Revealing Moments

Revealing Moments

By Bambu

AN: Latin is not my forte, however, I’ve made an attempt to link the contextual clues with the names for comprehensibility; however for clarification, the Ancile wards, specifically, Ancile Contego Aegis, roughly translates to sacred covering shield and the anti-venin charm Serpens Viri to serpent’s venom. Additionally, Cervus catenatus essentially means ‘to stake into the ground’; and Obverto anguingena attero serpens viri, which translates roughly to ‘directed against the snakeborn, weaken the venom.’ They are my own creation, so blame me for any inconsistencies with the JKR universe.

Please also note that there will be character deaths in this chapter as well as some lemons.

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Chapter Three: Penultimate

“With all due respect, Hermione, my dear, I really must insist.” Albus Dumbledore’s firm voice conveyed only the most sincere appearance of goodwill.

And, with that sentence, Hermione’s fears were realized. Actually they were Harry’s. They’d been prepared for this response, but some small part of her had hoped they’d be proven wrong. They weren’t. She froze her facial muscles into a polite mask of acquiescence, and responded as was expected, “Of course, Professor Dumbledore, I’ll be guided by your experience and wisdom.”

Try as she might, she wasn’t able to leach all emotion from her words. They were the last she spoke during the comprehensive final planning session being held in the old fashioned parlor of the Order’s Headquarters. The final confrontation with Voldemort had been set in motion. Hermione allowed Ron and Harry to carry the weight of the trio’s contribution for the remainder of the meeting. Her mind focused on the alternate strategy that had been set in motion by Dumbledore’s inflexibility, while scanning the crowded parlor, idly taking in the remnants of the Black family’s once prosperous existence, looking at the now familiar faces riveted by the information Ron began to present. Her colleagues, her friends, her loved ones. Hermione noticed that Tonks sat close to Remus, and that Susan Bones was holding Neville Longbottom’s hand.

Hermione’s eyes ceased wandering, coming to rest on the commanding figure of Severus Snape, leaning indolently against the wall. She felt the now familiar flutter in her stomach when she looked at him. So much had been left unsaid between them. She closed her eyes for a moment. Everything had been left unsaid between them. There’d been no time since her ‘blooding’. The members of the Order of the Phoenix had worked eighteen-to-twenty-hour days, exploring every possible gambit their fertile minds conceived in order to gain the advantage. She’d been decoy for brief stints, utilizing the short fuse that her appearance caused, calculating and corroborating the timing involved. Draco Malfoy vengefully arrived each time she appeared somewhere, with an increasing number of Death Eaters in tow. Harry had ‘rescued’ her twice, to the delight of the Daily Prophet’s readers. Additionally, Hermione had worked tirelessly with Filius Flitwick perfecting the Serpens Viri charm. She allowed a small smile to tug the corners of her mouth in satisfaction of a job well done. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes to find that the Potions Master was watching her, his gaze causing a sharp pang of longing in her heart; he raised one eyebrow in acknowledgment, and turned his attention to Ron.

Resuming her perusal of the room’s occupants, a kaleidoscope of colors and contrasts between attire and surrounding furnishings, Hermione’s mind filled with the minutia of detail required to bring a successful conclusion to their campaign. If all went according to plan, then on the morrow the final battle in the increasingly vicious war between this generation’s incarnations of good and evil would be fought. While her words had outwardly conveyed her acceptance of Dumbledore’s decree, those who knew her best in the room heard something in her voice to give them pause. Harry and Ron already knew, and she could tell that Snape had picked up on the layered tone of her voice. She hadn’t, however, realized that there were three others who knew her vocal inflections with such a degree of intimacy that she found herself under the discreet scrutiny of Remus Lupin, Minerva McGonagall, and Filius Flitwick. This would be good practice, she thought grimly. If she could convince them that her capitulation to Dumbledore’s pronouncement was complete, then she stood a very real chance of carrying out her alternate plans for the evening. Plans that the Headmaster had just made a necessity. Hermione made a valiant and successful effort to appear completely captivated by Ron’s presentation of the battlefield grid, and the strategic Order placement for tomorrow’s fight.

Across the room from her, Harry Potter marveled anew at Hermione’s composure under adversarial conditions. He’d learned through painful experience how deeply frustrating it was to be discounted, as she’d been just moments before. Albus Dumbledore had, for a large part of the last eight years, kept many things from Harry. He’d always explained posthumously, with extraordinarily sympathetic rationale. However, in many cases, information that Harry could’ve used more effectively prior only came to light after a tragedy. Sirius’ death at the Ministry of Magic was a prime example. In fact, it’d been in the aftermath of Sirius’ loss that Harry had bitterly made the observation that his godfather’s loss was convenient for the Headmaster. After all, Dumbledore wouldn’t need to explain to the Ministry or the Wizengamot how he’d hidden a fugitive -- an escapee of Azkaban -- for years, regardless of Sirius’ innocence. Harry had taken the next leap in his logical extrapolation of Albus Dumbledore’s chosen actions, and come to some unpalatable conclusions. All affection and plausible rhetoric aside, nothing could obscure the fact that Harry was the blade the older wizard had forged into a weapon against the megalomaniacal Dark Lord. And, while some of the circumstances were beyond his control, Harry willingly accepted his role in the drama. It was nevertheless infuriating that Dumbledore planned to callously wield him on the field of battle, just as Draco Malfoy would wield the Divining Sword against Hermione when the time came.

Harry had shared his observations respecting their Headmaster’s ruthlessness with Ron and Hermione shortly after their graduation. It was a remarkably parallel observation to some of Hermione’s own thoughts, and served as a catalytic moment for Ron’s critical thinking to engage. For the better part of the past year, the three had collaborated on an end-strategy to work out the most likely scenarios that ended with their lives and those of their loved ones intact. There weren’t many. Harry found himself hoping fervently that the plans and precautions that he, Ron, and Hermione had so delicately put into action would prevail with the minimum number of lives lost.

He found himself watching his friends across the room. First, glancing at Hermione’s pale face, knowing that she’d worked herself into a state of exhaustion to prepare for the confrontation, and to complete the anti-venin charm. Filius Flitwick had been proudly singing Hermione’s praises for the last two weeks. She’d merely smiled, and continued her other duties with fierce determination. Watching her, Harry smiled with satisfaction, thinking that there’d be a number of surprised witches and wizards on the battlefield tomorrow. Then he looked at Ron, standing in front of the collected Order of the Phoenix, calmly and patiently explaining the physical layout for tomorrow, an unselfconscious air of authority now residing on his young, broad shoulders.

If brains, strategy, and courage were vital to the successful outcome of their campaign then the three Gryffindors were destined for such a success. Harry knew, though, that they’d also need luck and cunning. And, with that thought, he found himself watching Severus Snape, who, in turn, was covertly scrutinizing Hermione. The Potions Master’s face betrayed none of his inner turmoil, although Harry expected that he was brooding, not an unreasonable assumption considering the topic of conversation Hermione had raised at the meeting. Not many in the Order had known about the Ancile wards Snape had put on her. Now everyone knew, and Dumbledore had vetoed her request to terminate them. It played right into Hermione’s secondary plan. There was something to be said for the idea that, if you use sharp tools, sooner or later you’ll be cut by one. In the crucible in which they lived, the Golden Trio had become lethally sharp.

As Ron addressed the final question posed by Mad-Eye Moody, Harry prepared to discharge his share of tonight’s undertaking. He watched Snape leave the room, and noticed Professors McGonagall and Flitwick begin to speak in hushed tones, casting glances at Hermione. Astute as ever, Hermione went to speak with them, to allay their concerns. Ron was fulfilling his end of the maneuver, and had cornered Remus and Tonks, whereas Luna, in one of her quick assessments, joined Ron and lent her support. Good, all bases covered. Now it was Harry’s turn. He quickly crossed to Professor Dumbledore.

“Professor, I wondered if we might discuss the possibility of using my Harrier form tomorrow. No one has seen it during my rescues of Hermione. Do you think it could give us an edge? None of the Death Eaters are aware that it’s within my abilities, and it might work in our favor. What do you think, sir?”

“Ah, Harry. You raise an interesting point. One I’ve given some thought to. Let’s sit down for a moment, shall we?”

Harry watched Hermione take her leave of her former professors and unobtrusively go in search of Snape while he crossed to a more private corner of the room following in Dumbledore’s wake. Then, for a brief moment, he allowed himself to meet the concerned, dark brown eyes of Ginny Weasley, seated with Neville Longbottom and the others from their year at Hogwarts. Later, he promised himself. If this was to be his last night on earth, he didn’t want to spend the entire night with Albus Dumbledore, manipulator extraordinaire.

As Harry engaged the Professor in earnest discussion, Hermione was speeding her way to the guest room she knew Snape used while in residence at Grimmauld Place. She was thankful that during the past year the Black family portraits had been sealed, thus her passage would go unnoticed. They’d planned for the dual contingencies of the outcome of this meeting, but her stomach was in knots nonetheless. She’d hoped to avoid revealing the conclusions they’d come to. She hadn’t wanted to be the one to inflict this injury. But when it came down to it, Hermione knew that if Snape lashed out, she would bear the brunt of his anger, if only because of the strength of her feelings for him. They needed him. She needed him.

Coming to a halt at his door, the determined young woman took a moment to collect her wits and to tamp down her desire for the wizard who dwelt within. She had to convince him with her arguments, not with her body. Of course, her body didn’t agree. It wanted to walk in the door, strip, and pounce. Resolutely, Hermione centered herself with a zen breathing technique she’d read about last week, and raised her hand to request entrance.

The soft knock on his door reverberated in the stillness that pervaded the dimly lit room, painfully audible to the lean, exhausted form of Severus Snape reclining on his bed. He’d been waiting for her. It was inconceivable that the woman he’d known for almost nine years, since her girlhood, would let something like this go. She was like a terrier with a bone, gnawing until the last micronutrient was extracted from the marrow. He was angry with her for raising the issue in open forum, and yet, he ached to see her in this venue. Alone. His body was already reacting to the thought that she was outside his door. With a heavy sigh of frustration, emotional and physical, he called out “Enter,” and resigned himself to his fate.

The door opened slowly and Hermione stepped into the room, slightly unsure of her welcome. That he didn’t move from his reclining position underlined his level of weariness and reluctance, his mood obvious to see. Hermione shook her head; she was ready for this. She’d been training daily. She was lean, skirmish-blooded, and physically ready to meet the enemy. She just wasn’t sure she was ready to meet Snape.

Briefly, she recounted her reasons for pressing this issue, reminding herself that by night’s fall on the morrow, the world would know which side had prevailed. One or both of them might be dead. She felt overwhelmed by the weight of destiny resting on her shoulders. Hermione laughed silently and derisively at herself, and was momentarily overcome by the sorrow she felt that there might never be an opportunity to express what she so passionately wished to tell this man. Taking a deep breath, she began the process of demolishing whatever illusions he still retained.

“Severus, I didn’t come to argue with you. I have several things I’d like to say. Will you listen to me?” Her stomach tensed further, and still her eyes hungrily raked his form on the bed, from his open-collared black shirt to his bare feet. She could feel her arousal, fueled by her fear that this moment would be the only one she’d ever have with him. Ignoring her desire, Hermione held her breath, awaiting his nod of approval. When it came, she sucked in air as if her life depended on it.

And she laid it all out for him: Harry’s conclusions, her calculations, Ron’s strategy, their illicit training with magically-transfigured Muggle weapons, her research into the Divining Sword. Then, finally, came the culmination of their collective conclusion that, while Albus honestly bore affection for them all and he would grieve each of their losses, it was easier to honor a dead Death Eater who’d changed sides than to handle the awkwardness of acknowledging a live one. Hermione’s voice trembled through half of her recitation, and broke at the last. She watched him grow rigid on the bed with anger, and, she suspected, a sense of betrayal and weary resignation.

She finished with, “I know he respects you, and cares for you. I wish that were the point.”

His voice was distant and harsh. “Albus has always been able to sublimate his affections for his ambitions.” His eyes remained closed, and for a long moment he didn’t speak. Hermione waited. “So, you three think Albus is counting on me to sacrifice myself to protect you?”

Hermione ached at the sound, her throat constricting with unshed tears. She could barely speak. “Yes.”

“Do you not realize that I would willingly allow that, if it saved your life? Your life, which has already been materially altered because of others like me. What do you think I’m fighting for? What do you think I’ve been waiting for? Each time I’m summoned, it should be my last.” His voice was graveled with repressed emotion.

“No!” she cried.

“I don’t want you to die, Hermione. If there’s something I can do to prevent it, I will.”

He levered himself to one elbow, and finally looked at her, his eyes were hooded, but she could still feel the heat of them taking her in. She was facing him, her back to the fire, her body outlined by its flickering light. Her face was shadowed, but he could hear the effort it took for her to control her emotions, her words coming out in a staccato-like cadence.

“Severus, I want you to live. I plan to use whatever means I have at my disposal – magic and Muggle -- to win tomorrow. I have the means and the power to destroy the sword. Albus wouldn’t let me tell him. He didn’t want to hear. I know what it takes to maintain the Ancile. I want you to reverse the spell.”

“No.”

“Please, listen to me. I know what it costs you in terms of personal power. You need every erg tomorrow. Look, we’ve calculated for the loss of the Ancile shield. Severus, I need you to take down the wards.” She sounded almost desperate. Looking at the stubborn set to his mouth, she sighed and her heart broke a little.

Letting some of his deep hurt vent in anger, Snape shouted, “I will not leave you defenseless. The divining sword is not a toy. It’s keyed to you.”

“Fine. Look. We’re prepared for it. I’ve timed it. If you won’t do it now, will you reverse the shield after Draco’s first down-stroke is deflected? Will you do it then?” Her voice broke once again with the effort to keep from crying because she was certain she’d lost. “Please, Severus,” she begged. “Gods, do you honestly not understand why I need you to do this?”

“It was a schoolgirl crush,” he said dismissively, in that same remote tone of voice, denying what he knew to be the truth. Snape suddenly felt too tired to fight that which he knew to be inevitable. His own death. He’d been prepared for it for a long time. And now, apparently, Albus would give him up for dead. He’d always expected as much. There was no way he’d drag Hermione with him. His heart clenched painfully. He’d do one good thing in his life. He’d keep her alive.

“At first… maybe. But not for a long time now. Not since September.”

Her voice had become firmer, and rang with the honesty of her statement. A corresponding frisson of truth ran down his spine, causing him to shudder with acknowledgment. It was undeniable.

The Potions Master sat up, and turned at the edge of the bed to face her, his bare feet coming to rest on the stone floor. He ignored the chill of the stone, and looked at her fully. The amber light from the fire gave her hair a fiery golden aura, with a shine that sparkled as if she were surrounded by flame. She looked like an angel, beautiful and terrible in her passionate resolve. He was suddenly struck with a heart-stopping epiphany. Hermione was a power to be reckoned with, and Albus Dumbledore had seriously underestimated her importance and how much of a truly lethal weapon she’d become.

Snape suspected that Harry Potter and Ron Weasley recognized her value. Judging by her recounting of their strategy, they were all deeply invested in it. Recognizing the fact that, not only would the three friends be on the front line, but, in all reality, they’d be the front line, the trio had configured a plan to use their strengths and maximize the outcome. Snape mulled over Hermione’s arguments for several minutes. As much as he disliked several aspects of it, including the potential contingent sacrifices, he had to admit to the sound reasoning behind their proposed line of attack. With something akin to awe, he admitted to himself that the trio’s plan had several points in its favor over the current Order’s strategy. No wonder she was almost haggard with exhaustion; she’d been supporting two battle plans. Both would result in considerable loss of life, and he fervently hoped one wouldn’t be hers.

Snape watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders as she regained some semblance of composure. Hermione waited, poised and alert. Gods, he loved this woman; this remarkable, powerful, resourceful woman.

“I will only agree to counter the Ancile shield after Malfoy’s first attempt.”

“And you won’t cast it again afterwards, will you, Severus?” she’d caught his prevarication.

Despite the severity of their situation, and their potentially imminent demise, he chuckled at her quickness, and grudgingly acquiesced, “Agreed.”

“Good. I won’t require any other promises from you.”

“I’m not offering any.”

“None of us knows what tomorrow will bring.” The fugue of her comment and a subtle alteration in the manner in which Hermione tilted her head elicited his response.

“True.” He couldn’t control the faint question in his voice. He hadn’t intended it, but his heart had answered her unspoken query, and the unresolved issue suddenly lay expectantly between them.

“Gods, you know what I’m asking.” Her voice shook with the intensity of her want.

“Enlighten me, Hermione.” He wasn’t taking the step that would bare his soul without a clear directive. He already felt exposed after confirmation that Dumbledore would eagerly sacrifice him for the cause. Of course, Dumbledore would willingly risk any of them for the cause. Snape’s bleak thoughts were truncated by Hermione’s next question.

“Do you want me?” She’d never been this blunt in her life. Although, considering that this might be the entirety of her life, she thought she was entitled, and her instincts were singing to her to abandon all restraint. Take the man. Take him. Now. Don’t wait.

Snape groaned at her question, and his need for her instantly brought an answering tightness to his groin. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d fantasized about her saying those words to him. Hearing her speak them in reality was more powerfully erotic than he’d imagined. He felt himself harden in response. He took a deep breath and crossed the Rubicon, “More than you can imagine.”

Suddenly, the very air between them charged with crackling electricity, and Hermione laughed, a singularly clear, liltingly joyous sound. “Severus, you of all people should know that I have a very vivid imagination.”

“Come here, Hermione.” His voice was husky with desire and need. He watched her carefully, the pain in his heart eased by her interest.

“Yes.”

She crossed to him quickly, halting between his legs at the edge of the bed. With a shaky hand Hermione reached out to caress the harsh planes of his face, softened by the firelight.

He groaned involuntarily as her feather-light exploration traced across his lower lip, fueling his incendiary need. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her down on top of him as he reclined, once again. One arm snaked up her spine to the base of her neck, tangling in the thick, mahogany hair, and Snape brought her head down to meet his. He crushed his lips to hers, tasting her for the first time.

Her body molded to him; her breasts flush against his torso, her hips pressed to his. Snape’s desire ignited with a combustible force and he pulled her tighter.

Hermione met the spark of his desire with an equally heated want. Opening her mouth to him immediately, her tongue darted out to trace his lips, to request entry, and found his tongue meeting hers in a twining urgency that conceded nothing and demanded everything. Her breath caught in her throat at his taste, coffee and cognac. Bitter and bracing. His distinctive essence seared into her soul. Moaning into his mouth, Hermione wriggled her hips against him.

Her hands seemed to have a directive of their own, one running through the raven strands of his shoulder-length hair, marking its fine texture. The other hand, intent on its own discovery, smoothed its way across Snape’s chest, along the midline to trace the demarcation point of his waistband.

Before her exploration continued and he gave in completely, Snape broke off their kiss, taking one last opportunity to make certain their coupling wasn’t merely lust in the eve of war. “If we do this Hermione, and if we survive, there’s no going back. I will do everything in my power to make you mine. Are you ready for that?”

Flame-flecked brown eyes locked onto his darkly luminous ones, searching for the truth, satisfied with what she found.

“Yes. You are aware that it works both ways? I won’t share you.”

“You won’t have to. There isn’t a queue.”

“My gain. I know how to look beneath the surface.”

Involuntarily, he shuddered, “I don’t think you’ll like what you see beneath my surface. Hermione, you can still walk out that door.”

“I know what you are, Severus, and I won’t go voluntarily. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Hermione bent her head to capture his lips in an urgent wanting, leaving her breathless, and desiring more. She straightened, and, bringing her hands to the bottom of her maroon-colored jumper, deftly pulled it up and off her body, leaving a large expanse of skin glowing in the warmth of the flickering light. She wore no bra to hide behind. The long sheet of her mahogany hair was draped heavily around her shoulders with tendrils of curls wisping to frame her face, and the remainder cascaded down her back. The only items she was left wearing were her jeans and her wand, sheathed in its leather casing on her now-scarred left forearm.

Snape sucked in his breath, his eyes glittering with the intensity of his regard as he drank in the sight of her. Hermione was simply stunning. He couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, he’d been so aroused.

From her position above him, she leaned forward to unbutton his shirt, fumbling a little in her haste. His chuckle rumbled in his chest, and she felt the vibrations course through his body. Her jolt of arousal was so powerful, that she felt herself beginning to throb with an ache only he could ease.

Hermione’s eyes shut and she arched her back slightly, bringing her breasts closer to him. He accepted the invitation. With one long-fingered, sensitive hand, the Potions Master traced her skin from her jaw, lightly down her neck, teasing her collarbone, and to the swelling promise of her breasts, while sliding the other hand down the smooth satin skin of her back, amazed at the play of muscle under the surface. Snape kneaded her firm derriere through her jeans, calculating how quickly he’d be able to divest her of the rest of her clothing.

This thought dazedly brought him back to their surroundings. “Where are your watchdogs?” he growled.

The lower register of his voice evoked a writhing response, and she straddled his hips, hair falling forward. Snape bucked up to meet her, and desire coursed along her veins. Her skin burned with the need for more of his touch.

She breathed raggedly, “They have their own beds to seek tonight.”

“Good. No interruptions.” Snape slid one hand underneath her waistband while sealing the door with his other hand; she’d momentarily forgotten his ability to perform wandless magic. Quickly unsheathing her wand, Hermione cast a multi-layered silencing spell with the offhand ease of frequent practice.

He looked at her questioningly, his breathing still rapid and uneven, but desire was checked momentarily by curiosity.

“I set them when we train in my studio. We’ve been training every night. I don’t want to wake the house.”

Raising an eyebrow, his queried, “We?” the only evidence of his possessiveness.

“Harry and Ron and I. We are the front line, after all. Harry and I have an advantage, we’re Muggle-raised. We’re going to make use of that advantage and any others we can make.” Her determination and strength of purpose resonated in her voice, and shone in the incandescent fire of her golden-brown eyes.

For the first time in many a long, painful, lonely year, Severus Snape felt a flicker of hope for the future. Not necessarily his, but just possibly their world’s. And, if he -- if they -- was very lucky, maybe his future as well. He held the promise in his arms.

“Excellent.”

It was the last coherent word either said for a long time, as Snape pulled Hermione back into his arms, crushing her lips to his, allowing their urgent, rising need to take precedence.

These moments would be theirs forever, and in the aftermath of their lovemaking, Snape felt her arms wrap more tightly, cradling his body against hers. He buried his face in her neck, tendrils of her hair tickling his nose. He breathed in her scent, their scent. He thought that if there was never to be another moment like this in their lives, it would’ve been worth it. Rolling his weight to her side, not wanting to crush her smaller body with his, he muttered a quick cleansing spell over them. Then, settling himself back against the pillows, Snape pulled Hermione into his arms. She tucked her head under his chin, and, contentedly, they drifted into the somnolence of slumber. He faintly heard her voice whisper at the edge of consciousness.

“I love you, Severus.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

No one was ever truly prepared for battle.

The sight of shattered limbs and dead bodies – some charred, some still smoking -- lying in haphazard fashion across the grassy, shrub-strewn slope leading to the gates of Hogwarts was the very essence of nightmare. The remaining combatants stumbled and lost their footing in the slick remnants of malodorous body fluids seeping into the dry earth beneath those struck down. Both sides in the conflagration sought purchase and positioning in the final act of the passion play between the Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix. No one was left unscathed; many had lost their lives since the mid-morning attack had begun. And, unless you’d been standing next to someone, no one really knew who’d fallen and who had remained alive.

The spear-headed configuration of the Dream Team, attended by a small, tightly knit phalanx, made their grimly determined way through the ranks of the few surviving Death Eaters to the ultimate confrontation. If someone had the time to reflect, they would’ve noted the irony; that the final meeting between Tom Riddle and The-Boy-Who-Lived would be played out in front of the gates to the school where they’d both found some degree of acceptance in their youths, and, fatefully, where their common ground ended.

For the most part, the strategic plan that Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger had crafted, over the past year, to interweave with the Order’s plan was coming to fruition. Harry, backed by Hermione and Ron, had neatly plucked the reins of command from the hands of the older wizards; the final deciding vote had been Dumbledore’s acquiescence. The swaying argument had been that due to the fact that the trio would be the focal point of the attack, they should have the authority to coordinate the Order’s movements. Ron and Hermione’s outfitting and obvious state of readiness had startled many at the early morning conference in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. However, the nods of approval from the seasoned veterans during Harry’s briefing of the few, but significant, changes to the parent strategy had lent an air of competence and authority to the young leaders. Remus Lupin and Mad-Eye Moody had been vocal in their recognition of the merits of the new plan. Privately, the Golden Trio had discussed the probability that Dumbledore had deliberately set them on their divergent path.

Hermione had superbly carried out her role as ‘carrot’ before the ass. Draco Malfoy and his fellow junior Death Eaters had appeared exactly 4.5 minutes after Hermione had Apparated on the road from Hogsmeade to the school. He’d immediately engaged her with Salazar Slytherin’s sword, his minions forming a loose circle around them. One of the facets of the sword’s enchantment, and one that had been taken into account, had been its compulsion that Draco kill the blooded victim using the blade. With each frustrated encounter over the past two months, the compulsion to slake the blade’s thirst had grown.

Draco’s arrogant command not to touch the ‘Mudblood bitch’ until he’d cut her down had rung in the air. It’d been the last confident statement he’d made. Hermione had surveyed the circle slowly, giving Malfoy the mistaken impression that her attention was distracted. Draco had taken the bait. The singing sound of the golden blade slicing through the air toward Hermione’s neck had reverberated in sharp contrast to the hum of insects in the hazy summer morning. The opening move of the decisive battle had been struck. And deflected. The Ancile shields surrounding the witch produced an equal rebound of force that had staggered the young scion of the Malfoys. It was the first serious shock Draco Malfoy had received.

The second moment of revelation had occurred when Hermione had banished her billowing black cloak over her adversaries’ heads. She’d been dressed in a completely astounding fashion. None of the young purebloods visited the Muggle world, disdainfully rejecting any contact with the ‘lesser’ beings. Their ignorance had worked to Hermione’s benefit. Had they been able to recognize it, Hermione Granger had looked like a commando, clad in a form-fitting, buff-colored, nylon jumpsuit, complemented by lightweight, cleated climbing boots on her feet. Her hair had been severely bound in one tightly-laced band down her back, and the tips of feather-fletched arrows peeked over her shoulder, housed in the full quiver strapped to her torso.

The smooth, practiced unshouldering of her compact crossbow, and nocking of a seeker-arrow had echoed in the stunned silence of the encircling Death Eaters. Their hesitation had been her victory. Loosed from the bow, the first gold-tipped shaft – charmed to seek a gold blade imbued with her blood – sought, found, and shattered the four-foot long sword held in Draco Malfoy’s hands. The force of the impact had sent shards of gold in a wide circle, leaving telltale cuts on faces, hands, and exposed skin. None of the shards had touched Hermione, instead bouncing off her Ancile shields. Then, when the last shard fell, so had her wards. The thought that Snape was near had flickered fleetingly through her mind.

Deeply committed to the first engagement, and, with a muttered “Cervus catenatus,” Hermione had felled her long-time nemesis with her next projectile. The power impelling the seeker arrow which had been shot from the magically-transfigured compound bow propelled Draco Malfoy off his feet. The bespelled golden tip had ripped through the muscle and sinew in the shoulder of his wand arm, thrusting him backward, and staking him into the summer-warmed earth – exactly as it had been designed to do. Heavily laden with anti-Apparition and anti-intervention charms, the gold tip would hold its target in place until the counter spell was uttered.

Malfoy had screamed in agony, and then in fury, commanding his ever-obedient Death Eaters to ‘kill the bitch’.

However, Hermione hadn’t waited for the arrow to reach its target. She’d loaded her next shaft, and, holding the bow in one hand, unsheathing her wand with the other, she’d ‘Stupefied’ the two most alert Death Eaters in the circle. Despite their cloaks and masks, something about their stances had been reminiscent of her former schoolmates, Blaise Zabini and Marcus Flint. Hermione had followed up her shouted curse by running straight over Zabini’s position, her cleats giving her a sure-footed advantage.

In the face of such a competent opponent, the others in the circle had been hesitant to attack. They were, for the most part, bullies by nature, used to intimidation and the reputation of the Dark Lord to strike fear into their victims. Hermione’s unexpected retaliation had left them unable to quickly adapt to their circumstances. By the time they had psyched themselves into an attack, her reinforcements had arrived.

Harry Potter, who’d been circling in his animagus form overhead, had watched the opening salvo unfold with untainted admiration for his friend’s agility and precision, and recognized his cue -- the first loosed arrow. He’d tucked in his wings and plummeted in a head-long descent toward the ground, pulling up at the last second, in a Harrier version of a Wronski Feint. By the time he’d landed Harry had been in human form, wand in hand, and joining the fray. The ‘two-pop’ he’d heard behind him had confirmed Ron and Luna’s arrival. The remaining groups of the Order would follow in a staggered, five minute sequence.

Harry had spared a glance at Ron, red hair shining in the late morning sun, dressed in complement to Hermione, except in black. He’d looked dangerous and intimidating, and had been as precise as Hermione with his crossbow. All the hours they’d practiced had paid off. Of course, the charmed arrows had been of great benefit. Within a matter of two minutes, the last junior Death Eater had surrendered his freedom. The first stage of the plan had been successful. No fatalities.

That’d been the last easy moment of the day.

In looking back at what would later become a kaleidoscopic and telescoping memory, the day’s remaining events unfolded in a series of short and brutal confrontations: Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew; Mad-Eye Moody, Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy; Bill Weasley and Rodolphus Lestrange. The unforgettable figures of Nott, McNair, and Avery staked to the ground, white-fletched tips of seeker arrows protruding from their bodies. Hoarse cries of ‘Expelliarmus,’ ‘Crucio,’ ‘Avada Kedavra,’ and ‘Stupefy,’ shattered the mid-morning air. Nymphadora Tonks battled Bellatrix Lestrange. Fred and George Weasley could be heard shouting ‘twinspeak’ above the cries of agony, and shouted curses and hexes.

The quintuplet grouping of Harry, Hermione, Ron, Luna and Neville Longbottom moved in a sinuous, winding path through the battling elements on the grassy knoll, leaving fallen Death Eaters in its wake. The archers’ effective accuracy with their crossbows decimated their foes. Luna’s shielding protection of the quintuplet held, as she shouted hex after hex, fending off the advances of several Death Eaters. Arcs of colored light, green, red, gold, blue, shot from wands, and left residual corneal traces in the eyes of both witches and wizards.

Slowly, surely, the small core of fighters fought their way toward the well-defended position of the Dark Lord. Voldemort had Apparated shortly before Lucius Malfoy fell. Snape had Apparated moments afterward. Hermione knew that his true loyalties would be revealed during battle.

The discussion of Snape’s safety had been the most heated argument they’d had. He’d flatly refused the offer of any form of protection; wouldn’t allow them to spare anyone to ‘cover’ him. Hermione didn’t care what he wanted. She was going to give him some protection, whether he liked it or not, if only for her own peace of mind. Losing him was unthinkable. Thus, in the midst of heated battle, Hermione, her back to Neville Longbottom, spared a moment to divide her power and cast ‘Ancile Contego Aegis’ on the recently emergent form of Severus Snape. Then, returning her full attention to the task at hand, she stepped over the prone form of Antonin Dolohov. Dolohov had been one of her first staked targets. However, watching him writhe on the ground before her, pity had stirred in her breast, and, with a quiet “Stupefy,” the Death Eater who’d hexed her remorselessly in the Ministry of Magic two years previously, lay still on the ground.

Suddenly, Neville stiffened, and, with a hoarse, agonized cry of “No!” he bolted out of the tight formation surrounding Harry. Hermione immediately closed ranks, pressing back to Luna, and tracking Neville’s movements with her eyes. They widened as she found the reason for his defection. Bellatrix Lestrange had bested Tonks. Bellatrix was running, with an exaggerated limp and one arm flailing uselessly at her side, but, nonetheless was successfully making for the shrubbery. Neville was in focused, vengeful pursuit, rage emanating from him as he tracked the cause of his lifelong sorrow. He was firing hexes, sparks arcing toward his target, as he ran. Hermione dragged her attention back from the confusing haze and blinding light of battle to the task at hand; keeping Harry alive.

And, suddenly, the Golden Trio had arrived at their destination. The flowing, blood-spattered, grey, wizard robes of Harry’s contrasted with the gore-smudged Muggle suits of his most loyal friends. He was flanked by Ron and Hermione as they reached their penultimate position: near proximity to the skeletal form of evil incarnate, which was clothed in black from head to toe, exhorting his Death Eaters to greater efforts on his behalf.

The Dark Lord had spared himself the effort of engaging in active battle, dismissive of any protection other than his own personal shielding, and stood, isolated in his arrogance. He was biding his time, and hoarding his strength for the confrontation with the perpetual thorn in his side. Harry Potter. He brought the focus of his red eyes to the small group of determined and battle-weary young adults facing him across a small distance. His vicious but full-throated, hissing laughter filled the air. It was a chilling sound. His faithful followers recognized it as a precursor to death, and they exulted that the end might be near, that hard-won victory might be close at hand.

Harry and his companions gathered their reserves of strength, Luna reinforcing their shields. They knew with a bleak finality that it was time; and tamped down the fear that threatened to escape the tight reins of control. Each was successful in different measure. There was no time to spare a thought for anyone or anything else but the grim task before them. Hermione sent a burst of green sparks into the sky, summoning Dumbledore. Instantaneously, the ancient wizard, dressed in flowing robes of pure white, Apparated into the center of the foursome. It was as if they’d practiced daily for years, so seamless was his entrance.

The high, mocking laugh floated across the warmth of the day. “So, the puppet master arrives. Potter, you’re a fool to let the old man manipulate you in such a manner.”

Harry quietly replied, “I’m no longer a child, Riddle.”

Ron had prepared them for this -- Voldemort’s grandstanding – and they’d all agreed that this conflict wasn’t going to be a flamboyant duel of posturing first, curse later. That was for the Gilderoy Lockhart’s of their world, those who represented the status quo of the magical community. In some ways, it was Voldemort’s fatal flaw. The Dark Lord coveted that which he believed he’d been denied -- acceptance in the wizarding world of his youth. He was fueled by the sycophantic flattery of his most loyal and equally deluded servants, as well as the arrogant conviction that his recent successes underscored his impregnability. The Dream Team hadn’t fallen into that trap. They were at war. It wasn’t noble, or heroic, or clean. The Marquis of Queensbury rules did not apply.

In what was a supreme effort for Albus Dumbledore, and one grudgingly accepted, he made no attempt to coax, persuade, or cajole Tom Riddle. That time had passed. Instead, he began to speak.

“Obverto anguingena attero serpens viri.”

Nascent power circled and curled in the air in almost tangible form, surrounding Dumbledore’s elderly figure, causing his long, white beard to flutter in the eddying currents of crackling magical energy. There wasn’t a combatant on the field who didn’t sense it. It was a signal to the scattered members of the Order, signifying that the ultimate encounter was enjoined.

Confidence, born of a thriving two-year stint of increasingly open campaigns, bolstered Voldemort’s already sizeable ego. He lazily drew his wand, the utter certainty of the battle’s outcome, and his proclamation as victor readily apparent in the sinewy grace of his movements.

“You don’t stand a chance, boy. Dumbledore, do stop your rambling. It serves no purpose.”

Albus Dumbledore, with a dignity befitting his years and station, ignored the jeering tone, and gravely continued to chant the charm, invoking its properties. In a short few seconds, they’d know whether the combined efforts of Hermione Granger, Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick were successful. At the third repetition, the charm’s purpose was unveiled.

The Dark Lord screamed.

The serpent’s venom in Voldemort’s blood was being rendered inert by the incantation. His personal protections and wards began to crumble. The muscles in his limbs spasmed in a pattern reminiscent of the Unforgivable Cruciatus curse. The Dark Lord was essentially being incapacitated. Every living Death Eater reacted to Voldemort’s pain, linked as they were through the Dark Mark branded on their skin. In some cases, it was the crucial distraction in a duel, in others, it added to the agony of those already rendered useless, staked to the ground awaiting incarceration or the hand of fate. The mortally-wounded Bellatrix’s shriek of “Master!” rent the air.

Dumbledore continued, unheeding, his grim purpose paramount. By the sixth repetition, the outcome was certain. Through the connection of his scar, Harry knew exactly when Voldemort’s personal wards failed. Harry had been managing the incessant throbbing of his scar and, suddenly, the agony increased three-fold. He felt as if his head was about to implode. He clenched his fists, and, not looking at his companions, he roared painfully, “Now.”

Without hesitation, Ron and Hermione flanked Harry as the trio separated from the ancient wizard and Luna’s protection. They stalked toward the lone, black-clad figure, each releasing an arrow at the tortured form of Lord Voldemort. The charmed gold tips pierced the dark wizard’s inadequate, failed shields, and pinned him to the ground. The force of his landing sent his wand flying. Harry’s yelled “Accio wand” was almost drowned out by Tom Riddle’s tormented cries, which were painful to hear.

Terrified Death Eaters abandoned their individual duels, and converged, with all possible haste, to the aid of their fallen Master. A fierce and reinvigorated flurry of curses were called down upon the trio facing the pronate form of their Lord. Hermione and Ron fanned out, shooting and cursing as many opponents as possible, their purpose to shield Harry, at whatever cost to themselves. Ron was struck in the thigh with a ‘Diffindo,’ his leg barely able to bear his weight. Hermione’s own personal shields were beginning to weaken, her power divided as it was between herself and the distant Ancile shields on Snape that she refused to abandon. She was hit with more than one curse, the force almost knocking her to the ground. Her croaked “Protego” sounded raw with the effort of overused vocal chords.

Rallying around the central focus of the determinant battle, Remus Lupin, Charlie and Arthur Weasley arrived in time to add their flagging power to protect their family. For Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley were their family: child, sibling, and putative children. More than one killing curse was abruptly terminated by timely and harshly-shouted intervention.

The melee had stilled, vision and sound faded for the central figure in the war for the fate of the wizarding world. Harry gathered his strength, and, allowing a brief moment of emotion to build, he felt the fury, sorrow and pity surge in his heart. He ignored the hisses of pain emitting from the struggling creature on the ground before him. With a repugnance bearing considerable resemblance to an exterminator facing a particularly loathsome vermin, Harry Potter summoned his will. He fueled it with his grief at the deaths of so many, so needlessly, including the very raw pain of Sirius’ death. The son of James and Lily Potter pointed his wand – the new one, purchased for this very encounter -- at the former Tom Marvolo Riddle, and, in a deep voice filled with great conviction, Harry Potter cast the most Unforgivable curse of all.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The green light arced from his wand, engulfing the not entirely human body of Lord Voldemort. The red eyes closed for the final time, the slit-like nostrils no longer drawing breath.

It was over. The Dark Lord had fallen.

Like a nuclear mushroom cloud, the remaining Death Eaters collapsed. The magical backlash of the Unforgivable curse, coruscated in a ripple effect through the Dark Mark, and proved lethal to those in closest proximity to the Dark Lord’s body. Radiating outward from ground zero, those furthest from their Master remained alive, although in varying states of collapse.

Hermione fell to her knees, curling inward against the searing agony she’d felt through the backlash connection to the Ancile shields she’d cast on Snape. Her own wounds, debilitating enough, were negligible to the ache of not knowing Snape’s fate. For the moment, however, she could do nothing but fight the waves of nausea and pain in her own body. Once her limbs were under control, she’d find him.

Rushing to Ron’s side, Luna used her remaining, functioning arm in an attempt to stem his blood loss, and bind the edges of the gaping, ragged wound in Ron’s thigh. Luna’s other arm was tied to her side by a piece of cloth she’d ripped from the cape of a downed comrade. Arthur and Charlie Weasley ran to her aid in caring for their son and brother. Remus Lupin assisted the severely weakened Albus Dumbledore, who’d called upon the last of his considerable strength during the invocation of the powerful Serpens Viri incantation to such devastating effect.

It was over.

The thought echoed hollowly in Harry’s mind. Shakily, he walked closer to the fallen body of Tom Riddle, peripherally aware that Ministry Aurors had Apparated and begun taking the incapacitated Death Eaters into custody. For a long moment, The-Boy-Who-Won stared at the face of his lifelong nemesis. The scourge of the wizarding world. With trembling limbs, he sank to the ground and buried his face in his hands. He cursed the bitter irony that the day had made him both savior and killer in one swift stroke.

They’d won. The cost remained to be seen.

Hermione crawled to Harry’s side, grabbing him in a tight, hard hug. His arms wrapped around her in a fierce return of her support, allowing the balm of her friendship and love to soothe his tortured thoughts. The addition of Ron’s long, black-clad arms engulfed them both, and, with his rough affection, the three friends allowed the enormous burden to be shared, as they’d done since the beginning of their friendship. For a suspended moment, they held tightly to one another, until the background voices intruded onto the intensely personal bonding.

There remained much to be done. As one, the trio raised their heads to survey the once serene landscape. Hermione was the first to stand, albeit shakily. She looked at her two friends, unbelievably grateful that they were all alive. That, despite the odds, they’d survived. Only one person remained for her to find, and she hoped, with a fervor that she couldn’t quite contain, that he’d survived.

“I have to find him.”

Her heart in her eyes, she implored the ‘boys’ to understand. There were more than enough Order members to take credit in the aftermath. She had to find Snape. No one else would make him a priority. There was no way to know, other than finding him, how strongly the magical backlash had affected the Potions Master. Hermione didn’t think he was dead. However, she remained in a significant amount of pain as a result of the battering her shields had taken, both directly and through the Ancile connection. Harry and Ron were first, and foremost, her friends, and they’d come to value Severus Snape for his own sake and hers.

“Go,” was all Harry needed to say, and Hermione was gone. She moved slowly, nursing her wounds, but with a sure-footed skill. Hermione began to make her way through the dead, dying and wounded who littered the landscape. Checking the face of each fallen Death Eater, she searched frantically for the man she loved.

After what seemed a very long time, Hermione reached the edges of the battlefield. Her fears were quickly overcoming her reason; her wounds, exhaustion, and depletion of magical energy were waging a winning battle over her ability to remain conscious. Desperately, she continued her search. Her fear was a rising, palpable knot in her stomach.

On the crest of a low hill were the fallen forms of a small, but intense and fatal duel. With an anguished cry, Hermione dropped to her knees next to the body of Neville Longbottom, his countenance pale and serene in death. Her tears fell onto his unresponsive chest, mingling with the blood to be found drenching his robes. Raising her tear-streaked face, Hermione looked to the other combatants, and recognized Bellatrix Lestrange’s ravaged form, curled in a fetal position around her wand. She was quite dead. The other figure was lying face down on the ground between the bodies of Neville and Bellatrix. Hermione didn’t need to turn him over to know that it was Snape.

More terrified than when she’d faced Voldemort with Harry and Ron, Hermione made her way to Snape’s body; her limbs shook with repressed fear and residual pain. Reaching out one trembling hand, Hermione touched his shoulder and rolled the long, prone form onto his back. Tears streamed down her face, she gasped for breath in gulping sobs, and, with hands shaking so hard she could barely control them, Hermione’s fingers felt for a pulse in his neck. It was there -- weak and thready -- but he was alive. With her last coherent thoughts, Hermione pointed her wand into the air and fired off a red arc, the signal of her need for assistance. Then, lacing her fingers with Snape’s, she succumbed to her wounds and exhaustion, and into the waiting arms of oblivion.