Dracaena Draco

CHAPTER TWELVE. GAME OVER.

'There's a black dog on my shoulder again,

Licking my neck and saying he's my friend ...'

(Manic Street Preachers, 1998)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Slytherin stood before them, the outline of his form vaguely blurry, as if he was not entirely there. Of course he was not. He was still a spirit. Nothing more.

Voldemort bowed his head, slightly. "I stand before you, Master," he said, his voice almost cracking, though Sirius was not sure whether this was through fear, or excitement ... or what ...

Slytherin's ghostly, almost transparent face seemed to crack into a vague grin. "I can see that," he said ... the ground shook again, throwing him slightly out of focus, and making him look like a wonky television signal. "Maybe not for much longer ..." he added.

"Master?" Voldemort asked, a note of worry creeping into his tone.

"This Castle is collapsing, Riddle. Even now the so called Death Eaters, those who you thought were worthy to serve you, are fleeing for their miserable, worthless lives."

"The Castle is as sturdy as it has ever been," snarled Voldemort, the expression on his face making it abundantly clear to Sirius, who was still clutching Harry, that there was absolutely no love lost at all between the two men. He held Harry tighter, until he could feel the boy's heart, beating feebly against his arm.

Slytherin shook his head. "I am astounded, Riddle, that in your self delusional arrogance, you purport to presume that you know every secret this Castle holds within its walls?"

"What do you mean?" asked Voldemort.

"I mean that this Castle, which seems so solid, is built on the plug of a volcano, a very ancient volcano," said Slytherin, his face barely disguising his glee at this fact. "I dared to presume it extinct when I had the structure built, but even I was fallible. I was wrong, the volcano is angry, and she is waking up."

"Angry?" asked Voldemort. "Angry with what, exactly?"

"A thousand years of abuse, Riddle. For a thousand years now, Dark Magic of the most evil, of the vilest kind, has been practiced here, upon this very site. The raw energy pervading locally has angered the living rocks. This volcano will erupt, violently, in ... around twenty minutes time, I should imagine," the ground shook again, and there seemed to be a gaseous, noxious smell hanging in the air ... sulphur.

"You knew this was going to happen?" asked Voldemort.

Slytherin sneered. "Of course I did, imbecilic fool," he snapped. "I know all ... I am omniscient."

"Then we must not delay," said Voldemort. "We must perform the rites ... the Lazarus Potion."

Slytherin, however, was not listening to a word the other man was saying. His eyes snapped on to Sirius and Harry, as if noticing them for the first time. "Who are they?" he asked, effectively rendering his previous statement a blatant falsehood.

"The boy is Harry Potter," explained Voldemort. "We were midway through the energy transfer ... this madman of a Godfather tried to save his boy's worthless life ..."

Slytherin stepped closer, and before Sirius could react, was kneeling down before him, where he crouched with Harry on the marble floor, near the ancient sarcophagus. He stretched out his phantom hand, touched Harry's cheek, running his finger along the line of the bone. Sirius could feel Harry shivering against him. His eyes were wide, and in those eyes of sparkling green, Slytherin's haggard, wrinkled, ugly face was reflected.

"This boy carries my blood," breathed Slytherin. "He is ... I have never seen one who looked so like me ... and yet, at the same time, so unlike me. The face is mine ... the hair is ... the hair is Godric's."

Voldemort was nodding his agreement. "Such a union provides for the existence of a wizard so strong, so powerful, that he could rule the world."

"He bears both my blood, and that of the rotund Gryffindor?"

"Indeed," said Voldemort. "Yet Gryffindor remains deceased, buried far below the mountain under which you, yourself, laid him to rest. You, Master, are very much still here."

Slytherin smiled. "How glorious he would think it that his line has survived so long. How pleased he would be with the endurance of our great families. Riddle, you have pleased me."

Voldemort, who had been shaking with fright, seemed to relax a little, but only a little. "Thank you, Master."

"I am almost," said Slytherin, still running his fingers through Harry's tousled hair, "prepared to forgive the fact that this whole Ceremony has been organised with quite remarkable disregard for the conventions and protocols of the arts magickal. I would go as far as to say that you, Riddle, would be incapable of organising a party in a wine cellar. Yet you have provided for me my true heir, the one wizard remaining who bears our blood ..."

"Master ... I bear your blood ..."

"Oh, do be quiet, Riddle. Whatever would I want with a soul as corrupted as yours? When the raw, living potential for the Darkest, greatest Sorcerer this world has ever known lies on the floor before me ... and you, Riddle, would have killed him. I intended to amalgamate our souls, make us as one ... but now I rather think I should take the boy instead. He will, after all, be so much more easy to control and use as I see fit."

"Master ... I ... it was not the intended use for the boy," spluttered Voldemort. The ground was shaking again, but Slytherin's outline appeared to be becoming stronger.

"What, pray, was the intended use?" snarled Slytherin. He almost looked solid, and less like a badly shot film.

"For my sake, for my continued survival, Master," protested Voldemort. "I must consume the energy present within his body."

"Rubbish," snapped Slytherin. "Use someone else ... Potter is mine."

Voldemort's eyes flitted briefly to Sirius, who scowled, and shook his head. "If either of you takes one step closer," he said.

"You'll what?" asked Slytherin, in a mocking tone of voice. "Threaten us again?"

Sirius snorted. "You are not having Harry," he said, sounding considerably braver than he was actually feeling.

Slytherin was now looking very solid indeed, with just a faint bluish tinge around the edges of his tall, lanky form, like a badly done special effect. He snarled at Sirius. "Your name, I believe, is Black ... Sirius Black, yes?"

Sirius nodded. Harry convulsed briefly, causing Sirius to tighten his grip across the boy's chest. The skin felt cold and clammy against his arms ... he could sense the life force ebbing out of Harry. His eyes were still open, and he was still casting them fearfully around the Tomb.

"You, of all people, should have no qualms about signing over his life to me ... when you signed over the lives of his parents to the servant of Lord Voldemort."

Sirius spat on the floor, he could feel a blinding, cold rage welling up inside his body. "I will do no such thing again," he snarled. "I may have betrayed the trust James and Lily placed in me ... but I would never, ever presume to do it again."

"I think you would," smiled Slytherin. "I think that Azkaban has changed you, Black. I think you are living a lie, and I think you know that that is true. I would be extremely surprised if there was not the smallest vestige of the Dark remaining within your cursed blood."

"You're lying," said Sirius. "There is nothing you can do that will make me change my mind. I would die first, and I know Harry would too. And know that there is no more Dark in my veins than there is Light in yours."

"Unless you give Harry to me," said Slytherin. "He may not live more than a few minutes anyway. See how weak and pale he grows, feel how cold his skin has become. I am offering him life, and you would turn that down?"

Sirius nodded. "I would," he said. "I really would."

Harry let out a low whimper ... could he understand? Was he trying to tell him something? The boy's eyes were still filled with fear, but it was the fear of an animal, not that of a sentient human being.

Slytherin stood up again, and turned to Voldemort, who was still standing over them, leaning on the sarcophagus for support. "Riddle," he said. "Give me the Lazarus Potion."

Voldemort reached into the folds of his robes, a faint smile playing around his cracked, inhuman mouth. Then he faltered.

"Master ... I, do not have it," he said. "I must have left it outside."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione cradled Draco's fast cooling body to her. His cheeks were flushed bright red, and his eyes, though open, and paralysed with shock and fear, fear of what was happening to him, of death itself, showed no sign of any life. The blood around his open, gaping chest wound was fast drying. In so many ways he still looked alive, and in so many ways, he looked like the corpse he was.

Ron, Fred and George were standing, tactfully, a few feet away. Lucius Malfoy was standing behind them. The silence that had descended across the, now empty Chamber was oppressive ... the rumblings and the earthquakes had now ceased completely, the sun had well and truly risen, and bright shafts of light were piercing the gloom, bathing Hermione and Draco in their warmth. Even the sun, the giver of all life, could not revive the boy.

Malfoy wiped what was unmistakably a tear from his eye. Hermione looked up from Draco as she heard the rustling of material, movement.

She laid Draco down on the floor, and gently closed his eyelids. Then she stood up. "I'm done," she said, in the smallest of voices.

"Now what?" asked Ron. "What happens next?"

Lucius Malfoy stepped forwards. "If you would like to spend a little more time with him," he paused, as if struggling to overcome some massive, internal conflict, "Hermione. I would not object."

"I'm done," repeated Hermione, her voice fading to a whisper.

Malfoy knelt on the blood soaked flagstones next to Draco.

"I remember when first Draco was born," he said. "He was a premature baby, you know, both of them were ... he should not have been born for several weeks afterwards, and so weak. I looked at him, the first moment I saw him, and I knew then that I would do anything for him, that I would love him unconditionally."

Hermione did not say anything. Malfoy seemed to be in the mood to speak his mind. "I suppose you know?" he said. "About the ..." his voice trailed off.

Hermione nodded. "I know," she said.

"If you knew," said Malfoy, stroking Draco. "If you only knew how much guilt, how much, how much remorse I feel now. I swear you would see me in a different light. I inflicted this on my boy ... I did not have to, and yet I did. I do not want you to try imagining how that makes me feel."

"I think, maybe I do," said Hermione.

Malfoy shook his head. "No," he said. "Now ... there are things we must do. We must get out of here ... we must leave, now."

"Nobody is leaving without my say so," said someone else. Malfoy looked up. There were two men standing in the doorway ... one of them, wrapped in a heavy woollen cloak, had a thin, gaunt face, pale through lack of sunshine, long, red hair tied back in a ponytail, and there was an earring dangling from one ear. The other, the other was unmistakably Artemis Chaldean.

Chaldean stepped into the Chamber, followed closely by Bill Weasley, who looked pale and drained, and barely registered the excited shouts of his brothers as they ran forwards to embrace him.

"It was touching," Chaldean said. "To hear you express your sorrow at the passing on of your son. It was almost believable. However, I believe I shall forego the Oscar nomination this time, Malfoy."

Malfoy was trying hard not to cry. "How ... how do I make this nightmare end?" he asked. He stood up, crossed the Chamber to where Chaldean and the other man were standing. "For the love of all that is sacred, tell me how to make this stop."

Hermione was now left standing on the dais, over Draco. She watched as Malfoy stood before Chaldean; Bill was holding onto Ron, and Fred and George were standing either side of him, a red haired guard of honour. Malfoy appeared broken. Some spark that had existed inside him before Draco's death appeared to have vanished, he was subdued ... he had called her Hermione, for God's sake!

"There is a way," said Chaldean. "But it will cost you dearly, Malfoy," he spoke as though Malfoy was something nasty and smelly that he had brought in on the bottom of his shoe.

"See my face," hissed Malfoy. "See now that I am a different man, and tell me how I might change the ending."

Chaldean took a step closer to Malfoy, he appeared to be turning his nose up at the other man. "I consider it indicative of your foolishness that you have not thought of it before, Malfoy," he said.

"Tell me? For all our sakes."

"Al Tamimi told me of your Lazarus Potion," said Chaldean. "He told me you had finally succeeded in raising the dead ... by magic. Now is your chance to prove the validity of your experiments."

"We have only tested it on animals so far," said Malfoy. "I ... I do not know if it would work, on humans."

Chaldean shook his head. "What," he hissed, "do you have to lose? What do you have to gain? If your theories are correct, you gain everything; you gain your son, a second chance at life for a boy whose time should not have ended so soon. If you are wrong ... he is dead already, and you have lost nothing."

Malfoy was hanging his head. "How can you say such a thing to me?" he asked. "How can you be so crass?"

Chaldean appeared to chuckle. "After all you did to me, Malfoy? After fourteen years of what I believed was faithful service, when all the time you were plotting ... plotting with Lord Voldemort, plotting against me, while I truly believed that you were loyal to me. You now expect sympathy from me? It is all I can do not to strike you down where I stand, as I believe I should do. You repel me, Malfoy. You make me feel physically sick."

Malfoy looked down at the ground. "You are right, of course," he said. "You do more than I deserve."

Hermione got to her feet. "Magic cannot bring people back from the dead," she breathed. "I know that it cannot."

Malfoy mounted the steps to the dais, and knelt down beside his son's body. He reached into one of the inside pockets of his robe, and withdrew the tiniest bottle of orange liquid. It looked, thought Hermione, like some kind of cordial.

Malfoy's hands were shaking. He uncorked the bottle, and the potion within emitted a faint, sweet smelling scent. It was, thought Hermione, lovely. It was like the finest perfume she had ever smelt. Heavenly ... it was like ... it was indescribable.

Malfoy held the bottle aloft. Hermione could see the expression playing across his face. "It is the most beautiful thing in the world," he whispered. Hermione could see the Weasleys looking on, and hear Chaldean's laboured, rasping breathing in the background.

He put his hand underneath Draco's head, to support him, and slowly prised the boy's lips apart. Then, breathing deeply, he gently tilted the phial. The orange liquid trickled down Draco's throat. Malfoy flung the bottle aside.

"We shall see now, if it works," said Chaldean, coldly. He stepped closer to the three people, huddled on the dais. Bill followed them, his brothers still clinging onto him, as though they were afraid he might get away.

Malfoy cradled Draco in his arms. The boy was still as lifeless as ever.

"If it was going to work," breathed Chaldean, sounding almost delighted. "It would surely have worked by now."

Malfoy glared at him. "Have heart, man," he stuttered. "Please, I know I have wronged you, but take pity."

Chaldean snorted. "I thought I believed in you," he said, as a single tear trickled down Malfoy's cheek. "I thought I had a faithful friend and ally. I do not even know why I have returned to this place, were it not for the wishes of the man who rescued me," he glanced at Bill at this point, who looked haggard, defeated and old before his years. "I believed you when you said you would instil the values of honour, and obedience within your son. Yet the boy is a coward, and when such a sorry state of affairs comes to pass, it can be only the Father who is to blame."

Malfoy wiped the tear away ... he was still clutching Draco. Ignoring Chaldean completely, he bent his head down, and brushed a stray lock of hair out of Draco's eyes. Hermione could only begin to sense what turmoil was ongoing within the man who now knelt before her, a pathetic wreck of his former self.

"Please, Draco," he said. "Make this work. Make this nightmare stop."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Slytherin was angry. "If the words in this language been coined to describe your sheer incompetence, Riddle, then I would be using them now!" he roared. "You are nothing more than a blundering fool ... how you ever succeeded in attaining anything approaching a measure of power, it ... it is beyond me!"

Voldemort was prostrated on the floor beside him ... Sirius was still half sitting, half crouching on the floor a few feet away from them, still holding desperately onto Harry.

"Master ... I beg of your forgiveness. I implore you not to harm my worthless soul ..."

Slytherin roared in a paroxysm of drunken, impotent rage. He stepped over to where Voldemort was lying, and kicked him hard, in the ribs. However, his spirit state still persisted, and his foot went straight through Voldemort's body. "You mean nothing to me!" he went on. "You mean nothing at all ... I would sooner sacrifice you than anybody who dares to challenge my power. There is nothing more infuriating than a minion who proves incapable of performing the simplest tasks. Must I be forever doomed to suffer fools?"

"Perhaps this means your grand scheme is not to be," said Sirius. Slytherin wheeled round on his heels to look at them.

"It is to be," growled Slytherin, through teeth that, had he had any, would have been gritted with fury. "The prophecies must be fulfilled. They are present within Harry's mind, and when our minds are co-joined, the secrets of the future will be known by me, as well."

"Impossible," snapped Sirius.

Slytherin shook his head. "I assure you it is not," he said. "The information, the prophecies, have been passed down through the generations beneath me, always going through the first born child. Harry is the first born child of his generation, and therefore the prophecies lie within his mind. Were he to live to have children of his own, the prophecies would be transferred into the mind of the first born of the subsequent generation."

"But, Master," began Voldemort. "The prophecies dictate ... they cannot be changed ... it is I who joins with you, having taken Harry's mind with me. It states quite clearly ..."

"The fact that they are prophecies does not mean they have to be obeyed to the letter," said Slytherin. "I wrote them down so many years ago, during the last millennia, that I was vague in my predictions. How could I have known about the wonders of the age, the automobile, electricity, men on the Moon, when the wonder of my age was the sword and housewives hankered after boiled turnips instead of electric bread makers? The predictions were made, as though I was peering into a house through a fogged up window, and attempting to describe the room I saw. I saw only tiny pieces of the whole. The fact that they have come true is, testament, if you will, to my sheer brilliance. The prophecies are open to interpretation, especially by me."

"But Master," Voldemort protested, Sirius could tell his appeal to Slytherin's better nature was hopeless. Slytherin had no better nature.

"Now will you surrender Harry to me, Black?" asked Slytherin.

Voldemort was choking with rage.

"I will not," repeated Sirius. "I will not surrender him to anybody."

Quite right, said a voice within his head. Sirius gave a start. He knew, somehow, that he had not thought that. The thought had sprung, fully formed, into his mind.

What?

Quite right, the voice repeated itself. Slytherin was looking on with the beginnings of a smile creeping around the corners of his mouth.

I must say, the voice went on, when I left you in charge, Padfoot, I did rather expect better things ... as it is, my son appears to be a vegetable.

Sirius looked up ... Slytherin was standing stock still in front of him, not batting an eyelid. He turned to Voldemort, who was still prostrated on the marble floor, his body frozen and motionless. Then it dawned on him ... the body clutched against him was cooling fast, the pitiful moans had died away, his chest lay still, neither rising nor falling ... and when he put his fingers to the boy's neck, he felt nothing whatsoever ...

Harry was dead.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

One eye flickered open, and Malfoy could not help but gasp. Hermione leant in closer, the Weasleys and Chaldean closed in around them.

Draco gave a short lurch, and coughed, violently. Blood was once again oozing from the gaping wound in his chest.

"We should put a tourniquet on, or something," said Hermione.

Draco's teeth were chattering, and he was looking fearfully around the room. It looked like he was trying to say something.

"Bill ... give us your cloak," said Hermione.

"Right, okay," said Bill, taking off the cloak, and handing it to her ... he was dressed in Muggle clothes underneath, jeans, trainers and a T-shirt, though ripped and dirty. Hermione gathered up the material, and succeeded in ripping a small strip off one side of it. This she bound tightly around Draco's chest.

"It should stop the bleeding, a bit," she said. "But we really do need to get him to a hospital. Where's the nearest one?" she looked up at Malfoy. Draco was touching the makeshift bandage uncertainly.

"There is a small facility in the Castle itself," began Malfoy. "Yet I would imagine it is deserted."

"No others?" asked Hermione.

Malfoy shook his head.

"He'll live a while," said Hermione, wiping sweat from Draco's forehead, he looked very fearful, and a lot younger than he had done before. "We have to get him back to England, very soon."

"I might be able to help out there," croaked Draco. "Do you think I might have a drink of some kind?"

Chaldean sighed. "We are wasting time ... I say abandon the boy to his fate ... there is a helicopter outside ... we can be in Baku within two hours."

"Bellerophon," stuttered Draco. "We can use Bellerophon."

"The dragon ... the boy's dragon," said Malfoy. "Of course ... if I had only thought beforehand. Draco, are you fit enough to fly?"

"Like she said," said Draco. "I'll live a while," he tried to sit up, and then collapsed onto Hermione's lap. "But not much longer ... I feel rather weak, incidentally, and I am still waiting for my drink."

"Don't complicate matters, Draco," scolded Malfoy.

"It's my birthday," huffed Draco. He gazed up into Hermione's eyes. "What did you use ... CPR?"

Hermione shook her head. "Um, no, actually," she said.

"Damn," said Draco. "I was rather hoping ..."

"You hoped wrong," said Hermione, still a little flummoxed as to exactly how magic had succeeded in bringing Draco back.

"Where is this dragon?" asked Bill. "We should get to it as soon as possible ... I think I can smell gas."

"Sulphur," said Malfoy. "This Castle is built upon the plug of an ancient volcano. I smell it too ... it might be well to evacuate as soon as possible."

Hermione grabbed Draco, and held him very close, very tightly. She could hear him breathing, feel his living form against her, and she felt tears of happiness rolling down her face.

"Hermione," cut in Malfoy. "We must go, now! Even then, there may not be enough time."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Gwyneth pulled the car over to the side of the road. She had reached the summit of one of the many winding, twisting gravel roads that littered that region of the world, and the sight that lay, spread out before her in the morning sunlight, took her breath away.

There was a castle ... surely the singularly most massive castle she had ever set eyes upon ... it had more towers even than Hogwarts, which was itself very well endowed, and seemed to be built atop an outcrop of rock, itself many hundreds of feet high. There was a thin bridge connecting it to the 'mainland.'

It was spectacular.

She opened the door, and climbed out, taking care to bring her omnioculars with her. She raised them to her eyes, and focused them upon the distant bulk of the castle. She noted, with a frisson of alarm coursing through her bloodstream, that there appeared to be an inordinate amount of activity going on ... indeed, people and cars were streaming across the narrow bridge. As she watched, the ground shook again, and she clutched at the roof of her car for support. Earthquake? Or was it something else. She steadied herself again. Thick, black smoke appeared to be pouring out of the castle. Or was it smoke? For now, borne upon the faint breeze wafting towards her, came that unmistakable smell, it was like rotten eggs. She clocked it immediately. Sulphur.

That wasn't smoke ... that was ash.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The trembling of the earth was even stronger, even more pronounced within the walls of the castle. Stumbling as he went, at the heart of a pack of fleeing Death Eaters, Vladimir Koschenko put his head down, and ran. It was all he could do not to trip and fall, and then he knew he would be trampled by the running feet. He could hear someone screaming in the distance, and the air was thick with choking, blinding smoke. He tripped again, felt his footing going, and then crashed headlong to the hard, stone floor. Someone trod on him, knocking the breath from his lungs. He yelled for help, but such was the velocity of the stampede that none was forthcoming.

Then he felt a hand reaching down to him ... what appeared to be a solid silver hand. Koschenko looked up ... his nose cracked and broken, his face bloodied from where it had been trampled into the floor. His rescuer was a short, squat man, wearing brown robes, balding slightly, with a constantly twitching nose.

"There isn't much time," said his rescuer. Koschenko took the man's hand ... and with a strength unapparent to look at him, he found himself hauled to his feet as easily as if he had been a child.

"Thank you ... thank you," was all Koschenko could say.

"We must make haste," said his rescuer. "We must be gone from this place. My Master will be displeased with me as it is."

There was a further earth tremor, and stones rained down upon them from the ceiling ... Koschenko, who of course, knew the castle well, could tell that they were in the passageway leading to the entrance hall.

The man lead him swiftly along the passage ... the running crowd having dispersed as quickly as they had come. Then came the sound of a fearsome explosion, and very close as well. The man leading Koschenko stumbled, and collapsed to the ground ... Koschenko heard a horrible, sickening scream of pain. Instantly he was at the man's side.

"Leave me," he breathed. "I'll have to do the best I can."

If this had been a film, Koschenko would have been shaking his head, vowing to stay with the other man until the bitter end, to try desperately and extricate themselves both from the situation. However, they were not in a movie, and Koschenko, despite his dubious 'skills' with items as far ranging as the thumbscrew, the iron maiden and the Spaniard's rack, was actually a terrific coward ... so with a casual glance backwards, he continued on his way.

Pettigrew lay on the floor, clutching at his now sprained leg, moaning pitifully to himself. The ground shuddered again, and somewhere in the distance he heard a rumbling, crashing sound as the ceiling caved in and tonnes of rock fell, blocking the passage.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Delia Branford, woken from a peaceful sleep by the shuddering of the castle, quaking upon its foundations, wrapped a silk dressing gown around her, and padded over to the window. Simon had woken her early ... getting ready for his silly ceremony. Delia didn't know much about ceremonies, her forte being cranberry sauce, and had merely assumed it would involve funny handshakes and apron twirling, and had barely managed to get back to sleep when the explosions had started.

She parted the curtains, and looked down, they had been housed in one of the many turrets overlooking the central courtyard, and down below, she could see the panicking Death Eaters as they stampeded for the castle's only exit, the narrow, crumbling bridge. She hoped Simon wasn't down there.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thankfully, one of the Land Rovers was unlocked. The three girls scrambled in. Cassandra slammed shut the driver's door, and locked it. Someone was trying to get into the boot.

"Are you sure you know how to drive this thing?" asked Dora, who was sitting in the passenger seat.

Cassandra shrugged. "It's built by Muggles ... how hard can it be?" she tapped the dashboard with her wand, but nothing happened. "Um," she said. It was very early in the morning ... and the headache did seem to be getting worse.

"Try behind the visor," suggested Elizabeth, who was sitting on the back bench seat. Cassandra reached up, and knocked open the sun visor ... true to cliché, the last person to drive the car had left the ignition keys there.

"Ha ... told you it'd be easy," she said. The other girls exchanged withering looks. Somewhere in the distance a volley of explosions went off, and the ground shook once more. Two more cars, one of them a Jeep with a large gun mounted on the back, were cutting their way through the crowds, horns blaring. All around was the crush of people, slamming their fleeing forms into the side of the car as they sat there. It was very claustrophobic indeed.

More explosions, and masonry, broken bits of stonework and statuary came raining down into the courtyard. Cassandra fumbled with the keys, and the engine roared into life. She put her foot down ... realised she'd forgotten to take off the handbrake, and promptly stalled the car.

"Damn stick shifts!"

She flung the car into gear, and then, depressing the horn as far as it would go, began to inch forwards through the tightly packed crowd.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sirius put his fingers to Harry's throat ... there was no pulse whatsoever. Suddenly horrified beyond compare, Sirius released the now lifeless form of the boy, and he dropped to the floor, his head lolling floppily to one side, his eyes still open.

"No," breathed Sirius. He looked up at Slytherin, who was still standing, stock still before him. "No ... God, Harry ... please ..."

Look around you, Sirius. That voice, again, within his head, just as it had been before.

It dawned on Sirius that he could not hear a sound ... not a single thing, not even that strange, hissing noise; the sound of silence. It was as if all life had stopped.

"This is some kind of time, stopping, type thing, yeah?" asked Sirius. He stood up, noting as he did so that his feet made no sound on the floor, and his robes did not rustle at all.

"You could say that," said the voice. This time, however, it was coming from somewhere else, and not within his head. Sirius turned round ... there were people standing in the Tomb ... six of them, five men and a woman.

"Sirius, Sirius, Sirius," one of the men said, he stepped out from behind one of the others ... a tall, bearded man with an extravagant, curly bouffant of jet black hair perched atop his head, carrying a club, and wearing fearsome armour, and a helmet with wings on.

"You have rather fouled up, haven't you?" said the man who had spoken first. The others were all nodding their heads. Sirius stared at the first man with something approaching recognition. He was looking into the eyes of a man whom he had not seen for fourteen years, the eyes of a dead man.

"I rather expected you to take care of Harry," said James Potter. "You are proving somewhat of a disappointment."

Sirius' face cracked into the broadest grin of his life ... he stepped forwards, and embraced the man, fully expecting to go right through him. The fact that James was solid came as something of a shock to him.

"Weren't expecting that, were you?" laughed James. He removed his glasses, and wiped them clean. "So, Sirius," he went on. "What's with the bizarre movie set?"

"I'm sorry?"

"My son is lying half naked on the floor, you're in a fine state, and Voldemort appears to be giving Slytherin fifty. Would you care to explain yourself?"

"Um ... well, it's rather difficult," said Sirius.

"I see," said James. "Excuse me a minute," he walked over to where Voldemort's frozen form was lying, and kicked him hard. "I'll sort you out later," he said.

Some of the other men were also stepping forwards ... the tall, bearded one, whom Sirius was sure he recalled seeing somewhere before, possibly in a portrait, another one, who appeared to be wearing the uniform of a Civil War Cavalier, another, clad in a red military jacket, and yet another, who appeared to be wearing what looked like a Muggle flight suit.

"Well ... meet the ancestors, why don't you?" said James. "We got together, a small bunch of us. Thought we ought to come down and sort you folks out. Believe me, Sirius, it's been hard work getting all this ready ... establishing the links, dashing backwards and forwards across the Spirit Level."

"The Spirit Level?" choked Sirius

James nodded. "Regrettably, that's what it's called," he said. "Probably someone's idea of a joke. So ... we ... um, have ... brought the ancestors we thought would best serve our purposes, the bravest and the best."

The man holding the club grinned inanely. Sirius was certain he recognised him from somewhere.

James crouched down on the floor next to Sirius and Harry, and bade Lily do the same. She followed him over, and knelt down beside them.

"May I, Sirius?" she asked, her voice as soft and calm as it had been the very last time he had spoken to her ... she did not appear to have changed a bit.

Sirius nodded, looking down at Harry, who was lying on the marble flagstones. His parents bent over the body. James was muttering the words of some ancient incantation. Lily looked up at Sirius. "It will help," she said.

"He's not dead, then?" asked Sirius, hardly daring to hope.

"Of course not," said James. "We just need to speed him up a little ... put him back in our timeframe," he waved his hands over Harry's immobile form. "And of course, we need to do something about that broken arm. He also needs a bit of a boost ... Voldemort practically leached the life right out of him."

"Never in all my death did I dream I'd ever see him again," Lily was practically sobbing. "In the flesh."

Harry's body jerked convulsively. He rubbed his eyes, and then sat up. Gone was the vacant expression in his face ... his eyes were once again full of their customary life. He stared at his parents with a look of complete, dumbfounded astonishment.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Gwyneth flashed her headlights at the other car. The driver, who looked about seventeen or eighteen, and had red hair, waved her out of the way.

"Move yourself, you silly cow," snarled Gwyneth, gesticulating expansively. The other driver did the same. "I need to get past!"

They were on a mountain road about two miles from the point where Gwyneth had finally laid eyes on the castle, which was currently hidden behind a small hill, though the pall of smoke and ash hanging over the blazing structure gave away its location instantly.

The other driver was getting out of the car. "Oh Christ," Gwyneth said to herself. "I do not need road rage now. Not in the middle of bloody Azerbaijan."

The driver was walking over to them. Gwyneth wound down her window. "Move out of the way!" she hollered, sticking her head out. "It is vital I get down there straight away!"

"You move!" the girl yelled, an American accent. "Your damn car is blocking the road!"

"So is yours!"

The girl scowled at her. "Just get out of the way ... you ... damn ... English person!"

Gwyneth's blood boiled. "You've never actually been to England, have you?" she asked, sounding as Welsh as she possibly could. The girl shook her head.

"Then you probably won't know," said Gwyneth. "So I'll try not to dismember you too much. Never ... ever, call a Welsh person English again, if you value a set of fully functioning kidneys. If you do, we will tear you limb from limb and feed you to our sheep, and then we will take the little bits left over, and use you as fertiliser for our leeks and daffodils. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

The girl was backing away. "Okay," she said. "That's ... real ... nice. We'll just, um, move the car then ... okay?"

"What a corking idea!" agreed Gwyneth.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Harry inhaled every breath he could of his Mother's scent as they crouched on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around each other, Harry's head pressed tight against her shoulder. He could feel tears pouring down his face, her light touch stroking his hair, whispering in his ear.

"I missed you so much, Harry."

"Me too," Harry was breathing ... he could feel his Father's hands, cold against his back, and hear Sirius' breathing in the background. He could not see where Voldemort had gone, and frankly, he did not care. His whole body felt numb with disbelief ... it was as though he was not entirely there, as though he was floating above the ground.

"How's it been?" she asked him.

"Pants," said Harry, with feeling.

"Sirius not been looking after you?" asked his Mother, in a calming, soothing tone of voice that Harry could remember nobody ever having taken with him before.

Now Sirius spoke. "Um ... actually," he said. "It all went a little bit wrong. I ... um ... kind of messed up."

"In what way?" his Father's voice.

"They ... kind of took Harry away from me," said Sirius ... and he proceeded to tell them the whole tale ... right up from his arrival at the house, mere moments after the attack ... he told of how he had found Hagrid sitting on the charred remains of the fireplace, clutching Harry tightly ... and how Hagrid had told him of Dumbledore's wishes ... that Harry must go to live with the Dursleys. His Father had choked at this point, and when Sirius came to the part about the thirteen year sentence in Azkaban ... Harry felt his Mother squeeze him even more tightly.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry. We missed everything."

"You don't have to miss the rest?" Harry asked, hardly daring to hope.

"We do, Harry," said his Father. "You have the power to call us back," he spread his arms wide. "Well ... as you can see you have done ... with a little help from the powers that be, of course. Ah, the thing is, we can't, well, you know, stay ... long."

"How long?"

"Harry ... we don't know ... we know very little of you ... we knew nothing of Sirius' imprisonment, or that you had been forced to go and live with that, oaf of a relative. It is like ... I cannot describe it ..."

Sirius could ... he could remember Slytherin's words. "It is like," he said. "Peering into a room through a fogged up window, and trying to describe the contents without being able to see all of them."

James smiled. "I don't think I could have put it more succinctly myself," he said. "Bloody good analogy, Padfoot. Anyway ... we know very little of you, and your life. But we do know what we have been told. The Spirit Level is a place outside of time and space, where the laws of this Earth, this world, simply do not apply. What we do know is that you do not die ... neither does Draco, nor Ron, nor Hermione, nor Sirius ... none of you die, not today, and not tomorrow. None of you die for a very long time indeed. Our, our job. Harry, is to see that this becomes so. We have leave to guide you away from this place, but then we must leave you once more. Our writ extends no further than this castle, nor do we have earthly form beyond these walls. We can help you so far."

"Then how do we escape?" asked Sirius.

James smiled. "Well, technically, we could escape in this timeframe ... however, I do not think it appropriate to do so, and I would be in grave trouble if I attempted such a thing. We do need to speed things up ... fortunately, we have some help at hand."

He gestured to the four other men standing over by the portal, still closed tight shut. There appeared to be no other way out of the Tomb save upwards, through the collapsed ceiling. Harry could not fathom how they would try that one.

"Step forward," said his Father.

The bearded man, the one who looked like a Viking, was the first to step forwards. His voice, when he spoke, was loud and booming, and echoed around the Tomb with a force that could have woken the dead. Harry noticed that engraved on his shining, brass breastplate was the image of a griffin, rampant. It could only be one man ...

"The first ... the oldest, and probably the wisest, though some would contest that," said James. "The Father of our line ... Gryffindor himself."

Gryffindor bowed to Harry. "A true honour, young man," he said. "That I now stand before you."

Harry couldn't have been more shocked if Ron had just announced he and Draco were running off to Hawaii to open a gay bar.

"This," his Father went on, gesturing to one of the other men, "is Temperance Malfoy ... not one of ours, of course, but nearly."

The man in the Cavalier uniform removed his hat, which had a floppy purple feather stuck in it, and bowed his head slightly to the people sitting on the floor.

"Herbert Potter."

The man in the red coat smiled. "A veteran of the War of Independence," explained James. "Killed in 1778, I believe? A sniper in the woods near Philadelphia?"

The man nodded. "Shouldn't have been wearing a red coat then," muttered James, under his breath. "Silly sod."

The man nodded. Harry noticed that the man in the Muggle flight suit was looking at Herbert with a look of disgust on his face.

James smiled. "Ah, yes," he said. "Our American contingent. Norman Potter, shot down in 1944 over France ... killed in the impact."

Harry was looking at them with a look of puzzlement on his face. "How come ..." he began. "How come ..."

James smiled. "Your family, Harry, has always valued loyalty, the old values of truth and valour and friendship that have stood the test of time, above all else. Potters would always be ready to defend their families and their homelands ... not only in our world, the magical one, but in the Muggle world, around us. We fight whatever threatens our families. Even if that means fighting Muggle wars."

Harry smiled. "Your own Grandfather was very much involved in the War, Harry, and he did a lot of good things. He was a hero ... just like you. Your Great-Uncle drove a Muggle ambulance for several years, with certain alterations to his vehicle to ensure he was always first on the scene of an accident. Our people have made more of a contribution to history than you would care to imagine."

Slowly, his Mother removed the light cloak she was wearing, and draped it around Harry's bare shoulders. Immediately, Harry felt a surge of warmth coursing through his system. It was as though the cloak was some sort of central heating unit, breathing new life into his tired, defeated body.

"Come, Harry," said his Father. "We have much to accomplish before the day is out."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

With Draco walking ahead of them, stumbling slightly, for he was very weak indeed, they scrambled down the passage that Malfoy had led Tatiana and Draco along the previous day, the Weasley brothers, Hermione and Chaldean still stumbling along in their wake, tripping on the uneven floor. Down here, in the depths deep below the castle, the rumbling was louder, the shaking perceptibly more violent, and the nauseating smell of sulphur even more overpowering.

"We do not want to be down here," Draco heard Bill repeating to himself. "There is no way on Earth we want to be down here."

"Why not?" Hermione asked, turning to look at him.

"I thought you knew stuff, Hermione," said Bill. "See the shape of this passage?"

"Not really," said Hermione. Ron, on the other hand, was looking up at the walls and rocky ceiling with renewed interest.

"Shaped like a teardrop," said Ron.

Bill nodded. "Exactly," he said. "It is a magma vent. Sometimes, when a volcano is erupting, the surrounding rock cools, leaving liquid magma flowing along within it, as has happened here. The passages created are eventually drained ... but there is nothing to say the magma will not come back some day."

"We really do not want to be down here, then," said George, his normally flushed and freckled face visibly pale in the dim light.

"Hell, no," said Fred.

As if in answer to their hushed conversation, the ground lurched again, and everybody stumbled, falling against one of the walls, except for Draco, who was swaying so much he hardly noticed it.

"It's hot to the touch," exclaimed Ron. "It's like putting your hand on a radiator."

"We don't have long then," said Chaldean. "Malfoy, where are these blasted dragons of yours?"

"Close by," said Malfoy. "We must take the very next fork in the passage, and head round to the right."

"The left," Draco croaked.

"I flatter myself that I know the way around my own castle, Draco," said his Father.

"Exactly," said Draco. "Then we go left. Ignore him, boys."

The others looked to each other. The fork was just ahead ... one passage, leading right, went steeply upwards in a flight of steep steps carved out of the rock. The other passage descended, albeit gradually. Then they looked from Lucius to Draco, and back again ... and then they went left.

"Left's good too," said Malfoy, as he watched their receding backs, before scrambling off in pursuit.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Over by the door," said James, gesturing to them. Sirius and Lily hauled Harry to his feet, and half walked, half carried him over to the door. James bent down next to Voldemort.

"Can you kill him, Dad?" asked Harry, that single word giving him a thrill the like of which he had never experienced before.

"Sadly, not," said James. "However, he can't kill me either ... only you and Sirius are at risk. Godric, I'd like you to stand in front of them."

Gryffindor said something in Middle English that none of them understood, brandished his club, and moved in front of the other three, ruffling Harry's hair as he did so.

"How are we going to do this?" asked James.

Temperance Malfoy now spoke up. "We could try, um, opening the portal now, pulling the lever ... that alone may buy us a few seconds time when we return to our original timeframe."

"Find the lever, then," said James, who was still kneeling at Voldemort's side. "I need to figure out how to keep big ears here occupied."

"We have barely a minute remaining in this timeframe," Temperance warned. "Fifty seconds left ... that'll be forty nine seconds any second now."

"Tie him up!" yelled Harry, inspiration hitting him like an express train.

James stood up, grinning from ear to ear ... Harry was struck by how very much alike they looked ... they even had the identical mole on their left cheeks. He muttered a spell, and ropes flew from the tip of his wand, and enveloped Voldemort's prone body, rendering him immobile.

Temperance let out a cry. "I've found a lever!" he said, yanking on it with all his might.

"Five seconds!"

"Four ... three ... two ... one!"

It was as though life had flooded back into the Tomb, thought Harry ... and as he recalled it later, the faint sounds of rumbling, of the angry earth far beneath them slowly began to reverberate around the castle. It was literally as if everything had speeded up.

Voldemort and Slytherin certainly had. Voldemort roared with rage as he felt his arms bound tightly to his back.

"What is this trickery ... unhand me, you knaves!"

Slytherin, however, was ignoring him. His upper lip curled into a sneer, he took slow, faltering steps towards the group. Harry pressed closer against the portal, the stone cool against his back. He could hear the same grinding of machinery that had heralded the opening of the door before.

"What is this then?" asked Slytherin, sounding, thought Harry, remarkably like Draco when he went into sneering mode. "A little reunion ... a little tete a tete? Godric ... how simply spiffing to see you!"

"You bastard," said Gryffindor ... stepping forwards ... the other ancestors trying to restrain him, but he threw them off easily. "We agreed, when we signed the contracts ... everlasting, binding, magical contracts," Harry had never thought of Gryffindor as having a West Country accent before, though he supposed it made sense, "we agreed, Slytherin, and you ... you would throw this all away."

"I signed no contract," said Slytherin. "I signed a scrappy piece of paper, under duress, as well."

"We agreed," Gryffindor went on. "There would be no meddling, nothing like this ... the Heirs."

"He is my Heir," said Slytherin. "I do as I wish."

"Rubbish!" snapped Gryffindor. "You would try and change fate? Slytherin ... do you remember what happened last time you did that?"

Slytherin nodded. "Yes ... I believe I do, England was conquered, by the Normans ... history set back on its proper course, Gryffindor, otherwise, a dynasty of Saxon Kings ... people like you? Warlike ... chivalrous, big of beard and round of club? Ridiculous concept! Far better to have the French in charge, then the Germans ... heaven forbid the English should ever get around to ruling themselves."

Gryffindor snarled. "Nevertheless," he said. "Fiddling with time, like you have done, Slytherin ... there must be no meddling with the Heirs."

"Rubbish," snapped Slytherin. "Tish, tosh, and old wet fish, Gryffindor. For history to be set upon its proper cause, Harry must make the mind link with me, and the prophecies must be transferred."

The door was sliding slowly upwards into the ceiling. There was space underneath sufficient for a small child to crawl through, but not yet for them.

"For history to be set upon the course you have deemed," said Gryffindor, "which is not, might I add, the correct course, by any stretch of the imagination. Harry will live, and we will ensure that he does."

"Is anybody going to help me?" Voldemort squealed.

"Oh, do shut up," snapped Slytherin. "The Dark Lords of today, no imagination, no style, no flair ... in out, quick as a flash, Dark Mark, job done. I remember when I torched my first Muggle village, we indulged in a spot of rape and torture as well ... you should have seen those peasants run, Riddle!"

"Quiet!" bellowed Gryffindor. "You always were the embodiment of earthly evil, weren't you, Slytherin?"

"Exactly," said Slytherin. "I was the very worst. I cannot be matched, Riddle."

The door was open nearly enough for the others to duck through now ... it dawned on Harry what Gryffindor was trying to do ... he was distracting Slytherin.

"Go ... now," his Father hissed. Harry did not need telling twice. He ducked underneath the door, which was rising, agonizingly slowly, heard rushing footsteps behind him, Sirius and his parents, and then the other Potters were scrambling through.

The Animation Chamber looked different when it was empty. Gone was the oppressive atmosphere of before, gone was the darkness ... the bowed heads of the Death Eaters. Sunlight was pouring in through the high windows. Even so the room still held to it a strange, spooky quality. Sirius and Lily held tight to Harry.

"Creepy," Lily said. Sirius was looking at the pool of blood on the dais. There was a trail leading away from it, heading down a passageway that neither he nor Harry had noticed before.

"Follow it," said Harry.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A low, soft moaning, almost inhuman, almost like the death throes of a wounded animal. It caused Hermione to stop dead in her tracks.

"Did anybody else hear that?" asked Draco.

"Hold it a minute," said Hermione. Just ahead, the passage bent round to the right ... for some moments now, they had been descending steadily, and with their descent came a sharp rise in temperature. It was now like an oven. The moaning sound was louder now.

"I think someone is hurt," said Malfoy, pushing his way to the front of the group. Fred and George rolled their eyes, Ron said nothing.

His hand outstretched to keep the children from seeing anything too distressing, Malfoy stepped forwards, and peered slowly around the bend in the passage. Then he beckoned the others to follow him. Chaldean pushed his way to the front, and stayed close behind Malfoy ...

There was a man lying on the ground ... his leg bent backwards so far it looked unreal ... obviously, thought Hermione broken, and very badly. He appeared to be conscious, but only just.

Malfoy knelt down next to him. "Can you hear me?" he asked, in a soft tone of voice that Hermione could not remember hearing from him before, and that Draco was absolutely certain had never been taken with him in his life.

The man nodded.

"We must get out of here very fast," Malfoy continued. "I doubt very much you can walk."

The man shook his head, and in that instant, Hermione recognised him ... slightly chubby around the cheeks, carrying a head that was fast going bald ... a nose that seemed to twitch. Who else could it be but Wormtail?

"I can't walk," Pettigrew groaned. "Don't think I have not tried. I must return to ... to my Master."

"Your Master would desert you, Wormtail," Malfoy hissed. "He has no use for you, or for me, or for any of us ... now ... will you come with us?"

Wormtail spat on the ground at Malfoy's feet. "I would sooner die," he snarled.

"Which," Malfoy went on, "is precisely what you'll end up doing. Very shortly, this entire establishment is going to go sky high."

"Then," said Wormtail, "I shall go sky high with it ... if that is my destiny."

Malfoy looked as if he was about to say something, but Hermione leapt into the breach before he got the correct words properly in order. "Destiny is nothing more than a cute myth designed to trap people into doing things they don't want to do, and to sell more films, of course," she added. "It's what you make of it ... you make what you will of your life ... though it harm none..."

"Muggle ideas are all very well," groaned Wormtail. "But they do not wash in this world. There is a place, a place and a time for ... for," he winced in pain, "... for everything. All is ordered ... I serve my Master that he might capitalise on this ... on this inherent need for order."

"Sock him over the head," cut in Ron.

Chaldean glared at the boy. "The Muggle girl is right," he said. "You're coming with us."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They half ran, half walked down the passageway. Harry leading the others, the hard, sharp rocks cutting the soles of his feet. But all that mattered was to be as far from Voldemort as possible, and every step was taking them further and further. That had to be a good thing. He could hear dripping ... water, condensation was forming on the walls, and the heat was unbearable. The smell of eggs, of sulphur, was getting stronger here, much stronger. There was not much time remaining.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Malfoy stumbled along the passageway, leading Pettigrew by the hand. The entire fabric of their existence seemed to be fraying around the edges ... the ground kept shifting, and their eyes were blinded by the noxious smoke that was filling their small, claustrophobic world. He could see the retreating forms of the others running along the passage, the sounds of their feet pounding on the stone seemed ever more distant.

"Keep running!" he gasped, clasping tightly to Pettigrew's hand, as the ground shook again, and both men were flung momentarily to the floor, Pettigrew landing atop Malfoy.

Malfoy scrambled out from underneath the other man, clutching his black Death Eater's robes tightly around his body. Now the passageway seemed to be glowing with a strange, incandescent orange light. And Malfoy knew instantly what it must be, and he knew instantly that Bill Weasley had been right. The orange glow was magma, and they were in a magma vent. His knowledge of elementary geology was sketchy at best, but he knew he did not want to be near magma.

"Come on, man!" he bellowed above the noise, reaching out to Pettigrew, who looked up at him with malice in his eyes.

"Leave me to die!" he roared back.

Malfoy shook his head. "There will be no more deaths here today!" he said.

The whole earth gave a sudden, sideways lurch, and before Malfoy had fully realised what was going on ... rocks were tumbling down from the ceiling. Chaldean, standing underneath them, turned in horror, his mouth wide open as the block struck him on the top of the head, and he tumbled to the floor. More rocks, loose chunks of earth, dislodged by the earthquakes were falling, crushing Chaldean's lifeless body, blocking the passage, the roar mingled with the screams of the others as they turned, realising what was going on behind them.

Malfoy stumbled over to the rock fall. He could hear frantic voices on the other side.

"We have to go on!" one of them, that sounded like Hermione was saying.

"We have to move the rocks!" another voice cried. This one sounded a bit like Draco.

Malfoy clasped at the rocks. There was the smallest gap between two of the boulders, and he fell down on his knees to peer through it. All was darkness on the other side.

"Father ... can you hear me?"

Malfoy nodded, then, realising that of course nobody could hear him, spoke. "You must go on, Draco ... I will find another way ..."

"Father?" Draco's voice sounded tearful, and in earlier days, he would have scolded him for that ... but he did not.

"You must keep going. Find Bellerophon ... get out of here ... tell people what has happened."

"No, Father!"

"Draco. Please. I want you to do this for me. I want you to live."

He heard other voices on the other side ... and then Draco spoke again, his voice choking. "I'll see you, then ..."

"Oh, indubitably," Malfoy turned away from the rock fall. Pettigrew was still lying on the ground.

"Will you kill me now?"

"No," said Malfoy. "We will have to get out another way ... across the bridge, if it still stands."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sirius, Harry and the Spirits stumbled out of the end of the passageway, and found themselves once again in the Hall of the castle, or rather, the rubble that remained of it. The beautiful tiled floor was no more, smashed into oblivion by the falling stonework. The roof had caved in during the first earth tremor.

Sirius was going to think of something witty to say, but he decided against it. The silence that had descended across the site was something altogether more eerie than anything he had witnessed before. Where there should have been a bustling castle, filled with underlings, servants and minions, there was instead, an empty shell, piles of broken masonry. He wondered how many people had died.

Slowly, and silently, they walked across what had been the Hall, down the steps, and out into the cobbled courtyard, now more of a cobbled space. Sirius picked his way through the rubble. Here and there, under some of the heavier bits of stone were human arms, poking out, fingers grasping for help that never came. They reminded Sirius of something ... something that had stuck in his memory a very long time ... but he said nothing.

The gatehouse was still standing, and so, thankfully, was the bridge. But it looked as though it was going to collapse at any minute.

"We should go now," said Sirius. "Come on, Harry."

But Harry stood stock still. "I'm waiting for the others," he said.

"No, no, no. Don't do this to me!" snapped Sirius. "They might not be coming ... they might," he stopped. "They might already be dead."

James stepped forwards. "They aren't," he said. "Were you listening to a word I said, Padfoot? Nobody dies. Trust me on that."

Sirius sneered. "So how come there are some things you can tell us, and some things you can't?" he said.

James sighed. "Look, Sirius. Much as I would like to discuss the inner workings of the afterlife to you in minute, mind boggling and bloody boring detail, now is not the time or the place."

Sirius looked over his shoulder. A car had turned onto the bridge and was heading towards them.

"I really suggest you get out of here ..."

Sirius was looking at the car. It had stopped halfway across the bridge, and somebody was getting out. It was a woman, and a woman he recognised, too.

"Gwyneth?"

"Oh, sodding hell!" snapped James. "Not on top of everything else!" He was distracted momentarily by Harry pulling on his shirt sleeve.

"Should we ... um, go now?" he asked. "Dad?"

His Father wasn't listening. As Harry spoke, Sirius began to run across the bridge. His feet pounding in the dirt, and as he did so, Harry turned, and saw cracks running across the roadway.

"Come back!" he screamed, surging forwards, only to fins his Father's hands around his shoulder, restraining him. With a creaking, grinding sound, the bridge buckled in midway, and as Sirius scrambled to safety in Gwyneth's arms, the midsection fell away, and plummeted down into the gorge below.

They were trapped.

Harry turned, hearing the sounds of running footsteps behind him. It was Lucius Malfoy, dragging along a smaller, stockier man, who's head was hidden in the cowl of his brown cloak. James and Lily turned as well.

"Harry!" gasped Malfoy. "Thank Heaven you're safe!"

"Um," interjected James Potter, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice. "Exactly who are you, please?"

"Malfoy, Lucius," said Malfoy, sticking out his hand. He gestured to Pettigrew, whose head was still hidden by the cloak. "This is an associate of mine. I've not seen you around here before. Are you a minion?"

James smiled. "Well, kind of," he said. "Actually, I'm here as a kind of overseer ..."

"You're a Death Eater?"

James shook his head. "Under no circumstances ... actually, I'm Harry's Father ..."

Malfoy looked up into his eyes, his face suddenly drained of its colour. "A spirit?" he asked.

James nodded. "Don't worry, I can't hurt you ..."

"I wasn't worried," said Malfoy. Pettigrew, on the other hand, was shaking violently.

"What's his problem?"

"Touch of flu," replied Malfoy, hurriedly. "Nothing much to worry about ..."

James gave him a suspicious look. "Fair enough," he said. "Are you the last?"

"There were others," said Malfoy. "They're trying to find another way out. They'll be fine, my son is with them."

James, who had been blocking Malfoy's view of the downed bridge stepped aside, and immediately, what little colour remained in Malfoy's face drained from it.

"No bridge?"

"Damn," said Malfoy, softly.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Something was wrong. Yesterday, when his Father had led him along this route, Draco had been able to hear the low, raspy breathing of the sleeping dragons. Feel the heat of their furnace like bodies, but now he could feel nothing. He sped up his pace, and the others followed.

He stumbled into the Chamber, to be confronted by a scene of absolute devastation. Half the ceiling had fallen in, allowing light into the chamber. The furnace had been extinguished, and the attendants had obviously fled somewhere else. The floor was littered with bits of stonework and masonry, and Draco picked his way carefully amongst the shards, the others following. He reached the top of the staircase, and looked down.

Bellerophon was there ... against all the odds, he was still there, and nobody had unchained him or flown him away or anything! One of the other dragons ... Draco thought that one was called Hermes, but he wasn't sure, was also lying asleep on the floor.

Slowly, he began to walk down the steps towards the sleeping beasts.

"Hey, Malfoy!" called Fred. "This may not seem like the best time to mention this, but you are currently walking down a flight of stairs, towards two bloody vicious looking dragons. Just thought you might like to be aware of this situation ... at this time!"

Draco turned around, and scowled. "Just shut up, okay?" he croaked. "They might be our last chance to get out of here, and you two just want to piss around. Follow me down here."

"Pardon me for living!" called Fred. But he started to walk down the stairs too. The others followed.

"I might not, you want to watch it," said Draco. He had reached the bottom of the stairs, and, pulling on one of the special gloves, which were hanging neatly from a nearby rack, reached out to tickle Bellerophon awake.

Slowly, he ran his fingers across Bellerophon's flanks. As he did so, the dragon growled, low and ominous. And Hermione let out a squeal. "Draco. Stop it!"

Draco spun round instantly, his fingers still touching Bellerophon's dark, scaly skin.

"Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus ... you bloody idiot!"

Draco took a step away from Bellerophon. "Um, never do what?" he asked, looking suitably guilty.

"Never tickle a sleeping dragon," said Hermione.

"Well then, if you're so clever, tell me how to wake him up," said Draco, scowling at her.

"You have to sing to him!" came another voice. "Weren't you listening yesterday?"

Draco spun round. Tatiana was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down on him with an expression of the utmost distaste etched on her face. Her hands were on her hips, and she looked angry, angry and scared.

"Can you sing, Hermione?" asked Draco, turning round.

"I'd rather not. I'd feel rather self conscious about it," said Hermione. "Anyway, what would I sing?"

"Anything," said Draco. "Anything will work," he was aware of Tatiana looking at him. He felt like he was under scrutiny, like he was in an exam ... Dragon Care 101.

"You do it," said Hermione.

Draco looked up into her eyes. "Okay," he said, resolve slowly creeping into his blood. They were going to get out of here ... alive. "How about a couple of verses of the Chimney Sweep Song?"

Hermione shook her head.

"The Hedgehog Can Never Be Buggered At All?"

"Something happy," said Hermione.

"I don't know any happy songs," said Draco. "Besides, I'm a terrible singer. My voice goes all over the place."

"I thought you used to be a choirboy," said Hermione. Draco flushed a brilliant red.

"How did you know ... I mean ... how did, did you make that up?"

"It's a long standing rumour," said Hermione. "I bet you looked adorable in a ruff."

"Quiet!" bellowed Tatiana. "There is a time and a place for this ... and this is not the time, and in a few minutes, it will cease to be the place as well. Now, somebody sing to the damn dragon!"

"Oh, hell, I'll do it!" snapped Bill, he pushed Fred and George out of the way, and stepped forwards.

"What are you going to favour us with?" asked Fred, mockingly, causing Bill to turn around and glare at him.

"How about this?" asked Tatiana, coming down the stairs towards them. She walked across the shaking floor to where Bellerophon lay, and knelt next to his head. And then she began to sing.

She sung the same song that Draco had heard yesterday ... hauntingly beautiful, alternately high and low, happy and sad, a melody that touched his soul ... that touched all of them.

Bellerophon opened one eye, lazily, and blinked vapidly at them. Then, finally, he spoke. "Is that you, Tatiana?" he asked.

Tatiana nodded. "It is I," she said. "Bellerophon. Your rider needs you ..."

Bellerophon opened his other eye. "There are other humans. Where is Draco?"

"Here," Draco stepped forwards.

"How may I serve you?" growled Bellerophon, banging his club like tail against the floor, cracking the flagstones as he did so.

"We need to get out of here!" said Draco. "You're our only chance ..."

"You want me to change fate?" growled Bellerophon. "Draco. I do not think you are fully aware of the ramifications of what you are doing here."

"What do you mean?" asked Draco, looking suitably confused. "Ramifications?"

"The consequences of your actions," sighed Bellerophon, acting as though he had had to tell people this a thousand times before. "Dragons are creatures of fate. To change fate is abhorrent to us. Your fate is to meet your end in this castle. And I must not disobey this. It would lead to dire consequences for us all if I were to do so."

"But there are other people here!" snapped Draco. "Other people, people who don't need to be here, or don't deserve to be here ..."

Bellerophon growled again. "You are not aware of what you are proposing, Draco," he snarled, baring his teeth. Hermione, Ron and the others all took a step backwards. "Never before in my life have I witnessed a human asking a dragon to change fate for him. It simply is not done. If you were not my Rider, rest assured I would already have killed you at this point."

Draco was staring at the dragon, his mouth open. "You have to help us," he repeated, the note of desperation in his voice becoming clearer, more pronounced. "You have to help us. You will die too! You can't want that!"

"I can't change that," said Bellerophon. "Why, Draco, are you so persistent?"

"Because I don't believe in all that destiny crap!" snapped Draco. "It's ... it's your own choices that matter. You can choose to live, or you can choose to die, and I don't know of one person, one creature alive who would choose death over life. That is the thing that is simply not done. It has nothing to do with that. Everyone here agrees with me. But then everyone here wants to live!"

"The fact that you choose to flout so blatantly the laws and conventions of us dragons makes me, Draco, mildly curious," said Bellerophon.

"You see!" said Draco, spreading his arms wide, and taking a step nearer to Bellerophon. "You know it too. You know you don't really want to die!"

"Nothing wants to die, Draco," said Bellerophon. "However, it is an unavoidable truth of life, that death must follow. It happens in almost all cases."

Hermione now stepped forwards, pushing Draco out of the way. "I'm not taking any more of your crap, dragon!" she yelled. Draco, who had fallen to the floor, waved his hands at her and mouthed for her to stop. But she did not.

"You can bombard us with your stupid, pathetic explanations, your denial of your own life, until you are blue in the face. But none of us are going to back down. We want you to help us ... and ... damn it, Draco's your thingamajig! Rider, whatever the hell you call each other!"

"I should strike you down where you stand!" snarled Bellerophon. "You are a mere human girl. You have no power over me, no power at all. I will not be moved!"

Now Tatiana spoke up. "Bellerophon ... if you would go by that code, then you are no more than a monster. You have intelligence; you have wisdom! Know that you must now make the right choice, and save lives, and be remembered as a hero, rather than as a villain!"

"What human would ever think of a dragon as a hero?" asked Bellerophon. "For centuries our kind has been victim to your vicious, warlike ways. You sent slayers into our lands, armed with nets and spears, and they killed us! Dragons are already vilified by your kind, Tatiana. This changes nothing!"

"Please!" gasped Draco, who was still lying on the floor. "I'll die soon anyway. Just ... get us out of here!"

Bellerophon stood up, slipped his foot out of the unlocked manacle, and looked down on the boy, lying on the floor. His yellow eyes were unblinking, as he surveyed Draco. And then he bent his head down, and nuzzled him.

"Please!" Draco repeated, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth against the flood of unbearable pain that, once again was sweeping over his body. "Please help us."

If dragons could sigh, Bellerophon would have been sighing now. "Much against my better judgement," he growled. "I consent to your wish. But we must make haste ... there is little time."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They stood on the edge of the cliff ... below them the land dropped sharply away to the distant river, sparkling in the sunshine far below.

"We won't make it!" yelled Harry.

James gave him a reproachful look. "You must always consider the options open to you before you do something, and I'm doing that right now. There might just be a way," he said. "An animal could leap it."

"We haven't got any animals," said Harry.

And then he saw what his Father was thinking.

"Oh, yes, we do."

James smiled.

"Get on with it," snapped Malfoy. "There isn't much time!"

He was right as well. Behind them, they could hear the thundering roars, the crashes, the explosions as the volcano released it's pent up anger, the anger of a thousand years of abuse. The very earth was angry, and it would be appeased.

"I might ... well ... I might ... Harry - you know I was an Animagus, I presume?," asked James.

Harry nodded.

"Good. I was a stag ... called Prongs. Harry - listen. There is the remotest chance I might be able to change into Prongs," James' eyes were alive with excitement. "We could leap the gorge."

"I'm sorry?"

"If it worked," said Lily. "You would all have a chance of life. If it does not, then there is none."

"We should pray, then," said Malfoy, bitterly.

James shrugged. "If you think that would help, then you're very welcome. Otherwise, Harry and I will be trying to accomplish something constructive."

He turned back to Harry. "Now," he went on. "This is a chance in a million, but I think it might be the best chance you have."

Harry looked to his parents, and then across the gorge. He could see Gwyneth and Sirius standing on the other side of the yawning gap in the bridge. He knew they would have to jump it. And he knew he would have to say goodbye now. He turned around, pawing the ground again, and his parents flung their arms about his neck.

"We'll be waiting for you," said Lily. "We'll be waiting."

Harry allowed her to run her hands through his matted, filthy hair.

"I'm changing now," James said. "If this works ... goodbye ... Harry."

Harry shut his eyes and buried his face in his Mother's hair

"I'm not sure this is going to work," he heard Malfoy whimper.

"I'm done ..."

Harry looked up. Sure enough, standing before him was the most magnificent, antlered stag conceivable. He found himself running his hands across the beast's flanks ...

"Climb aboard, Harry," his Mother said.

One by one, Pettigrew, Malfoy and Harry clambered upon to Prong's firm back. Harry closed his eyes, and tried to think desperately of being on the other side of that gap, of landing there, safe, and away from the castle, untouchable. He dug his fingers into Prong's back. Then he felt himself moving, in response to some command that he did not think, he could hear his Father's hooves pounding at the hard stone surface, hear the clattering sound. He dared not open his eyes ... but he would have to, he couldn't avoid it.

He opened them, just in time to gauge the length of the leap they was going to have to make. It was at least ten, maybe twelve or fifteen feet. But there was no time to back away from it ... they would have to do it on this shot, and this shot only.

Prongs bellowed as he jumped. Harry's whole world seemed to stop, and there was just him and his Father, suspended in midair, Pettigrew and Malfoy clinging on to his back, and the only thing he could hear was his own raucous cry.

And then he realised Prongs wasn't going to make it. He heard Malfoy's unearthly scream as he fell short of the bridge, and he felt himself falling through space. Pettigrew leapt up for the bridge, managing to catch onto the overhang, where he dangled by his fingertips, yelling at the top of his voice for help.

Harry heard nothing more than a miniscule pop as Prongs vanished beneath them ... he heard Malfoy slipping from his back, and he reached out, grabbing a piece of protruding rock with one hand. He could feel Malfoy holding tightly onto his legs, screaming. And he could feel his fingers clawing for a grip on the sheer cliff face.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bellerophon lifted off just as the lava flow poured down the stairs, bringing with it floating lumps of flaming metal, debris and rocks. Draco, sitting astride the saddle with Ron and Hermione clinging desperately to his back, cast his eyes across the bright morning sky. The ash cloud was spreading in a westerly direction, which meant south east was the obvious direction to fly in ...

"I'm onto it," said Bellerophon, in answer to Draco's thoughts.

Once again, Draco felt a rush of adrenaline and a surge of pure pleasure as the dragon's wings beat the sky, sending cold air rushing past him, and cooling him. Looking down he could see Hermes, being ridden by Tatiana, accompanied by Fred, George and Bill. They flew up above the cloud, and wheeled around above the castle, before swooping down through the gorge.

They rounded the southernmost corner of the castle, only to find that the bridge was down. Draco goaded Bellerophon onwards, and as they passed underneath the wrecked bridge, Hermione let out a scream, which caused Bellerophon to wheel around again for another pass.

"The human girl sees well," Draco heard Bellerophon growling. "There are people trapped. We must save them."

"I thought you didn't want to change fate," said Draco.

"Maybe not," said Bellerophon. "But who is to say this is not fate. I certainly am not ..."

"Why couldn't we have had this discussion back in the cave?" sighed Draco. They flew back underneath the bridge, and for the first time, Draco could see clearly who the people were. It was Harry, clinging desperately to a bit of rock that looked, from his vantage point atop Bellerophon, most precarious indeed. And clinging to his leg, holding on by the skin of his teeth, was his own Father.

"Okay, what do we do?" he asked Bellerophon.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Harry could feel Malfoy's grip, pulling at his ankles, gripping ever tighter in sheer desperation. Around them, rocks were cascading down into the gorge. If they got hit by any one of them ... that dragon was drawing steadily nearer too ... the noise of its wings beating seemed to fill the entire world. Harry shut his eyes tight.

"Harry!"

He opened them again, and turned his head slightly to see where the shout was coming from. He nearly let go of his rock upon seeing that Draco, Ron and Hermione were sitting on the back of a hovering dragon.

"Can you hear me?" Draco's voice again.

"Only just!" he yelled.

"Keep it down up there!" hissed Malfoy. "You might start something off!"

Draco yelled again. "We're going to try and get you off. This is Bellerophon ... he's, um, well ... he's my dragon. He has an idea!"

"Good for him!" gasped Harry, as his fingers slipped a bit more on the rock. The palm of his hand was sweating like it had never done before.

The beating sounds of Bellerophon's wings filled the air ... the dragon was hovering ever closer, and he could hear yells, Hermione and Draco.

"Don't move," breathed Malfoy, his fingernails digging into Harry's legs, and scratching at the skin. "Don't move a muscle."

There was another explosion, and the rock face shuddered violently. Malfoy let out a yell of terror. Harry dug his fingers even more tightly into the rock. He looked up. Pettigrew was still standing on what remained of the bridge, silhouetted against the morning sunshine, it was impossible to tell what he was doing ... the likelihood was he was grinning.

"Hold still," cried Draco. Harry shivered as Bellerophon cast his vast shadow over them. He could hear the dragon's low, raspy breathing, and that repetitive beating, pounding inside his skull.

Another rock went tumbling past, and Malfoy cried out in alarm.

"Father!"

Harry could feel his grip slipping on the slick rocks. Frantically, he dug his nails into the crumbling surface. The ground was once again shaking violently, and fresh plumes of smoke were billowing forth from the wreckage of the castle.

Voices came floating down from on high.

"How are you with ropes, Hermione?"

"We don't have a rope!"

"Can't you magic one up or something?" asked Draco. "I thought you knew everything!"

Hermione did not reply to this. Harry clung on even tighter, wondering what the hell she was doing that was taking so long. After about half a minute, Draco called out. "I'm lowering a rope!"

Harry, whose eyes were fixed on the rapidly disintegrating surface he was clinging onto, chanced a glance upwards. Sure enough, a rope was dangling in mid air, and above it, he could make out the terrified visages of Draco and Tatiana, who were doing their best to cling onto both the rope, and Bellerophon at once.

"Grab the rope, Harry!"

Harry took a deep breath. He felt like he was hyperventilating, and try as he might, he could not force his fingers to part company with the rocks. Even the knowledge that he was dangling off the edge of sheer drop of at least six hundred feet could not galvanise him into action. He could feel bile rising in the pit of his stomach, and an all consuming fear that made him want to cry out.

"Harry!"

He shook his head, breathing deeply, muttering over and over to himself. "I cannot do this ... I cannot do this."

"Harry," croaked Malfoy, his voice sounded strange and distant. "You must take the rope. If you do, one of us may have a chance of survival. If you do not, both of us will die today. You know you cannot die today."

"Take the damn rope!"

Tears were pouring down Harry's face. "I can't do it," he whispered. "I can't do it," every muscle in his body was taut, his arms were aching from the effort of holding both of them up. His face was sweat stained and filthy, his tattered robes thick with caked blood, the right lens of his glasses smashed. "I can't do it."

"Harry! Take the rope!"

Harry tried to move, but his body seemed to be not under his control. It was like trying to move mountains, not that he had ever done that. Nothing was responding. Even his breathing seemed to be automatic.

"Harry, please. If I must die, then at least you know you will live!" gasped Malfoy. "If it helps, would you like me to let go of you?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm not going to ... not going to ..." he gasped.

"But you must!"

And then Harry remembered something. Hadn't his Father told him he wasn't going to die, that he was going to be all right? That meant, that surely must mean, he thought, that nothing can happen to me. I have to survive.

Even if that means ...

With a titanic effort, Harry ripped his hand away from the rock. He closed his eyes, fumbled blindly for the dangling rope, eventually making contact with it.

"That's good, Harry. That's good!"

He could feel Malfoy's grip slipping. Slowly, he took the other hand away, and clasped the rope tightly with that. At this, Bellerophon let out a bellow, and Harry felt himself swinging through space. He opened his eyes, to see the rock face flying past him at speed. The rope was trailing behind the dragon.

"Harry!"

Malfoy's voice now seemed so distant, so quiet, it could barely be heard above the rush of the wind.

"I can't hold on any longer."

"Wait!" screamed Harry.

"I want you to tell Draco something from me. I want you to tell him that, from the very first moment I set eyes on him, I didn't think another creature on God's earth could compare to the beauty of my boy ... Harry, I want you to tell him I love ..."

The grip around Harry's ankle vanished, and for a brief second, he heard the spine chilling scream of a dead man. He looked downwards. Lucius Malfoy plummeted into the gorge below ... his body striking the cliff face and rebounding off into midair.

He had made his peace.

Bellerophon flew higher, and with Harry still clinging to the rope, they flew out of the gorge, wheeled around, high above the shaking earth, and then descended to the ground, safely across the gorge. Bellerophon touched down on the dirt road, taking care to first allow Harry to let go of the rope, and fall the last two or three feet.

Harry climbed slowly to his feet. He could hear the low, ominous rumbling of the volcano, billowing steam, ash and lava from the deepest depths of the earth into the atmosphere, and then the sounds of running footsteps, and shouts. Harry staggered drunkenly from side to side, his ragged robe covered now in a fine coating of yellow dust from the road. He was barely conscious of Hermione flinging her arms around him, of Ron joining the embrace, and of Fred and George flinging themselves on top of the three of them.

And then he found himself face to face with Sirius. He had his arm protectively around Gwyneth, and was beaming. He stuck his hand out, and Harry took it, and shook it, and for the most fleeting of moments their eyes met, and Sirius' expression told Harry everything he needed to know.

"Bloody good show, Bambi," he said.

"Thanks," breathed Harry.

Draco sauntered over, his hand outstretched, and Harry took it, and they smiled at one another.

"I wouldn't have expected that of you, Draco," said Harry.

"I may be a complete bastard," said Draco. "But I do not let people die."

"Your Father wanted me to tell you something," said Harry, who could feel the hot, prickly sensation of tears welling behind his sore eyes. "He wanted me to tell you, that ..."

He got no further, for Draco had held up his hand to stop him. "I know," he said. "I know what he said. I had a feeling he still did."

"Don't you want me to tell you?"

"Believe me, Potter, I already know. And ... that thing with the stag ... that was bloody impressive. How did your Father do that?"

Harry shrugged. "Didn't you know?" he asked. "My Dad was an Animagus ... like McGonagall."

Draco stepped backwards, and folded his arms. "Would you like to ride Bellerophon?" he asked. "I think there are some things you need to sort out ... some, people you need to say goodbye to?"

Harry nodded. Of course there were. "Will it be safe?"

Draco shook his head. "Of course not," he said. "This is Draco Malfoy you're dealing with here. But it will be fun."

Harry nodded, and followed Draco over to where Bellerophon and Hermes were kneeling. Tatiana was standing beside the larger dragon, wearing her thick gloves, and stroking the magnificent beast on the nose.

"Would you like to take him up?" she asked.

Draco nodded. "Harry has some things to do ..."

"Climb aboard, Harry Potter," growled Bellerophon. "I have been expecting you."

"Take great care not to touch with your skin," warned Tatiana, as Bellerophon knelt down as low as he could go, enabling Harry to half scramble, half climb onto the saddle. Draco stayed on the ground.

"Aren't you coming?"

Draco shook his head. "This is private," he said. "Bellerophon will sort you out."

"Harry," growled Bellerophon. "I sense a great sadness within you. Do not be sad, for this is the happiest day of your life."

Harry said nothing, and clung tightly to what looked like the handholds on either side of Bellerophon's saddle.

And then they were flying, but this time, Harry kept his eyes open as they lifted off, and catching the breeze, took flight towards the ruined castle.

"I believe," said Bellerophon, "that circumstance would favour your Godfather, Sirius Black, if we did something about that man, down there."

Harry looked down. Pettigrew was still standing on the remains of the bridge, looking up at them, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hands.

"Let's get him!" he said.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Pettigrew watched as the dragon circled overhead. He could make out its eyes, staring down at him, its enormous talons, its forked tongue, flicking at the air.

And then the dragon was diving towards him, those fearsome talons outstretched, and Pettigrew could see the face of the rider, and the dragon roared. And he turned, and ran as fast as his stocky legs could carry him ...

He heard the roar again ... a blood curdling roar, the force of which almost knocked him to the ground. He dared not look around, and as the shadow of the flying monster passed over him, he was overcome with such fear that he dropped to his knees.

The dragon landed a few feet away, and Pettigrew watched as the rider dismounted. It was Harry.

"Come for me, have you?" snarled Pettigrew. Bellerophon thwacked his tail from side to side, and growled softly.

Harry's nose was turned up. As Pettigrew watched, there was a faint flickering behind him, and then two other people were walking alongside the boy. Two people he recognised.

"You treacherous piece of crap!" said James Potter. "I ought to have Harry run you through where you stand!"

Lily stood a little way back, holding tightly onto her son's shoulders. The eyes of Bellerophon were still on Pettigrew, who was quivering.

"You see what you did to us? You see what you have wrought? And for what, Peter? For what? For friends? You never had any friends ... you lost every friend you ever had the moment you signed over your life to Voldemort."

"Please ... James ... my old, friend. I cannot atone for what I have done, but at least you must accept ..."

"I accept nothing. I charge you to listen to me," said James. "Not I to your pathetic ramblings, Peter."

He knelt down in front of the other man. Lily and Harry took a step forwards.

"Do you remember what you said at the wedding? Do you remember that speech you made? Everyone thought it was so lovely, everyone thought you were so witty, so very apt ..."

Peter nodded, frantically.

"Tell me, Peter. Did you know then? Did you know what you were going to become? Was even that moment a lie? Because if there is one thing you really should remember from school, Peter, that is I hate being lied to."

"James ... see how I grovel at your feet ..."

James turned to Harry. "Will you do it?" he asked.

Something Dumbledore had once said was niggling at the back of Harry's mind ... "The time may come when you will be very glad you saved Pettigrew's life." Should he kill him? Did he have that right? Would it not just be murder, in cold blood, like what Voldemort had done to his parents?

"No," said Harry.

Pettigrew looked up. "Then what?" he asked. "The Dark Lord will torture me as it is for my cowardice ... better I should die, Harry, than live, and be a burden on you."

James and Lily were both looking at their son, with hopeful expressions on their faces. Harry looked to them, and then back to Pettigrew, who was still kneeling at their feet.

Then it happened ... Pettigrew leapt to his feet, and before Harry could react, had yelled something incomprehensible, and Harry felt himself falling to the ground, cracking his elbow on the floor as he landed. The Killing Curse whistled harmlessly overhead, striking a gilt statue of Lucius Malfoy, and shattering it to a thousand tiny pieces.

"Never do that again, Wormtail," came Voldemort's voice. Harry looked up, to see him standing a few feet away, on top of one of the fallen blocks.

"You die now," snarled Pettigrew. "I wash my hands of you ..."

Voldemort chuckled. "You always were the imbecilic one, Wormtail. As if you had any hope of vanquishing me. That pleasure is to be denied you ... only one may have the honour of killing me. And I do not intend to let you have it, Harry."

Harry got to his feet, clenching his fists. "I have no wand," he said. "What could I do against you?"

Voldemort cocked his head on one side. "I could kill you where you stand. This charade would end, here and now ..." Lily clutched James, and whimpered. Voldemort continued to speak. "However, I shall not. I know that you do not die today, Harry, this is obvious to me now. And you always were a worthy adversary. Every time we have met so far, there has been one thing I have not considered, one aspect, or quality, call it what you will, of your mortal existence that I have failed to take into account. But there will come a day when your luck runs out. There will come a day when I am a step ahead of you, Harry. On that day, I will finish what I started, all those years ago ..."

"You wouldn't have the aptitude," came another voice. Everyone turned hurriedly.

It was Slytherin, looking a lot more solid, and grasping in his hand a pair of swords, brightly polished, with runic script engraved upon the blades, and handles that appeared to be of solid gold, encrusted with precious stones. James gave a start of recognition, though to Harry they were merely swords.

"The gang's all here then," sighed James.

"Indeed," smiled Slytherin. "Your idea was worthy, Potter, yet it took me little time to vanquish your so called ancestors back to the spirit realm to which they belong ..."

"To which you belong," snapped James.

Slytherin shook his head. "Ah, but I think not," he smiled again. "You see, Potter. I intend to stay, this time."

A violent earth tremor nearly threw them all to the ground.

"The world has a new Dark Lord, it would seem" said Slytherin, stepping down from his vantage point. Voldemort did the same. "Riddle knows what is coming. He knows what he must do. There can be only one who is truly of the Eighth Level in this World. And he knows that he cannot be the one."

"The Eighth Level?" asked Harry.

"I would not expect a boy to know what I meant," snapped Slytherin. "Hold your tongue ... I may yet have uses for you, Potter."

"It is so," said Voldemort. The two men walked over to each other, until they were standing in the middle of the group, who instinctively drew back. The air was crackling with raw magic.

Slytherin handed Voldemort one of the swords, and using the other, etched out a circle around them with the sharp tip of the blade. "You know what this means?" he asked Voldemort.

Voldemort nodded. "I do, sir," he said. A smile was spreading slowly across his pinched face.

"Step within this circle only if you have a death wish," began Slytherin, casting his eyes about the watchers with the air of a big cat

The air around them seemed to be getting hotter, and Harry had an idea it wasn't the volcano doing that.

Slytherin lowered his sword at Voldemort, and Voldemort did the same. Both men bowed to one another.

"One of us must die now," said Slytherin. "For when a circle is drawn, only one may step out of it and live."

"Bow to your conqueror, then" snarled Voldemort, the bottom of his lip curling into a grimace. The ends of the blades touched, and the sun glinted off them.

"Oh, but I think not!"

Voldemort lunged forwards, but Slytherin sidestepped smartly out of the way. Voldemort stumbled, whirled around, the hem of his robes burning as they brushed outside of the circle.

"You have to get up earlier than that to catch me," taunted Slytherin.

Voldemort appeared to be choking. He was looking straight up at the sky, and a shadow had fallen across the circle. Harry, James, Lily and Wormtail all looked up, following the Dark Lord's gaze.

Bellerophon was hovering overhead. He was silhouetted against the blue sky, his wings beating, fanning the watchers on the ground. And then he bellowed, and the world seemed to split apart ...

A jet of fire flashed down. Voldemort stepped backwards, and the fire struck Slytherin. There was an ear splitting scream ... and Lily grabbed Harry and hid his face in her arms. Slytherin was burning up, chunks of his body were falling from him, crumbling to ashes as they struck the ground, and then continuing to burn. The screaming, which was all Harry could hear, as his eyes were once again shut tight, awoke within him such pains and memories, that they seemed to penetrate to the very heart of his soul, and abruptly, he found himself surrounded by swirling mists ... black, dense fog clouded his brain ... and through that fog he could see two faces, peering at him. One of them was Hermione's, and the other, Draco's.

Slytherin's screams echoed through his skull, but Harry did not feel a part of that world. The black mist was enveloping his senses ... he could hear the crackle of flames, and his own, breathing. A smile spread across Draco's face. And distant voices, voices from a far off place, and a far off time ...

"Draco?" he heard himself whisper, and he could feel his hand reaching out to touch Draco's face, but the hand that he saw before him was not his own ... it was that of a baby.

Now the other world was drawing him back, the noise was slowly abating, and he could hear and smell the volcano once more.

Finally, the noise subsided ... and all Harry could hear was his own laboured breathing, his Mother's ragged sobs and the sounds of the dragon overhead.

He opened his eyes. The circle had vanished, and the swords were lying on the ground, crossed. Of Voldemort, there was no sign, he had gone as though he had never been there in the first place. And of Slytherin, there was naught but a pile of smouldering ash.

There was a thudding sound as Bellerophon landed on one of the walls.

"The time has come, Harry," he said. "Peter, will you come with us?"

Pettigrew looked to James, and Lily, his eyebrows raised.

"Peter. You ... you saved my son's life. You saved his life," said James. "I ... don't know what I can say to you. I would embrace you, as a brother ..."

Pettigrew looked down. "I will take my punishment, as I deserve," he said.

James offered him his hand. They shook, Pettigrew's eyes filled with the tears he had not had a chance to shed when James and Lily died.

"Peter, Harry, there is not much time!" growled Bellerophon. "You must come now!"

Pettigrew made to seize Harry, but he wriggled free. "Let me have two minutes!" he gasped.

"Two minutes only," said Pettigrew. Gathering his robes around him, he scrambled up onto the rubble where Bellerophon was perched, and began to pick his way up the rocks ...

Harry stood in front of his parents. His Mother's eyes were filled with tears, and his Father's with admiration.

"You've come through a lot," Lily said, after a few seconds had passed. "I'm sorry we couldn't have been there."

"You must avenge us, Harry," said James. "For us to truly die, and for us to live on in the memories of those who knew us ... you, Sirius, Remus, even Pettigrew, for all the good he did, you must fulfil your part of the bargain first ..."

"There is a pact," said Lily. "And while it stands, you will be able to do what you must. And then who knows? Your life has paths aplenty, some not mapped out for you, some clear. Some twists too, I daresay. I know in my heart you can win, and someday soon, you will know everything, and you will know what you must do. And then you can do whatever is necessary to destroy for good the poison that has ruined so many. And I know we will be together again, at some point in the future ..."

"Stay," breathed Harry, his eyes brimful of tears.

Lily shook her head. "You know we are only spirits. You know we cannot stay."

Harry reached out his hands. "Then let me ... just one more time, let me ..."

Lily looked to James, and both of them nodded, and they stepped forwards, taking Harry in their arms. "We'll be right with you."

Harry could feel their arms around him, his Mother's hands idly fiddling with his dirty, matted hair, his Father's breath. The pain that still racked his body seemed to fade slightly, though Harry had the feeling this was but an illusion.

Lily bent down slightly, and kissed him on the top of the head, then, taking his head in her hand, held him tightly, as if she never wanted to let go.

"Harry!" that was Bellerophon's voice. The ground was starting to shake alarmingly now. Lily broke away from the embrace.

"Don't cry, Harry."

"I can't help it," breathed Harry. "I'm not going to see you again, am I?"

"Not for a while," said Lily. "But remember, we're right with you."

Harry nodded, and took a step backwards. His parents linked arms.

"Harry! Come on! There's no time for this."

"Be good," James said, raising his hand in salute. "Remember what I taught you."

Harry nodded, then turned away, partly, he reasoned, so that they did not have to see him crying, though the real reason was so that he didn't have to see them. Slowly, he walked over to Bellerophon.

"Climb aboard. We must go now!"

Bellerophon stooped to the ground, allowing Harry to scramble once again onto the leather saddle. Bellerophon spread his wings, and took off.

There was a rush of air as the dragon lifted off from the burning wreckage of what had once been a magnificent castle. If, Harry thought, this had been a film, there would have been a triumphant refrain playing, but all that could be heard was the faint whispering of the breeze in the afternoon air, Bellerophon's low, soft breathing, and Pettigrew's terrified whimpering. Harry gripped the sides of the saddle even more tightly. He looked down at the ground ... his parents were standing on what had been the dais in the middle of the Animation Chamber, waving their farewells, their faces alive with happiness. As Bellerophon gained height, their outlines shimmered and their forms became blurred, and then, like a television picture, they flickered off, and vanished. The spell was broken. Harry looked away, choking on his own tears and bitterness. Voldemort was gone, but probably not for long, and while he still had life ... and Harry had nothing. He coughed again, and wiped his eyes on the sleeves of what remained of his robes, so that Pettigrew would not see him crying.

He could still see their faces in the back of his mind, smiling at him ... his Father's hair and rounded glasses, looking so like him, and yet so different. And those sparkling green eyes, all he had been told about his Mother's beauty was true ... none of the photos could ever do her justice. And it was so bitterly, bitterly painful.

The next few minutes did not seem real. They touched down safely on the other side of the gorge, and Harry closed his eyes and turned away so that his friends could not see the state he was in as they climbed onto the dragon's back. And then they were off again, flying for home. Home.

He felt Sirius' hands rubbing life and heat into his shoulders, but he did not want that. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone, that he might wallow in his unhappiness for as long as he wanted. He shoved his Godfather rudely away, and Sirius wisely did not bother him again. Harry gripped the edges of the giant saddle even more tightly. The sensation of flying was oddly calming, the motion of the dragon's body and the rhythmic beating of those vast wings ... it was like being rocked in a cradle ...

... They flew through the night, soaring high over the shimmering Black Sea, dotted with the lights of Muggle ships, Harry, Hermione and Sirius clinging desperately to their saddles as Bellerophon glided swiftly westwards on the warm updrafts. Draco sat at the front, riding the dragon's mind, seeing the world through his eyes, a profusion of colour, sound and smell, even at this hour of the night.

Behind them came Tatiana, riding Hermes with Gwyneth and the Weasleys, all four of whom were clinging fearfully to each other, in between stealing terrified glances at the sea below.

Now they were flying overland. High mountains down below, forests hiding villages and towns, with the headlights of cars moving along roads.

The countries flitted past in quick succession, Bulgaria (Harry noticed Hermione looking wistfully down at Viktor Krum's homeland as they went), Serbia, here the ground dotted with fires, a dangerous, lawless place, then the Adriatic, then Italy ... they flew low over the Apennines, where the stars seemed to twinkle even more brightly over the cradle of civilisation, and the air was scented with the pine trees far below. Lights of cities ... Rome, the ruins of the ancients illuminated by floodlights, Turin, with its factories, Geneva, hemmed in on three sides by high peaks, and on the fourth by the lake ... Stuttgart, passing close by the soaring TV Tower that dominates that city, then flying along the Rhine valley, glistening water shimmering far below ... Frankfurt, Bonn, Dusseldorf, Essen. Now Holland, the river twisting and meandering as it approached the sea.

Harry shivered ... the thin cloak his Mother had given him was little protection against the chill of northern climes. The wind picked up as they crossed the North Sea, and there were cloud banks towering into the air ahead of them as they approached the Norfolk coast. He had forgotten just how chilly England was.

Bellerophon reared in alarm, causing Draco to do the same.

What is this? He heard the dragon ask, as usual, his voice growling right inside his head.

Just clouds, thought Draco. You get used to it. Welcome home, Bellerophon.

I knew I should have stayed in Russia ... clouds clog my wings.

Bellerophon wanted to fly above the clouds, but Draco insisted on going underneath so as to be able to see where they were going, so they dropped down very low indeed, and when the riders on the dragon's back dared to open their eyes, they were treated to hitherto unseen views of the countryside, the pastoral greenery giving way in turn to wild, untamed moors. It was very, very cold indeed now, Harry's teeth were chattering nineteen to the dozen, and Draco's eyebrows appeared to have frozen. They had to be nearing Hogwarts now.

Harry sensed it before anybody else, a tangible feeling of excitement, of raw magic. Through the darkness of the Northumbrian night, his eyes could make out the dark bulk of mountains that looked too tall to be allowed. He could make out the shape of the Hog's Head, and then, below him, he saw the lights of a small village, nestling in its valley at the foot of the peak. Hogsmeade. Bellerophon seemed to know which way to go ... presumably this was because Draco was giving him directions. The two dragons wheeled around to the east, and the brooding turrets of Hogwarts had never looked so welcoming before. He could hear faint cries of delight carrying through the air from the Weasleys.

They swooped low over the Castle lawns. It was all as though nothing had happened, thought Harry, waves of utter relief sweeping across his body ... there was Hagrid's hut, nestling in the lee of the hill, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest ... there the lake ... water inky black, there the drive ... there lights still burning at the top of Gryffindor Tower.

Now people came ... running across the lawns towards them as they landed, waving frantically, bearing flaming torches. Harry recognised Dumbledore, wearing a heavy camel hair dressing gown, Professor McGonagall, in her hairnet, following behind, and even ... Harry had to pinch himself ... he had never before thought he would be pleased to see Snape, and who was that, at the back of the crowd? Hagrid, no less!

Bellerophon touched down with barely a jolt, and the riders hurriedly dismounted, Draco being helped down by Hermione and Sirius, still clutching at his chest. With Harry standing over them, his cloak halfway off his shoulder, shivering uncontrollably, they laid Draco out on the grass, just as Snape elbowed his way to the front of the crowd.

"Clear the decks," he was saying. "Move along there!"

Harry found himself being seized around the shoulders by Dumbledore, and moved out of the way. He was sat down on the wet grass, and though his vision was blurring through tiredness, he could make out the faces of the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall peering at him.

"Harry? Harry?"

Someone else draped a thicker cloak around his shoulders, and Harry felt the rim of a goblet being pushed against his lips. He drank deeply, without being fully aware that that was what he was doing ... it tasted like wine, and was warming as it trickled down his parched throat.

"You should take this," Dumbledore was saying. "It will help. Then you need rest. See that the other boys do not disturb him, Minerva."

"I want to speak to him!" he heard Ron's voice in the distance. Other people shouting, that sounded like Sirius, or maybe Fred ... he couldn't tell.

Harry closed his eyes against them, wishing frantically they would all go away, and leave him be, to sleep and rest as long as he needed. Someone took him by the hand, and hauled him to his feet.

" ... will need to speak to the boy in the morning," another, unidentifiable voice was saying " ... consorting with murderers, no less ... I dare say the Dementors will be looking forward to meeting Black."

Harry gave a start, his heart now pumping fit to bust, and tried to wriggle out of Professor McGonagall's grip, but she was holding his hand too tightly. Who had taken Pettigrew ... didn't Hermione have him somewhere? Get to Hermione! He struggled more frantically, and he could hear anguished shouts ... his own, but yet, not his own ... at least, he certainly didn't feel he was making them.

"In the morning, Harry," she said, tugging him along, the grass soft and wet against the bare soles of his feet.

"But they have ... that man ..."

"In the morning," said Professor McGonagall. "It'll be okay ... nobody's going to disappear overnight, Harry."

His insides paralysed with fear, and relief, and such terrible, terrible sadness, Harry allowed himself to be led away ... he had never wanted his Mother to be there with him so much, as he did at that moment, with the din of the crowd clustering around the dragons fading away, and with Professor McGonagall's voice echoing through his confused mind. He wanted to be held again, to breathe her in, and never to let go of that fleeting, precious moment, to be locked in the embrace in perpetuity. It was so horribly unfair. He choked back his tears ... before realising that really ... it didn't matter. He let himself go. He had never cried so hard before. Professor McGonagall stopped him, and he could sense her, through his bleary eyes, as the tears stained his pallid cheeks, standing over him, regarding him with a look of such pity, and then she did something she had never done before, to any student. She took him in her arms, and held him there like he was her own child.

"Please don't tell," Harry choked. "Please don't ..."

She hushed him, and they stood there, in the centre of the Hall ...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Draco was half sitting up, half lying down on the ground as Snape conjured up fresh bandages to replace the ripped robes Hermione had used. He was feeling giddy. He could see Sirius, Ron and the other Weasleys peering at him.

"You'll be fine," Snape was saying, winding the bandages tightly around his chest. "We just need to get Madam Pomfrey onto you, as soon as possible. Do you feel up to walking, or would you like me to cast a spell on you."

Draco wasn't listening ... instead he was watching ... two men had detached themselves from the crowd of students and staff, whom Dumbledore was trying to corral some distance away, so as not to disturb Bellerophon and Hermes, who were pawing at the ground and snorting in alarm. They toiled up the hill towards the little group.

Sirius turned around as they approached, and Draco could see his face falling as he realised who the men were.

"Sirius Black?" began one of them, flashing something at him, which looked to Draco like a warrant card.

"My name is Wilmot," said Sirius, though he did not sound at all sure of himself. "Xavier Wilmot. I've never even heard of Sirius Black," Draco observed that the look in his eyes was now one of a man being hunted, being caught.

The other men ignored his words. "I am Detective Inspector Hammond, of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, and this is my colleague, Styles. Mr. Sirius Black ... we are arresting you for conspiracy to evade prison, conspiracy to abduct and abuse minors and breach of the Court Order of August 26th 1993 that prohibits you from contact with one Harry Potter. You will be taken forthwith from this place and returned to Azkaban to await preparation for your trial. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. If found guilty on these charges, you will be handed over to the Dementors."

None of them had ever seen Sirius look so pale ... his head hung, his arms held out submissively, uselessly in front of him, as the manacles were clapped around his wrists.

THE END.

But not quite the end. The sequel to Dracaena Draco, the Time of Trial, is already being archived at Schnoogle. If you enjoyed this story, then be sure to check out the sequel to find out what happens next ...

TO BE CONTINUED IN ...

THE TIME OF TRIAL.

CHAPTER ONE. THE FIRST TRIAL.

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