Accidents of Circumstance

Chapter 26: The Siege of Hogwarts

After the wave of Dementors had been held back with various wizards and witches casting patronus, it was easy to tell that this would be a battle to the death. The Death Eaters didn't mean to let the teachers live, didn't mean to leave the castle unscathed. They didn't know that the children weren't in the castle, and so they had to have meant to hurt the children as well. Those in the rear strengthened the wards on the Great Hall, and those in the front readied themselves for the next round. They were the advance guard, the ones with the fastest reflexes and the quickest minds, the best to respond to uncertain dangers. The advance guard included many Aurors and members of the Order of the Phoenix, all those who had pledged themselves to Dumbledore in advance. He had given them all portkey rings, activated once the alarm had sounded. He had been secretly glad the Order had volunteered; there were too few teachers for the defense of the castle walls otherwise.

The Death Eaters' advance guard were all expendable. None of them had vision, all were following orders to certain death. The Order members realized this quickly, and knew that the Death Eaters were merely biding their time. They meant to tire the teachers with silly duels, knowing that the real trial would follow.

It was too soon to trip the castle defenses. But the Order members were chastened, now realizing that the safeguards were necessary. They had balked at knowing those defenses had been inlaid by McGonagall, Flitwick, Vector and Sinistra as they had waited for the Death Eaters' approach from the forest. But Dumbledore had insisted that they follow instructions to the letter, and the instructions had called for the castle to rise to their aid.

It might become necessary after all.

Tonks, the resident Metamorphmagus, grinned at nobody in particular. She was currently sporting long black hair, bangs to her eyebrows, hazel eyes and was roughly the same height as one Regina Vial. Most of the Death Eaters came her way. She was a quick draw as long as she stood still and didn't trip. Kingsley Shacklebolt was at her side, and took care of everyone she missed. Between the two of them coaxing the Death Eaters further into the Great Hall, many of the Death Eaters were coming closer. There were too many of them, too many reveling in the hate of "lesser" beings, too many caught up in the power promised to them. In comparison, there were too few on the side of Light.

But the side of Light had a master plan drawn up by someone who would destroy the Death Eaters without compunction. And so far, it was working.

The curses and hexes were flying on both sides of the battle now. The rows of teachers and Order members in the back were beginning to take part.

The battle was only going to pick up speed.

***

Stone speech was slow and bulky, unwieldy to anything that wasn't stone. Something like humming to human ears, stone speech was difficult to learn. Regina had barely picked up the rudiments from Dumbledore in order to plead her case once she had come up with a final battle plan with McGonagall and Flitwick. She certainly hadn't tried teaching any to Harry. He waited at her side, watching the door. They knew Voldemort was coming for him, they knew he wanted to be able to carry Harry's dead body into the Great Hall as a trophy. Harry could feel the pull of locator magic within his blood, knew that Voldemort was using the thin connecting thread between them. "He's on his way."

"Yes...." Regina's voice was drawn out, sibilant. It sounded like a human trying to approximate Parselmouth. Harry took a quick look at her, saw that her attention was divided, and let it go. He had other things to worry about.

Voldemort was coming, and he wasn't alone.

***

Bellatrix Lestrange had always been a fearsome creature. Oh, she was darkly beautiful and had her share of suitors back in her Hogwarts days. That was never in doubt. The exalted house of Black had been one draw, and her beauty had been the other. She was fearsome in the sense that none of those suitors could ever contain her wicked impulses. In fact, she had frightened even the Slytherins in her year. She had been too aggressive, too outspoken, too interested in Dark Arts and blood magic. She had found an equal after some time, and married him. She had never regretted the move, as it had been a new pleasure to share her blood games and torture sessions. She had never been one to share, but it had been different with him. He had been more creative in some ways, and had expanded her horizons.

When Voldemort had risen to power, it had been only natural that both Lestranges would join him. They were Pureblood purists and enjoyed power games. Why not?

Bellatrix had been swayed by the early meetings, and insisted on becoming a full Death Eater in her own right. Voldemort had been amused at first, then interested as she proved her capability for cold cruelty. She was never squeamish, and was always willing to torture or kill Muggles in her path. Her loyalty to Voldemort never wavered, not once.

She was looking forward to this kill. Or rather, this constantly regenerating halfblood that refused to die. Voldemort had said that the halfblood would be with Potter, like staying with like, as if she could protect him. Bellatrix was looking forward to separating teacher and student, and continuing the games she had started months earlier. Voldemort had made her wait, and now the anticipation was beginning to grate. She wanted blood now.

"Calm yourself, Bella," Voldemort hissed, coming to an abrupt halt in the hallway. He seemed unsure of himself for a moment.

Narcissa glided to a stop beside Voldemort, eyes sharp as ever. "He's hiding."

Voldemort turned his red reptilian eyes to Narcissa's pale face. "He's here... He's not that skillful to hide from me."

Narcissa's eyes took in the hallway. She didn't recognize it from any of her visits to the Slytherin dungeons as a student. She had visited Lucius often their last year in Hogwarts, after their families had begun talks of their marriage. Lucius had been woefully ignorant of the intricacies in the castle's construction, something only hinted at in Hogwarts: A History. There was something nagging at the back of her mind, something that scattered away from her when she caught Voldemort sniffing the air. It reminded her of a dog, as though Voldemort were some kind of strange reptilian canine. It repulsed her, and she let him stride forward with Bellatrix at her side. She let the tickling thought slide away without giving it another thought. Later, she would wonder what kind of protection spell had caused her to forget. For the moment, she wasn't worried by the lacking memory. Duty called.

***

Ron and Hermione had been separated in the course of battling a band of Death Eaters intending on circumventing the Great Hall's wards. The battle had been intense, and Ron's hair was singed on one side of his head. He had narrowly dodged a magical lightning bolt, and it had passed right by him to land in the middle of another Death Eater's chest. It allowed him to launch a few stunning spells and one mermaid freezing spell at a group of three. The magic to fuel the freezing spell felt as if it had been torn from his chest and bodily hurled at the three Death Eaters, leaving him gasping on his hands and knees.

That was when he realized Hermione was gone.

Ron shot a levitation spell at the last Death Eater in front of him, causing the hooded man to crash into the ceiling with a sickening thud. Ron winced, but decided it couldn't be helped. His magic felt out of control, as if he needed to rein it in and re-anchor it deep within himself. It would take time, and that was something they didn't have.

"Hermione!" he shouted, surprised to hear the painful rasp in his voice. What had that freezing spell done to him?

There was no response, and that frightened Ron even more than seeing her gone. He thought he could hear a crash in a distant hallway, and broke out into a run.

***

Draco found himself at a near run as he followed Snape down the intricate hallways in the bowels deep within the Slytherin dungeons. Snape was carrying Regina's box, minus a small ceremonial dagger she had taken out of it. The box was more bulky than heavy, especially after a few lightening spells Snape had thrown at it. In careful silence, they had crafted several sigils on the walls in magical pastes that Claire had placed into labeled jars. The names were in Navajo, but they were conveniently numbered so that Snape would know the order of application. Draco took the odd numbers and painted on one wall, with Snape creating the mirror images on the opposite wall with the even numbered pastes. They smelled like all kinds of plants, and Draco could pick out a lot of them. When the war was over, he told himself, he would write to Claire and ask about Native American magic. Their sympathetic spells seemed interesting, and the herbal bases were something that could easily be applied to his potions studies.

Once the hallway was treated, Snape took Draco's right hand with his, then chanted out the spell that Claire had helpfully provided. The sigils on the walls glowed a bright white before slowly fading out.

Now it was time to repeat the procedure on the other hallways leading to the central core of the castle. The warning spells would keep all but Voldemort from passing through to the inner sanctum, and whoever was caught in the spells would have to face themselves. Claire had been deliberately vague when describing the effects on those Death Eaters who might get caught in her trap. She had keyed the spell to react to those with the tattoo specifically, and ties to Voldemort in general. As a result, Snape would be mildly affected, but nothing near the effect a true Death Eater would face. It had been the best she could do.

It was quick work, and they did it all in silence. There was no need to speak now, other than the words of the spell. Follow the numbers, paint the sigils, stand back and chant the spell. Watch the sigils glow then fade. Move on to the next hallway. The castle had eight central paths to the core room, all of which had to be warded appropriately. There were no other ways to the core room but those, so no matter what path Voldemort took, he would be caught in the trap Regina was setting.

Snape gave Draco the final item in the box before discarding it. It was a half sword, ornate and sharpened. Draco accepted it, looking at Snape questioningly. "What's this for?"

"It's from Selphie. She left instructions with Gina to let you have it, that you would need it tonight. She said that it was to give you hope even when you didn't think you had any. You don't need it physically, you need what it represents."

Draco pulled the sword from its scabbard and looked down at the hilt, the strange runes almost seeming to glow on his inspection. "She already told me she was proud of me."

"And now you have physical proof," Snape said gruffly. Of all the people in Regina's house, Snape was likely the one to best understand how much Draco needed to know how much he was loved and appreciated. He put a hand on Draco's shoulder and squeezed gently. "You've grown a lot in the past year, Draco. However tonight plays out, I want you to know that you've become a fine Slytherin. You're a fine addition to our House, and you know where your true loyalties lie. It's not for something as questionable as power, but for something more subtle. Very few people choose the side of truth and righteousness. It's a hard path, you know this. But after seeing you more closely these past few months, I do believe you've chosen the right path for yourself. I'm proud of you, Draco. I'm proud to have seen the changes in you, to have been your Head of House. I wanted you to know this, in case anything happens tonight."

Draco swallowed slowly, nodding. He resheathed the sword and handed it reverently back to Snape. "Do you know how to buckle this on properly, sir? If I'm to fight, I need everything to be right."

Snape allowed himself a small smile. It was almost ritualistic, almost like what the Middle Ages must have been like. The liege lord presenting his knight with a blade before battle, giving him words of wisdom. While it was a page's job to equip the knight and attach his armor and weaponry, Snape didn't think of it as demeaning to be asked to attach the sword properly. It was a sign of Draco's trust, not one made lightly. It was also something that Snape accepted, knowing it for what it was. Somehow in the past few months, Snape had replaced Lucius as the boy's role model, and as such was responsible for the boy.

As lovingly as a father might have, Snape buckled the sword to the Muggle jeans that Draco was wearing. He gave Draco's shoulder a squeeze, and then sent him on his way. Selphie's instructions had been clear. Give the boy the sword, give him words of encouragement, then let him face his destiny alone.

Snape stood still, watching Draco glide through the hallways into the upper reaches of the castle. He had to move himself, away from the core room. According to the instructions Selphie had left for him in the den of Regina's house, he would be needed desperately in the Great Hall, in his assigned place in the battle formation.

It was time to face his past and own it.

***

Hermione had gotten lost.

Oh, she would never admit it in a thousand years even if pressed to. But she was lost, having never been to the dungeons, having somehow gotten the hallways confused in her mind after she had gotten separated from Ron. She heard the distant sound of fighting and ran to it, thinking she had circled back to where Ron was battling the three Death Eaters. Once she rounded a corner, however, she saw nothing but stairs leading up. The sound was from above, and the reverberations were loud. Hermione took the stairs two at a time, wand ready. She knew her mermaid magic, knew the incantations by heart. They had lofted the more dangerous ones at wooden posts buried partway in the backyard of Regina's childhood home. She had hit her targets every time, but hadn't felt so smug about it. She was training for war, after all, and it wasn't the same as having an intellectual challenge. This was for survival.

There was a figure in front of her, hovering at the landing. It looked like a person, but there were no eyes in the sockets and there was a vague expression on its face. Rather, on his face, as he had no clothes on at all.

Coming closer, Hermione's eyes widened. It was a human skin, intact and empty, floating in the empty stairway landing. The fighting was some floors above her, and Hermione thought she could hear someone shout "Fight, damn you, or I'll destroy your shell!"

Her mind was encyclopedic, incorporating vast quantities of information in several realms of knowledge now. She knew it made her the butt of jokes. She knew it made her extremely unpopular. She knew this, but couldn't help herself. Learning was what she did best. Making use of that knowledge was what she did second best.

This [skin] must be saved; if burned or otherwise destroyed, the spell will be broken and in turn the Owner shall bleed the equivalent of two cauldrons of blood over the next fortnight in payment. Should another break the spell, the method of payment is left up to this outsider to decide. It will still be blood, but its payment may vary...

Casting a silent plea to whatever higher being in the universe there was, Hermione set the skin on fire. "You will pay for what you've done, whoever you are. You will pay the full measure of blood now."

Somewhere above her, someone began to howl. The skin had been burned by magical fire, and now the equivalent of two cauldrons of blood was beginning to pour. Somehow Hermione doubted that the caster would have used a student-sized cauldron. If not, he was most likely going to die thanks to her work.

Hermione winced when the screams above died off. Yes. She had killed him.

She ran up the stairs, hoping she hadn't just done the wrong thing.

***

Lucius was silently fuming. Lead my men forward. You are my general. It was an insult, a calculated one. Even after all that he had suffered, all the tarnish that the Malfoy name had gotten, he was still nothing to Voldemort. His efforts to please his lord were in vain.

Maybe Narcissa had been right after all. Maybe Voldemort wasn't the way of the future, but merely a means to an end. She had plans involving Draco, Lucius knew, but also knew that any input he could provide would be duly ignored. Her plans were convoluted, running concurrently if not alongside her plans for Voldemort. Our son will be the way of the future, you will see. I've groomed him well.

And suddenly a shaft of cold snaked down his spine. Draco. Something was going to happen to Draco tonight, left in the dungeons with Voldemort on the rampage for Potter. His lord had been heading for the Slytherin dungeons. Everyone knew Potter was a Gryffindor, yet Voldemort hadn't been heading for the tower, but the dungeons.

"Draco," Lucius whispered, blood like ice. His son and heir, the future of the Malfoy clan and the one hope he had of getting out of this mess alive. Narcissa would have shaped the boy well, he would know his duty, know his destiny and fulfill it. Narcissa most likely used Draco as a backup, if anything happened to Voldemort this night.

What if he knew? What if he was treating Lucius so badly because of Narcissa's layers of trickery? Would he take it out on the boy? He had gotten willful lately, but Lucius knew that it was merely a childish pique. The boy styled himself a man now, wanted to be treated as one by his elders. But you never told him anything. You kept him from it as long as you could. Narcissa insisted, and you agreed. You didn't want him tainted. You cared that much.

Lucius shook off his conscience. It was an inconvenience he couldn't be bothered with right now. He had to find his son before Voldemort did.

Lucius barked a series of orders at Nott and Avery, then stalked off toward the dungeons in search of his son. He had to find Draco before Voldemort did, it was his only pervasive thought. He had to preserve his son's life, had to make sure he survived the night. The Death Eaters had planned to rescue their children and bring the castle stones down to the very foundations. Anyone not a loyal Death Eater would die this night. Voldemort had insisted that Harry could not live to see his majority, that his power would increase exponentially at that point, that he would become fully aware of his abilities and be able to utilize them properly. Lucius had privately thought it was bullshit, but had been impressed at the terror campaign Narcissa had dreamed up in response to Voldemort's call for battle strategy. She had been coldly clinical when describing the means to kill the boys once the glamour had taken, the precise markings that had to be inscribed across their chests.

It was only too bad they never had clear reports on whether or not it worked in making the Potter boy afraid. He had to be afraid, else he would think clearly. His powers were already increasing according to Voldemort, that he could lead a band of his fellows and have some kind of success. It was unheard of for a mere boy to do this, so Voldemort had to be careful and kill him early, before the boy could achieve even greater magic.

Lucius headed toward the dungeons, taking one turn after another. He still knew the way, could mark off his formative years within the stone markings. He had made a few of his own throughout the years, using stone banisters as a whetstone before torturing poor Hufflepuffs into doing his bidding. He could still almost taste the blood, even now. Years later, he could recall the exact pitch of the screams from his first blooding, his first kills, his first rapes. It was a matter of pride. He had done everything exquisitely well, after all.

He heard footsteps approaching, felt that strange icy chill down his spine. He had never had feelings of dread before. The sounds were different now, however, the shadows were darker and almost seemed animated. It was almost as if the castle were alive...

Lucius turned one corner after another, snaking through different halls, stalking the empty corridors and wondering where the children were. All of the Slytherin children were gone. The Headmaster would likely have told them to hide, but the Slytherins knew better than to listen to a doddering old fool. They would want to see what the commotion was about, they would know that Dumbledore would hide something important from them. But the halls were strangely empty, and no one challenging him. Where were the children? Where were the hostages? Where had they all gone?

Lucius turned another corner, lost in his musings, and came face to face with his son. It was the first time he had seen the boy since his incarceration, and the boy had changed. He had changed too much, by Lucius' opinion. No wonder he had thought himself adult enough to ignore his father's summons. No wonder he had thought he could be independent. Lucius obviously had missed the signs of Draco growing up, had obviously not kept close enough watch on his son's independent ways.

He would have to correct that.

Lucius reached out for his son, watched Draco recoil. "You shouldn't be here," he said hollowly. "You shouldn't be anywhere near here. They're going to destroy the castle."

How much has he figured out? Lucius thought, before clamping it down. His son knew nothing, was only guessing. Draco hadn't been privy to anyone's plans. He hadn't been part of anything important, had been kept from everything. He had been isolated, and now Lucius saw the folly of it. He should have known. Draco should have been introduced to the mechanics of death and destruction from the cradle, rather than kept isolated. He should have interfered with Narcissa's handling, never mind her strange ways. He should have made the boy strong enough and taught him enough to be a Death Eater from birth.

Too late for that now. Draco's eyes were unreadable pools, though his expression was one of distrust. "You shouldn't be here," Draco said again. This time, his voice wavered, gave away his nervousness.

Ah, such filial caring. "I am my Lord's right hand, Draco. You know this. I am very important, and required to direct his army. You can join me."

Draco shook his head. "I don't think I can."

Lucius felt his mask of indifference slip for a split second, could only imagine the look of rage on his face. "Let's not go through this silly childish pique of yours. You will do as you should, you will fulfill your destiny."

Draco seemed calmer now. "I certainly plan to, Father. But my destiny doesn't lie with you any longer. I'm on a different path."

Lucius didn't bother to conceal his disappointment now. His heir was refusing his heritage; it had been done once before, and Imperius had set things right. Lucius removed his wand from his sleeve, keeping his eyes locked on his son's. "You disappoint me, Draco. I would have thought you mature enough to make the right decision."

"I am, Father. For me."

"No. You're trying to embarrass me, trying to throw some tantrum. You're too old for this, and I won't have it." Lucius lifted his wand. "Im-"

Draco lifted the sword at his waist and sliced the wand cleanly in two. "I don't want to hurt you, Father. Please let me pass."

Weakness. Lucius took a good look at his son, noticed the Muggle clothing, the unkempt hair that had grown a shade too long. His eyes were clear, no spell in place.

"You shame me, Draco. You do a disservice to the Malfoy name. You-"

"I've grown up, Father," Draco said quietly. It held a firm resolve, one that Lucius had hoped would be directed elsewhere. "I can see for myself now. I was only ever a pawn to you, you never really cared about me as your son."

"That's not true, Draco," Lucius said. His tone was slightly wheedling. "Is that what this is about? You think I never loved you? You think I only used you?"

"Didn't you?"

That waver in Draco's voice. Was the boy about to cry? Lucius despised weakness, would never want it in a son of his. What had Narcissa done to corrupt the boy? There had been such potential in him, such magic that could have been shifted to their cause. If only she had never played her games, left his mind to me!

"Enough. There's no time for these kinds of games. They're beneath your dignity."

"This is no game, Father," Draco said in a low tone. He was in a perfect fencing position, and Lucius had no wand and no sword. "This is very real, and very important."

"I don't have time for your nonsense right now. Where are your classmates? Were they sensible enough to get out in time? They had better not still be in their dorm, or they're going to die with all of the Muggle-born and Muggle-lovers."

Draco's face hadn't moved even a fraction of a millimeter. "That's your plan? Destroy the castle, kill the opposition?"

"It's a master stroke. Surely you can realize that, even in this tantrum of yours."

Lucius watched his son's face, suddenly realizing that he never really knew this child of his, never understood how his mind worked. Narcissa had always said it was important, but Lucius had thought he knew better. Suddenly, he wished he understood what Draco was thinking, what he was going to do to his father.

Draco, for his part, was feeling his heart break. That had to be it, that nagging hole in his chest that seemed to swallow him whole. He was in such pain, his throat closed up around it and stopping it from spilling out in a futile scream. His father never loved him, never considered him anything other than an extension of himself. As Voldemort considered Lucius an arm, Lucius considered Draco an arm, if that high. Maybe he was merely a foot.

He thought briefly of the past months in isolation with Regina and Snape, with the Golden Trio. The Triumvirate had sometimes functioned as a unit, but they all obviously respected and loved each other. There were differences, there were spats, but there was underlying love there, something that kept them tied to each other, helping each other, being with each other when they were most needed. He had never felt anything like that from his parents, and had only realized it when trying to describe his mother to Potter. His mother was inscrutable. She wasn't Regina's stereotypical Ice Queen mother, but she was a perfectionist. She did revere knowledge more than love, she did expect certain things from him without giving any emotion in return. His father was less of an enigma, but scary nonetheless. Potter had ghosts at his side, and Draco had statues. He wasn't sure which was better.

Lucius was stepping forward. "What are you going to do, boy? Kill me? Run your father through, after all he's done for you, to make you strong and worthy of our name?" The derision was palpable; Draco could feel it across his skin and skittering across his brain. "Give me that silly knife and I'll forget you ever did this. We have magic to perform. We have our duty."

We all have our duty. This was true.

the way to escape is the way to embrace, and become all that you wished you were and reject all that you wished you weren't and let go of all you once could have been but can be no more. the way forward is backward and the way through is out and the way within is without.

Lucius was sneering at him. "Do you think of your precious teacher now? That damn halfblood that's corrupted you? Is that it? You still want to fuck a halfblood? I thought you better than that. You should know that would only soil yourself. We have everything set for you. Just get over your silly tantrum and accept it."

"You don't understand, do you, Father?" Draco's voice was sad, so sad. "You never really did."

Lucius' face hardened. "I'll make you understand, then. You're a boy. My boy. And your fate is mine, and your destiny is mine. I decide what's best for you, since you obviously don't know it for yourself. I have done nothing but prepare you for the time you would succeed me. And is this the thanks I get? Is this what you do to thank your Father for your care? Is this what the Malfoy name is going to be?!"

Draco flinched; his father shouting was never a good sign. Lucius took the opportunity to slap him across the face, and Draco felt the sword fall from his fingers. With it, he could almost feel the bravado slide away from him. He was going to lose. He was going to cave in, he would do whatever his father said, he would so whatever it was required in order to survive. The others would die, everyone would die, and he would be nothing but a pawn, nothing but the latest Malfoy in a long string of Malfoys that did nothing but scheme and plot and crave the next bloody adventure, the next rise to power, the next influx of money. The Malfoys lived off of the pain of others, off of death and destruction, pain and misery.

And Draco wanted none of it.

Become all that you wished you were...

I love you, Draco. I love who you are and what you can become. You're not just the sum of a name. I've gotten to know you now. I've gotten to see you for who you really are, and what they say you are isn't that. You are whoever you want to be. Whether it's someone that wants to be with me or not is another story, but your fate is your own. No one can tell you where your path lies, no one else but you.

If he followed his father, he would never see Ginny again. If Lucius had his way, every Weasley would meet their death this night. He would never even get to make fun of Ron again, and he suddenly missed it.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. He had known all along what he would have to do, but it didn't make the task any easier. This must be how Potter faced every morning, the getting up and the going through the motions knowing that one day he would have to face his destiny, like it or not, and just deal with it. There was no way around it, none.

I love you, Draco, Ginny had said, just before they parted, every night in his dreams.

I'm proud of you, Draco, Snape had said just now. Regina had said the same thing, and Selphie had written it to him in a letter.

I guess you're not so bad, Potter had admitted in the basement. I just never knew you. I only knew what people said, and you never seemed any different from what they said. Why didn't you even try to be who you really are?

But how can you do that if you don't even know?

Draco's eyes snapped open. Lucius was in mid-rant, as though Draco were ten and had done something bad, had strayed into the wrong part of the Manor.

Draco reached out, touched his father's chest with his right hand. "Consanguinare," he whispered, the word a bastardized Latin form. The spell mechanics in his mind actually came more from the Gera, from one of the books high on a shelf in the den that Regina had no intention of ever teaching the children.

Draco was closing his fist around his father's heart, drawing it out of the chest cavity while it was still beating. He stepped backwards, his right hand extended in front of him, a hum in his throat. If he ever stopped humming, his father would die. If his father said something, anything to make Draco sorry, he would place the heart back in his father's chest. He wanted to, really, he wanted to love his father, he wanted his father's approval. Some part of him would always be that little boy looking up at his father with a grin, wanting to be just like him, wanting to be important and loved and the source of pride of a family.

Tears in his eyes, Draco watched his father, hoping that he could save him.

"You fucking bastard," Lucius hissed. "After all I've done for you, after all the times I've kept you from seeing, all the work I've invested in you.... Traitor. You fucking bastard, you're no son of mine. No son of mine would ever do this to me..."

Draco felt the tears burn down his cheeks, and stopped humming. "You give me no choice, Father. I'm sorry. I wish you could have loved me."

Lucius stared at Draco in shock, feeling the sharp pains in his chest from a heart that was no longer there. I wish you could have loved me. He had once said the same thing to his own father, had gotten nothing but a slap in the face. Prove to me that you're worthy of it, boy, and maybe someday I will.

"I never understood..." Lucius gasped, clutching at his chest. The pain was only increasing, and his breath wasn't coming in right. Something was making the pain spread throughout his body. He had never felt pain like this before, never.

"Can you feel it? That's my pain you feel now. This is what you gave me, all those years I tried to make you happy, I did everything I could to make you love me, I did whatever you said, hoping you would say you were proud of me. Why couldn't you love me?!"

Lucius felt himself falling, finally understanding what had always been important to his son. Not temporal power, but something else much more intricate and out of his reach. Draco had never been one to aspire for the simple.

Why couldn't you love me?

Draco looked at his Father in his death throes, oblivious to all but the pain ripping him apart from the inside out. His silvery blonde hair, his carefully styled clothes, everything was in disarray. Maybe now his father could understand, though it was much too late to do anything about it. This spell was necessarily fatal. Draco knew what he had been doing, knew that he was only going to be free of his parents' spell if they were dead.

Ginny had known. She had tried to tell him all those times, but he had always refused to listen. It's not something done easily, not something done quickly.

Dragon fire strikes the root and fells the source of the font. Silence shutters the seed alone, leaving him to his want. Hair across the stone...

Draco finally understood the cause of Ginny's seizures, the fatal vision she had that night, the pain and suffering of it all. This wasn't an act of revenge, it wasn't a strike for independence either. It was something more complicated and painful than that.

Draco stared until his father was still, until he was nothing more than a corpse lying on the stone of the hallway. No breath, no life, no pain. Only death and destruction.

To be free, he was no better than his own ancestors.

Draco let loose a howl of pain, then broke out into a run.

***

Narcissa froze. Something felt broken inside of her, something had snapped as some part of her elaborate chain of spells had come undone. Who was it? Who had died? Who had left her alone to carry on?

Voldemort was oblivious, kept right on going. Bellatrix was just behind him, chortling at the thought of blooding the halfblood that had somehow refused to die.

But those that belong to the fates never die easily, not until their purpose is fulfilled, and only then if the Fates are kind, Narcissa thought. She rubbed her right palm wearily, a shiver snaking down her spine. Something was wrong here, something was very wrong. Something didn't feel right, and it felt worse with every step. Narcissa stopped trying to catch up, let the dread wash over her. Her instincts were on fire, telling her that some magic was about, some trap she was going to be walking into. Something had happened, something had gone very, very wrong, and she was vulnerable now. She wasn't as invincible as she had thought, and if she wasn't very careful, she would skip onto the wrong track in her broken lifeline. Things would go either of two ways tonight. Neither were easy, but if she died tonight it would be quick. The Fates would let her die if it was tonight.

If not, they had other uses for her, and it wouldn't be easy.

Bellatrix screamed up ahead. Narcissa squeezed her eyes shut and slowly backed away. It was cowardice, but Narcissa had no intentions of dying here tonight. Perhaps the Fates would be kind to her as they had never been kind to her family. Death and destruction all around, the smell of dank dungeons and blood, old stale blood half rotting in clots. Narcissa had sold her soul for a child, knowing full well she had never been capable of carrying one to term. She had lied to Lucius all along, and the fool had never known. He had been oblivious of everything under his nose, had never bothered to ask her why she sometimes disappeared for days and looked so wan and pale. But she was the Ice Queen, after all, so slight and frail, so pale and listless-looking, it had never occurred to Lucius that something had happened.

Draco was her child, but she owed the Fates. They hadn't collected yet, but it was only a matter of time. She wouldn't be able to refuse them. Maybe they would have pity on her frail form, give her an easy death. Even the Fates were Mothers, even the Fates had souls and hearts and minds capable of being moved.

It had to be so. It had to be.

Narcissa turned and ran down the hallway, away from the screaming, away from Voldemort and the feeling of dread that had come over her.

Everything was only a matter of time.

***

She felt as if she were being burned alive. It wasn't pleasant, it was never pleasant, and Bellatrix knew she should move past it and help her Lord. But she couldn't see him, and there was nothing but pain and blood and the feeling of being burned. She felt as though she were being weighted, judged, found wanting.

I need a good defense. Help me, Lord. Cissy, help me.

But there was no help. It was looking into the black maw of eternity and seeing emptiness there, knowing that there was no beginning and no end, no way out and no way in, no end to the pain and misery she was being consumed by.

It was hell. And it was hers. She deserved every second of it, and couldn't even hope to get away from it.

Bellatrix felt herself falling forward, arms reaching out and touching velvet robes. It was distant, the hands belonging to some other creature far away. They weren't her hands anymore, they didn't listen to her anymore. They didn't destroy or let out blood. Blood, that lovely dark red color, the taste so coppery and vital. She didn't have any of that anymore, either. Her body was no longer her own, and it felt as though it were being twisted from the inside out, being dissolved and reduced to nothing. It was only fitting; she was nothing. Nothing to nothing, ash to ash, death to death, endings to endings.

This is the way the world ends. The silence and the darkness, the inescapability of time, the hell I've created for myself, the knowledge sinking in and not leaving me alone. Pain and death without dying, blood and nerves on fire, screaming and my body not listening to me, not part of me anymore.

Detached, she watched her body crumble in an ungainly heap. Her flesh bubbled and boiled, melted from her bones. Her bones were charred, scarred, marked with every cut she had ever made in life. Her spirit was still tied to her bones, to the bits of tangled and half melted flesh still stubbornly clinging to her bones, to the blackened ends of tendon where muscle used to be, to the smell of acid and smouldering hair and flesh. She was tied to this mess for the rest of eternity, feeling the pain of it, knowing she deserved it.

This is her hell, this is her prison. There is no oblivion.

Voldemort was abandoning her. She was no longer useful. That cut her, cut her even more than her punishment. If he had grieved, it would have made it easier to bear. If anyone had grieved, she could suffered and known that someone made it worthwhile. But her husband was dead, reduced to bubbling blood on the Great Hall floor. Her sister had fled in selfish terror. Her friends never had liked her. Her Lord was deserting her. She was in a hell of her own making, and she was alone in it.

Her soul was trapped. Eternity in this blasted shell, eternity with pain and knowledge that she could have avoided it.

Her soul began to howl, but there was no one left to care.

***

Voldemort regally swept past the smoking ruin of what had once been a beautifully cruel woman. She was useless now, and there was no point in grieving for the loss of a servant, no matter how useful she had once been.

He stepped into the cube room at the center of the castle, saw the halfblood chanting, eyes downcast and not seeing her surroundings. The Potter boy suddenly became alert, and Voldemort could feel the thread connecting them thicken into a rope. They were connected, and it would be done this night. Everything would be over tonight.

Voldemort struck the side of Regina's head, sending her into the wall. A blast of magic had the fool boy flying backward into the wall. He turned his wand into a blade... or rather, he tried to. His wand was a useless piece of wood, not conducting his magic cleanly. He could feel his magic sputter and stop as it touched his wand, as if he were touching an ordinary branch that had fallen in the forest.

He must have disrupted her spell just in time, as he could still feel his magic within himself fighting to get loose. She may have tried to take his magic, but she was only a halfblood. The old magic wouldn't save her, not against the true visionary for the Wizarding World.

As Potter struggled to his feet, Voldemort let his velvet robe flutter to the ground. The floor was shaking, but he ignored it. At his belt was a ceremonial knife, the Dark Mark inscribed into its hilt. As the halfblood struggled to her feet while holding onto the wall, he thrust the knife into her chest, between her ribs. He knew how to do this, knew he severed vital arteries that she needed to sustain life. Blood was bubbling up from her lips, and she was collapsing bonelessly against the stones. She brought her hand to her lips, stared at the blood for a moment. Voldemort removed his blade and knocked her down as the Potter boy began to scream. It had happened so fast, the blink of an eye.

Voldemort allowed himself a laugh as he placed his foot over her chest, holding her in place as she was coughing blood. He twisted his boot before lifting it off.

"I will enjoy breaking you."

Regina's face twisted into one of annoyance. "Why is it that everyone's so fucking interested in breaking me? Don't you people understand? I'm already broken. You can't break me again, not now, not ever."

Voldemort placed a nasty kick to Regina's ribs. "Don't be so sure."

Harry heard something break, and steeled himself to Regina's scream of pain. He would have to fight, all right, and fight dirty if need be. Regina's life was in the balance, and Harry had no illusions that she would die if he didn't manage to defeat Voldemort.

Voldemort faced Harry Potter. The boy wasn't screaming any longer, merely holding the sword of Gryffindor as if it were a talisman, as if it would be enough to save him.

"She will die, boy. And so will you."

"I'm not afraid of you, Voldemort," Harry said, voice steely. He didn't spare Regina another glance; he couldn't afford to. The battle between them had begun.

"You are foolish, and don't know what's good for you." Voldemort gave Harry a reptilian grin, red eyes flashing. "But I will teach you."

Harry felt the magic surge around him, the swirling and eddying ripples from the ley line junction. The room was sealed, and no one would get in until one of them died. Regina hadn't planned on being in the room, had thought she would complete her spells of protection and warding, had thought she would finish the stone speech and be on her way to the Great Hall to aid in the fight above. She wasn't supposed to be here, wasn't supposed to be bleeding. The Fates wouldn't let her die just yet... would they?

If he won, he could plead for her life. This wasn't her time to die, not yet. He knew this, could feel it in the magic currents around him. She wasn't supposed to die yet, there were still plans for her. But if he wasn't careful, she would die for him anyway.

Harry was tired of being a martyr, tired of others dying in his place. It was nothing but a long string of death behind him, too many others sacrificed in his place.

No longer. Now he would take control of his own destiny.

"It ends here, Voldemort. Someone's going to die here, and it won't be me."

"I'll enjoy killing you, cementing my power." Voldemort's voice was a heavy rasp as he tried to focus his energies into converting his knife into a sword. It was lengthening slowly but surely, and Harry tried not to grin at the obvious effort it was costing him. "I'll take your body to your precious Dumbledore, I'll show him how ineffectual he is. You're nothing but a stepping stone in my path."

Harry grinned insolently. No one would die for him this day, he would make sure of it. He would live or die on his own terms.

"I'm ready."

Voldemort attacked.

***

***