they could be caught. You gullible fool… The Dark Lord is a great man… If I could warn them… The resistance was always doomed to fail, and if they were all killed, it was better than they deserved… I have him, but he is lost. There is no saving him… The Dark Lord gave me a place to belong, and I will be forever grateful… There's no saving any of us… And then a sharp clarity before he receded fully into the locked areas of his mind. He understood what he needed to do, what it was necessary to do. Even if it meant losing another piece of his humanity. He shielded his thoughts, even as he found the will to do what must be done.

"Forgive me, my lord," he said. His voice was raspy, and he worked to smooth it. "I've not been able to locate Potter. It's likely he used this new magic to conceal his whereabouts after his escape."

The crimson gaze bored into his, and the legilimency was like the touch of his cold hand, nails digging into his thoughts, searching through his false memories, and touching on the genuine feeling of how his gut twisted when he saw bitter disappointment in the Dark Lord's face.

"He didn't escape." Boyce shook his head fervently. "I wouldn't let that happen. Maybe there's some way to... a record of..."

The Dark Lord left his mind, and Severus stood quickly, confronting the guard. "Useless cretin. You not only let him escape, you allowed your weak mind to be manipulated. You cannot offer a single memory to aid our search. Sectumsempra!" He slashed his wand downwards, slicing into the guard's arm. Boyce cried out in fear and pain, and Severus dove into his mind, pulling at feelings of anger and violence. They were easy to find and raise to the surface.

Soon the guard's open mouth turned into a snarl. "Accio wand!" The floating wand flew into his hand and he shouted a curse.

Severus deflected it easily, but not until it almost reached him—and nearly grazed the Dark Lord. Hissing between his elongated teeth, he stepped back, nearly stumbling, grabbing onto Severus's shoulder to regain his balance. Several of the Death Eaters gasped.

He noted how little he felt the pull—the Dark Lord was far thinner than he appeared. But he didn't have time to think about it now. He had to finish what he'd started.

"You dare to attack your lord?" He raised his wand again, but felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. He turned, half hoping, half dreading. "My lord?"

The Dark Lord nodded his approval and released him. The crimson eyes shimmered in anticipation. "Nagini." His hand lifted into the air, gesturing lazily. "Kill."

Nagini slithered over the glossy floor in the softest of whispers, her scales glimmering in the candlelight. The guard's eyes widened as she approached. He stumbled back and fell, his wand clattering against the stone. Nagini bared her glistening fangs. A hiss rose from her throat, building in power as she moved in.

Severus dared not close his eyes or look away. In his peripheral vision Bellatrix's teeth glinted, her grin wide and slick.

He remembered how the guard tortured the rat, how he took pleasure in the curse. It was cold comfort.

Boyce raised his arms to cover his face. Nagini struck at his belly. Blood erupted, soaking through his grey robes and dripping onto the floor. He howled, clutching himself and curling onto his side. The blood bubbled through his fingers. Nagini slid across his body and sank her fangs into his throat. His howl stopped abruptly. The only sound remaining was the gurgling wheeze of his breath. Then that, too, stopped.

Nagini positioned herself over his head and unhinged her jaws. Boyce's twisted features disappeared inside her gullet. The Dark Lord watched the serpent stretch and fill, enraptured. The Death Eaters stood silently, knowing it was a ceremony not to be interrupted.

Keys jangled as they disappeared inside Nagini. His blood had poured over the key to Potter's cell, obliterating his scent. Any remaining evidence of his guilt disappeared with the body. Soon, nothing remained but a pool of blood and a wand. The Dark Lord gestured, and the wand rose and floated to the wall behind the throne. Stones shifted, and the wand settled into place. The serpent's tail grew longer.

Arlo Boyce. He wished he'd never learned the man's name. Now he would never forget it.

Severus went directly from the Ministry to one of the resistance's emergency drops, leaving a message. Little good that it would do them. Lucius and the others would already be at the base. The resistance had no way to apparate out and no way to fight against those numbers. The Death Eaters would take the purebloods and half-bloods alive, if possible, to be re-educated at the prison camps. The others…

He managed to apparate to the alley across from his house before his roiling thoughts caught up with him. The heavy weight in his gut became too much to bear, and he leaned forwards, vomiting heartily onto the uneven paving stones. His stomach heaved until long after it was empty, and he had to force himself upright and press his shaking hands against a wall to make himself stop.

Gasping for air and tasting bile, he stared at his house across the road. The night's events were nothing he hadn't seen before. He'd been present for many additions to the mosaic in the throne room. But knowing he had lured Boyce to his death, and for what? To protect his sorry soul and the murderous creature in his house?

He wondered if the battle was over, or if the resistance were still fighting for their lives, desperately in need of help. He wondered if the pool of blood on the throne room floor remained. What he didn't wonder was what he could do about it. He knew. Nothing, nothing, nothing. This could be the end of the resistance, and where was he? Encouraging the Dark Lord to kill yet another wizard. It was possible there was no one on the other side left alive and free, except for Potter. 

He wanted to shout, but his throat was too raw. Potter. He thought that rescuing him from the dungeons would be a catalyst for change, but everything was the same, if not worse. 

He gulped the cool night air. The full moon was slowly sliding behind dark clouds. He thought briefly of the Mindoro rain forests with glowing tresses of flowers, but of course, it wouldn't be dark there. It would be early morning, the sun breaking over the ocean. He wondered if the sun dawned brighter there, if the rains made the leaves shimmer at first light.

He would never know. Here it was dark, and here he would stay, to soldier on and save who he could. He may not be able to help the resistance or even himself, but it was still within his power to help Potter. To reason with the savage thing who would rather gnaw his own leg off than take a healing potion.

And yet… even through Potter's animalistic behavior, there had been signs of intelligence. Mocking him, deceiving him. There must be some way to reach him, some way forwards. And he must find it soon, because something was shattering inside him.

He cast a silencing spell before opening the front door, entering soundlessly. Potter lay motionless on the bed, illuminated only by the glow of moonlight through the window. His eyes were closed and his breathing slow and even. He'd emptied the bowl of broth, but the potions remained untouched, still resting on the queen's faded image.

He found it difficult to control his breath as he stared at Potter. What are you? Is there any spark left, or are you simply a creature of instinct striking out before you're struck? Survival at all costs, even if you have nothing left to live for?

His harsh breathing quickened until the world seemed to tilt. With a jerk of his wand, he cast finite incantatum, and the wards around the bed dropped.

Potter stirred, but Severus moved quickly, pinning him to the bed before he could bolt away. His eyes flew open and Severus grasped him by the back of his head, turning his face towards his own. He struggled, but Severus only gripped his head tighter, their faces so close they nearly touched. Potter's breath was sour and hot, but Severus fixed on his eyes, staring into his widened pupils as if falling into a dark well. He focused on one word: legilimens.

He searched Potter's mind hungrily for memories, thoughts, even feelings. Some semblance of humanity. But he found himself lost in murky emptiness, the only sign of life a dim pulse of panic and hatred.

Nothing. Of course there was nothing. Why had he expected anything else? He laughed, a strangled sound that died quickly in the dark room.

Clouds shrouded the moon, and Potter's eyes were no longer visible in the dim light—just another gathering of shadows in the hollows of his face. He withdrew from his mind and loosened his grip. Let Potter escape. Let Potter kill him. What did it matter?

The throne room welled up again, despite his desire for a reprieve. As if for the first time, he felt the icy touch of the Dark Lord's hand. He tried to push the sensation away, but couldn't. The mosaic of bones and wands cracked and reformed in his mind, the serpent staring at him. Keys rattled and Boyce screamed. The wet creak of stretching flesh filled the quiet throne room as Nagini swallowed him whole. Her slick glottis whistled thinly as she sighed in satisfaction. Don't look away. To look away shows weakness. But that was when others were watching. He blotted out the image, but it returned, again and again. The mosaic serpent hissed a chant in Parseltongue. Green eyes bored into him.

Green eyes…

Severus started, aware of his surroundings again. Potter was still staring at him. Not at his hands, but directly in his eyes. He grabbed Potter by the back of the head again, wrapping his other hand over the shadows where his eyes would be. Potter jerked in the grip, gasping. With the break in eye contact, the memory faded away, and he was fully back in the present.

He made sure his occlumency shields were in place before removing his hands. But Potter twisted his head away, refusing to look in his eyes now.

"You saw." Impossible. He would have sensed Potter. Unless Potter hid in plain sight, even in his mind. "You know legilimency?"

Potter shook his head, revealing a flash of the whites of his eyes. A strange sound emerged from his mouth, something between choking and growling. He looked away and balled the sheets in his fists.

Severus couldn't help but marvel. Such an instinctual talent for magic. The Dark Lord had used legilimency on Potter many times in the throne room. He said it amused him to explore the most painful moments of the boy's pathetic life. He would feed him a glowing emerald potion—the drink of despair, he called it—and stare into the boy's eyes, sometimes for hours, so intent that the muscles of his face went lax, spittle dribbling onto Potter's frozen body.

Potter's magic could draw on the spells of others. He could explore the magic cast on him and twist it to his own ends, perhaps even learning—

"Occulmency." He looked at Potter for confirmation, but only received an uncomprehending stare in return. Of course Potter wouldn't know the names of spells in mind magic. No one had ever given him lessons in such things. But lessons wouldn't have taught him to hide every thought. There were no false memories, no misdirection. Simply… nothing.

The misdirection used in occlumency was not simply to fool a legilimens. It was a practicality. Few occlumens could hold back all thoughts. It would take incredibly strong mental walls. He'd only read about one case: a wizard suffering from schizophrenia who used it to hold back the voices in his head. He wondered what thoughts Potter so desperately wanted to keep in check.

There must be something, even if he could not observe it. An animal did not practice mind magic. He tried to grasp onto that, to give him something to face whatever news came from tonight's battle, to endure whatever he had to do next. But it wasn't enough.

He knelt by the bed. "I need some sign. Can you understand that? I need..." But he felt lost, unable to explain himself. He'd kept his barricades well tended, a fortress against any incursion into his true self. But at this moment, he felt not strong but calcified, cemented in place and unable to move. He wanted so desperately to move.

He grabbed Potter's hand. Potter jerked back, inhaling harshly, but he held firm. "Wait." Perhaps it was the gentleness in his voice—a novel experience for them both—but Potter stilled. He pulled Potter's hand up to his cheek, locking their gazes. "Look." For the first time in a long time, he willingly let a wall fracture. A mere crack, letting in the thinnest sliver of light. It illuminated the moment when he lied to the Dark Lord about Potter's whereabouts. It was only a moment, but if Potter had any sense left, he would understand the risk he'd taken.

Potter nodded and broke away, pulling the levitating tray closer. He pushed something towards him. A Stitcher's Inn tumbler, half-filled with the dark magic diminisher. Potter held another cup, also half-filled with the potion. He motioned at the cups and the two of them, getting his intention across clearly: If you drink, I'll drink.

"I'm not the one infected with dark curses," Severus began, but stopped. The occlumency had been the first sign of a working mind inside Potter, but this was something else. Not quite trust, but perhaps an opportunity for something new.

He took the cup, running his thumb along the rim. With no curses to cure, the potion would have no effect on him. And if this is what it took to break through… He raised the cup and drank.

Potter drew back and watched him, the shadows so deep that only the glint of his eyes appeared in the depths. He raised his own cup and drank.

Severus closed his eyes, and imagined that he could see the potion working, removing a bit of dark magic from Potter. And then he imagined the potion working in him, too, finding some way to remove a darkness that had no name. He laughed, a genuine laugh, and raised his empty cup to Potter. "Cheers."

Chapter Text

Bartholomus Bilge, Levitator Extraordinaire, had once levitated, simultaneously, fifteen elephants, twenty-seven goblin-forged swords, three whirling dervishes, and his pet goldfish, Carrot. Carrot, it was agreed, had been his undoing, and the entire assembly had come crashing down, amid a great clattering and clanging and trumpeting. An important lesson that one thinks one is doing well until one adds a final, tiny, wriggling thing—

                            -Ill-Advised Spells of Famous Witches and Wizards, by Yemini Brookshaw

Hermione Granger

If apparating was like being squeezed through a narrow tube, then what Hermione experienced was akin to a pea shot through a tube and bouncing off the back of someone's head. She tried apparating to the base from Knockturn Alley, only to feel a full-body impact, a bounce, and another impact as she landed on the other side of Godric's Hollow. She tried again and splashed down in the nearby river. As she cast a drying charm on herself along the muddy bank, realization crept up and bit her. Anti-apparation barrier. She stopped trying to get into the base and focused on the hilltop at the edge of the forest, apparating there easily.

She crested the hill, her heart pounding. If she couldn't apparate in, then the other resistance members couldn't apparate out. They were trapped.

Dumbledore's old house was at the edge of Godric's Hollow. It was a quaint Tudor house, limewashed in yellow and pink. Small for the resistance in its prime, and not remote enough, so they'd usually avoided it. But as the war dragged on and wizarding families fled, the Hollow had emptied, and the house had entered regular rotation when they switched bases. It had been a comfortable retreat where they could read from the library in front of a crackling fireplace or sing along to Remus's half-remembered piano tunes.

Now, however, it looked like a ship in a storm. The Dark Army swarmed the sky in a black cloud, roving over the house. Their curses flashed like lightning. Occasionally, a spell would shoot out from the house. Her friends were still in there.

She searched the tree line, hoping to see some resistance members who'd gotten out, but there was no one. They could still make a run for it, if they had something to conceal themselves from the forces above. Something like an invisibility cloak. She cursed herself for losing the cloak to Malfoy, and for waiting too long to get back to the base.

The house glowed where it had been struck, the wards they'd carefully prepared holding back the attacks for now. Light Metrics in Protective Spells by Sashanna Feeveltum, optional reading in her fourth-year arithmency class, had shown how the intensity and duration of residual glow from protective spells can indicate their remaining strength. She cast spectrometus, and calculated that they had less than thirty minutes before the wards fell. And there was one other way in.

She raced to an old stone well, grabbing floo powder out of the bucket attached by a frayed rope to the rotted wood cover. Floos, it turned out, didn't have to be floos. Any stone or brick structure could be connected to another if the proper spells were cast. Old ruins, fountains, and even a large planter had become emergency exits. She threw the powder into the darkness at the bottom, said, "Base Vermillion," and jumped into the well.

If trying to apparate inside an anti-apparation barrier was like bouncing off something soft and spongy, what she experienced in the floo was more like being flattened by a boulder. She found herself on her back in the dark, gasping.

She tightened her grip on her wand and whispered, "lumos."

The soot-stained russet brick of Dumbledore's first-floor fireplace surrounded her. A collapsed section of a wall, still wrapped in gold and green striped wallpaper, blocked the opening. The floor vibrated, then quieted, then vibrated again. Muffled, low-resonance crashes from the other side made her jaw ache.

Pointing her wand at a large shard of plaster, she used the levitation spell, and it shifted upwards, nearly hitting her in the face. It was too large to move around her in the small space. And as soon as she moved it, the debris settled again, wooden framing piling on from above and white dust flying everywhere. She set it back down in front of the new pile, penning herself in even further.

Diffindo caused a promising cracking sound, but otherwise did nothing. She tried vanishing the shard, but it remained stubbornly present. Pressing her palm against the warm brick enclosure, she tried to find the magic of the house. She felt it sometimes: an old, thrumming magic. It felt friendly most days, although there was something old and dangerous in it, too. But whenever she tried to reach it, it slid away from her, and now was no different. Prodding gently at the pile, she found a spot thinner than the rest and stuck her head in as far as she dared. "Ron? Remus?"

A muffled voice responded from the other side. "Ron's busy fighting. Professor Lupin is busy being useless. I'm stuck moving plaster instead of fighting because you still don't trust me."

Hermione repressed a sigh. "Hello, Millicent."

"Hermione. I must be getting to know you better. I can tell you're almost as annoyed as me."

Millicent Bulstrode had shown up one day months ago, filling the doorway of their supposedly secret base with her arms crossed. "I'm joining your group." She'd raised a fist. "Let me in or else."

They'd threatened her and interrogated her. She refused to give her reasons, although–after extracting some promises–she had demonstrated the detection spell she'd used to find them, and how to adjust their own anti-detection spells accordingly. They'd kept her at a distance, ready for a betrayal. She stared sullenly back at them and did the work she'd been ordered to do.

"I'm not annoyed," Hermione told her.

"You are. You have that tone whenever you talk to me. And sometimes to Ron, when he's being a knob."

Hermione pressed her forehead against a fragment of the wall and tried not to think about that time at school when Millicent put her in a headlock.

"I'm not annoyed at you," she clarified. This debris won't vanish."

"Then you're annoyed at Dumbledore. You said he created the wards on his house."

"Some of them, I think. They prevent the walls from being vanished? Or split?"

"They can still be shattered. A curse got through. Had a cave-in that fell here. I'm clearing it, because the others are maintaining the wards."

Hermione nodded. "That's why no one's used the floo to escape?"

There was a momentary silence. "Did you hit your head? Your questions aren't usually this stupid."

She hadn't, but considered thunking her head against the wall. "I'm fine. Just thinking out loud." At least she couldn't see Millicent's dead-eyed stare. "I'll work on this end."

There wasn't much she could do other than move a few small pieces, but it felt better to be doing something. Scraping and crumbling sounded faintly from the other side, gradually growing louder.

The debris shuddered, and a hole emerged at the top. "There," Millicent said. "You're scrawny enough to fit through."

Hermione found leverage on a jutting plank and cast two spells before the iron grill finally bent enough to create an opening. She pulled herself halfway through and blinked at the onslaught of light. "I'm not scrawn–eeep!"

A firm hand grabbed her arm and yanked her all the way through, dumping her on the floor. "See? Scrawny. I've had cats that weighed more."

Millicent stood with an open purple umbrella cocked on her shoulder.

Unpleasant memories of Millicent's cat were scattered by the sight. She blinked at the wood ribbing and periwinkle underside. "Why the umbrella?" she finally asked.

"Found it in a closet. All sorts of charmed objects here if you look. This is impenetrable against rocks and knives and such. And it muffles sound. Otherwise, you'd hear…" She closed the umbrella, and a cacophony blasted from all sides.

Stomping feet and crashing furniture pounded from above. Smoke filled the air. Someone screamed, but she couldn't tell from what direction. She tried to perform a spell to clear the air, but her coughing stopped her. Wrapping her scarf around her mouth, she leaned close to Millicent. "Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"

"We're being attacked. Again. I figured you knew what that was like." She brandished her wand and a chunk of wall careened to the side. "Now get out of the way. I'd like to escape before we're all captured or dead."

"We won't die," she said automatically, her morale-boosting response to predictions of doom. But Millicent's words chilled her. She ran down the hallway, searching for anyone trapped by falling debris. A plaid sofa was flattened, covered in sunflower-shaped ceiling tiles and an overstuffed mattress from the bedroom above. The sofa, charmed to move to the warmest spot in the room, struggled weakly, its stubby legs wiggling.

"Sirius!" she called. "Molly! Where are you?" She heard someone shout from the kitchen and hurried ahead.

The smell of burning coal filled the air. Ron leaned against the kitchen wall, arm up to shield himself from the damaged stove, which was spurting flames from the oven racks. He stabbed the air with his wand, and a jet of water gushed forth. The fire hissed and smoked. He sputtered and waved the smoke away. His eyes widened when he spotted Hermione. Rushing forwards, he pulled her into an embrace.

His scent and warmth were comforting and familiar, and she knew that if she stayed there, he would hold her for as long as she needed. But such a simple act would make things complicated later, and neither of them could afford the precious seconds ticking away. Disengaging, she shook her head, took a steadying breath, and found her commanding voice. "I saw your message. Status?"

Ron looked stung and bewildered for a moment before he nodded, the tense lines of his face smoothing. For all their personal problems, Ron was a good soldier and thrived when someone took the lead. "Mum and my brothers were out on a supply run when we were attacked. I sent a patronus but I'm not sure they got it."

"I don't know if they could help, anyway. The anti-apparation barrier would keep them too far away from the base to attack from the outside. And inside… Best to get out."

A boom sounded overhead and the house shuddered.

Ron nodded grimly. "Sirius is upstairs, keeping a defense against any curse that breaks through." He gestured to the surrounding disaster. "But he's only one person. Neville and Oliver are maintaining the wards until we can escape. Millicent–"

"I spoke with Millicent. She said something about Professor Lupin being stupid?"

"Sounds like her. But in this case, she's right." He kicked away the broken remains of a kitchen table, revealing a door to the cellar set in the floor.

Hermione let out a long breath. "Has Sirius tried?"

"He tried yelling at him from the kitchen, but…"  Ron spread his hands in a helpless half-shrug. "It's a windowless cellar. He couldn't bring himself to go down there."

She opened the tiny door, revealing an inky square and the beginning of a ladder. "Maybe if we widened the entrance so it felt more open–"

Another crash from upstairs. Plaster rained down.

"Right." She cast lumos again and clenched the wand in her teeth, grabbing the ladder with both hands. As soon as she stepped off the final rung, she heard the rattle of chains. "Rrr in ooo unopp im?"

Ron followed, sliding down the sides of the ladder fireman-style. "What?"

She took her wand from her teeth. "Why didn't you unlock him?"

"He charmed the chains to resist alohamora." He held up his hands before she could speak. "And he took my key."

The cobwebbed rafters hung low, and they had to stoop as they moved away from the overhead opening. Thick loamy scents permeated the smothering darkness. From a corner, iron clanked against iron. Hermione pointed her wand in that direction. A thin man sat with his back to the stone wall, hands and feet bound in chains. His shoulders drooped as she approached. "It's not safe."

"We're not leaving without you. You have…"  Hermione realized she'd lost track of time while digging her way out.

"Less than thirty minutes. To find a place with secure walls, a door that locks, chains…" He lifted the chain attached to his arm. "I can't risk it."

"Do you know what the Death Eaters will do to you? Even if they take you prisoner. Even if they don't–" Her voice wobbled, and she stopped, blinking hard.

Remus smiled weakly. "That may be, but even so–"

Hermione moved quickly. "Accio key!"

The key flew from Remus's hand to Hermione's, the weight of it landing heavily in her palm.

He stared at her, wide-eyed, for a moment, and then he stood, chains rattling, muscles knotting. "Don't you dare," he said, baring his teeth. "You've no right." His voice scraped like stones against pavement.

There was something inhuman in his voice, a hint of an animal growl that made the back of her neck grow cold and damp. She suspected he was doing it deliberately, to show her who he thought he was. But she took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. "You have no right. We need you. The resistance needs you. You're not a liability, and you're not a monster. Stop growling at me like I'm a little girl you can chase away."

He turned his face away, and the tendons stood out in his neck. "You've seen me. You know what I might do. Will do, if I get free."

She shook her head. "Sometimes you act like… that's all that you are. Those three nights of the month. Don't you understand that you're so much more than that?"

He sighed. "Of course. I have lived a life, Hermione. Many years before you were even born, in fact. I've learned who I can be outside of those three nights. But I also know to never take chances when the time comes. And if I'm captured…"

"What? We're better off with you gone?" Something flashed in his face, and she knew she'd hit on something. She gestured at the cellar walls around them. "You do this. You hide in dark corners. Even when you're there, you're not there. Always quiet, always in the background. Thinking that if you disappear, the werewolf will, too." She cocked her head, taking in his light brown suit. "You even dress to blend in with the wallpaper."

He shifted, the chains clinking with him. "I'm here. I've done what I can."

"You have. You welcomed Millicent before anyone else, taking her under your wing, as much as she'd allow."

Ron nodded. "And after Fred and George… You'd talk about your favorite memories of them. It helped. More than you know."

It was true. He brought a warmth and quiet courage that the group so desperately needed, especially now. Something they'd been missing since Harry. Remus might not think his life was worth protecting, but she did.

"We're not leaving without you. So, either get going, or we make our last stand whilst you huddle down here in the dark."

Remus stared at the hard-packed dirt floor, his brows knotted. "You said the Shrieking Shack is still standing in Hogsmeade? I kept chains there–"

She let out her breath. "You can help Millicent clear the floo." She gave the key to Ron and held her lighted wand above them both as he unlocked Remus. 

Remus flinched when the chains clinked to the floor. "And Sirius. His dog form. It… calms me."

"I'll get him." She couldn't hear what was going on upstairs from the cellar. Sirius couldn't hold off the Dark Army forever.

When they emerged from the cellar, the door from the kitchen to the dining room had fallen, the frame cracked. The house shuddered, and a thunderous crash reverberated, leaving her with ringing ears.

Millicent stood next to a pile twice as large as the one Hermione had climbed out of. Her frown was even deeper than usual as she held the impervious umbrella over her head. The only part of the floor clear of debris was a small circle directly beneath her and the umbrella. Above, the ceiling was almost entirely gone, showing the rooms and hallway above.

Hermione's hand flew to her throat. "Millicent, are you okay?"

Millicent dropped the umbrella, letting it roll jerkily away. Her face pinked. "The house fell on me. The house fell on me! And now I'm stuck here and I'm going to be cursed or killed, and the only thing I can think is that I wish I'd eaten rotten clams for lunch so I could at least give Lupin indigestion if he eats me!" She took a deep breath and let it out. "No offense, Professor."

Hermione risked a glance at Remus, wondering if this would send him into another spiral.

But he was focused on Millicent. "None taken, Miss Bulstrode," Lupin said cordially. He gave her a kind smile. "Let's start clearing again, shall we? I'll take this side, and you take the other."

Millicent stood there, fists clenched, until Remus gave her an encouraging pat on the back. Then she nodded and began levitating debris again. Hermione remembered what a good professor he'd been. They hadn't known everything about him back then, but he'd been at his best when he had someone else who needed guidance. She'd have to remember that in the future.

The stairs to the next floor had lost part of the railing and a large middle section was missing. "The planks?" Hermione said to Ron, pointing to the ground floor. He understood immediately and summoned loose planks of wood from the debris. She levitated them into the chasm between the steps. "Epoximise." The planks bonded to the remaining framework and gave them rough steps.

Upstairs, the windows glimmered with an ever-changing light as the wards outside faltered. Sirius stood in a bedroom with an ornate canopy bed, leaning out of an open casement window, taking shots with each stuttering flicker. His dark hair had turned a mottled grey from the ash and dust and his face was wild with glee as he cast a flurry of curses and counter-curses. "Come on, you bastards," he shouted into the wind.

His gaze darted to them, his eyebrows raised hopefully. "Moony?"

"Unchained," she confirmed. "Helping to clear the floo."

"Good." A Death Eater flew through a weakened spot in the wards, and Sirius fired off another shot, sending him crashing to the ground. "I hate it when his condition gets him all bloody-minded." He stopped and looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them slowly. "I tried to talk to him, but…"

She stepped close and took one of his hands, giving it a squeeze. "Don't fret. It's done."

Ron, who'd found their emergency medical and potions supplies in a cabinet, was packing everything into duffel bags. He glanced out the window. "How long do you wager we have with the wards?"

Sirius studied the sky. "Not long."

"Then you've done enough, mate. Time to go." Ron shoved the bags into their hands.

"The old well is outside the anti-apparation barrier," Hermione said. "Cast a notice-me-not charm until you get your bearings." She glanced at Sirius. "We're going to our old spot at the Hog's Head Inn. But if you could apparate with Remus directly to the Shrieking Shack?"

"Of course." Two soldiers of the Dark Army were working their way through a crack in the wards, and he cast a freezing charm that made them drop like two stones. "Five more minutes."

She wanted to argue, but knew that would take even longer. Five minutes for Sirius, and how many minutes left for Remus? She patted her clothes, searching for an old pocket watch.

Sirius smiled and unbuckled his black leather wristwatch, tossing it to her. "You need it more than me, Captain. Keep track of how long you've been worrying about us."

She looked down at the dial showing a clear night sky and then looked up into his eyes. It was like she was seeing the man he was supposed to be, the one who could take on the Dark Army without fear. "Five minutes," she repeated.

When Hermione and Ron descended to the ground floor again, Millicent and Remus had cleared the floo.

"Good work," Hermione said. "Let's get out of here."

"Out to where, exactly?" Millicent asked.

Hermione transfigured a strap for one of the duffel bags and shouldered it. "Remus mentioned the Shrieking Shack—"

"Too predictable," Millicent said. "Students and a former professor, looking for shelter—"

Hermione shook her head. "We don't have time to shop. And we haven't used it as a base since—"

A loud crack echoed overhead, and the house darkened. The frail light of the wards was gone. A victory shout went up from the soldiers flying outside.

On instinct, Hermione grabbed Millicent's umbrella and held it out in front of her. "Engorgio!" The umbrella expanded until the tips of the ribs scraped the floor and were halfway to the ceiling. Ron and Millicent helped her get it upright over all of them, just before the world went grey. A tidal wave of dust rolled over and around them. No sounds got through, other than the harsh breathing of all of them together. But she felt the vibrations of impacts through her grip and the reverberations in the floorboards.

When it cleared, half the roof was gone, and the walls showed their skeletal framework. The Dark Mark haunted the darkening sky. Through the eyes of the skull came shadowy figures riding brooms.

The house around them shuddered, creaking and groaning.

Neville and the others who had been trying to maintain the wards were two rooms down, now visible through the wall frames. "We're coming! Just give us a moment!" Neville shouted. "Oliver's trapped under the piano."

Ron gave Hermione a push towards the fireplace, which had been protected from the worst of the blast. "Go! I'll keep them away from the floo for as long as I can."

"You can't hold them all off," Lupin said, scanning the upstairs through the massive hole in the ceiling. "I'll help."

Ron looked at him with sorrow and kindness in his eyes. "Mate, you can't."

"He's right," Hermione said, but she was also scanning the upper floor. Why had she given Sirius another five minutes? She should've insisted that he join them immediately. But Sirius wasn't the only one here. She tore her eyes away to check on the others. "Neville?" she called.

Neville appeared from behind a jagged section of wall, supporting a limping, half-conscious Oliver. "I've got him."

The floor above them thundered with the landing of heavy footfalls. The house shuddered again, the frame boards cracking.

A figure appeared at the top of the mangled staircase. He was covered in grey powder and sawdust, but his lanky form and grandiose handwave were distinctive. Sirius used what remained of the stair railing to swing down from above like a long-armed gibbon, shaking plaster off his shoulders. He landed nimbly, kicking up a cloud of dust. "Not as bad upstairs. Got a bit of roofing on me."

She resisted the urge to scold and reached for the fireplace gate. "We'll—"

Something pitched her backwards, and she slid across the floor, nearly hitting a protruding shard of wood. For a wild second, she thought the Death Eaters had caused an earthquake. But she realized the floorboards were moving, raising and shifting like rolling waves.

Millicent was pitched off balance and landed with a thud. "What now?"

"It's the house," Hermione said. "It's defending itself. Dumbledore once said his house was like a drowsy old bear. You don't want to wake it."

"How you remember half the things you do, I'll never know," Ron said. He stumbled forwards on the rollicking floorboards, trying to reach the floo again. "Do you happen to remember him saying anything about how he got his house back to sleep?"

"Not attack it, I suppose." She performed a series of small levitations, hopping her way over to the fireplace. "Come on, I'll—"

A support frame near her exploded, and she ducked, looking for the source. The Dark Army descended from above. One Death Eater landed and discarded his broom, striding towards her.

Hermione ran, grabbing floo powder in one hand and a bar of the gate in the other.

The gate came alive, the iron poles gnashing against each other like pointed teeth. Hermione stumbled back, but her arm was still within reach of a blackened incisor.

Just before it skewered her forearm, Ron pulled her back, twisting to fire a curse at the approaching Death Eater. "Is the house trying to kill us, too?"

"It's protecting itself," she replied. "Death Eaters or us—it doesn't know the difference."

A jet of flame arced through the air, catching her sleeve and setting it on fire. Hermione rolled, suffocating the flame, and shot out a gush of water to stop the next attack. Fire and water met mid-air, exploding in a cloud of steam.

Through that murky fog strode the lead Death Eater who removed his mask, showing Lucius Malfoy's cold eyes, bright with intensity. "Where is he?"

She didn't know which resistance member Lucius was after, and wasn't going to waste time responding. She ducked behind a sofa and fired an incarcerous at him.

He snarled and slashed through the ropes flying at him, barely breaking his stride. "Crucio!"

Hermione deflected the curse, aiming it at the sitting-room door. This time, the house didn't so much shudder as convulse.

Remus seized a cast iron tooth, trying to hold it in place with his hand and foot while working a transfiguration spell. The gate dragged him across the hearth and spit him out with force. He flew into a thick rafter, his head knocking loudly against the wood. He fell in a heap on the floor.

Lucius strode past him, unseeing, his ice-cold eyes a little too wide, focused on Hermione. "This is the end of your little rebellion. And the end of—"

Something hurtled through the air, striking his shoulder. Startled, he stopped, as if waking from a dream.

Hermione looked for the source of the projectile and found a trail of soot-covered bricks. The fireplace gate bent inwards and then out again, and another brick shot out of its mouth like an unwanted seed. It hurtled through the air and hit Lucius in the ribs.

He bent over, the air wheezing out of him, and dove for cover behind an overturned table. Once protected, he turned his focus back to Hermione. "Confringo."

She was ready. "Protego!" She turned her head away as the curse hit her shield in a flash of red light. It rebounded and hit a heavy oak door. The explosion sent splinters of wood flying everywhere.

The fireplace gnashed its teeth again, emitting a creaking groan. The rafters shuddered and bent, ripping themselves free. One swatted a flying Death Eater out of the air. Four others broke free entirely and slammed down around Ron, trapping him in a wooden cage. "Evanesco," he shouted, but of course, the rafters didn't vanish.

Hermione ran to free him, only to be grabbed from behind, the point of a wand stabbing into her temple. Her arm was twisted behind her back, pain spiking through her wrist and elbow until she cried out and dropped her wand.

"Say farewell." Lucius's voice was cool and melodic, even with the thrum of a threat beneath it. "We only need one of you alive to interrogate. One of the blood traitors will serve. No need to waste our resources carting about a useless mudblood."

Her heart pounded in her ears. Lucius was tall and broad-shouldered. She couldn't break his grip before he cast the killing curse. Her thoughts raced, searching for something, anything she could say that would stop a Death Eater. No, that would stop Lucius Malfoy. Her throat tightened, but she managed to get the words out in a ragged rush. "I know where your son is."

Lucius froze. His clammy breath dampened the back of her head. "Tell me."

She kept herself still, even though she wanted to sag with relief. So, Draco hadn't run home to his parents. It had been a gamble, but she'd been right. Where is he? He must be looking for his son.

"We captured him," she told him. "He's in a secure location. For now."

Lucius's grip tightened painfully, the point of his wand pressing hard enough to bruise. "Where?"

She swallowed thickly. "I can't tell you."

Lucius growled and dragged her towards the front door. Before he could reach it, boards and rafters snapped into place around them. She caught sight of Ron wrestling free of his prison and dodging just before two Death Eaters descended on him, Millicent slamming the head of a Dark Guard into a wall, and Sirius guarding Lupin as he roused himself. She tried to find Neville and Oliver, but the boards slammed closed and they were left in darkness.

Lucius tried incendio, but the slats turned and slammed together, smothering the flames, and more boards settled into place. He shoved Hermione roughly into a wall, conjured a lantern, and turned back to her, the curve of his cheekbones flushed. "Tell me."

"I can't."

He gave her a tight smile. "Crucio."

She'd once touched a live wire when she was a child. It was a strange sensation, a rippling inside her arm like a wave moving through her. It was a low current, and it hadn't hurt. But when her father had seen, he'd snatched her away, and the look of pure fear on his face had made her cry.

She saw him now, unshed tears in his wide eyes, his mouth open, as the wave turned into a mass of razor-sharp hooks, catching on each nerve and muscle, behind her eyes and down her spine. Each one snapped and jerked to its own rhythm and she was pulled with it, dragged in every direction as her arms and legs spasmed. I'm okay, Daddy, she tried to say, but the only sounds she could make were strange vibrato screams as her jaw and throat convulsed, and the knocking of her head against the floor.

When it ended, her throat burned, and her limbs twitched with aftershocks. She coughed, choking on something. Turning her head, she spat, and blood spattered on the floor. She must have bitten her tongue, although finding that pain among the others was difficult.

A weight pressed against her throat. The tip of Lucius's boot pushed into the underside of her jaw. She wanted to grip it, to wrest it away, but her arms wouldn't move.

He looked even taller now, looming above her. She had no doubt he could crush her windpipe if he leaned forwards. "Tell me where he is."

Her face was wet, but she didn't remember crying. Breathe, she commanded her lungs, and they did. "Can't."

He raised his wand.

"I'm not the secret keeper."

Lucius paused. "He's held under fidelius?"

She tried to nod, and managed a dip of her chin.

The boot dug in further. "Who is the secret keeper?"

What could she say that wouldn't get everyone else killed? "Don't know. Memory wiped."

"Oh, you've forgotten him, have you?" Lucius's eyes glimmered. "Interesting."

Move, she told her arms. If you grab his foot and twist, you could unbalance him. Her arms remained heavily on the floor. She tried again, and her fingers twitched. She brushed them against the floorboards and tried again to reach the magic that dwelled within the house. Please. I can't help them get out if I die in here. She willed her magic into her thoughts, pictured Dumbledore smiling as she spoke to him.

"I suppose I'll have to interrogate all of you until I get my answers. Perhaps your secret keeper will retract his spell once he knows what's happening to you."

Hermione tried to remember what Dumbledore had said about his house. She'd had more conversations with him—of a sort—than anyone else in the resistance. He must have said something. I loved nothing more than reading next to the fire in my fuzzy slippers. No, that's useless. Sometimes I would hum a tune while dusting. My house particularly likes Ally Bally Bee.

She struggled to get out the lyrics, but her throat seized up. She tried again. "Ally… bally…"

Lucius frowned. "What was that?"

Humming was easier. She hummed quietly, hoping magical houses had good hearing.

The surrounding walls began to sway.

"Please help," she whispered, before going back to humming. Her singing voice was terrible on the best of days, but she endeavored to get the notes right.

The walls bent towards her, as if in a gentleman's bow. Then they turned, their narrow edges facing Lucius.

He only had a moment to widen his eyes before they attacked. They fell like hammers, battering him on his arms as he covered his head, attacking his legs until fell to his knees, and then one well-placed strike to the back of his skull led to his wobbling collapse.

The boards fell to the floor, knocking over the lantern, and she was left in darkness, crashing sounds coming from around her. The lights they'd set up had been destroyed, and the sun had fully set. "Accio… wand," she whispered.

Her wand dislodged itself from a pile of debris and landed in her palm. "Lumos." The wand lit up as she clutched it and struggled to sit.

Familiar hands found her shoulders and helped her up. Ron's freckled face appeared in the circle of her wand's glow. "Hermione, are you all right?"

She nodded and grabbed his shirt. "Bluebell," she whispered.

It took Ron a moment, but he got it. He cast the bluebell flames incantation, and the shadows lifted as a circle of blue flames bloomed in the center of the room.

The fireplace had stopped gnashing its iron teeth. Millicent grabbed the grill with both hands and tore it off with brute force.

Sirius was in his element. He stood at the top of a pile of rubble, flying roof tiles lit up with a golden glow and circling him from above. He shot curses and hexes at the Death Eaters below, occasionally pausing to redirect a roof tile their way, knocking them off brooms. The tiles acted as a moving defense, forming a shield and blocking any curse directed at him.

Hermione patted a portion of a wall still standing. "Thanks." She tried calling out and felt lightheaded. She turned to Ron. "Can you…?"

Ron nodded. "Everyone! Let's go!"

Sirius sent the tiles flying in every direction and jumped down, waving for the others to follow.

A cool light filled the room, and Hermione glanced at the bluebell flames. But this light was coming from above. She grabbed Ron, her heart filling with dread. Above them, a hole in the roof showed a luminous full moon.

Remus, who had been limping towards the floo with the others, stopped, the shadows darkening around his shoulders and face. He doubled over, and the angles of his body were all wrong. Inhuman.

Hermione found her voice, rough and raspy. "Remus, go first. We'll find a way to restrain you once we're on the other side."

Remus shook his head, a stiff, jerky movement. "I'm staying."

She took a step towards him. "You can't–"

He growled again, grabbing a table and pushing it between them. "It's too late." He gripped the edge of the table, the muscles of his forearm twisting under the skin. He took a deep breath. "If I'm going to hurt someone," he said grimly, "it may as well be one of them."

Sirius rounded the table to stand by Remus. "I'll be with you, mate."

Remus shook his head. "It's not safe–" His jaw snapped shut, and he fell forwards on his hands and knees. The back of his shirt split, fur erupting from the ragged tear.

"You're both being foolish," Hermione said. "You'll be captured or—"

"Captain," Sirius said quietly. "I'm a rubbish leader." He glanced at Remus, who now had the limbs of a wolf. His human face was the picture of agony. "And sometimes I've been a rubbish friend." His eyes glimmered. "We'll go out the way we started. Fighting for our friends. Together."

"Then I'll stay, too," she said desperately. "I'll help—"

But someone grabbed her arm and pushed her into the floo. She coughed as powder fell around her.

She heard Ron's voice. "The Old Well."  With a flash of light, the air grabbed her. The sounds of the battle disappeared.

She landed in a pile of cold stones. She frantically patted the surrounding area, but there was no floo powder to take her back. It was up at the top of the well.

Her wand was still lit, and she used it to find the flat stones they'd set into the wall, spiraling up to the top. She climbed as quickly as she could, pulling herself over the edge. By the time she found the floo powder, Ron had followed her out.

"How could you do that?" she demanded. "I needed to stay!" She moved to go around him and he blocked her, grabbing the hand that held the floo powder.

She stared at him coldly. "Let me go."

"You can't go back."

"Remus is back there, and Sirius, and…" She looked around at the empty weed-choked clearing. "Everyone is back there! They need me—"

"Remus doesn't know you now. He'll kill you, just as fast as those Death Eaters."

"They'll kill him and everyone else!"

"Not if they can help it," Ron said. "You know they love the idea of re-education for blood traitors. Purebloods and half-bloods have a good chance. Not you. And you're still—"

"Still what?" Her throat was raw, but she raised her voice, anyway. "Still just a muggleborn? Still not worth capturing?"

The calm in Ron's face bled away to something more frantic. He swallowed. "Still the only person that I ever—"

"Ron, stop." She looked into his eyes, but when he tried to lean into her, she pulled back. Remus was transformed by now, rampaging through the house. Sirius would have to choose between being safe from Remus in dog form or staying in wizard form to fight the enemy, and Neville and Oliver and the others… she'd lost track of them in the confusion. "I love Sirius."

Ron blinked and stepped back. "Oh."

"And Remus, and Neville, and all the others. I can't choose favorites. I have to make decisions based on what's good for the group. And you can't interfere with that because of what you might… because of what we once had. That's in the past."

Ron flinched, and then his eyes flashed. "Fine. Let's talk about the present." He pointed at her. "You're weak. I don't know what happened with Malfoy." He swallowed. "But you can barely stand. You can't help them."

She took a deep breath and let it out. "That's not the point. It wasn't your decision to make."

"He's right, though." Millicent sat on the edge of the well, streaked with soot and dirt. She wore her usual flat expression, but her eyes were red and tracks of pink skin showed from her eyes down to her chin.

Hermione rushed to her. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

Millicent shook her head, and it took her a moment to speak. "Professor Lupin went after the Dark Army. The sound of those claws and teeth." She stared past them, into the distance. "Neville and Oliver had to go the other way for cover. I couldn't get to anyone else."

Ron stared at the sky, where a large group of flying figures still circled. "The place will be overrun by now."

Millicent shook her head. "They were surrounded. Black stayed in wizard form for as long as he could, fighting back. He looked… I could tell he was afraid. But they couldn't. He wouldn't give them that. They didn't see me in the fireplace."

Hermione squeezed Millicent's arm. 

She stared down at the clusters of bindweed climbing the wall of the well. "Now what are we supposed to do?"

"I don't know yet. I thought—"

"Oh, good. More of your thinking." Millicent got up, shoved Hermione out of her path, and crashed her way into the forest.

"They might escape another way." Ron said. "Maybe we should…" He gestured towards the crest of the hill.

She cast notice-me-not, and they headed to the top. From there, the house was lit from above by the moonlight, the windows flashing occasionally. One side of the house swayed, then crumpled and fell, exposing the rooms. Death Eaters and Dark Army soldiers poured out, some on brooms, some on foot, dragging figures who were bound and gagged. A howl pierced the air and was suddenly cut short. There was a momentary silence, and then a deep crack. The remains of the house crumpled and collapsed, leaving behind nothing but rubble. The flying figures whooped with glee. 

She clutched her wrist convulsively and felt something under her fingers. Sirius's watch. The tiny stars glowed as the seconds ticked by.

They stood there a long time, waiting and hoping, but it was hard to see what was left of the house in the moonlight. They searched the tree line, but no one climbed the hill, wounded but alive, to greet them. Eventually, Millicent joined them, staring down into the hollow with her arms crossed and her lips pressed together. Hermione looked around her. Millicent, Ron, and herself. Molly and the other Weasley boys, somewhere. They were all that was left of the resistance. The three of them huddled together, trying to find shapes in the darkness.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape

October arrived in a furious rainstorm in the early hours of the morning. It was truly tanking down, rain lashing the windows until a grey film streamed down the panes. The wind rattled the shutters and made the house groan. Severus was reminded of a house blowing away in that old muggle film with its bizarre depiction of witches.

It was fortunate that in real life, a bit of water wouldn't melt him into a puddle. The roof leaked, and he'd always found it simpler to use water-repelling spells on his books and papers than to bother climbing on the roof and fixing the source of the problem. He hadn't realized how bad things had gotten until that day's deluge. By the afternoon, the upstairs floor held a collection of pots and pails he'd transfigured from old socks. The stray drips landing on the stairs were caught by a pair of his mam's green wellies. And from his seat at the writing desk, he could still hear the soft patter of water hitting wood somewhere in the house.

On the sparse bit of floor not already occupied by bookcases and other furniture, Potter circled. It was his ninety-eighth circuit of the day. On this round, he stopped by the front door, and Severus tensed, ready for another escape attempt. Potter rose up on his knees to peer at the corner table. Small but sturdy legged, it was a dumping ground for items found in hands and pockets after a day out. He rifled through the assortment, ignoring random change and shop receipts, and picked up the bag Severus used for his regular trip to the grocer's. Unfolding it, he dipped a hand inside and closed his eyes.

Wizarding space, Severus recalled. Just enough to make his shopping trips more convenient, but not so much as to rouse suspicion with the local shopkeepers. Not to mention an impervious charm and strengthening spells on the corners and seams.

Carefully refolding the bag, Potter held it tightly to his chest, gaze darting to Severus.

He reconsidered the wisdom, for the ninety-eighth time, of letting Potter handle magical objects. How much free rein was too much? After the night the guard Arlo Boyce died, Severus allowed Potter to be unrestrained, as long as he was there to keep watch. A reward, he supposed, or a sign of trust.

He'd even made space for him this morning by shrinking the transfigured bed and unused armchair. It was for Potter's comfort as well as his own, as Potter had a tendency to crawl under the bed as part of his circuit. He disliked Potter hiding under furniture, even for a second. Part of his regular occlumency practice now included reviewing a carefully shielded collection of memories. Eventually they'd become habit, and he hoped he'd never forget Potter again. But such practice took time, and visual reminders were essential to not being taken off-guard.

All the more reason to strengthen the truce between them. "Keep it." Potter looked triumphant, which made him uneasy. "For now," he amended.

The bag went atop a pile of books, string, and bits of paper. Severus had taken back the flatware and anything else that could give him something more severe than a papercut. Potter had tried to go for a quill that morning, which Severus had adamantly refused. He'd learnt his lesson there.

Potter resumed his creep across the room, stopping to tap the bookcases lining the walls as if searching for secret passages. Testing the wards over the house, even as the wailing wind threatened to flatten it all from the outside.

A droplet dinged as it hit something metallic, and Severus turned, ready to do battle with another leak. But it was only the Queen Elizabeth tray hovering at his elbow. One empty and overturned cup, and another still full, the sleeping potion trickling from a chip on the rim. He toyed with the overturned cup, catching the scent of myrtle and jasmine. It had taken the better part of the morning to convince Potter to drink that healing potion. Explaining every ingredient, then imbibing a bit himself to prove its harmlessness. You first, as Potter now always insisted. And Severus obliged.

But sleeping potions were out of the question. Potter refused them categorically. If Severus tried to slide one in under false pretenses, you first brought him up short. He was hardly going to dose himself with a sleeping potion in Potter's company. Whilst he could use forty winks, it was that curse-riddled body that needed a deep sleep.

Potter veered around the writing desk, giving him a wide berth. Severus glanced at an open book on the desk, an old gift from Poppy: The Healing Power of Touch. So brilliantly useful when Potter wouldn't allow him within arm's reach, let alone touching him. Where was The Healing Power of Spells Cast from Five Meters Away? They hadn't written that bloody book yet.

Potions and generalized spells cast from afar—it wasn't enough, after what Potter had been through. Several of the Death Eaters enjoyed creating elaborate curses that had no cure—until Severus created one. He needed to study each curse, noting its symptoms and progression. It was delicate work. Hands-on work.

Potter stopped at an outer wall where two bookcases met, cocking his head. His breathing slowed, and his hand hovered over the bookcases, a fingertip sliding over the tiny gap between them.

Severus couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, but he knew his mam had knitted the wards together there. She'd shown him how to detect the weakness one evening, when his father was away at the pub. And with the right spells, he could strengthen what his mother had embedded in the foundations. Layered spells, cast and reinforced over the decades. Potter shouldn't be able to transform them the way he had the bed wards. But he shouldn't be able to see them, either.

Just when he was ready to get up and run a check on those wards, Potter thumped onto his hands and knees and made another circuit. He stopped at the point where he normally veered around the desk.

Severus held himself still, his index finger tapping the air in the absence of a wand. Potter hadn't attacked him again, and he was determined not to initiate the defense spell that his instincts told him to cast. It would only antagonize Potter, and that would be a step back in what little progress they'd made. Sometimes the best defense was to appear nonthreatening and observe. But he could still feel a ghost of pain in his ankle and a low throbbing in his mind as the fog of forgetfulness threatened to overtake him.

Lightning flashed, and the thunder followed like a cannon shot. The muscles in Potter's shoulders jumped, but he kept his face steady, only glancing once at the water-blurred window. An improvement over the early hours of the morning when Severus had descended and caught him with his hands over his ears as another clap of thunder struck. He'd offered a muffling spell which Potter had, of course, refused. Severus thought back to the year of the Triwizard Tournament and when Potter would've last heard a thunderstorm. He couldn't recall. Still, it boded well that he adjusted quickly and wouldn't startle at every loud noise. Both of their nerves were frayed enough as it was.

Relaxing a bit more as the thunder settled into a rumble, Potter studied the bookcase nearest to the desk and grabbed a book from the bottom shelf. He rifled through it, eyes scanning the text centimeters from the page.

Severus noted the title of each book Potter chose, but it didn't enlighten him. His dullest books occupied the bottom shelves, and he wondered what possessed Potter to greedily grab A Complete History of Notable Squibs and Index of Medicinal Herbs by Leaf Length. Perhaps a confinement of six years made any book interesting.

His matted hair swung in chunks against his back and a sour odor was noticeable. Potter was beginning to stink again. The dust from the bookshelves intermingled with the soot from the stove to leave a grey film on Potter's hands and down the front of his nightshirt.

He could do with a smartening up himself, he realized, rubbing his ink-stained fingers together and smearing a remaining bead on his thumb. Idly pushing about correspondence to politicians and fellow ministers, he found an article triumphantly announcing the end of the rebellion. He'd searched for truths within the propaganda and had listened to boasting stories from his colleagues, sliding in to observe their unfiltered memories when he could. Leaning into his role as a dangerous but irritatingly bureaucratic minister, he requested reports from Azkaban and other prison camps that covered new arrivals. And he looked out on his stoop every morning, hoping to hear a demanding yowl and feel a familiar tickle in his nose.

It was reported in the Daily Prophet that all rebels had been captured or killed, but his subtle inquiries had found no sign of Miss Granger or the Weasleys. Her wand had not appeared in the throne room's mosaic, nor shipped to storage from the morgue. There was still a chance she was alive. He had a flash of Miss Granger coming to Hogwarts, eleven years old and already so sure of herself. Holding her head up high as the Sorting Hat swallowed her. Eleven going on thirty.

Potter paged through a book, leaving behind black fingerprints. He nibbled at a splinter that was stuck in the callus of his thumb.

The entire house was in a right state. He'd let things get out of hand. We may not have the brass so as to impress the neighbors, his mam had said, but at least we keep ourselves tidy. She'd shake her head at the look of things now, when all that was required was a simple cleaning spell. He moved to retrieve his wand.

Potter's gaze snapped directly to the pocket of Severus's robes. He dropped the book and crouched, fingers twitching.

Severus dropped his hand. No wand, then. It was like one of his old detention assignments. Clean one feral wizard and one house. No magic.

The only way to get running water without magic was through the kitchen sink or the lavatory out back. Potter hadn't seen the lavatory yet, making do with bedpans and now, thankfully, a self-cleaning chamber pot. Severus could transfigure a bath out of sight in the garden, magically heated. Then take Potter outside once the rain let up. He eyed Potter. No, decidedly not. Not until he'd extended the wards to the edge of the garden walls.

There was still the traditional way of doing things. He went into the kitchen and rolled out a round tin tub from behind the stove. The Snape family bath in all its glory. Rust stained the crevices inside, but otherwise it was serviceable. They'd never bothered with the public baths the other families had used.

Sometimes, when his father hadn't been watching, his mam would draw her wand and fill the tub with hot water in seconds. But mostly she'd splashed in potful after potful. He remembered the calluses on her hands, the sweat breaking out in spots on the back of her housedress. How her shoulder blades had moved up and down as she filled the bucket, like ripples on the river.

As the water had splashed in, the steam rose and spread, settling like dew on his face and clothes. It could get quite hot in the summers, but he liked to stay in the kitchen, his feet kicking the air and his hand moving through the steam, the mist trailing behind his fingers. It wasn't quite the magic his mam promised he would have one day, but it felt close.

And later, a visit to the new doctor, fresh out of medical school with his polished black shoes and Brylcreemed hair, lecturing his mam on how unhealthy it was, how unhygienic. How she should draw new water for each of their baths. How he said you, and it seemed to mean another word entirely. You and your family, you need to, I've seen the type of cleanliness you often have. And his mam watching him, her throat working, not saying a word.

Afterwards, she took him home and whispered stories of the Princes and their magic until she almost managed a smile. Severus thought that he might take baths in an old tub, but he had magic, and that would keep him healthier than any stupid doctor.

He rolled the tub back and forth on the kitchen tiles, thinking. Not magic, but it was like a cauldron in some respects. Heat and water released the natural properties of the ingredients. Magic released the magical properties. There were potions that targeted dark magic, and could be absorbed through the skin. He selected an armful of potion ingredients from his cupboards and set them on the table. Then he lit a fire in the stove and put four pots of water on the stovetop. Once the water was boiling, he poured it into the tub. After he added each ingredient, he set the jars on the floor.

Potter watched from the kitchen doorway. As the jars collected on the floor, he took each one and sniffed it, touching the rim and rubbing the residue between his fingers.

Filling a tub was tedious, backbreaking work. More so than he'd anticipated. The water took an absurdly long time to heat, and four potfuls didn't even fill the tub one third of the way. He had a newfound respect for the times his mother had done it by hand.

Once the tub was halfway full, he added the remaining potions ingredients. They dispersed, turning the water a pale green and releasing the scent of citrus. It felt good to do something with his hands. He supposed that was something he inherited from his muggle side. And yet, it was probably why he enjoyed potions as much as he did. The act of chopping and slicing and physically handling an ingredient to determine how best to release its properties—it was pleasurable in itself, beyond any magic created. So different from the time spent in his head. And in other people's heads.

He placed his hands against the tub, concentrating. He knew several wandless spells for potions—and could manage them without the largely decorative arm-waving—but preferred his wand for precision. Still, all he needed now was a simple spell every bright potions student learnt by their fifth year. One that released the inherent magical properties of the ingredients. Solvo. He concentrated, imagining the same magic flowing through him as if he were using his wand.

A wary gaze followed his every movement. He wondered if Potter could see this magic as well. He took a deep breath, and felt it, the magic working just right. The green water gradually paled until it was nearly colorless, threaded with alabaster whirls and crowned with a light mist.

He waved Potter over. "Get in."

Potter peered over the side of the tub, sniffing.

"It's a bath with healing herbs."  He pointed to the jars on the floor. Potter uncorked each bottle and sniffed the ingredients again, then sniffed the steaming water. He stuck his tongue out and touched the tip to the water's surface.

Severus shoved his head away. "It's not for drinking, idiot." He'd spent over an hour filling the tub, and was now sweaty and irritable. "Immersion offers different benefits. Do I have to throw you in?"

Reeling back, Potter dug at his face, as though removing the imprint of Severus's touch. He narrowed his eyes and pointed.

Severus was familiar with the gesture now. You first. "The healing properties are for you."

Potter clenched his jaw and stayed where he was.

To absorb the healing properties, one had to be injured. Severus could bathe first and Potter would still get the benefits. If he could ever get him in the tub. He recalled the pecking order in his family on bath night: his father went first, then his mother. If his father was feeling particularly courteous, he would let his mam go first. Severus was always last. He glanced at Potter. You've officially designated me man of the house. Truly an honor.

He unbuttoned his robe as Potter stared. Severus's fingers stilled. A deep reluctance settled on him. It took a moment to understand why: James Potter, stripping his clothes on the Hogwarts grounds. He'd made a lot of angry promises to himself that day, one being that Potter would never put him in such a position again.

He glanced at Potter, who was nibbling at the splinter in his thumb. With the long hair and scarring, the resemblance to James Potter had disappeared. And in truth, it didn't matter. Potter was not his father, and he couldn't afford to block his own attempts to heal by conflating the two. It had been an indulgence, the petty revenge fantasies he'd had as potions master at Hogwarts. Imagining that Potter was his father, reveling in the reversal of roles: Potter seething with impotent rage and humiliation as Severus coolly mocked him.

If he wanted to get anywhere with Potter, he had to set all that aside. But still. The idea of Potter watching him undress…

"Best if you go first," he said. "The water will be lukewarm by the time I finish."

Potter drew further back, lines of suspicion deepening on his face.

It was a twenty-minute bath. Just bloody well get in. Severus took a deep breath and refused to look at Potter. He shook off his shoes and stripped off his robe and underclothes.

The water was deliciously hot. He drew up his knees so that he could slide his upper back below the surface, letting his shoulders relax as the heat penetrated. His knees stuck up, but the soles of his feet rested against the bottom of the tub, and their perpetual ache dimmed. The Dark Mark stung when it touched the water—too much dark magic in it that the potion was vainly trying to remove—so he kept his arm on the rim. He splashed water over his head and rolled his shoulders.

Wary green eyes appeared at the rim, peering into the water. The broken nose sniffed cautiously.

Severus scowled, but found that he couldn't tense. All he could manage was a slow sitting-up. He had the foggy laziness of too many firewhiskeys. So he sank back into the water and waved expansively. "See anything interesting?"

Potter jerked away from his hand and scurried off.

"That's right," Severus muttered as he closed his eyes. "Leave me to my bath time."

After twenty minutes, he got out, stumbling like a town drunk. No wonder his father had insisted on going first. He nearly laughed, thinking of his father wallowing in his hot bath like a posh lady getting her spa treatment. He pulled a towel from a cupboard and nodded at Potter. "Your turn."

Potter stripped off his nightshirt and leaned over the rim to sniff the water again. Several minutes passed as he stared at the surface.

"I swear to every god in the Western canon," Severus growled. "If you don't get in…"

But Potter had a look of frustration. He turned sideways, awkwardly grabbing the handle. He couldn't raise himself high enough to step over the edge.

Severus grunted. Get a wizard into the tub without touching him. No magic. He rummaged through his shelves and dropped a few out-of-print textbooks in a stack next to the tub.

Using the books as a step stool, Potter cautiously worked his way over the rim and splashed into the water. His body was so rail-thin that he could have curled up on the bottom. He huddled in the center, as though he expected tiny fish to attack.

"Dunk your head. Although I don't suppose it'll cure your addled brain. That was inherited." Severus finished dressing and searched for a mop. Surely his mam had kept one somewhere. His father had roared whenever Severus's unintentional magic had caused soup to boil over or a glass to break. She was always ready with a mop or scrub brush, quickly removing the evidence. Placate an angry drunk twice your size. No magic.

One hot summer afternoon, when the rot from the river rose and seeped through the town, his father had coughed instead of roared. Blood leaked out of his mouth. He was dead within the month. Then, peace. Blessed peace. It fell in line with his thinking at the time, that the world was better off without some people in it.

The mop stood in a pail in the back of a closet. The already-grey yarn was black by the time Severus finished. He dunked it clean and dumped the dirty water outside. He set the mop against the doorframe to the front room and dropped the pail next to it. It landed with a loud clank but didn't seem to bother Potter. His eyes were fluttering closed. Finally.

"Time to dry off," Severus said. "Don't fall asleep yet."

That shook Potter awake. He stumbled out, sloshing water onto the tiles. Swaying on his hands and knees, head hanging close to the floor, he looked like a beast shot with a tranquilizer dart. Slowly, he sat up, rubbing his face and pinching the tender places on his neck.

"No use fighting it." Severus mopped up the trail of water. "The brew works with your own energy. Primes it to focus on healing you. It might feel like your energy's gone, but it's merely been diverted." Severus leaned on the mop, watching Potter. "You'll rest for a while. Sleep."

Potter shook his head, chunks of matted wet hair flapping. He pointed at Severus.

"Yes, I went first. But I don't have any curses to heal. You absorbed most of the magic."

Potter had been unwilling to take sleeping potions. Severus had assumed it was because he wouldn't test them first. Their little truce didn't extend to Potter taking potions without proof they weren't poison. But that wasn't the real issue, he realized. Potter didn't want to be forced into a deep sleep with Severus present.

Moaning low in his throat, Potter scrambled forwards. He slammed himself against the wall, hard enough to bruise.

Severus grimaced but kept his voice firm. "Pain won't keep you awake. Nothing will."

Potter grabbed the nearest potions jar, smashing it against the floor. He picked up a shard and jabbed it into his palm, twisting it viciously. The shard sank into the skin, and thick runners of blood spread down his arm.

Shite. Severus gripped the mop and struck Potter's arm, knocking the shard away.

Potter grabbed the handle and shoved backwards, throwing Severus off balance. He yanked the mop away and struck Severus against the side of the head.

Fortunately, it was a glancing blow. Potter was struggling with his injury. But that didn't stop him from searching the floor for another shard, still gripping the mop in one hand.

Enough of this. Potter needed to be restrained until he succumbed to the potion, for his own safety. Severus fished in his pocket for his wand.

The next thing he knew, the end of the mop was jabbed sharply into his gut. He clutched the handle defensively, dropping his wand. Potter tried for another jab, and it turned into a brief tug of war, Severus winning easily and dragging Potter towards him across the slick floor. He reached out a hand to grab him by the arm.

Potter's eyes widened, and he screeched, dropping the mop and scrambling away.

He couldn't go far. The small kitchen was warded and Severus blocked the door to the front room. Potter looked around frantically, his gaze landing on the handle of a boning knife on the edge of the counter.

"Oh no, you don't." Severus launched at him but Potter swerved, ducking behind the tub.

Both on their knees, they stared at each other across the tub, the only sounds the slosh of the water and their heavy breaths.

"Let's be reasonable," Severus said, smoothing his voice. "I know you… dislike the idea of a deep sleep. But there's nothing for it if you're going to heal."

Potter gripped the edge of the tub, fingertips touching the water, his eyes squeezed shut.

Severus wasn't sure his words were getting through. Potter wasn't attacking, which was a slight improvement. He continued in his most calming voice. "I'll get you something to dry off, and another nightshirt. Once I resize the bed, you can—"

The humidity hanging in the air crackled, and Severus's exposed skin was bombarded with pins and needles. The water splashed angrily until the tub itself was shuddering with each wave. Potter gave the tub a shove, and it tipped over, the water rushing out with force.

Severus threw up his hands, but it was no use. The water hit him like a tidal wave, knocking him back and filling his mouth and nose. He coughed and sputtered, covering his face as best he could.

When the water abated, he was alone in the kitchen, the door to the front room swinging.

He coughed again to clear his throat. "Accio wand." He expected it to fly through the swinging door, out of Potter's hand. But the wand flew to him from under the kitchen table. Severus barreled through the door.

In the far corner of the room, Potter rummaged through his pile of random objects, frantically searching for something.

Another weapon, no doubt, and Severus wouldn't give him the opportunity. Grabbing Potter by the shoulders, he pulled him from behind into a waist lock. He dragged him to the center of the sitting room, far from any hard or sharp objects. His drenched robes squelched as he squeezed Potter against him.

This close, the wet warmth of Potter's skin penetrated the small space between them. The water dripping down the back of his neck exuded a sweet citrus scent and the biting taste of fresh sweat. New rivulets divided between the ropy muscles as Potter tensed his shoulders.

Severus turned his head just before Potter knocked back his own, trying to slam into his face.

Potter tried to grab the arms trapping him, but Severus had locked around his elbows and he couldn't reach. His legs flailed, but he didn't have the muscle control to kick. He locked his hands on Severus's hips and yanked, pulling himself down. Growling, he bit hard on Severus's thumb.

Severus flinched but didn't let go. A dull nub bruised his knuckle. Potter didn't have much left in the way of teeth. He dropped to the floor with Potter and locked his grip around his elbows again. "Calm yourself," he ground out, which was a perfectly useless thing to say. Potter had no reason to be calm when he thought… "I won't hurt you."  This is different from all those times in the past, when you were brought to the throne room and the Dark Lord was watching. Go completely against the evidence of your own eyes and trust me.

As his muscles absorbed the potion and began to relax, his frantic scrabbling turned to slow, heavy shoves.

"This'll go easier if you'd stop fighting," he bit out, trying to keep them both upright.

His mam had said those words once as she tried to soothe him after his father's belt. And him crying, nearly screaming, the burn of the lashes igniting something he couldn't control and didn't understand. Struggling as she locked her arms around him, one over his elbows and the other over his mouth. "Quiet, do you hear me? Your father's still in the house."

Still, she'd tried, and Severus tried now, trying to avoid his mam's tone of distracted impatience. "It'll be all right. Shh. There, now." Meaningless promises that didn't sound any more convincing than when his mam had said them.

Potter groaned and slumped forwards. His body seemed to shrink in on itself, but somehow became heavier.

Severus remained where he was, listening to his rapid breaths and the rattling rain. Calm yourself. Another favorite phrase of his mam's. It didn't last long, those quiet moments when he'd finally calmed and she'd relaxed, her hold on him feeling more like an embrace. He'd learnt not to cling to her when she pried him off, knowing she needed to get up and get on with her work. For her, there was always more to be done, cooking and mending and, after his accidental magic, mopping up the evidence of who he was.

Smoothing down Potter's wet hair as best he could, he pressed his nose into it, surrounding himself with the comforting scent of healing herbs. Gently, he laid him on the floor. Potter's head lolled to one side, his breath slow and rasping.

The front room looked worse than it had an hour ago. Trails of water ran across the room, and the items from Potter's precious pile were strewn everywhere.

The Healing Power of Touch had fallen into a small puddle, its pages rippling. He picked it up. The ink slipped from the words and ran into the creases. He set it carefully on the desk. It could be restored, with the proper spells.

Severus touched the spots where the curses were centered, noted the places of weakness where he could begin to unravel them. Potter groaned, but didn't wake.

He remembered the times he'd worked to remove curses for Albus. How he'd worked for hours, learning to fight the sly magic, sweat running into his eyes. The headmaster's reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. Severus hesitated, then put his hand on Potter's shoulder. The only response was a shiver.

"I'll make things better," he whispered. "I just need a chance to do it." He closed his eyes, making his words a promise to those who could no longer hear him.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger

The puddle in front of the abandoned Honeydukes exploded upwards in a muddy geyser. Pressurized into steam, the puff of fog floated through the pounding rain.

"Incendio!"

A withered branch lying across the street crackled with bright flames, spitting angrily under the pounding rain until it sputtered into a smoky mass. The cloud spread in all directions, one edge reaching Hermione as she sat on the Honeydukes stoop.

She coughed and put her wand away, the petty destruction not nearly as satisfying as she'd hoped.

The wind had finally tapered off. It was still bucketing down, but at least the rain wasn't coming at her sideways. Dumbledore's umbrella had been useful again, hovering above in an attempt to make her less wet and irritable.

The leather watch on her wrist chimed lightly. The field of stars on its face swirled into the air, tinkling as they danced in the gloom. Four clustered together into a falling star that landed with a tingling shower of sparkles on her nose.

She waved them away until the air was clear. Twenty minutes already. She'd promised herself that she'd only give that much time to shout and curse and hex anything in sight. Now it was time to get up and deal with what she'd learnt.

Pulling off her boots and taking out the newest edition of the Prophet, she peeled away the damp pages stuck to her feet and wrapped fresh classifieds around her well-worn socks. Shoving her boots back on, she slowly got up, the umbrella rising with her. That felt better, at least. Dry feet do a world of good, as her mother used to say. She closed her eyes. Don't think about Mum. You simply can't, not on top of everything else.

The front page declared "Muggle-Born Criminal Rampage" in overinflated lettering. Extra warmth was all it was good for. They'd been running stories of muggle-borns stealing supplies. "Like dogs scrabbling for a bone." Lovely imagery.

Tucking the paper away, she peered down the street. They might get a break in the rain today, although perhaps that was wishful thinking. Sometimes she thought that was her biggest fault: wishful thinking. But she couldn't help it. She needed to believe that the sun would shine, eventually.

She pointed her wand at her face. "Tergeo." That cleaned up her tears, and she could blame her red eyes on a lack of sleep. All fixed up and ready to face the troops with the good news and bad.

She grabbed the umbrella and headed towards the Three Broomsticks, careful to avoid the stoops with rotted wood, especially the ones that squeaked angrily. While Crookshanks enjoyed the plentiful rats that scurried through the abandoned shops, even he wasn't up to the task of eliminating them all. It wasn't an ideal spot under normal circumstances, but it had turned out to be the only one of their remaining bases that hadn't been overrun with the Dark Army within hours of their arrival. She glanced in the direction of Hogwarts, although she couldn't see it over the rooftops. A lingering protective magic, perhaps.

Japanese knotweed had grown over windows, and moss covered the cobblestone streets. Bittercress nested in the hollows of the fence posts. She jumped at an explosion of movement as a rabbit sprung, wide-eyed, from its burrow beneath an overturned vendor's cart. A weedy cul-de-sac hosted a herd of five goats. They stared at her with sleepy eyes and bleated before hanging their heads to endure the downpour.

The doorframe to The Three Broomsticks barely held the moisture-swollen door. It was more of a disguise than a real barrier to entry. She shrank the door until it swung open, then let it swell back into the frame.

The tables, bar, and floor were all coated with dust. Another disguise. They'd cast a reversal of scourgify, and the surfaces now attracted dust when they weren't actively used. A way for the inn to look uninhabited and uninhabitable, despite the subtle repairs they'd done to keep themselves dry and warm.

Millicent, who sat at one of the tables, nodded at her. "Messages?"

"Two, and the Prophet. I thought you were going for supplies."

"Already back." Millicent nodded at the bar.

Bags of cheese, bread, and other edibles blanketed the bar. The side of the bags announced the muggle shop from which it came. "We don't have the money for—" A sinking feeling in her gut stopped her as she remembered the article in the Prophet. She held it up. "Are you the 'muggle-born criminal rampage?'"

Millicent brightened. "Hey, I made the paper!" She snatched it from Hermione's hands and read eagerly.

"We can't steal," Hermione argued. "The wizarding customs department puts charms on muggle goods to deter stealing through magic. It's part of the Wizarding-Muggle Relations Agreement."

Millicent shrugged. "The new Ministry doesn't care about wizarding-muggle relations."

That was an understatement. "They still use the detector charms, though, since they'll detect us. You're lucky an undercover Dark Guard didn't arrive at the shop and arrest you."

Millicent settled down to page through the paper. "We'll starve, then. There's no food left in Hogsmeade. Anything that wasn't packed up or looted was eaten by rats."

"You're the only one of us that isn't known to be in the resistance. Maybe you can go to a wizarding shop—"

"With what money? And they'll have much stronger anti-theft charms."

Hermione fidgeted. "There isn't any way you could access your Gringotts vault?"

Millicent looked up from the paper to gaze at her steadily. "It's in trust. I have an allowance, but if I access it, my parents will be on me like that." She snapped her fingers. "You'll be down to two, and I'll be…" She firmed her lips and stared down at the paper. "Why don't you use Draco's money? We've been here a few days, and no invasion yet. Send a message to Gringotts telling them to ship you the first payment."

She clasped the watch, running her thumb over the leather. No more time for crying or hexing. "About that. I need to talk to both of you. Where's Ron?"

"Clearing the tunnels. I didn't realize there were so many under Hogsmeade."

"There was only one when we went to school—that I know of. The resistance dug out the rest when we were using Hogwarts as a base, years ago."

"Must be why it's taking him so long."

"Too right," came a voice from the cellar stairs. Ron emerged, pulling a dollop of mud out of his hair. "Three collapsed. I've worked on restoring the connection from the Three Broomsticks to the Shrieking Shack to Hogwarts. It's a handy escape route."

This was where they were these days: how quickly they could escape. And she was the reason why. She cleared her throat. "I know why the Dark Guard has found us so quickly. This was in one of our drop-boxes." She showed them the message from the Phoenix.

Written in a child's lettering, which hid any identifiable handwriting. The words were anything but childlike, and swam before her as she forced herself to look at it again: …goblins have changed allegiances… Gringotts… tracking charms…

They'd gone from one base to another, only to meet the Dark Army shortly after settling. Lucius Malfoy had been ever-present, shouting orders as he zeroed in on her. They'd barely kept ahead of their pursuers, but she'd held onto one thought. Once they had a moment to breathe, they would have funds again. They could buy spellbooks and supplies. They could make a plan to break their friends out. Buy potions and hire healing specialists to help them recover from their ordeal. Keep dreamless sleep in stock for Sirius, and wolfsbane for Remus. Bring others into their cause, and become a force that could bring down the legions aligned against them.

Hermione took out the scroll she always carried with her. The Gringotts seal gleamed. She'd pinned her hopes on the very thing that was helping their enemies.

Ron was the first to realize her intentions, and his face paled. "Hermione, no. You can't."

"I have to." She could see Draco Malfoy at the table in the White Wyvern, sitting with unnatural stillness as she handed over her location to the enemy. He knew. That slimy little git knew, and he'd goaded her into signing. He thought she was an inferior being who had no business being in the magical world, and she'd been so busy showing him up that she hadn't stopped to think. And Griphook. They'd both known she couldn't be familiar with every nuance of pureblood culture, and they'd taken advantage of that. She had to be smarter. She couldn't afford any more mistakes.

Millicent caught up. "You're going to destroy it? Because of one message?"

"We couldn't figure out how they kept finding us, and now…" Hermione stopped as Ron and Millicent glanced at each other silently. "Well, go on. What is it?"

Ron avoided her gaze, but Millicent hardened her jaw and glared. "We don't trust the Phoenix. We think he betrayed us and has been telling the other side our location."

Hermione blinked at her, then turned to Ron. "Is that what we think?"

He made a face at Millicent and shrugged. "It's a convenient explanation he has, isn't it? One that cuts off our funds."

"It could be a she… but unlikely," she added, not interested in having that argument again and aware of the scant number of women within Voldemort's inner circle. At some point the Phoenix had become a he in her mind. "He doesn't know our location. I haven't sent him a message, what with—"

"With constantly being pursued." Ron folded his arms. "All these messages back and forth—you're saying he couldn't have put a trace on you?" He ploughed on before she could respond. "And what about the attack on Dumbledore's house? He said the next attack would be elsewhere."

"Everyone makes mistakes."

He shook his head. "We figure he's a Death Eater, right? It could be the overgrown snake himself, for all we know. Just like that bastard to use a name that makes us think of Dumbledore."

Who was the Phoenix? There were a select few who fit the bill. She'd actually considered Draco or Lucius Malfoy, but her encounters with them had dispelled that notion. She tried not to think about it too much. His life depended on remaining anonymous. "All the information he's given us. That was, what? To lower our defenses? So he could wait four years and then dive in for the kill?"

"It's not as though he's helped us win the war," Ron said. "We're doing worse than ever."

Hermione shook her head. The Phoenix only supplied information. In her own attempts to gather intelligence, she'd learnt how difficult it could be. At Hogwarts, it had been so easy—read the appropriate chapters and write the answers. Now the information was sparse, the informants untrustworthy, and the possible answers endless. "It's not his fault. He's doing the best he can."

Ron and Millicent started talking at once, their voices rising. "The best he can is rubbish…"

"…you Gryffindors will trust anyone…"

They didn't understand what it was like to get those messages. The first one had found her shortly after she'd escaped from the prison camp. It had unnerved her that anyone outside of her fellow escapees had known where she was. But the message had told her how to find the resistance movement. It was the first time she'd felt safe in months.

Through the past four years, the messages had been there to give her another window of opportunity, another chance to regain the world she'd lost. Scrolls first left in her path, then in drop-boxes, or under Crookshanks's collar. Nothing personal in the information, not even an encouraging word—and yet she sensed the trust within them. Even now, there was no demand that she destroy the Gringotts document, only the information laid out in precise detail. The choices that he left her to make were never easy, but they were hers to make alone. How could she betray that trust, the way Griphook had betrayed hers?

Nodding decisively, she dropped the scroll onto the floor. "Incendio."

The scroll burst into flame, quickly blackening and crumbling to ash. She stamped out the remaining embers, wincing as a spark burned through the cracked sole of her boot.

All three of them stared at the spot for a moment, the heat of their argument gone.

"I hope you're right," Ron said finally. "If the Phoenix has been lying to us, it was all for nothing." He raised his hands. "I'm saying it's a possibility. We've no idea who he is, or what he wants. Probably Slytherin, and they never do anything unless it benefits them."

Millicent cleared her throat pointedly, her face flushing. "Remember me? Helping your sorry lot doesn't benefit me. I spend most of my day regretting it."

"I appreciate your work, Millicent, even if you don't. And Ron, enough with houses. We're not at Hogwarts anymore…" She broke off. "Well, we are now, I suppose."

Ron huffed, waving away her words. "I'm saying it's hard to believe he's risking his neck out of the goodness of his heart."

"Then put him to a test," Millicent said. She had a strange sort of stoicism, her anger quickly settling back into her natural state of perpetual sourness. Waving her wand idly, she made little whirlwinds of dust on the floor. "If you want to make sure he's not giving away your secrets, tell him a secret and see what happens."

"Give him our location," Ron said, "and see if anyone attacks? That's idiotic."

"You're idiotic. Give him a false location. Ask to meet. If an army shows, you have your answer."

"I don't know," Hermione said. "Is there anything that will remove all doubt? Only people on the other side can supply the most useful information. We'll always wonder if they'll betray the entire resistance."

Millicent scoffed, gesturing at the three of them. "The entire resistance."

There's still Molly, Charlie, and Bill." Hermione turned to Ron. "I have a message from her."

"How are they?" Ron's eyes were bright, almost feverish.

She felt guilty for arguing with him. He hadn't said much, but he'd asked about messages whenever she went out to check their drop-off points. He'd been tense since they'd separated. She opened the message:

Hello everyone,

The boys and I have gotten through the past few weeks as well as expected. Only one close call, and that was because Bill let his glamour drop and a Dark Guard officer caught sight of him. We gave him the slip, thanks to Charlie's quick thinking.   

With so many of our friends captured, we've been searching for information on who's been sent where. It's challenging, since even the officials we've trusted in the past have gotten tight-lipped. 

But we found someone—an old school chum of mine. A brilliant student, but all this purity nonsense means that many half-bloods are stuck as low-level clerks in the ministry. Still, she goes through a lot of paperwork, and she saw a transfer list that showed Sirius and the rest have been sent to Azkaban. And there was a Weasley on the transfer to Azkaban about a year ago. She couldn't remember the first name. But who else could it be, with Ron safe and dear Arthur and the twins gone and Percy—well, where he is? It simply has to be Ginny.  

I asked if she can find a way to get them transferred. Even one of those awful prison camps would be better than Azkaban. I'm trying not to get my hopes up, but I can't stop thinking of holding my sweet girl in my arms again.  

My friend said she'll contact me soon, so I'll write again if I learn anything new.  

All my love,  

M.W.

"Ginny." Ron closed his eyes, his mouth tight. "Azkaban. A year ago."

"I'm sorry." Those two words were all she could offer, and she tried to imbue them with the warmth and comfort he needed. Ginny, Sirius, and Remus. Neville and the others. Something inside her cried out that they should attack Azkaban, now. But of course, they couldn't. The last time they'd tried that, they'd had an army and Dumbledore. And the only result was that a damaged Azkaban soon resumed operation, harder to break into than ever.

Ron's voice had gone soft. "They could come here."

"They have a good lead, and should stay where they are to follow it. And it's safer where they are. They haven't been pursued like we have."

He gave her a look.

"Which is explained by the trace on the Gringotts transfer." Something stuck in her throat, and she busied herself by scanning Molly's message. She didn't believe the Phoenix betrayed them. But she hadn't believed the goblins would betray them until they did. The only people she could truly trust were in this room or with Molly. And one more, at the castle. Although that was stretching the definition of people. But it reminded her of a task that couldn't wait.

"I'm off to explore Hogwarts," she said. "There may be supplies worth salvaging."

Ron frowned. "We haven't explored the whole village. Could be—"

"—Dangerous. Yes, I know." The events of the past few weeks were catching up with her. She wanted to collapse into a soft bed, sink down and let sleep cover her. She knew her voice was rising, but didn't care. "Also dangerous to not patrol the grounds. It's dangerous to stay, dangerous to leave—"

"I know, I know." Ron sighed. "At least take the tunnels. Less chance of a collapse with the two of us working, and we'll be less exposed. Millicent can guard the home front, right?"

Millicent nodded. "I'm keeping the umbrella. Never know when another roof will land on me."

"Great. Back in two shakes."

Hermione wanted to argue. She'd rather go to the castle alone, and when she and Ron worked a mission together—it was either quite uncomfortable, or a little too comfortable. Old habits and old feelings. But Ron still looked pale from the news about Ginny, and she relented, hoping they'd keep things professional. Not that they ever had.

**

The pounding rain left the tunnel muddy and dripping. Ron charmed two scavenged shovels to self-dig drainage holes on each side, preventing flooding.

"It's a tight fit." He indicated the newly cleared walls on either side of them. "But I wagered that clearing it to the Whomping Willow was more important than being spacious." They walked until the tunnel veered sharply to the right. "Here's the connection to the original tunnel. The Shrieking Shack is above us, there." He pointed with his illuminated wand. 

Everything looked different since those early years of the war, but it was coming back to her. "How much still needs to be cleared?"

"Quite a bit," he admitted. They walked ahead until they met mounds of collapsed earth blocking the passage, exposing grasping roots and the stone foundations of the buildings.

"I've been transfiguring loose earth into support structures, and it's slow going." He gestured at the wooden support beams above them. "Didn't want to make a mistake and get buried down here."

"Definitely not," Hermione murmured. She examined the cascade of oozing mud blocking the passage and pointed her wand. "Glacius."

The mud crackled as it froze, a pale sheen of ice forming on the surface. She guided her wand up the wall, above her head, and down the other side. When she was done, the cold nipped at her nose and their breaths misted the air. "Should be frozen solid a good ten meters ahead."

He cocked his head skeptically. "And that'll make it easier to dig?"

"It'll make an ice tunnel that'll support earth overhead. Evanesco."

The dirt blocking their progress disappeared, revealing a cold but solid passageway.

"Blimey," he said, staring at her progress. "That'll work. What about when it melts?"

"The ice is thick enough to last a few hours." After pulling a pencil from her pocket, she worked off the eraser and then the ferrule. She held up the small metal ring. "What do you think? Can you duplicate it and enlarge it to three meters across? They'll function as support beams, and it's easier than transfiguring solid wood from muddy earth."

Ron took the ferrule and peered through it. "That would work, yeah." He gave her a friendly poke with his elbow. "Guess that's why you run this organization, eh? We'll make it to the castle in record time." His face darkened. "Not looking forward to seeing Hogwarts again."

"It's still standing," Hermione offered, knowing it was small consolation.

"Didn't realize when I was a student that I'd look back on it as the best years of my life." He gazed at her. "And the years we were together."

"It was only a year." Here it was again. Before, there'd always been enough people that she could put space between them when he got like this. She could go out on missions, limiting their interactions for everyone's comfort. It didn't inspire confidence to see the leader of the resistance getting into constant little quarrels with her ex. But now it was the three of them, and she could hardly expect Millicent to act as referee.

"Eighteen months. Right after you escaped from that prison camp, we—"

"Focus, Ron. It's still going to take us hours to clear this, and I don't fancy being down here at night."

"I'm only saying it was a long relationship. The longest you've ever had."

And the only relationship you've ever had, she thought, but didn't say. She was hardly a seasoned expert. Her time with Viktor Krum had been brief, cut short by Harry's disappearance. And she'd dated him to make a point to Ron and herself, which hadn't been fair to Viktor. But it had opened her eyes to how different a relationship can be. How they could be companionably quiet together, even if she'd never managed his talent for long bouts of silent self-reflection.

As the war dragged on, she'd thought more about those moments of quiet and peace. After a terrible battle, in between caring for the injured and planning future strategies, she would think of early spring afternoons in a tranquil cottage. Warm and comfortable, reading by the crackling fire with… someone. It used to be Ron, but the face of that companion had gotten blurry over the years, as it became harder and harder to make Ron fit into that picture.

She focused on freezing the newly exposed earth in front of her. "I haven't had time for relationships, long or otherwise. If there hadn't been a war–"

"Well, there is a war." Ron vanished the next section of frozen mud. "And we're good together. In the battle at the base, we barely had to say anything. We were like two owls flying in unison."

"In battle. But when we're not fighting the enemy, we fight each other. We can never handle peace for long."

"What does that matter? Peace isn't exactly on the horizon. And even if it was—there's the auror program. We can spend the rest of our lives fighting side by side."

Hermione looked at him, dismayed. "That's the future you see for us? A fight that never ends?"

"Don't make it sound like that. We've always been that way. We fight in battle, then we find each other and… fireworks. Things settle down, and we argue a bit. Maybe too much. But there's always another battle."

"But that's the point. I need to believe it will change, that there will be peace again. The idea that we'll go from fight to fight, snogging and shagging as a way to release it all… I don't want to live like that. And being with you is like accepting that future. That we'll always be fighting for our lives. I'd be giving up on the way the world should be."

 He looked away from her, his jaw tightening. "What does the future of the war have to do with something that's between us?"

"Relationships are about the future. It's saying that this is the life I want; this is the future I want to share with someone."

"But I thought…" He shook his head. "We were meant to be. You said you had a crush on me all through Hogwarts—"

She thought back on that time, her feelings now tinged with nostalgia and bittersweetness. "I also had a crush on Jonas Salk at that age. Childhood dreams."

He looked stunned. "Who is this Jonas bloke, and why were you mooning over him?"

"Ron, he… It doesn't matter. What I mean is, I was young. We were young. Too young to know what being an adult is really like."

"We were seventeen when we kissed. And eighteen when we were together for the first time. Remember that night at Kew Gardens? We waited all night for that informant, hiding from the guard, and then we…" He took her hand in his. "You said you loved me, afterwards."

She remembered. It had been a beautiful, vibrant night. "I did. I do. You're my best mate. And we tried. When we get in fixes, and things get intense, it all feels good. But when things calm down, we don't know what to do with each other."

They fell into silence, Ron vanishing the dirt and mud as she cast the freezing spell. Finally, he sighed and looked back at her. "But this Jonas bloke? You're not still carrying a torch?"

She resisted the urge to smile and nodded solemnly. "That love affair is over."

Light broke out above them between tree roots that wriggled like toes. Ron stopped short. "There it is. The Whomping Willow." He looked up at the waving roots, not moving.

Hermione quietly siphoned off the water in the surrounding slopes and transfigured them into packed-dirt steps. "You don't have to go up, you know."

He extinguished his wand, and his face fell into shadows. "I'll have to see it eventually."

The rain had tapered off into a light drizzle that would frizz up her hair but was otherwise tolerable with her hoodie pulled up. There were no flailing branches overhead, but the Whomping Willow was still alive. From the blackened stump, green shoots emerged, waving feebly. Ron let one curl around his finger before turning to look at Hogwarts.

Life was beginning to show at the castle. Clumps of bracken fern peeked out of the scorched earth where Hagrid's hut once stood. A brown bird hopped lightly among the jagged stones of the fallen north tower. The rain had washed away some of the soot on the north face, revealing spots of grey on the black walls. She could no longer smell the smoke and death that had choked the air for so long. Another few years, and she imagined it would look the way it had always looked to muggles: ancient ruins.

"Shite," Ron said. "The infirmary wing is gone."

"That happened two years ago," she told him bitterly. "They didn't want resistance members coming here for supplies and healing themselves."

He stared at her. "How often have you come here?"

"Not that often," she said, keeping her gaze on the castle. "I wanted to salvage what I could before it was all looted or destroyed."

They patrolled the grounds, hiding the trails they made in the waist-high grass, careful not to stumble into one of the black craters that pockmarked the honey-colored landscape. All that could be seen of the quidditch field were the spindly remains of one tower. The greenhouses were gone, along with any other buildings, all the way to the Forbidden Forest. Only the forest and the lake felt unchanged.

"Remember our first year?" Ron asked. "The boat ride, when the castle first comes into view…" He lapsed into silence as the grass rattled in the wind. "Think anyone will ever feel that way again?"

She thought about Hogwarts: A History, and how there were theories that the castle was a living manifestation of magic, that it was not so much built, but grown. Organic Magic author Welwanda Krickaboo theorized that some living essence of Hogwarts would remain, even if it were razed to the ground. It would continue to exist long after all witches and wizards had departed from this world. Others theorized Hogwarts marked the beginning of the magical era, and its destruction would mark the end of it. But she wasn't sure she could say any of that without her voice quavering. "I was always rotten at Divinations."

Ron glanced at the castle and looked away. "I suppose there's nothing left but to go in."

"You really don't have to. I can manage on my own."

"It's not about that. I want to be with you."

"But maybe you shouldn't," she said gently. "Want to be with me so much."

He rubbed his head. "You won't let up on this, will you?"

Best to be strong and have it out now. "It's been two years since we've been together–"

Ron's head jerked up. "What about last summer, when we–"

"Two years since we've been together for more than a few days. I shouldn't have given you false hopes, especially last summer. It's just that…" It was just that sometimes things got too difficult to bear, and the nights were worst of all. But she hadn't been fair to Ron, just as she hadn't been fair to Viktor. "You deserve someone who wants to be with you the way you want to be with them."

He was silent for a long time, and she waited, preparing for another argument. But when he looked up, his mouth was tightly closed, and his eyes didn't quite meet hers. He nodded and was gone.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into the empty air. She'd always hesitated to say it so bluntly, hoping Ron would take her hints and their frequent arguments and realize it on his own. Wishful thinking. Why could she break through a front line of Death Eaters without a moment's hesitation, but be such a coward about the necessary business of breaking someone's heart?

The grass had soaked her trousers up to the knees. The main gate clanged in the wind, the bars twisted into a curl. As she approached the castle, the hair on her arms tingled as if charged by static electricity.

Over the years, she'd cleared a path through the rubble in the entrance hall and up the stairs to the next level. She'd looked up all the references cited in Hogwarts: A History. At least, all the references she could find. She'd had some frustrating conversations with Binns, who still floated about his classroom, oblivious to the lack of students or the accumulated layers of dust on the desks. That resulted in more research and conversations with other ghosts who still lurked in the castle, and a few Hogwarts house-elves that had scattered across Scotland. But it had led her to this spot.

Fortunately, the central location of the Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower had prevented its collapse, although a few stones had loosened from their mortar and fallen on the steps. She picked her way around them until she reached the Astronomy Wing. Stopping at the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, she looked at the blank wall opposite. A large crack snaked downwards, wider than her finger.

Three times, Dobby had said. She focused on what she wanted and counted her paces. Silently, the stone bulged outwards and formed an archway. An ornate wooden door appeared within.

She let out a sigh of relief. So much of the castle's magic had been disrupted, and that crack was concerning. She opened the door and froze.

Like a badly tuned television, the room flickered and changed. First a library, full of gleaming gilt-edged tomes, then a knitting room with baskets of needles and yarn, then the interior of a stable, complete with stacks of hay. Then a luxurious bedroom, and a cathedral, and then—there!

She dashed forwards, felt a static tingle pass across her face, and landed in a room that looked like a massive rubbish tip. Staring at the piles of furniture and books and everything else, she had a feeling of foreboding. But perhaps it would be simple. She closed her eyes and put all of her heartfelt intent into the magic. "Accio Ravenclaw's Diadem."

Nothing happened, and the first hint of panic thumped in her chest. No, you can do this. Think logically. If she spent every day in this room, searching, it would take… she made an estimate of the time needed per square foot. Of course, she had to consider the vertical space, as most objects were piled so high they tottered over her. Figure twenty minutes per square foot. She recalled a measuring spell from one of her books and cast it. The room was 100,000 square feet.

Her stupid brain did the math despite desperately not wanting to know the answer. It would take over three years if she searched every single day. And didn't take time to eat or sleep. She sat on a rolled-up carpet, drawing her knees to her face and wrapping her arms over her head. She didn't want to see one speck of the room right now.

Pull yourself together. The key to stopping Voldemort is here. It's one of the few things left you can still do that'll make a difference. You'll find it. You have to.

But another voice rose inside her, gently chiding. Wishful thinking.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger

"Accio horcrux. Accio soul. Accio fragment of Tom Riddle."

Nothing. Well, she hadn't expected that to work. She wandered over to the nearest pile and poked at it. Maybe she could do a bit now… No. Once she started, she'd feel the need to work into the late evening, and then the others would come looking for her. And they couldn't know. It was far too dangerous for her to even know the word horcrux. One skilled legilimens was all it would take to reveal her darkest secret. But there'd been no one else to help Dumbledore, and then continue the search after he was gone. She wouldn't subject her friends to the same risk.

She was so close. It was in this room, somewhere. Dumbledore had told her that she could find the diadem, that she was brilliant and determined. But when it came to horcruxes, all she could think about was everything she wasn't. She couldn't think like Voldemort, couldn't imagine what would drive someone to do such terrible things. She wasn't patient enough, and wasn't bold the way Harry was. There were so many important qualities she didn't have. If someone were to say, accio the perfect horcrux hunter, she wouldn't fly through the air, either.

An idea began to form. Qualities I don't have. Slowly, she stood and looked at the ceiling. It arched far above her and the endless stacks.

"Accio nets," she said, adding a variation in the wand movement to allow for a more generalized spell. Three hair nets, seventeen pairs of fishnet stockings, and a sturdy fishing net flew at her from various points in the room.

Discarding the others, she focused on the fishing net, doubling its length and width again and again until she had to levitate it above her head to gauge its size. Eventually, it spanned a quarter of the room. She strengthened and duplicated it until a half dozen thickly lined nets were floating above her. Using a sticking charm, she attached them to various points on the ceiling, allowing for generous gaps on the side. The room now resembled a large cluttered tent, with the nets draped across the ceiling and drooping down.

"All right." She took a deep breath. "A diadem would be silver or gold. It most definitely would not be made of wood. Accio items made of wood!"

They came at her fast. Chairs and tables and cabinets, cricket bats and desks, wooden pull-toys and podiums. She redirected them as fast as they came, all up into a net above her. The net ballooned until it filled the space from top to bottom, everything creaking as it pressed together.

"That's one," she said. "Accio items made of paper."

And so it went, until the nets above were bulging with furniture, or books and letters, or jumpers and socks. That left enough space to clear one side of the room, where she sent anything made of granite, marble, and other types of common stone. She didn't want to risk all that weight in a net, even with sticking charms.

She walked among the remaining items, now taking up only a fraction of the space. Lots of bottles and glasses, as well as jewelry and bejeweled chalices. Would the diadem have glass in it? Seemed tacky to have glass jewelry in such an artefact, but she shouldn't risk it. There were other ways. "Accio bottles." They shot out and were levitated up to another net. "Accio drinking glasses." She carefully ducked out of the way as some broken glasses came at her, and sent them on their way. "Accio chalices." There, that was better. Still a sizable pile, but with a few days' work, maybe—

She stopped as a glittering blue gem caught her eye. "Oh. Oh!" She rushed forward, digging into a pile of necklaces and earrings. Her hand closed around something thicker and cold. Too cold for the temperature of the room, sending a chill down her back. She yanked it out.

The tiara had an oval sapphire set in the center. An inscription was etched into the silver: Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure.

"There you are," she whispered. "You beautiful, horrible thing."

Despite holding it tight in her hand, the diadem remained cold, chilling her skin. She slid it into the large pocket of her hoodie and prepared for a jump to the door, which was still flickering wildly. There was a moment when the light flashed and she thought she might discover where everything went when it wasn't in the Room. But then she landed at the door and exited at a run, happy to leave it behind.

The gargoyle guarding the headmaster's office had no ears to hear a password, as most of it had shattered into rubble long ago. The door gaped open, and the stairs remained stationary, their magic broken when the roof of the tower had been sheared off.

The drizzle had abated, but the wind scraped through cracks and above the jagged tops of the walls. Roof tile and masonry littered the floor, the grey sky pale against the rain-darkened walls. Owls from the owlery perched on the rim, heads buried in their puffed chests. One owlet crunched on a moth the size of her thumb. She touched Fawkes's old cage, rusted at the hinges.

Only a few fragments of wood indicated that book-filled shelves had once lined the walls. The pensieve had disappeared, either destroyed during the last battle here or pilfered afterwards. Protection charms cast on the headmaster's desk had helped it survive the elements. The ornate mahogany had mottled and discolored, but the wood hadn't rotted and the drawers still moved on their slides, if a little stiffly.

She opened a middle drawer and took out a butterscotch sweet in a cellophane wrapper. She replenished them regularly, and the desk seemed to keep out rats.

Returning to the doorway arch, she fed the sweet to one of the frogs sitting at its foot. The frog croaked happily and jumped from its perch. Underneath was an oval depression, just large enough for a hand. She pressed her palm to it and said, "I'd like to warm my feet by the fire."

The arch slid to the left, the stones creaking and groaning, until it found a bit of wall tall enough to fill it. The arch settled into place, and the wall inside it moved, the stones folding inwards until they revealed a new staircase heading down.

Hermione lit her wand and descended, sending bits of light to the hanging lamps on either side as she went. At the bottom of the steps, she peered into the gloom until she spotted the mantel's familiar shape. "Incendio."

The fireplace roared to life, melting away the darkness to reveal a cluttered sitting room. The walls were lined with bookshelves. A standing mirror, two floor lamps, and a water-stained cabinet leaned against them. A broken brass globe lay on the coffee table, and two velvet-covered armchairs flanked the fireplace. In one was an old woolen throw blanket. In the other, Crookshanks sprawled upside down, his tail twitching against the fire-blackened frame of a painting propped against the chair back.

"Crookshanks, there you are! How did you… Oh, never mind. I should stop being surprised at the places you get to." She sat on the edge of the chair and scratched his ears. "I'm lucky you're on our side."

He closed his eyes and submitted to her scritches, but only briefly. Soon, he'd shifted to his side and narrowed his eyes at the painting.

In delicate brushstrokes, a line of string dangled close to the bottom edge. It swayed gently, then twitched like a mouse's tail.

He reared up, mouth open and ears flattened, batting at it madly.

She smiled. "You've made a new friend. And he's choosy about his friends."

"I'd like to think he's a good judge of character." The portrait of Dumbledore twitched the string higher. Crookshanks fell back, legs windmilling. "I only wish I could pet him. There's a cat in a surviving portrait on the second floor I sometimes visit, but it's not the same. The poor thing has developed a nervous disposition and scratches up my robes." He held out his arm, revealing a sleeve with a cuff in tatters. He dropped his arm and smiled at her. "It's good to see you again, Hermione."

With the string out of view, Crookshanks settled down to groom himself, licking his paw thoroughly before scouring his head.

Hermione gathered him into her lap and shifted sideways onto the seat, resting her head on the ornately carved frame. "I'm sorry I haven't been by sooner." She rubbed the back of her fingers against a belly of silky fluff. "There was an attack on our base. Your house. It was destroyed, and a lot of people were captured. Neville, Oliver…"  Her voice quavered, and she took a breath. "Remus. Sirius." She described the events leading up to their final stop in Hogsmeade. "I'm sorry about your house," she added.

"I'm not likely to use it again, am I?" Dumbledore settled into his chair. "And how are you?"

"I'm…" What could she say that wouldn't sound like whinging? There was something about talking to a deceased person that made one's own problems look rather trivial. "Wishing things were different."

"Things have not gone as we hoped," Dumbledore agreed. "I thought I'd made plans for every eventuality, but certain things were beyond my foresight."

She gave him a weak smile. "You didn't plan on coaching a hopeless bookworm on how to lead a resistance movement in a magical war?"

"Despite how things may look, you've done quite well, Hermione. Anyone would have struggled in your position. And you see into the heart of people. Millicent is proof enough of that. You think carefully about your options, but when you need to, you take action. Trust that you can make the difficult decisions."

She tried to take his words to heart, but it didn't feel like she was doing well at all.  A tear slipped out, running down her face and dripping into Crookshanks's thick fur. "I miss Hogwarts. I miss you."

The year after the school shut down had been hard. But Dumbledore had taken her under his wing, giving her lessons in magic and books on memory spells, so she could send her parents away with no worries of their daughter. And later, as the war dragged on, he'd given her memories of Tom Riddle and the task that must be done before he could be defeated.

He never said so, but she knew such things had been meant for Harry, and that he hoped she would pass the information on to him when he returned. And then there had been the day when he'd clasped her by the hands and told her that they could no longer wait, that she must begin the search. She'd been so determined to find the horcruxes, so sure that they could end the war in a few months and return to school. That was over four years ago.

"I wish… " But she shook her head. She wanted to run to someone, to bury herself in their arms. But who? Ron, who would get all the wrong signals? Her parents, thousands of miles away, with no memory of their daughter? Millicent?

The thought of Millicent's face if she ever asked for such a thing made her smile despite herself.

"I haven't been afraid of death in a long time," the portrait said, "even when I was still alive. But I regret that I'm not alive to reassure you. I imagine such words from a portrait hold little weight."

"It's fine," Hermione insisted, although it pained her to see someone so like the wizard she knew, and yet not quite. He had knowledge and advice to share, but the warmth and reassurance she'd felt in the real Dumbledore's presence was gone. His wealth of experience felt more limited, as if Dumbledore had taken some secrets to his watery grave.

He'd been so strange the last time she'd seen him alive, before their attack on Azkaban. She'd wondered if Harry might be there, and he'd gotten such an odd look on his face. Then he'd gripped her tightly by the shoulders, telling her urgently not to mention Harry unless absolutely necessary. That had been easy enough, since her heart still ached whenever she thought of him. It was the simplest of the tasks Dumbledore had asked of her.

But it was the more difficult—the nearly impossible—task that had brought her here today. Enough of this sogginess. She took a breath and straightened. Crookshanks didn't care for the new angle of her lap and jumped down to sniff at a tarnished candelabra.

"I found it," she told the portrait, and she felt a thrill, a sense that she couldn't quite believe it. After all these years and all the dead ends.

Dumbledore leaned forwards within the frame as if he wanted to pop out of it. "You brought it here?"

Nodding, she first retrieved a small bag she'd stowed behind an armoire. "As far as I can tell, it's real." She pulled the jeweled diadem from her pocket. It was even colder now, freezing the small bits of moisture on her skin and sticking to her fingers as she pried it loose.

His eyes held a bright intensity. "You did it. A horcrux."

She laughed bitterly. "One horcrux in six years. I'll be old and grey by the time we finish."

He smiled and pulled at his beard. "There's nothing wrong with being old and grey."

She made no comment on that. Chances were, she wouldn't have the opportunity to be old and grey. There had to be a way to find the horcruxes faster. "You're sure there are six?"

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "I'm not sure of anything. I—that is to say, the real version of me—was still studying Tom Riddle and his obsession with immortality when… well, when I died. How ironic."

"I know you've suggested books to read and people to question, but everything is so scattered now, and with our limited resources—"

"One step at a time. Destroy this one first."

She nodded and set the diadem on the hearth. Opening her bag, she reached within, deeper and deeper, until her shoulder bumped against the opening. Thank goodness for undetectable extension charms.

It was as if the hilt found her outstretched hand, settling into her palm. She straightened, pulling out a long and gleaming blade. Fine lettering was etched below the hilt: Godric Gryffindor.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Dumbledore said.

It was more than beautiful to her. "I remember the day the sword came to me. It was after I was captured and stuck in that prison camp."

She'd been sent to a temporary prison camp in the middle of a peat bog in the Outer Hebrides, and she'd counted herself lucky. Her original destination had been Azkaban, but she was downgraded to a low-security camp. They dug peat every day to build more structures and reinforce the walls—exhausting, muddy work. Work that could have been done in minutes if any of the guards wanted to lift a wand. But the pointlessness was the point, she supposed.

It was a clear day at the end of a long shift, settling into evening. The rains had abated, although the wind never let up, a constant drone that numbed her ears. She did her best to ignore it. On her way to the kitchens for dinner duty, she took a moment to rest in a spot where two peat walls met, out of the sight of the watchtowers. Someone had dragged a long, rotted branch there. It was too long and heavy to lift completely, but she awkwardly angled one end upwards and braced herself against the wall. The narrower end of the branch broke off on a flat edge, and she raised her foot to scrape a layer of mud off her boot.

She tried not to look directly at the bright pink flannel of the women's prison uniforms, embroidered with kittens on the collar. While thankful to trade in her grey threadbare ones for the thicker flannel, she sometimes wondered if this new uniform was a very bad attempt at morale or a very good attempt at humiliation.

At least her hair was still too short for the mandatory pink ribbons. Her first day at the prison, a cheerful female guard had taken her mugshots: front and side, and then another guard had grabbed her by the hair and spelled her bald. It was as if all her hair let go at the root, and she tumbled to the floor, the guard above her squeezing every single strand in her fist. She'd dropped the curly mass into a bag with her other belongings, propped her back up, and the cheerful guard had snapped three more pictures. Hermione had stared into the camera, unblinking, the shocked tears still on her face.

After eleven months, it finally reached past her chin if she tugged it straight, although the harsh soaps in the communal showers hadn't done her any favors. It frizzed more with each wash and grew outward rather than downward.

She kept scraping, dragging out the precious little free time she had in a day. Footsteps approached from around the corner with a rapid squish-squish. They stopped when someone tripped over the other end of the branch and a pair of limbs collided with hers.

"Bugger." She clung to the stacked peat wall and stayed upright. The interloper wasn't so lucky. He sprawled face-first in the mud, sputtering and cursing.

He wore the much less revolting prison staff uniform in navy blue, but it took her a moment to place him with the layer of dark ooze he now sported. Then she laughed. "Malfoy. I must say, this new look suits you."

Draco Malfoy growled and tried to jump to his feet, only to slip-slide onto his arse a few times before he awkwardly scrambled upright. "You should show the proper respect to—" And then the light of recognition entered his eyes, and he laughed. "Oh ho. Granger?" He siphoned the mud off himself and promptly propelled it at her.

She had no wand and no defense, and the mud hit her with a cold smack, drenching the front of her prison uniform and spattering on her face.

He tilted his head and examined his handiwork. "That's better. Finally, your outside matches your inside."

She felt her face flush and hated that such digs still got to her. The prison guards were liberal with their insults and she could tune it out, but somehow it still hurt coming from someone she knew. Even if that someone was Malfoy. She lifted her chin. "Practicing a new comedy routine to entertain the troops? I thought your job was to follow Umbridge like a lost puppy."

She'd seen them many times at a distance over the last few months, the warden distinctive in her pastel suits, scurrying to and fro along the embankments in the high-security section. And Malfoy slouching after her, a permanent frown on his face.

"It's part of a rotation of apprenticeships," Malfoy snapped. "I haven't settled on a career." His mouth twitched. "You know how it is. So many fields are open to you when you've aced your NEWTs." He took a beat, watching her face as she fumed. "Ohhh." He drew out the sound as long as possible, an award-winning performance in dawning realization. "That's right. You didn't pass your NEWTs. Or your OWLs, for that matter. You're practically a magical illiterate."

"You might recall our new warden shutting the school down. 'For the safety of the children,' or some such nonsense."

"That's strange." Malfoy tapped his chin. "I received a personal invitation from the Ministry to sit my OWLs at their London offices, and with my top scores, I was admitted to Durmstrang. My parents arranged it all." He gave her a mocking pout. "Did your parents not know how to do that?"

She wanted to smack that pout off his face. "The London exams required the endorsement of a Ministry-approved tutor, and none of the tutors would return my owls, let alone vouch for me. I imagine life is easy when Daddy is greasing the wheels. Did he get you this job, too, or did you work you way up to being Umbridge's lackey?"

"There's nothing wrong with having Daddy—" he stopped short, his pale face flushing brightly. "What I mean is, my family is an integral part of wizarding society. It would be a disservice to not ensure the Malfoy heir his proper place in that society."

Hermione eyed him doubtfully. "Does Umbridge know about this? Because she seems to think your proper place in society is to fetch her tea."

"I'm very valuable, I'll have you know. Umbridge knows what would happen to her political support if I'm not treated with the proper respect. My father has a lot of people behind him."

She smiled at his choice of words. "Your father's not the only one."

It took Malfoy a few seconds to catch her meaning, and unfortunately for him, those were seconds he didn't have. Before he could spin around, he was surrounded by pink-clad arms dragging him backwards. Parvati and Padma held him still while Ginny grabbed his wand and tossed it to Hermione.

Hermione caught it. It had a nice balance. Hawthorne, if she wasn't mistaken. She held it up in offering. "Professor?"

Minerva McGonagall stepped out of the shadows. She'd traded her silvery bun for a long braid down her back. She'd been spared the hair removal, but the prison didn't allow hair pins. Somehow, she still gathered an aura of grace despite her limp and the atrocity of a uniform. "I don't imagine it would work for me." She gestured at her arms, currently covered in flannel but sporting tattooed runes underneath. Ones that prevented her from transfiguring into her animagus, as well as performing wandless magic.

Hermione was dismayed. In her head, she imagined this part of the plan would be led by the Professor. "But surely with a wand…"

McGonagall shook her head, but she smiled encouragingly. "Carry on, Miss Granger."

Padma hissed and pulled her hand away from Malfoy's mouth, shaking her hand. Droplets of blood fell to the ground. Malfoy had actually bitten her.

"Help!" he called loudly. "I'm being—"

Hermione shot off a silencing spell. Malfoy's mouth continued to move, but no one heard him.

They moved quickly but carefully after that, tying Malfoy's hands with several pink ribbons. They went into the first prisoner shelter, dragging him along.

The lone guard inside froze when he saw the group of prisoners coming at him. He didn't even manage a sound before Hermione stunned him. Lazy arrogance was his downfall. It was common in the guards, not expecting a group of half-educated muggle-born and half-blood girls to be a threat, to plan an escape, or to watch carefully when the guards performed unlocking spells in full view.

They shoved the guard inside one of the empty cells. Malfoy attempted to follow, but Hermione pulled him back. "Oh no," she said sweetly. "You won't have to sit in a cell with the rank and file. You're important enough to be our hostage."

They worked their way towards the low-security men's camp. When they found a guard alone, Hermione stunned him, and soon several of them had wands. Darkness was falling when they nearly collided with a group of muddy and haggard men.

A red-headed figure rushed forward. "You got out," Ron said. "I thought we were coming to rescue you."

"Whoever got out first, you said in your message. I hoped we'd trip up someone with a wand, and we did." She jerked her head at Malfoy, still mutely shouting something or other. Studying Ron in the fading light, she stopped short. She'd only glimpsed the male prisoners through the gates from a distance, but now… "What on earth are you wearing?"

Ron faced her in what could only be described as a sailor outfit. Not a sailor's uniform, but an outfit. The kind seen on a child, complete with a bright blue neckerchief and a jaunty white hat embroidered with an anchor. With his freckles and the unflattering bowl cut, he looked like an abnormally tall seven-year-old.

"Something I want to throw in a fireplace." He tugged at the hat. "It's spelled on. Can you believe it? I'd work on undoing it, but we've got other concerns."

They worked their way to the front gate, only encountering a lone guard here or there. And still no alarm. It worried Hermione. It was low-security, but it wasn't that low. The guards in the watchtowers must have seen them by now. "Doesn't this seem a little…"

"Too easy? Yeah." Ron peered around a corner and ducked back. "I think I know why."

She darted a glance at where he indicated. The area near the front gate had been designed to allow for no cover. They were at the last row of buildings, before thirty meters of flat ground. Inside the front gate, two rows of guards waited—nearly every guard in the low-security section. And in the center stood Dolores Umbridge, white-gloved hands folded neatly in front of her.

Hermione pulled Malfoy close. He smelled like soap and fancy shampoo. She briefly flashed on the suite of rooms he must have, while they were washing themselves in unheated showers. She gripped his collar tighter. "Time to make yourself useful."

The guards all aimed their wands when they emerged, until Umbridge spotted Malfoy, Hermione digging his own wand into his neck. Umbridge raised her hand, and the guards lowered their wands, but they didn't sheath them.

"Open the gates," Hermione called. "Or you can explain to Malfoy Senior what happened to his son on your watch."

"What a beastly little girl." Umbridge shook her head disapprovingly. "I should have taken the opportunity when I was headmistress and punished you properly. You might not have come to such a bad end."

Something about the sweetness in her voice chilled Hermione to the bone. She took a breath and continued. "Tell your guards to drop their wands."

"Hmm. No, I don't think I will."

As headmistress, Umbridge had treated the students much like the decorative kitten plates that adorned her office walls: something nonthreatening to be kept in the proper place. Hermione needed more leverage. Releasing the silencing spell on Malfoy, she hissed in his ear. "Convince her to let us go, or I'll seal your mouth. I've heard it takes months to undo that spell, and you won't like how they feed you in the meantime."

Malfoy nearly jumped out of his uniform. "Warden, let's be reasonable. They're not important prisoners. No one's going to miss them."

Umbridge tsked. "I can hardly let them go. How would that look?"

In his element now—touting his own importance—Malfoy relaxed a bit. "I'm sure my father can smooth that over. What you should really be thinking about is how it would look if I get hurt."

Umbridge pursed her lips. "Hmph! You haven't exactly been uplifting my career lately, have you? Perhaps your father isn't as influential as you think."

Paling, he wriggled in his bonds. "That's not my fault! That's…" He swallowed.

"If I hadn't listened to you, I'd still be in my nice ministry office!" Her face Her face turned an ugly shade of pink. "This hasn't been a step up. It's been a step down. And it's your fault."

This wasn't going as planned. "You told her to become warden?" Hermione whispered to Malfoy. "You came here voluntarily? Why?"

Malfoy called out to Umbridge instead. "It's good work experience. Everyone at the Ministry appreciates your efforts."

"Everyone at the Ministry has forgotten me. They've already filled my old position!"

Umbridge pulled out her wand, aiming at Malfoy, and everyone scattered. That was enough of a signal for the guards, who started casting hexes at the prisoners.

"Hermione," McGonagall shouted, "Remember what I taught you!"

Transfigurations. Of course. She transfigured the mud and peat below her into hardened walls, fortifying their position. Many of the guards lacked combat experience. If she could just pick off enough to demoralize them—

She suddenly found herself whipped high into the air, catching flashes of her friends and the guards as she spun. Then she was hurtling toward the ground again. "Arresto momentum," she rasped out, which slowed her down, but not enough. She twisted herself before she hit and landed on her shoulder, hard. The pain jolted through her body and she cried out. Someone called her name, but she couldn't tell who.

Umbridge stood in front of her in all her pink glory, flanked by ten guards.

Hermione pulled herself up and tried to search in the mud for her wand, but her right arm wouldn't respond. It hung there limply. She had no wand, no weapon of any kind, and knew she could do nothing to defend herself when Umbridge raised her wand. But still, she climbed to her feet and stood her ground. She wasn't going to be cowed by the likes of Umbridge.

And then… there was something in her left hand. A gleaming sword, shining like a beacon in the twilight.

Umbridge cast her curse. Hermione raised the sword without thinking, as if she'd always held the sword in her hand.

The curse rebounded off the blade, and Umbridge screamed.

"Ron, everyone! Tactic Six."

She squeezed her eyes shut and covered them with her good arm, hoping everyone else remembered to do the same.

"Lumos solem," Ron called out.

Even through her arm and her eyelids, the edges of a blinding flash could be seen. The guards started cursing. She dropped her arm and saw them stumbling, temporarily blind.

She raised the sword again and had the wild urge to shout liberty! But instead she simply shouted, "Let's go," and that was inspiring enough. They rushed the gates, and didn't bother with an unlocking spell, blasting them apart.  

Hermione had only looked back once as they ran through the gates. The center of the clearing had held a twisted figure, like a stunted, wind-bent tree, dressed in pink frills and pearls.

The portrait of Dumbledore had listened quietly to her recollections, even though he'd heard them before. "An act of bravery. You've shown you're worthy of that sword on more than one occasion. When you arrived at the resistance base with the sword in hand, I knew that you could find and destroy the horcruxes."

It had been a joyous moment. It had led to her and Ron's first kiss, swept up in their feelings of exhilaration. And it all felt so long ago. She could barely hold onto a shred of the optimism she'd felt back then. "Are you sure about this?" She gazed distractedly at the reflection of the diadem in the sword's blade. "This is the only horcrux we've encountered, at least since Tom Riddle's diary. Perhaps there's a way to analyze it. Find out how many others—"

"Miss Granger," said Dumbledore in a firm headmaster's voice that took her back to her first year, "You're stalling."

That brought her mind back into focus. She'd been drifting, idly imagining the uses of the diadem. It gave the wearer wisdom, and she felt in sore need of wisdom right now. "Let me think for a moment."

"You haven't been practicing your mental exercises."

"No," she admitted. She'd done so diligently at first, mentally preparing for the moment she encountered a horcrux, which she imagined might happen any day. But then she'd become leader of the resistance and that had taken priority over a search that never seemed to yield any results.

"Now is not the time for thinking," Dumbledore said. "Now is the time for action."

"Right." She steadied the sword in her hands. The diadem gleamed in the firelight. Her reflection played on its surface, twisted by its curve. She looked like a strange creature, squat and hunched. Sad and weak and tired. She couldn't remember not being tired. It had been years since she had slept without waking in the night. She wasn't up to this task. Dumbledore should have picked someone braver, someone who didn't make so many mistakes.

The air tasted stale, making her tongue dry and sticky. She could see Malfoy smirking at her in that dark pub in Diagon Alley. We'll leave it all up to you, Miss Know-It-All. She should have told Dumbledore to pick someone else, and gone away to some other country, to a muggle school where every answer could be found in a book. Real life was too bewildering.

The diadem gleamed in the firelight, the silver accents turning red.

Crookshanks hissed at it, his fur bristling.

Her own voice surrounded her, hissing into her ears. Using good young men for comfort. Stringing them along because you wanted to be perfect in their eyes, wanted the safety net of their arms. Weakling. Coward. Liar.

"Hermione," Dumbledore called. And then, in a harsh voice. "Destroy it!"

She shook herself out of her thoughts and looked at the horcrux. I can do this. At that moment, she didn't believe it, but she said it anyway. I can. I must. She raised the sword and struck.

The sword was powerful. It split the diadem in two, reverberating in her grip, the blade gleaming brightly.

Dumbledore let out a long breath. "Well done, Hermione."

All doubts bled away and for one shining moment, she knew she'd struck a real blow against Voldemort, had overpowered one piece of his twisted soul. She held still, the sword still in her hands, and tried to burn that feeling into her memory. Because finding the next Horcrux could be years away.

# #

When she returned to the Three Broomsticks, she found Ron alone, eating a bag of crisps. He didn't look up, shaking the bag for the crumbs at the bottom.

"Where—" Hermione began.

"Don't know. Off to nick more supplies, I suppose."

Hermione sighed and settled in a seat across from Ron. "Are you going to be all right?"

He shrugged, still not looking at her. "I've handled worse."

She nodded, knowing that he didn't deserve to be hurt, not after everything he'd been through. But sometimes there were no good choices, just ones that caused the least amount of damage. "If you ever need to, you can always—"

"The main tunnel is reinforced, but there's still more to do." He dropped the bag on the table and vanished it. "Reckon I'll get back to it."

He'd stood up when Millicent shoved the door aside, shaking her umbrella. "Got another message."

His eyes brightened a bit. "Mum?"

She nodded, quickly casting a drying spell on the umbrella. "Figured I'd check for messages again. Your mum's a talker when she gets going." She dropped the scroll onto the table.

This message was shorter than the last:

Good news! My old chum might have a way to reduce the security-threat level of certain prisoners and get them transferred out of Azkaban. Nearly impossible for Lupin with his werewolf status, she said, but possible for Ginny and Neville, due to their age and—well, their blood status. Such is the world we live in now.

Apparently, it's been done in the past, but at a higher level than she's currently at. She's up for a promotion, though. She said if she can pass along a bit of information valuable to the Ministry, she'd be a shoo-in and could arrange things. I certainly don't want to compromise anyone, but perhaps there's something we can share that won't harm us? We may not be able to rescue poor Ginny and Neville, but at least we can get them out of that horrible place.

M.W. (Mum)

Hermione set the message down, at a loss. "I can't imagine any valuable information we have that wouldn't get one of us hurt or killed."

Ron looked grim. "I can."

She waited, watching Ron's face go from stony to slightly uncomfortable. "Well?"

Millicent broke the silence. "He's talking about the Phoenix. Give him up. His information is useless at best."

Hermione was indignant. "It's not useless!"

Millicent raised her eyebrows. "I said, at best. It's useful to the other side as he informs them of our locations."

"He didn't…" Hermione fumed. "He's given us valuable information in the past."

"Right. That's why we're doing so well."

She rounded on Ron. "Isn't it true what he wrote? That the language of the transfer would put a trace on my current residence?"

"How should I know?" he said sharply. "We weren't exactly posh before the war started. Never saw the point of learning the intricacies of vault management."

Heat broke out on her face. Her record of saying absolutely the wrong thing to Ron continued unabated. She turned to Millicent.

"It's true," Millicent admitted. "But it's a good strategy to release information after the harm's done. Makes you look good to your supposed allies."

"We don't know that he sent it too late. He could have sent it before the attack—"

"Or he could have sent it yesterday. We don't know, do we?"

"Look," Ron said, more gently. "I know we were hard on you before, and I know you don't want to admit you're wrong—"

That stung. "I'm perfectly capable of admitting—"

"What harm is there in checking? If he's so great, why aren't we doing better? Getting information that would turn the tide—"

"We're getting information." She turned away from him. Besides information on the enemy, the Phoenix had sent her books referenced in Hogwarts: A History that helped her on her search for the diadem. But she couldn't tell them about the horcruxes, not without endangering them. Any of them could be captured, questioned. It was dangerous enough for her to know.

Ron shifted on his feet, and she couldn't tell if he wanted to comfort her or confront her. His eyes were troubled, and he seemed on the verge of saying something. He could tell, she knew. He could tell she was keeping secrets from him. She wanted to tell him it was for his own good. But he knew that, too.

"Hermione," he said softly. "It's Ginny. It's Neville."

Ginny, who'd been so full of cheerful defiance the last time she'd seen her. What was she like now? And Neville. Sweet, brave Neville.

She was going to let them suffer for the sake of an unknown Death Eater who may have his own dodgy reasons for wanting to topple Voldemort's regime?

She teetered back and forth until Dumbledore's words came back to her: You see into the heart of people… Trust that you can make the difficult decisions. She needed to see the Phoenix to know if she could really trust him. "I suppose… We could test him."

Ron and Millicent visibly relaxed, and she wondered if they were right, after all. Still, they'd elected her leader because she made smart decisions, not popular ones, and she wasn't going to burn this contact just yet. "I'll arrange a meeting. Get some answers. And I'll need something to write a note to myself. I never remember our meetings, so I need a place to write down who he is. "

Ron frowned. "You always take one of those muggle pads and quills with you."

"Pens," she corrected absently. "Something else. The notes I bring back are in my handwriting, but… Sometimes the messages he sends me are also in my handwriting."

"Blimey," Ron said. "Maybe the Phoenix is you from the future. You're using a time-turner and sending messages to yourself. And don't remember because meeting yourself would interfere with—"

"What use would that be? All she could do is send us messages about things we can't change—" Millicent paused. "Wait, maybe it is you."

"A more likely explanation is that he charmed the pen to imitate my handwriting." She frowned. That was odd. Most pureblooded wizards struggled with muggle pens, failing to get the angle and pressure right, and writing charms designed for quills didn't fare much better. Even some halfbloods made a scribbled mess of pens since they went straight from crayons and pencils in primary school to quills at Hogwarts. "Or perhaps it truly is my handwriting. But no doubt the Phoenix is aware of my note-taking system, and he didn't remain secret this long by letting me write down whatever I please. I need a hidden method of telling myself what I've forgotten." She sighed. "Like a pensieve."

Millicent nodded. "It could hold your memories while you're obliviated so you could retrieve them later." She gave Hermione an appraising look. "I'm surprised you've heard of them."

Hermione gave her most haughty look, straight off the face of Draco Malfoy. "I'm surprised you still underestimate me." That earned her a rare grin back.

"We had one in our family once, although it was sold off long before I was born," Ron said. "Where are we going to get one with no money?"

"And how am I going to extract a memory for the pensieve before the Phoenix obliviates me?" Dumbledore had shown her how to pull long gossamer strands from her head with her wand, and it was anything but subtle. "He'll surely notice such a thing."

Millicent swatted the air like her objection was an annoying gnat. "There's a potion that will release memories without a wand. They drip out of other orifices."

Ron wrinkled his nose. "She's going to collect memories from her…" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Knickers?"

Hermione was scandalized. "Ronald!"

Ron shrugged helplessly, his arms wide. "She's the one who said orifices!"

"I meant your mouth or nose, troll-brain." Millicent turned back to Hermione. "The usual place is the ear. Easy enough to put your hand to your ear with a vial up your sleeve. The potion can be calibrated to only release memories from a specific,"—she shot him an evil grin—"orifice."

"That's wonderful," Hermione said irritably. "Now all we need is to buy a pensieve and this potion, which I imagine is a bit more expensive than your usual pepper-up."

"I don't know where we can buy them," Millicent said. "But I know where we can steal them."

"Oh?" Hermione doubted such items would be easily lifted. "What magical place is this?"

Millicent crossed her arms. "Being muggle-born, you've probably never heard of it. It's called Brigadoon."

Chapter Text

Harry Potter

Drowning in darkness. Climb out, fight it. Something got in, made him sleep. Too long, too deep, falling and falling inside, can't find the way out. Open eyes. Open!

New place. Light is different. Wait, don't move, someone might see. Listen for breathing, listen for voices.

Nothing. Open eyes, careful. White plaster ceiling. Flowers on wallpaper. Not downstairs bed, not front room. Blankets on him, heavy like hands, off, off! Shove them, kick them. No, too fast, sharp needles poking, thin hot jabbing below his knees. Push out tongue, bite its soft flesh. QuietQuiet StillStill.

Breathe. In and out. Roses and lavender. Not real. Old and dusty, like flowers in the wallpaper. Window, stretch up to see. That building there, with the green door. Familiar. Rooftops closer now. Same cage, different floor.

Needles jab. Less now. But pain. His breath hitched. Not the numbness. Not dead weights at the knees. His not-there legs.

Baby thinks he's too important to kneel to his rightful lord? I'll make you kneel. I'll make you crawl.

Bigger bed. Edge was far, so far. Drag one leg, then other. Slow, gentle. Heels on floorboards. Like spikes through his bones. Floorboard ridges, under his toes. Smooth-Rough-Smooth. Clear, like a splash of water. Not-there legs were there.

Press feet against the wood floor, easy, easy. Spikes grew bigger, hotter, sharper. Splitting his bones. Noise came out, tongue didn't stop it. Bite hand. QuietQuiet StillStill. Pull legs up, don't let them touch.

No walking for Baby. Not ever again.

Better now, stop biting or skin will break. Curve of grooves where he bit. He ran his tongue inside his mouth. Teeth. All his teeth. He opened his mouth and tasted rose-lavender. Crumbled like dust. Traces of magic, too, crumbled in the air. Floating bits, too small to catch. A woman, long ago. He touched the sheets, the headboard. Traced a purple flower in the wallpaper. Sharp lines, not blurs of color. Eyes better. He felt his face. No glasses. And something more, inside. Stronger. Easier to breathe. Head clearer.

Purple flowers. Seen them before, in a book. Wolfsbane flower. Potion flower, muggle wallpaper. Hiding in plain sight.

Also known as Monkshood, Potter. Will I ever get that through your thick head?

Yes, Professor. Every ingredient, every spell. Said them, until I couldn't say them. Then lists in my head. For years, in the darkness and piss and mud. Asphodel-Belladonna-Bubotuber… the pink with chocolate smell, can't remember, in sleeping potions, never drink if it smells like chocolate... Daisy-Devil's Snare-Dittany...

And polyjuice. Rank polyjuice breathed on his face. Had to be, had to be. Too-sweet grassy fluxweed, faint rotting Boomslang skin.

Too-sweet grassy breath, saying Please, Harry.

Pleasepleaseplease HarryHarryHarry. Fingers in his heart, worming in. Not Harry, not Harry! Harry was weak. Harry looked in those eyes and believed. Potter. What they called him. What the Thing called him. Potter made him remember: don't look, don't believe.

Please, Harry. I love you.

He pressed his hands to his ears, but the voice was inside. Wanted to find the cupboard, where the voices stayed outside. Lock the door. Can't find me, can't find me. But not now. Not safe. He couldn't make Snape forget. A few minutes, a few seconds, but not enough.

The Thing had given Snape a turn, this time. Let Snape take him to his house. Time for Snape to play. Snape would pry open his head, pluck out the juicy bits. Hold them up to the Thing like plump grubs. My Lord, this is how he's weaving the spell. Simple magic, really. A child could do it.

He squeezed his eyes shut. A pot clanked, somewhere below him. He imagined Snape, looking at that pot. Seeing Potter in the reflection. And Potter, shrinking SmallerSmallerSmallerGone. ForgetForgetForget...

The clanking stopped. He held his breath.

But Snape's thoughts were spokes on a bicycle wheel, brrrrrrr. And he was one of those spokes. Potter-Potter-Potter...

A floorboard creaked. Another. On the stairs, closer. Coming to play.

Fingers fumbled over the sheets, headboard, end table. He needed hard, needed sharp, needed magic. Hit, cut, make him bleed, make him stop. CloserCloserCloser.

Found it. Small shiny black box. Magic. Like tiny banging drum, warm beating little frog heart. Charm. Motion charm. Music box, girl goes round and round. Hold it close, feel its pulse. He knew its rhythm, its smell. Snape magic. Different Snape, young Snape. But he'd turned Snape's magic before. Motion charm could be a weapon.

Click-shhhick of door knob. Snape. Watching. Deep tunnels, don't look in the eyes, that's how they fish inside, find what's left and pry it loose.

Snape settled into a chair in the corner. "Potter. I thought you might be up. I had a… feeling." A long finger rose to his temple, tapped it.

Gloating. Your magic is weak. Weak, and I am strong. They loved to gloat. Straight and tall and unafraid, while he hid and crawled. But Professor Know-It-All didn't know everything. Potter knew things, too. Things that would hurt. Things that would kill.

Snape steepled his hands, eyeing him like an undercooked steak. "Can you walk?"

He avoided the dark eyes, watched Snape's hands. Most had lying faces, smiles and crucio. But hands told the truth. He could lie with his face, too, tell Snape the wrong things.

But his legs couldn't lie. Snape would see. He shook his head no.

Snape nodded. "I thought I'd have another day. You woke early."

He talked like this now, like they were both people. Look at them, Snape in a chair, Potter on the bed. Like they would stroll downstairs, tea and crumpets. Tricks. Make the toy think it's human. Pull the string and hear it cry.

Another day. Snape said another day. Sunlight in window, but thunder and lightning when Snape tricked him, made him sleep. He pointed at the clock, made a questioning grunt. Never speak. Bellatrix cackling, holding her sides. Never speak.

Snape frowned, gaze narrowing to Potter's throat. "The rules of triage dictated I wouldn't see to your voice until the end. Still. Diagnostic spells showed functioning vocal cords. It's either a well-hidden curse, or simple obstinacy on your part." He glanced at the clock. "It's nearly five."

Four forty-seven. Anyone could see. Not stupid. He pounded his fist on the bed, pointed again.

"Excellent, something other than you first." Snape rubbed his cheek, contemplating the clock. "Time. Ah. How long you've been asleep."

Potter nodded.

"Six days, off and on. You roused yourself enough to take liquids. And bite me, once you grew a new set of teeth. Gratitude at its finest."

Tongue against teeth, hard ridges of molars pushing back. Strong and hard and his again. Something warm bubbled in his chest. Teeth. Eyes. Feet that feel the floor. Hair tickled against his shoulders. Clean. No mats pulling at his scalp. A faint memory came to him, of Snape checking a poultice on his chest. Like Madam Pomfrey, when he was sick. She used to...

No. Don't think like that. There's a price. Always a price. Maybe he'd already paid. Six days. Snape in his head and his body, spells burrowing in, using that wand. That wand. In the throne room, that long dark thing had cracked his ribs, carefully, one by one. Couldn't scream. Wouldn't scream. Every breath splintering fire. Then healed, then cracked again. Each rib made a sharp bright sound as the wand pressed in. The Thing had liked that. The Thing had shown sharp glistening teeth, touched the pain with curling fingertips. That wand had touched him. Six days. 

Warm bubbling turned sour. He retched, dribbling saliva on the sheets.

"It was necessary, Potter. Whatever you think my motives are, surely you realize I'm not harming you."

Yet.

"I'm attempting to heal you. Don't you wish to be healed?"

No. I want you to crawl to the Thing, pissing your robes in fear, and tell it that you failed. Tell it you played mediwizard, but I wouldn't play back. Crawl before the Thing and tell it that.

In the Throne Room, you whispered in my ear. Show your fear, Potter. It's what the Dark Lord wants. Obey, Potter. If you don't, you'll die.

Promises, promises. Your turn, now. Cower. Beg. Die.

Hard sharp steps in the hallway. Two. No, four. His throat squeezed shut. Others here. That's why he was healed. Their toy was broken, but now he's fixed, time to play. He stared at the door and held the music box tightly. Not enough magic. His chest hurt, ribs too tight.

Snape turned, narrowed his eyes at the door.

Needed to hide. Bed too high, too exposed. He rolled, tumbling, onto the floorboards. Spikes up his legs. Under the bed, soft coating of dust. Cotton nightshirt, press it close, stops coughing, stops noise.

Clatter-clatter came the footsteps. But the footsteps were wrong. Too fast, too sharp. Barrrum-barrrum-barrum, a thing with too many legs. Clatter-clatter wood on wood. He lifted the hem of the duvet. Curved wooden poles, dancing. He inched out. Not poles. Chair legs. Wooden and wicker chair, galloping across the room. Snape cursing at it. It crashed into the bed, clatter-clatter-clang. The metal frame shuddered over him.

He pulled himself out. Chair stood close, spindly legs and trembles, like a newborn calf. Wood, patchy polish, dust. He touched the curved back. Chair galloped away, skittering to a stop on the other side of the room.

"It's been in my mother's family for generations," Snape said. "But it's gone a bit off."

Chair hugged the wall, creeping towards the door.

"When my grandmother's legs weakened, she used to..." A kettle whistled downstairs. Snape frowned, glanced towards the door. "Do what you like with it." He strode out, leaving the door open behind him.

Chair's wicker seat frayed at the edges, a spray of reeds. It crouched next to a dresser, trying to hide. Ugly broken crawling thing. A trick, a trap. Look how kind I am, Potter. I'm your friend. Obey me.

But door open, chance to explore, look for weaknesses. Rag rug in the hallway, brown pattern like watching eyes. Dust clumping at the edges. Another door, closed, locked. Wards, too. Not Snape's mother. Newer, fitted in the door frame in strong clean lines. Snape's magic. Might not break. Maybe altered, with time. But the way out was downstairs.

Stairs difficult with hands and knees, like falling headfirst slowly. Chair clattered behind him, up and down, banging into the walls. Front room looked different now. His old bed gone. Behind him, kitchen. No wards on that door. But around the house. Always around the house. He pressed a hand against a wall, felt the rumble-rumble of old magic. Not ancient like wards in the dungeons, where each stone hummed. But old enough to settle into the bones. Harder to turn. But not impossible.

Snape stood in the kitchen near the cast-iron oven. Oil crackled in a pan. Smells drifted close, fish and salt and potatoes, hooking his gut. He sat on the floor. Begging dog. But he couldn't conjure food. Tried and tried, in the dungeons. Summoned discarded trays, dragged through the slot on the floor. Duplicate the scraps, again and again. Mushrooms in a corner. Moss, bitter, made his stomach twist, but stayed down. But here, no trays to sneak, nothing growing in corners and cracks. Only what Snape gave him.

Chair crept closer, dainty, quiet now. Leaning towards him. He pushed it away.

"There's another chair." Snape nodded across the table. "Stationary. If you're unwilling to use that." He glared at Chair wandering about the kitchen.

One chair at the table stuck firmly, legs to floor. Grasping and heaving, he pulled himself onto it. A wet towel lay on the table. Flash to bath, Snape's sodden clothes, falling into sleep and can't stop, Snape touching, touching.

Squeeze head tight, listen to the pain. Better pain, not like inside. Need to stay outside his head. Need to eat, get stronger.

Wet towel is just a towel. Hands weren't coated in dirt, but dust from the stairs. Black flecks in his calluses, dirt trapped between layers of skin. The towel was warm, pockets of steam in the folds. He pressed it to his face, breathing in wet cotton and soap.

A brown paper bag lay on its side, an apple spilling out. Yellow and red, smooth, waxy. He pressed the apple against his nose and mouth. Sunshine and sweetness and wood. He'd dreamt of apples in his cell. A wide, open field, empty except for an apple tree. Reach high into the branches, leaves tickling his arm, and pluck a sun-warmed fruit. One bite, two, but it was never enough. More and more, juice sliding down his chin, but the hunger stayed, scraping his insides. Then waking, gums grinding against nothing.

Tongue against new teeth again, just to make sure. He bit into the apple, crunching the hard flesh, juice bursting. The pleasure of it shocked him. He was consumed by it, of pulpy bits sticking to his lips, the roll of bitter and sweet. When the white flesh was gone, he bit into the core, split the seeds between his teeth. Rolling the papery fragments over his tongue. He swallowed the last of them and sucked on the stem, licking the juices off his fingers.

Snape sat across the table, staring at him.

He started. Didn't see Snape sit. He hadn't tracked Snape for seconds, maybe minutes. Snape could have—but he hadn't.

Just sitting, a glimmer in his eyes. "I'm curious what you would do with a pineapple."

Two plates of fried fish and potatoes lay on the table near two glasses of water. Snape dug in, slicing the fish into thick strips. Potter fingered his spoon, then pointed at Snape's knife.

Snape didn't look up, grunting around half-eaten fish. "I think not."

The edge of the spoon broke apart the fish and potatoes. Saltwater and butter, tangy oil and rich earth. The heat of it stayed with him, spread inside him. He licked the spoon with each bite. Crispy, salty. Water cold and fresh.

Snape brought a pitcher to the table to refill his glass. Round and squat, fogged up, small droplets working their way down. A flash of a place, long ago. Large tables, food piled high, could eat for weeks and weeks. Large pitchers of icy water. And others with pumpkin juice. A hand reaching to pour. "Want more, Harry?"

Don't think, don't remember. Not that. Hurts inside, burn it out. Can't. Make others forget, but not himself. In his cell together, huddled near the door, arms around each other. Their wide eyes, hazel and blue, begging him.

Please, Harry…

Then he was dragged back, displayed. Immobilized in the air, struggling against nothing, the Thing touching his scar, making it bleed. Wand pointed at his chest, his throat, curses slithering inside. Goblet at his lips. Fresh at first, like spring water, then burning, aching. Thirst shrivelling his tongue, his throat. Goblet at his lips again, spring water, cool and fresh. Turn away, don't drink. But he couldn't.

Gulp it down, more and more, until faces crowded his vision. Cedic, pale, eyes clouded, lips blue. Dark robes and masks. Laughter. Dumbledore, squeezing Uncle Vernon's shoulder, nodding sympathetically. "Such a waste of my time." Sirius and Professor Lupin, shaking their heads. "Look at him, Remus. Does he ever stop crying? James and Lily would be so ashamed."

Couldn’t move, couldn't fight, couldn't hide. Empty air and echoes all around him. Wanted to run, feel the solidness of a wall, be safe, unseen. But the walls receded.

The Thing's eyes, red and gleeful. "Choose, Potter. The blood traitor or the mudblood. Choose, or they both die."

"Harry…" In his cell, warm hands in his hair, freckled face nudging his, soft lips on his cheek. "Save me, Harry. I love you."

Split in two, frozen, trapped between impossible choices. No escape, except deep in his mind. That's when John began to whisper. A voice in the darkness. Others, too. But first John, his voice clear, humming in his ear. So charming, so practical. "It's all right. Sometimes, someone has to die. It happens all the time, and we should be prepared for it. Don't tell me the thought hasn't crossed your mind. Which one you could live without."

No no no! A trick, polyjuice. Had to be, had to be. Death Eaters like their trophies. Flaunt wands, watches, even bones, scoured clean. Death Eaters wore the dead. But nothing, after that day. Not their hair, not their wands. Lies. Had to be.  Because he couldn't. He wouldn't.

"Potter."

Shoulders jumping, his head snapped up. Kitchen, not throne room. Watching black eyes. Eyes that dug in, tried to find his memories.

He snapped his mind shut, caught that tendril of Snape's magic, held it wriggling like a trapped worm.

Snape broke eye contact and the tendril slipped away. "Yes, fine. If you'd only let me…" He stopped, fuming, and waved it away. "Eat. It’s getting cold."

Fish still warm, but potatoes cold. Memories dragged him away, minutes, sometimes hours. Don’t think. Feel the hunger, let it tell you what to do. Another bite, another. He tried to eat it all, but couldn't. One fraction, and the curling hunger drew back, dulled for a bit. Another, and his stomach swelled, rock-heavy. Brought the spoon to his mouth anyway, tried, but couldn't. Set the spoon down.

Couldn't leave it. Hunger not gone, only waiting. Always there, ready to claw. He pushed the rest together on the plate, and gathered it in his napkin. Rolled it tight, twisted into a packet. Safe in his sleeve. Another meal, maybe two.

Snape heaved raspy air through his nose. "I don't suppose it would do any good to point out that I've provided you with the basic necessities?"

Yes. Very nice cage. Reward me with treats until I eat from your hand. He held his sleeve close, in case Snape tried to grab it.

Dark eyes watched silently. Felt like a bug pinned to a board. Watching, always watching. The need to escape rose, stronger than hunger. But didn't look at back door. That would give him away. He stared at his plate, fingering the packet under his sleeve. With this, he could go a few days. If he could get away. Needed time. Time away from those eyes. Would not give Snape his secrets. Never.

Something from behind nudged his shoulder, touching. He turned and snarled, ready to bite.

Chair jumped, landed, bang scuttle-scuttle slam, through the swinging door. Hiding behind the sofa as the door swung shut.

"I've a matter to attend to in a few days." Watching. "It shouldn't take more than an hour, and I would prefer to…" Long breath out. Fork stabbing, last bit of fish gone.

He stared at Snape's throat, watching the gullet work. Wished he could eat like that, store food for days and days. Yes, said John, practical John, still whispering in his ear. It's not fair, is it? Why should he be the one who controls the food? He's no better than us. Quite the reverse. He should be the one begging us. For scraps of food, for our favor. For mercy. And there's only one way to make that happen. His gaze drifted down to the knife.

Long-fingered hand moved to lay over it. Watching, dark eyes narrowing. "I was going to say I'd prefer to leave without warding you within a small space. Besides having an uncanny knack for altering wards, you have a more amenable disposition when not confined." He gazed at the wobbling door until it stilled. "Relatively speaking."

Admitting it. Pretend to care so Potter doesn't bite. Still. An hour alone, not warded on a bed. Not enough time, but better than none. Play nice. Stop looking at knife, straighten up. Smile? No, too much, Snape will know. Give up food.

It was hard, so hard. Needed food. Needed it. Could be a trick. Take food, then no more until he obeyed. Napkin warm from fish inside. Mouth watered, but he couldn't eat more. Had to risk it, to make Snape trust. Pull packet out, slide it across table. Don't look at knife.

Snape's other hand closed around it. "Appreciated. Without preservation charms, it would have stunk up the house is short order."

Potter tapped the rim of his empty glass. Could make shards. Unbreakable, probably. He became aware of another feeling of fullness, far below his stomach.

"You can move about in the front room. I'll ward off my desk and the bookshelves. And the kitchen." He patted the knife under his hand. "Too many possibilities in here. And try not to…" He paused. "Never mind. Perhaps it's best not to give you ideas."

He nodded, distracted. Too much water. He glanced at the swinging door, but the bed was gone from the front room. Hadn't seen chamber pot. Upstairs? Or somewhere else? Moved his hands in the air, showing the shape of it.

Keen eyes went blank, confused.

He tilted the pitcher so a stream poured onto the table, pointed at his groin. Another gesture, directed at the water.

Snape held up a hand. "I've got it, thank you. It's next to your bed, upstairs." He studied Potter for a moment and jerked a thumb at a door behind him. "Or the privy. Outside."

His heart pounded. Impossible. Never outside. Not in years. Couldn't move. Find the trap.

Snape cleared the plates. "This isn't Buckingham Palace. One or the other will suit." Watching. Out of the corner of his eye, but still watching.

Hold onto the chair, slide down slowly. No wards on back door. Not possible. Open a crack.

Sun setting, blazing fire. He held up an arm, tried to see. Pavement, walls, narrow wooden building on the side. But the space yawned, walls receding, sun like bright fingers pinning him into place, shoving inside and stopping up his throat. Whiteness spread, until he couldn't see, couldn't breathe. Couldn't hide, like the throne room. Too much light, needed cover, needed to go under, in the dark.

The door clicked shut, whiteness replaced with black spots in the air. He blinked. Snape stood over him, frowning.

The center of his night shirt was wet, yellow stain spreading. Heat burned his face. Does Baby need a nappie? Black robes swishing. Laughter. Couldn't stop his body from leaking, bleeding, screaming. Tried and tried, but couldn't stop it. That was the joke.

Rustle of robes. Snape reaching into his pocket. Wand. Potter snapped to attention, heart pounding. Watch the hands. The hands will tell. Couldn't block it or turn it, not without more pieces of magic. But he could know what's coming.

Snape grunted. "It would only be a cleaning spell."

Maybe, to make him trust. Or maybe Snape was bored playing mediwizard. Maybe cruciatus instead.

The hand dropped, wandless. Raspy breath through his nose. "Fresh clothes are in the wardrobe. I'll bring a basin."

He stripped off the nightshirt and left it on the floor. Nightshirt caught on his knees and he wanted to move fast, away from the door, the whiteness. Upstairs, he could breathe again. See again. Walls to hold onto, things to hide under.

He stopped in the upstairs hallway, stared at the pattern in the rug, rag-brown eyes staring back. If he broke the wards, found a hole to burrow through. Then light, noise. Eyes, watching him crawl on the cobblestones. And Snape. Death Eater Snape, Minister Snape, Professor Snape. So fast, so sharp, so ruthless. Always ready with a counter-spell. The professor would track him down. Unless he found a weakness.

When it was done, when he was alone in his cell again, another voice found him. Ashes, who spoke like dead leaves. Parched throat, like his. Ashes was quiet, content to listen, sometimes disappearing into the dark.

The Thing had found them both, when it pried into his mind. First John, charming John, who made it smile. But Ashes. When it found Ashes, something had flashed on the Thing's face. Not even for a second, or a half-second. But it was there. Terror.

I learnt, Professor. Everyone's afraid of something. Even you.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger

Brigadoon currently nestled in a long, shallow valley. A thick wall surrounded it, arching over a river that ran through the village. At the valley's edges, houses sat on a slant, like mushrooms stuck on a curving root. Chimney smoke spiraled above tiled and thatched rooftops.

In a clearing above Brigadoon, a brisk wind snapped at Hermione's face, and she tightened her scarf. Autumn had turned chilly. Patches of blue peeked through the leafy canopy, revealing a clear sky perfect for flying. Harry would've loved it.

They followed the river down, and soon sounds reached them — shouts and laughter, iron clanging on iron, and the practiced calls of vendors advertising their wares to passersby.

Thick wooden gates stood near the river, and willows and reeds on the riverbank swayed and rattled against the left gate. Up close, the solid wall revealed itself to be woven from thick branches. Hermione reached out to touch it, but it moved—branches tightening and erupting in thorns—and she withdrew her hand.

"They don't like to be touched by outsiders," Millicent informed her.

Hermione watched branches twist and fold over themselves. "Who's they?"

"Plants in the Garden." Millicent gestured at the wall. "It's what they call it. A specialized order in Brigadoon devotes themselves to Garden maintenance. Weaving in new branches, cutting away dead ones."

"Oh? What are they called?" She stopped, holding up an index finger before Millicent could reply. "Don't tell me. Gardeners."

Millicent patted her head. "I can see why you were top of your class." She nodded at a woman sitting in a booth just outside the gate. "Hello, Mordag."

Mordag looked as if she'd been sitting there since Merlin's time, her pure white hair floating around her weather-beaten face. A crow rested on a perch in a corner of the booth, its head sunk deep into his body and its dull feathers showing a few bare spots. It watched them with one eye while Mordag slept in her seat, her head lolling to one side as she breathed a half-grumble, half-snore.

Hermione glanced at Millicent and whispered, "should we wake her?"

Millicent didn't lower her voice in reply. "Nah. She's awake."

"That's a lie," Mordag said. One eye slitted open and watched them.

Millicent frowned. "We don't have time for your nonsense."

"Nonsense. Nonsense, she says. You'd best show respect, or you'll nae be seeing the village at all." She pulled a clay pipe from her pocket, sucking on the mouthpiece as she lit it. The match caught, and she sighed heartily as a sweet smoke rose from the bowl. "Fine day," she said, the pipe tugging at her lower lip. She wore only a simple cotton dress, sturdy boots, and a loosely woven shawl, but didn’t shiver once as the wind whipped around her.

"It's great," Millicent replied. "How long before you leave?"

The woman pulled the pipe off her lip and pointed the mouthpiece at a thick stone dial standing on its edge by the gate. Inscribed Druidic symbols and Roman numerals covered the flat surface of the dial. A trail of flattened grass showed its progress along the wall.

Hermione fervently studied the symbols. For days, she'd quizzed Millicent and studied her meager collection of books referencing Brigadoon. The stone shifted slightly, pressing into fresh grass, and a new symbol rose to the top. "Five hours?"

Mordag nodded approvingly. "Five hours and twenty minutes."

"Plenty of time," Ron said.

"Mibbe sooner," Mordag said. "Wheel's moved faster of late. Might be trouble. Too many black robes visiting lately."

"Death Eaters?" Ron looked at her sharply. "You let Death Eaters in here?"

"They say they come to trade and we let them in. You say you come to trade and we let you in." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Lucky for you."

"Have they caused trouble?" Hermione asked. "Searching for anyone?"

"Someone like a resistance leader?" Mordag chuckled. "Yes, I know who you are. They've nae mentioned you, hen. Just transport and trade."

She stiffened, half hopeful, half dreading. "Prisoners?"

Mordag narrowed her gaze. "All trade is welcome here. Even kinds you dinnae like."

"Yes, but slavery," Hermione protested. Her mind raced as she talked, wondering if she'd see any friends or allies, and how well guarded they'd be. "It's not one hundred years ago." Mordag looked at her strangely and Hermione flushed, realizing her mistake.

"Don't mind her," Millicent said. "She's confusing you with a story about singing time-travelers."

Mordag grumbled something about dobbers and their bedtime stories, waving her pipe again. The gates swung open.

"They change locations," Millicent said as they entered, speaking slowly, as if to someone with multiple concussions.

"Not times," Ron added, his tone only slightly better than Millicent's. But at least he was talking to her again.

"I know, I know." She loosened her scarf. Her face had gone from stinging-cold to uncomfortably warm. "I forgot for a moment. It's all still new to me."

"I can't believe you never brought her here," Millicent said to Ron. "Didn't your parents bring you Christmas shopping? We went every year."

"Mum didn't trust me not to wander off. She worried about some Brigadooner kidnapping me and whisking me away."

"I don't see why they'd bother with you."

"And it wouldn't work anyway," Hermione said. "Right? Only Brigadoon residents and property move. Everything else is left behind."

Millicent gave her a tired, long-suffering look. "Yes, Hermione. Very good."

Years of potions classes had made her immune to approval laced with sarcasm. She lifted the praise right out and enjoyed it. "And apparation isn't possible inside the village." She frowned as she tried to remember. "Something to do with multiple fields of transport."

"Like trying to use a portkey inside a floo," Ron said. "Or something like that. I never much understood magical transportation theory. But it's a good way to have parts of you sent in different directions."

Wattle and daub houses lined cobblestone streets. Vines thickly covering the walls tightened over windows as they passed. Millicent nodded at a figure behind the panes before vines twisted over the glass. "A Gardener."

At a crossroads, they encountered an oak sprouting through a hole in the center. "That grew in the valley before Brigadoon arrived," Ron said. "They try not to flatten everything. Lots of plants and wildlife pop through, but safe spots stay solid. There." They arrived at a town square, and Ron pointed to a circle carved into the cobblestones. "And plenty inside houses."

"We'll be fine, since we won't leave with Brigadoon. But villagers need them. Otherwise, they could be walking along during a transport and arrive with a juniper up their arse."

"Mum warned me about that, too." Ron squinted across the square. "She said she'd be here."

In the center of the square, a fountain adorned with stone dragons spouted thick jets of water. Shops, stalls, and traders lined the outskirts. Despite Brigadoon's archaic look, the townspeople and visitors appeared distinctly modern, wearing either jeans and hoodies or fashionable robes. It might have been any wizarding area, except that many walking by had their hoods pulled up. Others wore wooden handcrafted masks or ones woven with reeds and flowers. "It's difficult to tell who anyone is."

Millicent shrugged. "Lots of refugees and fugitives here. It's a way to settle down while never staying in the same place. But bounty hunters know that, too. Many of them don't walk about uncovered. For a while everyone grew fur on their faces."

"The furry men of Brigadoon! Mum used to tell me that story."

"Masks are the trend now. And this." She raised the hood of her robe, and Ron and Hermione did likewise.

They might walk past Molly and never realize. But Death Eaters wore masks, too, and Hermione had learnt other ways to recognize people. The way someone hunched their shoulders, or the stiffness of their stride. Knowing that Crabbe was slow to fire spells and Alecto Carrow favored the right were deciding factors in battle.

One masked figure in the town square walked in a familiar bustling gait. Her mask was knitted wool dyed a cheerful red, much like Ron's handmade Christmas pulls.

"There," she told Ron, pointing.

Ron looked where she gestured and brightened. He strode forwards and clasped the masked figure's arms. "Mum."

Molly Weasley pulled off her mask and wrapped her arms around him. "Ron. You've no idea how worried I've been."

Ron nodded, his movements jerky.

Hermione stepped away to a nearby basket vendor. She didn't want them to feel self-conscious on her account, and she felt so terribly conspicuous standing there while they embraced.

She'd embraced her father the last time she'd seen him. He'd looked exactly as she always pictured him, with neatly combed hair and warm eyes. She'd read somewhere that memory was closely tied to the sense of smell, and she'd breathed deeply, in that final moment. So that when she needed it, she could imagine being held in his arms, her nose buried in his button-down shirt, breathing in cedar oil, geraniums, and minty toothpaste.

Maybe, one day, she'd fly the thousands of miles to Australia and see them both. And maybe some scent distinctly marked her as their daughter, and long-forgotten memories would stir. Maybe there was magic all parents possessed—muggle or no—that canceled out years and miles and obliviation spells. She'd step into the circle of their arms and be their little girl again. Maybe. But for now, they were safer where they were, and she couldn't afford to indulge such thoughts.

She rejoined Ron and Molly. "Why don't you spend some time catching up? Millicent and I must see to something."

They'd already discussed it, but Ron hesitated. "You're sure?"

"Of course. Girls' trip." She looped her arm around Millicent's.

Millicent's perpetual frown flattened into a thin line in a possible attempt at a smile. "We love shopping."

"We'll go with you," Mrs. Weasley immediately said.

"No, it's fine. We'll meet for lunch afterwards."

"The Blind Mouse," Millicent said. At their blank looks, she added, "it's a pub just past the square, next to the carpentry shop."

As Ron and his mum wandered away, she gripped Millicent's arm tighter. "This is your mission, but you haven't given me any details about how we're getting this pensieve and potion. You mentioned stealing them, but how? "

"It might not come to that. Don't worry. I've done this before." She led Hermione down a twisting street where they wove between a thicket of birch trees. Then a wider street dotted with shrubs. The foot traffic dwindled, and it was quiet until a large shrub rustled violently. They both stiffened and readied their wands.

The shrub uttered a plaintive bleat. A dappled goat poked its head out, eyeing them inquisitively.

Millicent blinked back at the goat. "Oh."

The goat trotted towards them and nudged Millicent's hand. The corners of her mouth tugged up, and she scratched it behind the ears.

Hermione looked down the street. Nothing but shops, and certainly no farms. "What's a goat doing here?"

"Must've escaped from the Rattle and Horn." Millicent nodded at the end of the street. "The cheese shop."

"I suppose we should return it before we continue." She reached out to pet the goat, but the goat glared and snapped its teeth at her. She drew back quickly and tucked her fingers safely in her pockets.

"That's where I was taking you." Millicent gave the fuzzy head another fond pat and headed that way. The goat followed.

"Cheese shop?" Hermione asked, still studying the goat. "Why would we—" She looked up too late to realize Millicent had stopped. She thudded into her back and squawked.

"Quiet." Millicent pointed down a side street.

At a distant crossroads, two masked Death Eaters pushed along hooded prisoners. A few of the prisoners wore muggle clothing, but most had bright yellow robes and black hoods for transport. One Death Eater turned towards the street, as if sensing them. She and Millicent split up, each slipping into alcoves of inset doorways. The goat watched the prisoners, then nosed a bit of nettle weed growing between cobblestones and tugged it free.

Mordag had warned her, but it was still a hard sight. The inability to apparate must make Brigadoon an appealing place to round up prisoners until they could cast anti-apparation charms on them.

The Death Eater turned back and shouted something, and the group stumbled towards the main square. Some might be headed for Azkaban. Some might be her friends. Unable to see, to defend themselves, to know what would happen to them. Molly was right—having information on prisoner records was terribly valuable. Perhaps it was worth giving up one person—a person she didn't know and couldn't remember. A person the others didn't trust.

They waited a moment, making sure no one remained at the other end of the street. Then they headed towards the cheese shop.

Inside, the Rattle and Horn was relatively bare. Rounds and blocks of cheese sat on shelves behind the counter, wrapped in brown paper. On a sunny windowsill near the door, a grey cat lolled, its tail tip curling up in a lazy beat. It blinked at them, neither interested nor disinterested, in the way of all sleepy cats. Hermione realized she hadn't seen Crookshanks for a few days and wondered where he'd gone.

The door behind the counter banged open, and an old man emerged and leaned against the wall, removing his muddy boots. He showed no surprise at their arrival, studying them both with a squint. His eyes were as blue as Dumbledore's, but had a flinty gleam. "Goats jittery today," he said. "Trouble's coming."

It took Hermione a moment to place him. She hadn't seen him in many years, but the portrait had talked of him once or twice. "Mr. Dumbledore. I didn't expect to see you. Do you live here?"

Sliding into a pair of soft leather shoes, he seated himself on a stool behind the counter. "Call me Aberforth. Some years now. Best way to stay out of the nonsense the wizarding world is going through."

Nonsense? Hermione, incensed, started to form a retort when Millicent stomped on her foot. "Ow!"

"Sorry," Millicent said, not looking even slightly contrite. She nodded at Aberforth in greeting. "We found your goat."

"Ah, yes. Opal." He gave her a look far warmer than the one Hermione had received. "Can't hold that one back when she gets a mind to do something."

Hermione glanced at the open doorway he had come from. All she could see were dusty shelves. "You keep goats back there?"

"Cheese doesn't make itself," he said. "Don't like leaving the shop, but I'm short-handed." He eyed her. Got a nice aged one, here. Crumbles in the mouth."

"No thanks," Millicent said. "Just the pensieve."

Hermione spun, her mouth open. "That was your secret plan?"

Millicent shrugged. "You don't trust me."

"I trust you," Hermione insisted.

"And If I'd said, 'let's visit my friend alone. He'll give us the supplies we need,' you would've happily gone along?"

Hermione hesitated. "Well… "

"You would've thought it was a trap. It's fine. I mean, it isn't, but I'm used to it by now. I knew you'd believe me if I told you we were going to steal it."

"If you'd told me it was Aberforth…" It occurred to her that she didn't know Aberforth all that well. "Why did we need to do this alone?"

Aberforth had barely blinked at their discussion of stealing. He picked up a cheese wedge and sliced the rind away with his knife. "Don't like company. Especially the kind that gets involved in wars. But I owe Millicent a favor."

"More than one," Millicent grumbled. "Giving us the pensieve for this meeting hardly makes us even."

"You told him about the meeting? He could've told anyone!" She stopped, as it occurred to her that Aberforth might be the Phoenix. He was secretive, knowledgeable in a variety of spells, and most likely had many contacts in the wizarding world. After the headmaster had died, he'd disappeared, apparently setting up shop here. Neutral territory. He could be playing both sides in the war.

But Aberforth didn't seem overly interested in her meeting. "I don't hand over the pensieve to anyone. It's a family heirloom."

Hermione frowned. "A Dumbledore family heirloom? Like the one Professor Dumbledore kept in his office?"

"The very same."

"I thought that was stolen!"

"And you're against stealing pensieves, are you?" Aberforth sliced off a bit of cheese and chewed it slowly. "I took it before it got destroyed. Didn't know anyone was using it."

"I was." Although she couldn't talk about why she'd been using it. "But I suppose you're right. It does belong to you."

Aberforth harrumphed. "I should say so. You want to borrow something, you should ask."

"But we can, can't we?" Millicent asked. "Borrow it?" She frowned at his silence. "Remember all my work on decoding runes?"

Hermione stared at Millicent. "You're an expert on ancient runes?" She supposed it was true. When she'd asked about the runes used at Brigadoon, Millicent's answers had been short, but had all made sense.

"You're not the only person who's an expert at things," Millicent retorted.

"No, you're right. I'm sorry. It's just… I don't remember you taking the advanced runes classes."

Millicent shrugged. "I had a private tutor."

Of course. Most Slytherin students had taken up private tutoring when Hogwarts had closed.

Aberforth graced Millicent with a smile. "Suppose you did. Worked your way through piles of scrolls." He nodded at Hermione. "Once she sets her mind to a task, she doesn't let up."

"Lots of work," Millicent said. "Unpaid work."

"Fair enough. But you're not taking my pensieve with you. Come back after your meeting and you can use it. Under my supervision." He gave Hermione a baleful look. "Anything else?"

"The potion?" Millicent asked.

Aberforth turned the wedge of cheese back and forth. "No stock left."

Millicent frowned. "You had some the last time I was here."

Hermione studied Millicent, a strange feeling in her gut. "You've come here recently? When?"

"We go back a bit." Aberforth waved her concern away. "But this isn't about favors. A goat knocked into a shelf. Destroyed several potions. And my supplier has cut me off. Too many responsibilities. Or he can't be bothered." He shrugged. "I'm a fair enough hand that I can brew most of my own. But not that one."

"Can't you find someone else?"

Aberforth studied her. "When's this meeting of yours?"

Hermione's face heated. "I don't have an exact time. This afternoon." She already knew what he was going to say.

"I can't find another potioneer to brew a specialized potion by this afternoon." Aberforth cut into the wedge again and popped another morsel in his mouth. "Are you buying cheese or not?"

They left the shop. "Now what?" Millicent asked.

"It'll be all right," Hermione said. "I'll use my wand. Discreetly."

Millicent cocked her head. "You'll discreetly pull strands of memories from your head?"

"I'll distract him, then. I only need one memory to learn his identity." She rifled through her bag, finding items deep inside the wizarding space. Rapid-growing devil's snare, and a few cylinders with metal tabs. "I've modified muggle smoke bombs. I could drop one, act as though it's an accident."

"Might sell your clumsiness better if you're falling-down drunk. Have a firewiskey at the Blind Mouse while you wait. Gargle it so it's on your breath."

"I'll take it under advisement," Hermione said wryly. "Shall we go?"

Millicent glanced back at the cheese shop. "I'm going back in. I want to catch up with Aberforth."

Her head filled with questions, but she suspected she wouldn't get honest answers if she asked now. "I didn't realize you two were such good mates."

Millicent shrugged. "We used to run in the same circles. See you." She was back inside the shop before Hermione could blink.

**

The Death Eaters and their prisoners stood in the main square, waiting for transport orders. Hermione had seen it before. Like a dark sorting hat, the prisoners were judged for their qualities and sent to different destinations. They sent the most valuable prisoners to the Ministry dungeons, for interrogation or public execution. Resistance fighters and anyone deemed dangerous were taken to Azkaban to be broken. Unresisting purebloods were pressured to swear loyalty oaths and 'donate' to the war effort. The compliant ones with lesser bloodlines were often sold as slaves—or 'servants,' a more palatable euphemism. The assorted rest landed in prison camps.

She skirted the main square, staying out of their line of sight. Ron and Molly sat at a table in the Blind Mouse, deep in conversation, not looking up until she approached. At which point, Ron cut off whatever he'd been saying, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

"Well," Hermione began, but couldn't find words to follow that. From Ron's inability to meet her eye, it was obvious what they'd been talking about. "I really am sorry—"

"So you've said." He stood. "I'll get us some drinks, yeah?" And without waiting for a reply, he headed towards the bar.

She gave Molly a weak smile. "I didn't mean to make anyone uncomfortable. I take it he told you?"

Molly returned a much stronger smile. "It's for the best, though. If you're sure it's over."

"I'm afraid so."

Molly nodded, unsurprised. "Then it's a good sign. It means he believes you."

She was right, but it was difficult. Ron now relaxed more around Millicent than her. "I feel like I've broken our friendship."

"My Ron's a sweet and loyal boy. Just a bit sensitive, is all. He'll tend his wounds and work his way through. Give him time."

Hermione nodded glumly. "I miss how we were before all this. We've been friends for so long."

"You will be again. I'm sure of it." Molly's eyes grew distant. "There was someone before Arthur, you know. We'd been friends for ages, and we just… fell into something else. When we broke up, it was terrible. The crying, the fights. We didn't speak for years afterwards. But now, it's like old times. We found our magic."

"Now?" Hermione asked.

Molly played with her fork. "You remember the old school chum I mentioned in my last message?"

"Oh." Hermione frowned. "I thought your chum was a she."

Molly smiled, her cheeks pinking up a bit. "Youthful curiosity."

"Goodness." Hermione didn't know what to say to that. She'd always seen Molly as traditional, down to her very bones. Although a pureblood marrying a man fascinated by muggles was perhaps not that traditional for the wizarding world.

"In the end, she wanted more from the relationship than I did. And I soon fell madly in love with Arthur."

She realized why Molly was telling her this and appreciated the confidence all the more. "I wish Ron and I wanted the same things."

"I know." Molly patted Hermione's hand. "It's been a difficult few years for you both." A shadow passed over her face, and she suddenly looked ten years older. "For me, too."

Hermione clasped her hand. "All the more reason to keep fighting."

She nodded, but her smile didn't return. "We don't have enough people to keep fighting."

"I know." She felt her failures all over again.

"Ron tells me you might have something that'll give us a chance with the prisoners."

"Maybe," she hedged. She imagined the despair of those trapped in Azkaban. Poor Sirius, who could barely stand to sleep within their base walls. All for fighting for what's right. How did she weigh that against one contact on the other side? "I need to think about it."

Molly squeezed her hand back and smiled. "No matter what happens—or happened—between you and Ron, there's always room for you in our family."

It was the most wonderful and absolute worst thing Molly could've said. It made her think of her parents again, and the life she'd given up among the Weasleys. She'd always be welcome, of course. But giving up Ron meant giving up on a certain kind of family. She'd have to muddle through a murky future, not knowing where it led.

She looked away from Molly, blinking her eyes, hoping her unshed tears weren't misunderstood. She appreciated Molly's kind words.

A dab of ginger appeared in the crowds in front of the pub, barely visible between fluttering robe hems. A fluffy tail-tip bobbed between legs—a familiar sight. "Is that Crookshanks?"

"Hmm?" Molly looked behind her. "I don't see anything."

A message from the Phoenix with the location details of their meeting? She excused herself and followed.

The tail disappeared into the swarm of people who filled the square. She went with the flow. The wizards and witches were a mix of residents and visitors — some in colorful robes, but many wearing dark brown and black garb that didn't attract attention. Small packages exchanged hands among furtive glances. Sellers and buyers communicated with each other by nods and taps on the arm.

She caught another glimpse of the tail and weaved through the crowd. There, a tufted ear, just above a crate on a side street. After another turn, ginger fur flashed between someone's feet. She was unwilling to call him and let her voice be heard by so many people. And something else stopped her. Crookshanks never needed to be called. He could always find her. She was being led. Or lured. 

The tail disappeared around a corner onto a narrow street overshadowed by three-story buildings. Dark and isolated—a good place to catch her unawares. She doubled back, coming around from the other side. Crookshanks was nowhere to be seen, but a dark figure stood in a small space between two vacant shops, watching the corner where the cat would've emerged. Waiting for her to follow.

She crept up behind him and pointed her wand at his hooded head. There was something familiar about his stance and the way he held his wand.

The figure slowly straightened. "Miss Granger."

She knew the voice instantly. "Expelliarmus."

The wand jerked from his hand to clatter on the cobblestones. The figure didn't move towards it, instead pulling down his hood to reveal the sharp features of Severus Snape. He glanced back at the corner he'd been watching. "You've always been too clever for your own good."

She kept her wand trained on him. An active Death Eater and a minister. Difficult to crack, certainly, but the information he would have. She felt a thrill at the unexpected victory. He'd tried to bait her with an illusion of Crookshanks, but—wait. How many Death Eaters knew about the importance of her furry little messenger?

She hesitated. "Crookshanks. That was you?"

Snape nodded.

She glanced down the alley, but no other Death Eaters charged, no trap sprang. Only one person outside the rebellion knew Crookshanks was anything other than a pet. Something sank in her chest. The Phoenix had to be a Death Eater, or someone close to them. But she didn't want the Phoenix to be Snape.

Impatience tightened his face, much like when he'd asked a question in class and waited while a student struggled to connect the dots.

"I'll need something more than that," she said.

He nodded, as if expecting that. But what he said next was entirely unexpected. "The sixteenth of September in Kew Gardens."

What on earth? Then she remembered and blushed. She and Ron had apparated there to meet a potions supplier who'd never shown. They'd stayed all night. It had been dark. Very dark. "How do you know about that?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You've asked me to remind you of that particular date and location when necessary."

"I've asked? I never…" She stopped. Obliviation, of course. But she couldn't imagine ever telling him about Kew Gardens. Despite everything with Ron, it was a special memory. A private memory. No one outside her close circle of friends knew about it. But perhaps that was the point. Something innocuous she'd readily tell Snape wouldn't have convinced her.

This was the identity of the mysterious Phoenix. "Oh."

"I never tire of your look of utter disappointment at the start of these encounters." He held out his hand, and his wand whipped through the air, slapping into his palm. He used it to point to an alley branching off the street.

The cramped alley barely held enough room to stand shoulder to shoulder. It dead-ended into stone walls after a few meters. Dark ivy climbed a corner, but otherwise it was empty. She glanced at Snape. "Here?"

"Patience, Miss Granger." He pulled out a thick square of paper, unfolded it into a large sheet, and attached it to the wall behind him. It showed a large advert for perfumed soap etched in sepia tones, with a background of tree-lined shops.

He traced his finger along a roughened seam. The seam glowed faintly, and his hand slipped inside, as if into a pocket. A disembodied hand appeared on the poster, sketched in faded ink to match the image.

He held out his other hand in invitation. "Shall we?"

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger

Severus Snape, Death Eater and minister to Voldemort, stood with one hand disappearing inside a sepia-toned poster and one held out to her.

In for a penny, in for a pound. Hermione quietly tapped a rhythm on her bag, setting a distraction that would be delayed for some minutes. Then she took his hand.

His grip was gentle, leading more than pulling. He stepped one foot into the poster and ducked his head in. A sketched version of him appeared in front of the row of shops, his robes contoured in shades of brown, shadows stippled under his eyes. He tilted his head inquisitively, the hatch marks of his hair swaying.

Taking a deep breath, she plunged in headfirst. Her skin tingled as she passed through the paper to the other side. Ink lines bent and jumped, wriggling into the rough outlines of the landscape. The spaces in between brightened, swelling with the full spectrum of colors. Clouds popped from faded beige to periwinkle and white, and the brick walls of the shops bloomed russet.

It was later in the afternoon there. The warm rays of the descending sun skimmed over the rooftops and struck a brick wall, reflecting welcome heat onto her wind-chilled face. Fresh bread wafted from a bakery. A ghostly reversed image of the poster overlapped the other side of the street, the crisscrossing fold seams showing slivers of the real world. The crisp autumn air blew faintly through them.

Her clothes and hands were slightly translucent, made from uneven pigment spread between inked borders. "It's like a watercolor."

"A combination of portrait magic and wizarding space. I know a specialist in the field." Snape was in color now, too, although it was difficult to tell. Hints of ochre and blue shadowed his face and the hem of his robe bled into the dark asphalt of the street. "This image has more depth, so we can move beyond the confines of the displayed picture." He led her to a shop with windows tinted blue-green and an old-fashioned striped barber's pole near the door.

The blue-green windows inside the shop dimmed the bright sun, and a clean smell of mint pervaded the entrance hall. While the outside resembled a turn of the century street, the interior was modern. Slim lamps framed posters of smiling models showing off their pearly whites. She nodded, understanding the barber's pole now. "Barbers used to perform dentistry, back in the day. Although that was actually—"

She stopped, recognition rushing over her like a warm wave. This wasn't just any dentist's office. She moved through the waiting room to the front desk, peering past it into the nearest examination room. For a moment, she expected to see her father sitting on a stool, peering into a patient's mouth, humming to himself. But the waiting and examination rooms stood silent and empty. She sighed. "I used to come here when grammar school let out. This is where I—"

"—received your invitation to Hogwarts. So you've said." Snape moved into the examination room, peering into the corners as though checking for rats.

Her parents had been startled but proud. Dad had patted her on the back, sure that she could master this new magical world. "Don't suppose we'll be much help with your schoolwork," he said, his mustache crinkling up at the corners. "I'll miss our sessions at the kitchen table."

Mum tapped her fingers against her lips. "Exercises, perhaps? You could try spell-casting on us. Turn us into frogs. Or goats!" She and her father had broken into peals of laughter.

Snape stood in the middle of the tidy waiting room, a foreign image superimposed on a cherished photograph. He gestured to the examination room. "No changes since the last time we met. I've checked for attempts at entry. Such efforts are unlikely, since I keep the space well-guarded, but caution is imperative in our circumstances."

She swallowed a few times until she was sure her voice wouldn't sound tight. "Whose idea was this? Recreating this place?"

Another head tilt. "Yours, of course. You gave me the details and removed any inconsistencies."

It did make it clear that she had a hand in it. "A portable meeting room is certainly convenient." It also meant that they may have met far more times than she'd realized. He could lure her in with Crookshanks or some other false image, gather any information he wanted, and obliviate her afterwards. A chill ran down her back.

"You agreed to the memory removal," Snape said, as if reading her mind. "Although you'll have to take my word on that."

Dumbledore once told her he only knew of a handful of skilled occlumens and legilimens: himself, Voldemort, and Severus Snape. What if Snape pulled whatever information he wished from her mind, and claimed she'd shared it freely? It was an insidious way to make her trust him as a confidante while meddling with her memories.

She searched her mind for a passage from a book, something to give her a sense of solidity. "Fisher's Compendium states that obliviate can have a detrimental effect on the mind." But it wasn't imagined scenes of Snape obliviating her that filled her thoughts. It was her mum and dad, quietly finishing up dinner as she removed herself from their lives.

"You have to be careful." The words stuck in her throat. Her mum and dad had stared blankly as they lost their memories of her. It had been a complex variant of the spell for a sixteen-year-old, but she'd read thoroughly and practiced. There was supposed to be a moment of confusion, before obliviate took effect. But not too long. Fisher's said four to twelve seconds. After eight, she closed the door behind her. They'd still been staring. She shook her head, blinking. "Why would I want to meet here?"

Snape was silent, the dark pigment of his robes running to the edges in sharp borders against the white and baby-blue room. "I am precise in my use of obliviate. As are you, Miss Granger."

She nodded, unwilling to meet his gaze.

"Have you ever known me to give you an unwarranted compliment?"

Despite herself, she smiled. "Not even a warranted one."

"Then rest assured that my assessment of your skills is accurate, wrung out of me like blood from a stone." He settled onto the dentist's stool and drummed his fingers on the counter. "Obliviation is necessary. If you were captured—"

"I know." Hermione pulled her hoodie tighter around her. "I've been in a prison camp. I was lucky they didn't ask any questions."

His drumming fingers stopped. "A girl who memorizes books without understanding. An over-inflated sense of importance to the point of delusion."

Her face grew hot. "Another assessment of my skills?"

Snape shook his head. "My comments to the official responsible for prisoner assignments. He decided to transfer you to a low-security facility. The one you escaped from."

She nodded, although the movement was stiff. "Oh. Thank you."

"I mentioned it before, and you found it amusing. It reminded you of comments I used to write on your essays, annoyed at every personal deficiency." He shifted on his stool, and the wheels creaked. His eyes creased slightly, the pale skin at the corners darkening into lines of warm grey. "Different circumstances."

It left her off-balance, him referencing conversations she couldn't remember. Like she had some doppelgänger joking with Snape, while she trudged on, unawares.

If only she could remember their previous meetings. Dumbledore had wanted her to learn occlumency, although they hadn't the time for it when he was alive. She wished she'd found the time afterwards. An order had gone out to train more Death Eaters for legilimency to use in interrogations. Books on occlumency, already rare, had become highly restricted. She was lucky to have one book on the subject.

"There may be alternatives to obliviate. Katya Virmov writes about legilimency in her Wills and Minds Anthology, Volume 7. She mentions occlumency—"

"Does she."

Hermione paused. "I wondered how I found that book. I could never quite remember."

"No doubt you assumed you stole it from the restricted section of the Hogwarts library before it was damaged."

She felt mildly offended. "I don't steal books. Usually. Unless I really need them."

He brushed that away. "Any success in shielding your thoughts?"

"Something may have been lost in translation, and it's difficult to find time for practice in a war." She sank into a chair. "I haven't made much progress."

"It took me years. And I was in the unique position of practicing daily." He straightened. "No matter. Our current system is sufficient."

She couldn't get the question out of her head. "How often do we meet? Do you usually creep up on me unawares and pull me through a soap advert?"

He pressed his lips together in a single brushstroke of pale ochre. "Hardly. We've little need to meet with our messaging system, although I wish I could've reached you before your base was attacked." He looked away. "The delay was unavoidable."

And there was the meat of it. Was it unavoidable? Or had he been leading them by the nose, letting Death Eaters pick them off until there was almost nothing left?

"I've made inquiries about new prisoners," he continued. "I was able to divert some to the prison camp in Belfast, although they will be in maximum security. Black and Lupin are the sort that get sent straight to Azkaban. There was nothing I could do."

She knew those facts from Molly, but not whether he really tried to help the prisoners. She searched his face, hoping for some sign. Snape wouldn't shed a tear over Lupin and Black, and it was entirely possible he wanted them in Azkaban. But Black was still seen as the leader of the resistance, and werewolves were sent to the most secure prison available. There was no way to know the truth.

But his comment about her imprisonment in Camp Portach stuck with her. She'd never been able to determine why she'd been assigned to a lower-security area. They could have underestimated her role in the war. But Snape planting the suggestion that she was harmless made more sense. How strange, to think of him facilitating her escape while she took his favorite former student hostage.  

"Speaking of captured prisoners," she said, "have you had any word of Draco Malfoy?"

Snape frowned. "His parents sent him to private training in Spain. You captured him?"

"Briefly." She pushed a dental polisher across the tray with her finger, wondering about the magic that made the brushstrokes of white and grey shift with the changing angles of reflected light. But she was only distracting herself from giving the bad news. "He escaped with the invisibility cloak."

His brows drew together in a scowl, and for a second, she expected him to follow that up with twenty points from Gryffindor for improper safeguarding of an invisibility cloak. But he only nodded and stared at the scenic posters decorating the ceiling for reclining patients. One featured the Eiffel Tower in chestnut browns against a blue sky. In another, the Palacio de Cristal in Madrid sparkled in abstract strokes of grey and green. "Where was he captured?"

"Cornwall." She glanced at the Palacio de Cristal. "You think he was lying about Spain?"

"I received the information from his father. I haven't seen Draco in quite some time."

"How long? Can you recall?"

"That's the question," Snape muttered. "We kept in touch while he was working at the Ministry under Umbridge. Then she left to become warden at Camp Portach."

She remembered Umbridge saying that Draco had suggested she transfer to Portach. "Is that a promotion? To go from a position in the Ministry to a camp warden?"

"Hardly. Rumor had it that Umbridge finally annoyed the wrong person and was shunted off. Draco got dragged along by bad luck."

"Umbridge said he requested the transfer. Was there someone important at the prison to help his career?"

Snape shook his head. "Even if there were—requesting a position at a prison camp in the middle of a bog? Draco? He wouldn't voluntarily step foot there even if it were brimming with promotions. Perhaps Umbridge was lying."

"There's something else." She told him about their recent capture of Draco and his slashed-through Dark Mark.

Snape went still, only the rapid movement of his eyes showing that he was thinking. "He was exiled? I should've known about this."

"I imagine the Malfoy family didn't want the news to get out."

He let out a harsh breath. "Regardless of their wishes, the Dark Lord would've informed me. Either the secrecy gives some advantage to him, or he no longer trusts me with such information."

His face remained expressionless, but the way he said it gave her chills. "You think he knows? About you?"

"If he did—if he even suspected—I would be dead. But he enjoys playing favorites, and graces his most loyal with his company and knowledge. There are some secrets, however, that he shares with no one."

"And you think Draco's exile is one of them."

Snape made an abortive movement, neither a shake nor a nod. "It doesn't make sense. Death Eaters have been removed before. While the Dark Lord despises disloyalty, he enjoys the spectacle of making an example of one of us. Slashing through the Mark is symbolic, as no Death Eater who's exiled lives much longer after that. But the extinguishing of the Mark's magic is, from what I've witnessed, extraordinarily painful." The warm highlights of his face cooled and darkened and his eyes grew distant, thin lines lengthening between his brows.

Hermione had no inclination to ask for details. "When was the last time you saw Draco in the throne room? Were there any signs?"

Snape rubbed his temple. "Unfortunately, several memories of that location are not as clear as I'd like. How did he look when you saw him? Was he fearful? Confused?"

"Both, I suppose." Mostly he'd seemed shifty, but then he'd always seemed shifty. "Can you look into it? See what's happened to the invisibility cloak?"

Snape nodded. "Where did you last see him?" His eyes glimmered. "So to speak."

"Diagon Alley, when the base was attacked. I had to stop chasing him to get back to the base. Not that it did any good." She rested her head against the wall of cabinets, staring at the posters of exotic places and fingering Sirius's watch. She had to at least ask. "You're sure nothing can be done for Sirius and Remus? Sirius spent so much time in Azkaban already, and he hasn't yet recovered from that." She fell silent, unsure how much to share. Sirius would hate her for disclosing his struggles, especially to someone as indifferent as Snape.

But Snape leaned forwards intently. "Black. You told me he voluntarily stepped down from leadership. But you didn't mention specifics. He'd been difficult? Violent?"

She shook her head. She'd seen Sirius wake from his nightmares, screaming, cursing anyone who came near, and worse. But he wasn't dangerous, not the way Snape was implying. "I didn't think you'd be concerned for his welfare."

Snape's eyes turned flinty. "Merely curious. Azkaban. The confinement changed him. Unhinged him, perhaps."

"I didn't know him before Azkaban."

"Years of imprisonment and isolation." Snape glanced away. "Do you think he would've improved with time?"

It was an odd choice of topic for Snape. Was this a continuation of a conversation they'd had before? "It's not as though we could send him to a medi-wizard for his mental health. We learnt how to…" She hesitated to say we learnt how to rein him in, although they often did. She could still remember his wild eyes at the house, ready to fight until his last breath. He fought in combat better than most, and it was easy to chalk it up to Gryffindor bravery. She should've paid more attention to what drove him.

Snape nodded, as if he knew what she didn't say. "What about other prisoners? You liberated some in your attack on Azkaban."

"That was years ago. And you don't need me to tell you the conditions there. What is it? Are you searching for a prisoner?"

"I'm gathering information on a prisoner's chances of recovery." His eyes had gone distant again, but this time he grew taut, tendons angled sharply in his neck. "In the Ministry dungeons…" He grimaced. "It doesn't matter. You wouldn't remember him."

"If you're not willing to tell me anything, there's not much point in meeting."

"My folly." He fell into silence, dark blue-grey lines narrowing between his brows.

She wanted to help Sirius, and Ginny, and all the others trapped in a terrible place they couldn't escape. They should have a chance at recovery and happiness. "Sirius didn't like to talk about it. But some of the other prisoners did. They had to remind themselves that it was in the past, that they'd escaped, and yet they felt like they were still there."

"Trapped." Snape let out a long breath. "Yes."

"Many of them want to move forward, but they can't." In some ways, she felt the same. Trapped in a cycle of battles and horcrux searches.

"There must be some way to make progress."

If there was a way through, she hadn't found it. All she found were impossible choices. Time for horcruxes or time for battles. Give up her friends or give up the Phoenix. "Most of my friends are prisoners. They can't truly heal until they have some control over their lives."

His shoulders slumped. "Yes."

It was almost as if he were making the choice for her—agreeing that her friends needed a chance to be free. But she wavered, still searching for another option. "Is there anything we can do to free them? Or find others sympathetic to the cause? We'll take any help we can get right now."

"I suspect many are sympathetic, but they wouldn't risk any sign of support right now. As far as the Dark Lord is concerned, the resistance is defeated. He'll quash the smallest sign of opposition now, to solidify his rule. He wants to commemorate his victory with something symbolic, memorable, and violent."

That chilled her. "What's he planning?"

Snape shook his head. "Whatever it is, it'll demonstrate his power in a way that can't be disputed."

Hermione had only seen Voldemort once—not in a newspaper photo or a pensieve memory, but in the flesh. It was during their attack on Azkaban. Dumbledore had led him off, away from the rest of the resistance, to protect them from his wrath. But Dumbledore wasn't perfect, and Voldemort had struck him down.

It was as if Dumbledore had known, that day, that it was going to end. "Come, sit by the fire with me," he'd said, indicating the cozy cottage he'd conjured up in the middle of their temporary base at an abandoned factory. She'd left the shadowy machines and echoing space behind and entered a well-furnished sitting room with a crackling fireplace. All very comforting, but the strain was visible on his face.

He'd never quite recovered from their visit to the crystal cave and the potion that he'd insisted she feed to him. Ever since, the sparkle had gone out of his eyes, and his words of comfort had gone hollow. Even his purple robes seemed to have faded to a duller grey, his tassel hat now crumpled and hanging over one ear.

But that evening, before they left for their attack, he sat her down and held her hands warmly. "It's time I tell you everything you need to know."

The words sounded ominous, and she shook her head. "I've a good feeling about this attack. We're going to free a lot of people who'll make the resistance stronger. And Harry might be there."

A bit of his old energy suffused his face, and he stared at her in wonder. "Harry. Oh, dear. That brings back memories." And then he closed his eyes, near tears. "He's alive."

"I—I'd like to think so," she said hesitantly. It had already been over three years since they'd seen him go into that Triwizard maze and waited for him to come back out. The Phoenix had sent them hopeful news initially, but in the last few months, that news had dried up. The Phoenix never mentioned Harry now, just like other prisoners whose names dropped from his messages. Some deaths he confirmed, others simply disappeared from existence, no one ever knowing exactly what happened to them. But she couldn't give up on Harry, and Azkaban was a likely place for him.

Dumbledore gripped her hands tightly. "Hermione, listen to me. He's alive, and I know you'll find him. But you mustn't talk to anyone about him. I suspect it's the only way to protect him at the moment. And there's something else." Slowly, by the crackling fire, he'd given her information that had horrified her, that she hadn't wanted to hear. It had been so strange, sitting comfortably in an overstuffed chair, his gentle voice telling her such things.

In the end, they'd both been wrong. Harry hadn't been at Azkaban, as far as they could gather from the prisoners they'd rescued. And Harry hadn't been alive, as Dumbledore had insisted. It meant that many of the things he'd told her no longer mattered. She wished they'd spent that last day together enjoying each other's company, instead of discussing horcruxes and impossible choices.

His mission—or perhaps choosing her to carry out that mission—had also been a miscalculation. Even if she ever found and destroyed all the other horcruxes, that still left Voldemort. He ensconced himself in his throne room, surrounded by the Dark Guard and Death Eaters. She didn't see any possible way to reach him, let alone defeat him.

Snape was shaking his head. "Too many mistakes," he murmured.

"You think I don't know that?" she said bitterly. "I can see what a mess I've made of things."

He seemed to startle out of his thoughts. "I was thinking of my own mistakes."

She knew of one mistake, at least. "Not telling us about the attack in time."

His mouth tightened. "And other things. I've split my energies between three duties, and I haven't done any of them as well as needed."

Three? She took a guess. "A spy, a Death Eater, and a minister?"

The inky line of his lashes dipped low, obscuring his eyes. "I fear I've employed the wrong strategies, and the damage can't be undone."

She traced her finger around the little paper cup in the tray. Her mother and father used to chat with the receptionist as she filed the equipment requests and invoices in crisp manila folders. Resources and money, all so neatly organized. Appointments kept in a spiral-bound book, where her parents could see exactly how the day would unfold. "Strategies have to be made in the moment, sometimes. They can't always be—"

Her bag took that moment to erupt. The opening burst wide and devil's snare snaked out, flinging a hat, several books, and a chocolate frog across the room. It smashed into the exam chair and sent the tray flying to the ceiling. She jolted up, heart thumping, even though she'd been the one to set the distraction. Snape was already standing, directing his wand at the devil's snare.

"Sorry, sorry!" She scrambled for her belongings, making certain to get behind Snape and out of his range of view. She flicked her wand at the door, opening it, and sent the chocolate frog jumping through the gap. "I'll get it!"

Dashing out, she swooped down and seized the frog by its leg, then ducked into the supply room. The frog bounced jerkily in her hand, mouth opening and closing in silent croaks. Freezing the frog, she set it on a shelf. She only had a moment before Snape tamed the devil's snare and started looking for her.

Searching for a clear memory of Snape, she took a vial from her pocket and placed the tip of her wand to her temple. Perhaps the moment he'd mentioned Kew Gardens. No, that was too embarrassing. In the examination room then, when he'd talked about struggling to balance his spy duties. Or saying that he'd worked to make things easier for her to escape from the prison camp. Those memories were quite clear.

Biting her lip, she lowered her wand and stared at the empty vial. She couldn't remember all the times they'd met and all the conversations they'd had, but she believed him. She needed him. And he'd tried. She knew very well that you can try your best and still fail.

She put the vial away and stared at the neatly stacked boxes of supplies, catching sight of a forest-green door at the back. She hadn't thought about that door in years.

A hand touched her shoulder, and she yelped, spinning, wand raised.

Snape spread his arms, wand to the side. "I've subdued the devil's snare and bound it inside your bag. Why on earth do you carry it?"

"It can be a handy weapon. When it behaves."

"It rarely behaves." He studied the room. "You insisted on recreating this area when I constructed the space. I couldn't imagine any use for dental supplies in our meetings."

"I suspect I was feeling nostalgic." She approached the green door and rested her palm on the painted wood. "I used to come here when I was little. My parents kept an electric torch here so I could curl up under the shelves and read my books. I liked the smell of clean cotton." She opened the door. Stripes of sun-yellow shelves held stacks of dental towels, gauze, and linens. The space below the shelves was still there, too, barely measuring more than two cubic feet. It had been her special place.

Snape let out a breath. "Children and their hiding spots."

"The world can be a scary place." Angry neighborhood dogs and mean boys on the playground. If she'd only known what awaited her.

"No spot I ever found was good enough," Snape murmured. "I learnt to hide in plain sight."

She didn't attempt to crawl into her hiding spot. She'd grown too much to ever fit in there again. "Shall we get back to work?" Taking one last look, she closed the door.

Snape had put the examination room in order. Even the little paper cup was back in its tray. Hermione dropped the frozen frog into her bag as they settled in their seats. "I'm sorry," she said again.

His eyes were sharp, watching her. "So many apologies for a bit of disarray. I'm certain you know the difference between a temporary inconvenience and damage that is irreversible." His gaze held a question.

She wasn't the only one in the room who was too clever. He had years of experience as a spy and years before that in a classroom where no misdeed went unobserved. She should've guessed that he'd see the distraction for what it was. But she wasn't a student anymore. She raised her chin, locking eyes with him.

No scowl, and none of the irritation she'd so often encountered from him at Hogwarts. He didn't say anything—no accusations or even a demand that she turn out her pockets.

It was worse than all the harsh words he'd said to her over the years. Dropping her gaze to the floor, she pulled out the empty vial.

His shoulders relaxed a fraction as he leaned back.

She rolled the vial between her fingers. "I've tried this before?"

"No. But I failed you. My usefulness is limited when you no longer have the numbers to act on my reports. You need more people, and there's only so much work I can do on prisoners without catching the Dark Lord's eye. I may be more valuable for my identity than for my information."

She tapped her nail against the vial. "But you still came?"

"I've devoted half my life to this cause. I don't give up easily. And we've had many conversations, Miss Granger. I knew it was a possibility, but I…" A small, wry smile flickered. "I had faith."

Half his life. Half her life, too, if she counted from the moment she befriended Harry. Comrades in arms. "I wish I could remember what we talked about."

"You have your notes."

Snape was always a bit stiff, but this was the most comfortable she'd ever seen him. Sitting in a muggle dentist's office, chatting with her about betrayal. How many hours had it taken before he'd found that faith? How many of their chats before she'd laughed at something he said? "It's not the same."

"I know. But I need those memories more than you do. It's more difficult for me to trust another."

And she did, she realized. She trusted him. She heard voices in the back of her head that sounded like Ron and Millicent, telling her that he'd staged it all for her benefit, fabricating a connection that wasn't there.

But it was there. She couldn't put memories to it, but she believed it. Ron sometimes joked that she was a Ravenclaw, always looking to books for the answer. She replied that she also had Gryffindor determination in spades. But determination had only gotten her so far. What she needed now was bravery. Not found in battle, but the kind found in a leap of faith.

She gathered herself before taking the plunge, ignoring the advice the portrait had given her. "I need your help."

"More information?"

"Eventually, yes. But right now, it's information I need to give you." She couldn't help lowering her voice, leaning forwards as if someone might overhear. "Have you heard of a horcrux?"

He blinked at her for a moment. "I've come across the term once or twice. It's rarely mentioned, even in books steeped in the dark arts." His mouth parted as he gazed past her, his eyes widening. "It's a path to immortality." He seized her arm. "Then it's possible to end it? The Dark Lord cannot return again if this horcrux is destroyed?"

"It's possible," she said slowly. "But it's not so simple. There's more than one."

He seemed to come back to himself, slumping in his seat with a rasping laugh. "Of course there is." He glanced at her. "Forgive my outburst. It's been a long time since I've experienced hopefulness. I'm not used to it."

She told him what she knew, and what she'd accomplished in her hunt so far. It didn't take long. Snape was well-versed in both the Dark Arts and Voldemort's nature. By the end, he was finishing her sentences.

"This is all educated guesswork," she concluded. But if we're certain we've gotten all the others, the final horcrux to be destroyed should be—"

"Nagini." Snape nodded to himself. "Dumbledore said I should watch for a moment when the Dark Lord protected the snake fervently. But what I was to do when such a thing occurred…" He shook his head. "It was difficult to communicate near the end, after the school closed. The accelerating war forced me to stay at the Dark Lord's side. Either the headmaster never sent me further instructions,"—a flash of anger—"or I don't remember them."

She doubted Snape would forget such a thing, no matter how long ago those conversations happened. "You never talk with the portrait?"

He stared at her before clenching his jaw. "It survived."

Dumbledore hadn't told Snape about the secret room under the headmaster's office. "Maybe if I told the portrait you're the Phoenix—"

"He knows. At least, the living headmaster did. Who do you think told me to contact you? But he didn't like keeping all his eggs in one basket, as he liked to say. I'm surprised he told you as much as he did."

"He needed to tell someone."

Snape glanced at her sharply. "And the horcruxes? He told you to tell me?"

She shook her head. "That was my decision."

His iron expression broke for a moment, and he nodded. "I'll take your secrets to my grave."

"It's me I'm more worried about. If I get captured, it's over." She shook her head, biting her lip. "They'll eventually get the information out of my head."

"You've avoided recapture with your skill in subterfuge."

"Another skill I hope you've correctly assessed. I've certainly improved, at any rate." She tried giving him a friendly smile. "It's been a long time since the days when we frantically grabbed your supplies at Hogwarts. The three of us had a tendency for unnecessary flailing."

Snape sighed and gazed at a poster of a windmill in a field of flowers. "I knew you stole those supplies."

She huffed. "Professor—"

"No doubt you were delighted with yourselves, but I was in short supply of ingredients for weeks, thanks to your harebrained…" His breath quickened as he bolted upright. "The three of us. You said the three of us. Who were the others?"

She raised her eyebrows. "It's a little late to hand out detentions."

"Miss Granger." Snape leaned forward, so close that she could feel the heat of his breath. "Names."

She angled away. "I'm sure you've guessed. Ron and Harry. Although, to be honest, it was really my—"

"Potter." Snape stared at her, hard enough to penetrate the back of her skull. "You haven't mentioned him in years."

She shook her head, her throat tight. "I couldn't. We did at the start, but your messages never had an answer. Just pursuing possible courses of action. And then you stopped writing anything at all about him. I knew what that meant. Another prisoner who disappears one night. It's happened enough times before, and since. Ron thinks there's a chance he's still alive, and we used to have rows about it. All the things we should've done."

She gazed into her manufactured hallway which led to the manufactured waiting room. She could've manufactured people coming in. Liz and Sherry, the dental hygienists, their voices warm behind their masks. Marla, the receptionist with honey-colored hair. Her parents, talking between appointments, knees touching. People she might never see again. Maybe there was a reason she left it vacant. "We can't talk about Harry."

She looked back at Snape, and caught a flash of something in his face, like he'd been the one caught stealing ingredients. And all his strange words snapped into place. Prisoner. Ministry dungeons. Potter. He knew. No more silences while they waited for news. No more pursuing possible courses of action. He could tell her what happened to Harry.

"Miss Granger," Snape said.

"Don't." She held up a hand. She was shaking, but her voice was hard. "Not another theory, not another lead. Only if you're absolutely certain."

"I'm certain."

She took a breath. She wanted to run away to her old hiding place in the supply closet, where it was warm and safe and smelled like clean cotton. "Tell me."

"He's alive."

Something tore open inside her. She was going to split apart at the seams, every little piece flung in different directions.

Snape stood and approached her hesitantly.

"I'm all right." She gripped the armrest. Harry. It was too much to believe. She wanted to scream. She wanted to pull on her hair until it hurt. What was it Snape had said a moment ago? Too much hope, and she wasn't used to it. "You're sure it's him? Is he all right? Why didn't you bring him with you?"

He said nothing.

She remembered the prisoners from Azkaban. Pale, with protruding ribs and sunken eyes. One woman had been completely gone, staring into the distance as if she couldn't see them at all. And she'd only been imprisoned for a few months. Harry had been missing for over six years. "How bad is he?"

"Alive and recovering. But deeply wounded. Angry."

She tried to imagine Harry as one of those sunken-eyed prisoners. But she could only see him as he had been, a grinning fourth-year. Even when he was angry, it was a flashing anger, gone in hours or minutes. The prisoners had anger deep in their bones, settling into the angles of their shoulders. "It's to be expected, isn't it? He was a prisoner."

"And I'm a Death Eater." He sat, pressing his fingers against his temple. A few quick rubs, and his hands settled back into a steepled clasp. "I've considered removing some of his memories." He glanced at her. "Certain memories of me."

Some part of her had known, of course. Harry wouldn't have been like other prisoners who were thrown in cells to await execution. Voldemort celebrated his biggest victories with cruelty and violence. Torture. But the Phoenix had never confirmed any of her fearful questions about what was happening to Harry in those early years.

And Voldemort would've expected his Death Eaters to join him. The surface of her skin went numb, like she'd retreated from her body by the barest fraction of a millimeter. She rubbed her hands together until spots of color broke out, and stared at the blotches of red. "Memories of what you did to him."

His fingers remained steepled at a perfect right angle. Soft pinks in sharp lines. He didn't say anything.

There wasn't anything to say. What use were accusations and apologies? "Would that help him? Or simply make things easier for you?"

"Making things easier would allow me to help him. I could steer him to the correct course of action, and use my authority to bring him in line. It worked when I was a professor." He glanced at her, his head tilting with a slight shrug. "Sometimes."

Old memories of their adventures flooded her. "He was never one for the correct course of action. He liked to go his own way." Warmth surged as she corrected herself. "He likes to, I mean."

"He's determined to make things difficult." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "But you're correct. I'm trying to make things easier. And an obliviation spell would require delicate casting in close proximity, which is a challenging endeavor. His mind suffered many attacks. There is damage. And something else. Something inside him has changed."

She thought of Ron and his mum, and how their freckled faces settled into grim tiredness so easily now. Even Snape. Still intimidating in his black robes and scowling expression, but his face had collected more worry lines. And there were moments when his shoulders sagged in a posture he'd never shown in the classroom. He looked like Mordag's weather-beaten crow, flown long past his endurance. "We've all changed."

"It's something more. In his magic."

She frowned. "A curse affecting his abilities? We've seen cases of that."

"No." He glared at her, and she had a flash of the old anxiety she'd felt at Hogwarts when she'd gotten an answer wrong.

But Snape was glaring at something she couldn't see, gaze fixed on the empty space between them. His eyes softened as he deflated. "I don't know what it is. He rarely casts spells within my sight. And his communication is limited, on the rare occasions he wants to communicate at all. Whatever secrets he holds, I've barely scratched the surface."

"If the only reason you're communicating with him is to pry out his secrets, you're not going to get far. He was tight-lipped when you were his professor. He only shared his secrets with his friends. He'll never—" She stopped awkwardly.

"No need to spare my feelings. I'm not under any delusion that he'll ever consider me a friend. Friendship is a particularly unpracticed skill in my repertoire, and he's better off if I don't try. I'd be happy merely to convince him I'm not trying to murder him. I thought if I expanded his boundaries, gave him some independence, then we might get out of this prisoner-warden dynamic we've fallen into."

"So he'll trust you enough to give you his secrets." She couldn't keep the reproving tone out of her voice.

The dark lines of his brows descended. "I'm not trying to use him. His injuries need healed, and he's not… himself. His years in that cell have caused agoraphobia and hoarding behaviors. Every time I try to assist him, it only reveals more problems. There must be some way to help him."

He still seemed to be asking her, as if she was supposed to have the answer. But it wasn't like a teacher asking a student. There was something softer in his voice.

"The Great Goblin Rebellion has accounts from medi-wizards who treated prisoners of war. They write about physical and mental changes. The footnotes are quite extensive. Have you consulted any reliable references?"

The lines of his mouth tilted upwards and a hint of blue-green light reached his eyes. "I am doing so now."

She felt herself flush. "I haven't had nearly enough experience with treating prisoners."

"I don't need to know about prisoners. I need to know about Potter." His hands tightened for an instant. "I need to know how to reach him."

"But I didn't even think he was alive." I gave up on him. It was the horrible truth. Ron hadn't lost faith, but she had. Snape was looking to her as if she could give some deep insight into Harry, but she hadn't believed he could survive. "I don't think I can."

The light faded from his eyes. He waved his hand. "No matter. It's not your problem to solve."

She was at a loss. She couldn't think what she would have said to Snape if he were attempting to befriend Harry at Hogwarts, let alone now. "He could come with us. We're moving every few nights right now, but we could find a meeting place."

He sighed. "An offer I'll gladly accept, once everyone is on secure footing."

She squeezed her hands together. He was right, of course. They were on the run with no time for anyone's needs. If Harry were with them, the next attack might end with him captured again and injured even further. Snape could focus on his healing, even if his bedside manner likely left something to be desired. He had access to potions, a safe place, and information on the enemy.

What could she offer Harry? I'm sorry I gave you up for dead, but I was busy leading a failing rebellion. Try to keep up while we run for our lives. She scolded herself for her gloominess and tried to think of something that would help. Something she would say to Harry, if he were here now. "We tried to be there for each other." She smiled. "To be Gryffindors. Honest. Loyal."

He laughed, sharp and bitter. "Honesty and loyalty. Another set of ingredients I have in short supply."

She gazed at him somberly. "I think you're selling yourself short."

He pulled a face at that. "The immediate priority is the horcruxes. I have access to most of the Ministry. Any locations I should investigate?"

Hermione reviewed the possibilities, although it was only the barest speculation. She felt as if she were hearing herself from a distance as her mind swirled with memories. The troll. Their adventures with polyjuice. The three of them under the invisibility cloak. Harry's cherished heirloom that she'd lost. Her voice shook, but Snape listened carefully, his dark eyes absorbing it all.

At the end, she pulled out her notebook and wrote what she needed to know. No mention of Snape by name, or even hints that might lead her to correctly guess his identity. The next steps for each of them were filled with question marks. This was new ground for them both, but it felt like progress. When she got to their conversation about Harry, her pen hovered, wobbling as her fingers shook. She wanted so badly to write the words. Harry is alive. Harry is with the Phoenix. But it was too dangerous. She swallowed, putting the pen away, the words unwritten.

Snape stood, gesturing towards the exit.

He's going back to Harry. Harry, who's alive. She felt like she should've said more, helped more. "He hates being cooped up, or feeling useless, and he likes quidditch." What team did he support? Was it the Chudley Cannons? "Oh! And pumpkin juice is his favorite drink."

"Ah, yes. I'll end our mutual antagonism with pumpkin juice."

Her hands fluttered, and she couldn't get them to land anywhere. She wanted Harry to be there, to give him a hug and tell him it would be all right. Her arms stretched out, as if they could conjure Harry on the spot. But the only other person there was Snape, already focused on resetting his detection spells.

She dropped her hands to her sides as they left the office. "I should've found a way for him to avoid the Triwizard Challenges. Or discovered the trap. I stayed awake so many nights wondering what I could've done to change things."

The sun was setting, warm rays escaping between the buildings. Cracks of golden light hovered, showing the Brigadoon alley. Snape watched a moving shadow as someone outside passed by. "I'm familiar with the feeling."

She swallowed. "You'll tell me again? You'll tell me, and we'll see Harry? We'll have tea and talk, and I'll get all blubbery, and Harry will get that uncomfortable look he gets whenever I get blubbery. You'll tell me again, won't you? When the war is over."

Snape turned then, the light from the sinking sun casting half his face into shadow. His eyes disappeared into the darkened hollows of his face. "Yes. When the war is over." The way he said it had a lyrical rhythm, as if he'd said it many times before.

She blinked hard. "All right. I'm ready."

Snape held his wand like a conductor's baton: poised with the anticipation of movement. "Miss Granger. I will try. With Potter."

He sounded so earnest. Like a first-year getting ready to cast wingardium leviosa. She had difficulty seeing him in the gathering gloom, but she smiled. "You can call me Hermione, Professor."

"Hermione." He said it with such warmth that she wished she'd asked him sooner.

It reminded her of Dumbledore for a moment, gently speaking in the darkness, hours before he was gone. Hermione, there's something you need to know about Harry. Useless information, she'd thought, when it became clear that Harry had been killed.

But he wasn't. He was alive. And so was the horcrux inside him. Her mouth fell open. All their discussion of horcruxes, and she hadn't told him about Harry, and that impossible choice. "Professor—"

But the wand had already swooped and a quiet voice said, "obliviate."

Her words faded away as darkness descended.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger

"Wait," Hermione said. He needed to stop, so she could tell him.

But who needed to stop? What did she need to tell him?

Something solid and real had dissolved into mist. She tried to remember, to hold on to those tendrils of thought. But they evaporated in the sunshine. She felt wrung out, her nose stuffed up and tingling as if she'd been crying, or trying hard not to cry. What had she been doing? She'd been waiting at The Blind Mouse and ended up in this alley, somehow.

She had the strange feeling that someone was watching her. Turning, she found nothing but a brick wall, featureless except for an old poster peeling at the corners. Her hand flexed, and she realized she was holding something: a new encoded note in the notebook used for her meetings with the Phoenix. She let out a breath. That explained the memory loss. She must still be in Brigadoon, close to wherever they'd met.

Had she done it? Had she returned with the identity of the Phoenix? She pulled the vial out of her pocket. Empty. Heart racing, she raised her hood and hurried out of the alley, finding her way back to The Blind Mouse. Molly and Ron were gone, so she settled at a new table in an outdoor area facing the square. Ordering a cuppa, she began the decoding spells, impatient to understand what had happened.

Scanning the decoded note didn't reveal any name. And then she caught a line that froze her breath: I told the Phoenix about Dumbledore's task.

She gripped the note for so long that the paper grew soft from the warmth and dampness of her hands. A familiar frustration rose. What happened in that meeting? What changed? She took several long breaths, reminding herself that her curiosity was not nearly as important as keeping everyone safe. And despite her lack of memory, it was clear she wanted to keep the Phoenix safe.

A huddle of yellow-robed prisoners entered the square, stumbling blindly. The black hoods they wore were more like sacks, completely covering their faces. They clung to one another, shackled wrists twisting to grab onto a nearby sleeve.

It was all designed to keep them helpless and easy to recapture should they try to escape. They couldn't run blind, and they couldn't hide in their bright robes. Their only chance was if someone helped them. Some passersby in the square gave them glances of curiosity or sympathy, but then went on their way.

Two Death Eaters flanked the group, sending stinging hexes at anyone who drifted too far in the wrong direction. They were like blind horses led with the whip.

In the old days, the resistance would have the group followed, and struck at the earliest opportunity, freeing everyone. Now, all Hermione could do was hunch in her seat and try to look inconspicuous. She had to watch, as leaving now would force her to cross paths with the Death Eaters. Instead, she studied them. They moved like the Carrow siblings, and the blunt cruelty was certainly their style.

A prisoner stumbled and fell. The black sack rippled around his head like something alive, a macabre version of the Sorting Hat. He twisted, dust latching onto his robes as he struggled with his bonds. The sack bunched and squeezed around his neck. The mushrooming of his breath under the sack grew smaller as his chest spasmed. Amycus Carrow laughed.

Hermione had re-coded her notes, but she stared at the impenetrable symbols anyway, pretending to read them. There was very little chance that prisoner was someone she knew. Not Remus or Neville. But all she could see were Remus's defeated eyes as he gave in to the transformation. Or Neville, who'd gained confidence and determination, yet never lost his heart. Would he be able to keep that as a prisoner with no hope of rescue? She focused on the slashes of ink on the page and tried to imagine another version of herself writing them, reassuring her and advising patience. Telling her to drink her tea and carry on. It didn't help. She stuffed the notes into her pocket, her fingers brushing the handle of her wand.

None of the patrons nearby were eating, either. Some sat with forks halfway to their mouths, lines of strain visible in the tendons of their hands. But they did nothing. What made her different from the rest of them? She was ignoring someone's suffering in the hopes that she wouldn't catch a Death Eater's eye.

Alecto Carrow was less amused by the prisoner's writhing, rapping her wand against her leg in a twitchy staccato. "Was told not to kill you. But nobody said anything about cruciatus."

Hermione was up before she could think, shouting a stunning spell.

Alecto Carrow fell, her body frozen with her wand jutting out.

She cast expelliarmus on the remaining Carrow and slashed out with her wand, cutting the prisoners' chains. They tore at the writhing sacks on their heads, stumbling as they ran. Everyone else ran, too, plates and mugs crashing to the floor.

She dove under a table for cover. A blast shook the table and the wood above her cracked, a white seam racing down the middle. She scrambled away as the halves fell on either side of her. Keeping low, she wove between the tables and made it to the side street where an iron fence blocked her way.

A klaxon shrieked, alerting other Death Eaters in the village to respond. The Carrows had recovered and were running towards her.

She focused on the weld marks on the fence. "Diffindo, diffindo, diffindo." The charm sliced through the fence, and she sent iron bars hurtling towards the Death Eaters.

Halfway down the side street, a flurry of yellow crashed into her, nearly knocking her off her feet. The dust-covered prisoner stumbled against a leather goods shop, still struggling with the sack over his head.

"Come on." She grabbed his arm and dragged him along.

The square quickly emptied, doors slamming as residents locked themselves in. She raced through the streets, turning left and right blindly, hoping to lose her pursuers as she got lost herself. She skidded to a halt behind a thick-trunked sycamore tree that grew through the pavement. Running feet thudded in the distance, but she couldn't determine their direction.

The sack let very little sound through, so she didn't waste words and focused on disenchanting it. After several spells, it finally slumped, wriggling lifelessly, although it was still secured to the prisoner's neck. The loose shackles were quick work, as she'd unlocked many before this.

The prisoner coughed, yanking and tearing the sack. "This is humiliating. And hot."

Her heart dropped. She cast a releasing spell and ripped the sack off his face. "Malfoy."

Draco Malfoy panted, red-faced. His eyes widened. "Granger? What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? What about you?" She gestured at the sack, now flopping brokenly on the ground.

Malfoy rubbed his neck as he looked down at it. "Oh. Misunderstanding."

"You don't expect me to believe—" She stopped. The footsteps were slower, more methodical now. And closer. "It isn't safe here."

Glancing down the street, his red face slowly paled. "Where can we go?"

She drew back. "Who said anything about 'we'?"

He looked like a kicked puppy. "Come on, Granger. I don't even have a wand."

She studied him. "What happened to the invisibility cloak?"

He didn't meet her eyes. "Same as my wand. Taken without so much as a request." He leaned forwards. "I would've returned it."

"I'm sure."

"This isn't my fault." He pounded his fist on the ground, glaring at the sack. "None of this is my fault!"

"Oh, shut it." She checked around the corner and recognized the street. Ron and Molly were out there somewhere, and she needed to make sure they were okay. They'd agreed to meet back at the square, so they'd likely head that way. She looked back at Malfoy, pale except for bright splotches of color on his cheeks, and sighed. "Don't make me regret this."

They made a circuitous route back to the square. All the doors were shut tight. But there was the tromp of running feet coming from the east. She huddled in a doorway, trying to determine if they were getting closer.

"Why don't we just leave?" Malfoy hissed.

"I'm not leaving without my friends. But go right ahead." She gestured down the street. It would be safer if she didn't drag Malfoy along. "It might be your father out there. He's looking for you."

Malfoy gnawed on his lip. "He can't help me." He glanced at her, looking a bit lost. "You saw him? How did he look?"

She remembered the battle at Dumbledore's house. "Homicidal."

He wiped his sweating face with his palm, wrinkling his nose as he shook away the droplets. "It's war, Granger, and you've got a target on your back. With my luck, some curse meant for you will ricochet and hit me." But he didn't leave her side.

The thudding got louder, and fighting exploded upon them. A window shattered overhead, and they dodged to avoid falling shards. Rounding a corner, they collided with a cushion of air. She recognized it as a dampening shield Molly had developed.

"My dear!" Molly briefly dropped the shield to help her up. "I'm glad you're all right." She glanced at Malfoy in his prisoner robes, but didn't offer more than a glare. "When we saw everyone running from the square, we headed straight there. We thought you might be in trouble."

Ron didn't stop with a glare. "What's he doing here? Don't tell me he's on our side."

"Not even the remotest chance, Weasley," Malfoy said.

"Well, there are your mates," Ron said, gesturing in the direction of the advancing Death Eaters. "Why don't you—"

A blast hit Ron in the shoulder. He fell to his knees.

"Ron!" Molly shouted. She sent a blast at the Death Eater heading towards them, knocking him flat.

"S'alright," Ron said. "Shield took most of it."

"The village gates are west of here," Hermione said. "If we—"

"Can't get through," Molly said. "The Dark Guard set a perimeter and are closing in."

"Then we need to hide."

Molly's mouth thinned to a flat line. "They've started the countdown."

Hermione's throat tightened. Only residents moved with Brigadoon. Once the countdown was finished, the village would disappear, and they'd be left in an empty clearing surrounded by the Guard. "Once it leaves, we can apparate. If we can buy ourselves a few seconds—"

Ron shook his head. "Brigadoon leaves in pieces. The anti-apparation spell lingers until it's completely gone. We'll need minutes, not seconds."

A Death Eater curse came close, shattering the wall of the shop next to her. Someone inside screamed.

"Outnumbered," Molly said. She gazed at Ron, her face hardening, and Hermione could tell what she was thinking. They were all going to be captured, or worse. That wasn't the face of someone who was going to lose another son.

But Hermione wouldn't let Molly risk her life. Not if she could help it. "Head for the gate. I'll get the Guard to follow us."

"Wait a minute," Malfoy said. "I never—"

"If you can get through the gate, we'll meet up at the old headquarters by the cairn up north. You remember the one?"

"Hermione, no," Ron said.

She focused on Molly. "We have a better chance if we split up, don't we? If you two can reach the edge of the forest, you'll be able to attack the Guard from your cover."

Molly nodded, gripping her hand. "We won't let them take you."

Hermione gave her a squeeze back, then ran towards a crossroads. Two Guards were there, wands raised. She cast several stunner spells and headed down another street.

Malfoy stumbled after her. There was a sound like a thunderclap. Malfoy yelped, nearly running her over.

She dragged him into a side alley and over someone's low garden wall. A stone obelisk stood in the middle of the garden, kept clear of shrubbery, but an overgrown hawthorn hid them well. "How many followed us?"

Malfoy panted. "Two, I think."

She crossed to the other side of the garden. "Not enough. Molly will have her hands full."

"Not enough?" Malfoy fell behind the hawthorn like a rag doll. "I'm going to get captured again, thanks to you."

"It's thanks to me you escaped at all." She glanced at him. "You never told me why you were a prisoner."

He huffed. "You're right. I didn't."

Boots thudded past them, only a few meters away. She counted to ten, then got up. "Come on. We'll let them see us at the crossroads up ahead."

"Let them see us?" Malfoy scrambled to his feet and backed away. "You can be a martyr for your little rebellion. I'm getting as far as I can from here."

She was inclined to let him go, and good riddance. But he knew more about what happened to the cloak than anyone else. And Malfoy wouldn't last five minutes on the run without a wand. Him getting sent to a prison camp might be karmic justice, but she couldn't wish that fate on anyone. Not even Malfoy. "We've got to keep the Death Eaters away from the others." She scanned the nearby crossroads. The area was familiar. "I know someone who might help us."

"Oh?" Malfoy wavered, glancing from an alley back to her. "And who might that be?"

##

Aberforth poked his nose through a gap in the shutters. "Quiet, the both of you. You're frightening the goats."

"Let us in," Hermione said.

He opened the shutters fully and leaned on the windowsill. "And why should I do that?"

"Because if we get captured," Malfoy said, "we'll say you were our accomplice, and they'll come after you, too."

She elbowed Malfoy hard in the ribs. "I'm sorry," she said to Aberforth. "He's an idiot."

Aberforth chuckled. "You don't say."

Millicent's muffled voice came from behind them. "We should do the thing with the runes."

His mouth twitched, and he disappeared from the window. The door clicked open. "Come on, then."

Malfoy slammed the door behind them and peered out the window. "I don't see any sign of them."

Millicent gave Hermione a nod and ignored Draco entirely.

Aberforth settled into his chair. "You'll see 'em soon enough." He opened a closet and levitated a stone obelisk to the center of the room.

It looked like the obelisk she'd seen in the walled garden earlier. Covered in carved runes and vaguely in the shape of a pointed witch's hat, it had a moving stone wheel on its face. The wheel slowly turned, ticking its way towards a rune she remembered.

"Brigadoon is leaving behind you and your troubles. Won't be long now." He pulled on his pipe thoughtfully. "You've gotten yourselves into quite the pickle."

Malfoy glared at Hermione. "It wasn't my idea to get them chasing after us."

"But can you help us?" Hermione glanced between Millicent and Aberforth. If Ron was right, it would be dangerous in the minutes after Brigadoon moved. If the village moved slowly, in pieces, it meant very little cover and no easy way to escape. It would be a race to avoid capture until they could apparate away. "Can we disappear with you?" She thought of Ron and Molly, racing through the village. "All of us?"

 Aberforth leaned back, tapping the pipe's mouthpiece against his lower lip. "Only if you were official residents of Brigadoon."

"Just a moment," Malfoy said. "The idea is to escape this little mudhole, not live here."

Aberforth raised a bushy eyebrow. "If my home offends you…" he flicked his wand, and the door swung open.

"Don't listen to him," Hermione told Aberforth. "What would we have to do?"

There were shouts and knocking further down the street. Aberforth gazed curiously out the window, the tips of his white hair floating in the breeze. "A commitment to a resident is required," he said. "Or we'd have every frightened duck in the kingdom living here." He scratched his beard. "What about six kilos of mohair fiber? If you agree to supply three each, you would be considered residents under my care. When your duty is fulfilled, you can be on your way."

"Where on earth," Malfoy said, "are we supposed to—"

"He has a goat farm, you pompous twit. We'd work as his farmhands."

"Farmhands?" Malfoy had the exact expression of a flopping goldfish. "Work?"

Aberforth got up and beckoned Millicent to join him. "I'd do most of the work." He patted the stone obelisk. "Shearing an angora is a distinct pleasure I haven't done in a while. And I wouldn't expect you to know any shearing spells." He looked Malfoy up and down. "Or which end of a wand to hold."

Millicent pointed to runes running down the side, giving Malfoy a stony gaze. "Every household in Brigadoon has an obelisk and the runes are customized to—"

"Fascinating, really. Love a good cultural lesson."

Millicent and Aberforth stared at Malfoy for a beat, then shared a look. Millicent turned to Hermione and continued. "It's a pact, fulfilled with six kilos of mohair fiber. A drop of blood below this rune will seal it."

She'd seen goats Aberforth owned, healthy with thick coats. It couldn't take that long.

The wheel showed only a few minutes remaining. "What about the others?" she asked. "Can you find them?"

"I can't make any promises on that account. There isn't much time left."

She went just outside the door, out of sight of Malfoy, and cast her patronus, sending them a message. We found a way to stay in Brigadoon. We'll be with Aberforth at the Rattle and Horn, the cheese shop a few blocks north of the square. Find us if you can. The silver otter wiggled its body and scampered off. The shouts of Death Eaters were closer, along with rapping at regular intervals. They were searching houses.

She re-entered the shop. "All right. I'm ready."

"Granger," Malfoy said, "Don't be stupid. Nobody hides fugitives for a pile of hair."

"I'm sure you wouldn't, Malfoy." But she hesitated, glancing at Aberforth. "How long will it take?"

Aberforth shrugged. "I have spells to encourage fast regrowth of the coat. I always make sure my goats are nice and warm for the winter. Don't you worry."

That wasn't exactly what she was asking. But the shouts were more distinct now. Too close. She held out her hand. "Pin?"

Aberforth conjured a sewing needle.

She pricked her index finger and placed it where Millicent indicated. The obelisk warmed to her touch and her finger tingled.

"Our business isn't finished," Aberforth said, "until you both seal the pact."

"Not for all the gold in Gringotts," Malfoy said. "I bet you've got it in for both of us."

"Hmm. Well, I hope you like the feel of a prisoner sack over your head. I hear they're cozy." Aberforth leaned out the window and let out a pierce whistle.

Malfoy, looking decidedly pale, grabbed the needle and gingerly jabbed himself. He poked his finger under the rune, grimacing.

The twin spots of blood faded into the stone.

Hermione rubbed her hand nervously. The tingling spread from her finger to her palm and grew stronger.

Aberforth slammed the door shut and grabbed each of them by the shoulder. "That's all settled, then."

Hermione tried to pull away, but he was squeezing tight enough to hurt. The pain was too much, like her shoulder had become a wet dishrag, wrung out of shape. It shot down her ribs and arm, spreading quickly.

She crumpled to the floor. Aberforth kept pushing, until she felt like she was being compressed into a tight little ball.

Her heart went cold. He'd done something to them. And Millicent helped him. She'd trusted them both. And stupid Malfoy had been right. Why didn't she learn? She tried to shout, but couldn't find her voice. Her neck felt stiff and swollen. In the corner of her eye, Malfoy writhed and twisted into impossible shapes. Her bones warped, bending and shrinking. Her jaw pushed forward, cheeks tingling as they stretched. White hair sprouted from her arms, curling in thick clumps.

A long-forgotten passage came to her, from Ranatus Plio's Speculations on Sly Spells:

"Witches and wizards making blood pacts should exercise caution. Many a witch or wizard has found themselves in an unfortunate state by making certain assumptions, such as how they would fulfill their pact. Some of these unfortunates have tales of woe that are still passed on today. Even muggles tell a fabled version of Alain Dulac, the young wizard who agreed to supply a potions master with fourteen ounces of frog slime, and soon found himself significantly shorter and greener."

Her elbows snapped forwards into knobby knees, and her hands compressed and flattened into split hooves. Thick white hair covered her body. She looked up to see another goat staring back at her. The only part of Malfoy that remained was the glare he locked on her.

"Baa," he said.

There was an angry rap at the door. Three Death Eaters stood there, wands out. "Have you seen—" began one.

"Sorry," Aberforth said. He waved at the stone obelisk's wheel, which had ticked over and gone still. "Time's run out."

The room started to hum and vibrate, like a plucked bowstring. Her bones rattled. The Death Eaters sank into the floor and out of sight. No, she corrected herself, Brigadoon is the one that's rising out of sight.

The hum reached a high pitch, then faded away to an echo. An eerie silence settled on the shop.

"Didn't I tell you," Aberforth said, leaning down to meet her gaze, "that you'd be safe as residents?" He patted her back, rubbing the strands of her coat between his fingers. "Lovely, just lovely. Let's get you two acquainted with your new family."

Chapter Text

Severus Snape

Severus waited on the street in front of the empty dentist office, studying the cracks of light that showed the alley in Brigadoon. The figure of Hermione Granger stood unmoving. In another eight to twelve seconds and she would blink, shake her head, and remember nothing.

Obliviation was officially designated as a charm, but sometimes it felt like a curse. To go from enemy combatants to reluctant allies to something close to friendship, and then to lose it all again in the space of an hour. But there was a relief that came with obliviation, too. Gone were the things he shouldn't have said, the mistakes he'd made. Even now, he debated the wisdom of telling her about Potter. But all her joy and grief had been erased, the twisted lines of her expression removed as if by an artist's hand.

He wished he could do the same for every other line that gathered on her face. What she needed was more wands on her side. With the handful of remaining rebels, there was only so much she could do with the information he supplied. She was right to focus on the horcruxes. It was a task best done by one or two people, so that the Dark Lord remained unaware that he was losing his immortality.

The shadow of Hermione's form disappeared from the creases in the poster. She'd left the alley, off to see her friends.

It would be so easy to join them. Walk out with Hermione at their next meeting, apparate to their headquarters. With a recovered Potter in tow, he wouldn't need any other credentials to convince them. There were complex spells he could show them—ones that couldn't be described in Hermione's meeting notes, but could prove invaluable in battle. His heart raced. The thought was terrifying and exhilarating. No more obliviation, no more standing by. No more inflicting pain on those who had the misfortune to be born to the wrong parents. 

A few weeks. That's all it would take. Enough to get Potter back on his feet. Enough to raid the Ministry of as many resources as he could, and get out before it was discovered.

But that was not his place and never would be. Inserting himself into their tight-knit group would accomplish nothing, and Hermione needed the information he provided. And now that he knew about the horcruxes, his position near the Dark Lord was more essential than ever.

Stepping into the alley, he folded the poster and tucked it away. Time to return home. He doubted Potter could break the wards on the house. Still, it had been over an hour, and he didn't think it wise to leave him alone too long with his plots and his strange magic.

He heard a rumble before he saw the source: people erupting from the nearby square. They were running fast, pushing and shoving, their carefully crafted masks pushed up to reveal flushed faces. Green light flashed behind them.

He flattened himself against the wall and edged against the flow, working his way towards the sounds of battle. By the time he reached the square, it had emptied. The fountain had dark burns on its rim and the head of a stone unicorn cracked along one side.

Crashing came from the sea of overturned tables in the Blind Mouse. Lucius Malfoy stood inside, swinging his wand so that shelves of glasses toppled to the floor. He spun towards Snape, his eyes widening. "Severus."

He felt exposed. There was no reason for him to be there. No reason he could give a fellow Death Eater. He went on the offensive. "What are you doing here?"

He expected Lucius to be offended by such a direct question, especially coming from the likes of a half-blood such as himself. But Lucius merely stood there, staring at an empty spot between the upturned tables.

Severus hesitated. They had once been close. Severus had been finishing school with no friends and few prospects, despite Slughorn's glowing letters of recommendation. No one wanted to offer an apprenticeship to the surly half-blood who found fault with everything. Lucius had taken him under his wing and given him a bit of a polish. For a while, they traveled the same road towards the Dark Lord. But only Lucius truly believed in the destination. Still, Severus admired how Lucius always had an air of control, as though nothing could touch him.

And yet, as Lucius stood there, he seemed to have lost that air of impenetrability.

Severus approached him. "Lucius?"

Lucius seemed to escape from whatever trance had captured him. "Someone signaled the alarm?"

Severus gazed at the trampled plates of food. Among the wreckage was a hood used to hobble prisoners. Another group intended for the camps or Azkaban. "Of course. How many escaped?"

Lucius's jaw clenched. "Amycus had the list of names. No chance of retrieving it now." He gestured to an overturned table. Two unmoving boots protruded from behind it.

Severus rounded the table. Amycus Carrow lay with his wand still in his hand, the back and left side of his robes charred and crumbling to ash. Only recognizable from one side of his face, as the other half was blackened and featureless. He felt the strange mixture of feelings that always rose when a Death Eater died: satisfaction that he would never harm another, and sadness for the boy he had once known, before he'd taken such a dark path.

He felt Lucius's hard stare, and the hairs rose on his neck. With a last look at the fallen Carrow, he turned and eyed Lucius's wand. Burned to death by a blind, wandless prisoner? Not likely. Amycus was chosen for prisoner duty because of his careful attention to possible escapes. But he never did pay enough attention to his fellow Death Eaters. And Lucius had mentioned that Amycus had been carrying the list of prisoner names. Perhaps he was searching for Draco and tried to wheedle the names out of Amycus. Or perhaps he'd decided not to waste words approached him unawares.

The walls of the pub shimmered for a moment, and a humming vibration ran through Snape's bones. "Brigadoon's leaving. We'll see the prisoners soon enough once we're all out in the open." If they didn't have the brains to get outside the village boundaries before that happened. He wondered where Hermione was.

The battle still raged outside. Severus and Lucius glanced at each other. At nearly the same time, they both said, "I'll take point."

Severus couldn't help but smile. Neither of them liked having an armed wizard behind them, and they used to bicker about who would take point. "Stacked formation," he said, their old compromise. They headed outside, going shoulder to shoulder.

The main gate bent off its hinges, and a battle raged just inside. It was difficult to see the details as ash fogged the air. Red hair flashed from behind a shop corner. Molly Weasley. A swarm of insects sped to the other side of the alley, engulfing Dark Guardsmen blocking the entrance.

Lucius and Severus crept closer to the shop, unseen by the Weasleys. Molly and Ron took turns weaving spells from different directions to keep the Guardsmen from hitting back.

Lucius gave Severus a silent signal. Closer. Take a clean shot from behind. Snape's heart quickened. He had to fire curses at the Weasleys without hitting them, while not appearing incompetent, and allowing them to escape. And, of course, not getting killed himself. Battles required as much maneuvering as spying, and the stakes were just as high. He raised his wand.

The Brigadoon buildings creaked as one, dust tumbling from their eaves. The walls rumbled, and a humming vibration spread, the cobblestones in the streets rattling.

Severus gripped his wand, turning in a slow circle.

The humming grew in pitch until the ground erupted, spewing an expanding cloud of dirt. Cobblestones under his feet shot upwards, tossing him into the air. The wind shrieked around him.

Every spell he ever knew fled his mind. Clouds of dust surrounded him. He couldn't see how high he was, but the fall was coming. The loud noise filling his ears wasn't just the wind. He realized he was screaming. Grit filled his mouth and his tongue dried up.

As abruptly as it had arrived, the wind disappeared. He hurtled down through the dust cloud. He jerked his arm in the motions for a cushioning spell, but his wand had been torn out of his hand. The dust stung his eyes. He searched the air blindly until something flat and solid slammed into him.

He woke to a ringing in his ears. Pain shot from his leg and shoulder. He spat the dust from his mouth. "Accio wand."

Nothing. His leg and shoulder throbbed. He pushed himself to a sitting position. His ankle was twisted at an odd angle.

The street he'd been standing on was gone, replaced by a grassy clearing. Buildings and houses were scattered in the distance, separated by bits of cobblestone streets. The stones of a nearby street wobbled, knocking together, until they launched into the sky like a flock of birds.

Dust-covered bodies littered the field. Some moving, some not.

"Accio—" he began, but the dust in his throat choked him.

"Perhaps you were looking for this?" The hem of an immaculate ministry robe appeared. Percy Weasley stood over him, holding out a wand.

Severus snatched it back and cast a bone-knitting spell, then a healing spell for ligaments. It would take nearly an hour to heal completely, but would be good enough to stand on. He switched the wand to his left hand and set to work on his shoulder. Left-handed spells weren't easy, but he practiced regularly for situations such as these. "What are you doing here, Weasley?"

"With my new position, I've taken a greater interest in prisoner exchanges. You would be amazed at how lax the standards have become. Ministry staff are moving prisoners seemingly at random."

A pointed jab at him about their encounter in the Atrium. Weasley remembered Potter's removal from the Ministry then, even if he didn't know it was Potter. He never should have used that stunning spell. It had broken some essential element in the amnesia Potter had cast on everyone.

A café flexed, the bricks in the walls breaking apart like cards and shuffling up into the air, the outdoor tables and chairs folding and darting up after. Two street lamps shimmied, shaking clods of dirt off their bases, and followed. The ground quaked as a row of houses uprooted themselves and shot away. Their departure revealed Alecto Carrow, who'd taken off her Death Eater mask and was rubbing her face, looking bewildered.

Thin lines creased Percy's brow. "I take it the prisoner exchange didn't go as planned. And you." Weasley stared at him. "You weren't supposed to be here at all." He tilted his head, studying him like a beetle found in his porridge. "Please don't tell me you were on confidential ministry business. I've been making inquiries. You often use that excuse."

Severus stood. His mending ankle stabbed at him, but he refused to favor it.

Nearly half the buildings were gone now. Carrow held her wand ready for anyone who might be revealed by the rising buildings. She spun as a section of a town square whipped into the sky. Left behind on the ground was Amycus Carrow's body.

It took Alecto a moment to recognize him. Then she cried out, running closer. She shook him, even though it was clear that no life remained. Severus kept himself at the ready. Alelcto's visible grief would be over quickly. She processed all her feelings through either sadism or anger.

An apothecary shop snapped shut its striped awning and pirouetted into the air, revealing two prone figures slowly stirring. They shakily stood, holding onto each other for support. Layers of dust and dirt had settled on them, making them unrecognizable, but the taller one showed a patch of red hair. He stumbled and groaned, trying to wipe the dust out of his eyes.

Alecto Carrow whipped towards them and stilled, as intent as an English pointer.

Severus moved towards them as quickly as he could. "You should go, Weasley. Before you do something you'll regret."

Carrow headed in a beeline towards them. A line of drifting fence posts blocked her path, and she growled, shouting incendio at each post as it passed.

The two figures tensed. "Accio wand," they shouted in unison. The taller one threw out spells that cleared the dust away while the shorter one siphoned the dust off their faces. Ron Weasley, who had been gaining height even before Hogwarts closed, was the taller one. He protested as Molly put herself between Carrow and him.

The last fence post floated away. Carrow's mouth twisted, baring her canines. She targeted Molly, aiming for the chest.

Shite. Snarling, Severus slashed downward, ripping a tear in the turf beneath the Weasleys. The ground heaved and flung them back. Molly Weasley hit the ground hard, her wand knocked away. She groaned and lay still.

Ron landed with a roll, quickly getting to his feet. He fired off two silent curses—one at Carrow, one at Snape.

"Protego." Severus deflected the curse just before it hit. The impact was still close enough to jar his bones, and he nearly lost his balance.

"Expelliarmus," called out a cool voice.

Ron's wand flew from his hand. Both wands shot through the air, stopping above Lucius and landing neatly in his free hand.

"Damn!" Carrow whirled on Snape. "I had them! That was my kill!"

Severus narrowed his eyes. "You had them, did you? Just like you had the other prisoners?"

Carrow glanced around the field, empty except for the five of them, a scattering of Dark Guardsmen, and Amycus's body. "I didn't lose them. We were attacked."

"By a boy barely out of puberty?"

"No! There was another rebel. Couldn't see her face, but…" her face colored. "Older. I'm sure of it. She attacked us and fled with a prisoner." She glanced at Lucius, whose gaze could have cut her in half.

Then Hermione had escaped. Severus allowed himself a quiet breath of relief, but kept his voice steely. "So this witch made off with one of your prisoners. Where are the rest?"

"I don't care about the rest! My brother is dead, and one of these two had a hand in it."

Severus didn't bother arguing that point. Carrow could blame whomever she liked, but he had to get her focused away from the Weasleys, while making it look like he was indifferent to their welfare. "I'd be more concerned with your own wellbeing. What do you plan to say to excuse your failure?"

"I'm sure I can handle whatever petty bureaucrat is in charge of that. No doubt it's only a matter of filling out one form instead of another at his little desk."

Percy Weasley had fallen back, staying behind Severus. He'd lost his ramrod straightness, seeming to curl in on himself. His breathing was strangled. But at Carrow's words, he drew in a breath and straightened. "I'm that petty bureaucrat." He flushed. "I mean to say, I'm in charge of prisoner placements and transfers. Successful transfer of this group was assigned to me from high in the Ministry. Very high. I'll need to report who's to blame for this."

Carrow growled at him. "And who is this lordly bureaucrat you report to?"

At the word lordly, Percy flinched.

Even Alecto, thick as she was, knew that familiar flash of fear. Everyone in the Ministry who encountered the Dark Lord had experienced it. She glanced back at her fallen brother, her mouth working. It took her a minute, but she finally spoke in a more subdued tone. "It was really Amycus's responsibility. He was the one who signed off on the prisoners. I was only along to assist."

Snape's mind raced. This was not Percy bragging of his importance. He was genuinely afraid, which meant he'd received an order directly from the Dark Lord. When had he even become aware of Percy's existence?

Lucius stared at Percy. His face had gone white.

Severus connected the dots. Draco. He'd been exiled from the Death Eaters, but had escaped death. If the Dark Lord was interested in this group of prisoners, that meant Draco had been among them. The Dark Lord would see Draco's lack of execution as a personal affront. But there was no need to let Carrow in on that fact. "One of your prisoners no doubt had valuable information," he told Carrow softly. "You'd best pray one of these two knows something, to make up the deficit."

Percy nodded, pulling out his notebook. His hands shook. "We should follow proper procedure from here on out. No deviations." He found the appropriate passage and read aloud. "Once captured, prisoners should be fitted with an anti-apparation collar."

Ron was helping Molly to her feet and checking her for injuries. As Percy spoke, she lifted her head. Her entire face brightened. "Percy!"

Percy looked up at her, his lips pressed together tightly.

As she looked at him in his ministry robes, her eyes drooped, her smile wilting. She pressed a hand to her head as if in pain. "Oh, Percy."

Carrow grabbed her and lashed on a non-apparation collar so hard that she staggered back.

Percy tore his gaze away, staring at the tips of his polished shoes.

Lucius clucked his tongue. "Blood traitors. They defile the name of all purebloods."

The streets were gone now, leaving flattened grass that had been buried under the cobblestones. The scent of roasted potatoes and mutton still wafted in the air. Several scattered Dark Guardsmen were headed their way. There was little chance of escape now.

When he sent the news as the Phoenix, Hermione was going to be crushed. Again, all he could offer was information that couldn't be acted upon. He couldn't prevent the Weasleys from being taken to a prisoner camp, and she couldn't help them escape. The only possibility was if something happened during their transport. Or if he made something happen.

"I'll accompany you to the camp," Severus told Malfoy. He nodded abruptly at Percy Weasley. "You can accompany Carrow back to the Ministry. Make sure she doesn't lose her way when she gives a report on how many prisoners she lost."

Severus had laid a tempting route for Percy. He could escape this painful family reunion with an opportunity to be in charge and demonstrate his own importance. But instead of seizing it, he cast furtive glances at Ron and Molly, shifting from one foot to another. Idiot Weasleys and their useless sentiments.

Carrow growled. "I don't need a wet-behind-the-ears babysitter."

Lucius's eyes glittered. "And when was it decided that they were going to one of the usual prisoner camps?" He eyed Ron with distaste. "They're part of the rebellion. Azkaban, I should think." He turned to Percy. "Mister Weasley? You sign off on prisoner transfers. At least, I assume that's why you're here, and not some misguided idea of reuniting with blood traitors."

Percy flushed, his throat working. "That's…you don't…" He took a breath, smoothing his robes, his hand lighting on his notebook. "I'd be careful what accusations you make. I've been loyal." He glared at Severus and Malfoy. "More loyal than most."

Ron Weasley surged towards Percy. "Loyal? You disgusting, filthy—"

"Ron." Molly Weasley grabbed his arm.

Ron followed her gaze to Carrow, who had a hungry look in her eye. He fell silent.

Severus watched the young man in the well-tailored ministry robes. Don't do this, Weasley. Don't do this to yourself. I've turned my back on others to climb to the top. But there's nothing there. Look at me. Look at Lucius. Do you see anything worth achieving?

But the young man wasn't looking at him. He stared hard into the distance, but his gaze kept dropping to his family.

"Mister Weasley," Snape said with venom, "the prisoners you were here to oversee are gone. Your services are neither requested nor required. Take yourself back to your reports, where you belong. I've neither time nor patience to deal with low-level bureaucrats." Go now, Weasley. Forget your Gryffindor stubbornness. Tuck your pride between your legs and go, and your family might still have some chance of escape.

Weasley firmed his jaw and straightened. "I suppose you think I'll be cowed," he replied. "But the transport of prisoners—and their disappearances—has been allowed to continue for far too long. My services are very much required to ensure that everyone is following proper procedures!" By the end, he was flushed and breathing hard.

Molly closed her eyes. "Percy."

Percy kept his gaze fixed on his notebook as he made notations. "I've little evidence of rebellious activity for M—for Mrs. Weasley. And with her blood status, we should be careful of placement. There's space available at the pureblood re-education camp near Glasgow."

Lucuis stared hard at him. "And the junior Weasley? There are plenty of reports of him in battle, injuring Dark Guardsmen and Death Eaters."

"Too right," Ron said.

Percy flipped rapidly through his notebook, though he did not appear to be reading anything.

"He's been with the rebellion for years." Lucius watched Percy carefully. "Led several battles. More than enough reason to secure him at Azkaban."

Before Percy could reply, a silver otter darted from behind a rising woodshed.

Snape's pulse quickened. Hermione's patronus. Death Eaters hearing her message could be disastrous. If she gave away her location, they would be on her immediately.

It paused in front of Ron, and Hermione's voice emanated from it. "We found a way to—"

Severus lashed out with his wand. He'd feared such a thing might happen when the Order of the Phoenix used patronuses for messages. Some Order members sent them unthinkingly, not stopping to consider that he might be in the Dark Lord's presence. He'd developed a counter spell then. Only dark magic could attack a patronus, and he cast it now, black threads shooting from his wand with a piercing hiss, drowning out the remaining message. They wove and tangled together, ensnaring the otter. The patronus thrashed inside its net as the threads squeezed tighter and tighter until it dispersed into tendrils of silver mist. The threads separated and slithered through the grass, wriggling into the earth.

Severus took comfort in knowing that Hermione was still alive, somewhere. Whatever message she needed to convey, he would find a way to relay it to the Weasleys later.

Lucius looked impressed and intrigued. Percy and Ron were shocked into silence.

Ron, typical of his Griffyndor nature, exploded. "What did you do? That could've been—"

Severus cut in before Weasley could say something revealing. "Protection sent by your little friends? Or plans to help you escape?" He'd unfortunately had to share the Order's patronus messaging system with the Dark Lord, since the Order expected it of him once he'd supposedly turned his coat. Not that it gave the Death Eaters an advantage, since none of them could cast a patronus. "You'll not so easily get away this time, Weasley."

Ron made a move towards Snape, but Molly pushed him behind her.

Lucius shook his head. "My, my. Still hiding behind your mother's skirts?"

Ron launched himself forwards. Lucius, who'd let his guard down once the two were disarmed, was slow to react. And Ron was no longer the scrawny teenager from Hogwarts. His broad shoulders tensed as he swung, his fist connecting with Lucius's jaw. Lucius thumped to the ground.

Severus intervened before Carrow or a Dark Guard cast a curse that would injure Ron permanently. "Incarcerous."

Ropes wrapped around Ron's arms and legs, dropping him onto his side. Severus knew the others wouldn't be satisfied until Ron was punished for his transgression, but there were ways to avoid curses. He levitated Ron, spinning him fast to cartwheel back to Molly. Snape kept him spinning until his face turned a shade of green, then released him. Ron landed with a thud and vomited noisily.

Lucius got to his feet, his face twisted with rage. "Filthy blood traitor. I should kill you where you stand."

"He's destined for a lifetime of hard labor. Don't make it too easy on him," Severus said mildly. Internally, he was seething. Idiot Weasley was about to have his fate decided and didn't have enough sense to look meek and beaten. "And in any case, he's not standing."

Lucius watched Ron be sick on the ground and nodded in satisfaction, relaxing his wand arm. "Still, he's clearly been corrupted by mudblood propaganda. Unrepentant criminals only belong in one place."

Severus had known there was little chance of the Weasleys escaping, but his heart still sank. Two more gone from the resistance.

The only remaining possibility of lenience remained with Percy Weasley. "Well?" Severus demanded. "You were so quick to announce your importance in prisoner transfers a moment ago. Do your job and transfer them." Send them to a camp where life is at least tolerable. Insist on multiple transfers, each one a weak point where they have a chance of escape.

Percy swallowed visibly. "The, er, the proper…" he fumbled with his notebook. There were paragraphs of regulations copied out, as well as lists of names. He flipped to another page, fussing with it until the paper edges were aligned. His face was flushed.

Lucius watched with rapt attention. "If you would allow me?" He extended his hand towards the notebook.

Percy stepped away, protectively shielding his writing. "I'll find it, thank you."

A flicker of frustration lit Lucius's face.

"The transfer of Suspicious Persons and Enemies of the State is fully within my jurisdiction. As is maintaining comprehensive records. Comprehensive and confidential." He glanced between the two of them. "You might think being a minister gives you authority over everyone, but it does not."

Lucius's entire demeanor changed, his gaze softening and his head tilting sympathetically. He held up his hands, smiling gently. "No need for such antagonism, surely. We're all friends here." 

Apparently, Lucius wasn't above befriending a Weasley to get his hands on information about Draco. Severus scowled. "We're hardly that. Mr. Weasley, kindly fill out your paperwork and run along." Percy Weasley might not know what's good for him, but he would be better off if he didn't end up in Lucius's crosshairs.

Lucius kept his gaze focused on Percy. "It must be difficult managing such heavy responsibilities. You must decide who is a hardened criminal, and who has a chance at rehabilitation. Look how far you've come from such beginnings." He gestured dismissively at Molly and Ron. "You could go further still." He stepped in front of Percy, blocking his view of his family. "You simply need the right advocate."

Severus resisted rolling his eyes. Lucius was laying it on thick. Unfortunately, these moments of stress and shame made someone particularly ripe for his plucking. He should know. Lucius had reached out to him in the utter misery of his sixth year, sending personal owls and invitations. He'd lapped up the attention. At the time, Lucius had been everything he longed for but lacked: wealthy, cultured, respected, and pureblooded.

"I doubt it took much to overcome the influence of his family," Severus said. "They're of particularly weak stock. His father died before the war had barely begun." Come on, Weasley. Defend your family using that encyclopedic knowledge of the bureaucracy you so love. There must be some rule somewhere that will keep Ron out of Azkaban.

Lucius sniffed, barely glancing in his direction. "Hmm. I imagine Severus would know about coming from weak stock." He lowered his head to Percy's ear. "His upbringing was rather… uncouth. You can't expect him to be as civilized as…" He gestured at Percy and himself. The purebloods.

Percy flushed and glanced at Severus. And Severus saw it. That look of superiority. In that moment, everything shifted. Lucius and Percy were now brothers in arms. And Severus was on the outside.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape

Severus should have expected it. It was the logical ploy for Lucius to bond with Weasley over their shared pureblood status and cast him as the outsider. Percy was driven by a desire for respect. What better way for Lucius to negate Snape's influence than to suggest his opinion held little value?

Still, it stung. He'd heard such comments from purebloods before. He was the one with the uncouth upbringing. They had choicer words when they thought he was out of earshot.

When Severus was an insecure teenager, Lucius used to put his arm around him and tell him that a few muggle relations didn't matter, not with his talent, his brilliance. In a life where he'd had to navigate the hazards of the wizarding world on his own, Lucius had been a refuge. In private, Severus had practiced walking like him and talking like him. But he was no longer the young man who brightened whenever he received a kind word from a pureblood. He no longer stood up straighter under Lucius's gaze, hoping to impress, the way Percy was doing now.

It gave him déjà vu to watch him manipulate Percy for his own ends. Years ago, Lucius's goal had been recruitment for the Dark Lord. He'd used similar words on Severus: that he was to be admired for rising above such humble beginnings, that cutting off his family would only help him rise higher. Flatter the target, isolate the target.

But Lucius had an intensity today that went beyond anything he'd ever done for the Dark Lord. He never wavered in announcing his devotion to the Dark Lord, but there was only one thing Lucius truly believed in: his son. Draco was the only person he would risk everything for. And Percy was a tool he could use to find him.

"Let's get on with it." Severus eyed the Weasleys. Ron was bound and struggling on the ground, and Molly leaned over him, murmuring something. "So, Minister of Proper Transport and So On." He gave a smile that would have sent first-year Percy Weasley scuttling away. "What are the proper procedures for transporting prisoners?"

Percy's gaze swung in the direction of Ron and Molly, although he looked dazed, not quite focusing on them. He clung to his notebook like a life raft. "Prisoner transport procedures. Yes. Clear rules about assignments."

Lucius nodded. "And what do the rules say about a prisoner who attacks a member of the Dark Lord's inner circle? Who engages in open rebellion and terrorist activities?"

Percy paled. "Execution. Or lifetime imprisonment at Azkaban."

Lucius smiled. "We can afford to be lenient, I suppose. A lifetime at Azkaban should suffice."

Percy looked up suddenly, desperately. "There isn't any concrete evidence against… Mrs. Weasley. Just because she was with Ron… Mr. Weasley… He might have lied to her or confounded her. And she didn't attack you."

Molly looked up from her ministrations on Ron, her shoulders rigid. "Just give me a chance."

Percy shut his eyes. "Mum, please…"

Lucius studied Percy. "That's perfectly reasonable."

The tension in Percy's face crumpled, and his gaze darted up and down Lucius, as if trying to measure the man.

Lucius glanced at Carrow. "Take the Dark Guard and escort Mrs. Weasley to the re-education camp near Glasgow. Mr. Weasley here will sign off on it."

"My brother just died," Carrow snarled. "You expect me to leave his body and play chaperone?"

Lucius swung his wand through the air, jabbing it towards the remaining village. A trampled cloak rose and lengthened into a black shroud, then wrapped itself around Amycus's body. A section of earth split open, and Lucius levitated the wrapped body into the hole. He snapped his wrist, and the hole closed. A pale sycamore tree burst from the ground, growing rapidly and twisting itself into the shape of a figure with his arms crossed in repose. Small flames burst from the trunk, snuffing out quickly to reveal Amycus's name in blackened letters.

"More than respectful, I should think, though you can move him when you've fulfilled your duties. And I suggest you fulfill your duties before reporting to the Dark Lord. It might lessen his disappointment in your failures today." He tilted his head at the freshly turned earth. "There are worse ways to die."

Carrow's jaw tightened, and she pointed at Percy. "It was his idea to wait at Brigadoon. Said he wanted a personal look at the prisoners."

Percy's breathing hitched as he stared at Carrow. "It's not my fault. The Dark Lord said—"

"I'm sure it can be smoothed over," Lucius reassured him. "All the more reason to have a firm hand transporting these prisoners." He glanced at Carrow. "To show it wasn't a complete loss."

Carrow grunted and gestured at Molly. "Come on, then." She pointed a finger at a guardsman. "You, go to the Ministry and give a report. We've got prisoners that need finding."

The guardsman nodded reluctantly, no doubt unwilling to be the bearer of bad news. But after a moment, he grunted. "I still can't apparate."

"We'll have to walk to the village's border." She jabbed her wand at Molly, who still sat by Ron. "Not feeling like a trip? Perhaps I can motivate you." She smiled and pointed her wand at Ron.

Molly swallowed and squeezed Ron's shoulder. "I have to go now, love. Be good."

Ron struggled in his bonds. "Mum—"

"Shh." She leaned down and whispered something in his ear. He looked miserable, but nodded.

There were no tears in the end. Mother and son simply gave each other a long look, trying to communicate something without words. Then Molly got up with her shoulders set. "Let's go, then."

Carrow led her away, several Dark Guards in tow. The remaining guardsmen fanned out to search the surrounding forest.

Percy Weasley watched his mother go, the muscles of his throat rigid.

Severus considered traveling with them. Molly might escape in the right circumstances. But the number of guardsmen with her cut off that possibility. Even if he created a distraction, she wouldn't get far.

But he sensed an advantage in accompanying Lucius and Percy. Knowing Lucius's secrets had frequently proved useful, and he still wanted an answer to how Draco had fallen from grace. More disquieting, though, was Percy's connection to the Dark Lord. How had a petty bureaucrat caught his attention?

"Hood," Lucius said. He levitated a black hood left on the ground. "It makes things"—he tilted his head kindly at Percy—"less awkward."

The hood floated closer to Ron, writhing, its edges grasping for a face.

"No." Percy's face contorted. He looked down at his notebook. "There's nothing in the regulations about restraint hoods. Simply a convenience in recent years." He swallowed, studying Lucius, a sudden steel in his eyes. "In fact, one could argue that prisoners could be misidentified."

Lucius let the hood drop to the ground. "Quite the salient point, Mister Weasley. How very insightful. Misidentified, yes. I imagine you use your considerable talents to correct such errors."

A memory of Potter floated to the surface. They'd tested the hood on him years ago. He couldn't bring himself to laugh with the other Death Eaters, but he'd forced a smile on his face as Potter had clawed desperately at the hood, running into the walls of the throne room. He could still walk then.

He'd planned to go straight home after meeting with Hermione, returning within the hour, and he was already late. But Potter could manage a bit longer. The well-laid wards on the house would keep him in place, and Severus had enough confidence in his mental exercises to hold Potter in his memories. And he needn't stay long. It was the trip in Lucius and Percy's company that interested him.

He would watch them at the Ministry in the coming weeks and glean more information. But right now, Lucius and Percy both struggled under emotional strain and might let slip their secrets. Such opportunities must be seized before they disappeared.

"I'll join you." Snape laced his words with annoyance and boredom. "I've some business at Azkaban."

 Percy thinned his lips. "Another interrogation?"

Lucius raised his eyebrows. "You track interrogations as well?"

"When a prisoner is moved—"

"This interrogation will be on site," Severus interrupted smoothly, steering the conversation away from Potter's removal from the Ministry. He levitated Ron, more gently this time, although Ron still groaned.

"And what prisoner is this?" Percy asked stiffly.

"Lupin. Although it's more of a specimen collection. Werewolf blood adds transformative properties to some potions. But blood loss can be useful in encouraging prisoner cooperation, so I may as well use my time efficiently." He inserted himself between the two, moving Ron to hover in front of them as they headed for the village border.

Lucius frowned. "You don't need to volunteer for everything, Severus. Let a guard at Azkaban handle the petty tasks and go home. Buy a charming little servant at the Yard and enjoy the spoils of war. The rebellion is defeated and you've gained the Dark Lord's favor."

The words were cordial, but Lucius was trying to dismiss him like a bothersome gnat and have Percy's secrets to himself. Severus let a pleased look settle on his face. "Ah, but I don't do the work for the Dark Lord's favor, although of course I live to fulfill his wishes. I do it for the cause. You taught me that, Lucius."

Lucius stared ahead, his frown deepening.

"Minister Snape does as he pleases, especially with prisoners," Percy grumbled.

Percy was far too fixated on Potter's removal and not talking nearly enough about Draco. A bit more pressure on the right points might do the trick. Severus rotated Ron until he was facing Percy. The hatred in Ron's stare was like a physical thing, piercing the air until Percy looked away.

"Tell me more about the oh-so-important duties of the court liaison," Snape said lazily. "You do go on about them, and yet all I ever see you doing is loitering about."

"The Dark Lord said I was essential. I needed to confirm that the Carrows had… correctly filled out the roster." Percy pressed his lips together. Likely he wasn't supposed to talk about it, but couldn't resist a chance to preen over his own importance.

Pricking that importance seemed to loosen his tongue. Severus let his voice fill with contempt as he scoffed. "Yes, the Dark Lord takes such an interest in the goings-on of file clerks."

"Court liaison!"

"You do realize he commands all of Wizarding Britain? He hardly needs to dole out tasks to you."

"He's taken a personal interest in me! When I was Umbridge's assistant, he showed up at my desk one day, just…" Percy moistened his lips, a combination of terror and awe on his face. "Standing there, waiting. Everyone else cleared out, because he wanted a private conversation with me."

That's right, Percy had been Umbridge's assistant in the courts, before he got transferred to the liaison office. And Draco had been her assistant as well, sent off with her to manage that prison camp. Had the Dark Lord's interest in Draco extended as far back as that? Snape glanced at Lucius.

Lucius walked with an easy-going gait, but there was a visible tic in his jaw. "The Dark Lord is perceptive of who will quickly rise in the ranks."

Percy nodded fervently. "He said my talents were wasted. My report had impressed him."

"You seriously expect me to believe," Severus said, "that the Dark Lord visited a low-level assistant to discuss some inconsequential report? Do you take me for a fool, or are you simply delusional?"

Percy sputtered. "It's not inconsequential! Items confiscated from prisoners weren't properly logged. The Dark Lord found my work valuable. He was impressed that I included Umbridge's illegal confiscation, despite her being my direct superior."

"It's disappointing when supervisors don't comport themselves well," Lucius said. "You did the right thing."

Severus shook his head. "Or you were hoping to get her sacked so you could take her job."

"Well, I didn't get it." Percy scuffed at a stone jutting from the flattened grass. He looked up quickly. "But it wasn't about that. I simply disapproved of how she flaunted her ill-gained goods at work, like a badge of pride. She wore that locket everywhere."

Locket. A frisson of excitement and fear ran down his back. That one word explained the Dark Lord's strange behavior and sudden interest in Percy. He'd found one of his horcruxes. Not hidden in the cave Hermione mentioned, but paraded around the neck of a ministry official. That he hadn't cursed Umbridge on the spot spoke volumes about how precious this object was, and how little he wanted others to know its value. Nothing like wrapping something in red tape to make it look mundane.

Severus had to choose his next words carefully. Douse any curiosity or suspicion in Lucius while still pulling vital information from Percy. He nodded, as if it all made sense now. "Umbridge tends to ruffle feathers. No doubt the Dark Lord wanted to teach her a valuable lesson. Did he use the cruiciatus curse, or merely destroy all her pilfered belongings?"

Percy's face lit up, clearly delighted to correct him. "Nothing so dramatic as all that. Really, Minister, it's as if you don't know the Dark Lord at all." His nose lifted, displaying a smug smile. "He simply signed the forms I suggested, and I requested its return to log it properly."

Lucius's intent gaze dampened. The tale of The Dark Lord seeking out a ministry assistant had become a tale of forms and procedures.

Best to snuff out his interest completely. Severus made a dismissive, doubtful noise, and that was all it took to make Percy rattle on about how he had proof, he had the Dark Lord's signature on form 1227-A and 1452-B, all filed at his old office according to the system he implemented.

"This is all very interesting," Lucius said, a colorless smile pinned on his face. "You've no doubt pleased the Dark Lord with your… vital work."

Percy nodded. "I was promoted shortly afterwards. The first of several promotions."

"All well-earned, I'm sure. But we have other matters to attend to." He gestured at the surrounding trees. Behind them, only a few buildings remained, hopping as if impatient to be on their way. "We've arrived at the border. Time to put this traitor where he belongs."

Percy studiously avoided Ron's glare. "There's a barge near Rattray Head that'll transport the prisoner. No other way to get in or out of Azkaban, except by broom. You know the Rattray Head Lighthouse? There's a dock for wizarding use."

Severus had passed it once, when the Death Eaters had gone out in force to meet the Order in battle. The dock was enchanted to conceal it from muggles, and there had been several barges, their captains wisely staying away from Azkaban during the fight. "I'm familiar with it."

Lucius nodded as well, and quickly disapparated.

Snape glanced at Percy. "You're in charge of prisoner transport. It's your responsibility to bring him along." He settled Ron on the ground and released the levitation spell, loosening the bonds around his legs so he didn't topple over.

Percy finally looked at Ron and blanched. But he gripped him by the shoulders as Ron wrestled to throw him off.

After he disapparated, Percy would have a brief moment to release Ron and claim he escaped. But one look at Percy's face told him he'd committed to the cause, too determined to prove his importance to Lucius and the Dark Lord. He wished he could tell Percy that one day he would regret it, but such words would fall on deaf ears and endanger him besides. Severus hoped he learnt from his mistakes, and that such lessons took root before he lost too much.

The apparation ended with a sharp drop in temperature. Briny wind struck his face and numbed his skin. Choppy waves sprayed foam onto the small rocky island where the lighthouse stood. A set of wooden steps, charmed against the elements, led to the dock. He descended, casting a protective spell against the wind and water.

Lucius waited, his pale hair whipping in the wind. He looked as if he were cut from stone, silent and still, gazing across the water. Only his eyes had life, dark and raging as the sea, searching the skyline as if it held answers. Until he spotted Severus, and the serene grey returned. Lucius wasn't an occlumens, but he gave the impression of someone who locked away all feeling.

A mooring line secured a barge loaded with crates. The water exploded near it, and two monstrous heads appeared. Their scales were as iron grey as the water, and their branching, twisted horns were coral-orange, rock-like and pitted. The creatures thrashed against a set of thick cables knotted around their serpentine necks, their dangling feelers flinging sea-green froth into the air.

Severus stood his ground, but it was a close thing. The sea serpents, larger than any he'd ever seen, gnashed at the wind with jaws wide enough to snap him in two. Long blood-red tongues scented the air, and the two turned their predatory gazes towards the dock.

Percy and Ron appeared, and one look had them both stumbling back. Ron yelped and fell to the ground, rolling awkwardly as he tried to maneuver away while bound.

The captain shouted a command, directing his wand at the reins. The reins snapped, and a vibration went up the lines that made them throw their heads back and hiss. They twisted, their thick tails rising and corkscrewing. Another snap of the reins, and the serpents settled, only their heads and dorsal fins staying above the surface.

"Sorry about that," the captain said. "Ceto and Nereus get agitated by newcomers. They think they're getting fed."

Percy gaped. "Surely you don't feed them humans?"

"Course not. Got barrels of fish I unload when it's feeding time." He stroked his salt and pepper beard. "Still, best not fall overboard."

Percy stepped away from the edge of the dock.

The captain rummaged in the peacoat covering his girth, producing an envelope from his pocket. "Got an owl just before you arrived. One of you Percy Weasley?"

"That's me." Percy raised his chin. "Percy Weasley, court liaison."

The captain raised an eyebrow. "This is addressed to Percy Weasley, guard-slash-records keeper." He levitated the envelope over to Percy, no easy feat as it twisted in the strong wind.

Percy snatched the envelope, tearing it open and reading quickly, turning pale as he skimmed the text.

Severus could guess the contents. The guardsman must have already made his report, including the escape of the prisoners. If the Dark Lord was as interested in Draco as it seemed, then Percy got off easy for his failure. "Demoted, were you?"

"No." Percy folded and refolded the letter, finally tucking it into his robes. "It seems the Dark Lord feels I require some time to consider new strategies." Despite his stiff posture, his shoulders slumped. "At Azkaban."

Snape silently cursed to himself. He needed time with Weasley to learn what he knew about this locket, and perhaps about Draco. He would have to make the most of his brief visit there.

"These minor setbacks happen," Lucius said. "Apparently, the Dark Lord has doubts." He waved his fingers as if that were a trifling thing. "Look at this as an opportunity to prove your loyalty. There are many former members of the rebellion at Azkaban. Use a firm hand with them, and word will no doubt reach the right ears." He gave Percy's back a pat. "I'll make sure of it."

Percy nodded, eyes downcast.

The captain focused on the bound prisoner. "Want him aboard?" Before anyone had a chance to respond, he levitated Ron towards him. "We leave in ten minutes." He nodded at the leaden clouds on the horizon. "Storm's coming." He eyed the three of them. "A lot of escorts for one prisoner. You sure you want to make the trip? This isn't a pleasure cruise, and you might brave the rough ride just to get turned away at the gate. They don't like visitors."

"I have business with Mr. Weasley," Lucius said with the assurance of someone who's never been turned away at the gate. "I don't plan to stay long."

"Interrogation," Severus said. "As a minister, I should have access, and I'm in need of werewolf blood."

"Werewolf?" The captain shook his head. "Can't reach 'em. They're in solitary."

"Solitary confinement?" Severus glanced at the sky reflexively. It was nearing sunset, the heavy cloud cover obscuring the rising moon. But he tracked the lunar calendar well enough to know. "It's two days before the full moon."

The captain shrugged. "One of 'em found a way to push his magic and transform hours before sunset. Tore through an entire unit of guards. Since then, it's solitary three days before and three days after for all werewolves. Only thing goes through that door is a meal tray."

Lucius had a faint smile on his lips as he turned to Severus. "Ah, well. I'm sure you're needed elsewhere."

Severus had to know more about that locket. But appearing desperate would give too much away. He recalled the staff shortages reported at Azkaban and took a shot. "A shame," he told the captain, keeping his voice light. "I would've enjoyed unraveling his mind. But I suppose the Azkaban interrogators have things well in hand."

"Hardly. They're stretched thin, and just lost another a few days ago. Wall collapsed, and he drowned. Replacement is coming, but I don't know if she'll get here before the storm comes. They could use a hand."

Lucius locked eyes with the captain, striking him with his glare. "I'm perfectly capable of interrogating prisoners, if you have need." He grasped Percy's shoulder. "It'll give us a chance to get better acquainted."

The captain gave him a once-over. Working with sea serpents no doubt inured one to simple glares. "He was a level one interrogator. You a legilimens?"

Snape couldn't resist a smile. "I'm afraid Lucius never took the time to master the discipline. I, of course, am quite skilled."

The guard nodded. "The warden will be pleased. Staff shortages all around. Not the choicest assignment, Azkaban. Replacement might not arrive until tomorrow night, though."

Severus hesitated. That would mean leaving Potter at the house unattended for over twenty-four hours. He was due for another muscle-strengthening potion, and a nerve-repairing potion in the morning. He'd planned to cook steak and kidney pie to improve Potter's iron and protein intake.

But he had other commitments besides Potter. Promises made to Albus and Hermione. Every moment the Dark Lord lived meant more death and destruction, more families torn apart. Would Ron Weasley be here now if he hadn't cut back on his spying to care for Potter? After so many setbacks, he finally had essential information. And perhaps soon, a definite location on the locket. It would be a ray of hope for Hermione when he had to tell her about her friends' imprisonment.

He was being a ridiculous mother hen, fretting over treatments and missed meals. Potter was a grown man. In need of care, but out of immediate danger and able to survive on his own for a day. He'd survive well enough on the tinned food set out for him. The old wards on the house hadn't been shaken by Potter's attempts, and Severus had reinforced them twice over. Potter wasn't going anywhere.

"Of course," he told the captain. "Anything to help the cause." He boarded carefully as the barge rocked on the waves. Opening a small case, he flipped through the secret compartment built into the wizarding space, plucking out a draught for motion sickness. He downed it quickly. A settled stomach allowed him to focus on handling Lucius and Percy. On protecting Ron, who was at their mercy.

Ron breathed heavily, bracing himself in his makeshift seat to stabilize against the barge's movement. Lucius stepped aboard with far more grace than seemed possible. Balancing charm, most likely, although a sharp roll could still knock him on his arse. Percy dragged himself up the ramp, his eyes darting between Severus and Lucius.

The captain lashed his wand down twice, aiming at the water swirling around the colossal heads. Jets of water shot up, vaporizing into steam.

Long grey necks burst above the surface, throwing a cascade of seawater onto the deck and drenching Percy, who spluttered indignantly. Ron merely closed his eyes until the downpour ended. Severus and the others had already cast impervious spells. The captain only blinked as the water arced off him in little waterfalls. He fired another spell at the serpents, and they dove in tandem. The vessel jerked forwards, careening over the waves.

Severus subtly targeted Percy with a hex that repelled drying charms. Just in time, as Percy made his first attempt, then frowned as his robes remained drenched. Soon, he'd be shivering and ashamed of his ineffective spellcasting. He was the type who would endure misery rather than ask for help. It gave Severus an entire journey's worth of opportunities to needle him about his incompetence. Desperate to repair his reputation, the cold and humiliation would squeeze him. He'd spill a detail here, an impression there. Droplets of information Severus would collect until he could fulfill his promise to Albus, to do everything he could to end the war.

Between the howling of the wind and the thunder of the waves, he heard a familiar girlish voice, warm as the summer sunshine. Lily, as she'd sounded when they'd still been friends. You made another promise to Dumbledore and to me. To protect my son.

He remembered how her green eyes used to light up. She'd been the first person he'd known who would brighten when he approached. He shook his head. I broke that promise years ago. It shattered the moment I failed to stop his capture.

Then make a new promise, for an old friend. Take care of my Harry.

Severus gazed at the receding lighthouse. Its light dimmed until it disappeared entirely. He turned away resolutely to focus on Percy. I'm sorry. But I've never been a very good friend.

Chapter Text

Ron Weasley

Ron braced himself, pushing his bound arms against the stacked crates behind him. He was jerked side to side by the rocking barge and thrown backwards by the pull of the sea serpents. They screamed a mournful ululating call as they forged ahead.

A sharp rise made his stomach dip. His mouth tasted foul and his throat burned from vomiting earlier. A sip of water would be a mercy, but there wasn't anyone here who cared enough to offer. He was in the viper's pit now.

Breathing in the salty air, he focused on the wind chilling his drenched clothes. The cold settled his stomach, or maybe just gave him another discomfort to distract him. He always found it harder to be sick if he was cold. He'd never been prone to motion sickness during his brief stint on the Hogwarts quidditch team, before the school closed.

It was Snape's fault, the insufferable bastard. He could've just immobilized him. But no, he'd deliberately spun him until he was sick. His twisted mind reveled in cruelty and malice. Just look at the dark magic he'd used to destroy Hermione's patronus.

The barge bounded over a wave and he was nearly knocked over the crate. Seawater sluiced over the side—no, the gunwale, that's what it was called. Dad had been fascinated by muggle boats one year. Look Ron, I found a diagram in this book. It's called a motorboat. What do you think? It had been Christmas, and Dad's shirt had smelled like cinnamon from helping Mum make biscuits. Ron had stared enviously at the red bristles on his neck. Being a man had felt so far away. But he'd still been young enough to lean into his dad, feel the warmth of his arms. Not cold, not bloodless on a ministry floor.

Ron shut his eyes for a moment and breathed in. The bloated odor of seaweed grew stronger, which didn't help his twisting stomach. Merlin, he was not going to sick up in front of these four. Well, he didn't give a toss about the captain. But not in front of the smug faces of Malfoy and Snape, and certainly not in front of his bloody brother.

Percy fussed over his robes, jumping when the serpents shrieked. The other side could have him. He wouldn't have lasted five seconds in the resistance. The resistance needed men who could fight, not skinny little clerks who dressed up in ministry robes to look important.

Not that he looked important now, sopping wet and muttering to himself as he tried one drying charm after another. A little boy playing dress-up, trying to impress others. He'd been that way ever since his second year, when he'd won some stupid achievement award. He'd puffed up that day from their parents' praise and never deflated.

Ron stared at the boards of the deck, not wanting to look at Percy too closely. Even with all Percy had done, there was still a flash of something when he saw one of his brothers' faces. Some sense inside him that told him he belonged. He didn't want to feel that with Percy anymore.

It had been bad enough listening to him after Malfoy and Snape had left. Percy had summoned everything out of his pockets. His wand, bits of change, even the photo of his family he always kept with him. Percy's mouth had tightened as he looked at it, and Ron hoped he felt a stab of guilt looking at their dad and Fred and George. But he hadn't said a word and simply tucked it away in a large envelope. Then he'd stuck his nose up and started lecturing, talking about how Ron wasn't using his head.

Ron knew what he was thinking. Percy had finished school, while Ron had dropped out after Hogwarts closed, more interested in searching for Harry and joining the fight than taking classes. "I don't need NEWT scores to know right from wrong."

"I just mean you've been unduly influenced. You've spent too much time with the wrong sort of people."

"Ha. Look in the bloody mirror." He twisted in his bonds, wishing he could give Percy a good shove.

Percy shifted from foot to foot. "I'm sorry about how things turned out."

"No, you're not. You got what you wanted. A nice job at the Ministry."

"I know you're angry." Percy glanced over his shoulder, even though they were well beyond any remaining Brigadoon buildings and the Death Eaters had already left. "But Mum never sent me one howler. I think she understands, on some level."

"You complete berk. She never sent you a howler because we didn't know if you could trace it back to us and send her off in chains." He jerked his head in the direction their mum had gone. "Like you did just now."

Percy rounded on him. "This is your fault. What did you expect to happen, carrying on like that? You could've just…" He stopped, his gaze darting to Ron before looking away.

But Ron knew. He knew Percy, and he knew the type of people who stayed in the Ministry. "Go on, say it. We could've just left our friends and blended in with the new wizarding society. Be proper purebloods and keep our heads down. Ignored what's happening to muggles and muggle-borns."

"It's not as bad as it looks—"

It was like talking to a stranger. He felt the sudden pain of loss, as if Percy were as unreachable as Fred and George. "Let's go." There was almost a tremor, so he hardened his voice. "Being in Azkaban is better than being with you."

And here he was, on a barge to Azkaban. Him and his stupid mouth. Not that Percy was going to be swayed no matter what he said, even if he'd gotten on his knees and begged. And he'd die before he did that.

Percy fussed with a drying charm as Snape and Malfoy looked on. It was disgusting that Percy would rub shoulders with the likes of them. Malfoy kept buttering him up whilst Snape poked at his inflated ego. It was like some dark version of Fred and George, playing some game to amuse themselves while Percy huffed. Did Percy even think about the fact that their side was responsible for their deaths? Did he even care?

His eyes stung, so he turned until the oncoming wind hit the side of his face. Like hell he was going to let them see that. They'd probably think he was crying in fear, and he wasn't. The future was empty of feelings, empty of everything. It was a black void in front of him.

He used to be able to see where he was going, to feel it. The picture had changed, as Hogwarts closed and the war heated up. But he was safely inside it, surrounded by his friends and family. They were all in it together. Then he lost Harry and Dad. Then Fred and George and so many others, and now even Hermione and Mum were out of reach. He floated through that dark void, searching for solid ground.

The last light of the setting sun disappeared behind the horizon and darkness followed, turning the sea black. The wind grew colder, and his skin chilled and numbed. A tremor ran through him and he tensed, willing his body to stay still. He wasn't going to look like some pitiful urchin, shivering in wet clothes.

He had to be strong. When Mum had said goodbye, she'd tried to keep her chin up. But her hand tightened on his arm and her voice rasped. Arthur and I raised Gryffindors, through and through. Be brave for me. Take care of Ginny.

He'd swallowed several times before replying, to make sure she didn't know how close he was to falling apart. How much he wanted to shout that he couldn't lose her, too.

After Fred and George had died, the effort of holding back had become too much. He'd gone off alone and howled into the sky, as if the power of his need could change things. As if there were someone out there who could turn back time or breathe life back into his father and brothers.

But in the end, he was left with a raw throat and an emptiness inside. He'd tried so hard. To live up to Harry's example, to protect his family, to keep Hermione happy. Why didn't it count for anything? He'd put everything he had into it. All he'd managed was to stay alive, and what good was that when no one was left?

Mum had tried to buoy his spirits. We'll see each other again. A thread of hope to hold on to. He gathered these threads and clung to them. Seeing Mum again. Winning the war. Finding Harry alive, somewhere.

Hermione had given up arguing with him about Harry. She'd listened, saying nothing, her brows bunched together and her mouth turned down. But it was a possibility. That was what she didn't understand. It didn't matter what the odds were. There was a chance, and that was what he needed. Someone to fight for.

Take care of Ginny. Find her and protect her, whatever it took. He wouldn't fail this time. He'd find a way to fight back, to rescue her from that place. Harry would've done it. Fred and George would've done it. He had to try.

He'd mastered a single wandless spell after months of practice. But it was useless if his hands were bound. He leaned back, fingers searching for a sharp edge, a nail, something.

The captain gripped his wand tightly, his gaze on the sea serpents as he sent commands through the reins. Ron followed his movements. He'd need to work those spells to escape if he got free.

His fingers found nothing but the softwood boards of the crate he sat on. He shifted in his seat, hoping his trousers would catch on a loose nail. Nothing on the crate, but something shifted in his back pocket.

He froze. A pocketknife Hermione had given him on his nineteenth birthday. She'd charmed it to stay hidden until needed and resist summoning spells. A thoughtful gift, but one he rarely needed when he had his wand. He'd kept it for sentimental value, but it rarely left his pocket.

He leant forwards, freeing his back pocket. His fingertip brushed the metal edge, but he couldn't get a grip. There'd been a finger movement that would call it. Touch the index finger twice and then the ring finger once? Or the other way round? That was it. The knife slid out of his pocket and into his hand. Another tap would release the blade. He shifted his shoulders up to give his hands more space.

Snape's gaze darted to him immediately, despite the dim light. That was a problem. Maybe the overgrown bat actually had radar detection. He played off the movement as a shiver, which was hardly an act. Maybe a pitiful street urchin look wasn't a bad idea to keep their guards down. He let his muscles loosen, and several more shivers ran through him.

Malfoy lit a nearby lantern, his gaze on Percy. His wand must be in his pocket. He'd lost his pretentious cane-wand-thing years ago in battle, when Sirius had blasted it to pieces. The look on Malfoy's face had been priceless. They weren't perfect, and they weren't all-powerful. He could do this.

Percy was still fussing with a drying charm. Had he actually grown stupider since Hogwarts? Had someone cursed the brains out of his skull? That would explain things.

Ron worked at his bonds, careful to avoid telltale signs of movement. Not that it mattered now. His wet clothes now felt ice cold and his arms shook. Shivers ran up his back and his teeth chattered. He focused on keeping the knife steady as he sawed through the ropes. But he couldn't control the shivers, and the knife jerked, slicing the side of his hand. He stomped his feet, trying to warm himself up.

Percy wasn't doing much better. His wet robes drooped from his shivering shoulders. His wand shook in his hand as he tried a warming charm.

Snape watched Percy, shaking his head. "Merlin, you are having trouble. Most fourth years can manage that spell. And your lack of ability in other areas has gotten you demoted. At this rate, the year will end with you in the coveted position of cleaning out the bins. Ah, forgive me. That's the work of house-elves, and your skills don't seem up to their standards. Perhaps they'd offer you remedial lessons?"

"I've almost got it. I don't n-need…" Percy's teeth chattered as pinpricks of color rose on his cheeks.

"Don't fret. I'll take care of it." Snape raised his wand. "Reminds me of my teacher training. We were expected to use the charm for any first years who wet their beds. Not that my Slytherins ever had problems." His eyes glittered as he paused before casting. "Although I heard a rumor about your first night."

"Shut up." Percy fired a stinging hex at Snape.

Snape dodged, sliding across his bench, his arm going wide. The charm he'd cast hit Ron instead. Water steamed off him and blew away in the wind. The blast of warmth didn't last long, but the dry clothes calmed his shivering. He got a better grip on his knife and kept sawing through the ropes. It was steadier now, but still agonizingly slow.

Percy froze, staring back at Snape, mouth hanging open.

Snape rose in one fluid movement, striding towards Percy as his robes swept behind him. He stopped inches from Percy's face, his gaze icy. "I'm not one of your idiot brothers. You don't hex me without consequences."

Compared to Snape's imposing presence, Percy looked like a wet sack. "I just reacted…"

"Lack of self-discipline is no excuse. A file clerk—ah, I mean a prison guard—attacking a minister is a grave offense. I don't recall the exact punishment, but perhaps you do?"

Percy paled. "I didn't mean to—"

Snape circled him like a hyena with a fresh kill. "You didn't mean to cast a stinging hex? I suppose I could let your behavior go unreported if you're admitting gross incompetence. It would hardly reflect well on someone in my position if I occupied myself with blundering amateurs." He tilted his head, almost coquettish. "You are admitting your incompetence?"

Ron couldn't help leaning forwards to catch Percy's response. Percy would rather eat his own tongue than admit incompetence. But the punishment for anyone attacking a minister would be severe, even for a toady like him.

Percy swallowed. His shivering settled a bit as he flushed deeply. "With all that's going on, I—I might've gotten confused. Temporarily."

"That shivering isn't helping your wand work," Malfoy said. "If you would allow me?"

"No," Percy said firmly, then quickly looked at Malfoy. "Thank you, but I can do it. I received top marks in my NEWTs, I'm not some…" He took a shuddering breath. "I can do it."

"You should let a more experienced wizard help you," Snape said in a cloyingly soft voice. He slid back into his seat, a superior smile on his face. "The Dark Lord isn't likely to be impressed by your freezing to death."

That actually seemed to bother Percy. Ron felt the stab of betrayal as if it were new. His own brother worried about impressing Voldemort. He scoffed. "Let him freeze."

Percy's eyes bulged before his face twisted into a grimace. "That's fine. Merlin! You think you're a big hero. Everyone looks up to Ron. You're not so great."

"I never said I was a hero." The fresh anger that surged from him was cold and made his voice calm. "But I'm better than you."

Percy made a stuttered and mangled sound. He had to take a deep breath before he could get his words out. "So tough. We'll see how you fare under interrogation."

His whole body tightened, but he did his best to give no sign. "I won't give anything up. Not to you lot."

Malfoy laughed lightly. "They all say that."

His heart froze. "They?"

Malfoy gestured carelessly. "Your comrades. Your friends. They all refuse to confess, but we don't need them to, these days. Not with interrogators trained in legilimency. Their reports are filled with all sorts of interesting details."

Snape's dark eyes watched Ron. "Their minds are weak. Legilimency extracts their secrets."

Malfoy stood to the side of Percy, murmuring. He retrieved his wand and subtly cast a spell against Percy's back.

Percy didn't seem to notice, and his robes remained drenched, but he stopped shivering. Either that or Malfoy's words calmed him, because his shoulders relaxed as he nodded.

"Yes, I saw that report." Malfoy turned to Snape. "You've heard as well? Of this so-called Phoenix?"

Snape gave a bored nod. "Rumor and conjecture. The rebels likely invented him themselves to look less feeble."

Feeble? Each one of them had risked their lives for the cause. It wasn't their fault the Phoenix had been bloody useless. "Shows what you know," Ron retorted. He wanted to make them feel small and cornered, for once. "He's real. Maybe he's one of you."

"Indeed?" Something dangerous glittered in Snape's eyes.

Ron realized he was adding to their knowledge like an idiot. Someone like Snape would like nothing more than to torture the Phoenix for information.

"And what would this Phoenix have to gain from supporting the losing side? Such a person would have to be motivated by a friend or relative." Snape glanced at Percy. "Don't you think, Mister Weasley?"

Percy reared back, nearly toppling over as the barge tilted. "I—it's not me! I would never betray—"

Ron laughed harshly. "That's rich."

Percy straightened. "—never betray my duties. I swore an oath to the Ministry—"

"Indeed you did." Malfoy patted him on the back. "Really, Severus. No need to impugn his character. Many wizards have a relative or two who might…" he gave Snape a pitying smile. "…muddy their reputation."

Snape gave Malfoy a cool look. "I'm merely speculating on the motivations of this supposed Phoenix. It can't be for financial gain." He eyed Ron's torn robes. "As I doubt they could scrounge up a sickle between the lot of them."

Ron's cheeks warmed. It was too much like the insults that followed his family his whole life. "We could've had money if we wanted. Once we captured—" He stopped. His temper was getting the better of him again.

Malfoy had gone quiet, pressing his lips into a thin line.

"Do tell." Snape looked between Ron and Malfoy. "What do the reports say about those who were captured by the rebellion?"

"Very little," Malfoy said tightly.

"But apparently the youngest Weasley boy knows something." A smile hooked the corner of Snape's mouth. "I hope you read my interrogation reports, Lucius. Merlin only knows the treasure troves of information I'll discover."

Snape interrogating him. Shite. Ron turned away, staring out into the raging sea. Something cold crept inside him, and it wasn't the wind. It was a chill he remembered from his third year at Hogwarts. One that made him feel as if he'd never be warm again. They were getting close to Azkaban.

There were no landmarks, nothing on the horizon except more black water. But he knew this place. His very bones remembered it. Gripping his broom as he'd rolled and spun towards the swirling sea. Breaking and pulling up underneath a Death Eater, Ron had shot curses at the other's broom until it had splintered, and he'd fallen, screaming. He'd moved without conscious thought, his broom and wand extensions of his body, his heart thumping in his chest and his mind clear, knowing the position of the enemy and how they were moving, when to ascend and when to dive.

Dumbledore and Voldemort battled in the distance, the light and rumble from their spells like a storm on the horizon. One flash of sickly yellow light contorted, then barreled towards the island.

The impact cracked the rocky surface, splitting off a section. Orange and yellow light burned from the crevasse. The stone edges melted and the light spread across the island.

Dumbledore approached, flying frantically, Voldemort in pursuit. For a moment, Ron thought Dumbledore was fleeing. But he directed his wand at the island. A protective spell wrapped itself around the tower and spun outward, like a bubble with a hollow core. It encased the island and the surrounding water.

The molten rock reached the edge of the water. For a fraction of a second, the water inside the shield churned and glowed, even though it was the dead of night. Then everything exploded.

Even outside the bubble, the reverberation struck Ron, spinning his broom wildly until he got it under control again. The shield filled with steam, and violent surges of water struck the interior.

Without Dumbledore, they would've all been killed. Ron turned to thank him, and was blinded by a flash of green light. He heard Hermione's strangled scream, and then a hideous splash. His vision cleared enough to see Dumbledore's body disappearing into the depths.

He stared at the spot until it was obscured by a low-lying fog. Steam released from the fallen shield spread across the sea. The tower shifted in the glowing center of the island, as if bowing to them all, and began to sink.

The barge lurched, and Ron looked away from the sea, working on his bonds with renewed energy. Malfoy and Percy now sat close to each other, murmuring. Snape gazed out at the sea, his eyes distant. Maybe he was reliving that battle, too. It was an enormous victory for their side.

The sea serpents veered, pulling the barge to the left. Portside, his father said, smiling. They entered the treacherous waters surrounding the prison.

The ropes loosened as the blade cut through. He kept his arms behind his back while gripping the knife. His gaze landed on the envelope under Percy's arm that held his wand.

When the barge took a treacherous dip, Ron launched himself forwards. He switched the knife into his left hand and used his one wandless spell, the one he'd learnt to remember Harry by: "Expelliarmus!"

He directed it at Snape, the watchful one, then at Malfoy. They both cursed as their wands flew out of their hands. With Percy, he didn't bother, simply tackling him to the deck. He wrestled the envelope away from him, and Percy's wand rolled into the shadows.

He cracked the seal on the envelope and grabbed his wand. To his left, a wand swung down. Ron ducked and fired a stunning spell.

Snape had already retrieved his wand and had nearly hit him with some wordless curse. Malfoy was still searching for his wand, calling out accio in every direction.

Snape had dodged the stunning spell and targeted him again. Ron cast protego and dove behind a stack of crates.

The captain shouted, and the sea serpents screamed. The barge slowed to a stop.

Ron pocketed his knife and took a few breaths to settle his pounding heart. He risked a glance around the crates. No one in sight. The sea serpents quieted but still twisted in the reins, their heads high above the water. Their massive bodies blocked the dim moonlight and plunged half the barge into darkness. Ron held his breath and listened. The waves slapped against the barge, and the sea serpents snorted. But there was something else. The scuff of a boot to his right.

He crept between the crates and waited. Another scuff and an exhale. This close, he could hear something else. A slow dripping onto the deck. Percy and his soaked robes. That wet towel was hunting him, trying to corner him like a rat. The injustice of it all. His hand tightened into a fist, and his heart thumped. Turning the corner, he tackled the figure and punched him hard in the face.

Percy let out a screech and tried to twist away.

Ron punched him again. "This is what you get for Mum. For all of it!"

He raised his arm again, but something wrenched him away, dragging him across the deck.

"Got him," the captain said. Light burned away the darkness. The captain stood above Ron with his wand in one hand and a lamp in the other. "Never lost a prisoner on one of my runs. Not going to start now."

Percy approached, stumbling, his wand drawn. His lip and nose bled heavily. He wiped at it, horrified at the bright red stain on his fingers. "Right." He straightened, aiming his wand at Ron. "I suppose I've been too lenient with you. From now on, you're just a prisoner."

Percy was rejecting him? Acting like Ron was the black sheep? Two punches to the face weren't nearly enough. He pushed his weight onto his back and kicked up with both feet, knocking the captain's wand and lantern out of his hands.

The lantern glass smashed on impact, and the flame flared up in a pool of oil. Ron rolled to his feet and charged at Percy again.

Percy stumbled back, shouting in a high-pitched voice. "Petrificus totalus! Bracchia post terga!"

Ron's entire body froze, his arms still reaching for Percy. Then the second spell hit him. The magic grabbed his frozen arms and tried to force them back. He crashed to the deck as the opposing forces built and built, tearing through muscle and bone. He tried to scream, but his mouth was frozen, and only a strained wail escaped his clamped teeth. The pain was blinding and inescapable. He wanted to twist and hold his arms and make it stop, but he could do nothing.

Something cracked, again and again, and his vision went white.

xx

He woke up gasping.

Snape filled his sight. "—spells shouldn't be used in combination. Bracchia post terga, which secures the arms behind the back—"

Pain stabbed his arms viciously. His gasps turned to groans. The need to scream crawled up his throat.

Malfoy swore, somewhere out of sight. "Nothing. The expelliarmus must have sent my wand overboard." Boots stepped near his head. "Can't you freeze his vocal cords? I'm getting a headache."

Snape's dark gaze bored into Ron. "I can certainly do that if he doesn't have the sense to shut up."

With effort, Ron swallowed his screams. The pain was still white-hot and overwhelming. He barely had a sense of where he was or if he could move. Something shifted in his right arm, and the pain contracted and pulsed. He ground his teeth as the screams threatened again.

"I didn't mean to." Percy sounded frantic. "We were taught that spell to immobilize aggressive prisoners. It's not meant to hurt them."

"And it wouldn't have, if you hadn't cast the body-bind first." Snape spoke in clipped tones. "It tried to keep his arms in place, while your second spell forced them behind his back."

"But I didn't mean—"

"You obviously meant to. Magic is created with intention." Snape tapped his wand lightly over Ron's arms. "Torn muscles and tendons, and the bones are broken in nine places. Two in the right ulna—"

"We hardly need a diagnosis," Malfoy said. "And certainly not a cure. He's a dangerous prisoner, and thanks to Mr. Weasley's quick wandwork, he's been incapacitated. He can serve his life sentence with or without the use of his arms. If they become a bother, the medical staff know how to perform amputations."

Ron's heart slammed against his ribcage. I'm sorry, Mum. I'm stupid and impulsive and I can't help anyone.

"It's a work camp," Snape replied, his voice cold. "I'll not have him lounging in a hospital bed when there's hard labor to be done."

"We're supposed to bring able-bodied prisoners," Percy said hesitantly.

Snape grunted and continued working.

Percy was silent for a moment. "Why is it taking so long? Madame Pomfrey used to—"

"You cast it with unusual strength, and it's resisting healing due to the familial bond. Masking itself in his magical signature. Spells cast with focused determination by close family members—"

"We're not close," Ron said through gritted teeth.

"Close on the family tree, you dolt. Do you think I care about your inane personal squabbles?"

Hexes from his brothers had always itched more, stung more, swollen more. He figured they'd been good casters. He could hear Hermione lecturing him. Like a muggle organ transplant, the body can welcome certain spells as part of itself.

"Usually, the bond is used to strengthen healing spells." Snape looked up. "Are you familiar with bone-knitting spells?"

"I once studied…" Percy cleared his throat. "I mean, not since my NEWTs…"

Snape shook his head. "My fault, really, for thinking you could be useful for once in your life."

Something shifted inside his upper arm, and the stabbing lessened to a radiating throb. He took shallow breaths, careful not to shift his body. The sharp tang of his own sweat filled the air. The barge started moving again. Each bump of the waves was like a fresh set of daggers. But he could handle it now, if he could lay still.

Snape grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head back. Ron gasped in shock and Snape poured something vile down his throat. He choked, trying to expel it, but Snape clamped his jaw shut and hissed in his ear. "Spit it out and I'll have you lap it off the deck while your brother watches."

He would do it, the sadist. But he couldn't tell what he'd been given. Veritaserum? Was he already being prepared for Snape's interrogation? He tensed his tongue, holding the foul liquid.

"So headstrong." Snape laid a hand on the interior of Ron's elbow. "But I suspect you'll cooperate with a bit of arm-twisting."

His bravery failed him. Closing his eyes, he swallowed.

The barge lurched to a stop. Snape stood, brandishing his wand.

Ron felt himself rise from the deck. Instinctively, he threw out his arms to maintain his balance, and the shock of pain made him cry out.

"Try to remain still," Snape said.

Like you aren't enjoying this, you bloody bastard. Ron held himself stiffly as he was rotated onto his feet. Someone had lit more lanterns, and the captain levitated ropes and tied them to the dock.

Lightning flickered, illuminating the roaring waves that crashed against the shore. Seawater eddied on the uneven ground scattered with broken tower stones. But the tower that had once stood on the island was gone. What remained above the surface was a combination of rippling black rock and the ruined ramparts that once rimmed the uppermost level. Crenelations like broken teeth opened to the sky. A single window opening gaped like an empty eye socket.

Distantly, metal clanged. A guard waded through the swirling water until he reached the dock. He had a look of hardness about him, as if he spent his days using his wand more than his words. "Got word of a prisoner and new staff." He frowned when he saw Ron. "Restraints?"

"He's broken both his arms," Snape replied. "It'll be several hours before he can use them. Another few days for complete recovery."

"I had to curse him," Percy babbled. "He was trying to escape."

The guard nodded. "Problem prisoner? We've got a maximum confinement cell."

Snape pushed Ron down the gangway. "I doubt he'll be any more trouble than the rest. Certainly not while his injuries heal."

Ron walked slowly as the barge shifted with the waves. The dock was a welcome sturdiness under his feet.

"Nothing like a good curse," the guard said. "Makes 'em easier to manage."

"I'll keep that in mind," Snape said. "I'm joining as well, as a temporary interrogator until the replacement arrives."

The guard glanced at Percy. "New guard?"

"Yes." Percy's response was low and dispirited.

"Another minister." The guard eyed Malfoy's robes. "What're you here for?"

Malfoy gestured at Percy. "I have business with Mr. Weasley."

"Couldn't do that business on the barge?"

Malfoy frowned. "We have private matters to discuss."

"Guards here sleep in barracks and eat in the dining hall. No privacy at Azkaban. And no visitors or social calls. He'll get leave in a few weeks. You can talk then."

Malfoy stood on the gangway, looking stunned. "But I…"

The guard stretched his shoulders, staring Malfoy down. Malfoy opened and closed his hands, wandless, until he sniffed and looked away.

The guard nodded at the captain. "Take him back?"

"No problem. Come on, then." He guided Malfoy back on board.

"Mmm, bad luck." Snape's voice had gotten nearly cheerful. "And without a wand, you'll have to take the slow boat to the mainland. Have a safe trip back, Lucius. Say hello to Narcissa from me. And, of course, Draco."

It wasn't much in the grand scheme of things, but Ron got a bit of enjoyment from watching Malfoy's frustrated face as the sea dragons reared up and the barge pulled away.

The dock met land on a raised stone platform, but the path to the sunken tower ran through small pools formed by the uneven ground. The waves flowed over the rocks, filling the twisting gullies. He waded slowly through frigid seawater that rose to his knees, his shoes sliding over green muck that lined the bottom. Brown algae and kelp stuck to his trousers. A thick, rotting smell penetrated everything.

The last time he'd seen this island, it had been a churning mass of lava. Clouds of billowing steam bordered the land as molten rock met the sea, the continuous hiss punctuated by debris-laden explosions. At the center, the dark tower sank into a blazing red-orange whirlpool, dragging hundreds of prisoners into the hellfire.

Even the guards were desperate, happily handing over their keys for the promise of rescue. They'd formed an airborne human chain on their brooms, carrying prisoners and guards away.

Ron and Sirius ran headlong into the tower. They opened cells as they went, sending everyone upwards whilst they went deeper and deeper. Everything grew darker and hotter, until the cell doors glowed from the heat, and the screams of prisoners died away. They'd had to turn and dash back, casting bubble charms over their heads to keep the smoke and searing-hot air out of their lungs. They'd flown off with their broom bristles smoking, and Ron had cast aguamenti, taking one last glance backwards. The tower had disappeared into the inferno.

The lava was gone now, solidified into grey and black rock. Ron slid into a deep pool and plunged to his waist. He froze as sensitive parts hit the icy water.

The guard poked him in the back with his wand. "C'mon, then. Get a move on."

Neither the guard nor Snape seemed bothered by the wet or cold. They could indulge in protection charms, keeping their skin and clothes dry. But Percy struggled, which was some comfort. He stumbled and squeaked. "Something touched my leg."

"Just seaweed," the guard grumbled, although his gaze searched the water. "Nothing to worry about."

Then something brushed Ron's leg. It did feel like seaweed, but there was something different in the movement. Something intentional. He looked down his body, but couldn't see more than an inch into the murky water. "You're certain?"

He never heard the answer. Something rose out of the water, rattling like a desiccated husk.

Black rippling folds fluttered wetly underneath a pulsing head that glowed in mottled red and coral. Thin white tentacles stretched out from that head, latching onto the sides of his face. The energy drained out of him, and the world shrank to that pulsing thing. A hole opened in the center, wide and perfectly round. The edges darkened to blood red and twisted like convulsing muscles.

Fight back, a faint voice from deep inside said, but he couldn't quite grasp what it meant. All that existed was that gaping mouth and the ropy tentacles that pulled him closer.

"Expecto patronum."

Something silvery touched one tentacle. The thing recoiled, detaching itself from Ron's face with a sickening pop. It fled, flying just above the surface as its ragged body flapped in the wind.

Both sides of his face stung. Ron tried to touch his cheek, but could only swing his useless arms through the surrounding water. His voice sounded distant as he spoke. "What was that?"

"Dementor," Snape replied. "They've adapted to better reach their prey."

"Don't normally see them on the surface anymore," the guard said. "Must be a young one testing its strength."

"Its body was gone," Percy said. "It didn't look human."

"They were never human," Snape said. "They merely imitated our shape for convenience."

The gate hadn't been there when Ron and Sirius had burst into the tower. It had weathered quickly and bore red rust and clumps of shaggy moss between its hexagonal bars. The guard snapped his wand in quick diagonal patterns.

Ron tried to follow, but he felt disconnected from what was happening. Snape had him by the shoulder, nearly dragging him along, and he tried to steady himself and get his bearings. Escape. Ginny. They were the only things that mattered now. He had to pull himself together.

The gate creaked open, splitting in an uneven pattern along the hexagonal lines. Inside, grates along the walls drained the standing water, although the floor remained wet. A steel hatch with a hand wheel sat in the center of the floor.

"C'mon, then." The guard gestured to Percy. "I'll show you how this works."

Percy twitched, hand swatting the air. "What is that?"

The guard fired his wand at the air, and something ignited, plunging down in flames until it landed in a tiny smoking lump at Ron's feet. He could make out a figure with blackened wings.

"Water fairies. Pests. Ignore 'em."

The handwheel squealed, and the hatch banged open. A stench of mildew and sweat rose from the dark hole.

The guard studied Ron. "Can he use a ladder?"

Before Ron could answer, he felt his feet leave the floor. Snape had him in a levitation spell again. The memory of those stomach-turning somersaults woke Ron up with a start, but the spell was steady this time, lowering him to the next level. He landed in a puddle. The watertight seal of the hatch didn't appear to do anything, as everything was just as wet in the tower's interior. Steel hoods protected wall torches from grey-fingered stalactites dripping from the concrete ceiling. The drips collected into streams that fed shallow pools on the uneven floor.

The guard gestured at Ron. "I'll take him for processing. You can report to the main office. One floor down, on the right."

Percy stood uncertainly. "Ron, I'm…" He stopped and straightened. "I hope one day you'll understand."

Ron wished he had something devastating and witty to say. But he felt as though he'd been wound down, like one of his father's muggle toys that stopped working. The best he could do was stare through Percy as though he weren't real. Right now, nothing felt real.

xx

They left Percy and Snape one floor down and kept descending. Window openings disgorged rippled stone. The molten rock had poured in and solidified years ago. Most of the overflow had been chiseled away, although some still jutted into the stairwell landings.

Ron's heart pounded with every step. Deeper and deeper. Further and further away from his friends, his family, his freedom. An ominous pressure built in his throat and ears. The torches dimmed as if they fought against an unseen force. On one floor, a scream pierced the air, echoing up the stairwell. The guard didn't even blink, merely prodding Ron to keep moving.

They exited the stairs to a corridor lined with thick steel doors. Metal clangs and sharp shouts echoed through the space, becoming louder as they turned a corner. A work crew of prisoners clustered by multiple leaks trickling from the wall.

"Clear way!" the guard shouted. The guards overseeing the work crew snapped their wands, and the prisoners shuffled aside.

Just as Ron passed, the leaks cracked, and a jet of water blasted him. He staggered and fell against the opposite wall as seawater filled his mouth and nose with brine. He struggled to brace himself against the wall and get back up.

"It's all right. I've got you." Someone grabbed him around his chest from behind and dragged him out of the water's path. Prisoners and guards shouted over the spray and dashed through the standing water.

Ron turned to the person who had pulled him clear. The skin showing through the ragged prison uniform revealed intricate tattoos of runes, bands of dots, and long strings of numbers and symbols. The prisoner shook her head, rattling a necklace of tiny bones looped around her neck. Fraying braids crisscrossed her head in a dripping, shaggy mess.

Ron stared at her. "Ginny?"

Ginny grinned. "Hello, Brother. Welcome to hell."

Chapter Text

Ron Weasley

Ron lay on his cot, opening and closing his hands, working out the morning stiffness. Dripping water echoed in the darkness. Farther away, boots clomped and steel doors clanged. The guards were changing shifts. One of them would be here soon.

A narrow hatch on the door slid open automatically, allowing some torchlight from the corridor. He sat up, the metal rim of the cot biting into his legs. Gritty water seeped across the floor and under his bare feet. He splashed across the cell to the opposite corner, which held a self-cleaning chamber pot and a small bowl of clumpy powder that doubled as toothpaste and soap. It took another minute before the wooden pitcher on the floor gurgled with his daily allotment of potable water. He lifted it carefully with both hands. He'd gone thirsty his first day here when his arms had failed him and he'd dropped it.

But he'd gotten better every day, and now he could raise and tilt it to drink from the spout. Once he finished, he lifted and lowered the pitcher. It was the only heavy object in the room that wasn't stuck to the wall or floor, and his only way of strengthening his arms. He kept it up until his arms shook, then poured a bit of water over a torn scrap of his bedsheet and scrubbed himself down. He dabbed carefully over his face. Stripes of stinging welts from the dementor still marked each cheek, although the swelling had gone down.

He was going mad alone in this cell. He'd counted four mornings by the opening of that slot in the wall. That first night, he'd been dragged away from Ginny after only a moment of seeing her. And ever since then, he'd been left adrift, like so much flotsam and jetsam. He'd feared they would immediately put him to work with his useless arms, but this was worse. It seemed that they didn't particularly care if he worked or not, if he learnt to use his arms again or spent the rest of his days lying in his cell like a beached fish. Voldemort's reign would continue, Ginny and the others would suffer in Azkaban, and he'd be left here in the darkness.

That was the thought that kept him working on his arms, through the frustration and pain. He'd lie in the dark, trying to lift them, sweating with the effort. Somebody must have taken notice. Yesterday, a medi-wizard had examined him for the first time. He'd prodded him for a few seconds and declared him able-bodied and fit for work.

Footsteps grew louder, and the familiar eyes of a guard appeared between the bars of the hatch. Digger? No, Drabber.

"Stay where you are," Drabber barked. The door's deadbolts snicked and the hinges squealed. Drabber's shoulders filled the doorway, framed in torchlight.

Ron resisted the urge to glance at a stone set in the wall near Drabber's foot. It concealed his magical pocketknife. When he'd gone through processing and been ordered to strip, he'd found it still in his pocket. He could've sworn it was lost on the barge, but there it was. Some part of him wondered if it had been Percy giving him a chance for escape. But he quickly pushed that hope away. He focused every bit of his strength and concentration into weakly tapping his fingers in the right pattern. The guards had been busy performing searching spells on his stripped body while the knife had slipped into the pocket of his waiting prison uniform.

Now it lay behind that stone until the right moment came along. Drabber tapped his foot in front of that stone, water dripping off his boot and pooling in a puddle. Drabber was soaking wet.

"Is the tower leaking?" Ron asked.

"It's always leaking," Drabber grumbled. "But this is from up top. Storm's still raging."

That meant the supply barges still weren't getting through. "No breakfast, then?"

"Not while we're rationing. You'll survive." Drabber gestured to the corridor. "Out."

Ron stepped closer, and a wet mush filled his hands. His pitcher had transformed into wood pulp.

Drabber shook his head. "Haven't you learnt yet to keep that in the corner?"

Ron dropped the pulp, and it landed with a splat. Another stupid security measure to keep prisoners from handling potential weapons. The day's ration gone. Under the bloody sea with wizards who could perform aguamenti, and they were on water rations. He didn't bother asking for more. Drabber's smug look was answer enough. "It must be a relief to know I can't conk you on the head."

Drabber grabbed his arm in a painful grip and dragged him out of his cell. "You've got some nerve. But we've got time to work that out of you. The rest of your life."

Two floors down, the water found them first. It streamed in thin pools across the corridor floor, deepening as they followed the sound of shouts and sloshing.

A prisoner work crew huddled close to an exterior wall. Water gushed around their arms and legs, obscuring their movements. Guards shouted orders, barely heard over the continuous rumble.

"Go on, then." Drabber shoved Ron towards a guard standing by a water-repelling wooden box. The guard marked down his name and prison number and handed him a wand.

He stared at the wand. For a moment, he forgot to concentrate on his grip and almost dropped it. Of all the things he expected at Azkaban, he hadn't expected this.

"Hey, over here." It was Ginny, beckoning him over. Her mess of braids was plastered to her head. She grabbed handfuls and squeezed, dribbling seawater onto her shoulders.

Relief surged through him and he moved to embrace her, but she jerked her head to the side and stepped back. Ron glanced at the guards and nodded. It had been the same at the prison camp years ago. You couldn't hide who your relatives were, but the guards didn't care unless they saw any sort of bond or affection between prisoners. Then you'd be separated in short order.

"I'll show you the ropes," she shouted over the din. Leaning close to his ear, she said, "tell me everything."

Ron's heart lurched. Ginny had been away for a long time, and might not have heard. "Fred and George."

Ginny stiffened, but slowly nodded. "Interrogators like to give you that sort of news. Break you down." They shared a look. Ginny had brown eyes, just like Fred and George. And she had their knowing look, the one that told him she understood how he felt, even if she'd never say it. But neither of them could afford to show anything more. Not here. After a pause, she let out a breath and waded to the center of the group.

Ron followed. Each prisoner held a wand identical to his. He tapped it experimentally, hoping to get a few sparks. Nothing.

Ginny gave him a grim smile. "It's as worth as much as you paid for it. Lodgepole pine with a flobberworm slime core. No preserving charms cast on it. The wood rots quickly in water and will splinter to pieces if too strong a spell is cast. The core lasts until the slime dries up. And the magic you can get out of it is about as powerful as a newborn kitten."

"Still… I expected to be the one left to rot."

"Why waste magical prisoners when they can work?"

He glanced back at the guards. "They could fix this leak in five seconds."

"Repairs aren't the point." A steeliness entered Ginny's eyes. "I'm told we should be grateful. There's plenty of hard labor here that has no point at all."

The group of prisoners outnumbered the guards three to one. "Aren't they worried we'll fight back and escape?"

Ginny shook her head. "They're really not."

She led him to a barrel, still dry from water-repellent charms. Demonstrating with her wand, she showed him how to levitate the quick-sealing mortar.

It was immediately obvious why they allowed wands. Performing a levitation spell was like walking through treacle. His first attempt barely made a ripple on the surface of the mortar. The second failed when a shout distracted him. He had to get back in the mindset of a first-year, when performing even the simplest spell required absolute concentration. The third attempt got a clump of mortar wobbling through the air, finally spreading across the leak two meters away.

Wiping the saltwater and sweat from his face, he realized his wand arm was shaking. He held it close to his body until it stilled. "This isn't a wand. It's a stickpin."

Ginny siphoned water away from the leak as others patched it. Her shoulders were tense from the strain. "There's one difference. A stickpin is actually useful."

He didn't think his arms were up to it, but he had to ask. "Can't I carry the mortar?"

She shook her head. "Rules. You have to use the wand."

Ron's puzzlement over that caused him to lose focus, and a levitated glob of mortar fell to the floor.

A guard was on him immediately, hitting him with a stinging hex. "Get that back in the air."

Sharp pinpoints ran down his back where the spell hit. "How am I supposed to–" He clamped his mouth shut as another hex hit him. This one was stronger and felt like shards of glass embedding his skin.

"Better learn, or it's off to the Bath with you."

Panting, Ron forced the pain out of his mind and put all his attention into the spell.

It took another two levitations before the guard was satisfied. He turned and targeted a prisoner who'd tripped and was struggling to get up.

Ron got another bit of mortar plastered on the wall while the pain ebbed to an uncomfortable prickling. "Did he just threaten me with a warm bath?"

Shadows darkened under Ginny's eyes. "The Bath is on the lowest level of the tower. Don't let them take you there. You might not come back." She glanced at the guard, who was eying Ron again. "Now quiet. You need to focus."

Of all the things in this world that had been ruined by Voldemort's side, Ron never thought they could ruin magic. Yes, there were terrible curses, but magic was a part of everything. It was a part of everyone he cared about. Mum and Ginny and Hermione. Fred and George. Harry.

But the guards forcing him to use magic in this way brought back the nervous boy who had just entered Hogwarts. The one who had so many older brothers to look up to and worried that he wouldn't measure up. All the other first-years had seemed smarter, more talented, or more special. And now, he was surrounded by witches and wizards performing spells while he struggled with basic levitation. It took all he had to perform this one simple spell. He knew it was the wand. Ginny had told him what a shite wand it was. But he still felt a familiar shame and frustration curling in his stomach.

He was shaking from exhaustion by the time they called lunch. He collapsed against the newly sealed wall with a bowl of millet and beans. A few water fairies buzzed around his food, and he waved them off. "Didn't get breakfast."

Ginny nodded. "Word is that there won't be dinner, starting today. Not until supply barges can get through." She poked at her millet for a few seconds, keeping her eyes fixed on it but not eating. "Mum?"

"Alive." That was something, at least. "Re-education camp. Sirius?"

"Alive, last we heard. They took him down for interrogation. It's been two days." She looked grim. "Bill and Charlie?"

"Free and still fighting, as far as I know. Hopefully, they can join up with Hermione and…" And what? A resistance of three people with no money and no resources. He'd been a massive help, getting captured and shipped to Azkaban. But at least he couldn't be labeled the worst of the Weasley brothers. "Percy's here."

Her face went blank. "I saw him."

He felt a spark of hope. "He came to check on you?"

She shook her head. "Walked past and pretended he didn't see me."

Nodding, he pressed his head against the wall. "He shattered my arms."

Her whole body jerked, and she looked up at him.

"It was an accident. Mostly. I'm healed now."

Ginny glanced at the millet in his bowl, which was shifting as his tremors slowly settled. "Healed?"

He shrugged. "Mostly."

She gazed at the line of guards watching them. "Do you remember that night the first time you returned from Hogwarts for the summer?"

It was after his first year, and he couldn't resist showing off a bit of magic, even though he wasn't supposed to. He'd snuck out the back, and Ginny had followed him. He hadn't realized it until she clapped her hands when his wand released a trail of sparks. Her eyes had shone, and she'd rushed forwards and knocked him over with a bear hug. "I remember."

She looked at him intently. "I'm not so little anymore. But some things never change."

There could be no tumbling hugs in this place, and Ginny could no longer be that doe-eyed little girl. But he understood. He nodded, finding it difficult to speak.

She turned back to her bowl and tucked in, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

Ron ate more slowly, trying to make the food last longer. He'd dealt with low food rations for a while and found slower eating helped ease the hunger. As he ate, he studied Ginny's tattoos. He knew that some could track and punish prisoners. "The guards do that to you? "

Ginny finished her bowl and leaned back, licking her lips. "Nah. Got some from Delia." Her expression flickered momentarily. "She's gone. Learned how to do it myself, afterwards. Every once in a while, a squid breaks through. Give 'em a good jab and you can siphon ink." She held up her arm to display another. "For this one, I used soot. Fire broke out."

Ron glanced at the other prisoners. Three had sharp lines of numbers standing out on their arms, and another two had a series of interlocking runes on their necks. "Just something to pass the time here?"

"Everyone needs a hobby." Ginny said it easily enough, but her eyes flashed a warning.

Not something to discuss near the guards, then. He struggled to remember what he'd learned of runes and numerology years ago. Some offered protection or could invoke spells. And tattoos could be imbued with powerful magic. The Death Eaters certainly took advantage of that.

Ginny's prison uniform was torn at the shoulder, revealing three black circles, each one slashed through. That arrangement indicated a bubble-head charm. He glanced at Ginny questioningly.

"Stuck on my head permanently. Would've suffocated if Delia hadn't slashed them through."

"Is there a way to make them temporary?" On the lower levels, they'd never fight their way to the top, and they'd drown if they tried to break open a wall and swim hundreds of feet below the surface. But a bubble-head charm would give them a chance.

She closed her eyes briefly and shook her head, speaking in a whisper. "We need a wand. A real wand." She pressed her lips together as a guard strode by.

Ron waited until he was out of earshot. "We have to do something. Think of how long you've been here. How long we're going to be here."

She set her empty bowl to the side. A water fairy hovered, eying the scraps. Ginny smiled faintly. "I don't think about that. The only thing in front of me is today."

The water fairy settled on the rim of the bowl, the wings folding into the scales on its back. It scooped up a chunk of millet.

Ginny's hand, resting near the bowl, moved in a flash. She grabbed the fairy in her fist and squeezed. The fairy squealed once, and then there was a sickening snap.

Ron reeled back. "What the hell, Ginny?"

She pulled her necklace of tiny bones free, hanging the fairy on the end. The small creatures drank copious amounts of water, and this one was already beginning to shrivel.

Ron stared at the necklace. "You collect water fairy bones?"

Ginny shrugged, her shoulders hunching. "If I didn't kill them, the guards would. They're a nuisance."

After lunch, they were taken down a floor to another leak. This break in the wall was larger, and water gushed through, leaving him soaked to his knees.

They worked and worked. But it was like emptying pails out of a leaking boat. Whenever a section was patched, another leak opened. The water rose until everyone was half swimming. Dinnertime came and went with no break.

"Why don't the guards fix it?" Ron asked. "At this rate, the whole tower will flood."

"You think the guards at muggle prisons helped break rocks?" Ginny wiped the wet hair out of her face. "They've partitioned the floor to keep the whole tower from flooding. They'll save themselves and seal the area if it comes to it."

"What happens to us?"

Ginny gave him a look. "Don't think about it. Focus and work harder."

"Shite," Ron said.

The line of guards had pulled down thick grates attached to the wall and used them as platforms to stand above the rising water. "It's getting worse," a guard said. "We're going to cast another shield to block off the area. And something needs to be done about the flooding." He called out to the assorted prisoners. "Any of you manage a vanishing spell?"

The prisoners continued their work without a response.

"You know they won't volunteer," another guard said. "Think they can hide what spells they can cast. Where's that new records keeper? What's his name?"

"Weasley, that's it." The guard smiled sardonically. "You know, the minister."

Ron and Ginny glanced at each other.

"Right." The other guard chuckled. He tapped the base of the nearest wall torch with his wand. The hood on the torch fell back. The sputtering flame flared up into a column that reached the ceiling and turned bright green. "Calling Percy Weasley."

Percy's face appeared in the flame. "What is it?"

"Come through. Need your expertise."

A green version of Percy squirmed through until he returned to his normal colors and popped out. The column of flame disappeared and Percy splashed face-first into the water.

He bobbed to the surface and sputtered. "You're supposed to create a soft landing for me!"

"Am I? My apologies, Minister."

Percy's ministry robes puffed up with trapped air as he stood in waist-deep water. He tried to smooth them down, and they squelched loudly. "I told you. My new uniform doesn't fit. Stop calling me…" He gave up on his robes and his shoulders slumped. "What do you want?"

"Which of the prisoners has been observed casting a vanishing spell? None of them will admit to it."

"I don't see why not. I can't imagine wanting to stand in this muck." Percy wrestled his wand out of his wet pocket and cast a spell. "Area: prisoner competencies, subsection: spells. Vanishing spells only." In the air directly in front of him, a scroll popped into existence.

Percy used a drying charm on his hands—he seemed to have finally mastered that, at least—and studied the scroll. "Wheatley, Delia. Performed a vanishing spell in the Bath in April of last year."

A guard grunted. "She's gone. Who else?"

Percy's face paled. "Weasley," he said. "Ginevra. Performed a vanishing spell in June of this year while repairing a leak on level nine."

Ginny straightened and turned. "I only did it the once. We were up to our necks and would've drowned."

"You should be even better at it now, then." The guard gestured at the water filling the corridor.

Ginny said nothing, staring back at him.

"Or do you need to fear for your life to perform the spell? Because that's easily done." He pointed his wand at her.

Ron's heart thumped. "I'll do it," he said loudly, stepping forwards.

Ginny shot him a furious look. "You can barely levitate a handful of mortar. I know squibs more talented than you."

Ron flinched. She couldn't mean it. It was a way to put distance between them in front of the guards. But then he thought about how he'd struggled with even the simplest spells all day. He had to do better than this. He aimed his wand at the rising water and put all his energy into channeling his magic. "Evanesco!"

Nothing. The water continued to rise.

The guards and Ginny all stared at him. He looked down at the water, his face heating.

A guard snorted a laugh. "Get back to the mortar, Squib."

Slowly, he turned back to the barrel. But he barely saw the work in front of him. His focus was on what was happening behind him.

Two guards were shouting at Ginny, ordering her to perform the spell. "I've almost got it," she told them. "Evanesco." Silence. Then, "That got a bit."

"That's not even matching the amount pouring in. The level's still rising. Again. Stronger, this time."

"Evanesco." Ginny's grunt of frustration. "Evanesco!"

A guard muttered something and Ginny yelped in pain.

Ron whirled around, but was stopped by another prisoner grabbing his arm. A man ten years older than himself, whose brown hair was already thinning.

"Don't!" he hissed. "Do your work."

"I can't. Ginny—" He twisted to look over the prisoner's shoulder. Ginny was rubbing her arm and wincing.

"She can handle it. It's not the first time. And she'll drown with the rest of us if you don't get that mortar moving." The prisoner shoved him back towards the barrel.

It was impossible. He couldn't cast a levitation spell using this scrap-wood wand while Ginny was hexed. After three attempts, the surface of the mortar hadn't even rippled. He glanced behind him. Two of the guards were moving closer to their escape routes, and the other two were focused on Ginny.

The hell with it. If he was going to be called a squib, he may as well work like a squib. He shoved his wand in a pocket and grabbed a handful of mortar, carrying it over to the wall. Smearing it across the edges of the leak, he quickly dropped his hands in the water, rubbing them clean before the mortar dried. He kept it up until the gush of water slowed to the rate of a gurgling storm drain.

At that point, he could barely move. His body ached from hours of pushing through the water, his arms trembled from the lifting, and his skin was numb from the cold. Leaning against the wall, he let himself half-float. The water wasn't so bad when he wasn't forcing himself through it. Just like when his family used to travel to the coast for the first swim of the season. The water was only cold on the first jump. Then he could swim and splash his brothers and it was all fine. Until Fred and George slipped underwater, conjured up a tentacle, and wrapped it around his ankle or waist.

Another thing they'd never do again. It hit him suddenly, the way it often did. Missing them so much. Their smiling faces pale and lifeless on the battlefield. Ron squeezed his eyes shut. No, he wouldn't remember them that way. They wouldn't want that. He forced the image away and tried to see them again at the shore. Diving beneath the waves with no fear. Little bubbles surfacing as they tried to hold in their laughter. That fake tentacle tickling him. He tried to hold on to the memory, but it was so difficult. Their faces kept greying, their mouths going slack. The tentacle, though. That feeling was still there. Like a rubbery cord wrapped around his waist, lightly stinging through his clothes.

His eyes snapped open just as the cord tightened and jerked him towards the remaining leak. The prisoner with the thinning hair stared at him and splashed away.

He grabbed the tentacle with both hands. Sharp points, thinner than needles, stung his fingers. Other tentacles flailed on either side of him, picking away the newly set mortar. The tentacle yanked harder, trying to drag him through the opening. The gurgle turned back into a cascade, and an ominous rattle sounded over the rushing water. Through the spray, the dim figures of the guards ran for safety, shouting in panicked voices. Flashes of light on both ends of the corridor told him they'd reset the shields. He and Ginny and everyone else were trapped inside.

Twisting in the tentacle's grip, Ron rolled against the wall until he faced the opening. The incoming water struck him in the face. He sputtered, but kept his eyes open. In the center of the opening was a mouth opened in a wide O, framed by a grotesque red face. That dark mouth seemed to suck all thoughts of struggle out of him. Hanging limply, he let the water rush over him, growing colder by the second. He hoped the creature pulled him out to sea. Ginny shouldn't have to see him the way he'd seen Fred and George.

Arms wrapped around his waist, above the tentacle. Over his shoulder, Ron glimpsed red hair. "Ginny, no. Just let me go."

"Not a chance." Her arms tightened and warmth pulsed through them. A silver glow sprang from a tattoo of a long-tailed horse on her forearm. The light shot through the tentacle.

The dementor shrieked and wrapped another tentacle around Ginny's neck. It dug into the skin.

Ginny gasped and aimed her wand at the dementor's head. A tentacle lashed out and snapped the wand in half.

Ron dug at the tentacle at her throat. Ginny had stopped gasping. She opened and closed her mouth, but no air escaped. The tentacles closed around them and dragged them down.

They crashed beneath the surface and the roar muted to a distant rumble. The water engulfed the wall torches and everything went black.

He held Ginny close, fearful he'd lose her in the darkness. Even though she might already be… no. Beneath her chilled skin, there was still warmth. He felt her pulse thumping in her throat.

But not for long. He knew that. And he couldn't bear it. He couldn't bear to see her the way he'd seen Fred and George. He worked his hand down to his pocket and grasped his wand. His useless wand. But he had to make it work. Even if it killed him, he had to try one last spell.

It was as if everything fell away. The pressure in his lungs as he resisted the urge to breathe, the cold, the sting of the tentacles. All his worries, his frustrations, his exhaustion. The only thing remaining was the thrum of Ginny's heartbeat. He aimed his wand into the darkness and imagined himself shouting the incantation. Light burst from the wand as it shattered into splinters. Several slivers of wood jammed into his palm, and Ron let go of the remnants of wood, thin trails of blood streaming away.

But it was enough. A spotted silver form with an upturned tail leapt from the shattered remains, lighting up the gloom. It bounded through the water as if it were air and launched itself at the dementor, latching on to its red face with its jaws.

The dementor spasmed, breaking apart the stone and mortar. As it retreated, it left behind a wide hole, and the sea surged in.

Ron kicked up to the surface. It was only a few inches below the ceiling now, so he tilted Ginny's face upwards to keep her airways free. His patronus had faded, but a dim light shone at the end of the corridor. Taking gulps of air, he cupped Ginny's chin and pulled her along as he swam towards it.

The light grew brighter until he collided with it. He touched it, feeling the faint tingle of magic. Dimly, he could see the other side. Four figures milled about, and one stood stock-still, face upturned towards them. Ron banged his fist on the barrier, but it was as solid as steel.

There was only a thin sliver of air remaining. He kept Ginny's face upturned, mouth nearly touching the ceiling as she breathed what was left. He took in great lungfuls, wishing he'd dived through the hole to the open sea. They never would've made it to the surface before he lost consciousness, but at least he would have died fighting instead of hopelessly trapped.

The cold water rose over his face and enclosed him. He held onto Ginny, feeling her heart thrum and dreading the moment it would fade away. Everything would be gone soon. He saw his mum's face, etched with worry lines. Take care of Ginny. He'd tried, but his trying was never enough. Maybe one day he could've made a difference. He'd never know.

Light and heat enveloped him, and he shut his eyes against the brightness. His skin tingled and his head spun, as if everything had been turned upside-down. He floated in the white warmth, slowly sinking as his body grew heavier. And then he felt something he never thought he'd feel again: a wisp of air against his face. His eyes snapped open, but everything was too bright. He breathed deeply once before the light shrank to pinpoints and disappeared.

Chapter Text

Ron Weasley

Ron woke to the sounds of moans, shouting, and harsh laughter. He felt like he weighed a hundred stone and was embedded in the wet floor. Above him loomed Snape, pocketing an empty vial.

Snape straightened as he sneered down at him. "Having a nap, I see."

Fragmented images and sensations came to him. Rushing cold water. Ginny, breathing shallowly, her head just above the surface. Ginny, he tried to say, but all that came out was a croak. He slowly rolled onto his side, searching for her.

Prone bodies filled the corridor. A blonde woman lay near his feet, shivering and coughing. On the other side was a mess of red hair. Ginny was as pale as parchment, but she caught his eye and gave a quick nod.

Across the corridor lay the man with thinning hair that he'd met. His lips were blue, and he wasn't moving. Did he know his name? He couldn't remember. Don't think about it. You didn't even know him. But something was rising into his throat and choking him.

"Blood traitor!" a guard shouted. Someone whimpered, and a herd of feet stomped closer. The guards circled someone. A ministry robe flew into the air and disappeared.

Percy escaped the circle, now stripped to his underclothes. He clutched his wand and shifted his aim from one guard to another.

"The minister doesn't know how things work round here," said a guard. "Or maybe he does and couldn't help himself. Which excuse will you use with the warden tomorrow morning to save your skin?"

Another guard laughed harshly. "The minister would rather eat his wand than admit to being stupid. Traitor it is, then. Can't wait to have you in one of my cells. I'll make sure you get the special treatment you deserve."

Percy was a traitor? Ron croaked again.

Snape glanced down at him. "He moved the barriers and vanished the water. Prevented most of the work crew from drowning. Strictly against the rules." He tilted his head as he studied Percy.

Percy broke away from the guards and ran until he stumbled over a sick prisoner and collided with Snape. His face twisted in a grimace. "I didn't," he said.

"You did," Snape replied coolly. "There are multiple witnesses."

A small warmth pushed against the numbing coldness. Percy had saved them. Finally, Percy had realized his mistake, had done the right thing, had protected innocent people against dark wizards. Suddenly, he could smell the Burrow, the scent of the warm sun on summer grass. It made him ache.

He had to talk to Percy. But when he opened his mouth, a burning rose in his gut. His stomach contracted, and he vomited saltwater over Percy's shoes.

Percy stumbled away, turning in circles until he faced Snape again. "I don't care what the witnesses say. I was only…" his mouth worked for a moment. "Several of these prisoners haven't been questioned yet. They might have valuable information. It's not good policy to lose them before they've been interrogated."

Snape studied him. "That's why I'm here. I've come to take Ron Weasley for interrogation."

Ginny struggled to her hands and knees and crawled towards Ron.

"That's good," Percy said slowly. "You should interrogate him." He crossed his arms over his thin undershirt and frowned. "You'll send your report directly to me?"

Snape tensed. "If I'm still here in the morning. I've other duties to attend to once this storm breaks. I'll send it to Azkaban by the end of the week."

"But I'm seeing the warden tomorrow morning. If I don't have something to—" He stopped, pressing his lips together for a moment. "I should observe the interrogation. Supervise."

Snape looked him up and down. "You're rather underdressed to be supervising anyone."

Percy flushed, glancing back at the guards. "They took my robe, and they won't…"

Percy was slipping away again, when he'd come so close. But he couldn't tolerate embarrassment. Ron cleared his throat. He could at least spare him a little humiliation. "Like with Fred and George," he rasped. "Remember?"

Percy's face cleared. He muttered a spell, and his underclothes lengthened along his arms and legs, slowly darkening to a navy blue. The twins had a penchant for sneaking up behind their brothers and vanishing their trousers at inopportune moments. Even if they weren't adept at transfiguration, they all learnt to adapt their mum's hem-lengthening and dyeing charms.

Percy brushed down his new trousers and let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing.

Ginny crawled close and collapsed next to Ron. He put his arm around her shoulders, the damp material of her prison uniform sticking to his fingers. They both stared at Percy. Ron knew how pathetic they must look. But he hoped Percy could see past that, to simply know what he was thinking. Remember what home felt like? He could see Percy standing in that summer grass, close enough to touch. He reached out his hand.

Percy took in a sharp breath, his eyes glimmering.

But then the light faded. "I have to report to the warden in the morning." Percy's voice was thin and pleading. He glanced at the guards, gave a small shake of his head, and stepped back. Dropping his gaze, he fussed with his sleeves. "The interrogation rooms are on the first level, I think."

The warmth disappeared, leaving behind a dull, hollow pain. He was beyond shivering, the coldness sinking deeper. It felt like he would never be warm again. He closed his eyes and groaned. Who needed dementors when he had Percy?

Snape's eyes narrowed. "I've not yet agreed to your attendance. I require neither your suggestions nor your supervision."

Ginny tapped Ron's arm. She was trying to say something. He pulled himself closer. She traced her tattoo of a stylized sun in sharp angles and pressed her finger against his chest. Warmth radiated through him, chasing away the chill.

"… Multiple reports I can file," Percy told Snape. "Each will require a formal response on your part…"

Ginny collapsed to the floor, her head by Ron's ear. "Sirius," she rasped.

"Yes, fine." Snape eyed Percy with distaste. "Tag along, if you must."

Ginny gripped Ron's shoulder, whispering insistently. "Don't let him use legilimency on Sirius."

Ron shook his head. "I don't think I–"

"Do what you can. It's important." Ginny squeezed his shoulder. "You've always done so much more than you thought you could."

Snape stared down at them. "Another family reunion?"

Ginny stiffened and shook off his arm with a growl. "Just trying to get my fool brother to take the work seriously." Her eyes flicked to Percy. "I'm ashamed to be called your sister." She quickly turned back to Ron and gave him a solid smack to the head.

"Ow! Bloody hell, Ginny."

"Sibling squabbles, is it?" Snape's gaze moved slowly across her tattooed arms. "Surprising that you survived the dementor."

Ginny stared back at him, her eyes wide and vacant. "There was a dementor?"

Snape ignored her and focused on Ron. "Up you get."

His stomach clenched. He'd heard of Death Eaters' growing skills in interrogation through legilimency. He used the wall to drag himself up to standing and flexed his hands. Still functioning, thankfully. They even felt stronger than they had this morning.

Snape gestured to the stairwell. "Shall we?"

At the stairwell, the stone steps spiraled away into the darkness. Ron's legs wobbled just looking at them, but there was nothing for it. He made his way down.

"If you would simply submit the proper interrogation reports…" Percy continued.

"I'm a minister and you are not, despite the fond nickname the guards have given you…"

Blimey, these two squabbled worse than grindylows over a trout. Much more of this and he'd crack without interrogation.

"If you're so interested in interrogations, why don't you simply apply for training in legilimency?"

Percy was silent.

Snape's voice could have dried the dripping walls. "Rejected, were you?"

"Only those with certain experience are admitted—"

"Only the most trusted of the Dark Lord, you mean. It appears your relationship isn't as close as you thought."

Please shut up, Ron thought desperately. He didn't want to hear how Percy wanted to drill into the minds of innocent prisoners, how he scrambled to get close to Voldemort. It had all been so much easier to bear when Percy wasn't right behind him, saying these things. When he was just a memory he could direct his anger at. Now he couldn't work out what he was feeling. He only knew it was a pressure in his chest, threatening to crush him.

The steel door at the bottom of the stairwell opened to the sounds of piercing howls. Oppressively dank air settled on him, and water gushed somewhere ahead. He shivered. "What is that?"

Snape's voice was dark. "The Bath."

A scattering of torches weakly penetrated the darkness. After they passed through an archway, the corridor opened into a large chamber. The howls increased in intensity. A figure crouched over a large grate in the floor, his wand moving frantically. The dim light slowly revealed other figures. Two guards stood to the side with their arms crossed. "Level's rising again," one said.

Ron drew closer to the hunched figure. It was Sirius. A shackle chained his leg to the bars, and he held a prison-issue wand, identical to the ones they'd used to repair the walls above. Sirius cast spell after spell, but not at his shackle or the guards. He directed them through the grate.

On the other side of the grate, a wolf thrashed in the quickly rising water. Its eyes bulged, and foam clung to its panting mouth.

It took a moment for Ron to connect the dots. Not a wolf—a werewolf. "Oh, hell." His voice broke. "Remus."

Sirius didn't acknowledge him. He was entirely focused on the pit below, his wandwork never stopping. He siphoned away water and the level inside the pit dropped, only to surge upwards again. His shirt lay discarded on the floor, and darkening bruises and cuts covered his tattooed back. Sweat-soaked hair plastered his greying face.

"Very focused, don't you think, Combs?" one guard said to his companion.

Combs nodded. "Hope he doesn't get distracted." He grinned and launched a loose stone at Sirius.

The stone struck Sirius on his shoulder, breaking the skin. Blood trickled out, joining dried rivulets running down his arms and back. He stumbled forwards onto the grate, but his wand never stopped moving.

"I think he's done well. He deserves a reward. What do you think, Black? Want to go free?"

Sirius didn't turn to look at them.

"I don't think he believes you, Barrow," Combs said. "Traitor like him thinks he'll have to fight his way out. Maybe we should give him a sporting chance." Combs cast a spell, and the shackle fell away from Sirius's leg. "There you go, Black. Want to give it a shot? All those wide-open spaces up top. I bet you miss those. We'll just hang round here and see if a werewolf can hold its breath."

For a second, Sirius stopped and stared at the werewolf below. Then he settled himself and cast again.

This was why Ginny was so insistent that they not show affection for each other. He imagined Ginny in that pit while he strained to keep her alive. Despite all the cruelty he'd seen during the war, the Combs and Barrows of the world always found new depths of depravity.

There had to be something he could do to stop this. He needed a wand. A real wand. He'd gotten Snape's wand away from him before. He just needed to follow it in whatever direction it flew. But Snape was close enough to hear, so Ron whispered his wandless spell. "Expelliarmus."

Nothing happened. And it dawned on him why the guards insisted on prisoners using those terrible wands. It was a good way to keep them from developing wandless magic. He had to put every bit of his energy and focus into channeling his magic through the wand. The trick to wandless magic—besides lots and lots of practice—was that it was effortless. You had to forget all the focused attention on a wand and find the natural magic in the body's movements. But he'd spent the entire day relentlessly focused on a wand. It was hard to switch gears, and his exhaustion wasn't helping.

Ron glanced at his interrogators, who now stood on either side of him. Snape watched with something flickering in his eyes. Percy stood with his mouth open and his wand hanging loose.

The hell with wandless magic. He kicked a pebble sideways, and it clattered into the darkness. Startled, Percy turned, following the sound. Ron seized Percy's wand and cast quickly. His magic flowed through the wand, smooth as butter. It was beautiful.

The water level plummeted. He ran towards the pit, casting evanesco again and again.

Snape shouted a stunning spell, and Ron dodged, never letting up on his vanishing spells. But as he approached the pit, his wobbly legs faltered. His vanishing spell hit the grate instead. The grate disappeared, and he plunged headfirst into the pit.

He hit the rising water, his whole body locking up as the coldness grabbed him. Forcing himself to move, he twisted and splashed until his feet found the floor and he could push himself upright. His hand had locked up, too, still clenching the wand.

Two hatches faced him on opposite sides of the pit. The larger one was sealed tight. The other was open and the source of the frigid water rapidly gushing in. Ron cast a spell to close it, but it was stuck tight to the wall. Of course.

Something snarled behind him. Ron swallowed and turned round.

The water was shallow enough that the werewolf could keep its hind feet braced on the floor. Despite its wet fur, it raised its hackles as its gaze bored into him.

"Hi, Remus," Ron said weakly. "Remember me?"

Purple-black lips drew back, revealing glistening fangs.

Drowned or eaten. Tough choice.

The werewolf dove towards him. Ron turned his wand to the side and vanished the remaining water.

Remus, unprepared for the change, lunged too hard and missed Ron, slamming into the wall.

Ron rolled away and cast a stunning spell. Remus collapsed, his massive body thudding against the stone floor. Water was already pouring in again. He aimed at the sealed hatch on the opposite wall. It tore off and flew to the other side, covering the open hole. He stuck it in place and the flow of water finally stopped.

For a moment, all was quiet. Ron sat in the pool of remaining water, taking deep breaths. Then a soft slithering sound emanated from the newly open hole. A swarm of tentacles emerged, attached to the red, bulbous faces of four dementors.

Ron didn't know if the sudden despair he felt was from the dementors or his own rotten luck. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

He was so tired. Bone-achingly, head-splittingly tired. He got to his feet and prepared to attempt another patronus. But then something warm enveloped him, and he was lifted off his feet and out of the pit.

Sirius was levitating him, grinding his teeth, the muscles on his wand arm standing out like ropes. As soon as Ron's feet touched the floor, Sirius collapsed, wand falling from his hand.

Ron wanted to go to him, but he spun and cast a levitating and freezing charm. The remaining water in the pit froze into sharp daggers and shot directly into the rising dementors.

They shrieked and flailed, dragging the daggers out with their tentacles.

Ron attacked them again, but they whipped out the ice as fast as he could cast it. He could feel his strength waning, even with a real wand.

A shining silver figure jumped past him, and he sagged with relief. Sirius had managed a patronus. "Thanks." He turned, but Sirius was still semi-conscious on the floor. He glanced back at the patronus, and realized it wasn't the silver dog he'd expected. It was–

"No need to thank me." Snape stepped next to Ron, his gaze never leaving the pit. The silver doe tossed its head, and the dementors retreated to their hatch. "Simply ensuring your foolishness doesn't leave Azkaban overrun with dementors." He twisted his wand, and a duplicate of the hatch cover appeared, fitting tightly into place over the hole. Chains hanging from the nearby wall lengthened and wove together, forming a net over the pit.

Remus roused himself a bit, whimpering. The dementors had bypassed the werewolf, but he'd likely been hurt when he slammed into the wall.

Ron knelt in front of the chain-link net. "Remus, are you all right?"

Remus leapt, far higher than any wolf could manage. Claws tore at the chains. One of the heavily rusted links broke off, and a chain slipped apart. He leapt again, thrusting his upper body through the gap, his sharp teeth snapping.

Ron fell back, just escaping the jaws from clamping onto his leg.

Snape strode forwards, slashing his wand. An iron muzzle wrapped around the werewolf's snout. More chains appeared and wrapped around his legs.

"Stop," Sirius said, still laid out on the floor, his eyes unfocused. "He won't be able to swim." He shivered. "I can't… The dementors…"

It's all right," Ron assured him. "I've sealed off the water. And the dementors are gone."

"Quite." Snape held out his palm to Ron, fingers twitching impatiently.

Does he expect me to shake his bloody hand in gratitude? Then Ron realized what he wanted, and he was in no position to refuse. Sighing, he handed over Percy's wand.

Percy stepped forwards eagerly, but Snape pocketed the wand, eyeing Percy distastefully. "Secure the prisoners in the interrogation room first. I suspect your wand is less likely to end up in your brother's hand when I'm in possession of it."

"What's that supposed to mean? It was an accident," Percy insisted. "I was looking at…" He stared at the pit and swallowed. "He took me by surprise."

"And you failed to cast anti-theft charms on your wand once you arrived? You knew you would be surrounded by desperate prisoners. Is that not written in one of your handbooks?" He shook his head. "Sadly, there's no handbook to instruct idiots on common sense." He directed his wand at Ron.

Ropes wrapped around Ron's arms and pulled them behind his back. Sirius was next, his eyes opening fully as the ropes tightened.

Combs looked at Barrow. "Get a few more guards down here. Looks like these traitors need taught a lesson."

"Ministers have priority with interrogations, and I need to interrogate all three."

Combs frowned at Snape. "How're you going to interrogate a werewolf?"

Snape sighed heavily. "It's the last night of the full moon. The best time to interrogate him will be in a few hours, when he's human and weakened by three nights of transformation."

"He's supposed to be in solitary for the full week—"

"He's not in solitary now." Snape ground his teeth. "I've waited five days to interrogate him. If any more of my time is wasted, I may need to look more thoroughly into how much free time the guards have here. It's generally a sign of redundant staff. Perhaps cuts are needed."

Barrow and Combs glanced at each other. "We'll take the wolf back to his cell," Combs said. "He'll be ready in the morning."

Snape turned to Sirius. "Hear that, Black? Your little friend will be nice and safe in his cell. I think you should thank me as well."

Sirius looked up at Snape with utter hatred in his eyes. "Ron saved him. You shouldn't even be here. You should be torn to bits in the Shrieking Shack. Tell me, did you ever thank James for saving your worthless life?"

Snape snarled and slashed the air with his wand. Sirius fell to the floor, unconscious.

**

Ron and Sirius were both thrown on the floor of an interrogation cell. Ron instinctively tried to throw his arms out to break his fall, but they were bound tightly. He landed on his tailbone, the shockwave shooting through his spine.

Snape tapped a wall torch with his wand. "Weather report."

The fire turned green, and a face peered out. "Storm's tapering off a bit. But the barges still can't—"

Snape shut off the firecall before the other finished and paced the room. "Five days."

Right, no barges could get through the storm. So Snape wasn't just hanging round to question Remus. He was stuck here, too. Ha. "Five whole days." He gave a low whistle. "Have you started scratching hash marks on the wall?"

Snape glared at him. "I've responsibilities far more important than wasting my time here."

"Sorry to keep you from the wife and kids."

Sirius laughed mirthlessly. "As if Snape would ever have a wife and kids. We had a spell back at Hogwarts that turned a person green if they were still a virgin. Snivellus spent the day matching his house colors. I'd wager he's still never known the touch of a woman."

Something odd passed over Snape's face, but it was gone quickly. "Still tallying notch marks on the bedpost like a pubescent teenager, Black? It's unfortunate that witches your age have matured beyond quick fumbles in the rose bushes. No girls following you now, are there?"

Sirius glared. "Not many dates in Azkaban. What's your excuse, other than your looks and personality?"

Snape's eyes gleamed. "Shall we start the interrogation with you?" he asked, his voice oily.

Percy's face shifted from wary to eager. "How does legilimency work?"

"It's a simple incantation. The difficulty is in interpreting the thoughts and memories you perceive. The mind is complex, with layers and contradictions." Snape glanced at Sirius. "Assuming the subject has any brains at all."

Ron breathed sharply. This is what Ginny had been worried about. Sirius wouldn't talk under questioning, not even with torture. But if he had important information in his head, he wouldn't be able to hide it. He needed to get their attention away from Sirius. He snorted, all bravado. "We've kept all sorts of things from interrogators. Doesn't seem like that spell works at all. Or maybe you lot just aren't very good at it."

Snape only gave him a disinterested glance. It briefly reminded him of his old classes. Once Snape locked onto someone he disliked—Harry, usually—he bore down until he got whatever reaction he was looking for. Hermione had often tried to distract him, but it rarely worked.

He started spinning wildly. "It was common knowledge in the resistance. None of us even worried about interrogation once word got out how easy it was to fool you." Come on, then. Stick your stupid magic in my head.

Snape was unmoved. "We'll start with Black." His eyes glinted. "Although I suppose a bit of practice is in order first." He turned to Percy. "I'll cast the spell on you to show the basic mechanisms at work."

"Wait." Percy raised his hand, palm out. "I don't think that's necessary."

"As a specialist in the art, I'll decide what's necessary for proper instruction." Snape raised an eyebrow. "But if you wish simply to observe, you may do so. I'll note in my report that you were offered an opportunity to advance to a coveted station and refused."

Percy got a familiar look in his eyes, and Ron's heart sank. Percy couldn't resist the pull of his own ambition.

Snape proceeded with his instruction, stopping often to cast the spell on Percy. He seemed far more interested in demonstrating his own legilimency skills than letting Percy try it. Soon Percy was backed into a corner, gritting his teeth as Snape grilled him on the differences in technique.

The git couldn't help himself. Years after Hogwarts, and he still lectured like he was in his potions classroom, acting like he held the secrets of the universe in that overinflated head of his. But Ron listened carefully to the paltry bit of instruction Snape offered in between insults and lofty statements about his own abilities. Maybe there was a way to resist legilimency. He vaguely remembered something about that.

He turned to Sirius, nudging his shoulder. "Didn't Hermione say there was a counter-spell to these interrogations? Occupancy?"

"Occlumency. Never learnt it. Could do without my family's dark spells." Sirius shook his head. "Think we've got a chance to overpower them? You got Percy's wand from him once."

"Right, but Snape has it now."

"Snape's not as strong as he pretends."

Snape hadn't noticed their conversation. He was focused on Percy, coldly mocking him, while Percy struggled to keep his composure. Snape's wand was out, his arm slightly raised as if already preparing to cast.

"Yeah," Ron said faintly. "Bet he falls apart all the time."

The darkness in Sirius's eyes deepened. "He used to."

Ron struggled in his bonds, but they didn't budge. "If we can't get a wand, what then? Do you know any wandless spells?"

"You do. Expelliarmus."

"It's no good." His throat tightened. "You know what it's like using those prison wands. I'm all used up."

"You're not." Sirius looked at him steadily. "They work hard to break you down here. Don't let them. You're stronger than this place. You have to be."

"Another inspiring speech, Black?" Snape had finished his instruction or dressing down or whatever it was, and he and Percy approached them. Snape returned Percy's wand to him as he eyed Sirius. "Don't you ever tire of hearing yourself talk?"

"Don't you? Then again, it must be difficult to speak much when you're on your knees, servicing Voldemort."

Snape's lip curled. "Charming." He turned to Percy. "Black would never lower himself to learn the mind magic passed down in his family. You should be able to break into his mind as easily as a child's."

Sirius stared back stonily, but his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Snape cast a spell, and it pushed Sirius onto his knees. Another forced his head up. Percy hovered eagerly.

Shite. They were still going to start with Sirius. Ron fished for something to say. "Ask me a question, then. I'm not afraid of you." For once, his complete lack of knowledge about what was going on was an advantage.

"You don't know anything," Percy said haughtily. "You weren't the leader of your rebellion. You've never been anybody important."

He couldn't believe he'd once looked up to Percy. That he'd been so determined to be in Gryffindor so he wouldn't disappoint him and his other brothers. "Merlin, what is wrong with you? Dad died because of people like Snape. The people we've been fighting. And now you're going to help him? Find out what we know and use it against us?" His anger had kept him steady, but now a raw hurt rose to the surface. He felt his eyes sting, and he hated himself for it. "Dad died, and you didn't even come to the funeral. You just dove deeper into the Ministry. You should've seen Mum's face when she got your message. Dad loved you, and you couldn't be bothered."

Percy rounded on him, his eyes wide and his mouth twisted. "Dad never would have died if he hadn't joined your cause. He would have been home, safe, instead of alone, protecting some useless prophecy."

"For Merlin's sake, Voldemort killed Dad. Have you not put that together? He was torn apart by snake bites. Know anyone who has a pet snake?"

"Those bites could have been from anything! And anyway, prophecies can only be taken by whoever the prophecy is about. The security charms showed no wizard entered the Department of Mysteries. What do you think, that Nagini stole a prophecy that wasn't even about her?"

Ron frowned. They'd never quite figured out the sequence of events that night. Nagini shouldn't have been able to take that prophecy, even if she was Voldemort's pet. Even house-elves couldn't steal prophecies for their masters. "Voldemort probably came along after—"

"He would have been detected." Percy rubbed his forehead. "I can't go over this again. You act like I'm the one who cut the family off, but none of you would speak to me after Dad died. If I hadn't had my work to focus on, I would've gone mad."

Ron remembered. They'd heard through others that he was always at his desk, working feverishly. He claimed he couldn't come to the funeral because of work responsibilities. Ron had been disgusted. It hadn't occurred to him it was his way of coping. "I didn't know."

"Don't let him get to you, Ron," Sirius said. "It was the same with my brother. Always full of excuses for why he had to support the pureblood cause. I tried to get through to him, but it was hopeless. And my parents—I didn't even bother. Be glad you have a father you can be proud of. Better to die for a cause than live as a simpering toady."

Anger flashed in Percy's eyes. "You don't know anything about my father. You and your stupid cause. You think he's some noble martyr, but if Dad had just put his energy into proper Ministry channels, like I've done—"

"Percy," Ron said. "Dad would've wanted you to—"

Percy swung his wand, and the wall next to Ron exploded in chips of stone. He felt a sting and a trickle of blood on his cheek.

"Don't act like you know what Dad would've wanted. If you'd listened to me, if you'd supported the Ministry, then Dad would be here, and he could tell me himself. Fred and George could've…" He stopped and swallowed. "Our whole family would've been safe."

"Because you're purebloods," Sirius said. "What about everyone else? They can go hang?" Sirius couldn't move much in the position he'd been forced into, but he managed a bitter laugh. "You're better because of who your grandparents were. I know that logic. I came from a family with that logic. Turning my back on them was the best thing I ever did."

It hurt, but it was something he needed to hear. Sirius was right. Percy might have moments where his conscience forced him to act. But he hadn't acted when the news was filled with reports of muggles and muggleborns disappearing. He'd chosen his side. Percy might not even try to save him next time. "None of us are going to choose safe over doing what's right," he told Percy. "You would know that, if you were really family."

Percy raised his nose, a sure sign he was going into lecture mode, and Ron couldn't stand it. "Oh, shut it. I can't hear more about how we should've hidden away while our world was destroyed. Only you would think like that." He caught Snape watching him and stuck his chin out. "The both of you. Slunk off to the other side the first chance you got. Traitors. Cowards."

Snape stepped closer. "Watch your mouth," he hissed.

"I'll say what I want. I'm not like you, with your lies and schemes."

"Ah, yes. Gryffindors, so honest and true." Snape's voice turned silky. "But I suspect you have a few things you're not forthright about. The location of all your bases, for instance? Perhaps I should take a stroll through your memories."

Hell. He'd thought he didn't have any information worth having, but Hermione might be at one of those bases. She could be caught unawares.

Snape was staring directly into his eyes. Hadn't he said something to Percy about eye contact? Ron turned his face away.

"Tut, tut, Mr Weasley. Who's a coward now? There'll be no hiding from me. So determined to be brave when all you are is reckless. Endangering everyone around you so you can hide from your own mediocrity. But not to worry. I'm sure I can find memories to enlighten you. I'll keep at it all night if I have to."

Drowning, werewolf, dementors. He'd been through hell, but it was the prickling of Snape's words that spiked his terror. He forced his head up and stared back at Snape. "I'm not afraid of you."

"No? Let's see." Black eyes bored into his, and his thoughts rippled as something pushed through.

In the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of green. The torch. A voice called out. "Minister Snape? You said to inform you when there was a change. The storm's let up and moved to the east. A barge is on its way and—"

The presence in his mind vanished. Snape whipped around and rapped on the torch base. "Top floor." With a pinch of powder, he disappeared into the flame.

Percy stood there gaping. "Wait! What about my lessons in interrogation? What about Lupin? You said you wanted to…" He trailed off as the flame returned to a glowing yellow-orange.

Ron stared at the flame. "Huh. Maybe he does have a wife and kids."

Sirius wriggled slightly in his body-bind. "So, are you still going to interrogate me, or…?"

Percy glared at him and rattled on the door until Combs appeared. Combs glanced at Ron and Sirius. "What d'you want to do with them?"

"Put them in their cells until I… prepare my questions," Percy said.

Combs frowned. "We've just gotten a message. They need extra men on the work crew on level three."

"Fine, then." Percy stomped out.

Combs locked the door again and called for reinforcements, leaving Sirius and Ron alone.

"Thanks for the distraction," Sirius said.

"Sure." Ron paused. "Was it obvious?"

"A little too obvious, mate."

Ron shook his head. "Ginny said to keep you from being interrogated. What, are you a leader of a resistance again? You haven't been here that long."

"Thought I'd try again. Make up for my past mistakes. I'm remembered as the great glorious leader of the war, for all the good I did." He sighed. "There'll eventually be another interrogator. What do we do then?"

"What we always do," Ron said. "Put our heads together and work something out. I probably shouldn't ask, but—what are you planning?"

Sirius stared ahead grimly. "I'm not spending another twelve years here. And neither is anyone else. We're breaking out."

Chapter Text

Severus Snape

Severus apparated to the walled garden at Spinner's End and stopped, staring at his house. The back door was ajar.

Days of dealing with the Weasleys, and now this. Ron Weasley could certainly give Potter a run for his money on reckless self-endangerment. Shattered arms, drowned, nearly torn apart by a werewolf. He'd had his hands full subtly casting healing charms and slipping him potions without being detected. But the information he'd gleaned from Percy's mind would prove fruitful—he hoped. He'd have to visit the Ministry tomorrow to verify what he'd seen. Hermione's horcrux search might be over sooner than she'd imagined.

Assuming he didn't spend the next few days tracking Potter down. Or nursing him back to health after he'd been left with one day's worth of food for the past five days. He checked the wards. Still firm around the garden walls, and no sign of anyone entering or leaving the property. The wards unfortunately didn't keep out the biting night air. The storms that had raged across England and the North Sea had brought a sharp drop in temperature. He flexed his numb fingers around his wand. If Potter had escaped in nothing but a nightshirt—but he was getting ahead of himself. Gather evidence, not assumptions.

He nudged the door wider with his wand. The moonlight from the window cast blue-grey shadows over the kitchen. Opened cans of beans and soup littered the kitchen floor. The tension in his shoulders eased. Potter had survived for five years in a dungeon cell. It was a small matter to live alone for a few days in a row house.

But that left the problem of Potter wandering free in the house for five days. He'd warded the kitchen to prevent Potter entering, and that ward had clearly been broken. He checked for other changes. The cans offered very little scent to indicate how fresh they were—Potter no doubt licked them clean. No sign whether that was today or five days ago. He could have escaped mere hours after Severus's departure. Or he could still be in the house. He eased open the utensil drawer, careful not to cause any rattling. Two knives were missing. Grimly, he crept forwards, cracking open the door to the front room.

The window on this side of the house gave far less light, and the dark shapes hid in the shadows. From memory, he knew the large shape to the right was the sofa, and the dark spaces to the left held his writing desk and armchair. He waited and listened. Something scraped against the floor and moved behind the sofa, briefly outlined in the feeble light.

Severus stared at the figure, debating. The safest course was to cast incarcerous first, immobilizing Potter before revealing his presence. But one reason he let Potter wander freely was to establish some measure of trust between them. Trapping him unawares would set them back. He could cast lumos and simply greet Potter, perhaps apologize…well, no, he wouldn't apologize. Apologies were for deep regrets and keeping the Dark Lord appeased. But he could explain he was unavoidably delayed. Allow Potter to approach him.

He debated a moment, but he simply couldn't allow Potter that much of an advantage. "Incarcerous." Ropes flew across the room and disappeared into the shadows. The figure disappeared behind the sofa and thumped to the floor. Severus turned on the lights and rounded the sofa.

Chair lay on its side, helplessly wiggling its legs amid a tangle of ropes. Severus frowned and released it, setting it upright again. Chair's movements dislodged an empty can from underneath the sofa. It rolled with a hollow metallic sound, stopping at Snape's feet. The edge glistened wetly. Freshly eaten. Potter was still here.

Something shuffled behind him. He turned. The world went black.

**

He woke to a pounding headache and muscles spasming up his ribs and arms. Shifting slightly, he tried to move to a more comfortable position, and something tightened painfully around his wrists and ankles.

He looked up blearily. Ropes bound his wrists and pulled his arms tightly above his head. He stared uncomprehendingly at a bookcase that appeared to be attached to the ceiling until he reoriented himself and the room shifted into place. His body was stretched across the front room's floorboards, thick ropes stuck to the floor and binding his arms and legs in opposite directions.

Adrenaline surged, and his mind cleared. Potter. He clenched his teeth to hold back the string of foul curses flooding his mouth. Potter had attacked him again. This was worse than a quill to the ankle. This was… The anger inside him turned cold. This was helplessness.

He flexed his arms. If he strained, he could move a few centimeters. His wand was nowhere to be seen, and useless anyway without freedom of movement. He had nowhere near the mastery of Dumbledore or the Dark Lord with wandless spells, but he knew a few. He tried an unbinding spell and felt a now-familiar resistance. His own incarcerous spell altered and turned against him.

Dragging noises came from the other side of the room, but the sofa blocked his view. He turned his head, trying to follow the sound. A set of hands and knees shuffled past the gap under the sofa, followed by a clattering set of wooden legs.

On the other side of him, an assortment of objects bordered the front door and exterior walls. A stack of books with protective charms he'd left about the house, outside of the wards on his shelves. Strips of yellowed paper—whirligigs his mother had made to amuse him as a child. Potion ingredients he'd kept in the kitchen, a self-filling inkwell, that battered tray of the queen's coronation.

All charmed or magically altered objects, he realized. And not as haphazard as they initially looked. Potter had stacked some objects in narrow towers, others lined up in rows along the floor. The cups and plates that Severus had transfigured and mended dotted the outer walls. A line of self-writing quills swooped through the lines. The arrangement looked like rune marks, but he couldn't identify them from this angle. His mother had told him she'd written runes under the floorboards when she first set the wards on the house.

Potter crawled to the front door on his knees, his hands carrying more objects. He placed them carefully, slowly turning each one as he studied the door. He looked no skinnier than usual. A bit more color in his cheeks. He wore a shirt and trousers from Severus's teenage years, but no shoes. Severus kept his wellies and spare boots in his bedroom. Perhaps Potter hadn't broken those wards. But he was clearly preparing to leave the house.

"I've had more than enough of you," Severus growled. "Untie me, and I'll release the wards myself, just to be rid of you."

Potter glanced back at him. His eyes glinted, like a fox slipping through a trap. He went back to work on the door.

He sagged against the ropes. No, he hadn't expected that to work.

Dust, stirred by his movements, rose and stung his eyes and throat. He coughed and spit out the gritty residue. His heart thudded to a rhythm he knew well—the thump-thump of approaching death. Potter had tried to kill him before and wouldn't hesitate now. The only question was if he planned a quick death or a slow one. The fact that he was tied to the floor did not suggest a merciful end.

Closing his eyes, he drew his swirling emotions behind the thick walls of occlumency. He'd faced death many times before. He expected it, sooner or later, as much as he dreaded it. There were few long-lived Death Eaters. But something new unsettled him. The thought of Potter crawling out that door filled him with a terror he couldn't explain.

A single word rose in his throat: please. He swallowed it down. Never. He would never beg in front of a Potter. He could count on one hand the number of times he had begged in the last decade, and those had all been for show, to give the Dark Lord the performance he wanted. Beg for forgiveness. And he had. All to keep his position, to save others. But beg Potter? Beg for his miserable life? Never. He'd rather die.

But he wasn't dead yet. He may not have his wand, but he had his wits. He tightened the walls of his occlumency and found his most reasonable voice. "How do you expect to survive? The weather's turned cold enough that even the strays have found shelter. How long since you've gone outside? You can't walk, can't talk. We're in the middle of a muggle town. You'll find no charmed objects out there to use for magic. Or do you plan to cart the contents of my house around with you?"

Potter produced the shopping bag Severus had spelled with an extension charm. He loaded books into it, far more than should fit, even with the charm. Then he sidled over to the warded bookshelves and ran his hand along the sides, his head bowed. A crackle of magic jumped from the objects across the floor, one to the next, until it reached the shelves. Potter waited a moment, then reached for a book. His hand moved through unimpeded.

The wards to the kitchen and bookshelves had been broken now. How long before the house wards fell? He'd thought they would be impossible for Potter to break, but Potter had the unfortunate habit of proving him wrong. He was going to defy him again. Endanger his life again. "Potter, you've been shut away. You've no idea how the world works. You don't trust me"—he took a long breath—"obviously, but you would do well to heed me. When you followed your own brainless instincts, you ended up a prisoner. I took you out of the dungeons. I healed you." Little thanks that he'd got for it. "Two things you couldn't manage by yourself. Listen to me, for once in your life."

Potter stopped in the process of carting books over to his bag and scooted close to Severus. Looking down at him mockingly, he tapped the ropes holding Severus in place. He rifled through an out-of-date book on the flora and fauna of Azkaban and pointed out three words on different pages:

Who

Prisoner

Now

Severus felt like raging. "Yes, so clever you are. How far do you think you'll get? So much empty land in the North. Empty land and wide-open skies. Far worse than my garden, and you couldn't make it through my back door without pissing yourself in fear."

Potter flushed and lurched close, snapping his teeth.

Only the tight ropes kept Severus from flinching back. Another inch closer and Potter would have taken off his earlobe.

Crawling back to the door, Potter stared moodily at the scattered objects. After a moment's hesitation, he picked up a small wooden box.

Severus recognized it. A music box his mother had charmed. A pattern slowly emerged. The objects were in clusters, grouped by who had charmed them: himself or his mother. The ones charmed by others had been set aside. Two magical signatures that created the wards over the house.

Unraveling others' magic. Potter wasn't simply a magpie, collecting random objects. He collected magic, reweaving it to suit his purposes. It made sense, and yet it didn't. Why didn't Potter simply take his wand and break out directly? He may not know the exact spells, but channeling his new magic through a wand would give him the power to blast his way through a weak point, if nothing else. Not that he was about to give Potter tips.

Potter set the music box down carefully, creating patterns only he could make sense of. He let out a breath and returned to his books.

My books, Severus corrected. Bloody thief.

A sneeze caught him off guard, erupting in his mouth. A fur-tipped tail brushed his temple, followed by a curious rowr.

Potter froze. Turned.

Severus tried to catch sight of the orange creature. Make yourself useful, cat. Perform whatever magic gets you in and out of my house and transport me out of here.

Crookshanks padded in front of Severus, rubbed his face against his nose, and purred.

He spent the next minute sneezing loudly, his head knocking against the floor. Malicious animal. I hope you go to a hell filled with dogs and wet grass.

Potter approached cautiously, stopping a few feet away. His eyes widened, their usual hard look melting away, and his face opened.

Crookshanks swished his tail.

Potter touched him gently, fingertips barely touching the thick fur.

Severus let out a breath. He had no explanation for Hermione's cat visiting his house. His activities as a spy weren't exposed, though. Potter didn't know about the messages passed between himself and the resistance.

Potter stiffened, his gaze darting to Severus. His face slowly transformed, his half-smile disappearing, his mouth parting.

It occurred to him that there was one obvious conclusion: he'd obtained Crookshanks as a trophy. A common hobby among Death Eaters after a resistance member was killed. Wearing pilfered jewelry or displaying wands, proud ornaments of their depravity.

Turning, Potter pressed his face into the wall, his shoulders shaking. A low groan rose, louder and louder, until it was a howl. The scream echoed through the room, broken and twisted.

It chilled his blood. "Potter, it's not what it looks like." He hesitated, unsure what to say. Reveal or obscure? Honesty or lies? Killed by Potter now, for one of the few crimes he didn't commit, or later, by the Dark Lord, when Potter was inevitably captured and interrogated? Potter had an instinct for occlumency, but how likely was he to hide anything Severus told him? It was the most important lesson he'd learnt in school—any personal embarrassment he confided or spell he shared always wound its way back to James Potter and his gang and was used against him. His secrets only stayed secrets when he kept them to himself.

And there was Hermione to consider. Perhaps his life was forfeit, but revealing his connection to Hermione put her at risk. He could be used as bait to draw her out. Still, a minister and Death Eater could plausibly know many things about the leader of the resistance. Perhaps he could turn this to his advantage. "Yes, I have information on Miss Granger. I'll tell you what I know, if you release me—"

Potter's howl rose, even more anguished. He clawed at his ears, drawing blood.

Severus raised his voice, determined to get through to him. "I didn't kill her. She was last seen—"

Potter growled and lunged, covering Severus's mouth with his hands, fingers digging into his cheeks.

That was clear enough. No more talk of Hermione. Still, his wits had saved his skin more than once, and he couldn't resist one more attempt, once Potter removed his fingers. "If you cooperate, perhaps I can find her, arrange a meeting—"

Potter slammed a book down, inches from his face, making his ear ring.

He pulled the book back up and flipped through it, fingers licking the pages frantically, until he pointed at a word, then another:

Lie. Dead.

His heart rate ticked up. "I assure you, she's very much alive."

Lie.

"Just give me a day, and I can show you—"

He spun, slamming against the bookshelves in his fury. Knickknacks tumbled down. A glass jar shattered on the floor. Chair danced nervously, nudging Potter with a leg. Potter hissed at it, and it skittered into a corner. He slumped against the shelf, panting. His expression was haunted.

Potter hadn't been this bad in a while. All hatred and rage, and Severus was somehow fueling it. He took a few deep breaths, imagining the walls of his occlumency as rows of thick, moss-covered stone, growing so heavy they sank into the ground. He buried his anger and fear behind them, sealing them inside.

But even with his emotions contained, he wouldn't calm Potter easily. Legilimency could pull emotions out of others, but Potter was too vigilant of mind magic and rarely made eye contact. He needed to draw him close. Severus waited until Potter glanced at him and then turned his head away, whispering any spell he could think of, low enough that Potter would catch a stray word here and there. Transfiguration spells, ward strengthening spells, stunning spells. He couldn't perform them wandless, but Potter didn't know that.

Potter took the bait. He scrambled closer, bringing his head close. Severus dropped his voice until it was inaudible, but moved his lips silently.

Tugging at his jaw, Potter tried to pull Severus's face towards him, pressing a cold thumb against his lips. Severus fought him for a moment, keeping up the pretense of murmuring spells. He mentally prepared himself, then abruptly faced Potter and let himself go slack.

His hands slipping, Potter fell forwards, nearly collapsing on him. His eyes widened and snapped up to meet Severus's gaze.

It was a natural reflex, and Severus was ready for it. He cast legilimens and slid into Potter's mind, silent and focused.

There was more than empty darkness this time. Fragments of thought and memories shone through, but all of them glittered with an icy rage. It took a moment to find the blankness—Potter's own wall. He knew from experience that a direct attack would be immediately detected.

Creeping along the vast expanse, he searched for cracks, knowing he had mere seconds before he was discovered, or Potter drew back. He needed to bring forth a calming, soothing memory. But every tendril he found was fraught with agony and hatred. He caught glimpses of friends, but not enough to hold on to. Nearly all of those memories were tightly sealed.

Then there was something. The smell of salt and the rumbling sea. A shoreline came into view. A family holiday, perhaps? Seagulls cried in the distance. He tugged at the memory, drawing it forwards. A crisp wind and peace. Relief. Almost happiness, but there was a sharper edge to it. He slipped into Potter's perspective, walking along a cliffside bordering the sea, absently fondling something in his pocket. He felt lighter, free of a difficulty that had been bothering him.

But the memory wasn't quite right. The thoughts had a familiar feel to them, but Potter's thoughts were disjointed, jagged, and that tinted his memories. These were smooth and hard. And there was something else. It had been a while since he'd been to the sea, but the sound of the crying seagulls rang false. Slowly, realization dawned. He'd witnessed enough as a Death Eater to know the sound of human screams.

He reeled back, and that was when Potter detected the spell. The dark wall surrounded and squeezed him, and it took all his skill to wriggle away. Those glittering cold thoughts pursued him, hooking onto his withdrawing self and invading his mind. But Severus shut him out quickly, his walls slamming closed around everything but his most surface thoughts.

Potter withdrew and studied him with a simmering gaze. Severus felt him shoving against his mental barriers and stared back, holding firm. Picking a teacup off the floor, Potter carried it over and tilted it slightly. A vial filled with liquid rested inside.

Severus froze. His potions workroom. Potter had broken the wards there, too. He had all manner of poisons and venoms in there.

Potter lifted the vial and slowly tilted it side to side, his gaze on Severus's face.

He etched patterns of notches into some potion vials, in case he were ever blinded or given hallucinogens and couldn't trust his eyes. Two thin notches and three wedge-shaped ones. That was for a mental acuity potion, to clear his thoughts and strengthen his occlumency shields. It was effective when the potion turned a clear blue and smelled of wet paper. It now smelled of burnt paper and was blood-red.

His stomach churned with sudden dread. "You can't be such a fool to believe I'll drink that concoction."

Potter raised an eyebrow in what felt like mockery. He drew closer, bringing the vial to Severus's lips.

Feeling like a recalcitrant child, Severus shut his mouth tightly and turned his face away. Potter squeezed his jaw until it throbbed. Dirty fingers dug between his lips and pressed insistently against his teeth, scratching at them, but he kept them clenched. If Potter tried to dribble that potion between his teeth, he'd spit it right in his face.

Potter sat back and blinked slowly, as if listening to something Severus couldn't hear. Then he gathered more objects. When he raised his hands again, one held an old hammer and the other a sheep's skull usually kept in the workshop.

In one brutal swing of the hammer, Potter smashed the sheep's teeth, shattering them into shards. Tooth particles showered the air, some landing on Severus's face and sticking to the sweat beading there. The skull rattled brokenly to the floor, and Potter picked up the vial again. His other hand still gripped the hammer.

Severus opened his mouth.

The potion tasted smooth and sweet, which was not a good sign. He choked on it, but Potter dug the rusty claw of the hammer into this neck, and he did his best to swallow. After thoroughly examining his mouth, Potter returned to the items gathered by the door.

Severus tried gagging, but he instilled many of his potions with antiemetics, if it didn't affect the potency. Potter clearly hadn't altered that aspect of it. Try as he might, the potion stayed down. He searched for symptoms. It almost felt… oily. As if everything inside him had become slippery and smooth. The cramps in his sides eased as the sensation slithered its way upward.

A cold wave passed through him, and he shivered. The drafts were getting in.

That door would open. He could feel it, how the walls were opening up, letting themselves breathe. Potter would soon be out. He would be captured and have his mind torn apart. If he didn't die first.

Not that it mattered to him. He'd be dead from the poison he'd just been fed, or of dehydration if he survived it. Or exposure, if Potter left the door open when he escaped. He was suddenly aware of how empty Spinner's End had become. The house he shared a wall with was abandoned, and so was the string of houses beyond that. He could shout until his throat turned raw, and no one would hear him.

He forced himself to focus before the potion took effect. Looking at the surrounding shambles, he spotted a jar that had broken when it fell, yellow liquid spilling out of it and onto the floor. Vitriol. It had been diluted, but it would still eat through his floorboards if left alone. He shifted slightly, twisting his arms so the rope binding them fell into the steaming puddle. The faint scent of burning straw wafted through the air.

Severus just needed enough time to burn through them before Potter noticed.

Potter was focused on the charmed objects piled around the front door. He studied one, then another, tossing each aside with a growl of frustration. Potter might be able to pull and manipulate the magic of others, but there was only so much magic to be had in simple charmed objects.

His confidence surged. He glanced at the rope. Nearly eaten through. The wards had weakened, but they still held. Soon he would be free. Subdue Potter, test the residue in that vial, and work on a counter-potion. He might still survive this night.

But Potter would surely hear the final snapping of the rope and his movements. Best if he's unbalanced—more so than he already was. "Perhaps it's easier to believe in your dear Miss Granger's passing. What worries you most about her survival? That she'll pity you for your sorry state? Or that she'll recoil in disgust when she sees what an angry, hateful creature you've become?"

A strangled, inhumane noise erupted from Potter's throat. The small bowl he held cracked, the pieces tumbling to the floor. He pressed his head against the wall and pounded it with his fists.

Severus yanked on the remaining threads and his arms broke free. Accio wand. He cast it silently, and his wand flew from the kitchen, knocking open the swinging door.

At the bang of the door, Potter spun. He lunged at Severus.

His wrists were still bound, but he stretched his hands apart. The wand slid into his palm and he twisted, facing Potter, casting his spell with both arms. "Incarcerous!"

Ropes spiraled out of his wand and hurtled towards Potter. Potter shot his arms out, and the ropes stopped in mid-air, looping over themselves. They reversed direction and flew back towards Severus.

Severus attempted to fire off another spell, but a thick rope caught his arm and twisted it painfully. The wand fell from his hand. Rough ropes coiled around his torso and limbs as his body grew lighter and lifted off the floor. The ropes carried him towards Potter.

His head dipped towards the floor as his legs rose, and an old memory wormed its way out of his mental walls. James Potter and Sirius Black, mocking him as they used levicorpus, humiliating him with his own spell in front of everyone. He tried to say something cutting, tried to cast a curse, but his words dried up. A chill descended, numbing his body. Not again.

But slowly he rotated, head over heels, until he was fully upside-down, his bound hands nearly touching the floor. The ropes whispered harshly as they bound him to the front door. Potter and all his friends were laughing, just like before…

No. Snape blinked, trying to stay in the present.

It was Harry Potter watching him, his thin arms crossed. He wasn't laughing. He carefully pulled out a jar from a small box. The jar was filled with a black, bubbling potion. Potter set it on the floor next to him and pushed aside a newspaper to reveal a kitchen knife that had been honed to a sharp edge.

The jar wasn't from his workroom. He had no idea what this potion might have once been, or how it had been reworked. Sweat ran from his neck and hairline, dripping off the tops of his ears. "Potter." But his wits and his words had abandoned him. "Stop for a moment. Let's talk about this."

Potter dipped the blade into the smoky liquid, then touched the ropes. They split and uncoiled from one of Severus's forearms. Potter rolled up his sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark.

He tried to pull away, but the ropes held him by the wrist. He forced himself to slow his breathing. The blood rushed into his face and arms. His head pounded. He could hear Black's laughter. Not real. But the helplessness, the humiliation—that was real. That was happening, and he couldn't escape it.

Potter pressed the blade just outside the outline of the Dark Mark.

White-hot pain seared him. Stop. You can't destroy it. You'll only activate it. He'll know. But he couldn't say the words. His jaw locked, and his teeth clenched.

Blood ran over Potter's hands and soaked into the ropes below, its metallic scent heavy in the air. The Dark Mark grew even blacker. Potter stopped cutting halfway around the Mark and ran his fingers over the incision. He held his face close, mouth open, as if tasting it.

Severus wanted to close his eyes, but he forced himself to watch as the edges of his vision blurred. His mind flashed on the image of cattle strung up in the slaughterhouse, throats slit and blood sluicing out. Muffled screams pounded against his ears. The Mark hadn't been activated, but the pain surrounding it grew, burrowing deeper into his arm.

He forced his mind away from his throbbing arm, tried to push the pain and his shuddering reaction behind those thick stone walls. But the walls were shuddering, too. Glistening oil had slipped between the stones, and now they rattled against each other like chattering teeth. Cracks splintered through them and widened into dark crevices. One stone slipped from its mooring, leaving behind a gaping hole. And then another stone, and another.

That potion, that strange oily sensation. It had slipped into his mind, threaded its way through his shields. He tried to visualize it disappearing, but it persisted, seeping from between the stones and flowing down the walls. Terrible memories slipped free, catching him in a whirlwind of terror and shame. His occlumency was disappearing, crumbling with each rivulet of blood down his arm. "Stop." He didn't recognize his own voice. Too quiet, too small. "You can't do this. I can't—"

The Dark Mark. It was bound to his magic. It gave his magic a physical form, just like the charmed objects Potter collected. But it was a far more direct and powerful outlet. The force Potter needed to break the wards and unweave his occlumency shields.

He could feel Potter now, in his mind, pulling the stones free. He tried to hold them in place, but they slipped away, leaving him grasping nothing. His thoughts scattered, completely exposed. He couldn't control them, couldn't hide them.

Death was one thing. But this. It was worse than anything James Potter had ever done to him. He thrashed with frantic energy, but the ropes held him tight. "You must be happy now," He spat. "Enjoying the show? You claim to be the hero of the wizarding world, and look at you!"

Potter raised his head. Sorrow etched lines across his face. He picked up a book, Sundews and Other Known Treacherous Plants. Dipping his finger in an inkpot, he blacked out the cover until only a few letters of the title remained visible.

No hero.

He closed his eyes and pressed a hand against the door.

The walls shifted, sighed. The door clicked open.

"Potter," he said, desperate. "You don't realize the mistake you're making. You don't—"

The ropes released Severus, and he tumbled with them onto the floor. He was struggling to get an arm free when an ink-stained book crashed down on his head.

Chapter Text

Girlishly skipping, leaping their little leaps from rock to rock.

-Goats, by Eugenio de Andrade

Hermione Granger

The black-cloaked figure had returned. He shuffled between the fallen stones of Hogwarts, stopping often to lean against them. When his way was blocked, he brandished his wand and moved the massive stones aside rather than pick his way over them. It took quite a long time before he reached the main entrance and disappeared inside.

Hermione turned away. He always stayed for hours. He was the only one who ever visited Hogwarts now. The hunched profile indicated an elderly but powerful wizard—or witch. She'd thought for a while it might be Aberforth, but Aberforth walked with a strong gait, his shoulders thrown back. Or perhaps Mcgonagall? She disappeared after they'd broken out of the prison camp, and Hermione often hoped that she'd survived, somehow.

If only she could get a closer look. The highlands overlooked Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, but the figure was little more than a small shape against the tall brown grass. A quick trip downhill would get her close enough to gauge height, at least.

But she couldn't leave. Aberforth had latched the pasture gate. She flicked her tail in irritation and trotted off.

Brigadoon had settled into the highlands above Hogsmeade as if it had always been there. Shops, houses, and cobblestone streets clustered on the plateaus and dotted the slopes, stone foundations on the side of buildings keeping them level. Raised arches stood at the end of each section, residents disappearing through one and exiting through another several crests over. Brown and white owls wheeled back and forth.

She'd gone over any mention in a history text where a witch or wizard had been transformed into an animal and had been able—without a wand, or even hands—to transform themselves back. Such an ability was rare, and no amount of visualizing such a transformation had helped her.

There wasn't any more research she could do. No books she could read, no way to study possible solutions. And she felt…

Don't think it.

She felt…

No.

…relieved. There was nothing she could do. She'd gotten caught in this strange contract while Molly and Ron had escaped, and they and Bill and Charlie would have to continue on without her, building up the resistance again and finding new battles to fight. Her part was over.

She tossed her head, shocked to hear a resigned bleat escape her mouth. She'd tried to maintain her dignity and presence of mind, but something she could only describe as goatiness crept into her. How could she mull over passages in old books when the crisp air enticed her to run, when the steep incline begged her to climb and leap?

She looked for Malfoy, only to find a pale-haired, depressed looking goat looking back at her. Didn't he feel it? Didn't he want to move this sturdy little body that somehow felt so right? How had she stumbled around on only two legs for so long? A burst of energy overcame her, and she ran to Malfoy and gave a few false starts, inviting him to race.

Malfoy backed away, his ears and tail drooping. Spoilsport.

A farmhouse stood just beyond the pasture fence. A hint of tobacco wafted through the air, and a small cloud of smoke rose from behind a shed. Aberforth emerged soon after, smoking a pipe. The other goats gathered around him, bleating and hopping. A grey cat trailed after him, its ears perked as he grumbled about something or other.

She eyed the sedge below her and nibbled. Tangy and tender. She munched heartily, then found a small hawthorn shrub for a satisfying crunch.

Clusters of aspen and oak on the lower ridges lost their foliage, the naked branches dancing in the wind against the shaggy pines. Gold and russet leaves blanketed the slopes and the scattered streets and rooftops, giving the air a musky-sweet scent.

The gold-russet land darkened to brown, the skies turned grey, and her coat grew long. But every day held troughs of fresh hay and new things to jump over, and gentle scratches from the old man who came to visit and check her coat. He had a name, and he'd done something that had made her angry. Sometimes she almost remembered, and when he turned away, she gave him a forceful butt that sent him face-first into the cold mud. Then he shook his fist and said loud words while she skipped away, out of reach.

The other goats came and went. The old man led them out of the pasture and she worried about their fate until he led them back, none the worse for wear. Sometimes she spotted them on other hillsides, clattering down the cobblestone streets. None of the residents seemed to mind.

She tried to keep her mind on things. She did. Mind over body. But the grass was so fresh and the air so clear that her nimble legs grew restless. She found she could leap in great bounds over the emerald-green hill, that the rain and the wind barely bothered her. How tedious it had been before, to shiver at every breeze and to feel every bit of rain and mud against one's bare skin.

She spent her days running and jumping, tasting the field greens fresh with frost. Everything changed and nothing changed. The sun rose and set, the skies glowed, brightened and darkened, and the stars turned above. Her dreams were of blue skies and rolling hills, and she slept deeply. The castle and village below were steady, comforting presences. She thought of little else but the cold water in the stream and the grasses beneath her. The days and nights flowed into one another until she woke on a morning that had the sharp bite of winter.

A pale-haired goat bleated, looking at her with doleful eyes. She knew him, somehow. From before? Was there a before?

The goat bleated again, and she could almost hear his voice, demanding, cajoling.

Anger and frustration welled up in her, and she felt the irresistible urge to smack him on the head. She reared up and barreled towards him. There was a split second where his eyes widened in fear, and then, clack! She butted him directly on the head. He toppled head over hooves and rolled down the hill until he landed in a heap at the bottom. After a moment of stunned silence, he bounced back up and bleated at her indignantly. She bleated back joyfully. If she spent the rest of her life eating clover, it might be worth it just for that. She ran after him again.

He bleated in alarm and scampered away. She discovered she could bounce faster than she could run. She sprung over the other grazing goats as the pale goat zigzagged across a field. He came to a halt, and she crashed into his rear end, toppling them both over.

She'd hopped back up when a low rumble froze her in place. It grew in pitch and intensity until it ended in a shriek, as if the mountains themselves were screaming. Massive dark shapes passed overhead, blotting out the sun. Vast walls of gleaming mosaics glided by, diamond-shaped tiles creating abstract patterns in red and green and blue.

No, not tiles—scales. Scaled dragon bellies swooped over her. Immense flying leviathans whose wings swept with the sound of rolling thunder, they carried wind in their wake, the gusts battering her body. Circling the pasture, they eyed the goats below.

Instinct kicked in, and she searched frantically for shelter. There was a stable on the other side of the pasture, too far away. And the pale goat still lay on the ground, completely helpless. They could snatch him up and carry him away. She stood over him and shook her head. Her horns were no bigger than one of their talon-tipped toes, but she wouldn't back down.

Hisses, gargles, and snaps passed between them, a green dragon snarling and tossing its head until a massive red one roared, shooting flame across the sky. The rest fell silent, and the red dragon swept away, the others following. But dragons weren't capable of speech—were they?

They flew towards the mountains. The wind settled into a breeze that rustled the grass and made her blink away the swirling dust. She watched until they disappeared into the distance.

The pale goat was still on his back, legs dangling in the air. Righting himself, he shied away from her, but he was cornered by the fence. He hung his head.

Poor thing. All the other goats avoided him, nipping at his flanks if he got too close. He spent most of his days on the far side of the pasture, nibbling around the spots the others had left bare.

She gave him a friendly nudge and hopped ahead of him, offering a playful bleat.

He stepped tentatively towards her.

She bolted ahead as if the devil himself were after her, then circled back to him in a series of happy hops.

He gradually picked up the chasing game, starting with a few hops, then quick gallops, until they were bolting across the pasture, leaping over the other goats and tearing up bits of sod as they ran. It made her want to do something she only vaguely remembered, something that bubbled up inside her, but the only thing that came out was another bleat. She stopped, trying to put it together, but then the pale goat approached and nuzzled her, and the feel of a warm body against her was nice, too.

It wasn't until they'd raced to the fence a third time that she saw the figure again. Still cloaked, pacing in front of the castle. He moved with terrible agitation, whipping out his wand and cursing the surrounding ground, withering the grass into a blackened circle. Then he fired a spell into the air, killing a bird mid-flight. It made her shiver. Perhaps–

She hadn't completed the thought when someone hooked a hand under her chin and turned her towards the gate. The coat rustling next to her smelled of tobacco and cheese—Aberforth. She was inclined to give him a good kick and bolt away, but this was the first time he had led her out of the pasture and towards the farmhouse.

He guided her to a shed next to the house and eyed her up and down. A few flicks of his wand caused a full-body tingle, and then the long hair drooping to her knees fell to the floor. Aberforth levitated it to a scale, nodded, and pulled a bundle wrapped in brown paper and string from a top shelf.

"Six kilos. Contract's been fulfilled." He made a cross-like movement with his wand. "I repaired your clothes. Come inside when you're ready. We'll be waiting." With a curt nod, he left, closing the door behind him.

She had a moment of panic as her hooves tingled. Her body twisted and stretched, and she found herself back in human form, sitting on the wood floor, bare as the day she'd been born. The shed was now uncomfortably cold. Untying the bundle, she found her clothes inside.

It took a few attempts, as her fingers remembered how to be fingers and nudged buttons into buttonholes. But soon enough, she'd dressed and stood on the front porch of the farmhouse. She thought about knocking, but decided Aberforth had taken more than enough liberties without her say-so and she could, too. The door opened to a bare hallway, which led to a cozier sitting room with windows draped in gingham greens and a roaring fireplace. Aberforth sat in a rocking chair, stroking a grey cat in his lap. He peered intently at a spotted goat that stood before him.

Hermione felt more outraged than confused. "Why does this one get to stay inside and I had to be in the pasture?"

Aberforth picked up his pipe and drew on it, letting out a stream of smoke. "You liked the pasture. And the fresh air was good for you. Helps your coat grow."

"I…"  Well, she had liked the pasture. More than she cared to admit. "I could've been eaten by dragons! You could've told me what you planned."

Aberforth waved his hand dismissively. "Dragons are attracted to the magic of Brigadoon. The village has always been protected by dragons. That's the legend, anyway. Mostly they just hang about. Bit of a nuisance, but I haven't lost a goat to them yet." He pulled on his beard. "And it wasn't time. Once you signed the contract, I couldn't go against the village's magic."

The goat bleated, as if in agreement.

"Sorry about that," Aberforth said.

She sighed. "I suppose it's all right."

Aberforth harrumphed. "I was talking to the goat. Haven't introduced you yet. He finds it a terrible breach in manners."

"I've seen him," she said irritably, recalling how the spotted goat had often been at Aberforth's heels as he moved around the farm. Many wizards had a fondness for an animal, but Aberforth took things too far.

"You didn't think you were the only one, did you?"

She frowned. "The only one what?"

Aberforth took out his wand and repeated the cross-motion gesture. The goat stepped behind the rocking chair as his back rippled. Soon a hand reached out, and Aberforth passed him a robe. Blaise Zabini emerged, his head held high, as if he hadn't been bleating at her just a moment ago.

Hermione eyed him warily. His mother hadn't joined the Death Eaters, but she'd negotiated with the current Ministry, even going so far as to date a few ministry officials. As far as she was concerned, he was the enemy. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to give you pointers," he said haughtily. Our resistance movement hasn't fallen apart."

Soon, Hermione was surrounded by newly transfigured Slytherins. It had been years, but she remembered a few. Blaise, of course. Pansy Parkinson. And… Daphne something? Millicent soon joined them, looking completely unrepentant for her role in all this.

Hermione looked at Aberforth. "I wasn't sure you were going to transform me back."

"Wasn't sure myself," Aberforth replied. "Been asking around. You've got a price on your head. Dangerous to have you here."

"Is this what you've been doing? A secret group of Slytherin goats?"

He shrugged. "It's more their group than mine. Not for everyone, this Death Eater business."

Hermione nodded. "It's nice to hear something that makes me feel optimistic again."

"Been rough out there, has it?"

"To be honest, being a goat was rather a pleasant change of pace."

Aberforth smiled. "Finally, someone who understands."

"What about the other Slytherin students?"

"Some still tow the party line. Some disappeared to parts unknown." He nodded at Blaise. "To be honest, I thought you'd be one of the latter. Your mother has enough foreign connections to make it happen."

Blaise gave a lazy shrug. "Dictatorships are bad for business. And I like good old England. The country deserves better than the heavy-handed rule of Death Eaters. Their sense of fun is rather… Distasteful."

That was one way to put it. "What has your group found out? Any news?"

"Nothing good. You've heard about the goblins, I'm sure."

Hermione nodded, newly depressed about that betrayal, despite it being weeks ago. Or…? "How long has it been? How long have I been…" She mimicked a goat's horns with her fingers.

"Two months." Aberforth stroked the cat curled on his lap.

"Two months? It couldn't have been!" She recalled the fallen leaves and the morning frost, and the terribly chilly walk from the shed to the house. "It's December?"

"Buone feste," Blaise said. "You should see casa mia. Three-meter Christmas tree with silver-plated ornaments. You'd think it would be ostentatious, but it's quite tasteful."

"Your house?" Hermione frowned. "But you're running a resistance, fighting Death Eaters."

"That doesn't mean we can't have the comforts of home." He gestured around the room. "We're all going home for the holidays."

"But that's…" Hermione stopped, then started again. "Doesn't anyone know you're in a resistance?"

"Well, of course not. We're not idiots."

"I'm not an idiot." Hermione kept her voice even, sensing that Blaise had little respect for outbursts. "I didn't have the luxury of hiding. Not with my background." She shook her head. "How can you hide from your parents that you're fighting Death Eaters?"

"The Death Eaters are our parents," Pansy replied. She glanced at Blaise. "Some of our parents, anyway. We can't fight them."

Hermione scoffed. "It doesn't sound like much of a resistance."

"They gather information," Aberforth said. "Either by listening in on their parents' conversations, or going to the right places, disguised as goats. They know about the goblins, about the Dark Lord's recent long absences from the Ministry. And they learnt where Ron and Molly Weasley were sent after they were captured."

A shudder passed through her. "Captured."

For the first time, Aberforth looked contrite. "I did tell you. But it takes practice to pay attention to human speech when you're in goat form." He paused awkwardly. "I'd better put the tea on. You look like you could use it."

The grey cat landed nimbly on the floor as Aberforth stood. It leapt onto Hermione's lap, its large eyes peering intently at her. She scratched its ears as the Slytherins informed her of the fate of Molly and Ron. She pulled the cat closer and cuddled it, missing Crookshanks. The cat purred, rumbling against her chest.

Bill and Charlie were still out there, but it would take time to contact them. She had no hope of getting Ron out of Azkaban, or even getting Molly out of that prison camp. It was the same problem with the Phoenix. Plenty of information and nothing that she could do with it. Not unless she could convince the Slytherins that there was more to a resistance than listening and reporting. She scanned the room, trying to put names to faces. One young woman with light brown hair leaned against the armchair occupied by Blaise. "It's Daphne Greengrass, isn't it?"

She glanced briefly at Hermione and nodded.

Breaking the ice wouldn't be easy. "You have a sister, don't you? Astoria? I remember you two were always together in the Great Hall."

Daphne raised her head, firmly meeting Hermione's gaze this time. "She's dead now."

It was rare that she met anyone these days who wasn't grieving. Her eyes stung in sympathy every time. "How did you lose her?"

Daphne's eyes softened a bit. "Blood malediction. It had always made her frail. But she was the one who wanted to get out, away from the Dark Lord. Met with her healer every week, hoping to get her strength up. He was really helping her. But he was muggle-born. One day, he disappeared. Moved to South Africa, or so they said. And her condition deteriorated." Daphne shook her head.

The others had similar stories, of wanting to get out, of losing people they cared about. Sometimes through death. Sometimes, it was through watching their loved ones slowly grow colder and more ruthless, denouncing so-called mudbloods and blood traitors, until they barely recognized the person they'd once known.

"We'd drop hints when we saw each other, suggesting how we felt without saying it. And eventually, someone would introduce us to Aberforth. We've stayed out of prison by being cautious. And now have even more reason to stay hidden, since your resistance group is destroyed."

Hermione's heart constricted. "Ron and Sirius and Ginny are all in Azkaban. How can we… I can't just leave them there."

Blaise's impenetrable face gentled. "We've all left people behind. I know you Gryffindors love to jump into things with a wing and a prayer, but look at the reality of the situation. The resistance consists entirely of the people in this room."

She wanted to argue. But her rational mind was already working the numbers. They barely had enough people for a study group, let alone a fighting force. Maybe gathering intel was all they could do. "Doesn't anyone question a goat wandering about town?"

"Everyone in Brigadoon is used to his eccentricities." Blaise nodded at Aberforth, who'd returned with the tea and another goat in tow. The Slytherins then glanced at each other, their cheeks flaring red. "As for London… Aberforth bought a shop in Diagon Alley. Ministry officials bring their younger children sometimes."

"What shop?"

"Well…" Blaise's voice sounded strained. "It's a sort of animal shop. Where you can see various species, and… scratch them behind the ears and whatnot."

Hermione smiled. "A petting zoo?"

Blaise sighed. "I suppose it is."

Daphne cleared her throat. "It's quite effective, actually. People can be lulled into a feeling of comfort and complacency when they're petting a soft, fuzzy animal."

"Can they?" She froze and looked down at the purring cat. The pale grey fur had darkened in places, and now it looked almost like the pattern of a tabby cat. Hope tightened her throat as she addressed the cat. "Can they?"

The cat slow-blinked at her, then slid off her lap with effortless grace. It twitched its tail and whirled in a flurry of fur until Minerva McGonagall stood before her in tartan robes. She flicked her wand, and a cup of tea rose and settled in her palm.

"Oh, Professor. " Hermione's voice cracked. It was such a relief to see the face of someone she completely trusted. It was a balm she hadn't realized she'd needed. "I haven't seen you since—"

"I know, my dear. I'm sorry I couldn't join you. Couldn't manage to remove these." She pulled back her sleeve, revealing the tattoos she'd gotten at the prison camp that prevented her from using magic. "Miss Bulstrode helped adjust them so I can change into my animagus form, but that's all we've managed." She put her hands on her hips, her wand twitching like an angry tail. "The longer I stay in human form, the stronger they get. Nasty bit of business."

Hermione nodded, irrationally wishing she could both talk to the professor and cuddle her cat form at the same time. She missed that warm, purring presence. "I'm sorry."

"It's not as bad as all that." She crossed the room to Aberforth and rubbed his shoulder fondly. "I've made some new friends. And Miss Bulstrode is still working on it. She's terribly talented, and I wish I'd encouraged her interests more at Hogwarts."

Millicent shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

"And my former students have created quite a network. Very little goes on that they don't know about. Even if they refuse all of my suggestions."

"Not all of them," Millicent protested. "We're actually spying now and tracking the information. Before that, we mostly just eavesdropped on our parents and complained about how we're all going to die."

"I picked up some ideas from an old friend." McGonagall never looked more like a cat that had caught the canary. "Everyone took to it like fish to water."

"Goats to pasture," Aberforth corrected, and McGonagall gave him a pat that was both fond and annoyed.

"Personally," Blaise said, crossing his arms, "You could take a page or two from Slytherins. Especially when you're outnumbered. Gather information and allies rather than looking for another way to fight."

Hermione resisted the urge to argue and took a moment to think about what he was saying. He was right. Time to put aside old animosities. "What would you recommend?"

Blaise looked taken aback a moment, then pleased. "Use their strengths against them. They see themselves as superior, and now they think they've won. Overconfidence. Find powerful allies you've never considered before that can strike without warning."

She didn't know about powerful allies. But there was information she could gather. She looked over at Aberforth. "I think it's time for another of your transfiguration spells."

Watching Draco transform back into a human made her realize that her own transformation had gone rather smoothly. Draco groaned and moaned and occasionally yelped as his head shrank and his limbs grew.

"Is he in pain?" she asked Aberforth.

He shook his head. "Just uncomfortable."

His sheared hair became even patchier as pink skin appeared over his body. He rolled around on the shed floor as the hooves became feet and hands again. The plaintive bleating, however, remained the same.

"Merlin's balls," Aberforth said. "There must be something wrong with the spell."

"No," Hermione replied. "He's always sounded like that."

Draco, now in a foetal position, looked up at them, his eyebrow cocked. "I'll have you know that was an extremely unpleasant experience." He started to uncurl, but realized he was in a rather revealing state of undress.

Hermione turned around politely.

"Figured you didn't want your yellow prisoner robes back," Aberforth said behind her. "Found something I think will fit."

Draco grumbled over the sound of zippers and rustling linen. "Is this muggle clothing?"

"It's what I've got," Aberforth replied. "I can take it back, if you like."

"It's fine," Draco said quickly. "Better than the alternative. Merlin, I ate plants growing out of the filthy ground! And a trough! I think I've still got hay stuck in my teeth. I chewed on shrubbery! It seemed delicious at the time, but—"

"It sounds very difficult," Hermione replied.

The rustling stopped, and Draco, still buttoning his shirt, rounded on her. "You're being awfully nice to me all of a sudden."

"I've found some friends of yours. Perhaps you're not a completely lost cause. If they can fight what's happening to this world, so can you." She eyed him. "Theoretically."

He frowned. "Friends?"

"As hard as it is to believe you actually have friends, yes. Your old Slytherin chums. Aberforth's been hiding them as goats, too. They've got a whole spy network."

"Oh. Them." Draco avoided her gaze as he fixed his collar. "I'm not interested in fighting anything. I just want to settle down someplace quiet. And not think about this war."

"I want that, too," Hermione murmured. She wanted it so badly it ached. But it wouldn't happen by pretending the bad things in this world didn't exist.

"Then go, Granger. You can't do anything here, anyway. You'd be an idiot for trying."

She closed her eyes, refusing to listen. That was Malfoy, full of a certain stubborn helplessness, a refusal to actually do anything but run when backed into a corner. Always looking for someone else to fix his problems. Never taking on any responsibility for anything was certainly an easy way to live—all you needed were excuses to recite whenever anyone called you out on it. Maybe it came from being rich and spoilt.

Although she hadn't been destitute growing up, and not acting in the face of injustice made her twitch. It was a shame, really. Malfoy had a perfectly good head on perfectly good shoulders, but never used it for anything useful.

Malfoy's lack of enthusiasm made more sense once they returned to the sitting room. All the Slytherins gave Malfoy stony stares. Even McGonagall, back in her cat form, gazed at him narrowly as her whiskers pulled back.

"Thought you'd be dead by now," Blaise said mildly. "Kept waiting to hear news of your execution."

"Well, excuse me for not being able to prance around with no one recognizing me. Been having fun, have you?" He stared at each of them in turn, his gaze landing on the remaining goat. "And who's this? Gregg? Vince? You wouldn't even return my messages when I got in trouble. And now I find you here, of all places?" His voice trembled. "You said you were honored to be my friends. Honored! Didn't that mean anything? Was it all just about my family? My connections? Well, don't expect any help when I'm back on top!" He pointed his finger accusingly.

"Draco," Millicent said. "That's just a goat."

"Female goat," Aberforth added, pointing at the visible udders. "I like my tea with fresh milk."

Malfoy sank into a chair. "These animals have driven me round the bend. I've completely lost it."

"Probably," Millicent said. "But no one's keeping you here now. Feel free to shove off any time." She pointed towards the back door. "Closest path beyond the anti-apparation border is that way."

Malfoy pushed his sleeve up. There was the broken Dark Mark, and next to it, something new. A prisoner's anti-apparation mark. Malfoy wouldn't be apparating anywhere.

Millicent grabbed his arm but only studied the Mark. "Not my best work," she admitted. "But it's held up."

"You said there wouldn't be a visible difference," Draco grumbled. "That I couldn't be called or tracked, but still be seen as a Death Eater to the average wizard. But a few weeks later, that slash appeared. I had to use a glamor or everyone would know I've a price on my head."

"Oops," Millicent said, looking smug.

"Wait," Hermione said. "You nullified the Mark?" She turned to Malfoy. "I thought you'd been exiled."

"How many exiled Death Eaters do you see walking about? There's no exiled. Just loyal or dead."

"Draco promised he'd join us if I overrode the Mark's magic." Millicent glared at him. "Then he disappeared."

"I wouldn't have been any use to you, anyway. Maybe the rest of you are brilliant at being goats, but I could barely remember my name after a while. And I can't spy as a human, either. The second I show my face, the Dark Lord will be after me again."

"But why?" Hermione asked. "What's so special about you?"

Malfoy looked balefully at her.

"No offense," she added. "But you're not exactly… I mean, you seem perfectly happy to repeat the party doctrine. Besides antagonizing me and my friends, you don't like to make waves." You're perfectly happy to go along with any system that benefits you, no matter how unjust. "You're not a person I would expect to break from Death Eater circles. Why do they want you dead?"

"Not them. Him. The Dark Lord. The rest are just following orders." Malfoy scrubbed at his hair. Between his time as a prisoner and his time as a goat, the gunk had worn off, and his hair flopped messily down to his ears. "I can't tell you."

"What's the point of keeping secrets now?" Blaise asked. "It's not as though your reputation will suffer. Everyone in this room thinks you're a turncoat and a fair-weather friend." He tilted his head. "Although you still retain some respect for your enormous wealth."

Millicent nodded to Hermione. "You should ask him about the dragons. He used to brag about his father buying him a special breed as a pet. What was it? Mongolian Moon Pies?"

"Siberian Night Eyes," Malfoy grumbled.

Hermione vaguely recalled Viktor mentioning the breed. He was grateful the Siberian breeders hadn't lent any out for the Triwizard Tournament. Meant to be guards during the long Siberian winters, they were sharply intelligent and had night vision. They were even rumored to have a rudimentary—

"Language," Hermione whispered. She stared at Blaise. "Those dragons over the pasture—they were Night Eyes?"

Blaise snorted. "Impossible. They're outrageously expensive. They wouldn't just fly about Scotland like a common pigeon."

She glanced at Malfoy.

"I don't know." He huffed. "It's not like I still have my dragon. I'd have flown out of here if I had."

Blaise leaned towards Malfoy, his eyes bright. "Oh? Did your family sell it? Having a bit of a cash flow problem? Is that why the Dark Lord's after you? I've heard he can be rather demanding when he needs war funds."

Malfoy gave him a haughty look. "It's not as though I'm a pauper." He deflated. "Although it's tricky to get funds at the moment. I can't tell you why the Dark Lord is after me because I… can't." He rubbed his temples. "I can't remember."

"You can't remember," Hermione repeated flatly.

"Look, I know he's after me. Obviously, he's after me. I've had more than enough close calls, and if you hadn't disrupted that prisoner transport…" He shuddered. "But why he's after me is a blank."

Hermione glanced at the others. "Obliviation?"

"No, I've got the memories," Malfoy said.

"You've got the memories, but you don't remember?"

"No, I've got them. I extracted them and stored them. My aunt showed me how. I only know I did it because I wrote a note to myself. Normally, you still retain the knowledge, even if you don't have the actual memory. But they're just gone. I'll need to return them." He tapped his head. "Or at least view them in a pensieve."

"We've got a pensieve," Aberforth said. "Where'd you store the memories?"

"Someplace safe." He shrugged. "A private family vault."

"Not Gringotts?" Hermione asked.

"No, but…" He looked up in realization. "The goblins are authorized to pull funds from our private vaults when needed."

"And the goblins have sided with Voldemort." She looked at him in alarm. "So they might transfer the memories to Gringotts? Does your father know to keep them safe?"

Malfoy shook his head. "He doesn't know about the memories at all. I didn't have time–"

"We'll look into it," Blaise said. "We have connections." He shrugged nonchalantly. "It's what we do."

After the meeting broke up—the Slytherins going off on two or four legs to gather more intel, and Aberforth heading to his shop with McGonagall in tow—Hermione took a walk outside to clear her head.

It wasn't long before her feet found their way to the pasture—it had been home for a while, after all. She delighted in unlatching the gate with nimble fingers.

Inside stood a familiar blond figure, kicking at the grass.

"I thought you hated being a goat," she said.

He gave her the barest glance. "I did. But standing in the mud is actually more comfortable than…"

"Than being with your friends?"

He huffed. "Millicent seemed especially pleased about keeping me outside. And after covering for her and Pansy all that time."

She frowned. "Covering? What've they been up to?"

"Dear Merlin, I didn't ask. Pansy understands the gift of innuendo, but Millicent spares no details." He studied her face. "You didn't know?"

"I thought… You and Pansy—"

"Oh, we were together. Engaged, even." He looked at her again and smiled wickedly. "Engagements are a distinct thing among the pureblooded. If one is expected to marry another pureblood and have pureblood children…well, there are only so many possibilities. These things are arranged."

"Arranged marriages have been illegal since the Winsickle Proclamation of 1805."

He waved his hand, as if to say, What are laws?

"So Pansy hanging off of you, cooing over you. That was—"

"For play. For show. Enough to satisfy the parents and grandparents who know what's really going on but pretend they don't." He sighed. "It all fell apart after I transferred to Durmstrang. Pansy had more time for her, and the war meant that no one was paying attention to them. Millicent got a taste of what being a proper couple was like, and didn't want to go back to the sham when I returned to England."

"She said she cut off contact with her parents."

"They wanted her married to some pureblooded Hufflepuff. They had a date set and frilly dress robes tailored. Can you even imagine?"

Hermione tried to picture Millicent dressed in white fluff, standing next to some earnest Hufflepuff boy. The best she could manage was a cartoon version of Millicent picking up the groom and breaking him over her knee. "Not really. But she must have a sensitive side, if she's that smitten with Pansy."

Draco gave a half-shrug. "The only time I ever saw her cry was when the date was set for our wedding." He paused. "Perhaps that's overstating it. Her lip quivered once. That's the Millicent version of weeping buckets."

She'd never given much thought to how wizards and witches navigated pureblood marriages when they weren't interested in the opposite sex. "I take it the marriage is off."

"Pansy might still be willing to play the part. But I doubt it. And no sensible parent would want her marrying someone who's out of favor with the Dark Lord, no matter how esteemed the Malfoy bloodline is."

"Things might be different if Voldemort were defeated."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Yes, well. I'll take my chances with a hasty retreat."

She stared at him. "You're still going to run away? After all this?"

"After all what? Nothing's changed. The Dark Lord is still after me. If I'm caught, the best I can hope for is a quick execution."

"Your friends are all fighting against Voldemort. And you have a memory that has something to do with him and might reveal a vulnerability. And I saved you from execution. Doesn't that merit anything?"

He looked taken aback. "What do you want? A parade?"

She'd had enough of his rich-boy blinders. "I want you to care about something other than yourself. Maybe you'll never care about doing what's right, but don't you care about Pansy and Millicent and all the others who are risking their lives in a war you're running away from?"

Malfoy shook his head. "Granger, I'm not…"

"Not Gryffindor." She sighed. "I'm aware."

He looked troubled. "That's not what I was going to say."

She didn't get a chance to ask him more, because, at that moment, a scream echoed up from the valley. The dark figure had reappeared, stumbling out of the castle. He screamed again, pointing his wand, and one of the large fallen stones pulverized.

Malfoy seemed frozen, all color drained from his face. "What's he doing here?"

She glanced from Malfoy to the figure. "You know who that is?"

Malfoy nodded. "I'd know that gait anywhere." He swallowed. "That's the Dark Lord."

Her whole body grew cold. "What's he doing here?" But in a rush of realization, she knew. All the visits over the past few weeks. Maybe more before that. He'd been searching for the horcrux he'd hidden in the castle. The one she'd destroyed.

It would've taken him a while to confirm it—the Room of Requirement was damaged and difficult to access, and whatever hiding place he'd had among the piles had been lost when she'd rearranged everything. But clearly, he knew now. That scream was full of rage.

Malfoy grabbed her arm and dragged her back until the ridge hid them. "Don't let him see us," he hissed.

She resisted his pull. "Us," she scoffed. "You mean you. You couldn't give a toss about me or anyone else. Go on, then." She flicked her hand. "Run away."

"Excuse me for not being an idiot like the rest of you," he snarled. "Sometimes fear is the correct response, Granger."

"With you, it's the only response. Oh, wait, I forgot. Sometimes you change it up with nastiness and whining."

"Suit yourself. If you want to be target practice for the unforgivables, then—"

The ground jolted and shuddered. It was as if some deep layer of the earth had liquified, and the surface rolled like the sea. She stumbled, crashing into Malfoy, and they both fell. A resounding boom battered her ears and left them ringing. A raging wind blasted over the ridge, hot and blackened with ash.

For a moment, she thought the dragons had returned. But she'd seen no sign of them. This was something else—something worse. Then she remembered what Voldemort had done to Azkaban.

Dread settled on her, pressing her into the ground. No, it was impossible. She lay on her back and stared up, unblinking, trying to convince herself. A cloud of ash swept over the darkening sky. The ash floated down, staining her clothes and stinging her eyes until she was forced to move. Slowly turning over, she crawled up the ridge.

Hogsmeade had been flattened. Only the skeletal remains of a few buildings on the edge still stood. Shredded debris buried the once-familiar streets. Beyond the town, thick clouds of smoke shrouded the school grounds. She searched the swirling cover, hoping for part of a wall, a tower, anything. But as the wind pulled apart the smoke, it revealed only scorched earth and a gaping crater.

No. It couldn't be destroyed. It couldn't be. Dumbledore had reassured her… Oh, God. Dumbledore. His portrait. She stared at the crater, willing it to be a hallucination, a dream, something. But the choking ash was real. She got to her feet. Maybe the portrait had survived. Maybe her watering eyes were seeing things. She should go down there and check.

But something held her back. A strange tightness on her arm. She glanced down. Malfoy gripped her by the elbow. Black grit masked his face, leaving his eyes shockingly pale and wide. He shook his head slowly. "It's gone."

Somehow, that made it more real than everything else. She tried to speak, but only a thin sound emerged.

"It's only a building," he said hesitantly.

But it wasn't. It was her last link to Dumbledore, to her childhood. Her parents were unreachable, but she'd still had Dumbledore. She'd still had one place she could always go when she needed to feel safe.

It could've been restored. Some pieces were missing, but it wasn't so bad. Levitate the stones back into place. A bit of mending here and there. She'd been looking forwards to seeing it rebuilt.  

Only a building. But Malfoy was still clutching her arm as if he were afraid he'd tumble away.

She'd thought the war couldn't take anything more from her, but it had. Nothing made sense. The pasture splintered into pieces, fragments of half-remembered sensations. The browning grass, the scent of fresh hay. She wanted to feel the simple joys she'd known these past few weeks. A warm body to lean against, bringing comfort without words. Something to tell her she wasn't alone.

Her heart settled, but the cold lick of terror remained. Who or what would he destroy next? Aberforth? McGonagall? Brigadoon itself? He wouldn't stop. He'd never stop, until someone stopped him, and she had nothing to fight him with. Just once, she'd like to terrorize him. Take something precious from him.

But she had, hadn't she? That scream of rage—it had also been a scream of fear. She'd made him afraid, and he'd reacted with violence.

"Granger?"

Pulling back, she realized she'd been leaning against Malfoy's shoulder. His eyes were still wide, and pale tracks ran down his face.

She followed the track, caught a teardrop on her fingertip, and held it up. "Only a building?"

"It's not my fault you slobbered all over me." But his voice was distant and lacked bite, and his gaze focused on the valley. "Generations of Malfoys have gone to Hogwarts. It's a part of my history." He shook his head. "He's won. Why doesn't he stop?"

"Winning hasn't made him less afraid." She glanced at Malfoy. If Voldemort had been pursuing him so single-mindedly, he must be afraid of whatever Malfoy knew—or used to know. "We need those memories of yours."

He swallowed. "I'm not even sure they're still in my private vault. I haven't dared go back there, and I can't pop over to Gringotts to check my holdings."

"We'll find it. The others are looking into it."

"And then what?" He gestured at the ruins below, and she understood. What hope did they have against magic like that, with no resources and no firepower?

Firepower. Her gaze followed the billowing smoke into the sky. A plan formed in her mind. But she'd need to convince the others, draw up plans, and organize the mission.

"Oh no," Hermione said to herself. She'd thought she gotten out of her leading-people thing. She should get out of it. Making the wrong decisions, second-guessing herself when she oughtn't, and ploughing ahead when she should have reconsidered. But she knew she had to step up. Because she could.

She really would have preferred being a goat.

Malfoy eyed her, shoulders hunching. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking," she said, "that we'll need to fight fire with fire."

Chapter Text

Severus Snape

The animatronic snowman bounced as the tinny sound of "White Christmas" hissed from the Tesco speakers. It wasn't even the good version of the song, with Bing Crosby's soothing bass-baritone. Some pop star sang the lyrics over the whine of synthesized instruments.

May your days be merry and bright…

The florescent lights flickered in time to the pounding in his head. A scratching sound rasped underneath it all, like nails on a chalkboard. The scent of cinnamon was heavy enough to choke. But he couldn't move. The snowman's lifeless eyes pinned him to the spot.

Scratch, scratch, scratch… Merry and bright…

"Sir?"

The voice spoke directly behind him, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. A stout man with a five o'clock shadow approached, wearing a blue Tesco shirt, his neck bulging over a tight collar. His tag read, "Manager."

Scratch, scratch, scratch… Merry and bright…

Why wouldn't that song stop? It didn't sound right. The speakers were warping the vocals. It almost sounded like…

Going to die…

The drumming of his heart kicked up a notch. "His name was Harry, you know."

The manager frowned. "What's that?"

"Bing Crosby. His real name was Harry. His nickname came from his favorite comic strip character. Bingo." He'd rather liked The Perishers, and imagined himself living in the railway station like the orphan Wellington. Nobody ever nicknamed him Wellington, though.

Bing. Bingo. What a strange word. He tried it out on his tongue. "Bingo, bingo, bingo."

The manager hesitated. "Could you stop?" He pointed at the shelf.

Severus looked down. His fingernail gnawed away at the metal edge of the shelf. Scratch, scratch, scratch. He'd etched P-O-T into the beige paint.

The manager rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the letters. "Did you need a pot?"

Severus pulled his hand away. "I was only…" but words failed him, and he couldn't think of an explanation. There was no explanation, really. Except Potter. He needed to remember Potter. The memories of Potter he'd locked behind his shield were gone, and it had become habit to move his fingers in the shape of those letters. He couldn't forget Potter.

"Hey, I know you," the manager said. "Snape, right? Sebastian, or… Something a bit odder than that. Sigmund?"

"Severus," he said automatically. He stopped and looked up and down the aisle. Did the Dark Lord already suspect? Had he been followed? "How do you know me?"

"Jeremy Loach. From Georgette Primary, remember?"

A thick-waisted boy, laughing. "I remember." His voice sounded faint and far away. "You used to throw rocks at me."

Jeremy made a face. "I was a child, you know. And you were…"

Standing up in class, everyone staring. Expected to explain why muddy spots covered his uniform shirt. No, ma'am, he wouldn't go home and change. No, he wouldn't explain why not. Staring hard at her sensible shoes, refusing to admit it was the only school shirt he had. Stumbling over his words while the teacher shook her head. Stiff and formal when addressing him, keeping her hands behind her back when others got an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder. And him, scowling, quiet, standoffish. "I wasn't a child. I know."

"Well, we all knew about your… Anyway, you've done all right." He gestured at Severus's white button-down and black trousers.

"It's important to blend in." He smoothed down the front of his shirt, wishing he could wear his thick wool robes. He felt protected in his robes. "I buy them in bulk."

Jeremy fell silent for a moment. "That's good," he finally said. He brightened. "Hey, what about that mate of yours–"

No, stop talking, stop. Push back the memories. Wall them up. But there were no walls, and they rose and swirled. He clenched the shelf.

"Ginger lass, right? You two stuck together like glue. What was her name?"

The overbright aisle disappeared, replaced by grass and dappled sunlight. Lily, listening avidly, her eyes bright. He needed that brightness, devoured it like an animal crawling from a dark hole after a long hibernation. A brightness that shouldn't ever dim, so he didn't tell her a few things about the magical world. Dark things. He told himself they didn't matter.

Accidentally catching her eye in sixth year, that brightness gone as she stared at him, her nose wrinkling before she turned away. He wrinkled his nose back for the sake of his Slytherin housemates, even as something suffocating seized his throat. He had to. She'd made her feelings clear, and he needed to survive. That was all he could think about. Survive until seventh year, and then he would be gone. He would be safe.

And then back at Hogwarts, in his office. The picture in the paper, announcing her murder. Carefully cutting it out with shaking hands. His family didn't have a camera. It was the only picture he had of her.

"Whatever happened to her?" Jeremy asked.

"She died," he whispered.

A sharp intake of breath. "How?"

Another memory swelled, bloated and ugly. On his knees in front of the Dark Lord, that fateful word spilling from his lips: "prophecy."

And the Dark Lord inside his mind, seizing the memory. "Very good, Severus."

He'd devoured the praise, not thinking, not realizing. Not until it was too late.

No more. He couldn't tolerate this flood of memories. He scrambled to put it behind his occlumency walls, and found nothing. The memories burst forth again, as fresh as the day she died. Something grabbed his throat, and he sobbed, the sound echoing loudly in the aisle. Clutching the shelf, he bent his head and tried to curl his body up against it, hoping that maybe the bouncing snowman might cover it all up.

"Hey. Sorry. It's none of my business, really." Another long silence. "It's just that we're closing, and you're the only one still… ah… here."

That startled him out of his thoughts. He glanced towards the front, where the long windows showed the dim winter sun. "It's not that late." Had he gotten confused again? Did muggle shops close in the afternoon? Or did the sun set later than he remembered? He looked at Jeremy, bewildered. "Is it late?"

Jeremy searched his face. "Closing early. It's Christmas Eve. You know that, right?"

That's right. He'd come to do his shopping because they'd be closed tomorrow. He'd run out of tinned foods yesterday. Too distracted, he hadn't paid attention to how much food he had left. "I know," he said as confidently as he could. He pulled his trolley close and brandished a plastic-wrapped hunk of meat. "I'm making roast beef." He hadn't bothered with a large meal for Christmas since Hogwarts closed down, usually reheating a frozen shepherd's pie or some tinned chicken curry for the occasion. But cooking was something that helped order his thoughts. Simple tasks, that was it. Make a list of simple tasks and do them.

"Great." Jeremy's smile showed too many teeth. "Let's get you rung up."

Severus nodded, but his gaze drifted back to the snowman's lifeless eyes. The movement was hypnotic. Obscene. Bounce, bounce, bounce. His gaze unfocused, and two sets of painted eyes drifted to either side and wormed into his head. His eyes ached as they dried, but he was having trouble blinking. Blinking would give everything away.

"Severus?" Jeremy's gaze darted up and down his body.

That was bad. People thought he needed help when they looked at him like that. He wasn't blending in. He grabbed the snowman and shook it in his face. "I was only trying to decide." He forced confidence and authority into his voice. "I shall purchase this."

"Good choice." Jeremy planted a hand between his shoulder blades, steering him to the front.

The transaction with the cashier passed in a blur, but the icy drizzle outside roused him. He'd forgotten his coat.

Jeremy stood with him, giving instructions to the teenaged cashier who locked the door behind him. He paused, looking at the fat pendulums of bags in their hands. "Where's your car?"

"Car?"

Jeremy nodded and let out a sigh. "Let's get you on the bus, then."

"But I can…" Apparate. He froze as the walls of Hogwarts rose around him. His gawky teenaged arm extending his wand in the Great Hall, where a ministry instructor warned about splinching. Practicing, determined to master it. Apparition meant he'd never be trapped in Cokeworth, never end up like his father. Pressing his lips together, he pushed the memory away and shook his head. "I can't tell you that."

"That's all right." Jeremy nodded towards the bus stop.

In the end, Severus had fretted so much over the correct change that Jeremy accompanied him, and walked him down Spinner's End. Abandoned row houses stood on either side, two vast looming walls of brick and boarded windows. The silence was deafening.

On the front step, Jeremy hesitated. "Do you have someone you can call? A sister, maybe?"

"A sister." His mother, her face tired, getting him ready for school while his father loomed. Stop shouting, will you? I was only late this month. You think I'd risk another with the dosh you bring home? "They barely wanted me."

"A friend, then." Jeremy glanced down the empty street. "I can't leave you like this." He fingered the outline of a square object in his pocket.

A mobile, most likely. Every muggle had a bloody mobile now, ready to call the authorities whenever they found him wandering the streets. He'd had to duck behind some bins and disapparate once when a police car had pulled up next to him. It was only when he got home and stared at his reflection in the windowpane that he realized. He'd written "Potter" across his hand and, at some point, pressed his hand to his sweaty forehead. The writing had transferred, and he'd been walking about with letters scrawled on his face, like a complete lunatic.

Apparently, whoever he'd spooked hadn't spotted the "P," because the article in the local paper the next day mentioned a disoriented "Otter Man" who shouldn't be approached.

He needed to rally, or Jeremy would connect the dots and then the authorities would know Otter Man's address. Polite but firm men in NHS uniforms would cart him off to a muggle mental ward for his own good. He could escape, of course. Probably. If he had the presence of mind to grab his wand before they restrained him. "I'm fine, really." His face was wet. Only the drizzle, he hoped. He wiped at it, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I lost touch with someone a few months ago, and it's… affected me."

Clattering steps sounded from behind the front door, and Jeremy perked up. "Oh! You have someone, then?"

Something, more like. "Chair." He glanced at Jeremy. "Cherry. My cousin. Visiting for Christmas."

Loud, sharp steps clattered at an inhuman speed, sounding more like castanets than feet.

Severus cleared his throat. "Clog dancer."

Jeremy's shoulders relaxed, and he smiled. "All right, then." He gave Severus a long look, as if he wanted to say more. But all he said was, "happy Christmas."

Severus nodded and waited until he was well down the street before opening the door. Chair bounded up and danced round him excitedly. It nudged his bags as it circled.

"I got nothing for you, Kindling." Chair combined the worst qualities of a pet, child, and roommate: excitable, noisy, and it never slept. If he had neighbors, they'd be out for his head. He'd considered putting Chair in the attic, but that would concede defeat. Potter would need Chair when Severus found him and brought him back. When Potter was ready to accept help. Maybe Potter would return on his own, remove this curse from his mind. Yes, any day now. Severus pressed his forehead against a wall, torn between laughing and screaming.

Chair ran to the cupboard on the far wall and tapped it with one leg. It had discovered the boxes of old Christmas decorations and tried on several occasions to drag them out.

"I didn't get a tree. There's no need for tinsel or lights." He paused. "Wait a moment." He rummaged through his bags until he found the snowman and placed it on Chair's seat. "There you go. Quite festive. Now leave me in peace."

Chair tap danced along the floor as the snowman bounced to the beat. Chair ran in circles and abruptly halted, the snowman launching from its seat and bouncing off the cupboard door. It landed on the floor, its cardboard packaging dented.

"Ingrate." Severus stared at the state of his house. He kept his books organized and his floor swept (simple tasks, simple tasks), but the walls would have given him away to Jeremy Loach. They were covered with "Potter" in big letters, small letters, ink, scratches, and charcoal.

The kitchen was no better. Potter, in scorch marks and dried red sauce, and stabbed into the drywall with a steak knife. Potter, remember Potter. He'd clung to one distinct memory: the back of Potter's head and the bright colors of his Triwizard uniform as he walked into the murky shadows of the hedge maze. Detestable Potter, that face reminding him of his helplessness, and those eyes reminding him of his mistakes and regrets. He'd had no idea how much worse it could get. That battered face, those burning eyes.

After stowing the groceries, he grabbed two potion vials on the counter and downed them like a shot. The first helped with focus and the second numbed his face, to hide his unraveling. Other draughts on hand could suppress emotions and memories, but he had to be careful. Such things could numb and slow his thoughts, and he couldn't afford that. More than once, his fear had warned him and his wits had saved him. What he needed was his occlumency, and no potion could give him that.

The morning after Potter's attack, he'd woken to Chair prodding at his loosened ropes. His head pounding, he'd cursed and stumbled and finally worked himself free, then immediately searched the house. He knew it was useless—the front door was open. The wards were still up, but Potter had only needed to weaken them enough to slip through.

On instinct, he'd tried to shove his frustration and anger behind his occlumency shields. But instead of their solid presence, he'd grasped nothing but thin air. And into that void flooded memories: Potter, feeding him that vile potion, drawing on the magic of the Mark. Those memories dragged other memories in their wake: hanging helpless by Potter and his gang, the entire school watching; the Dark Lord burning the Mark into his arm. And strung behind that was a rotting sargassum of memories and feelings, dredged from the depths and disgorging over him in a smothering weight.

He'd striven to center his thoughts and rebuild his walls, to hold back the tide. But the potion's strange slickness remained, and each imagined stone slipped away into the swirling darkness. Amidst all the remembered feelings, a fresh fear lapped him.

Severus finished cleaning the vials when another scratching noise arose. He stared down at his hands, but it wasn't his restless fingers. Someone at the front door? Pushing the kitchen door ajar, he listened intently, wand at the ready. Nothing. He sagged against the doorframe. His house was no fortress, but it was a barrier against muggles with their mobiles, and Death Eaters with their probing eyes and minds.

Something near the baseboard scuffled, and he grunted. Mice. He'd set wards to prevent pests, but Potter's breakout must have given them an opportunity to scurry in. He should've bought traps at Tesco. Now he'd be stuck with them for Christmas.

He sank into his armchair, where his few rare occlumency books sat on the side table. The first he'd acquired rested on top: The Secrets of the Magical Mind. He touched it gently, caressing the cracks spiderwebbing across the red leather cover.

All his life, his emotions and painful memories attacked and overwhelmed him. It had only gotten worse as a teenager, fumbling over spells he'd carefully practiced as his body seized. Struggling to think through the bombardment. It had made him weak and vulnerable to mistakes. Such terrible mistakes.

And then, occlumency. The spell had been a revelation. Invaluable for a spy, but that wasn't why he'd learnt it. He'd wanted something to give him the assurance and control that Sirius Black and James Potter always had and he'd always lacked. He wanted to stop feeling like a raw nerve. Exposed.

It was a rare skill, although the opposing skill, legilimency, was pushed heavily by the regime for interrogations. That only made occlumency rarer, as the Dark Lord had passed an edict to burn books that mentioned it, to keep the population defenseless.

He picked up the volume and paged to the last section he'd read:

…thus, an occlumens can not only block a legilimens, but deceive one. To begin, isolate a specific memory and visualize it disappearing behind a physical barrier…

But the passage slipped away, replaced with dark-blooming memories. The words blurred and jumbled. He set the book aside and clung to the armrests. For God's sake, he'd had more control as a child. But he'd grown dependent on his occlumency to hold back all the dark things that clawed and bit at him. Too dependent.

So far, no one had cast legilimency on him, but it was only a matter of time. The Dark Lord still searched for Potter, and had grown increasingly agitated as searches had proved fruitless. Severus was supposed to be out there now, searching on the Dark Lord's behalf.

He laughed darkly. He'd already searched the various rebel bases, the abandoned Burrow, and even slipped inside the home of Potter's muggle relatives when they were out. Nothing. Potter had disappeared, just like Hermione. No sign of them as prisoners, no notice of their deaths. But still gone, somewhere. What good was the Phoenix when there was no one to give information to? He'd failed those he swore to protect. And soon…

Going to die…

His supposed search for Potter had given him an excuse to stay away from the throne room, but it wasn't good for his reputation to be out of the Dark Lord's sight for so long. The Dark Lord grew suspicious of followers who avoided him, whose minds he couldn't regularly plunder.

He thought he'd finally had a spate of good luck when the Dark Lord had not summoned a Death Eater meeting in the last two months. According to rumors, he'd barely used his throne room, disappearing for weeks at a time. Severus hadn't the energy to speculate the way others did, simply marveling at the unexpected reprieve. Things never went his way. He didn't know what to make of it.

And then he'd heard about the destruction of Hogwarts.

Everyone thought it was symbolic—the end of the old way of life. But it had chilled his spine. Hermione had told him about the diadem found at the castle. The Dark Lord would never have risked its destruction unless he knew with absolute certainty that the horcrux was no longer there. He knew someone had found it.

The only advantage Hermione had left was that the Dark Lord remained ignorant of her search. The only advantage any of the imprisoned resistance members had was that they had little valuable information to offer. But if the Dark Lord worried over the undoing of his horcruxes, then no one was safe.

Severus had sent inquiries to the various prison camps, and things had indeed changed. Interrogations of resistance members had doubled in length and intensity. Any interrogator with a hint of talent in legilimency was quickly promoted. The interrogators were not instructed on what to search for, so the questions and legilimency were far-ranging, and the reports of what was discovered spared no detail, and were all sent to a central office in the Ministry, where clerks organized the data into long lists. It was a bureaucrat's dream—Percy Weasley must be in heaven.

Little did Weasley know that he'd played a part in the horcrux hunt. Severus had unearthed details of the locket from Weasley while marooned at Azkaban. He'd intended to follow up at the Ministry once he'd checked on Potter, but those plans had gone to hell. He'd spent over a month holed up in Cokeworth, only communicating with other wizards through the post, making plans as he confirmed that the Dark Lord continued his long absences.

A week ago, he'd finally girded himself and gone to the Ministry, when most of the staff had taken time off for the holidays. He'd swept across the nearly empty Atrium as his thoughts tumbled about. Despite the chill, sweat had beaded his scalp and temples. He'd surreptitiously wiped it away, grateful that his limp hair already looked perpetually damp.

Only staff at the absolute bottom rung of the ladder got the holiday shifts, and the clerk at the records office had all the authority and experience of a first-year left to cat-sit. It only took a deep scowl and barking voice to be left alone in a labyrinthine records office walled with towering file cabinets and evidence drawers.

Weasley had been busy—the endless flow of prisoners meant a flow of acquired objects coming from sites of capture, each one catalogued: charmed knives, boots, and cloaks. Weasley might condemn Umbridge for her theft, but he was no better, the thievery of those in power taking on a sheen of respectability through neat rows of handwritten entries.

Too many of the items brought forth memories, and he struggled to focus. But finally, he found a description—"locket, oval, gold. Unusually cold to the touch. Possibly charmed."

Unusually cold. Hermione had mentioned the coldness of the diadem. He scanned the document. A notation rested at the bottom: "see Log Book 257-A."

Bloody bureaucracy. It took some time to find the log in question, and then the item number. Acquired from Umbridge, registered by Weasley, and then formally requested by the Dark Lord. All the boxes ticked, just as Weasley liked.

The final entry held the Dark Lord's signature, dated a few weeks after the first, along with a note: "Examined for magical properties. A curious object, but of no discernible use." Below that, Weasley's handwriting, simply noting, "re-logged. Drawer 578."

Severus frowned. That couldn't possibly mean…? He checked the log again, then strode to a section of drawers. Drawer 578 was locked.

Severus glanced at the young clerk, but knew his request would be logged. He quietly worked the lock, weaving his way through his memories for the more complex spells, until the mechanism gave way with a click.

There, laying on the green velvet lining, was the locket.

Severus glanced to the right and left, expecting a trap. It couldn't be this easy. But no Dark Guards seized him, no Death Eaters appeared. The clerk stared aimlessly into space at the front desk.

He slid the locket into his hand. It didn't feel especially cold, or special. It was rather ugly, if he were being honest. Tarnished gold with an overly gaudy decoration of gems that felt mismatched. This was the secret to the Dark Lord's immortality? If so, why had he returned it in such a dismissive manner? It was one thing to hide behind bureaucracy, but if it were truly a horcrux, he wouldn't leave it to be kept in a drawer in a ministry office—would he?

He certainly couldn't ask. But there were ways to test it. He turned the locket over and silently cast diffindo. A scratch appeared on the back of the locket. It could be easily damaged, when horcruxes, according to Hermione, were nearly impossible to destroy.

Severus stared at it for another minute and then made a decision. He used geminio—another spell that probably shouldn't have worked—and created a duplicate of the locket, then slipped the original into his pocket. He filed all the papers back in their proper place, offered an intimidating scowl to the clerk, and left.

Severus pulled the locket out now, studying its features in the fading winter light. He'd run multiple tests, and still it remained entirely innocuous. Hermione had said that Dumbledore was certain the locket was a horcrux. Had Dumbledore been wrong? Or was there a means of removing a horcrux besides destroying the object? And if so, where had it gone?

The answers to his questions lay with the Dark Lord himself. Severus would have to face him, eventually. If for no other reason than to destroy the one definite horcrux—Nagini. He'd found a few references to horcruxes in his books on the Dark Arts. As rare as horcruxes were, it was even rarer to use a mortal creature to hold them. But there were some advantages. The body becomes stronger and more malleable, shaped by the soul fragment inside. Perhaps even a powerful alternative to imperius, the soul commanding the body beyond pain or even self-preservation. Nagini certainly followed the Dark Lord's commands and demonstrated more power than any normal serpent.

A crash interrupted his thoughts. Chair had opened the closet and dived in, sending boxes tumbling to the floor.

Severus cursed and leapt to his feet. "Get out of there, Kindling. I told you—there's no tree to decorate. I'll throw you into the cold garden on Christmas Eve. Don't think I won't."

Chair used its rail to nudge a back shelf, upending its contents. An old milkcrate brimming with boxes careened into the front room, spilling its contents across the floor. Old board games and jigsaw puzzles had been inside, and confetti of brightly colored cards, fake money, and puzzle pieces spilled across the floor.

Chair scrambled out of the cupboard, running through the mess and trampling the boxes.

Enough of this nonsense. He shot an immobilization charm at Chair, freezing it mid-stomp. When he touched its back rail, he felt it vibrating with restrained energy, but it wouldn't break through the spell, like Potter. It was just a chair.

A wave a fatigue hit him and his headache returned with a pounding vengeance. A cleaning spell would take care of the mess, but the words of the incantation jumbled and scattered. He knelt on the floor and sorted things back into their crumpled boxes. It should all be thrown out, really. He couldn't remember the last time he'd played a simple game. Chess with Albus, perhaps, before Potter arrived at school and they'd lost much of their free time. The simple days, before so many things had gone wrong.

He drew on that single memory of Potter he could hold in place against the deluge: a lone figure disappearing into the labyrinth, slipping into the darkness between the hedgerows.

The box for the jigsaw puzzle had seen so many hot summers and damp winters it crumbled to particles in his hands. He should throw it out. Throw everything out. Memories of his parents screaming at each other flooded his mind. He should burn the bloody house down.

He took a deep breath. In and out. Empty the mind. Focus on simple tasks.

Chair had found a box of ornaments before it had been immobilized. A glass globe rolled out and stopped near him. He transfigured it into a large jar, charmed it unbreakable, and dumped a handful of pieces inside.

One puzzle piece showed the back of a man's head with a mess of hair, and a memory of the puzzle image came back to him. It was an old painting, Wanderer-something. A man stood on a rocky outcropping, back to the viewer, gazing out at a landscape thick with fog. Severus fitted together pieces until he had the shape of a man with unruly hair—a faceless man staring into the distance. Wanderer. Was he wandering because he was lost and fearful, or with the contented wandering of an adventurer? It was impossible to tell. Where have you gone, Potter? Have you found a way to travel, and are well on your way to your friends? Or did you tumble down a slope and lie broken and bleeding somewhere?

He tossed the man into the jar along with all the other pieces and shoved it into the cupboard.

Another mouse nearly ran over his foot, scuttling into the cupboard before he shut the door. Severus ground his teeth. Whole families of mice were likely nesting in the abandoned house on the other side of the wall, but his wards were secure. He'd reinforced them after Potter left. And yet it still felt as though he were forgetting something. Something that was not quite right.

He circled the house, checking for weak points. It reminded him of that first day he'd brought Potter home, how he'd searched while Potter worked his memory spell. Where had he hidden that day? His memories fluttered in a dizzying swirl until he caught the one he wanted. Right, the cupboard. He'd thought at the time—

For a moment, everything snapped into focus. "Idiot," he whispered.

He'd thought at the time that the cupboard was far too small for a grown man, even as thin as Potter was.

His gaze slid to Chair. Even frozen in place, it was vibrating, leaning towards the cupboard.

He'd been unconscious when Potter had left, but Chair didn't sleep. Wherever Potter had gone, Chair had witnessed it.

A series of levitation spells flung everything out of the cupboard to land in a pile near the window. Chair, unfrozen, clattered to the cupboard's back wall.

Severus ushered it away and examined the wall his house shared with the next. Concealment spells blanketed the corner. He ended them and discovered a visible seam that ran from ceiling to floor. Just there, the wards were weak enough to let several mice—and perhaps something larger—slip through.

The missing food he thought he'd simply lost track of. Mice weren't known for making off with tinned curry.

Potter had put on a show about getting the front door open before knocking him unconscious, so he wouldn't see where he'd actually gone. The only place Potter could go, with his agoraphobia.

Severus pressed against the crack, and the wall slid open. A dark space gaped, large enough to step through.

"Bingo," he breathed.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape

Severus pressed harder against the gap. The drywall clacked and slid backward, the wood frame all in one piece. Behind it was the cupboard of the house next door.

Despite the visible gap in the drywall, the wards weren't broken. They were elastic. It was the only way Severus could describe the feeling of pushing through them, as if stretching some invisible boundary to its limit. And then, after passing through the neighbors' cupboard and into their front room, the wards shivered and slipped away behind him, snapping back into place.

The house had a similar layout to his, except for the cupboards and stairs on the opposite wall. The front room was dark and dusty, and the weakening late afternoon sunlight from the gaping kitchen doorway strained to reach across the floor. On the far wall, someone had spray painted "Satan" in red letters, above a collection of pilfered church votive candles. Teenaged muggles playing at casting dark magic. Something they could outgrow and put behind them.

Severus stood quietly in the shadows, letting his eyes adjust. Then he pressed against the wall near the kitchen doorframe, ducking his head inside and checking for signs of life. Empty cupboards and drawers, all open, and a wide track mark through the dirt, winding past an upturned table. Someone had searched for food.

He cast silencio and climbed the stairs slowly. In the front bedroom, slatted light squeezed through the boarded window between shredded lace curtains. A family of mice nested in a hole in the wall, but otherwise there was no sign of life. Memories of the neighbors overwhelmed him: blond hair and ruddy faces, loud shouts of the two boys through the walls, then shouts from the parents about money, then silence. He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, trying to shut it out.

He didn't know how much time had passed when he came back to himself, but it was still light out. Minutes instead of hours, then. He'd slipped back onto the landing when he heard it: scratching and scraping.

He gripped his wand, his breath rough. Potter had left him like this. Pulling the strings while he slowly unraveled, risking his life if he were summoned by the Dark Lord. Well, Potter's fun was over now.

The back bedroom was in far worse condition. Mold and mildew decorated the walls. Bare rafters framed a large hole in the roof. Below, drizzle fell on a scattering of roof tiles and dead weeds spurting from the floorboards. Vines spilled through the empty window frame and across the walls. A broken bedframe tilted drunkenly against a ransacked dresser. On the wall to his left sat shelves of rotting books, although some were in surprisingly good condition.

Severus narrowed his eyes and spotted familiar titles. Those were his books, pilfered along with his food. And there, a collection of charmed objects from his house. More signs that Potter was here. His gaze darted from the broken furniture to the piles of trash.

The mound in the left corner shifted, old wrappers and beer bottles avalanching down the slope. A shadow moved behind it.

Severus angled against the door frame and aimed his wand. Potter's memory spell had been rendered ineffective while the Dark Lord remained obsessed, so stunning Potter couldn't make things worse. He cast stupefy silently.

Movement erupted to his right. A formation of broken glass flew at him. He ducked, and it shattered against the wall. Broken floorboards and roof tiles rose and attacked. He shot one spell after another, shattering each as they dived at him.

A leather belt sprung, buckle snapping, and wrapped his wrist, restraining his wand arm behind his back. A moth-eaten winter scarf knotted around his shins and yanked, toppling him. The belt on his wrist tightened painfully, but he wouldn't drop his wand. He tried to grab the belt with his other hand, and the belt lashed out, stinging his fingers.

He twisted, and the belt struck between his shoulder blades. Like summoned spirits, the memories possessed him. His father's rough voice: "C'mere, Sev'rus." The clicking of the buckle spiking his terror; clinging to the kitchen table as lashes seared lines across his back.

He wouldn't get dragged into that well of childhood memories. Not now. He grabbed the belt by the buckle. It coiled on his forearm like a hissing serpent.

Potter darted past him, heading for the door.

With his wand arm bound to his back and his other arm wrestling a belt, he didn't have many options. He pitched forwards, falling on Potter and rolling him deeper into the room.

 Potter thrashed in his one-armed grip, breaking loose and scuttling out of reach. He pressed himself against the wall.

Snarling, Severus freed himself from the belts and got to his feet, striding across the room. "This has gone far—"

He stepped on the circle of weeds and roof tiles, but the wood had rotted through. The floor gave way, and he lurched, scrabbling for purchase as floorboards cracked around him. He hung on, halfway through the floor. A sharp clatter and roll sounded below him—his wand falling. Accio, he thought, but both his hands were occupied with holding himself up. He stretched his arm to free his hand and gain leverage.

Potter rushed forwards, snatching his hand and biting hard. Potter certainly had teeth now.

Severus yelped and tried to pull back. The shifting of his weight loosened more boards, and he slid down further. He knocked his chin against the floorboards but held on.

Potter flattened himself to the floor. They were at eye level now, and they stared each other down.

How far of a drop was it? He might escape without injury if he let go and landed properly. But he wasn't here to escape. Instead, he tried for his most commanding voice. "Potter—"

Two belts flew to each of his wrists, wrapping tight and pulling until his arms were stretched to their limit on either side. Potter grabbed Severus's head, pressing his thumbs to his temples. But the physical pressure was nothing compared to the magical pressure. Severus scrambled to close his mind, but the compression was already inside, suffocating his thoughts. His fear ticked up, and he tried to slow his breathing. The room grew darker. Listen to me, he wanted to say, and perhaps he did. But the creeping darkness swallowed his words and the room until nothing remained.

Severus woke to something hard dragging across his back. He cracked his eyes open. Potter sweated and panted as he forcefully yanked him in increments across the floor. It was slow going. Severus was not a heavy man, but he had at least three stone on Potter, and Potter unable to stand besides.

A presence brushed against his mind. Potter, whose mental profile he'd unfortunately come to recognize. Severus kept himself relaxed, carefully calming his thoughts. He tracked Potter's creeping path until he reached a few precious memories he'd tethered in place: memories of Lily and Albus. And that single memory of Potter he could keep in his grasp.

Potter ignored the rest and went straight for the memory of the Triwizard Tournament, loosening the thin threads that held it in place.

His memory of Potter entering the maze hovered, ready to float away into the aether.

Absolutely not. Rage burned through him, and he grabbed Potter by the sides of his head. His occlumency might be weak, but his legilimency was as strong as ever. He glimpsed Potter in his workroom, altering the potion that caused his occlumency to slip away. He seized on the memory. Potter's spells were undisciplined, going more on instinct, but he clearly drew on the alternative properties of the ingredients, adding extra heat and magic as if brewing within the vial. To reverse the effects, he could—

Potter wrenched away, breaking contact.

He was so close. He nearly had the cure. Potter wasn't going anywhere until he'd given up his secrets and regretted every spell he'd ever used against Severus. He snarled and lunged after Potter.

Potter stopped and flattened himself against the wall, but Severus kept going. He'd knock Potter unconscious, see how he liked it.

Potter ducked, and Severus's fist went straight through the drywall instead. Dimly, he registered the pain in his knuckles as he punched again with his other fist.

Potter slithered along the baseboard and Severus's other hand also went through the wall. Now both arms were lodged wrist-deep in plaster.

Potter got behind him and pressed an arm against his jugular in a chokehold. It was as if magic were powering it, because the grip was powerful, despite those skinny arms.

The peeled paint blurred and dimmed. Severus yanked his hands free in a spurt of plaster dust and spun, slamming Potter against the wall.

The impact broke through the wall to the bedroom in the next house over. Severus fell and spun, landing on his forearms.

Potter, still clinging to his back, grunted as chunks of plaster rained down. He loosened his grip as he hunched protectively.

His throat now less constricted, Severus shouted "Accio," snatching his wand as it flew, and twisted out of Potter's grasp. 

Potter scrambled away, through the large hole.

Severus raised his wand, but one belt was back, tightening and immobilizing his wrist. He cursed, grabbed a chunk of plaster, and threw it.

The chunk hit Potter in the back of the head, and he sprawled on the floor.

Severus ducked through the hole and approached Potter, ready to drag him back to his house, but hesitated. Something about Potter's stillness told him he wasn't unconscious. He was waiting for his next chance to attack.

He wouldn't give him that chance. Potter had made a grave mistake by taking his occlumency. He'd root out the antidote from Potter's mind and show him the true power of mind magic. He cast the body-bind curse used in interrogations.

Potter jerked to his knees, his face upturned and his eyes forced open.

Severus grabbed him by the shoulders and plunged into his mind.

He usually approached the mind like a dense brew, agitating it and seeing what rose to the surface. Not only did it make the process more invisible and comfortable, but it informed him of what thoughts were most present in the other's mind.

But right now, he didn't particularly care what was on Potter's mind, or how comfortable he was. Severus slammed into his thoughts with all the subtlety and grace of a sledgehammer on concrete. He drove through the dark emptiness of Potter's mind and struck his vast blank wall, punching a hole through it.

The burst of thoughts and memories overwhelmed him. Bright reds and yellows exploded like firecrackers, and the rest flooded his senses: cold rainy winds and hot showers, laughter and spoons clinking against plates, rich crackling bacon and sweet pumpkin juice.

He gathered his wits and plunged deeper. Memories reeled and scattered in his wake. Colors faded to blacks and greys and sickly greens. The laughter turned cruel and mocking. Mold and mildew and stale breadcrumbs invaded, followed by the sharp sounds of breaking bones and tearing flesh, and the low, hoarse groans of a voice burned raw from screaming.

Severus quavered for a moment, but plunged on, outpacing the guilt that pursued his hardened determination. He was here for one purpose, and he wouldn't leave without his occlumency. He snatched at the memories, examined them, and tossed them aside. Faintly, he heard a sharp intake of breath. Was Potter realizing the enormity of his mistake? Discovering the full brunt of Severus's prowess? About bloody time.

Potter's shoulders quivered, and Severus caught the flickering thoughts of his conscious mind: magic collected from charmed objects, pushing against the body bind.

Stop fighting me. He changed direction and searched for specific feelings: fear and helplessness. And there, the memories that circled those feelings like satellites: Potter, his stomach twisting as Severus asked him advanced potions questions he couldn't answer; staring up at a howling werewolf; bound in a graveyard as the Dark Lord eyed him curiously. That's right, Potter. You're helpless. You've always been helpless. Give up and give me what I want.

The memories rippled and stilled, everything suspended in place. And then they erupted, fear and guilt and hatred bursting forth, throwing Severus into a tailspin. Potter's vast dark wall rose like a net, ensnaring him. It tightened, squeezing until he couldn't move.

He tried retreating to his own mind, but the dark walls trapped him. Even during legilimency, when his consciousness explored another's mind, he was always aware of his own body. But now, the rise and fall of his chest and the chill of the air grew dimmer. But he sensed Potter looming outside the walls.

Magic surged, and it felt familiar. It felt like his own magic. Of course, the charmed objects—Potter had cast another spell with borrowed magic. The spell weakened Potter's focus, and the walls thinned. Severus couldn't break them, but he could see through them, making out blurry images at the end of a dark tunnel.

Potter had broken the body bind and slid out of his grasp. He saw himself through Potter's eyes: kneeling, listing like an unmanned ship. His hands, no longer gripping anything, fell bonelessly to his sides. His dark eyes stared ahead, blinking reflexively, but he couldn't see through them. 

This was beyond anything he'd learnt about occlumency. Where had Potter discovered such techniques?

Potter veered past Severus's body and headed back through the crumbling plaster hole. A memory flitted past—a flash of his kitchen cupboards. Then a series of numbers, grouped around meals. Potter was figuring how many days his food would last.

Something other than the dark walls constricted him. He had no lungs, no heartbeat, but something seized. Potter meant to leave his body there. He meant to keep Severus trapped inside these occlumency walls. Possibly trapped forever, or as long as it took for his body to starve to death. Would his ghost haunt the inside of Potter's mind? He didn't want to find out.

He tried punching through the walls again, but they had become thick and rubbery, bending and snapping back with every impact. Panic rose, but he pushed it down angrily. Potter might have learnt a few tricks, but Severus had years of experience with mind magic.

The foundation of occlumency was mental imagery, either of emptiness or of walls, usually both. But with magic, no wall was impervious, least of all imagined walls. With the right magic, nearly anything could be transformed.

He felt the barriers and concentrated. Not thick and rubbery but light and insubstantial. Smoke, perhaps. Yes, thick smoke that obscured vision but was easily passed through. But when he pressed against the walls, they were as resistant as before.

Something else, then. Paper. Rough black construction paper cut into strips, held together with paste. One only needed to press, to tear—

The walls remained solid and resisting. Potter was on the other side, anchoring the image.

Severus wanted to thump his non-existent head. All his worries about muggles sending him off to a ward with a padded cell, and here he was, in a padded cell. He tried again and again, each time with more detail: ash, then sand, then feathers.

Something shuddered when he imagined the fluttering of a wall of raven feathers. He immediately pressed forwards, but the wall was still firm. There was something, though—a hesitation, a slight withdrawing. Potter didn't like something about feathers. Severus pressed against the walls, picking up echoes of feelings and memories.

No, not quite feathers. A quality of feathers. Soft, black, rustling. Yes, that was it. The rustling of feathers disturbed Potter. But not feathers—wings. Tiny wings, beating with a thin, papery sound.

Now the walls retreated as Potter dragged them away from Severus's touch. They still trapped him, though, so Severus latched on, keeping the image in focus.

Paper-thin wings on small black bodies, that was it. The smooth wall pimpled and broke into movement. Millions of black flies swarmed and battered against him.

Severus, used to touching insects for potions, didn't flinch. He dove through, catching the edge of a memory on the other side: clusters of flies, blanketing something pale, and wretched sobbing.

Thoughts whispered. Polyjuice. Had to be, had to be. Don't think, don't remember. The memory snapped away as Potter's conscious mind fled.

Severus didn't waste his reprieve on Potter and his fears. He returned to his search, but this time he twisted and turned, hiding between memories as the flies scattered. He expected Potter to transform the flies back into a suffocating wall at any moment.

Instead, he felt the familiar tug of a strong cord that tethered him back to his body. Sensations returned: the rise and fall of his chest and the hard floor against his knees. He could have cried with relief. His body was there, waiting for him. He only had to follow the tether.

But he also felt the sensations of Potter's body crouching and gripping the handle of something smooth and cold. Outside, the streetlights clicked on, and the sudden light flashed on a steel blade.

Oh, clever Potter. Tempting him to return, to have that moment of disorientation as he settled into his body. He wouldn't be able to defend himself in time.

He resisted the trap and pulled the cord deeper into Potter's mind. More memories uncoiled, twisting and tangling. He passed through a living room where a fat muggle man shouted, his garden as his father dragged him inside by his hair, the Great Hall, looking up at himself, a sharp pain in his forehead. No, it was him looking down at Potter, that was it. But their memories were intertwining. He was watching from the kitchen door as his parents decorated the Christmas tree… but why was Tuney there? He hadn't seen her in years. And it wasn't the kitchen door, but some dark, cramped place where he peered through a slot as Tuney and a large boy hung tinsel and laughed.

A familiar ache rang hollowly in his chest. But this was Potter's memory. He was at Hogwarts, watching a train head for London for winter break, knowing Lily was on board, getting further and further away. Struggling through his first week of teaching and his first month of spying at twenty-one years old, fearful for Lily and for himself. Writhing under the cruciatus curse… No, that was Potter… No, it was…

Hermione and Ron Weasley, thrashing on the floor of the cavernous throne room. Severus frowned, trying to make sense of it. Weasley and Hermione were never taken to the throne room.

But there they were, convulsing and screaming, until the Dark Lord lifted the curse. And there was Potter, crumpled at the Dark Lord's feet, staring at his friends, his face twisted.

"Choose," the Dark Lord said. "You can save one of them. Choose, or I'll continue."

Above, a cloud of black flies billowed. A few years ago, the Dark Lord had experimented with a species of fly that acted like locusts, consuming flesh on a magical command.

Weasley looked up. "Harry, please."

Potter's Triwizard uniform was already unrecognizable, tattered and bloodstained. Green tinged his lips, a sign of the potions the Dark Lord fed him. He cradled a hand with two fingers bent at unnatural angles. His gaze drifted, unfocused, but snapped up when Weasley spoke.

Weasley crawled to him and pulled him close. "Shh, it's all right. Remember what you said? You meant it, didn't you?" He pressed his forehead to Potter's, then pulled his face into a kiss.

Hermione continued to lie on the floor, weeping piteously.

Severus was utterly confused. This was a memory? The entire scene was surreal. Weasley in love with Potter? Hermione as helpless as a ragdoll? What was this?

Potter was beyond reasoning anything out, leaning into Weasley and shaking his head, muttering nonsensically.

"C'mon, Harry, it's easy." Weasley gave him another tender kiss. "You just need to say the words."

There were two objects chained to Weasley—a battered fob watch attached to his hip, and a rusty trolly wheel to his chest. Hermione had two as well—a cracked fountain pen on her back and a broken picture frame on her hip. Useless muggle objects that should be in a rubbish tip—and exactly the sort of thing portkeys were made of. And Weasley urging Harry to 'say the words.'

Severus was familiar with the Dark Lord's methods, and the pieces came together. Telling Potter he could 'save one.' And two portkeys, on different parts of the body, both triggered by a word or phrase. All it would take is to set the portkeys to the same phrase, but different destinations. The Dark Lord wasn't satisfied with killing one of Potter's friends. He wanted Potter to do it.

Bile rose in his throat. Polyjuice. Of course. Weasley had his faults, but he was no coward. He'd never plead for his life or throw Hermione to the wolves like this. But hair samples were collected from all prisoners, and the Dark Lord had no shortage of desperate witches and wizards who would act out whatever role asked of them to save their families. This was a depraved little play designed to break Potter.

Potter tried to turn his head to look at Hermione, but was too weak to break Weasley's embrace.

Weasley pulled Potter's face down into the curve of his neck, running his hands tenderly over his tangled black hair. "You've been strong. I'm so proud of you, Harry. But you don't have to be alone anymore."

Potter, his mouth open against Weasley's neck, gave a small nod.

Severus knew what would happen next with terrible certainty. "Don't," he whispered, but he was not a part of this memory. He could only watch it happen.

Hermione, perhaps sensing it as well, began crawling towards Harry.

Harry breathed out, his gaze swimming in the middle distance. "I choose Ron."

Severus turned away before he had to witness it. It must have happened quickly—too quickly for Hermione to scream. There was only a wet tearing sound, and he couldn't tell if it came from the body or from Potter's own throat.

Something landed heavily on either side of the throne room. The black flies hummed as they descended.

"Very good, Harry," the Dark Lord said.

Very good, Severus. His and Potter's guilt bled into each other. He needed to get out, get away. The throne room receded. He caught a last glimpse of the Dark Lord levitating Potter's grasping form. "Yes, yes, you can have him in a moment. First, I must see…"

The rest of his words were lost in the buzz of flies.

Severus spun into the twisted memories… Hermione, living and breathing, talking about Potter and pumpkin juice. "We tried to be there for each other. To be Gryffindors. Honest. Loyal."

But Potter's memories dragged him deeper, into his own dark places. And then it was the night of the final Triwizard task, after Potter had gone missing, and he was kneeling in front of the Dark Lord, trying desperately to win his trust back, and revealing none of that desperation on his face or in his thoughts. He must show that he was a true believer, that he had never wavered.

The Dark Lord, scrutinizing Severus as he crawled through his mind. "But why? Why should I believe you remained loyal? I killed that woman you wanted." He added belatedly, "she wouldn't step aside."

The tone was mild, and there was no feeling behind it beyond curiosity and self-interest. That woman you wanted. The Dark Lord didn't know the warmth of your best friend's hand on a summer's day, the comfortable silence of lying in the cool grass together, the uncontrollable giggling that overtook them. That was what Lily was and would always be.

But the Dark Lord only understood lust and desire, and Severus leant into that, knowing the Dark Lord most trusted those who reminded him of himself. "A foolish passing fancy. There are other women," he said easily. "Better women." But there were no other women, because there was no other Lily.

It was the memory of Lily's smile that pulled him from those dark depths. He followed the light of their summer days together until he broke free, waking in the bedroom of the abandoned house. Somehow, they'd fallen back through the hole in the wall.

Potter curled in on himself, his eyes tightly shut, his face so flushed he looked feverish.

Severus dragged himself closer and stared at the broken roof. Despite the drizzle peppering his face, he felt miserably hot, his shirt and trousers sticking to him. The air felt thick and hard to breathe, like the inside of a stuffy house on a sweltering day. He needed something clean and clear in his lungs. He cast a freezing charm and a fresh air charm, and a wind swept through. The grey drizzle burst into dancing snowflakes.

The winter before Hogwarts, before Gryffindors and Slytherins and all that followed, he and Lily had stood in the falling snow, catching flakes on mittens and noses and tongues. "Make a wish, Sev," Lily had said, and he'd wished with all his heart. Even then, before he understood his romantic inclinations leant the other way, he hadn't imagined marrying Lily. Marriage, as far as he could see, was a way for people to make each other miserable. He'd imagined a little sailing ship on the sea, far away from everyone else, where he could show her all the wonders of the magical world. There'd be nothing but waves and wonder and Lily's kindness, and they could both be happy, forever and ever.

Lily blinked at him, eyelashes sparkling with snow as if touched with fairy dust, and asked him what he wished for.

Even then, he sensed she might slip away from him. Like snowflakes, anything sparkling and new melted away once he touched them. "Nothing special," he said, but he hoped maybe Lily had wished for the same thing. It might come true if Lily wished for it. Only good things could happen to her.

A snowflake landed in the corner of his eye and melted, running along his nose. It was a portent, and tears followed its path as his body shuddered. He bent over Potter, trying to regain control.

A tear fell on Potter's lip and the tip of his tongue darted out, tasting it. Otherwise, he was frozen in place, eyes so wide they threatened to pop out of his head.

Wry laughter overtook him and eased his taut muscles enough that he sat back. "What, didn't think I was capable? I'm human, despite what you may think. It's only…" He shook his head. "I wish things had gone differently." He laughed again, quietly, at the enormity of that understatement. He wished he'd taken Hermione's advice, and joined Albus's cause sooner, and never revealed that prophecy, and never become a Death Eater. He wished he'd never said 'mudblood,' never gone to Hogwarts, never been born.

Potter sat up and pulled a book on magical creatures from the shelf. He flipped to a section on herbivores, pointing at two words: her, friend.

Severus stilled. Potter must have been as tangled in their combined memories as he was. He resisted the urge to cast obliviate and thought of Hermione's advice on Potter and trust:

Be Gryffindors. Honest. Loyal.

And he'd replied that he had honesty and loyalty in short supply. But with a slow uncurling in his gut, he realized he needed to scrounge up what he could.

He took a breath. "She was my friend. My best friend. My only friend, until…" Until I killed her. He was breaking apart again and closed his eyes until it passed. Merlin, he hadn't even found out how to restore his occlumency. He was worse than before. Memories of Lily flowed, as fresh as the first day. And his desperate attempts to keep her safe. My Lord, please. Spare her. What a fool he'd been.

Potter rifled through the book. He stopped at an illustration of a phoenix and looked up questioningly.

The Phoenix. What a grandiose title for his meager efforts for the resistance. "It's just a name." Severus wiped his face, thinking of Fawkes. "My tears are perfectly useless."

Potter looked over several pages, carefully picking out words. He showed them to Severus one by one.

-see-memory-pumpkin-juice-

Potter paused, his hand shaking, but he finally pointed to the last word.

-alive-

That horrible memory. Potter wasn't talking about Lily. He was asking about Hermione. Struggling through his own guilt and shame, but he didn't have to live with it.

"It wasn't her," Severus told him in a rush. "Her or Ronald Weasley. Neither has been imprisoned anywhere but the camp under Warden Umbridge." He hesitated. "Until a few weeks ago. Weasley's at Azkaban now."

The refrain of Potter's thoughts clicked into place. Polyjuice. Had to be, had to be.

"You were right. They take hair samples at the prison camps. It wasn't her."

Potter reached for his book again, and his finger found a word:

-someone-

And Severus understood all too well. The nameless casualties. "Yes, it was someone. But you weren't given a choice."

Another turn of the page:

-my-choice-

Potter closed his eyes briefly, lines tightening across his face.

-best-friend-

His throat hurt, and his voice was a hoarse whisper. "I know. But that's not…" Not what? He thought of all the excuses he'd tried over the years that he'd rejected as pathetic, false, cowardly. How could he say them to Potter when he didn't believe them himself? So he said the only thing that had ever kept him going. "There's no time-turner that can save her, no going back. There's only the next day, and the next. Who do you want to be in all those days marching forwards? What choices can you make so that you can live with yourself?"

A cramp ran through his calf. He shifted and rested against the bookshelf, stretching his legs. "I became Dumbledore's man because of…" He hadn't said her name out loud in years. Too dangerous, too painful. He tested it on his tongue now, softly. "Lily. Your mother. I'll always regret what happened to her. But I don't regret what I tried to do for her sake. To save others, to protect you. To be a better man." He shook his head. "Even if I failed."

Potter had gone still, and Severus hoped he was listening. "I can help. Or I can at least try. I know you'd rather it be anyone else but me. I'd rather it be anyone else but me. But it isn't, and here we are."

Potter set the book aside and sat quietly. They stayed like that for a while, just breathing, Severus trying his best to get used to Potter in a way he'd never done before.

He stood. The wreckage of two houses surrounded them, now lightly dusted with snow. He cast protection charms on the books. They would still be there later, or not. They were only books, after all. And he'd said all he could say to Potter. Except for one thing. So he said quietly, "come home."

And with that, he left, descending the stairs. He glanced at the hole in the cupboard, but decided he'd endured enough indignities for the day, and used the front door.

The house was cold and dark. Dim shapes clustered on the floor from when he'd emptied the shelves. He set the beef to cooking and prepared the batter for the Yorkshire pudding. Chair trotted anxiously after him and he patted it on its back rail. "Yes, I found him. Good Kindling. Were you trying to get me something for Christmas?"

He returned to the front room and sifted through the items on the floor until he found the snowman. It wasn't the easiest transfiguration spell, but eventually the cardboard box stiffened and grew into a trunk and branches, and the shiny plastic burst into clusters of green needles, filling the room with the sweet scent of pine. A milk crate became a stand, and soon the tree occupied a space near the window.

An untangling spell helped with the garland and lights, and he spun it round the tree, but left the tinsel draped over Chair. "There. Something to occupy you."

As Chair tossed clumps of tinsel towards the tree, a creak emanated from the cupboard. Potter was there, hand on the doorframe. He eyed Severus warily, but nodded a greeting.

Severus stepped back, giving him space. Potter moved to the tree and touched the tinsel tentatively. Slowly, he gathered a clump thrown on a branch and separated the strands.

Severus studied his face. He still looked haggard, thin, haunted. But Potter had lived with his pain alone for a long time. Severus knew what it meant to have that thing that pulsed in the darkness to the beat of your own heart. You grew to accommodate it, to accept its rhythm and carry on. It was that or go mad. And Potter, despite appearances, despite the Dark Lord's best attempts, was not mad.

He flashed again on the boy entering the shadows of the Triwizard maze, of Lily's smile, and how some things disappear into the darkness forever.

The tree lights blinked, summoning a memory. But it was something bright and clear, of sparkling snow and winter mornings. He picked up a clump of tinsel and laced it between the needles, angling each thread so it glimmered.

"A bit of cheer." He lay more threads, wondering what one said to someone who'd nearly ripped away his sanity and tried to kill him. Only one thing came to mind. "Happy Christmas."

Potter blinked slowly, then beckoned him closer.

Severus hesitated, remembering all of his tricks. But Potter was here, and that was the best sign he'd seen since this had all started. Slowly, Severus lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of him.

Potter made eye contact, and the landscape of Severus's mind shifted. All of his attempts to rebuild his walls, all the stone blocks that had slipped away into the darkness—they were all there, ready to be rebuilt. And bits of knowledge, nuances to occlumency that he couldn't keep in his mind. They had always been there, but he hadn't seen them. "How?"

Potter's presence touched the barrier he'd used to hide the occlumency—something fluid and shimmering. The barrier wasn't stone or brick. It was an invisibility cloak.

Severus let out a deep breath, and something tight in his chest settled. Potter hadn't taken anything from him. It had been right there. He just hadn't been able to see it.

They stayed like that for a while, watching the hypnotic blink of lights. Even Chair stayed quiet. Then Severus returned to the kitchen so they could have a late dinner.

The savory aroma of roasted beef and gravy had filled the kitchen when he heard the slide of hands and knees and a soft thump. Potter was waiting at the table.

Severus picked up the plates and nodded to himself. Potter was here, and he was safe.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger

The sharp January wind beat at Hermione's cheeks as she stood alone on a slope in the Highlands. The snow-dusted grass rose to a sheer rockface textured in browns and greys. In the center of the rock wall, the arch of a cave jutted above her head, the stones like a heavy brow. Despite the chill, the sun shone brightly. Faint wisps of clouds floated in the pale blue sky.

The blue expanse seemed endless as she shaded her eyes and scanned the horizon. Why had she agreed to pair up with Malfoy? She'd wanted Millicent, but had been unwilling to get between her and Pansy. And when Malfoy had split off to check for caves in the north, she'd been relieved to be rid of his grumbling. But now, facing a dark cave and possible dragons within, she wished she didn't have to face it by herself.

She'd nearly given up when a dark speck appeared from behind the crest of a hill. It quickly grew into a figure on a broom. Malfoy flew like a rocket, head low over the handle. He apparently saved the dramatics for conversation, as his flying lacked any showy spins or swoops. He sped straight on until he reached the slope, only slowing and pulling up in time to swing off and land lightly on his feet.

She blinked at him. "You showed."

Malfoy frowned as he leant his broom alongside hers against the rockface. "You said to meet you here."

"Yes, well. Borrowing Aberforth's broom was your first opportunity to scamper. I did wonder."

"I'm not allowed to disappear again. Millicent made several threats regarding my ability to walk, talk, and produce heirs."

"Ha. Still intimidated by Millicent, even after all the running and battles and seeing—" She stopped as the blast they'd heard in the pasture reverberated through her head. Her mouth filled with the bitter taste of smoke and ash.

Malfoy's eyes widened, and his hand rose, reaching out. And then, as if a spell were cast, his hand flicked airily and the familiar curl of his lip returned. "Is the majestic eagle intimidated by an angry bull in a field?"

He spread his arms, making his trademark gesture intended to convey the specialness of the Malfoy name. Hermione privately referred to it as 'jazz hands.'

As she stared at him impassively, he deflated, shoving his hands in his pockets. "But I figured she's a better ally than enemy." He gave her a sidelong glance. "All of you are. And anyway, running off on my own…"

"Not all it's cracked up to be?" Malfoy had been spectacularly bad at it, getting captured by both sides within two months.

He gave a noncommittal shrug and studied the cave entrance. It stretched over them, the black interior impenetrable.

"They won't be here," Malfoy said.

"And you base that on what? Your vast expertise based on one childhood pet?"

"A pet from the same species you're looking for. They can be rather peculiar. A bit… well…"

"Large? Airborne? I've seen dragons before, you know." She cast lumos and stepped into the cave, listening for anything large with claws. "They're not meant for domestication. I'm surprised you could keep one."

"Father knew the warden at a wizarding prison in the Arctic Circle. He was curious about their breeding program to bring out new traits in their guard-dragons."

"They were breeding them for intelligence?"

"Nighteyes were already intelligent. Several dragon species used to be, but it was bred out of them. Makes them more manageable."

She shook her head. "Another species we've subjugated."

"They're fire-breathing monsters, Granger. You want an intelligence like the Dark Lord rising through their ranks? Selective breeding is the reason we control them, and not the other way round."

"Why does anybody have to control anybody?"

"That's—"

"The way the world works." She gave him a sidelong glance. "You've mentioned."

The chilly mountain air ebbed away to something warmer, touched by the scent of smoke. She followed the warmth through a tunnel, only to be stymied by a heap of rocks that blocked the way.

Malfoy pulled out his borrowed wand and cast lumos. As the tunnel grew brighter, he stiffened. "No."

"Don't give up just yet," she replied. "There's bound to be another way in."

Malfoy goggled at her. "Get your eyes checked. We're here."

She stared at him, then turned in a circle. Nothing. "Malfoy—"

The rocks rumbled and shifted.

Landslide. She whipped out her wand and cast a shielding spell on them both before one of the massive rocks crushed them.

But the blockage moved strangely, shifting sideways, and a large boulder rose straight over their heads. On the side of the boulder, a marigold-yellow eye slowly opened, the black vertical pupil narrowing as it caught a beam of sunlight from the entrance. The craggy rocks rippled and smoothed into violet-grey scales, and the eye focused on them and blinked.

Hermione blinked back. Her mouth hung open, but she couldn't remember how to close it. The part of her brain that never turned off reminded her that vertical pupils were often found on nocturnal animals. It made sense if they were used as prison guards. In some parts of Siberia, the polar nights lasted over a month.

The dragon uncurled its tail and stood before them. Its scales brightened, becoming more purple than grey. The serpentine neck swept downward until the head was resting on the ground in front of them. This close, the iris was the size of a wall mirror and showed striations of copper and gold.

She stepped back, bumping into Malfoy, who was still glued to the spot. She hoped she didn't look so saucer-eyed, although she probably did. Right. Straighten shoulders, close mouth. She didn't come all this way to freeze or run away, so she gathered up her courage and waved. "Hello."

Silence. The dragon blinked languidly.

Hermione turned to Malfoy. "I don't suppose you know dragon language."

He cleared his throat and took several seconds before answering. "Maybe it doesn't speak. Some understand human speech, but many don't bother to learn."

"But they're capable of language. I heard them speaking in a dragon tongue when they flew over the pasture."

He nodded vaguely, gaze rooted on the dragon. "Probably debating whether to eat us."

"The fact that they didn't implies they aren't operating purely on instinct. Come on, then. How do we communicate? There should be a way, if they're intelligent."

"As a species. But intelligence varies."

She frowned at him. "In humans, too."

The dark slit of the pupil eyed them as the scales settled into a shimmering pale lavender.

Malfoy made some strange swallowing noises. "Oh, Merlin… that's…"

He trailed off, and Hermione prompted him. "That's what?"

A voice rumbled inside her head. Malassara. That's Malassara. Good afternoon.

Hermione shivered, gasping. The voice was clear and absolutely alien, like someone had bypassed her ears and put the voice directly in her skull. Deep and rumbling and yet somehow feminine. She'd never experienced anything like it.

Malfoy shook his head. "Not possible. Hallucinations. Auditory hallucinations."

For a half second, she believed it. The stress of the war and the influence of dragon magic had sent her round the bend. But then she heard the voice again, fainter and fuzzier this time, like the focus was elsewhere.

Draco? Is that you?

Hermione glanced between them. "You know each other?" Her brain caught up. "Wait. Was she your pet?"

Malfoy shrugged as the dragon nudged him with her muzzle, nearly toppling him over. He reached out a reluctant hand and patted her snout. "Father got the egg for my fifth birthday. You know, because I'm Draco. His dragon." He smiled, his eyes unfocused. "He wanted it for my first, but Siberian wizards don't give up their dragons easily. You wouldn't believe the bribes he had to pay."

His smile faded under Hermione's withering stare. She crossed her arms and eyed the massive dragon. "Why didn't you tell me you recognized your pet flying overhead?"

"You've seen it—she has a special camouflage trait. And anyway, I barely knew up from down. I was a goat."

I knew that was you. Malassara hummed, her breath as warm as a hearth. You have a distinct Draco smell, even under the goat smell.

Malfoy spluttered. "I don't smell!"

Hermione snickered. "Did you play hide and seek when you were little? Did she follow your smell?"

His glare wasn't remotely intimidating as he stumbled against Malassara's head rubs. "It wasn't like we ran about playing games. Or… Maybe a bit, when she was small. Mostly, she was a guard. For protection. "

And care. Malassara's words grew soft. Nursemaid.

Malfoy turned pink. "You were not a nursemaid. I didn't need a nursemaid. If anything, I raised you."

Hermione shook her head. Bribing a warden and then using a dragon as a private guard and nursemaid, of all things! It confirmed everything she knew about rich pureblood extravagances. But then she looked at Malassara's twinkling eye and Malfoy's bright blush and couldn't help smiling.

Draco was afraid to fly. I helped. Comforted him.

"No, that's not…I was six!" Malfoy shoved his hands in his pockets. "What are you doing here, anyway? Father said he took you to a big farm up north, where you could run and play and fly as much as you wanted."

Malassara slowly swung her head in the negative. There was no farm. Your father thought I had become too large, too intelligent. Too dangerous. He sold me to the goblins. But I stole my hoard and escaped.

"Oh." He looked crestfallen. "Father never told me."

Lying to protect his son's feelings—probably the best she could ever expect from Lucius Malfoy. But she was more interested in something else Malassara had said. "Bill Weasley worked with dragons, and he never mentioned hoards."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "A lot of dragon trainers consider it old-fashioned. Mostly, they can't afford to maintain hoards of gold and gems to control each dragon. They're working to breed hoard-bonding out of them, in favor of behavioral conditioning. But traditional training doesn't work with Siberian Nighteyes. They don't exactly come when called."

We do, but not to obey a master. Only when the person calling is special to us.

Malfoy pinked up again. "So, uh… yes. Humans and goblins still use hoards for some dragons."

Draco began my hoard. He gave me the gold-plated collar from one of his toys. His favorite stuffed rabbit, Mrs. Hoppy-Boppy.

Malfoy closed his eyes, scrunching up his face. "Malassara, please. Granger doesn't need to know all that."

Granger?

"Call me Hermione." She tucked her wand away and raised her hand as if to shake, then realized she'd be lucky to wrap it round a single talon. She wiggled her fingers in a friendly greeting. "You carry your hoard with you? Isn't that difficult?"

We have our methods. Would you like to see the hoards?

Malfoy perked up. "They're here with you? The other Nighteyes?"

Malassara nodded. My family. Follow me.

She led them deeper into the cave. Despite her size, she moved lightly, only her tail whispering against the ground. Their footsteps were loud in comparison, echoing against the curved walls.

A golden glow appeared ahead, and the air grew warm and misty. The passageway opened into an immense cavern. To the side, a roaring underground waterfall cascaded in tiers over three stone shelves until it fed a dark lake. Mist flowed from the lake onto a shelf of warm brown rock, rippling around a cluster of glowing red boulders in the center. 

From the swirling mist appeared a dragon's head, its red-orange scales bright against the haze. Its mouth opened wide and a deep rumbling emanated from its throat. The rumbling grew into a thundering blast, and fire lit up the chamber.

Hermione clapped her hands over her head, as if she could somehow protect herself from bursting into flames. Even with her eyes closed, the light was unbearable.

The noise died out. She cracked her eyes open. The boulders in the center glowed a bright yellow-orange now, like coals in a fire. Heat poured off in waves. She unbuttoned her jacket and used her scarf to wipe the condensation and sudden perspiration off her face.

The heat burned away some of the mist, revealing ten dragons resting against the cavern walls. They varied in color, from fiery orange to gemstone blue and darkest black to palest white. Collected beneath them were piles of galleons and jewels. Heaps of tangled gold necklaces, rings set with sapphires and rubies, diamond pendants, and more—so many they formed small hills. It was more wealth than she'd ever seen in her life. They glittered and glowed far brighter than the dim light should have allowed.

She cleared her throat. "I'm Hermione Granger. I lead… that is, I'm part of a resistance movement against a powerful dark wizard."

It was disconcerting to have ten pairs of slitted eyes stare unblinkingly at her. She glanced at Malassara. "Do they understand me?"

Malassara nodded. Only some know human language, but the others are translating. We can speak without sounds, although it takes more concentration.

"I never heard you speak dragon language," Draco said.

I learnt it when I found my dragon family. She sent a burst of warmth that had no words. Let me introduce you.

Dragon families—at least this one—turned out to be complex, with adoptive and biological aunts as well as blood-siblings and clutch-siblings. All laid eggs were gathered in a single clutch under a brood mother. And most of the dragons were female, the male dragons flying off in search of mates and weyrs once they were adults. Except for the weyr-father, who stayed. It was absolutely fascinating. Hermione was on the verge of asking more questions when her thoughts were interrupted by some pointed throat-clearing from Malfoy.

Right. The mission. The details of familial dragon relationships would have to wait. She addressed the room at large. "As you may have heard, it's been a difficult time for us. Many of my fellow comrades have been captured and are kept in prisons not far from here. Our numbers are low. It's likely…" She didn't want to say it, but it needed to be said. She took a deep breath. "It's likely the dark wizard and his allies will win, and reign over the wizarding world for many years to come, unless we find a new way to fight back. I was hoping…that is, would you help us?"

An orange dragon spoke a series of hisses and growls. Malassara tilted her head and turned to Hermione. My nephew Peressis says that dark wizards do not concern him. We are not part of the human world.

Hermione thought for a moment. "But other dragons are held by humans and goblins. Maybe other Nighteyes. If you helped us, you could have a voice in the new government we establish after the war."

The orange dragon bowed his head respectfully, and Malassara translated, We wish the best for our brethren, but we escaped to be free, not to have obligations to humans again. And we must recover. Raise our broods. Gather our numbers so we may never be captured again.

Malfoy raised his head at that. "And then what? Stay in hiding forever? Trust me, that doesn't…" He swallowed. "That doesn't work out as well as you think. Even if you succeed, you'll always wonder if they've found a new way to track you."

The dragons conversed again. Some agree, and some do not. But they will accept what Alzarad decides.

"Alzarad?" Hermione asked.

Our weyr-father. He listens to our concerns and plans the best future for us. Malassara tossed her head, indicating a tunnel that ran deeper into the cave, and led them inside.

At the end of the tunnel lay a smaller, darker cavern. Fire-warmed stones glowed dimly, casting red light and shadows on the walls.

A pair of emerald eyes glowed, far larger than those of the other dragons. His red-scaled body filled the room, a long tapering tail curling under a whiskered chin. Tendrils of smoke escaped his nostrils.

Hermione kept her chin up and approached. The eyes grew larger. She felt like she could step inside the black pupils. Boulders surrounded Alzarad, glowing faintly with warmth. This close, the scales were a dull rust-red, patches of leathery skin showing. Dead, blackened scales littered the ground below.

Two sentinel dragons belched fire on the rocks surrounding the red dragon's body, and the air grew hotter. The red dragon sighed.

The gale of his breath pushed Hermione off balance. She did her best to keep herself steady. "Alzarad?" She glanced at the fallen scales. "Are you all right?"

Alzarad shifted and blinked, his translucent third eyelids sliding across the irises. He lifted one wing, revealing a much smaller hoard underneath: a scattering of galleons and jeweled rings; a fob watch on a gold chain, three amber figurines of stylized animals, and a small stone box carved with the sweeping curves of a flame.

"Does the weyr-father not need as large of a hoard?" she asked.

Larger, Malassara said. Alzarad refused to be in bondage and escaped without his hoard. He now suffers. We have tried to collect the pieces we can find, but it is not enough.

Alzarad's shifting had dislodged the lid of the stone box, and it revealed a small crystal globe filled with mist.

Hermione drew a sharp breath. "Is that…?"

It is his prophecy. Admiration shone in Malassara's voice. He hid it from the goblins, and always carries it with him. It foretells of a sacrifice of blood and fire. Such magical objects in a hoard can transfer their properties, and sometimes our weyr-father can—

Alzarad growled, deep bass notes that rumbled through the ground and up Hermione's feet.

Malassara's gracefully curving neck tensed, and she lowered her head. Our weyr-father reminds me I do not know you well, Hermione Granger, and Alzarad knows neither of you. It is not my place to speak of such things.

"It's all right," Hermione said, trying to drag her gaze away from the sphere. She'd focused on the edge of the hoard when movement caught her eye.

A small creature camouflaged by glossy golden fur scuttled over the edge of the hoard. Its snout nosed a galleon as its eyes gleamed greedily.

It must be some species of niffler, although she'd never seen one with such unusual coloring. And instead of stuffing the galleon in his pouch, the niffler gobbled the coin whole. Its squat neck showed the outline of the coin as the creature swallowed.

Malassara, alarm in her eyes, took a breath and opened her jaws. The smell of sulfur and charcoal charged the air.

"Don't!" Hermione jumped in front of the niffler and scooped it up. The niffler squeaked and rolled into a fluffy golden ball. She glared at Malassara. "It was one galleon. You don't need to burn him alive."

Malfoy clutched his chest. "What were you going to do—blast the whole room? You could have singed us. Give us a warning next time."

Hermione cuddled the niffler close to her chest. "There shouldn't be a next time. It's an innocent creature."

Alzarad pulled his lips back and snarled at Hermione, revealing fangs half as long as her leg.

She stumbled back. "Please. It doesn't mean any harm."

Malassara inspected the areas around Alzarad, her nostrils quivering. It's necessary. We have an infestation of alchemist nifflers.

Malfoy's eyes widened. "Alchemist nifflers?" He checked his pockets, as if the furry creatures could have slipped into them unknowingly.

Hermione recalled the term from one of her books. "Irodan Dorabo attempted to breed nifflers with ore-eating cavern moles, to have them feed on ordinary metals and produce gold."

"Attempted being the operative word," Malfoy said. "He failed. And what we got instead was one of the worst monstrosities magic has ever produced."

"That's a bit much," Hermione said. "They merely have different properties than intended. It's a common side effect when—"

"They eat gold, Granger. They eat it and leave behind piles of…niffler droppings."

"Mostly they eat lesser metals. Preferably anything shiny. Not much gold lying about in the wild."

"And when they discover a cache of gold? They're like locusts."

Hermione smiled. "Are you afraid of a little niffler?"

"Of course not." Malfoy brushed at his trouser legs, checking the cuffs. "I'm afraid of being poor."

We destroy them once we find them, but we are not always quick enough, Malassara said. They've eaten too much of our hoards.

Hermione cast a quick spell, and a tink echoed. A small jar rolled to her feet. She picked it up, spelled a few holes into the lid, and sliced off part of her scarf to serve as a nest. Then she shrunk the niffler and put him inside.

In many respects, he didn't look much different from other nifflers. Squat body, snout, and roving eyes that lit on the gold in the cavern. It was the color that made it distinct. Iridescent gold fur made him look as if he were made of precious metal itself. The only sign of any crossbreeding with a mole were its tiny eyes, blinking shortsightedly at her.

Malfoy leaned in, staring at the niffler so closely his nose was nearly touching the jar. "Ugh, awful. Hand it over. I want to destroy it myself."

The tiny niffler looked at Malfoy and scuttled closer to Hermione.

Poor little thing. That settled it. "No one's destroying him. I'm taking him with me."

Alzarad hissed and snarled.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Is this more of your S.P.E.W. nonsense? It's a rodent, Granger. They bore into walls and soon all your prized jewelry is gone. Bracelets, necklaces, tiaras—"

"I'll make sure he doesn't go near any of your tiaras." She tucked the jar into a pocket.

Alzarad had all his fangs on display, and she had the mental image of being tossed up and chomped like popcorn. She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize they could destroy your hoard." As much as she hated to admit it, Malfoy was right—to a point. They hadn't come here to save nifflers, but to make friends with the dragons. And she was rather going in the wrong direction. "We can look through the rest of the cave. Capture all the nifflers consuming your hoards."

Alzarad grumbled noncommittally, but at least he wasn't still snarling.

They found another niffler in Alzarad's chamber and then worked their way towards the entrance, Malassara following. Hermione tucked the jar away before they reached the main chamber. "The dragons have quite a reaction to nifflers, don't they?"

"Can you blame them?" Malfoy replied. "They've got the right idea: burning them to a crisp. I don't know what you think you're going to do with them."

"I'll release them elsewhere."

"Right. Elsewhere. Where is that, exactly? They've no natural predators. Except dragons, I suppose. They're not meant to exist. They'll breed and eat all the metal in their environment."

"Well…They could be kept as pets."

"Kept where? In cages? They'll eat through them."

"Unbreakable glass enclosures, then." She tapped her jacket, the pocket of which held the jar.

In the main chamber, the mist had dispersed into a low-lying cover that swirled over their feet. The dragons lounged, nudging their hoards into nests. Malassara spoke, and heads turned towards them, tails curling protectively around their collections of gold and jewels.

"I feel bad for them," Hermione whispered to Malfoy. "To depend so on a collection of objects."

"Everybody depends on something." Malfoy's gaze focused on a dragon tending to a clutch of eggs. He pointed to a spot below. "There."

Shuffling movement and shimmering fur. Hermione cast her wand and added another niffler to the jar. "I'd hoped they'd be more enthusiastic about being allies."

He scanned the nearest hoard. "That's your fault, really. Should've let them—"

"Yes, you've made your point, thank you."

Malfoy gave her his complete attention. "It was never going to be easy. They have magic and can defend themselves. What do they need humans for?"

"Niffler hunting, apparently." An idea came to her. "Malassara, most of Alzarad's hoard is in goblin hands, right? What if we could get it back for him and help him regain his strength? Would the weyr fight alongside us, then?"

"Granger," Malfoy said warningly.

She waved him off. "Can you ask him?"

Malassara closed her eyes for a moment and stilled. Then she bobbed her head. He would agree.

Malfoy pulled at her arm. "You're not thinking of stealing from the goblins?"

She shook away his hand. "And could you provide assistance?" She asked Malassara. "With obtaining the hoards?"

Alzarad must stay here, and some of us must remain to attend to him and guard the weyr. But I will help. She lowered her head and gave a playful snort, sending Malfoy's scarf billowing behind him. It will be all right, Draco.

Her voice dropped to a murmur as she focused on Malfoy. Hermione couldn't make out what she was saying, but Malfoy gave her a weak smile and scratched her chin. She closed her eyes and let out a rumbling hum.

He remained quiet until they'd exited the cave. Then he rounded on her. "What are you planning? How exactly are you going to get near goblin-held dragon hoards?"

"Blaise has been looking into Gringotts transfers, at least for the family accounts of those who have been working with Aberforth through the Rattle and Horn."

"That has nothing to do with hoards. None of them have ever owned dragons. They'd have bragged about it long before now."

"But your family has, and there's bound to be a record of Malassara's sale to the goblins. Her hoard would have gone with her. And goblins have all sorts of identification numbers and runes magically embedded in their documents. I'll bet dragon hoards have their own special code. Blaise knows several codes and has deduced others. He's been instructing me on it." She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'll not be deceived again by not understanding the nuances of a bank document."

Malfoy grimaced and looked out across the Highland slopes. "So, you'll give them whatever information you can find and that's it, right? The dragons will find their hoards themselves, and we'll stay out of it?"

She shook her head. "I suspect most of the hoards will be too well-guarded, even for dragons. And I don't think passing on some information they can't use is helping them all that much." She softened her voice. "What about Malassara? Don't you want to help her?"

"She's fine," he replied stiffly.

"And her family? Alzarad looked quite ill."

Malfoy shook his head and said nothing, staring across the snowy peaks and valleys. Finally, he let out a breath. "You want me to make a transfer request."

Her eyebrows rose. He might make foolish decisions, but there was a mind buried in there somewhere. "For your hidden memories, yes. Blaise determined that they're still in your private vault, so they'll need to be transported. If we can get the timing right, we might get them aboard a train with items from a hoard. Maybe."

He crossed his arms and shook his head. "Ifs and maybes."

She shrugged. "Welcome to the resistance."

Turning, he studied her. "Granger." He dropped her name with heavy disapproval.

She matched his tone. "Malfoy."

"You can't seriously suggest we hijack a goblin train."

"Suggest? No." She smiled. "I'm well into planning it."

Chapter Text

Ron Weasley

The kelp was moving strangely. Thick red-brown clouds of it separated and fanned into multiple strands. While schools of fish moved in and out of view, the strands caressed the massive steel-framed windows of Azkaban's Great Room.

Ron stared at the curling tendrils, wondering if he was going round the bend. Or maybe he was simply trying to distract himself from the freezing temperatures and the sense of impending doom. Several floors of prisoners and nearly all the staff had been assembled on the twenty-fifth floor, facing the raised platform framed by the tall windows. The guards shifted on their feet, watching the stage expectantly. Whatever was about to happen, he felt in his bones that it wouldn't be good.

Ron's breath misted the air as he warmed his hands in his armpits. At least the crusts of ice rimming the scattered puddles told him it was still winter. He'd lost track of the days and weeks. There were no nights down here, only sleep periods. And who could tell how long the sleep periods were? It never felt like he'd gotten a full night's rest.

He glanced at Sirius, who wobbled on his feet, swaying too far to the side and nearly losing his balance. Ron shifted closer, subtly propping him up. Sirius grabbed his elbow for extra support. His hands were shaking, and lines clustered around his eyes as he squinted at the stage. He'd been cursed repeatedly with cruciatus and not given enough time to recover.

Yesterday, Sirius had gotten into an altercation with a guard. The guard had called for reinforcements, and they'd used that curse, over and over. He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the memory.

When Sirius leaned against him again, Ron touched one of his arm tattoos and felt a glow of warmth that pushed back the chill. Sirius sighed and relaxed a bit. Ginny had insisted on a few tattoos, finding time at meals, and now he was grateful for it. Sirius had tattoos from his first stint in Azkaban, but either they no longer worked, or didn't work well enough.

Percy walked down the line of them, his little notebook out and ready to jot down any infraction. Ron stared straight ahead. He couldn't stop thinking of the unfairness of it all. Everyone in the resistance had worked so hard, fought so hard, and now they were all here. Percy got off scot-free because he knew which boots to lick. And still, his prat brother was unhappy. Every day, his shoulders hunched higher and higher, until he resembled an angry turtle.

And behind him, like the turtle's proud owner, was Lucius Malfoy. Apparently, he'd finally pulled the right strings and gotten past the front gate. Why he wanted to dirty his silk robes on Azkaban's floor was a mystery.

Said silken robes now stopped in front of him, along with Percy's starched uniform. He'd finally gotten his change of wardrobe. Ron's jaw twitched, but he kept his gaze even.

While Percy scribbled furiously, Malfoy tsked, his tongue smacking wetly against his teeth. "All those Weasleys, and only one has stayed out of trouble. A pureblooded family, too. Such a waste."

Beside him, Sirius glanced down and tensed.

Malfoy had his wand out and was idly sketching the air with the initial movement for cruciatus. His half-lidded eyes languidly studied Sirius. "Something wrong?"

It was the same routine they got from the guards: no sir, yes sir, thank you, sir. Sirius must be in a bad state, because he joined in, mumbling his 'sirs.' His inner fire dimmed when he knew another round of curses would incapacitate him past recovery. Being unable to move meant being confined to his cell until a medi-wizard got to him. He'd choose the pretense of an obedient prisoner over that.

Ron stared past them, trying to pretend they weren't there. Or better yet, that he wasn't there. The kelp was circling now, pressing against the glass. It formed shapes that were odd, unnatural. But almost familiar.

"And you." Malfoy turned back to him. "Have you anything to say?"

Saying the words tasted more bitter than any of the dreck they parceled out at meals. But things were coming to a head, and he couldn't afford to be incapacitated, either. "No, sir."

Malfoy rambled on about blood purity or some rot, and Ron's gaze drifted back to the window. The kelp went through a series of strange shapes, and then repeated. Like a message. His heart thudded. Hermione?

"… perhaps you finally understand that," Malfoy finished.

Ron had no idea what he'd just said, but it didn't matter. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," he said automatically. Merlin, he couldn't remember all of Hermione's codes. He'd never work this out. He risked a glance at Sirius, but his vision had gotten worse from the nerve damage. It was likely all a blur at that distance.

It was up to him, then. He tried to recall the runes and symbols within symbols that Hermione had used, but only remembered a few. And none of them matched the shapes of the swirling kelp. Still so familiar, though.

Malfoy's gaze was still stuck on him. "…the interrogations?"

"Yes, sir," Ron replied.

Malfoy's eyebrows rose, and Percy visibly swallowed.

"I mean, no, sir." It had to be one of those two, right? Something something interrogations. He searched for the half-heard words. Was he resisting interrogations? That was it. Bollocks. He needed to throw in some of the party lines to course correct. "Absolutely not, sir. I only want to honor the glory of the Dark Lord's…" He ran out of words to describe Voldemort. Or at least, the sort of words Malfoy was looking for. "…honorable glory."

Malfoy looked ready to cast a curse, but then floodlights lit up the stage. All the guards stood stiffly at attention as someone emerged from behind the curtain and shuffled to the podium. He wore robes similar to the ministry's, but in black and yellow with a stylized "A" for Azkaban.

Merlin—it was Cornelius Fudge. They'd heard he'd quickly shifted from Voldemort-denier to Voldemort-collaborator during the early years of the war. He'd been a puppet minister for a while, before Voldemort had declared himself Lord of the Wizarding World. He must've been appointed warden when he was no longer of use at the Ministry.

The years hadn't been kind. A few wisps of grey hair floated over his bald head, and his skin had gone waxen and splotchy. The grandiose robe overwhelmed his slumping frame.

Fudge directed his wand at his throat and amplified his words. "Attention," he squeaked. He cleared his throat and coughed, managing a more commanding voice. "The Dark Lord has most generously offered pardons to members of the rebellion when they pledge their loyalty to him. Additionally, staff who secure loyalty oaths from prisoners will be given promotional opportunities and perhaps even an audience with the Dark Lord himself."

Malfoy smiled at Percy. "You see? There are always opportunities."

"It's impossible," Percy said. "I'll never get out of here."

Right. Poor suffering Percy. He'd get his wish, somehow. He was just the sort Voldemort wanted in his little clubhouse.

Clubhouse. An old memory surfaced of a slanted tree house with a hand painted sign declaring it Ron's Secret Club. The irony of announcing that it was a secret was lost on his nine-year-old self. He'd been the last in a long line of Weasleys to use the rickety shack, since Ginny had declared it funny-smelling and it had collapsed during his first year. It had been a club mostly of one, Percy being "too old for such things" and the twins preferring their own secret adventures. Only Billl and Charlie had indulged him—

Ron breathed in sharply, loud enough that Percy glanced at him. He kept his eyes focused on Fudge, as if enthralled by whatever he was saying.

Only Bill and Charlie had indulged him by passing messages back and forth in his secret code. It had been a childish thing, substituting symbols for letters. A spiral for S and a curling cat's tail for C—easy to remember. He made sure Percy wasn't still watching, then looked at the curling kelp with new eyes.

Fudge gestured to someone offstage. "You may feel some misguided sense of loyalty to your failed rebellion, or that it's only a matter of time before your side succeeds. You may take pride in your stubborn refusal to accept the Dark Lord's rule. Let me assure you that there is only one path forwards."

D-U-P-A-M-E. Dupame? S-S-A-G-E. Oh—'up a message.' Maybe 'send up a message.' Cripes. The code might be easy, but it was tricky to put it together in his head. Especially with Fudge's amplified voice ringing through the room.

But just then, Fudge concluded his speech. A guard escorted a rail-thin prisoner onstage. Fudge beckoned him close, and he shuffled to the podium. Long white hair obscured his face, and he walked with a limp.

A wave of uneasy energy ran through the room. Sirius shook the hair out of his eyes and squinted. "Who's that?"

Fudge patted the man on his shoulder and addressed the audience. "This prisoner once swore he'd die before giving his allegiance to the rightful ruler of the wizarding world. But some of our best interrogators have spent many years with him, and…" Fudge tapped his wand to the prisoner's throat. "Go ahead," he said gently. "Tell them what you told me."

The prisoner raised his head. A single eye blinked at the crowd. A strap of linen covered the other eye, and did a poor job of disguising the empty socket underneath.

Ron's blood ran cold. "Moody."

Sirius sucked in a breath between his bared teeth. "I thought he was dead."

"So did I. He was next to Flitwick when a Death Eater cast the killing curse, and we saw them both collapse. I tried to reach them, but—"

"Speak up so everyone can hear you," Fudge said as Moody mumbled.

Moody paused and started again. His voice was weak and reedy, but the projection spell carried it to the assembled. "All praise the Dark Lord." He continued on, his words testifying to Voldemort's power, even as his voice echoed in a passionless monotone.

Ron tried to tune him out too, and focus on the code, but it was impossible. He couldn't shut his ears. He looked down, unable to watch the shadow of a man he once knew and admired. Moody. They'd carved him away and left a shell.

Percy's eyes had lit up. "You see? Everyone gets there, one way or another. It's not too late, you know."

Malfoy nodded approvingly. "I'll put a good word in to Fudge. Excuse me a moment." He strode down to the stage.

Fudge ended the vocalization spell for Moody and the guard gently ushered him offstage. Fudge gestured grandly at their exiting forms, as if demonstrating a fine show horse. "Perhaps some of you think you can hold out, that your false beliefs will sustain you. I assure you, they won't. Perhaps you should think about how much energy you want to put into a futile cause." He nodded at the audience. "The guards have been given the loyalty oaths that you must swear to. Those who agree quickly will receive pardons and resources for more comfortable accommodations. Those who stubbornly refuse…" He tilted his head in the direction Moody had exited. "I'm sure you see the correct choice."

Percy pulled a small roll of parchment from his pocket. "It's not even that long." He smiled. He looked unnatural when he smiled now, lips curling back with no mirth at all. "Just a few simple sentences."

A few simple sentences, declaring his loyalty to his pureblood heritage. To Voldemort. Ron thought briefly of how nice warm woolen socks would feel right now and then straightened his shoulders. "If you think I'd ever swear loyalty to you lot, you've really gone mad."

Percy's grin flattened. "You don't understand the pressure I'm under."

"I don't understand the pressure you're under?"

The appearance of Moody had animated Sirius. He snorted. "Do tell. If only I'd brought my violin." He mimed the slow strokes of a funeral dirge.

"There have been new edicts for interrogators. The Dark Lord wants…" Percy shook his head. "Something. Four interrogators have already been fired. And they're not being reinstated at their old ministry stations, let me tell you."

"I'm weeping," Sirius said. "Ron, pass me a handkerchief."

"Sorry," Ron replied brightly. "Must have dropped it the last time a guard hexed me." He stared at Percy. "Or maybe it was when you broke my arms? I forget."

Percy looked away for a moment, but then firmed his mouth and leaned in. "Pardoned prisoners can request pardons for next of kin. Including Mum."

Ron closed his eyes. Percy was an utter bastard for bringing Mum into this. "Why don't you get Mum out of the prison camp, if it matters so much to you? You've got more status than a pardoned prisoner."

Percy studied him. "So if I get Mum out, you'd agree to take the oath?"

The coldness of the air was nothing compared to the coldness that settled in his heart. "I'd agree that you no longer deserve to call her Mum."

"I'd agree with that, too," Sirius said.

Percy turned on him, spluttering. "Oh, shut up. Who even asked for your opinion?"

"All right," a guard announced from the podium. "Those of you who've gotten loyalty oaths, wait here. We'll bring your reformed prisoners up on stage. There's a ceremony, and a clerk to file your transfer paperwork. The rest of you—back to work."

The guards near the beginning of the line prodded the first prisoner, and the line shifted into slow movement.

Ron swore softly. The message. It was still going, but he couldn't grasp it with the line moving. It was too obvious he was staring at the window when he should be facing the door. "Then again, Fudge had some good points."

"What?" Sirius growled in his ear. "You've got to be—"

"Thinking it over, yeah." Ron gave him a sharp elbow.

Sirius stumbled and grabbed Ron's shoulder.

Ron took the opportunity and made a hand signal hidden between their bodies. The prisoners had developed a few hand signals, and this one meant: shut up. Except not that polite.

Sirius stiffened for a moment. "Seems like a mistake," he said slowly. "But no harm in thinking things over."

"I should stay until I get all the information I need," Ron said, trying not to emphasize too much and still get the message across. He addressed Percy. "Maybe you should read the oath. It might be something I could agree with."

The line was still moving, but Percy pulled Ron out of it. "I've got one," he said frantically. "We're staying."

"So you'll read it?" Ron asked.

"Of course." Percy unrolled the parchment, and Ron shifted until he was facing the windows again.

R-O-N

Oh hell. I know who the message is for, idiots. I'm the only one who can read it.

Percy read the oath in his most pompous voice. "I, your-name-here, a blood traitor and mudblood sympathizer…"

The hell he was going to say that. But he shouldn't listen. He focused on the code. Way-to-attack-

"swear my lifelong allegiance to..."

Need-a-time-and-place-

"…Lord, and aid his efforts to strengthen the wizarding world…"

 -serpent-is-waiting-if-you-can-send-up

'Send up a message.' That's where he'd started. He had it just as Percy finished.

"Hmm." He nodded slowly. Percy's eyes shone brightly after reading that. A reckless anger grew. "Yeah, I think…"

"Yes?" Percy leaned forwards, the oath clutched in both hands.

"I didn't think it was possible, but I actually…" he cast his gaze at the ceiling in search of the right words. "… Have a lower opinion of you now than I did before. That's quite the accomplishment, Percy. Congratulations."

It took a second for it to register, and Ron enjoyed watching Percy's ambitions sink with his face.

Malfoy returned, wearing a faint smile. "Well? Do we have another reformed…" But he could see Percy's expression as easily as Ron could. "Apparently not."

"Wait." Percy held up a hand to the nearby guard. "When's Ron's next—" He firmed his jaw. "When's this prisoner's next interrogation?"

The guard raised an eyebrow. "Thought you tracked all the schedules. You've been working on that spell–"

"Yes, thank you," Percy said quickly. He cast his wand, and a scroll appeared. "Scheduled next week." He flicked his wand at the parchment. "Why wait? Let's reschedule that for this afternoon."

The guard glanced over his shoulder and grunted. "That's a few hours away. He's got time to work."

Ron was led off as Percy stared after him.

The work was reinforcing a wall where the sea had broken through a few days ago. The wall was still weak while the patches were fresh. They were still using those terrible wands, of course. To exhaust and weaken them, so they didn't cause trouble.

That was what Ginny said, anyway. Ron glanced up from his work to catch Sirius's eye. He checked to make sure the guard wasn't watching, then used one of the name signs they'd created. Ginny?

Sirius shook his head and signed back. No word yet. The secret signals that Ginny and the others had developed had been the one breather they'd gotten in this miserable place. Ron's Secret Club was finally up and running.

Lunch was shark meat soup. It had the taste and texture of a rusted hull, but it was protein, and the peppers staved off scurvy.

Ginny was returned to them halfway through. Too late for her own serving, but she waved away the bits Ron had saved for her.

What did they want? Ron signed.

Ginny shook her head. The usual.

Ron nodded. More questions, more free-ranging, more forceful use of legilimency. It seemed like they wanted to know everything and nothing in particular. 

Ginny made another sign, the one they never said out loud. Breakout?

Tonight, Sirius signed.

Ginny fidgeted with the rattling strands of her fairy-bone necklace. Why tonight?

Sirius touched a tattoo of a stylized lion. Its tail broke apart, crumbling to powder. Floo powder. Nicked it. He nodded at the wall torches that could be used as floos.

The rest of the prisoners looked at each other doubtfully. Not enough magic, Ginny signed. Not enough weapons. She'd been trying to find wood, although she'd been tight-lipped on the details. If we wait—

Ron wanted to ask more, but the guards were back for him now. His interrogation with Percy.

As he was escorted away, he caught a gleam in Sirius's eyes, and a sign: be ready.

They were still in the upper tower, so he was taken up one level, to an area divided into interrogation rooms. The lunch, small as it was, lay heavy in his stomach.

The room only contained one chair: made simply of wood and shimmering with a waterproofing spell to keep it from rotting. Percy stood next to it, shifting from foot to foot. And behind him stood Lucius Malfoy, his face expressionless.

The guard shoved him into the cell and locked the door behind him. Malfoy cast a silencing spell on the door and surrounding walls.

Ron took a deep breath. This was it. He'd really hoped that Sirius and the others would carry out their plans before he was subjected to another interrogation. He didn't have all the plans—they kept each other in the dark deliberately—but he had enough. And Percy, being an annoying little swot, had been getting better at legilimency.

Percy settled into the chair as Malfoy paced restlessly behind him. "So. It's been a few weeks since your last interrogation. Under the new edict, that's rather a long time."

"Not long enough," Ron said.

Lucius flicked his wand, and Ron was hit with the interrogation binding spell. He dropped to his knees, and his head was wrenched up. Forced into the position of a sinner begging for forgiveness, even if it was Percy who should be begging.

"So," Percy said again. Ron realized he was more nervous than usual as Malfoy hovered by his shoulder. Percy produced a scroll and studied it. "In previous interrogations, we've covered the names of your fellow traitors, what battles you took part in, and the whereabouts of the remaining rebels. Hermione Granger, for instance."

"I don't know where Hermione is." The words came easy. He'd said them enough, in little rooms just like this one.

"Hmm," Malfoy said. "The war is over, you know. She's the only one left. No funding, no allies. She'd be better off if she were in here with you."

"Under Fudge's tender care? I don't think so."

"At least she'd be alive," Percy said. "Do you truly want her to die alone out there? Or live to see another day?"

"Do you really expect me to believe that you lot would keep a muggle-born alive? One who lead the resistance against…" He paused, knowing that the punishment for speaking Voldemort's name was the cruciatus curse. Whilst normally he might be bloody-minded enough to endure it, right now he needed his wits about him. "…you-know-who?"

He shook his head. It didn't matter, anyway. He truly didn't know where she was. Even if that last day hadn't been chaos, Hermione had gotten into the habit of only telling him what he needed to know. Probably trying to protect him, in case… well, in case he ended up a prisoner. He hoped she was okay.

Percy stared at him a little too hard. A warning sounded in his head. Percy got a scrunched-up look when attempted legilimency. Nothing like Snape's stony face, but it had started to get the job done. And right on cue, Ron felt a pressure, like a headache coming on. It gave him the shivers, but he tried not to show it. They couldn't find out their plans.

But Ron had been studying, too. Not from books or in-house trainings or messages from Snape—whatever Percy was using. But he and the other prisoners had been pooling their knowledge, figuring out what best resisted legilimency. Some claimed that clearing their thoughts helped, but Ron was hopeless at that. He'd found another method, though.

He recited an old nursery rhyme in his head. A wizard went a-traveling, a-traveling, a-traveling…

His head hurt. He wanted to rub it, to slump back on his heels. He couldn't. Don't think about that. A-traveling today. A dragon went a-traveling…

Percy looked annoyed. That was a good sign. His brother leaned back and muttered angrily to Malfoy.

"Prisoner Weasley," Malfoy said, "Consider the situation you're in. Without signs of cooperation, other methods will be introduced. Cornelius confided in me that they've been experimenting with using dementors prior to interrogation. Constant invasions of the mind and soul can damage the weak."

Ron's anger flared. He was no weakling. He'd fought in a bloody war! He—

Percy's gaze turned intent.

Ron quickly quashed his thoughts. A mermaid went a-traveling…

"Ron…"

A-traveling, a traveling…

"Prisoner Weasley!"

A-traveling, today…

"Fine!" Percy stood and paced the room. "I know what you're doing."

"Yeah, well. I know what you're doing."

Malfoy gave him a sidelong glance. "You've surprised me, Mr. Weasley." His tone was almost admiring.

Ron thought he'd been prepared for anything, but he wasn't prepared for a compliment.

"I suppose it's a testament to the purity of your blood."

So much for compliments. "You should see Hermione. You wouldn't get any further with her."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "I would like to see that Granger girl." His voice dipped, as icy as the water. "Very much so. She was last seen at Brigadoon, I understand?"

If he could've shrugged, he would have. "All your resources and good breeding, and you still can't track down one witch. What's that say about blood purity?" He stared at Percy and practically shouted inside his own mind, A griffin went a-travelling, a-travelling…

Percy looked away, his nose wrinkling. "It shouldn't work. It's such a simple trick."

Malfoy studied Ron. "His is a simple mind."

"Ta," Ron said cheerily.

"This is Snape's fault," Percy grumbled. "I barely learnt anything from him."

"Sounds like I'm not the only one with a simple mind."

Percy nearly got out of his chair, but Malfoy put a hand gently on his shoulder. "A deliberate choice. Severus hoards his talents. He knows he could be quickly surpassed by others with better upbringing."

Ron frowned. Snape wasn't a pureblood? He vaguely recalled some offhand comment Malfoy had made during the trip to Azkaban, but Ron had other concerns at the time. Now that he thought about it, he'd never heard of a wizarding family named Snape. Not that he kept track of a bunch of snooty purebloods. "Maybe he realized you were a hopeless case and didn't want to waste the energy."

Percy flushed. "You… you… shut up."

"Percy," Maloy said gently. "You recall what we discussed earlier? Your family's poor choices cause others to… wonder about you. You'll not gain the favor of people that matter until you show how far you're willing to go."

A warning pulsed through Ron's body.

Percy visibly swallowed. "It's an unforgivable."

Ron's mouth went dry.

"That's the old way of thinking. They're officially called enhanced spells. Restricted to those employed by the regime, but perfectly legal in those cases."

Percy fiddled with his wand. "Right. I know."

Ron felt the intense need to do something. But he could barely move, and he didn't trust himself to speak.

Malfoy gave Percy a shoulder pat. "You've seen for yourself he's incorrigible. Unrepentant. It will take something extreme to reorder his thoughts. Reform is only possible with enhanced spells. The safety of our society depends on it."

Ron braced for the pain. He'd experienced the cruciatus curse twice in battle. And once from a guard, when his magic had failed completely during a work shift. Now he had to endure it from his brother. The rage he normally felt for Percy felt like a distant clamor as his heartbeat pounded in his ears.

Percy stood, his wand arm shaking. "Crucio."

Nothing happened.

Malfoy's voice was iron. "Again."

Percy straightened his shoulders and took a breath. "Crucio."

Nothing. Percy had finally found a line he couldn't cross. Ron released a rasping laugh.

"I just…" Percy flushed. "I wasn't prepared."

"No matter," Malfoy said, raising his wand. "Crucio."

Ron's body rattled against the binding spell. It was like his bones were shaking from their sockets, swelling underneath his skin, his jaw, his eyes. His ears rang from his own screaming, until his throat muscles spasmed and it turned to wet croaks. He couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow. His throat swelled as he choked on his own saliva.

The binding spell stopped at the same time as the cruciatus, and he crumpled to the floor. He took big gasping breaths, the frigid air somehow burning as it went down.

His face felt wet. Not tears. Not here. Not in front of them. His face heated. His miserable body, shaking and crying and blushing, and always when he needed to be strong. It was moving of its own accord, crawling away from Percy and Malfoy. No, face them down. Fight. But his body wouldn't listen. He backed into a corner as the two advanced on him.

"You see?" Malfoy's voice was smooth. "They must be taught the consequences of defiance. They might talk of bravery and justice, but they're just criminals offering excuses for their poor behavior. A few enhanced spells, and they're hiding in corners."

"Shut up," Ron said, but his teeth were chattering and it was barely intelligible. Even after it was over, the curse liked to linger. Needles of pain grew in his head and around his eyes. Ringing grew louder in his ears.

Malfoy was saying something to Percy. "…chance to prove yourself. Unless you want to remain here."

Percy grabbed Ron and pulled him up. His stare was desperate. "Show me where she is."

Ron realized he'd dropped his little ditty, but his thoughts jangled in a discordant clamor and he couldn't find the words. He could feel Percy in his memories now, like some burrowing insect in his skull, pulling up Hermione's face, red-eyed during those awful weeks when they were barely talking. "I don't know!" Hell, he was crying now, his eyes filled with piercing points. "She doesn't tell me anything! She hasn't for years. Not since—"

Percy's eyes flashed in triumph.

The memories burst forth: running from Death Eaters after that Easter battle while Hermione met with her precious Phoenix, hiding in a dark cave while they were hunted, joining Sirius in an attack that had gone belly-up, casting curses and missing. And the Death Eaters, relentless, pushing them back no matter how hard he fought. Fred and George, pale and unmoving.

The barrage of memories stopped. Percy took a step back, as if he'd been slapped.

Ron slumped against the wall. He was the worst bloody resistance fighter to ever grace the wizarding world. No wonder Hermione didn't want to be with him. He really was a useless prat. He wiped his face with his sleeve.

Percy's mouth was turned down sharply, his brows bunched together as he looked at Ron.

His face burned. He didn't think it was possible to be more humiliated, but there it was. Percy felt sorry for him. Some wizard he turned out to be. He buried his face in his hands.

Malfoy was whispering urgently at Percy. "…any locations, dates?"

Percy's voice was uneven. "I'm not sure. She met with that Phoenix during the Easter uprising…"

"During the uprising?" Malfoy paused. "Perhaps this hasn't been a waste of time."

Panic thudded in his chest. Had he somehow given them information that would lead them to Hermione? The Easter battle was years ago. If only he could warn her. But he could, after they broke out. Had Sirius convinced the others to take action today? He pulled himself to his feet and glanced at the door.

Percy caught his eye, his wand already swishing. "Legilimens."

Ron cursed. But Percy was already in his mind, already catching his last thought.

Percy's eyes widened, and he broke off contact. He rushed to the door, removing the locking and silencing spells.

They were greeted with a blast of noise. Percy opened the door to billowing smoke and shouts. A throng of prisoners barreled towards them, Sirius at the lead.

Malfoy joined Percy at the door and pointed his wand at them.

Sirius didn't have a wand. Defenseless, but making progress through sheer numbers and a bit of floo powder. Ron didn't have a wand, either, but he wouldn't let them get hit with spells from a Death Eater. He grabbed the wooden chair and slammed it over Malfoy's head.

Malfoy fell heavily to the floor, his wand rolling out of his hand. Ron dropped the chair and grabbed it. "Stupefy!"

The stunning spell hit Percy with force. He slammed against the doorframe and fell in a heap.

Ron rolled the wand in his fingers. He'd gotten too accustomed to the weak wands and had pushed the spell too hard. Still, it was only a stunning spell. And Percy deserved it.

Sirius reached him and stepped over Percy into the interrogation room. He took in the situation and grabbed Percy's wand, only to curse and drop it.

"Percy added an anti-theft charm. Give me a moment." Ron used Malfoy's wand to stop the painful contractions in Sirius's hand, then worked on removing the anti-theft charm. He nodded when it was done.

"How'd you get Malfoy's?" Sirius asked as he picked up the wand again. "Expelliarmus?"

"Chair." He gestured at the chair now lying in pieces between Malfoy and Percy. Remembering Ginny's grousing about wood, he shrank the pieces and pocketed them. "And he didn’t bother with an anti-theft charm. Probably didn't think anyone would dare."

Malfoy stirred. Sirius unleashed a stunning spell, and Malfoy collapsed again.

Sirius grinned. "Congratulations, mate. You bested a Death Eater. And without a wand."

Ron grinned back. He finally felt like himself again. "Let's take this tower and get the bloody hell out of here."

Chapter Text

Ron Weasley

Ron and Sirius surged down the corridor, the prisoners behind them shouting and even laughing. Giddiness bubbled up, and soon Ron was nearly leaping as he ran, buoyed by the flood of cheerful voices.

"We worked our way up here using floo powder," Sirius said. "But I'm out. Too many of us." He grinned wildly at the mass of prisoners behind them.

Ginny was in the crowd, her mass of braids as messy as ever. She held a new wand at the ready, gaze searching the corridor ahead.

Ron dropped back and handed her the shrunk pieces of chair. "There's your wood, Ginny."

"Bit late for that, but thanks." Ginny didn't quite smile, but her gaze was full of bright energy. "We're six floors from the surface."

Six floors. They could really make it. Ron grabbed Ginny's shoulders in a running half-hug while she stumbled and groused at him.

Sirius raised a warning hand, and Ron let go, moving to the front. At the next bend, they met two wide-eyed guards. Ron shot stunning spells, and they toppled. Sirius pilfered their wands, handing them back to the other prisoners. The next handful of guards gaped at the ranks surging towards them and bolted up the stairs.

They followed them up the winding staircase. They met a flank of guards above the twenty-fifth floor and had to exit at the landing, spilling out into the Great Room. There, they faced a line of guards, wands out.

They'd been a massive force when confined to narrow corridors and stairs. But the Great Room was one big open area, and their numbers now seemed far smaller.

The guards fired off hexes and curses, and they scattered. Ten prisoners fell in the first volley. They were far too exposed.

"Confringo!" Ron cast the curse at the massive stage and threw himself to the floor. The stage blasted apart in a thunderous explosion. Splintered planks cannonballed, shattering against the stone walls. Screams echoed from the guards.

Smoke and the scent of burning wood filled the air. It scorched Ron's throat and left him nearly blind, and he squinted through the grey miasma with stinging eyes. "Sirius," he croaked. "Ginny!"

A grey figure became more distinct as it approached, solidifying into a coughing Sirius. He wiped his mouth and gave Ron a grin. "That showed them, mate! They thought they had us."

Somewhere to his right, a voice cast a siphoning spell to clear the air.

"They might still," Ron said grimly. "Did you hear that?"

Sirius nodded. "Back to the stairwell, then. We'll set the debris on fire and smoke out the guards above."

"Can't." Ginny appeared out of the smoke with Lupin at her side. "They've transfigured a steel gate and are working on another above that. By the time we remove them, they'll have cleared any smoke."

"That's a problem." Ron conveyed the message Bill and Charlie had sent. "Even if we can't escape now, I need to find a way outside Azkaban's walls to send a message back." Something in the walls made it difficult to send patronuses through.

"Enough floo powder could get us all up top," Sirius said.

The smoke cleared enough to reveal prisoners surrounded by debris. "We're losing our cover," Ron said.

Sirius brightened. "What about this?" He levitated the debris, slamming nail-embedded planks into others until he'd formed a low free-standing wall.

"Better yet." Ginny raised her newly pilfered wand, and the debris rose in a cyclone, the planks and nails doubling and tripling. They shot together to form walls and ladders and towers—a labyrinth that both covered the vast floor and shot above their heads.

Ron goggled. "Where'd you learn that?"

"Woodworking's become a hobby of mine. There." Ginny pointed at the uppermost tower, its peak nearly touching the high ceiling. "You get up there, and you can coordinate. Direct us to the unsuspecting guards so we can clobber them."

"Shouldn't Sirius—"

But Sirius was already charging into battle, scrambling up a ladder and leaping over a wall. They dashed into the labyrinth, Ginny leading the way. After several ladders and a rickety bridge, they climbed onto the observatory deck of the tower.

The labyrinth had settled around the guards, isolating them. They were blasting through walls, but they could no longer pick off the prisoners easily.

"I'm heading there." Ginny pointed at a cluster of three guards, separated by walls.

Ron grabbed her elbow. "Wait, I'll go. You stay."

She raised an eyebrow. "Not the time for the overbearing protective brother act. Everyone needs to fight."

"Then we'll both go. I should be down there with you."

Ginny shook her head. "I remember how you were in the early days of the resistance. You thought up strategies. Me and the others—we're more charge-and-fire types." Something must have shown in his face, because she smiled sympathetically. "I know. But you'll save more people by staying. So stay." She gave his arm a squeeze and swung over the rail, heading down.

Ron wished he could join her, but she was right. He stayed where he was, scanning the scene below.

The smoke had been siphoned off. Guards were demolishing walls, amplifying their voices to locate each other. Prisoners with decent wands were repairing the walls as they roved the maze, but seemed as lost as the guards.

Ron spotted two guards converging on a fellow prisoner and amplified his voice. "Wilfred, they're nearly on you. Go through the left gate and turn—you'll catch the first one." A guard and prisoner were on different sides of the same corner, unaware of each other. He sent his patronus to whisper the information. He kept at it, shouting instructions when he could and sending his patronus when he couldn't. The prisoners picked them off one by one, confiscating wands and floo powder. Shouts of victory sounded throughout the room. And Ron felt a surge of confidence he'd never felt before. He was doing it—he was leading a rebellion, leading others. Being a hero, just like Harry.

The light was dimming. Guards were sending spells to the torches lining the walls, extinguishing them. A prisoner, floo powder in hand, headed for a lit torch, only for it to go out before he reached it. The Great Room grew darker.

Directly below the tower, Percy's voice rang out above the others. "No! I'm not telling you anything."

Ron paused and listened. Had his side captured Percy?

"Do you want them to escape?" demanded Drabber's voice. "There are too many of them, and we can't blast the walls fast enough. They're going to push through."

"If I show you how to cast my spell, I won't have any…" Percy got quiet, and Ron leaned over the railing, straining to hear. "…only been civil to me lately because you need my spell. If I'm going to show it to anyone, it'll be the Dark Lord."

"It's not really your spell," Drabber said. "That brother of yours invented it."

"Not him," Percy said scornfully. "My twin brothers. But they didn't invent it, either. They found this map."

The hairs on the back of Ron's neck rose.

"They thought I didn't know about it, but I did. I cast diagnostics on it, working it out."

"Then if you'd show me–"

"I'm not showing you anything! I spent all that time marking the prisoners for the tracking parchment. Why should you get the credit?"

Ron recalled Percy performing a complicated spell on him weeks ago during an interrogation. It didn't seem to have any effect, so he'd forgotten about it. But if it made him show up in a duplicate of the Marauder's Map…

"I don't want credit, you ponce. I want to stop this breakout. Show me the map, at least."

"I couldn't recreate that design. I made a ledger, listing the names of the prisoners with location details…"

Ron didn't wait for more. He swung over the railing, down a ladder, and then used holes in the tower's supports to keep going, scraping his palms against the rough wood. He had to stop Percy before he cast that spell.

As he landed on the floor, a silence fell as both sides recovered from the volleys. In that silence, Percy's voice rose, uttering a familiar spell.

Bluebell flames appeared in spots above the labyrinth's walls and directly over Ron's head. Percy must have combined it with the tracking spell. It sent a light over every prisoner and gave away their positions.

"Go!" Sirius shouted, but the bluebell flames followed, beaming on them like spotlights. 

The guard's spells now found them with harrowing accuracy. They dodged and deflected, but many prisoners were still wandless or only had shoddy prison-issued wands.

Ron ran, dodging guards—they seemed to be everywhere. Rounding a corner, he encountered Sirius facing two. He stunned one and aimed for the other, but Sirius cast expelliarmus. He caught the wand and got hold of the guard, a reedy fellow with straw-colored hair.

"Captain," Sirius called. "We've got a friend of yours. Clear the stairs, or we'll do more than stun." He cast a stinging hex, and the guard cried out.

"Taking hostages now?" The captain's amplified voice carried clearly over the walls. "That won't get you anywhere."

"It's Captain Rackwell, isn't it?" Sirius tugged at the name tape on the guard's uniform. "Funny, that's this fellow's name. Too young to be your brother. Son?" He prodded the guard with his wand. "It'd be a shame if you had to re-staff."

Ron frowned at that. They were going to kill the Captain's unarmed son? He looked younger than Ron. Maybe Sirius was bluffing.

Percy's voice whispered, somewhere nearby. Ron edged around the corner. Sirius followed, dragging the guard along.

Percy stood by a blasted wall, studying a parchment.

Sirius aimed at him, but Ron caught his elbow. "Just a stunning charm, yeah?"

Sirius gave him a level look. "He's not your brother anymore."

"I know, but—"

Then a volley came from behind. Several guards had found them. Sirius shoved the hostage at them and ran. The only functioning torches were now on the far wall, and they were getting further away. Ron and the others were being forced back towards the stairs.

They stumbled out of the labyrinth and immediately ducked a volley of spells. A group of guards clustered near the stairwell door. Sirius quickly levitated several walls and hurled them. The group of guards scattered, some of them getting knocked out as the wood smashed into them.

"Ginny!" Ron shouted, but Ginny was hard at work. The labyrinth reassembled into a covered corridor, giving the prisoners a clear shot to the stairs.

They headed down, pursued by a force that was gaining numbers. Behind him, there were screams and the thud of bodies being stunned—or worse. By the time they were pushed back to their work site, their numbers had been cut in half.

Sirius threw a curse at the recently repaired wall, and there was a thundering crack. Water roared in, washing away the pursuing guards.

"The opening." Ginny pointed at the gaping hole. Light broke through the water. Light from the surface. "We're still on the upper levels. We might make it."

They both dove for the opening, but the water pushed them back. The current was too strong, the levels rising too fast. As the icy water penetrated, his limbs grew heavy, and he struggled to keep his head above water. He grabbed Ginny, who was doing no better, and dragged them both against the wall where they could hang onto a doused wall torch.

"Can't," he said through chattering teeth. Another tough choice: stay and drown now, or head to the lower levels and be trapped?

It wasn't a choice, really. He couldn't bear the thought of Ginny drowning, and he wasn't so far gone as to give up all hope. He gestured at the other prisoners and shouted over the roaring water. "Follow me!"

They headed down. The corridors were dark and empty. Guards below must have gotten word and flooed to higher levels before shutting down the torches. The water flowed past them on the stairwell, dragging at their legs.

Ron glanced up. The bluebell flame had disappeared, but his location was no doubt in Percy's ledger. There was no use in ducking onto another level and hoping the guards sped past. They'd know. "It's Percy," Ron said, pointing up. "Git created a locator spell. Learnt some tricks from the Marauder's Map."

Somewhere in the mid-levels, Sirius stopped and grabbed Ron's arm. "Barricade," he said between gulps of air.

Ron nodded. He hoped the guards were patching the leak above, but maybe they'd let the water take care of the breakout.

He and Sirius had the strongest wands, so they worked together. Targeting inner walls, they blasted holes, sending the rubble into the stairwell above them. Ron found a barrel of mortar and sent it up as well. That and sticking charms sealed off the upper levels.

Ginny stared up at the mass of rock and mortar. "Will it hold?"

"Dunno," Sirius said.

Ron remembered something his father had told him. "The Titanic. It had multiple chambers. If one flooded, the remaining chambers would keep it afloat. We should keep building barricades. If one fails, we'll have others."

"Huh." Sirius scratched his head. "Didn't the Titanic sink?"

"Yeah, well, the idea's sound. Unless you've got a better idea."

"Nah, you're right. Let's do it."

They kept at it, every few levels. Ron couldn't help but feel they were sinking like the Titanic, going deeper and deeper. They were on their third barricade when they heard a shattering crash from above.

Ginny let out a breath. "One of them failed."

"Or it was destroyed," Sirius said grimly.

They stood, staring at their latest barricade. No one wanted to say it, but they knew their breakout had failed. The best they could hope for now was to be recaptured.

With effort, Ron shook it off. "We're not done for yet. We've got some floo powder. If we can find a functioning torch, we can get back to the upper levels. How much powder do we have, anyway?"

The prisoners pooled what they'd gotten. It was tight, but it might be enough.

Lupin became pensive. "The interrogation rooms near the Bath. Most of them only have one torch per room, and not all of them are functional. I was interrogated in one where the guard used lumos to keep the room lit. The torch was dead."

"How's that help us, mate?" Sirius asked. "We need a working torch."

"The torches are how they communicate. If a guard's been interrogating someone—"

"They won't have heard the evacuation order. And they'd know the spell to re-activate a torch." Ron nodded. "Let's go."

Ron hoped that luck would finally be with them. It wasn't. They searched the interrogation rooms near the Bath. All empty.

Sirius closed his eyes, his face drawn. "That's it, then. It's only a matter of time before they reach us."

Lupin stared at the Bath. Ron remembered that terrible day when Lupin nearly drowned. He claimed he didn't remember his time as a werewolf, but Ron caught a shudder as Lupin stared into the pit. Maybe some experiences pierce through the transformation. Ron couldn't forget it, either. The werewolf, the dementors pouring out of the hatch.

Ron frowned. Two hatches on opposite sides of the Bath. One was open to let in seawater. The other had been dry. Where did it lead to? He stepped to the edge of the Bath and pointed to it. "Anyone know where that goes?"

Sirius shook his head. "All I know is that dementors come out of it."

Ron sent a locking spell to the open sea passage and Ginny drained the Bath. Everyone trained their wands on the hatch as Ron opened it, but no dementors poured out this time. The hatch opened to a tight crawlspace.

Ron glanced at Sirius. "Want to risk it?"

Sirius stared at the small opening and swallowed.

Ron realized his stupidity. It would take a lot for Sirius to be in a space that small and enclosed. "Actually, we need you out here," he amended. "Someone needs to hold off the guards if they break through. If there's a way out, we'll let you know."

A wild look flickered on Sirius's face as he stared at the opening. But then it cleared, and he nodded and faced the barricaded door.

Ron glanced at Lupin, who nodded warily and climbed into the Bath. Ginny climbed down, too, giving him a hard look he knew not to argue with.

The three of them climbed in and wormed their way forwards. Ron kept his wand—Malfoy's wand—lit with lumos and between his teeth for easy access, his heart thrumming. If he encountered a dementor in here, he had no way to retreat.

The area around the Bath was already chilly, but the temperature dropped even further as they moved deeper. As he crawled forwards, the bottom dropped away and his arms met empty air. He flailed and wriggled back, his feet bumping into Lupin.

"What is it?" Lupin asked.

Ron took the wand out of his teeth. "Found a room." Carefully, he held his lit wand out. He couldn't see much more than his extended arm and the stone ceiling above. The chamber must be big. It might be a long drop to the floor. He found a loose stone and dropped it over the edge. The impact was quick—a splash.

"Oh dear," Lupin said. "More water."

"Can't see how deep. We may be up to our necks, with no leverage to get back out."

"Can you find another stone?"

Ron patted the area near him. "Got one."

Fabric tore somewhere behind him. After some muttered spells, Lupin handed Ron thin strips of rags knotted into a string. "Tie the stone at the end and drop it down."

Right, a sinker. He tossed the end and lowered the string until it reached the bottom and he no longer felt the weight. He pulled it up and measured the wet section. "Depth is about twice the length of my forearm."

"You're going for it, then?" Lupin asked.

"It's that or go back. And we've come this far." He put his wand away and felt around the outside, encountering another hatch. He held onto it as he dragged himself out. Once he was hanging free, he took a breath and let go.

He splashed down in a crouch. The icy water had him leaping to his feet again, but it only rose to just above his knees. He reached up, catching the edge of the crawlspace.

Lupin's hand grabbed his. "There you are. Not so deep, after all."

"Bloody cold, though." Ron kept his voice low. "You're better off staying there."

"We're better off leaving this prison entirely. And you'll have a better chance of success with backup." There was a splash near him, and then another.

Ron lit his wand again. Lupin and Ginny stood in the water, arms crossed as they let out several rough breaths.

"We'd better move. Keep the blood flowing."

They waded as quietly as they could, each of them facing a different direction for the best defense. His leg knocked into something heavy floating on the surface, and he stumbled. He kept his wand up, the patronus spell on his lips, ready for a dementor. But no tentacled creature rose. Slowly, he lowered his wand, bringing the light to the surface.

A pale human corpse floated face up in the water.

Ginny, on his left, gripped his arm tightly.

"Guess the dementors got that one," Ron said.

He'd once been a man, judging by the white hairs plastered to his chin. A wide nose led up to a permanent crease between his brows. The remnants of wire frames hooked around his ears, but the lenses were long gone. His skin was a greyish-blue, and his eyes were closed.

"Ron," Ginny whispered urgently. "He's not dead."

"What?" Ron ran his wand over the figure. "He couldn't survive in this ice bath." But then the chest moved. Very faint, but distinct. The corpse—man—was still breathing. Ron shook his shoulder, but he didn't stir.

Ginny pointed to a wrist tattoo just visible at his cuff, and then unbuttoned his shirt and waistcoat, revealing tattoos across his chest. "Someone's been experimenting on him with dark magic." She traced a tattoo, a straight line that went jagged halfway down. "Unwillingly. He struggled." She touched another tattoo, perfect and intricate. "They must have immobilized him after that."

"They?" Ron asked.

Ginny shook her head, offering no answers.

Lupin lit his wand and cast it over the water. "There's another."

It wasn't the last. They found another body, and another, all in suspended animation. One was missing an arm. Several were missing their legs. Another had all his limbs, but they were strangely shortened. An examination showed that they weren't his—they'd been attached through magic. Others had deep curse scars across their bodies, or more tattoos. A few were dead, preserved in the icy water. But most were alive, if it could be called alive. Breathing, but otherwise unmoving. There were a dozen in total, floating in the icy water.

One of the floating bodies had a strange swelling over its mouth. When they drew closer, the swelling stirred. The rattle Ron had come to hate echoed in the room. A small dementor clung to the pale face.

Ron froze, his arm held out in a warning signal to the others.

"Is that a baby dementor?" Ginny whispered.

Ron wanted to deny it—it seemed impossible that dementors could have young—but it was smaller and weaker, struggling to stay attached to the body. With effort, it dragged a thin thread of mist from the mouth—a soul—but the wisp contracted back before the dementor could consume it. The creature shuddered, twisted its tentacles, and tried again. The sides of it were layered in wrinkled skin.

"I think it's starving," Ron whispered back. "Shriveling away."

Indeed, there were three more resting on other bodies, their tentacles trailing weakly in the water.

"They're not like any inferi I've ever seen," Lupin said.

Ron shook his head. "Inferi-like. But definitely alive and breathing."

"Dementors can sense souls," Ginny said. "They don't feed on the dead." She looked at the surrounding bodies. "I don't get it. Why keep people alive like this?"

"You said it was dark magic," Ron said. "Maybe it's done something to their souls."

The crumbling sound of scraping stones echoed in the chamber. He crept towards it, careful not to make noise or disturb the dementors. Just because they were weak didn't mean they weren't dangerous.

The sound led him to the outer wall. He checked to make sure the dementors were out of sight, then raised his wand.

Stones of all shapes and sizes clustered over the wall, like an unsightly growth. Water trickled between where two stones met. A third stone moved of its own accord, fitting itself into the gap until the leak stopped.

Another barricade. Ron ran his hand over the stones. Colder than the surrounding air. They must be holding back the icy sea.

A shame they didn't use that on the rest of the tower and spare them from all the leaks. But as Ginny liked to remind him, the point was hard labor, not efficiency.

Now familiar with barricades, he tested it with a few spells. Carefully, he moved the stones, flattening and freezing any released water. He managed a sort of porthole made of ice. It revealed the dark sea beyond, even the bottom-dwelling fish. The rest of the surrounding island was visible, riddled like Swiss cheese from the explosion and lava that had sunk the tower at its center. The porthole only took the pressure for a second. The stones ground against the ice and pulverized it. Water gushed for another second until the stones settled into place.

"A way out," Ginny said. "I can't believe it."

"It'll be tricky getting out without the stones crushing us, but we've got a chance. We can cast proper bubble-head charms now. We'll need warming charms, too, or we'll freeze before we get to the surface."

One of the surrounding stones shifted, and then shifted again. It wobbled erratically. Ron barely registered the sight of a tentacle encircling the stone before a dementor burst through in a jet of water. It went straight for his face, its pulsing mouth wide. He grabbed it by its body as the tentacles flailed around him.

Ginny and Lupin shouted, and there were splashes behind him. Ginny's silver horse appeared, and the dementor screeched. It leaped and scrabbled at the stones, trying to retreat back to the sea, but the barricade now held it back.

It dove into the water and retreated to the far reaches of the room, latching onto a body there.

"Getting crowded in here," Ron said, wheezing.

Another silver form appeared. It swirled around the dementor, and it spun, trying to escape it. Ron sent out a freezing charm and trapped it in a block of ice. He collapsed against a nearby wall, breathing hard.

The silver form solidified into a large shaggy dog, and Sirius's voice emanated from it. "The guards are close. We've reinforced the last barricade, but we don't have long."

Lupin froze the remaining weakened dementors. "We need to get everyone in here. We'll all get out at once."

Ginny shook her head. "Only a few of us have good enough wands to cast bubble charms. People will suffocate before we reach the surface to end the spells."

The first body they'd discovered stirred. Not much, just a slow exhale of breath that seemed more deliberate. His lips parted.

Ron leaned close. "Are you awake? Can you help us? Is there another way out of this place?"

The man moved his lips inaudibly as his eyelids fluttered.

"We'll bring in Sirius and a few others," Lupin said. "I might have to stun Sirius and drag him, but I'll get him in here. We can get at least a few out."

"And leave the others behind?" Ginny asked.

"And what about Percy's tracking spell?" Ron asked. "We might escape and lead them straight to Bill and Charlie."

"If it's based on the Marauder's Map, then it shouldn't extend far past Azkaban," Lupin said.

"But we don't know," Ron said. "And we couldn't return to help the others. They'd see us coming." Ron stared at the silent floating man. He wasn't wearing a prisoner or guard uniform. How did he get here? He checked the man's eyes. They stared straight ahead, but there was a stirring of something. It reminded him of Percy's attempts at legilimency.

Maybe the man was a legilmens. And he was trying to communicate, in the only way he could.

Ron only had the half-heard lessons when Snape instructed Percy, but he could give it a shot. Clear your mind. He doubted his fumbling attempts were any better than Percy's, but it seemed to be enough. The man latched onto his thoughts and pulled him into the dark well of his eyes.

He tried to form words, to ask the man questions, but it was far more difficult than he expected. It was a soup of memories and feelings, among them Snape's sneering voice. It's not mind-reading, dolt.

But the man's memories were there, too. And foremost among them was Voldemort, casting spells on him. The man went from begging for his life to lifeless. Seemingly lifeless. The part of him that felt alive was trapped in a cold, dark place, fighting and fighting, but unable to escape. Ron shivered.

The dementors were starving because they couldn't reach the souls. The soul and mind were trapped, their bodies like marionettes with the strings cut.

Why? Ron tried to form the question, but the words were lost. He tried to visualize their escape, to ask if there was another way, but that was lost, too. The only image that kept reappearing was the image of Voldemort using avada kedavra.

Slowly, with horror, Ron understood. I can't. I can't kill you.

The image of the man begging reappeared.

In the well of swirling memories, Ron tried to find one where he shouted no. He tried to visualize their escape again, now with the man with them, reaching the surface and freedom.

The man showed him the image of a well again. A deep well, impossible to climb. There was no freedom for him.

I'm sorry, Ron tried to say, but those words were lost, too. He showed the man his memories: of the cheery hope of his Hogwarts years, the war, and the prison.

The man alighted on the last. An image filled Ron's mind: the man working on a scaled model of Azkaban. He made various changes with his wand, studying the effects. Then, he removed a section of the wall and examined a small chamber at the bottom - the very room they were in now.

"You renovated Azkaban?" Ron asked.

Another memory: the man bringing his notes to Voldemort. Of Voldemort's wand rising to point at him. And then here, in the watery darkness.

Ron was pulled out of the darkness by silver light. Sirius's patronus had reappeared, and the message was grim: "They've broken through. We're surrounded."

The three of them stood in silence as the form dissipated into mist.

"We could still escape," Ginny said, but her tone was half-hearted.

"You go," Lupin said. "I can't abandon Padfoot."

Ron remembered Sirius's look as they'd entered the tunnel. "And I can?" He glanced at Ginny.

"Don't even say it," she said. "I'm not leaving you behind."

"Someone has to go," Lupin said. "You need to respond to your brothers' message."

Ron cast his patronus and tried to send it into the sea. But the stone barricade worked as well as the rest of Azkaban's walls. The silver terrier fizzled as it hit the shield. He tried forming another opening with ice, but the magic within the walls was strong. The patronus still fizzled trying to go through the hole. "So much for that idea."

Escape was so close, and still so unreachable. No patronuses could leave. No prisoners could leave unless they wanted to be tracked.

Ron eyed the man still floating near him. "He was never a prisoner. He renovated Azkaban and knows its weaknesses. We could send him."

"But he's…" Ginny gestured at his immobile form.

"He's a legilmens. He can communicate if you make eye contact."

"And how's he going to tell Bill and Charlie that? They'll think he's dead—some drowned man that washed ashore."

"We'll need a message in a bottle." He turned back to the man—the renovator—and felt him hook into his mind again. He tried, as best he could, to explain. The renovator quickly agreed. In his eagerness, his unguarded emotions spilled out, and Ron had to break contact. The despair, the hatred, the hunger for revenge—it was too much to bear. But he couldn't blame him. If you've been dealt enough blows, anger and revenge might be the only things that kept you going.

"He's our message in a bottle," Ron told Ginny.

Ginny frowned at him.

"Tattoos," he clarified. He glanced at one of the weakened dementors. "You said you've used squid ink before?"

Ginny studied the dementor. "It's not exactly a squid." A gleam entered her eyes. "But I wouldn't mind trying." She cast a focused heating spell, creating a hand-sized hole through part of the ice on the dementor. The dementor rattled menacingly, but couldn't free itself as she siphoned the ink.

Ron and Lupin held the renovator steady as Ginny worked fast. Percy might already be using the tracking spell and sending guards through the crawl space to find them.

"They'll want a date to attack–" Ron began.

"I've got one in mind," Ginny said firmly. She finished and straightened.

Ron stared into the renovator's eyes again. I know what you want, he thought, but don't die on us just yet. He didn't know if any of that got through.

He cast the bubble charm, and the three of them created ice slabs to hold back the stones until they'd worked the man through. The final spell was a propulsion charm with a destination embedded within it. A thick slab faintly showed a figure disappearing into the dark sea. Then the stones closed in, the ice shattered, and there was nothing to see but the stone wall.

Ginny stood close to him, shivering. He wrapped his arm around her and tried to speak as confidently as she'd had earlier. "We'll save more people by staying. So we'll stay."

She let out a breath, halfway between a laugh and a sigh.

Lupin looked at the barricade. They were only a few days from the next full moon. There was no wolfsbane, no chains—the guards didn't allow him such luxuries. Nothing that kept him from tearing himself apart. But he only nodded.

They waded back, and Ginny hopped into the tunnel before Ron could insist on going first. The crawl back felt far too short, the warming air suffocating, the brighter light piercing his sensitive eyes.

And then a noise, one Ron had heard too many times since arriving at this hellhole: Ginny, crying out in pain.

He looked up, only to have someone grab him by the arms and drag him from the tunnel. He was dumped on the floor of the Bath and his wand flew out of his hand.

Ginny reached for him, but stumbled as a guard shoved her back, keeping his wand trained on her.

The guard—Barrow—eyed Lupin as he emerged. "Drop your weapon, or your friends will keep you company on the next full moon."

Lupin's gaze didn't waver, but he calmly released his wand.

They were dragged out of the Bath to the main floor.

"Don't know why we're bothering," Barrow said. "They'll be back in the Bath in short order."

"Hmm," Combs said. "And I know who should supervise." He pointed at Percy.

Percy's eyes widened. "I don't… do that."

"Now's the perfect time to start. We'll be working overtime, punishing these prisoners." Combs looked thoughtful. "Unless someone volunteers to take those shifts."

Percy hesitated, looking between Combs and Ron.

Combs turned to Barrow. "Told you. Still has a soft spot for his brother. And the younger Weasley there being one leader of the riot. Heard he escaped interrogation by overpowering him and Malfoy."

Barrow nodded. "Or so he claims."

"He did! I wasn't prepared—" Percy stopped, his face coloring.

"You don't look good either way," Combs said. "Best think about how you can prove yourself. Because the Dark Lord's going to hear about this."

Ron knew every little tic of his brother's face, and he knew when Percy had made his decision. He closed his eyes, wishing he'd looked anywhere else.

"It'll take some time to set up the first Bath," Barrow said. "Until then…" He motioned to the other guards.

The guards snapped their wands up. "Cruciatus," they chanted in a chorus.

Ron no longer had control of his limbs. He fell to the floor and bit his tongue, the blood bitter and hot. It went on and on, until he couldn't scream anymore, until his screams turned to hoarse whispers as his body convulsed.

He didn't know how long it had been. The light seemed bright, but his eyes could be playing tricks on him.

He moved his arm gingerly. He touched his face, every fingertip hurting. Tears again. Percy was looking down at him now. Back in control, back in power, standing over all of them.

The date Ginny had given in the message was weeks away. Weeks before they had to be ready again. And weeks before they could see any end to this. He didn't know how he was going to endure. His own pain, maybe, but not Ginny's screaming. Not Sirius and Lupin's haunted faces. He needed to hold it all in, to keep going. He had to build his own barricade.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter

Someone was near.

His eyes snapped open. Warm and dark. He froze, grasping for time and place. Not cell. Not rickety cold house. Fresh memories poured in. Snape's house. He'd returned, and now slept and slept. Not sleeping potions—Snape didn't try—but warm waves lapping at him, loosening his muscles, closing his eyes. In bed, on sofa, even once at table. Snape had loaded his plate, sausages and potatoes and pudding. He finished it all, and his head grew heavy and hot, and table felt cool and solid. Dreams of wands and red eyes dragged him down. Then something touched his shoulder, and he woke, hissing. But only Snape, stepping away, telling him to find a proper bed.

He touched darkness around him now. Fuzzy, bumpy. Sofa blankets pulled over his head. But something had woken him.

A sharp step, wood against wood.

He peeled down blanket and peered out. Chair paced next to sofa. He shifted, freeing his arm. Nearly touching Chair …

Chair bolted away.

He dropped his arm and pushed blankets off his legs into a fat pile. January held frosty nights and sleety mornings, but small fireplace crammed in corner warmed house by afternoon.

Dreams must've been bad. When dreams or memories took him to dungeons or throne room, Chair was near when he returned, circling him. Soft steps, round and round, steady beat slowing his hammering heart. It followed him, skipping over stairs as he crawled up or down. Knocked too-high things to floor for him. But skittered away when he got too close.

Vexing. Snape word. Chair vexed him. Tempting, taunting. Maybe sit, move easily, be… something. Couldn't find right word, but he wanted it.

He slouched, making himself small, and held out his hand. Chair approached in shuffles. Shimmy forwards, sliding back.

It's okay, Chair. Won't bite. Couldn't say it, but he thought it. Tried to think it at Chair. Chair was magic. Maybe Chair understood. He patted sofa arm. Closer?

Chair shifted side to side, not close enough.

He could be quick. Lunge and grab. Chair held magic, could use it to stun, trap. Voices hummed agreement. Grab-take-hurt.

His hand tightened, fingers flexing, and Chair stiffened.

Chair afraid. Voices warmed with pleasure and approval. So safe, those voices. Kept him safe and strong.

But Chair. Trembling now.

Wanted to touch Chair. Not grab-take-hurt, but gentle touch. Potter teetered, uncertain. Please? I'll try to be… to be… He searched unused corners of his mind and grasped the feeling before it slipped away. He nodded, gave it words, made it real. I'll try to be human.

Snape talked in house next door about how to continue on. 'Who do you want to be in all those days marching forwards?' He carried no grand dreams: only to tell someone about his day, make someone laugh. Maybe, one day, to touch another, and be touched. To look at the sky and be free.

Voices fell silent. He was alone, suspended in darkness.

But then: Clatter. Shuffle. Close again. Closer.

He rested his fingers on seat, worn-smooth edge.

Chair shivered, but stayed.

Understand. He shook his head. Try to remember, when he still talked to people. Use proper words. I understand. It's hard to be touched. He gave Chair a pat. We could be friends, maybe? I'm—

He faltered, his name beckoning memories and voices. Harry, choose me… He buried it deep, and his name with it. Could try to be human, but couldn't be that, the person that did that. Had to make do with bits and pieces that didn't slice so deep. Potter. I'm Potter.

He kept patting, coaxing Chair closer. That's it. Touching Chair was different than touching the floor or table. Chair reacted, Chair felt. Chair could touch him. Made his heart pound. Hard to stay gentle, but he did it. No thoughts, no voices, just Chair and fingertips. Imagine what it felt like to Chair. Soft warm hand, calm and safe.

Chair pushed against the sofa. More touch? Maybe even… sit?

Rolling forwards, he shifted his hip, ready to roll back if Chair bolted. But Chair stayed, with a little vibration. Almost a purr. He stroked the back post.

"Making progress, I see."

The twin voices of Elam and Oran sang out in a chorus of alarm bells. He bolted upright, shoving Chair.

Snape stood in the kitchen doorway, holding a vial.

Chair skittered away and ran to Snape, hiding behind him. One edge of its top rail peeked out.

Potter huddled in the sofa corner. No place to hide. He glanced at Chair, pressed against Snape's legs, and felt a surge of confusion and jealousy. Stupid Chair. Snape not safe. Snape is… Is what? That was confusing, too. Snape memories were like his eyes, dark twisting tunnels that led to anger and a flashing wand. But the other tunnels unearthed child Snape, by the river with his mother. Regret and grief and pain. Potter didn't know what to think or how to understand. Snape knew he knew, but didn't speak of it.

"You shouldn't have snarled at it." Snape gestured for Chair to go back to Potter, and it obeyed, staying back a cautious arm's length.

Potter stilled. Had he snarled? Didn't realize. He tried a gentle hand again, but Chair backed away to Snape. Potter frowned at it.

Snape rested a hand on its top rail. "Don't blame Kindling for its poor taste in friends. It's been in the family a long time, so it knows me. Although it was confined to the attic and held in place with a sticking charm while my father lived here. He was decidedly not a fan of charmed objects. I think the time alone made it…" He eyed Potter. "Easily startled."

Yes, clever Snape. Me, Chair, just alike. All we need are pleasant words and pats. Still, he pictured Chair stuck in a cramped attic. Part of the Snape family, but banished. In the dark, unseeing and unseen. Because Snape's father didn't like magic?

He grabbed a dictionary Snape had given him, loose-spined and dog-eared. He picked out each word and showed him: question-father-not-magic

Snape nodded. "He was a muggle, yes."

Potter thrilled with each word. An answer instead of demands, or dark tunnels, or—what was the word? Occ-lum-ency. Hidden thoughts and memories. He tried to fit the pieces of Snape together. Occlumency and healing potions. Chair, calming as it huddled against his legs. And magic-hating muggle father. He tried again with the dictionary: question-father-hurt

"He was sick for a time. Passed away some years ago."

No, not what he asked, not what he wanted to know. A yearning to speak swelled, ready to burst. So easy for Snape, to walk and talk. To be a person. But this slow way of talking—even with Snape—made him feel human. He thirsted for it. He put together a sentence in his head and carefully found each word: when-bath-saw-many-back-mark-question-father-hurt-you

Snape narrowed his eyes. "He was less than pleasant. Let's leave it at that."

All those pages and words, and no answer. Not really talking. He shoved the dictionary away and went back to coaxing Chair closer. Come, Chair. I won't hurt. Safe here, too.

After several minutes, Snape cleared his throat. "If you must know… yes. He was responsible."

Potter studied Snape. Stiff body, blank face. But another answer, another piece. He returned to the book. Question-father-reason-you-death-eat

"It wasn't that simple." Snape settled in his armchair, his brows drawing together. "In fact, I'd say your father had quite a lot to do with why I sought the Dark Lord. His relentless attacks at school had me looking for any protection. Including dark magic and the Slytherin classmates who recruited me." He shifted, his head turning away. "But it was ultimately my choice. Something I very much regret."

On Christmas Eve, he'd traveled through Snape's tunnels, unearthing those memories and feelings, startled by their intensity. Young Snape had been a snarling thing, too. Surrounded, hexed, trying to hide but found, dragged out by magic. Dreading the sound of familiar mocking voices, of laughter. Staying up late, learning spells that could hurt. Then inventing spells, anything to make them stop. The heavy ache settling in his gut, clinging to his shoulders. Cool-eyed Lucius and dark-eyed Regulus, with smooth voices and promises of protection. Then anxious scrambling, trying to please. And icy fear growing, crystalizing, filling his throat and choking. Begging the Thing: not her.

Question-because-my-mother

It took Snape a long time to answer. "Yes. As you well know, after our little tussle. These questions have been rather personal. Is it not fair that I ask some questions?"

Potter was quick with the words. Not-magic

A snort. "Fine, your special secret magic shall remain secret." Snape swirled the vial, tracing small circles in the air, studying the liquid's movement. "Does that injunction include potions? Regardless of how you did it, the alteration of brews requires knowledge of ingredients and their properties. When did you acquire such knowledge?"

Potter pointed at him.

Snape's mouth flattened. "Please. I may not have recovered every memory of you—yet—but I recall your lack of interest in class."

Potter thought about how to explain. How the Thing had chased him through his mind as he sought refuge in his memories, cutting them off or twisting them. The more comfort they gave him, the more ruthlessly the Thing pursued them. But potions held no warmth, no happiness. Annoyance, embarrassment, boredom, frustration. Not feelings the Thing liked to hunt and mutilate. The Thing knew he sought refuge in the Gryffindor common room, the Hogwarts train, the sky over the quidditch field.

But memories of chopping slugs, cleaning cauldrons, ears burning as Snape mocked—nothing memories. And so he fell into them, again and again, until he felt the slime of each flobberworm, smelled the cool, spicy scent of yarrow seed oil, could recite each ingredient scavenged from the fuzziest of memories: its properties, its color, its weight in his hand. With each repetition, the memories became clearer, bright filaments in his mind.

When the Thing fed him potions, he tasted each ingredient. He held them back with his tongue until he was forced to swallow, then held them back with his magic until that was whittled away, too. Then, when his lips still stung from kisses, and his throat still burned from screaming, he stopped pushing it away. He pulled instead, pulled the potion's magic inside him. Yes, flood me. Poison every bit of me. Make it end. But it hadn't. The potion had gone dead. Broken down into bits and pieces. And magic tingled anew in his fingertips.

He wouldn't tell Snape his magic secrets, but Snape already knew about hiding in memories. He stared at the dictionary in his lap. Paging slowly, he found a few words: thing-chew-good-memory-bad-memory-better

"Thing?" Snape asked. Something must have shown in Potter's expression, because he nodded. "I see. The Dark Lord sought to cut you off from sources of comfort. Your safest memories were in the mundane miseries of potions class."

Potter shook his head. Bad-not-misery. He knew misery.

And it wasn't just that. Potions-make-good-memory. He didn't know how to say it. He set the dictionary aside and pointed to his other fingers and his nose.

Snape's eyes brightened. "Ah. Potions have a tactile and olfactory component, as well as a visual one. You could more easily escape your circumstances by plunging into immersive memories." He leaned back in his chair. "One might even say potions bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses."

An image flashed: a quill in his small hand, carefully scratching out those daft words. Was Snape making a joke? He narrowed his eyes, studying him.

Snape tapped an index finger against his upper lip, but otherwise offered no expression. "Well, trusting your memories of potions class to help you can be advantageous. I suppose the only other question I currently have is: can you trust me enough to help you?" He rose and set the vial on the sofa arm.

Potter uncorked the vial and sniffed. A savory scent, nearly sulfuric. Dried doxy eggs, that was it. The acrid smell of bicorn horn powder, and the honeyed fragrance of shrivelfig. Sweet peppery dittany, of course. Healing properties. He'd nearly forgotten it in the dungeons. But many of Snape's potions had dittany. Other ingredients, too: a metallic tang and a sharp wood sap. Unfamiliar. He glanced warily at Snape.

"Do not ask," Snape said. "I've had quite enough of you first."

Potter gritted his teeth and rifled loudly through the dictionary.

"Yes, yes, I know. No need to strain your fingers. You've drunk some potions without us taking turns. Basic potions. I'm speaking of advanced brews. Might I point out that every potion I've given you has aided in your healing, despite your numerous attacks on my person? Can we not take one more step forwards?"

He knew Snape's memories. But it wasn't enough. He couldn't. He could know it wasn't poison, wouldn't make him helpless. But the alarms still buzzed. Don't drink, the voices said. He needed to feel safer.

He held up the dictionary and pointed to a word: name

Snape clasped his hands, studying him. "It's of my own invention. It aids with neurological disorders."

Potter looked down and paged through the N-section.

"Brain injuries. The diagnostic spells indicate you've suffered damage."

His face grew hot. He's calling you stupid, John said. Are you going to tolerate that? We should teach him to show the proper respect.

But brain damage. Maybe reason for Ashes and John and Oran and Elam. Felt so real, but maybe they're not real. Al had been real, for a while. Calm, soothing Al, who listened more than talked. Who helped him keep going in the dark dungeons. But one day, Al disappeared. He called and called for him inside his head, but Al didn't respond. Wished the other voices were quiet like Al. Maybe the potion would make them go away? He held up the dictionary. Question-voice-go

Snape's gaze unfocused. "The brain's speech centers. The cerebrum, of course. That may be why I can't discover a curse within your vocal cords. You understand speech well enough, so it couldn't be centered in Wernicke's area. Broca's area, perhaps…" He strode to the bookshelves and murmured to himself as his index finger skated over the tattered spines.

Not what he meant at all. But Snape was distracted now. Maybe he'd forget about the potion Potter was supposed to drink. Yes. John's resonant voice rang through his mind. Use the potion's magical properties while he isn't looking. Change it to something harmless and drink, before he realizes. And then—

Then what? Be sick and weak? You want that?

John laughed, a lightly tumbling rumble. Of course not. But doubt crept in. If Potter wasn't weak, he might not need John.

Chair had trotted over to Snape, a little chick with mother hen. Far away from Potter, the sneaky, quick-jawed fox. 

He turned the vial over in his hands. Maybe if Snape explained? List of ingredients. He clapped once—then twice—to get Snape's attention, but he was buried in a book.

Can't call his name. He chewed on his lip. Something else. He picked out pages in the dictionary, holding places with his fingers. Then imagined a picture of himself in Snape, small-smaller-gone. Forget-forget.

Snape's head snapped up. He whirled and stalked over, gripping a stack of books. "I'm onto your tricks, Potter. Don't even try it."

Potter held up the dictionary, quickly showing each saved word. Brain-book-later-tell-ingredients-now

"What?"

Potter held up the vial.

"Right." He'd walked halfway to his armchair when he stopped. "Ah. That's my servant bell, is it? You tug on my memories and I come running."

Potter held up the dictionary with a dead-eyed stare.

"I suppose your resources are limited. But we'll need to find another method. I don't fancy you rummaging in my memories when you require something." Snape settled himself and mused. "Ingredients. Dittany, of course. Doxy eggs, bicorn horn powder, shrivelfig. Essence of rue, granian hair, and crocodile blood."

Blood—rich coppery tang, yes. Rue was the sap scent. But something else, still. Potter sniffed again.

"And cinnamon."

Potter frowned at Snape.

"It's a valid potions ingredient."

He reviewed the list. Granian hair. Didn't know that one. He paged through the dictionary: granduncle, grange, granger. Flies buzzed, and he closed his eyes, pushing them back into the darkness. Not throne room. Snape's house, fireplace, sofa. Potion ingredients, granian hair. He reopened his eyes and slid his finger down the entries again: graniferous, granite, graniteware. Not there. Muggle dictionary. He pushed it aside.

Snape laid a book on the pile of blankets. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore. A familiar book, a schoolbook. He glanced up.

"The glossary also contains magical creature byproducts."

Potter pointed at the title.

"It reads 'One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.' It doesn't read 'Only One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.' Phyllida Spore wrote it when the leading potioneers overemphasized magical creature byproducts whilst they underestimated and underutilized herbs and fungi. She hoped to correct that oversight by—"

Potter pressed his hands over his ears and waited until Snape's mouth stopped moving.

Snape huffed. "You were rapt enough for my list of ingredients. If you're so bothered, I can take the book back."

Potter gripped the book tightly.

Snape settled back, nodding. "Shall I continue?" He described the brewing process, slowly enough that Potter could ask questions. When Snape finished, he looked at the vial, and his heart sank. He knew the bits and pieces of the potion, and it helped. But not enough.

Snape watched him. "I've given you my reasons to trust me, and you surely know the reasons not to trust me. Ultimately you must take that first step." He looked down at his hands for a moment. "It's difficult for me, as well."

Take the first step, or not. Potter uncorked the vial and steeled himself. He drank it in two swallows.

Snape exhaled. "Progress." He shook his head. "In having an individual to trust, I'm hardly ideal. But you know more about me than anyone living. The good and the bad." He fell silent.

Potter understood, but he sensed it didn't matter. Snape or someone else, it would be the same. He wanted to become a person again, but didn't know how to build one from the bits and pieces. His mother and father had made that person long ago, but even if they rose from the dead to reconstruct the shell and fill him up, it would bleed through the cracks and drain away.

He reached out two curling fingers for Chair, but it shuffled over to Snape.

It broke the silence, and Snape cleared his throat. "As for this chair…" He stood and prodded Chair closer. "Perhaps a bit simpler than taking potions." He held its back posts, and Chair stopped cowering and shaking.

It did feel easier to focus on Chair. Not the barren land where they hoped trust would grow, not their dust-choked past. Just a funny little Chair. Potter gripped one wooden arm and shifted until he rested fully on Chair. He shooed Snape's hands away, now close enough to touch. Snape made annoyed sounds but took a step back.

Sparks of pain ignited when his feet touched the floor, but Chair wriggled and the legs grew, lifting him. Extra spindles sprouted, supporting his legs. His feet safely off the ground, he relaxed, and felt Chair relax, too.

"I'll add a cushioning charm for comfort. How does it feel?"

Warm. Solid. But Potter hadn't brought the book with him. He reached out awkwardly.

"Try accio."

He tried, searching for the friendly warmth that used to rise, but the hearth of his magic had gone cold. A few sparks, sometimes, and mind magic remained. But for the rest, he must steal fire from others.

"Strange." Snape circled, eyeing him from different angles. "Inventive magic, but simple spells can be a challenge."

Prying Snape. Potter snagged a corner of the dictionary with a finger and thumb and paged through it. No-magic-question

"It wasn't a question. It was an observation. Or do you propose I walk about the house with my eyes closed?"

You-not-funny

"Yes, well, I've only ever tried to amuse myself. Everyone else is a lost cause."

Chair trotted forwards unsteadily, and Potter grabbed onto an arm while balancing the book on his lap. But gradually Chair evened out its steps, and Potter learnt to shift with the movement.

"Quite useful. I've seen wizards in similar chairs, and they've managed well."

Question-see-where

Snape paused for longer than expected. "Wizards injured in battle, or… as punishment. They're servants in certain households."

Death-eat-household

"Not only Death Eater households." Snape paused again. "But the ones I've seen, yes. It's become a mark of pride to take those they've cursed and make them servants. Training them for obedience has become a Death Eater hobby."

If-death-eat-want-hobby-should-eat-excrement

"Hmm. While no doubt personally satisfying, it wouldn't lead to anything useful."

A tea kettle whistled. Snape disappeared behind the kitchen door and the whistle quieted. He reappeared moments later. "Lunch. Shall we?"

Potter tried to think his way towards the kitchen, but Chair merely wandered around the sofa. He looked questioningly at Snape.

Snape tapped an index finger on his chin, studying Chair. "Nan used a series of verbal commands. But I don't imagine that will work here." He raised his brows. "Unless you'd like to make an attempt?"

Potter looked away.

"I see. Perhaps hand gestures. Or…" He took his hand away from his face and wiggled his fingers. "Tapping? The chair was imbued with sight, hearing, and touch. You could work out a series of tapped commands."

Potter thought about this. Question-how-chair-understand

"I'll give a verbal command when you give a tapped command. It'll pick it up. It's quite clever, despite appearances."

Potter took his time, practicing a sequence of finger movements that wouldn't accidentally draw magic from Chair. He stroked Chair's arm. Don't worry. I'll take care of you. No more attic.

He looked up at Snape and caught a faint smile, but it quickly disappeared into his usual impassive expression. "You have a command in mind for 'turn right?'"

A single tap on the arm's curved side—the left arm. He kept his right hand free. If he could use Chair, then he could make his own tea, his own food. Move about the house like Snape. He let out a breath.

"Chair, turn right," Snape said, and Chair did so.

They practiced several maneuvers—right, left, forwards and back—before a hollowness in his stomach reminded Potter of their original purpose. He tapped out the command for 'forwards,' and Chair blithely headed straight for the closed kitchen door. He was about to hit the door feet first, and reacted blindly, drawing up Chair's magic and striking out his hand.

The door blasted off its hinges, rocketing into the kitchen. Multiple crashes sounded inside. Chair slumped on one side, then galloped unevenly, circling the sofa in a panic. Potter gripped the arms as he lurched.

"Chair, stop!"

Instead of stopping, Chair scurried to Snape. Snape held his arms wide to catch Chair, but Chair skidded to a halt. The momentum launched Potter out of his seat. He found himself wrapped in thick wool, his face pressed against something scratchy and warm. A stunned second passed before he realized it was Snape's robe, Snape's face. Snape had caught him.

Trapped trapped get away get away. He twisted, scratching at Snape's neck, legs flailing uselessly.

"Potter, stop before I drop you. If you'll just—"

They landed on the floor, and Snape fell on top of him, heavy and smothering.

No no bite scratch kill. He snapped his teeth, searching for exposed flesh, but then Snape's weight vanished, and he stood back with his hands in the air.

"Potter, look at me. No hands, no wand. I can't reach you from here."

The voices inside his head surged, stronger than ever. Lies. Take Chair's magic and use. Kill. He snarled.

Slowly, Snape crouched until one knee touched the floor, his eyes moving rapidly. "All right. I'm going to describe brewing the antidote to common poisons. You would've learnt that in fourth year, before…" He took a deep breath. "During your schooling. And if you'd listen and stop your…" Another breath. "Bezoar."

Trick. Ashes, his dry broken voice rising from below. He'll hurt you when you don't expect it. Take his magic and hurt him first.

John made a dismissive sound. Don't listen to him. Listen to me. I'm the one who's kept you alive.

Snape's chest rose and fell. "A bezoar is hard to the touch and speckled. Small enough to roll between finger and thumb. Do you recall doing so? Think back."

No no no. Can't. Hurts. Want to—

Snape's eyes stilled into dark shimmering pools. "It's crushed into a fine powder. It smells metallic, almost like gunpowder, but with an earthier aroma underneath. When crushed very fine, the powder is light and soft, easily coating your fingers."

Snape continued talking, but the voices dug deeply, dredging up rank, claggy memories. Potter struggled to push them away. Wanted to let go of it. Not be angry. Not afraid. He became aware of his pounding heart, his rapid breathing. He tried a deep breath with Snape. His heart still pounded, but slower now. His teeth were still bared. Bite. Attack. He shook his head and took another breath. He found the cupboard inside his mind, where he could be quiet and shut out the voices, but the voices still whispered.

"…medium temperature. You check the height of the flames, and the heat. At six inches, it should be a gentle warmth on your palm."

Warmth, yes. Watching the flames under the cauldron, the rising heat caressing his hand.

Potter clung to the weave of Snape's voice unspooling in languid turns. He wrenched his gaze from Snape's hands and let it float to the arch of his lips, the dark of his eyes. And for a brief moment he floated with it, a paper-thin ember that still shone, all the blackened ash falling away.

"Powdered unicorn horn. Silvery, like moon dust. But it carries the scent of rich green forests and clear brooks."

The room came into focus. The light from the kitchen window came through the ragged door frame. Chair pressed into a corner, the wall supporting the weight of its drooping side. He took another breath.

Sitting back, he nodded at Snape, raising his hands and then lowering them. Snape followed suit with another breath.

"Mistletoe berries. They have no scent, but can be recognized by sight and touch. Small and waxy with sticky seeds. In most contexts, they are dangerous to consume. But that's the beauty of this potion. The potion reacts to the poison—learns its qualities—and lets the harmful elements evaporate away." 

In the following silence, Potter held a delicate moment of peace before it dissipated and shame rose. He wanted to speak, wanted to feel human. And what had he done? Blasted a door in fear and crawled, snarling. Was that human? He ran his hands through his damp hair and dug his thumbs into his temples.

Snape approached slowly, settling on his armchair. Nearby, but still well out of reach.

Potter realized: Chair wasn't like him. Chair was like Snape. Staying away from the savage biting thing.

He crawled to the sofa but didn't bother climbing onto it. He sat on the floor and leant against it, closing his eyes.

Snape's footsteps crossed the room, followed by the tap-scrape of Chair limping after him. The steps disappeared into the kitchen, and then came the crack of wood snapping into place. Snape repairing the kitchen door. Wand, the voices hissed in unison. It forced his eyes open, searching, but Snape was on the other side of the newly hung door. It swung open and Snape emerged, his empty hands spread.

No wand. Potter slumped back.

Chair, nimble again, followed Snape as he settled in his armchair. His voice strummed quietly through the room. "I know it feels impossible. I know what's it like to only see one future for yourself. Or no future at all. But you can change that." Snape studied him for a long moment, his hands clasped. "You understand, I hope, that certain healing methods require physical contact with my hands." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "And my wand."

The words bore down on him, unrelenting. Snape was right. The curses still festered. The improvement he'd had—after the bath, after Snape made him sleep—was significant, and Snape had touched him then. He had vague impressions of poultices and gentle prodding pressure on his chest. All improvements since then had been slow and fragmented.

But he couldn't tolerate being touched. Not by a hand and not by a wand. The very idea made his stomach lurch. It was like when he was a child, hemmed in, walls and cupboards. Now his own body bound him, constricting him until he couldn't move, think, breathe.

He looked away from Snape and stared bleakly out the window. He'd been so foolish to try and leave. The long streets, the wide-open sky—they pinned him, exposed him. Attempting to rejoin wizarding society would be no better. He might cling to humanity in small, quiet moments, but as soon as a touch or a wand threatened, he'd reveal what he really was.

Elam and Oran sang, harmony and melody joining in an upswelling refrain. We'll teach them. Anyone who touches, anyone who holds a wand. Hurt them, kill them.

Their anger fueled him. Potter grabbed the dictionary that had been left upturned on the floor.

"Let me guess. Can't. Won't. No touch. No wand."

He hadn't yet paged to the N-section. Frustration overflowed. Elam and Oran chorused in joy. Quick Snape, so quick. Let's see how quick. His grip tightened on the book, and he hurled it.

Snape neatly dodged, leaning left in his armchair as the book sailed past and smashed into the bookshelf behind him.

"Tsk, tsk, Potter. I taught for fourteen years. You think you're the first person to throw a book at me?"

Potter imagined students and random passersby queuing up to fling books at Snape.

"Is that a smile? I thought I wasn't funny."

An unaccountable flush warmed him. He flattened his mouth and instinctively reached for the book. His hand grasped air.

"Shall I fetch it for you? Accio? Or a levitation spell, perhaps?" Snape patted the pocket where he kept his wand.

Potter froze, his hand tightening into a fist.

Snape let out a long breath through his nose and sank deeper into the chair.

With effort, Potter relaxed his hand. Snape was only trying to help. But…

Ash's papery voice crackled. False promises and foolish dreams. He can't help you.

"Exposure is our only way forwards. You won't overcome this by sheer force of will." Snape drummed his fingers on the armrest, then rose and beckoned Chair. They both stopped at the front door, and Snape settled himself on Chair.

Chair stayed still. So easy for Snape. Potter glared at them both.

"Now, go to the farthest part of the room while still keeping me in sight."

Potter frowned but complied, crawling to the fireplace in the corner.

"I'll take out my wand, but I won't cast anything. You have your list of potions?"

Potter understood, and his heart pounded. He glanced at the kitchen door and the stairs. But hiding wouldn't help. He braced himself and nodded.

Snape inched out the ebony wand from his pocket and laid it on his lap, pinning it in place with two fingers.

The room spun, and Potter grabbed onto the nearby armchair for support. All the voices talked at once, John and Ash noting how easy it would be to disarm Snape while Elam and Oran sang a chorus of blades and blood. He pushed them away and tried Snape's recitation of potions. Powdery bezoar, gentle heat, unicorn horn that smelled of rich green forests, mistletoe.

Snape watched as Potter's breath slowed to normal and returned the wand to his pocket. They sat for a moment in silence. "Again?"

How many times? He wanted to ask. To stall. But he knew. As many times as it took. Potter readied himself and nodded.

Time stretched with each step forwards. First the wand, then Snape holding the wand, raising the wand. Potter had sweated through his clothes by the end, but he let himself fall into his recitation. There was only Snape, the wand, and his own body pulled tight until he coaxed himself into relaxing. Eventually Snape cast a summoning spell, and the dictionary flew into his hands. He also summoned the potions book and cast charms on both. Then the wand finally went back into his pocket. He laid the books on Chair and settled on the sofa.

Potter sagged against the armchair. The fireplace was entirely too hot. His head felt heavy and thick, but the rest of his body quivered like a runaway broom captured mid-flight.

At a gesture from Snape, Chair trotted over to Potter and leant in seat-first in offering.

The books looked the same. Potter prodded the dictionary cover. Tingle of magic. Charmed. He glanced at Snape, who said nothing.

He turned the book over. Same weight, still smelled like musky wood. Cover still torn at the corners—not a repairing charm.

He was too tired for guessing games. He opened it and began to page to the Q-section.

The book came alive, the pages speeding past his hands until they split at the Q-section. Then each page flicked left until it reached 'QU.'

Potter stared at it, then ran his fingertip down the page. He felt a tingle under his nail bed when he landed on 'question.' So fast, so simple. Almost like talking. He caressed the page.

Snape's eyes glimmered. "Useful, yes? I have the same spell on some reference materials."

Potter carried the books closer to the sofa so Snape could read his words. Not-learn-school

"No, I developed it myself." He raised his chin. "You're not the only one who can invent spells."

The pages buzzed under Potter's fingers.

Snape raised a hand. "No magic questions. I know." He rubbed his temple, his mouth settling into well-worn frown lines.

Potter wasn't the only one who was tired. Snape pushed and pushed, but also gave him charmed objects—weapons, if Potter wanted them to be. Helping him communicate, fight the fear and the memories.

He touched the memory of Snape quietly describing potions. It felt warm and round. He let it float, free from the weight of his other memories.

Snape had returned to watching him, as he so often did. Like a toy, John scoffed. A plaything.

No. A cold realization washed over him, and he shivered. It was a lie. The voices lied.

A dangerous animal. Something to cage, to use, John said. Remember the wards around the bed? Trapped. Maybe you could alter the wards again, and Snape could be trapped and used…

Not used, not an animal. A person Snape was trying to help. It occurred to him that Snape might be uncertain, too. Like Chair, not sure how to move forwards. Potter nibbled on a fingernail. Maybe he could help Snape? The idea cheered him. He fetched the potion book. Potion-list-help

Snape released a breath. "It can be an effective strategy." He studied Potter. "Shall we try again?"

More with the wand? He was still wrung out from last time. He slumped.

"Lunch, I meant. It's well past time, but I set warming charms. And another attempt with the chair, if the two of you are so inclined."

Potter glanced at Chair, which loitered by the front door. He beckoned, and it shuffled, but finally approached. The legs shortened until the seat hung inches above the floor. Potter slid between the arms, holding the dictionary.

After the legs grew back, Chair gave a shimmy, as if shaking off water. The seat and back rippled, settling into a more comfortable shape. He gave Chair a pat.

"Forwards, then?"

Say-slow

"Ah. Prudent. Chair, move forwards slowly."

Potter gave the command taps, adding a long stroke of his finger to indicate the speed. Chair scooted at an agonizing pace. But smoother, easier. He sat up straighter.

Snape nodded. "Rough start, but you may yet work well together." He opened the kitchen door and Chair stepped through.

His mental walls trembled after so much effort and the voices needling him. A memory slipped through. The Thing in the throne room, saying you may yet work well. And a pale face near the doorway, half-hidden in shadow. A familiar, young face. Malfoy. Eyes wide, mouth open. Then gone.

Hide it away, Ash whispered. Pain lies there.

When Potter wavered, Ash tugged at the memory and brought forth echoing screams in the throne room, and the desperate struggle against something, the horror of realizing he would lose, weakening as a thing wriggled—

Potter shoved it behind the wall, where the worst memories lived. Ash didn't trust Snape, but Ash wasn't always wrong. He was right about pain.

He thickened the walls and focused on the present, giving Chair another friendly pat. Chicken today. Dusted with crisp breading by a bed of rice and beans. Cup of tea and a fork and… a knife? He looked at Snape.

Snape tilted his head in acknowledgement and sipped his tea.

Small gleaming blade. Potter picked it up. Such simple things: sitting, eating, using a knife. He sliced his chicken and set the knife aside. He wanted more simple things. So many more. More than there were words in his dictionary. He hoped he could find them.