Harry Potter And The Fall Of Childhood

Chapter 28

Manifest

"'Gimme hate, Lord,' he whimpered. 'I'll take hate any day. But don't

give me love, Lord. I can't carry it...It's too heavy.'"--Toni

Morrison, Song of Solomon

***

Harry came awake with a jolt, his heart tripping painfully in his chest. There was a single moment of reeling confusion, when he wasn't sure where or even when he was. Then the noise that had woken him came again, and instinct propelled Harry out of Snape's chair before his brain could catch up to the low sound of the professor's voice outside. He snatched his cloak with one hand and the strange file with the other, then kicked Snape's chair into what he hoped would pass for how Snape had left it as he dove for the corner and flung the cloak over himself.

Just in time, too. Harry worked hard to control his rapid breathing as the door opened and Snape swept in. He had a bad moment when he thought there had been some sort of alarm, perhaps on the drawer he had opened, perhaps triggered by someone Portkeying in. But then he saw the clock past Snape's shoulder, and he relaxed a little. He'd fallen asleep in Snape's chair barely a page into his examination of the file he had taken from Malfoy Manor, and slept straight through until morning. It was probably a good thing, he supposed, for he had been tired, and he would definitely need his rest when he went to get Neville. But he'd wanted to read through that file, for the quick glimpses he'd gotten of it had been tantalizing with the promise of much needed information. He'd planned to spend the night learning that information while he waited for Snape to come so he could slip out without triggering the spells he knew would be on the door. Now he had only a few minutes to escape the office and make it back to Gryffindor before his absence would be noticed.

He watched Snape for a moment, just to be sure the man didn't notice something right away. But Snape simply stood before his desk, sorting through several stacks of papers, his face displaying what, on anyone but Snape, would be the scowl of a person roused very early and not pleased about it. On Snape, it was simply his default expression.

He'd conveniently left the door half-open behind him, probably intending to stay only a moment before going to breakfast. Harry ducked out, astonished at the success of his scheme. At worst, he'd been expecting to be caught by Malfoy and brought before Voldemort, which, aside from being terrifying in its own right, would eliminate the element of surprise. At best, he'd expected to be caught by Snape and given detention until he took his N.E.W.T.s. The fact that he had escaped both fates, and any number of other unpleasant possibilities in between, with not only the Portkey he needed but with an additional prize gave Harry hope for the success of everything. All that good luck had to mean something, didn't it?

Getting back to the dormitory was just as easy. It would appear to Ron, Harry knew as he hastily changed into his pajamas behind his curtains, that Harry had been safely tucked away in his bed all night.

Harry had never been one for omens and portents, particularly after he started taking Divination, but he found himself catching them all day. He was still somewhat tired, and his schedule afforded him ample opportunity to catch a little more sleep. He dozed straight through History of Magic and Divination, rousing himself only enough to seem normal and alert at lunch. After lunch came Herbology, where, instead of their usual hands-on work, Professor Sprout assigned them to sit quietly on the lawn and revise for the O.W.L.s.

"If I don't make you, some of you never will," she said, frowning around at all of them.

"Exploding Snap?" Ron offered, as he, Harry, and Hermione settled at the back of the class.

"Ron," Hermione said sharply, "Harry needs to study. As do you."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, pulling out his book and notes. "There are some things I need to go over."

Ron stared, obviously taken aback, then shrugged, and turned with a sigh to his own book. Hermione beamed at Harry with obvious pride, and offered him her copy of Roots: the Origins and Practice of Medicinal Herbology.

"I got it out of the library yesterday," she said. "It fills in some of the gaps in the textbook marvelously."

"Uh, thanks," Harry said, taking it. There were gaps in the textbook? He opened his copy, then propped the larger library book in front of him, before reaching back into his bag and casually tucking the file into its pages. He would normally feel bad about fooling her like this, but the way she was smiling at him chased the thought right out of his head.

It was a strange dichotomy of an afternoon. The sun was high and warm, the sky a work of art, Sistine Chapel ceiling in a blue that went on forever. The Hogwarts grounds spread out below where they sat in a patterned chaos of greens and browns and riotous patches of color where the spring blossoms had exploded forth in bloom. The lake harmonized the blue of the sky several shades darker, and the squid splashed lazily about the surface, creating rolling waves as it stretched its tentacles towards the sky for a bit of warmth. Sweet scented breezes, like something out of a soft-rock song, whispered of ease and contentment, conjuring phantom images of a life that never happened; fishing with his dad in the summer, his mom bringing him lemonade on a screened in porch as the sun set over a house he'd never seen, but still knew. Harry's mind fluttered on that breeze, suspended between the peace of the moment and those wisps of fantasy, the sorts of thoughts he never admitted to even having. There was no good in them, nothing beneath the first layer of constructed bliss but rage, controlled and usually ignored.

He sat there on the lawn, Ron on one side, Hermione on the other, listening to the low chatter of the other students as they studied, or pretended to. And as Ron watched Hermione over his book, as Hermione played with a strand of her hair, Harry read everything Lucius Malfoy knew about Alfonse Reynard.

It shouldn't surprise him, Harry knew, that a man like Lucius Malfoy would hoard information on fellow Death Eaters. The file was a haphazard mixture of correspondence, Lucius' personal notes on Reynard, and some downright creepy details on Reynard's habits and activities. Malfoy was a little older than he'd thought, Harry realized as he took a quick peep partway into the file. That, or he had been involved with the Death Eaters from a very young age. Some of these notations dated back to the mid-seventies, when Harry's parents were still finishing up at Hogwarts. In any case, Harry could imagine only one purpose for such a collection--deep-seated paranoia, and distrust of a man whose position of power in the Death Eaters must have somehow rivaled Lucius' own. There might be more files, Harry realized suddenly, full of names and dates and places, full of evidence. It was something to keep in mind.

Harry read slowly, carefully, trying to absorb as much as possible. He knew he was missing things, of course. He should probably give this to Dumbledore once everything was over. Malfoy's personal recollections of Reynard and his work could be invaluable to someone who knew better what he was looking at. Harry simply wanted to know why the Hub had seen fit to send him to that particular shelf at that particular moment. He read Lucius' notations on every meeting he had ever had with Reynard, every hint Voldemort gave of what Reynard was working on, every rumor that circulated through the Death Eaters. Most of the information seemed, if not harmless, at least not outrightly dangerous--speculations on what Voldemort was planning based on Reynard's tasks, notations of everything Reynard said on the subject, a rumor about injuries the man sustained in a lab accident just months before Voldemort's fall.

It appeared, Harry realized as he read, that Moody's comment about Reynard being locked up in his laboratory was a lot more literal than he'd assumed. There was no explanation, but it seemed Reynard was forcibly confined to his apartments and workrooms by a number of powerful spells. Lucius noted having to go through a number of processes to see Reynard in order to take delivery of a particular potion. He also, apparently, took the opportunity of visiting to obtain a few illicit copies of notes and papers lying about. Harry's heart flipped at the thought of any of Reynard's recipes being in this file. Dumbledore would definitely like to see that.

Indeed, as he turned another page, he recognized the now familiar strange, spiky handwriting. He bent closer, squinting to make it out and to comprehend the terse comments. The words at the top of the first sheet made goose flesh rise on his arms.

Manifestation

7/1/80.

Minimal progress. Human subjects fairing worse than rats. Side effects too strong--mental deterioration/engram damage (impaired short and long-term memory)/cortical damage/insanity. Control for hippocampal effects. Check Fluvius for ideas. Maybe something in Brimer collection? Ask for copies soon.

Current procedure:

Harry blinked, confused. Below the last two words, the page was blank. These looked like pretty casual notes, as if made to help the thoughts flow. Could Reynard simply not have copied down his current procedure? Maybe. Or perhaps...

Harry reached stealthily for his wand, glancing around cautiously. Ron and Hermione were both thoroughly engrossed in their own books, and Harry lifted his wand without alerting either of them. He retreated back into the book and the file within, flipping the wand as if casually in his hand. He tried every revealing spell he knew, including the one which had uncovered this very file, with no results. The page remained blank as if the key to the Manifestation had never been there. Or had been completely removed.

Harry frowned, flipping through several more pages of Lucius' stealthily obtained copies. Voldemort would be none too pleased to know he had these, Harry thought. How paranoid and power mad did a man have to be to use every opportunity to get information on his own allies? Had Lucius been planning a use for Reynard's inventions independent of Voldemort? Harry didn't think so--the file had the feel of routine interest, of information and speculation made as a matter of course. The thought that there might be a file on him, far less routinely kept, gave Harry a chill. He could see no other overt signs of tampering, and he drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the edge of his book. The opportunity to know just what that blasted manifestation was hovered tantalizingly just out of reach and all the more frustrating for it. Why would Lucius remove the information from his own notes? That was, of course, assuming it had ever been there at all, which Harry couldn't be sure of.

"Harry? Oi, Harry, there's no way Bubotubers are that interesting." Ron plucked at the book, and Harry hastily closed it on the file.

"Time to go?" he asked, glancing around at the other students, who were beginning to gather their things and stand.

"Finally," Ron said with a gusty sigh. "And I thought this class was long when we had to prune the singing rose bushes." He shuddered theatrically. "I'll never be able to listen to the Weird Sisters again without hearing the screaming."

"Come on," Hermione said, making the mistake of shouldering her bag before trying to stand and nearly falling over. Harry and Ron both moved to steady her, but Ron was already standing and got there first. He helped her rise, then stayed close a moment, holding her waist.

"Do you want me to carry your bag for you?" he asked, blushing fiercely and staring at the ground. "It's awful heavy."

Hermione had the quite comical expression of someone who wanted to simultaneously frown and beam. "No thank you, I'm quite capable," she said, straightening her shoulders. "But thank you for offering," she added, lightening Ron's crestfallen expression as she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. "Come on, Harry," she added, glancing down at him still seated at their feet, then looking away. "We've got Charms."

Harry was unable to continue reading the file in Charms, where they spent the lesson in a practical review of material from the previous years. The ubiquitous cushions came out again, and Harry spent the session trying to cast his own levitation, banishing, summoning, sizing, and coloring charms while simultaneously keeping clear of the constant traffic of missiles zooming about at head level. Once the lesson was over, there was dinner, and after that Hermione insisted they continue the Charms review on their own in the common room. Harry couldn't even pull the trick he'd used in Herbology and stick the file in his book, for Hermione wanted to follow in Professor Flitwick's footsteps and have some practical revision.

"The practical portion is worth fifty percent of the mark," Hermione said, rooting around in her bag and coming up with a handful of quills. "We can use these in a bit, but let's start with the Cogitive Charms." She scowled at their blank faces. "Oh, honestly. Charms that affect the human mind."

Harry had to admit, despite himself, that Hermione's cheering charm did brighten his evening quite a bit, and Ron's energizing charm gave him a much needed boost. He would have to remember that one, he thought, for later that night if not for the O.W.L.s themselves. He would, however, have much preferred to examine the file further, especially since it seemed to go in reverse chronological order, and he'd only gotten to 1980. There was quite a lot to be learned from Alfonse Reynard's past, he strongly suspected.

"Why isn't this working?" Ron asked, scowling down at his quill when they finally turned to other charms. "It's supposed to make it look like a stick. I concentrated on the picture of the stick really hard."

"You have to be touching it for the Abscondo Charm to work," Hermione said, pushing her notes towards him. "Here, read these. It's the first charm we learned this year, remember?"

Harry winced, memory stirring. He'd spent that lesson sitting next to Padma, he recalled, and the thought of her gave him a stab of guilt. Even though they had stopped dating before Celestina happened, he still knew he had treated her badly. He wondered if it was too late for an apology. He had found he missed her sometimes, her dry sense of humor, her dedication to her studies, the way she'd never said it, but he somehow knew that she both resented and envied Parvati's effortless popularity.

"Oh, that was the thing with the feathers and the quills," Ron said, reading Hermione's notes. "Do you have any feathers?"

"No, but you should be able to do it on any small object," Hermione said. "It might not be a feather on the O.W.L."

"My spells always work better on feathers," Ron said, standing. "Because we use them so much in class, or something. I think I have some--I'll be right back." He jogged off to the stairs, and Harry and Hermione exchanged bemused looks.

"You alright?" Hermione asked, flipping idly through her notes, though her eyes were not on the pages.

"I'm fine," Harry said. "Just tired."

"I know." She scooted her chair a little closer, lowering her voice. "I saw you sleeping today in class." She hesitated. "I also saw you looking at...his seat a lot."

Harry dropped his eyes. He'd forgotten for just a few minutes there, in Ron and Hermione's company, with the familiar sounds of the evening common room surrounding them. He'd forgotten about Neville, about where he was right now, what must be happening to him, what Harry had to do. He had been looking at Neville's seat in Charms today, he remembered. He kept catching it out of the corner of his eye, its emptiness snagging in his consciousness like his Quidditch roughened fingers on the sleeve of Hermione's robe when she laid her hand over his.

"It's been over forty-eight hours," Harry said, before he could stop himself.

"I know."

"He could be dead right now," he continued, voicing the thought for the first time. It hurt coming out, the sharp edges of it making his throat close up.

"I know." Hermione's hand clenched convulsively on his and Harry glanced up at her. "I know all that," she repeated, watching him with large, pained eyes. "And still, you know what I keep thinking over and over again?"

"What?" Harry asked, his voice a little rough.

"I keep thinking," she laughed a small, unhappy laugh, "I keep thinking thank you God it's not Harry. Thank you God."

Harry jerked his hand away, deeply stung. "Don't," he said. "Please, don't. I can't bear--"

"I can't either," Hermione said, cutting him off in a low, intense voice. "I can't bear it because I know you, Harry. I know how you make these things your fault and you talk yourself into doing crazy things to try and make it right. And I can't bear the thought that tomorrow or the next day Ron and I will be sitting here trying to distract ourselves with stupid revision because we're too scared to even say your name because you're gone and--"

Harry started to push his chair back, to stand, to back away. Every word she said struck him like a blow, deep in the bruises the guilt left inside him. He was guilty if he stayed, guilty because it was his fault, he knew it, and guilty if he went because it would hurt them, hurt Hermione, make her face twist up like that as if her heart were tearing in two. She loved him very much, Harry realized, with a sickening lurch. She loved him with five years of adventures and conversations and homework and quiet evenings. He was in her somehow, in her heart as she was in his, in a different way perhaps, but still just as deep. She loved him and she was afraid for him, and Harry wished suddenly, shockingly, that she did not. It was so hard to be loved like that, and of everything, he thought it was this he couldn't bear.

"Don't," she said, grabbing his arm and holding on with surprising strength. "Don't run away. I want you to swear, Harry, swear to me that you won't make Ron and me do that."

He couldn't look at her, so he stared down at her hand, her fingers digging painfully into his arm. She knew just how to get him, he thought a little dizzily. She did know him, so frighteningly well, and that included knowing what she and Ron, what she meant to him. And she loved him enough to use it against him. He wished he could hate her for it, or at least be angry. This would be so much easier, so much would be easier, if she didn't love him at all in any way.

"Harry," she repeated, more insistently.

And then suddenly Ron was there, appearing at Harry's side, his smile fading as he looked from one to the other. "What's wrong?" he asked, dropping a handful of feathers on the table and taking Hermione's other hand. "Was there word about--"

"No," Harry said, pulling away from Hermione's grip. "No, no word. It was nothing."

"Hermione?" Ron asked, looking worriedly down at her.

She gazed at Harry, and for a moment he was sure she knew, sure she was going to tell Ron, that they were going to find a way to stop him, or perhaps worse, come with him. But then she surprised him. "It's nothing," she said, looking away. "We were just talking about it a little."

"Okay," Ron said, sitting back down and not releasing her hand. "If you say so."

The rest of the evening was excruciating. Harry kept his head down, pretending great industry with his charms, all in an effort to avoid Ron's concerned glances and Hermione's quick, accusing glares. He hadn't answered her, and he feared she would interpret that correctly, know he was planning something. He'd intended to wait until everyone was asleep before going, but he seriously considered leaving right then, just running upstairs and getting his cloak and taking the Portkey. But there was also a chance she hadn't guessed, and the later he went, the more likely he would be undetected. At least he hoped so.

Finally, Ron stretched and yawned. "Enough, Hermione," he said, though there was no real annoyance in his voice. "My head is spinning. Come on, Harry, let's go to bed."

Harry agreed with relief, and gathered his things as quickly as possible. Ron and Hermione's goodnights had begun to take longer and longer over the past weeks, and Harry had made it a habit to go up before Ron. Tonight was no exception, and his steps were perhaps a bit faster than usual as he crossed the common room. Not long now. He carefully did not look back and check whether he was imagining the feel of Hermione's eyes on his back.

He changed into his pajamas on the off chance that Ron would want to talk when he came upstairs. As he was pulling off his robes, something fluttered to the bed. Harry fumbled about in the dark, searching for it and reaching for his wand. He had no trouble identifying Fawkes' feather by touch, though--a spark of recognition fired in his skin at the moment of contact. He fingered it, half in and half out of his robes. He'd been carrying it everywhere he went, just as Gryffindor had said he should, and it had come in handy at least once already. It was like and unlike his wand, and though he knew doing magic with a feather, even a phoenix feather, would look very odd, Harry had the urge to use it some more.

He sat up, an idea crystallizing as he heard Ron's footsteps on the stairs. Harry scrambled into his pajamas, throwing his robe over the feather as Ron entered and moved to put away his notes and get changed. Ron's spells worked better on feathers, a quirk of personality and magic that had been amusing, but was now enlightening.

"Good night, mate," Ron said, reaching to close his curtains.

Harry glanced up, found a smile. If all went well, they could both stop pretending not to notice Neville's empty bed tomorrow night. If things didn't go well, this might be the last--no. Harry stopped that thought cold. "Good night," he said, and closed his own curtains.

Harry picked up the feather in one hand and his wand in the other, considering. Finally, he laid the feather on his inner arm, aligning the shaft with the vein so that the tip of the feather rested in his palm, and the thickest part of the shaft extended just beyond his elbow. He affixed it with a quick adhesion charm, thinking in passing that Hermione would be proud how easily he remembered. Then he lifted his wand and thought very hard about his bare arm, about the familiar mole near his wrist, the sometimes faint bluish cast of the vein.

"Abscondo penna," he whispered. When he touched his arm again, the feather was gone. Now as long as he could hold onto his wand to be able to unstick it and thus break the Abscondo, he would be alright. Otherwise, it was just a convenient way to store something.

Harry waited for what felt like hours behind his curtains. He didn't dare move about until he was sure the other boys were all asleep, and beyond that until it would be reasonable to assume the common room would be empty. He couldn't take the Portkey straight from his own bed, after all--the pop of his departure would wake the whole room, and Harry didn't want any alarm sounded until he was back and could sound it himself.

Lying there, waiting, he had nothing to do but think. He felt like an intruder in his own head, watch dogging his thoughts, guarding his cautious, tenuous, possibly insane sense of optimism. He was about to do something that surpassed going down into the Chamber of Secrets and after the Philosopher's Stone, and he couldn't let himself acknowledge just how crazy it was. But Neville needed him. No, Harry thought, shaking himself. He owed the truth to himself, if no one else. Neville needed him to do this, yes, but Harry himself needed it just as much. He didn't think he could live with another friend's life snuffed out like an unprotected match in a gale. He was quite aware that thinking like this, that preferring a course where he very well might die to one where he would be safe but in pain maybe wasn't the most normal idea, or even a sane one. But Harry Potter had never been normal, and it was time he started working with that, not against it. Maybe this was just the way he was made; maybe this was what he was for.

Finally, the easy rhythm of Ron, Dean, and Seamus' breathing convinced Harry that they were all asleep. He rose stealthily, slipped into his robe and collected his wand, the Portkey, and the Invisibility Cloak. He turned back at the door, why he didn't know, for he couldn't see anything in the darkness. Harry stood a moment, listening to them sleep, then stepped out and headed down to the common room

He paused at the final bend of the staircase, listening. Only the faintest flicker from the fire could be seen, and he could hear no voices. Satisfied, Harry took the last few steps, and emerged in the act of unfurling the Invisibility Cloak. No sense delaying any longer. It was just past midnight by the mantle clock, and he was ready to go.

"Accio Invisibility Cloak," snapped a sharp voice. The cloak jerked hard in Harry's grip and sailed across the room, to land in Hermione's waiting hands as she rose from the shadowed depths of the sofa.

Harry froze, his heart dropping. She'd known after all, and lain in wait for him. She was going to try and stop him, going to drag him to McGonagall or even Dumbledore if she had to. Or worse, she was going to insist on coming with him if he wouldn't budge. Harry tightened his grip on his wand, steeling his resolve. He hadn't known the Petrificus Totalus spell their first year, when Neville had tried to stop them from going after the stone, but he certainly knew it now. She would be incandescently furious with him, but better she be angry than Neville spend another minute in Voldemort's grip.

"I thought you'd be down," Hermione said, tucking the cloak into her robes. "I don't know how you're going to get there, but I have a good idea where you're going."

Harry took a few steps forward. "Hermione--"

"No." She moved forward herself, until they were squaring off across the short expanse of the hearth rug, their voices low hisses as they tried not to wake the house. "No. You can't go, Harry. You can't. I won't let you."

"You were willing enough to let me get the Philosopher's Stone," Harry said, surprising even himself.

"I was eleven," she said furiously. "I didn't know better. But now I do. It's not an adventure anymore, Harry, you should know that."

"I do," Harry retorted sharply. He hadn't intended to argue the point with her, but now that he was he couldn't seem to stop his words. "I do know. It's dangerous, but I don't care. Neville could be dying right now."

"Better him than you," Hermione said. They stared at each other, equally shocked. Hermione's eyes were huge, impossibly dark, and her lips trembled a little.

"You didn't mean that," Harry said finally. "I know you didn't mean that."

Hermione faltered, seeming to shrink. Then she gathered herself, straightening visibly and lifting her chin. "Yes I did," she said, her voice firm with only the hint of a quiver. "I meant it. Harry, Neville is a good friend and I would hate to...I would feel...but you...I meant it. You're too important."

Harry stared at her a moment, moved and appalled. The fierceness of her devotion touched him, warmed him, but he could not accept her words, could not understand how she could feel that way. So much easier, he thought again. So much easier if she didn't care at all. He had no way of answering, and his wand rose without thought.

"Accio Invisibility Cloak," he snapped, and caught it as it shot out of Hermione's robes. She lunged after it, but Harry held it out of reach, fumbling to get his wand on target. But before he could cast a spell, she plowed into him, sending them both staggering backwards a few steps. He couldn't use magic and try to hold her off at the same time, and there was a moment of mad scuffle, the cloak and both their wands preventing either of them from getting a good grip. But Hermione had a free hand that Harry didn't, and she snagged a corner of the cloak, yanking it and Harry's arm down. The cloak unfolded, half-covering them, making it impossible to see each other's hands as they grappled.

Frantic, Harry stuck his wand up his sleeve to free his hand and caught Hermione's wrist, trying to pry her off. The Portkey was in his pocket, if he could just get the cloak over him and gain enough time to get to it and his wand at the same time...

"I'll scream," Hermione hissed, panting. "Don't think I won't, I'll scream and wake everyone up."

"Don't you dare," Harry warned, though what he could do to stop her he didn't know.

A mad light appeared in her eyes, and it rocked Harry where he stood. He could hardly recognize her in that moment, he realized. Surely this girl, this furious, struggling, desperate girl whose eyes said she would stop at nothing to get what she wanted, surely this couldn't be Hermione.

Harry released her wrist and plunged his hand into his pocket. It was time to end this before she really did scream. The ring was cool as it slid over his finger, and he snagged his wand in the same hand. It would be difficult, but he could cast the spell on that hand and wrest the cloak from Hermione with the other.

But suddenly the pressure on the cloak was gone. Harry stumbled, and in that moment Hermione had her wand back in her right hand, her left darting out to grab at Harry's wand, her fingers skidding over his, gripping at the ring. "No," she snarled between her teeth. "No!"

But it was too late. Harry's mouth was already moving, the spell emerging simultaneously with the realization that there was something very wrong here, something beyond a frightened friend. Hermione's face was contorted, her eyes simultaneously wild and vacant as she raised her wand. They spoke their spells at once, and Harry had only a moment to think that it wasn't Hermione doing these things, at least not Hermione in control of her own mind.

"Transporto!"

"Imperio!"

Harry was vaguely aware of his feet leaving the ground, then coming back into contact with a slightly different ground very fast and very hard. He was vaguely aware of his body staggering, of the weight of Hermione somehow attached to his arm reeling along beside him, and he even thought, in an absent, untroubled sort of way, that the Invisibility Cloak was not covering them. But mostly he was feeling nothing but a serene peace. His mind was an empty lake, the surface utterly still, waiting for a command, waiting to reflect Hermione's will back at her. She had only to order, and he would obey.

But then there was a ripple, spreading out from that thought, disturbing his serenity, shattering the peace. Hermione? Why would he obey Hermione? He liked her, sure, and she was right an infuriating amount of the time, but there was no need to be...

Harry took stock of himself in a quiet, submerged place in his mind. Hermione had...no. Impossible. He threw the curse off with a single, desperate effort, and suddenly he cared about where he was again.

They were standing in an entrance hall. The space was illuminated by moonlight pouring in through the elegant glass windows in the large front doors. The light caught on dust mites floating in the air, and there was a scent and a feel of time about the place. Harry blinked around, still recollecting himself. Riddle House, he realized suddenly, with a jolt of badly needed adrenaline. Riddle House, and Hermione had...Hermione was with him.

She stood beside him, still clutching at his hand, her fingers curled about the ring. She'd been touching it when he'd, when they'd, cast their spells, and she'd come along with him. He couldn't see her very well in the dimness, but her stillness, the vacant tilt to her head scared him. Was she under Imperius herself? Who was controlling her?

"Hermione!" he called, trying to keep his voice down. "Hermione, wake up! Come on, help me with the cloak." He shook her once, hard, then frantically began uncrumpling the cloak. He felt incredibly exposed here, even in the near darkness. And, perhaps most frightening of all, his scar was beginning to burn with a slowly intensifying pain.

She stirred, letting out a low, distressed sound. "Harry? What--"

"Come on," he muttered, finally getting a handle on the much-abused Invisibility Cloak and starting to spread it over them. "We need to--"

"Accio cloak," a voice drawled from the darkness. For the second time that night the cloak flew from Harry's grasp. He made an instinctive lunge after it, but the darkness and Hermione's hold on him made it a futile one. Suddenly light flooded the entrance hall from a half dozen wands. Lucius Malfoy stood just a few meters away, backed by a handful of other wizards, some familiar, some not. They were not dressed in full Death Eater regalia, Harry noted. Their bare faces were somehow more frightening. The masks were a mark of their fear as well as their power--the fear of recognition, of retribution. Their willingness to let Harry and Hermione see their faces meant the Death Eaters weren't afraid of being recognized anymore. They were going to die here.

Harry lifted his wand. The odds were massively against him, especially in the hall with no shelter of any sort. But he had to try.

He got off one "Stupefy!" before his wand was torn away, and his only satisfaction was watching two of the Death Eaters struggling to revive their fallen comrade. It was a very small consolation.

"Move along, Potter," Mr. Malfoy said, twirling Harry and Hermione's wands idly in his fingers. "And you brought the Mudblood girl with you, as well. Kind of you--I'm sure we can find a...use for her."

Harry glanced reflexively at Hermione, only slightly relieved to see awareness returning to her eyes. He shifted closer to her, a pointless gesture perhaps, but it helped a little. She was still holding his hand, and he turned it in her grip, squeezed her fingers. Her eyes met his with the first moment of true awareness he'd seen since she'd jumped on him in the common room.

"It's okay," he told her. "It's going to be fine."

She bit her lip, but nodded. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I didn't mean to--I don't know what--"

"I said come along," Malfoy cut in, taking a single step towards them. "My master is waiting for you. You're quite punctual, Potter--if you hadn't found a way here on your own we were going to set one in your path, obvious enough for even you not to miss. But you've managed all on your own. Goyle, Avery." The last was directed to the two men flanking him, and accompanied with an imperious gesture. The two strode forward purposefully, Goyle steering for Harry and Avery for Hermione. Harry tried holding onto her as long as possible, pummeling ineffectually at Goyle's fortress-like chest as they were slowly, inexorably pried apart. Malfoy stood watching them, seeming both amused and impatient. Goyle tussled with Harry a moment, taking swipes at him with huge, meaty hands, before simply scooping him up from the armpits and throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Harry yelped, kicked frantically at him, managing one good blow to the stomach before Goyle seized his ankles in a single hand and pinioned him.

Harry lay panting, the blood rushing to his head, twisted around so he could watch Hermione as Avery prodded her along with his wand at her back. She kept casting him quick, terrified, lost glances, and he wished he could offer her some more comfort, even an answer. But he was as lost as she was, as Malfoy strode ahead through the halls of Riddle House, leading them to where Lord Voldemort waited.

He was lifted again and set on his feet in a surprisingly well-lit, almost comfortable room. A fire crackled merrily on the hearth, and the walls were lined with shelves of books. An open window let in a soft breeze and showed a brilliant glimpse of the night sky. And sitting before the fire in a deep, high-backed chair, was Voldemort. Harry's scar gave a great, sizzling pulse at the sight of him, then settled back to a somewhat bareable level of agony.

"Ah," he said, a purely satisfied sound. "Potter. Early, I see."

Harry took a moment to regain his balance and bearings. He couldn't tell for a moment whether the slight dizziness was a result of the blood rushing from his head, or his sheer, gut-clenching terror. He caught a glimpse of Hermione's white face, her eyes riveted on the figure in the chair. It was the sight of her that grounded Harry in the moment, that leashed his fear and urged calculation to take its place. He'd hoped not to see Voldemort at all tonight, of course, hoped to get in, get Neville, and get out, but he'd known capture was a possibility. But he'd been expecting to be alone, then.

"You were expecting me?" he asked, his voice surprisingly steady. He didn't know what yet, but he was going to do something. He couldn't, wouldn't let it happen again, not like this. Not Hermione.

"Yes," Voldemort affirmed, shifting forward slightly in the chair. The firelight caught his face for the first time, and Harry noted the faint shadowed outlines of runes across his cheeks and over his nose. Remember them, he told himself, remember them to tell Dumbledore, because you're going to get out of here and he'll want to know. "You're quite prompt," Voldemort continued, "and I'm pleased to tell you I will answer your swiftness with my own. Lucius? Bring in the boy."

Harry's heart lurched. Neville, for it must be Neville, was alive. Harry turned to watch Lucius leave, and then return, ignoring Goyle's sound of warning as he moved. And then there he was, walking before Lucius as best he could with his ankles chained tightly together. He looked alright, Harry saw in a quick survey. A little battered, a little dirty, a lot frightened, but in one piece and breathing.

"Harry," Neville said, looking up. "And Hermione. What are you--" he cut himself off abruptly, his eyes flicking from Voldemort to Harry and back again. "You've got to get out of here," he said suddenly, taking a few small, shuffling steps towards Harry. "There's something wrong, Harry, you don't know, you've got to--"

"Silence," Voldemort hissed. Neville's mouth snapped shut, though he continued to gaze at Harry with large, pleading eyes. Harry looked back, at a loss for anything to do. "No need to tell Potter all about it," Voldemort said. "He'll find out soon enough. Just as soon as...ah yes, here we are."

There was an enormously loud dragging sound, as if someone were moving a rug the size of the entire house. Harry turned again, already sure of what he would see. Beside him, Hermione let out a tiny, horrified squeak at the sight of Nagini slithering into the room. She'd never seen Nagini before, Harry realized, or Voldemort either, for that matter. She looked very afraid, and still a little dazed. He had a fleeting moment to wonder again what was wrong with her, who had put her under whatever curse she was suffering from. A thought niggled at him, faint but insistent, a connection missed, a conclusion trying to find itself. He pursued it for a moment, then let it go as Nagini came forward.

"Now we're ready," Voldemort said, his mouth gaping in a smile. "Nagini wouldn't want to miss this. Lucius? Mr. Longbottom's wand, if you please."

Harry watched, baffled, as Lucius produced Neville's familiar, stubby wand from his robes, then, perhaps more startling, banished Neville's restraints. Neville gaped at him a moment, waiting a full five seconds before tentatively reaching out to take the offered wand. He stared at it, then glanced around the room, obviously deciding which spell to cast. Harry had to admire the bravery, if not the sentiment. There were at least nine Death Eaters in the room now, not counting Voldemort himself, and Neville could only get hurt if he attacked now. Harry had to distract him, had to distract them all until...what? There was no help on the way. No one even knew they had gone. Pettigrew wasn't here, he noted absently as he searched for any sort of diversion.

His eye was caught by Nagini, and a thought stirred. He stared hard at her until his eyes ached, until the pattern of scales on her sides seemed like writing in a language he could almost decipher. Finally, when he could think nothing but snake, he said, "What does your human form look like?"

Neville and Hermione both jumped, and Harry noted peripherally that most of the Death Eaters had as well. Voldemort's head turned quickly, and he eyed Harry under lowered lids. "What did you say?" he asked, and it was only the strange flickering of his tongue that told Harry they were not speaking English.

"I asked her what her human form looks like," he said, finding that he could speak Parseltongue while looking at Voldemort, too. Curious. "Of course, she might not have one, I suppose, but considering what she is..."

He let the sentence trail off significantly, and was pleased to see angry bafflement cross Voldemort's face. "What is this nonsense?" he snapped, the sharp crack of the words a warning.

"Well, she's not exactly a normal snake," Harry said, working hard to suppress a grin as he manufactured a surprised pause. "You mean you didn't know your own familiar is from another plane of existence?" He knew this wasn't wise, provoking Voldemort, but he could think of nothing else to do. If Voldemort were angry with him, perhaps he would forget about Neville and Hermione. Harry switched his focus back to Nagini and hissed, "So you never told him. Interesting. Makes you wonder just how important he is to you and your kind. Not very, I would think."

Voldemort stood up in one movement, fast and smooth. He was a lot stronger, Harry thought with a chill. Very strong and very tall as he towered over them. Harry stiffened, waiting for the wand to emerge, waiting for the pain to start. But instead Voldemort turned to Neville, his teeth flashing again in a quick, sharp-edged smile.

"Enough of this," he said, throwing a single, unreadable look Nagini's way. "Time to get it done." He paused, studying Harry for a moment. "You were a decent enough opponent," he said finally. "Not particularly brilliant or powerful or even informed, but you had a certain amount of desperate luck. Charming, but not everlasting. Your removal will be...convenient for me." Then he returned his gaze to Neville, who was watching with obvious confusion, his wand clutched tightly, if indecisively, in his hand. Voldemort raised his arms, forming a strange shape before his face, then gesturing minutely with his fingers as if sketching in the air. It looked familiar, somehow, though Harry could not immediately place the motions. "Neville Longbottom," Voldemort began, "Harry Potter is--"

There was an almighty crash somewhere in the house, followed by several shouts and the sound of running footsteps. Voldemort lowered his hands, obviously irritated with the interruption. "Lucius, go see what--" he began, then stopped. "No," he said, taking a step back from Neville. "No, let them come. I wasn't expecting them, but the more company the better." The sounds were drawing rapidly nearer, and Harry heard the distinctive whoosh and sizzle of offensive spells. His heart soared as he made out a familiar voice, somehow soothing even as it was raised in battle. Dumbledore had known, somehow, and he was coming to help.

And then they burst through the door, Dumbledore in the lead, beard flying, wand upraised. Behind him strode Lupin, looking more grimly determined than Harry had ever seen him. Sirius followed him, limping slightly as if he had taken a nasty fall, but appearing not to care. Moody stumped last, his magical eye rolling frantically around the room, mapping the location of every opponent.

"Ah," Dumbledore said, coming to a halt directly opposite Voldemort. "I was looking for some missing Hogwarts pupils, and here they are."

"Dumbledore," Voldemort hissed, making the name a curse.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, ignoring him. "And you, Mr. Longbottom? Miss Granger?"

"Fine, professor," Harry said, and Neville and Hermione both nodded.

"Excellent," Dumbledore said, as if they had just met on a street corner and were having a casual chat. "Now, I understand there are extenuating circumstances here, but I really must insist that all Hogwarts students be at least on the school grounds, if not safely tucked into their beds, when curfew falls."

"Yes, Professor," Harry said, feeling a mad grin form on his lips. "We'll go right away."

Voldemort's wand appeared as if it had always been there in his hand. "Be still," he snapped, flicking it at Harry and Hermione. Harry grunted as his limbs froze, his hands locking together at the small of his back and his feet cleaving to the floor. Beside him Hermione panted as she struggled, but to no avail. The battle was on then, and Harry could do nothing, not even duck, as the room exploded with curses. Death Eaters squared off with Sirius, Lupin, and Professor Moody, while Neville tried his best to help with an occasional spell. Nagini slithered around the periphery of the room, her head swaying almost hypnotically as she tried to get a clear path to strike. Voldemort and Dumbledore were locked in battle, dueling like Harry had never seen before. Spells crackled between them like lightning, and their wands flashed as they parried and attacked and parried again. He had no way of telling who was winning, for he could not even distinguish one wizard's spells from the other's. Harry's head whipped back and forth, and he struggled almost absently against his magical bonds. He saw Moody fall, his wooden leg rolling away as he staggered and dropped. He saw Lucius Malfoy, firing off spells with cool efficiency, and Sirius returning them with a furious snarl.

"Can you move?" Hermione asked, gasping for breath.

"No," Harry said, trying to twist his wrists, with no success. Then he stopped, and he would have slapped his own forehead if he could. He'd been so distracted he'd completely forgotten. "Finite Incantatem," he said, twitching his fingers he hoped meaningfully. Nothing happened, and he looked quickly to Hermione. "What spell counters this?" he asked.

"Er," she bit her lip, visibly trying to collect herself. "Eripio, maybe. Or, er, Expedio. Oh, I don't know, and we don't have our wands, anyway."

"Eripio!" Harry cried, then "Expedio!" he didn't know which spell had worked, but he didn't care, either. The bonds suddenly vanished, and he could move his hands. "Accio wands!" he called, gesturing wildly in Lucius Malfoy's direction, to his and Hermione's wands still clutched in his hand. The wands came sailing towards him, accompanied by Malfoy's own, Harry saw with no less pleasure. But then he saw with dawning horror a small fleet of other wands converging on him from that whole side of the room. Remus', the fallen Moody's, some of the Death Eaters', and most awful of all, Dumbledore's. Harry gestured frantically at the wands, willing them back to their owners' hands, but to no avail. They showered to his feet, and their clatter was loud in the sudden silence of the room as Dumbledore, completely unprepared for his wand to abandon him, went reeling across the room under a barrage of spells. He struck a bookcase hard and crumpled, a shower of books falling on him where he lay. Harry stared, horrified. He hadn't meant to do that, he thought frantically. It had ended the battle, but if Dumbledore were dead... He swallowed hard, trying to control the urge to throw up.

There was one last sharp exchange of spells, and Sirius' wand was suddenly in Avery's hands. Sirius glanced around, his eyes flicking from where Lupin crouched beside Dumbledore, to Harry and Hermione. Finally, he took a step towards Harry. He made a low, furious sound when Avery spelled him still with his own wand, and Harry could see the muscles in his shoulders and arms bulging as he fought to move.

"Thank you, Potter," Voldemort said into the silence. "That was most kind of you."

Harry's mouth worked, his throat too dry to produce sound. His hands were free, and he could do magic, but he suddenly doubted his capacity to help even himself.

"Now," Voldemort continued, making his wand disappear again, "let us finish this before there are any other interruptions." He stepped closer to Neville, who still held his wand, and lifted his hands once more. "Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter--" and then Harry remembered why that looked familiar, and it was as if a floodlight turned on in his head. This was what Dumbledore had wanted him to do, he realized, this was intuition and knowing, more sure than anything. Draco Malfoy had done this, had tried this months before, and nothing had happened. But something would happen now.

Then, suddenly, before he could react to the threat he couldn't even predict, Harry heard a sound like the shorting of an electrical socket. There was a crackle, and the sudden smell of singed human flesh. And then Hermione was moving, smoke and magic sparks still playing about her wrists and ankles as she dove for her wand at Harry's feet and came up brandishing it...

At Neville, whose eyes were suddenly blank, empty, as he followed the motions of Voldemort's hands.

"--my mortal enemy," Voldemort finished, and Neville's wand was coming up, his lips were moving, and Hermione was mirroring him beside Harry, her eyes just as vacant and unseeing. They spoke simultaneously, Neville's wand beaded on Harry's chest, Hermione's on Neville's forehead.

"Eximo Animus!" Neville cried.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Harry stepped forward, between them, and flung out his arm. Behind him he heard Sirius' desperate, anguished cry, and he caught a glimpse of Voldemort, red eyes widening in surprise as he finally noticed Hermione. But then there was pain like he'd never known as Neville's spell caught him squarely in his palm, Hermione's farther up his arm. There was a small, almost insignificant fizzle, and suddenly the sleeve of his robe was on fire. Through the flames, Harry saw the phoenix feather, visible as it burned, the golden shaft almost painful in its brightness. Harry beat at his arm with his other hand, thinking with a dazed sort of surprise that he was still alive. But the pain was spreading up his arm in a network of fiery lines, like a jigsaw beneath his skin. It snared his shoulder in a clutch of agony, then unraveled down his side and around his chest and back. Harry glanced down at himself and stared in shock. He could see the lines, glowing brightly enough to show through his skin and clothes. A dizzying pattern of light in squiggles and lines and loops covered him, like some bizarre, glowing war paint. It was his blood, Harry realized, the blood in his arteries and veins lighting up like a liquid roman candle. And it burned him from the inside out.

His vision was beginning to go, but he kept clawing at the feather, trying to get it off, if he could only get it off he would be alright, he thought. Then there was another pair of hands trying to help, and he had a moment of hope before he heard a cry of pain and the hands jerked away. He caught a glimpse of Lupin staggering backwards, smoke rising from his fingers, and then Dumbledore was there, and Harry wasn't sure whether the wavering was because of his eyes or Dumbledore's condition and he didn't care. The Headmaster's hands were wonderfully cool on his skin, and they did not flinch away. There was a great wrenching, starting at his arm but seeming to pull at every drop of his blood, and Harry thought for a moment that his insides would come straight out through his skin. But then it was gone, it was over, and he saw the feather, lit up from within like a small sun, catch Voldemort squarely in the chest.

Everything went suddenly quiet. Harry could hear only his own ragged breathing, and it was only then he felt the soreness in his throat, nothing but a shadow of the other pain. He must have been screaming, he thought.

"Remus," he heard Dumbledore say. "Free Sirius, and see to Alastor and the Death Eaters."

Harry blinked hard, trying to clear the blurriness. Neville and Hermione were slumped on the floor, not unconscious he thought, but not quite aware, either. Some of the Death Eaters were gone, probably fled, and those remaining had no wands and were inching carefully for the door. Voldemort was lying crookedly across the hearth rug, his limbs akimbo and his head turned away. Dead? Harry wondered. No. No he didn't think so. Not quite. And behind Voldemort, in the shadows at the edges of the room--

"Look out!" Harry called, his voice cracking so badly the words were hardly recognizable. But Dumbledore understood and whirled to face Nagini, who reared up, uncoiling, until her great head nearly touched the ceiling. She swayed there a moment, preparing to strike. Dumbledore grabbed at the pile of wands at Harry's feet, his other arm extended as if to ward her off with his bare hand. But before he could get his wand, before Nagini could strike, a streak of gold flashed through the window and resolved itself into Fawkes, wings pumping madly and tail streaming behind him. The phoenix sang a single, clear note, and Dumbledore seemed to relax.

"Harry!" Sirius appeared at his side, wild-eyed and breathless. He took Harry by the shoulders, which sort of hurt, like he was bruised and supersensitive all over. "Harry James Potter if you ever do--I should put you over my knee for--can't believe you would try to--are you in any pain?" he broke off suddenly, one hand coming up to smooth the hair off Harry's forehead. The hand was shaking.

"Fine," Harry croaked. "I'm fine." He stared over Sirius' shoulder, enthralled. Sirius turned to follow his gaze and whistled lowly. Fawkes and Nagini were doing something that Harry had no choice but to call dueling. Fawkes swooped about Nagini's head as she wove it about, occasionally snapping at him with her poisonous fangs. Magic crackled between them with increasing force as they fought, though exactly how they were producing it, Harry could not say. As they watched, the lights grew brighter and brighter until they were almost painful to look at.

"We need to leave," Dumbledore said, turning with Hermione in his arms and Neville clinging dazedly to his elbow. Sirius' eyes locked onto Neville and his lips drew back in a snarl.

"He attacked Harry!" he said, and Harry was pretty sure it was only the hold he had on Sirius' arm that kept him from lunging bodily at Neville.

"Sirius--" Dumbledore began.

"I'm sorry," Neville said, clutching Dumbledore tighter as if he were very dizzy. "I'm so sorry--I didn't mean to--he said he could make me but I didn't believe--I don't know what--"

"Didn't mean--" Sirius began.

"He couldn't help it," Harry said. His voice was getting better, and both Sirius and Dumbledore looked at him. "He didn't want to, but the Manifestation made him. It was him all along, not me. Reynard attacked your parents, Neville, and he put it on you, made it so you would do that. For revenge."

"Huh?" Neville said.

"We can continue this discussion back at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said, casting worried glances over at Fawkes and Nagini. "I really think that retreat is the wisest course right at this particular moment."

"Missed them all," Moody announced, stumping up to them on his restored leg with Remus trailing behind. Harry winced at the site of the blackened skin on Remus' fingers. He hadn't yet had the courage to look down at his own arm, but he suspected it didn't look much better. "Malfoy and his merry band got away," Moody said, retrieving his wand and returning Lupin's to him.

"And we should do the same," Dumbledore said. Harry followed his gaze, and started in alarm. Some stray spark of magic must have found its way into the bookshelves behind the combatants, for small, unnatural looking blue flames were beginning to lick at the books.

"What about Voldemort?" Harry asked, flicking a quick look at the body.

Before anyone could answer there was an ominous whistling, like a pot about to boil over, and then suddenly a sheet of incandescent blue fire engulfed the entire shelf, and began racing around the walls, consuming everything in its path.

"Go!" Dumbledore shouted to Moody and Lupin. He shifted Hermione, pulled Neville closer, and simultaneously yanked Harry out of Sirius' grasp and against his side. There was a resounding pop, the rush of misplaced air, and suddenly they were standing on the lawn of what must be the Riddle House. Unnaturally colored flames were shooting from the roof, and Harry heard a succession of pops behind them as the others apparated out.

"Merlin," Sirius muttered, once again taking Harry from Dumbledore. "That phoenix of yours really knows how to throw down, Albus."

"Is V-Voldemort dead?" Hermione asked as Dumbledore settled her gently to her feet and steadied her.

"No," Harry and Dumbledore said simultaneously.

"Nagini would have gotten him out in time," Dumbledore said with a deep sigh. "He is injured, and badly, but not dead."

"Of course not," Sirius muttered, low enough for only Harry to hear. "That would be too easy. Can't just blow the bugger up."

"How'd you find us?" Harry asked. Exhaustion was sweeping him now, as he watched the house burn, the flames oddly steady, almost purposeful, and he leaned back against Sirius. His skin felt taught and stretched, and he was tender everywhere, inside and out. His arm and his head were throbbing in concert, and he was very dizzy. And yet, there was a strange sense of fullness, of completeness that was almost...pleasant.

"The Portkey," Sirius said, giving him a tiny, careful little shake. "And we'll be having a discussion about that, as well as several other things, when we're back at Hogwarts, young man. Dumbledore set spells to alert him of unauthorized Portkey use on Hogwarts grounds after the tournament. Remus and I had just arrived tonight for a bit of a council of war after Hogsmeade."

"Oh," Harry said tiredly. That made a great deal of sense--a Malfoy-made Portkey would certainly trigger the Headmaster's alarms, while Snape's authorized one would not have. "What was that spell Neville used?" he asked, glancing over to where Neville stood, blinking dazedly at the spectacle of the house.

"I'm not sure," Sirius said, a little growl entering his voice. "We'll have to ask Dumbledore."

Moody gave a warning shout, and suddenly he and Lupin were flanking Harry.

"What--" Sirius started. His question strangled off in a snarl as, seemingly from nowhere, Peter Pettigrew materialized before them.

"I'm unarmed," he squeaked, as Moody and Lupin started forward.

"I was wondering where you were," Lupin said, almost conversationally, as they closed in. "Sirius, stay there," he added sharply over his shoulder. Sirius subsided, though he didn't loosen his grip on Harry. His whole body was as taut as a bow string.

"I had something to d-do," Peter stammered. He lifted his hands and Moody sprang forward. Pettigrew squeaked and dropped something white and square at his feet, ducking under Moody's arm with a quick, scuttling movement. "I'm helping you!" he cried, throwing up his empty hands. The silver one flashed in the moonlight, and Harry saw to his surprise that it wasn't perfectly smooth as he had thought, but inscribed with a pattern of strange shapes over the palm and twining around the fingers.

"I think we've heard that one before," Lupin observed, flanking him from the other side and herding him back towards Moody.

"I am," Pettigrew protested, gesturing wildly at the thing he had dropped. "This will stop it, stop the spell on Harry."

Lupin paused, his eyes narrowing. "There's a spell on Harry?" he asked.

"Yes," Pettigrew affirmed. "T-t-to make him sick, and then to hide it." He gestured at the thing on the ground again. "That will stop it."

"How did Voldemort do that?" Dumbledore asked sharply.

"I don't know," Pettigrew said wretchedly. "He just made me watch it, make sure it was working."

"Why should we trust you?" Lupin asked, moving forward again.

"Because I owe Harry my life," Pettigrew said. He looked at Harry then for the first time. "I owe you nothing now," he said, and transformed.

Lupin was the only one with a chance of catching him. Sirius and Harry were too far away, Dumbledore was still supporting Neville and Hermione, and Moody's lunge was hampered by the trouble he was still having with his leg. Lupin jumped at the spot where Pettigrew had been, one hand gripping his wand, the burnt fingers of the other scrabbling in the grass. He stood up after a moment, empty-handed. Behind him, Harry felt Sirius sag.

"I'm sorry, Padfoot," Lupin said, looking and sounding quite miserable. "I could have stomped him but we need him alive."

"It's alright," Sirius said quietly.

"We'll get him," Lupin said. "I promise you, Sirius, we'll get him."

"We will," Sirius agreed, and he sounded mostly sure of it.

"You need to leave," Moody commented, shading his eyes against the glare from the house. The whole thing was now engulfed, and the flames sheeted up into the sky, taller than the tallest of the nearby trees. "This will be noticed. Ministry'll be here soon. You lot go, I'll stay around and see if I can't keep them from making a complete mess of it."

"Your leg," Lupin began.

"Will hold. Go on," he waved them away gruffly. "And make sure and check over those two," he added, jabbing a finger at Neville and Hermione. "Interesting developments, there."

"Thank you, Alastor," Dumbledore said, fumbling in his robes. "I have a Portkey for my office." They gathered around, Lupin pausing to pick up what Pettigrew had dropped. It was a thick, heavy looking parchment envelope, Harry saw.

Hermione ended up next to Harry, and he touched her shoulder. "You alright?"

"I...I don't know." She swallowed hard, looking between him and Neville. "I put the Imperius Curse on you. And I tried to...I tried to k-kill Neville. I don't--" a single tear slid down her cheek. Harry took her hand, noting the wide band of furious burns circling her wrist.

"It's okay," he said as gently as he could.

"It's like I had no choice," Neville said. "I didn't even think about it--I was just suddenly doing that. Pointing my wand at you and saying--" he gulped, his face going white.

Hermione shivered hard, and Harry pulled her closer as Dumbledore brought out the Portkey. "It'll be alright, both of you," he said. "I promise."

But as they pressed in closer and jostled to touch the Portkey, he wasn't quite so sure. At least with Neville he understood the reasons, if not the process. Reynard had wanted a way to avenge Voldemort on Harry, and his Manifestation, a sort of sleeping Imperius Curse as far as Harry had guessed, was the perfect way to achieve that without Voldemort risking himself. But Hermione...

He glanced down again at her wrists, at the burns which must hurt a great deal. She'd broken out of magical bonds constructed by Voldemort himself, with nothing but her will. It must have been very painful, and very difficult. He could see faint traces of blood beneath her nose and at the shells of her ears. Sirius, for all his love, for all his desperation in the final moments to get to Harry, had not been able to. But Hermione had, because someone had made her. Someone had put the same vacant look in her eyes that Reynard had put in Neville's, someone who had been willing to use Unforgiveables not to mention Hermione herself, someone who was willing to see her kill to save Harry from the Manifestation. The thought was nearly as frightening as everything else he'd seen and learned that night, and Harry squeezed Hermione's hand. With Neville, he understood, at least a little. But with Hermione, he had no idea at all.

"Transportarum," Dumbledore said, and they all spun away.