Accidents of Circumstance

Chapter 27: Secrets of the Dead

Hermione found herself in the Great Hall. A widening ring of Death Eaters were backing away from an oozing mass of flesh, and Weidmuller was standing next to it. His mouth had fallen open in shock, and he looked up at Hermione with a grateful expression. Then he took out his wand, which was safely tucked into his robes, and began to curse the Death Eaters surrounding him with a ferocity that shocked her. Hermione had never seen Weidmuller so passionate about anything, and he had somehow managed to make Defense Against the Dark Arts boring even for her. Now he was a different man, using those spells he had droned on about with a casual elegance that told her why Dumbledore had hired him in the first place.

Hermione called up a spectral banshee to chase after a few Death Eaters, then ran up to Weidmuller's side. "What happened?"

Weidmuller stared down at the bloody mass at his feet, still seeping. "That used to be Lestrange. After he was broken out of Azkaban last year, he took up his old Dark Arts studies. I accepted this job, and he found out. He used the Flower of Darkness spell on me."

"Then that was your skin I burned?"

"That was you?" he asked, jaw dropping. "But how did you know that was the right thing to do to set me free?"

"I read about that spell doing research into a prophecy."

"If it's about Harry, then you can't help him. Only he can defeat Voldemort, and that's on his own."

Hermione blinked. "But-"

Weidmuller suddenly shoved Hermione aside and shot a stunning spell behind her. "We'll have to talk later, Hermione. This isn't a safe place for you."

He was already moving away, not even waiting for her reply. The man even walked differently, more confident and self assured. Perhaps he had never been inept, then, but merely commanded to do so. And what had Lestrange ordered him to do? Betray his fellow teachers and strike them down?

Hermione readied her wand. She would have rather tried to look for Ron, but they needed her here. If she hadn't known any better, Hermione would have thought some sort of cloning spell had been produced to make all these Death Eaters. But they were different all right, but most of them were much too young, hardly more than children. Voldemort had used all of these fresh-faced youngsters to tire Hogwarts into submission. He assumed it would be only a matter of time before his more capable officers entered the Great Hall to do damage.

There were benefits to an encyclopedic mind. Using that arsenal of spells was one of them, and Hermione charged into the fray with a ferocity that would later scare her.

***

Snape heard the sizzle of flesh, heard the screams of someone who had been hit and burned. Not completely, as he took care of that, but enough to wound their wand arm. It was a new strategy for the latest crop of Death Eaters; if you couldn't actually kill your opponent, wound them so that you could kill them later. It implied a little more thought than he had thought them capable of, and a deviousness that was really indicative of Lucius Malfoy. Snape hadn't seen him yet, but knew the man was out there somewhere, Voldemort's General, directing the army of skittish youngsters.

Too many people were going to die here, too many. There was no other way around it, no way to prevent the death toll from climbing.

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.

Snape found himself breathing more deeply, found the calm center within himself. He was stoic, he was strong, he was of sterner stuff. He was a Snape, damn it all, and would fight to the end as a Snape. Principle over pleasure, fight over flight, endings before beginnings. He threw the curses that needed to be cast, he sent hexes flying overhead. He was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and now was certainly the time to act like it.

He was almost sorry he had treated the Potter boy so badly. The tremor in the stones beneath his feet meant that the main battle was on, that Voldemort and Potter were locked in combat to the death. If Potter failed...

But no. While he couldn't use those wand spells and hexes he had practiced so much, he had other means of magic at his disposal, and he had the Sword of Gryffindor, his House's talisman of power. It would lend some protection, buy the boy some time to incant the Fates to enter this realm and deal judgment on Voldemort.

Potter had to win. He was strong of mind and body, and had whip fast reflexes. Snape couldn't take back the last six years any more than he could take back the last sixteen. And really, Potter was better for the rough treatment. He knew that not everyone would fawn over him, that not everyone would like him for his reputation. It was best that it was learned before the night was over. When Potter destroyed Voldemort, everyone would descend upon him and declare him their savior. If it wasn't for Snape's influence, Potter would be swayed. At least, Snape tried to tell himself this. He doubted Potter would see it that way, that he would feel grateful for being shaped and tempered in Snape's potions class.

Snape felt a cutting curse attach to his left arm, and he quickly shrugged out of his robes. He ducked quickly, and shook the robe into a Death Eater's face. The curse ripped his robe to shreds, and continued into the Death Eater's face. The unearthly howls stopped quickly, mercifully, and Snape was left in Muggle garb that had once belonged to one of Regina's foster brothers. He knelt low and began a small bomb spell. Nothing fancy, nothing with the force of magnitude as a Black Egg of Uncreation, but something that would rock the floors and send the influx of Death Eaters back into the stairway of the Receiving Hall. It would buy their side more time, and it was time they needed badly.

"Do your work, Potter," he muttered, casting the bomb spell. "It needs to save us all."

***

Draco had to be in hell. It was the only explanation.

Narcissa was gliding down the hallway, away from the center of the castle. She was running, he knew. She was running away from those spells woven into the hallways, and she was heading right for him. She would know, she would know, she would know...

Narcissa saw her son's pale face, saw the tremble in his lips. "Draco, darling. You're safe and sound."

Something was warning him that he shouldn't speak. Draco only nodded, and he saw Narcissa's lips thin slightly. She was displeased. She would pull on that black ribbon around her wrist, and he would feel pain in his gut, and if she twisted it, so would he.

But she didn't pull on the string. She wasn't even wearing it. Narcissa reached for him and touched his face lightly. "It's your father, isn't it? I felt something die."

Draco only nodded, biting his lip. "I've been running from it."

He only just realized that he had left Selphie's short sword beside his father's corpse.

Narcissa swept him up into her arms. "My son, we have so much work to do. We have to get out of here quickly."

"Mother?"

She let go of him slowly. "It's too much to explain now, the spells to keep you safe. I need to get you back to the Manor, away from all this death. It's weakening me, this pain. I've always been so delicate, you know."

"Mother, I have things I need to do..."

"She killed, you know. That teacher of yours, the one you've liked so much. She's killed people before, she knows exactly how to do it without getting caught."

I have this dream right before I do something stupid, Regina had said.

"I know," Draco replied softly. "She told me."

His mother's lips thinned. She was displeased, she hadn't liked his answer.

Draco could have cursed himself for his stupidity. He hadn't stopped to think of how she knew Regina's secret, the one she kept so closely guarded. How had his mother known? How did she know what could have been used against him if Regina hadn't told him herself? How did she know just how to attack his defenses?

Pretaxa qui reen. Silence before wisdom.

Draco thought of the dead pigeons in the basement, the six clumps of bloody tissue in a forgotten storeroom in the corner of the basement. He had felt the pull, had known that stepping into the room would be a bad idea. Some things, you just didn't investigate. Some things were better left alone.

It was too easy to let everything go, to let his mother think for him again. Let her make the decisions, let her tell him what to do. She made things simple. She made things easy for him, just go and take this potion to your grandmother, Draco, it'll make her well so she can play with you again and she'll tell you stories again. Drink this, Draco, and the pain of your grandmother's death will be less. Say these strange words after me, and you won't be sick anymore. Do exactly as I do, say exactly what I say. It's a game, Draco, you need to copy me. Just follow me, just let me do what I need to do.

"That's it," Narcissa breathed. She was an arm's length away from Draco. "That's it, just the way it used to be, the two of us, studying together. It will all be over soon, all the pain. You didn't mean to, you just don't know how much power you have. But it'll be all right again, I'll fix everything. It's just the two of us now, Draco, and I'll take care of everything."

"I need to grow up, Mama," Draco said. He was horrified to hear his voice thick with unshed tears and barely contained pain.

"I'll help you, Draco. This is what you were meant to do. You are my Seventh, and no prophecy will take that from me."

Six clumps of bloody tissue arranged in a hexagram. The Fates needed a gift of blood.

Narcissa watched the realization dawn on her son's face. He truly was an intelligent young man, and he had grown more powerful in the months away from home. She could feel the power within him, humming and almost wild beneath his skin. It was good that she had caught him now, before he would go on his own into the world. He needed to be tamed, to be reshaped to her will, to know her commands for his own. It was important to make the transition now. When Voldemort died this night, his power would be added to Draco's, and it would then be only a matter of time before the Malfoy name was exalted again.

"Mother..."

"Draco, my son. You have grown into a fine young man. It's time to grow into your heritage, to reach your destiny."

Too many times in the past few days people have tried to talk to him about his destiny.

"But I have, Mother. I have. Can't you see it?"

Narcissa tried to rein in the weaving of spells around Draco. He could not get loose, not now, not when everything was so close. She reached out to touch his face. "My son, I have worked so hard for you, my only child. I've done my best to do what's right for you."

If only she hadn't said the words so late. Draco found himself stepping backward, away from her touch, and backed into the stone walls. "Mother, what about me? What about my goals? What about what I want to do with my life?"

"There's time for that, Draco," Narcissa said calmly. Her eyes were chips of ice. "There's time enough for everything."

Draco watched helplessly as Narcissa stepped forward. He knew his face was one of terror, couldn't help it. He could feel her twisting her spells tighter around him, using his own emotions against him. He wanted to please her, wanted to make her proud, wanted to hear her tell him that she loved him. He was five again, looking up at her, chubby hand in hers and a silly grin on his face thinking she was the most beautiful angel in the world. "Mother," he said, voice choked in his terror. "Please don't..."

"It won't hurt for long, Draco, you'll see. Everything is for the best, you'll see. Mummy knows best, I would never let you hurt for long." Narcissa touched Draco's cheek, her fingers frozen through and stiff against his skin. "I'm your mother. I only want what's best for you, Draco. I know what's best." She looked into his frightened eyes and leaned forward slightly, pressing her lips against his forehead. It felt like frostbite. "You have a purpose, Draco, and a lineage behind you that will set you to rule. There's time enough for what you want, after you finish what I've started for you."

"Mother..." Draco choked. He was slowly freezing to death within his own body. Her spells had drawn too tight, and he hadn't been able to fight against his own mother. The problem was, he knew she loved him in her own way. She did, and she had her convoluted plots because she wanted him to become a great man. She wanted him to be strong and proud, wanted him to be the best. She wanted what was right for him, what was best. She was trying to be a good mother by him, was trying to do the right thing.

"Don't fight it, Draco," Narcissa crooned, her lips against his hair now. "Mummy will fix everything, and no one will ever hurt you again."

"Mother," Draco breathed, feeling almost every defense fall against her. He was going to break. All he had left was his dreams of a Potions apprenticeship and Ginny Weasley kissing him in the dark and holding him close. They hadn't even made love yet, he couldn't lose her. Draco closed his eyes against the silent mirrors of his mother's eyes. They reflected back a frightened child, not a young man on the cusp of adulthood. In her eyes, he wasn't ready for the world yet, not ready for the challenges he would have to face.

But Ginny loves you, just as you are. If she hadn't had that seizure, you know what would have happened that night. Boys don't do that sort of thing, only men...

Narcissa leaned back slightly, a curl to her lips. "Why do you resist? You never did before. What's making you stop me?"

He felt tears prick the insides of his eyes. He had made her unhappy. That wasn't good, she only wanted the best for him, she only wanted what was right. She loved him, she did, it wasn't her fault he was such a willful and wild boy, not knowing what was good for him, it wasn't her fault he needed such careful direction. It wasn't her fault he was falling apart right in front of her eyes, almost bawling like a baby.

"Petrificalus totalus!" a hoarse voice shouted from down the hall.

Narcissa's snarl was frozen for all posterity. Ropes sprung from a hidden wand, and circled his mother. She was bound completely, rope running from Narcissa's lips to her toes, binding her as if she were one of those Egyptian mummies in one of Regina's books. Ron Weasley stepped into view. "Malfoy? What in Merlin's name is going on?"

"Mum," he whispered, dropping his eyes to hers. She was still perfectly conscious within her shell, perfectly aware of how weak and helpless he was, how much he needed her guidance and that this Weasley had interrupted their chat. Foul Muggle-lover. Draco knew that Narcissa must be seething, the roiling emotion carefully contained. He knew she was disappointed. He knew he had done her wrong when she didn't deserve it.

Ron was pulling Draco away. "Sodding git, look at you! We need to get out of here before the rest of the Death Eaters come and get us."

"Mother!" Draco screeched, lunging for his mother. He nearly broke Ron's grip.

"Dammit, Malfoy! Get some sense!" Ron hit Draco in the back of the head with a balled fist and watched him drop to the floor without satisfaction. Didn't Malfoy realize his own mother was trying to hex him?

Ron avoided Narcissa's eyes and dragged Draco from the hallway. It was a good thing he had stumbled upon them when he did. He had been running around in circles looking for Hermione. She would never admit in a thousand years if she was lost, but he knew she had to be, else she would have come back to him. He had managed to creep along the unfamiliar halls without being seen, using the time to re-anchor his magic deep within himself. It was a simple meditation technique Muggles used all the time that Regina had showed him, and it worked almost as good as a healing spell. It calmed him, allowed him to think clearly. He kept a grip on his wand, just in case, and had followed the sound of hushed voices.

And there had been Malfoy cowering against the stone walls, his mother standing in front of him. Malfoy should have been able to stop her from intimidating him, should have been able to stand up for himself. But he just said "Mother" dumbly, as though he had no other thoughts in his mind but that.

At that moment, Ron had realized she was casting a spell over her own son. There was no other explanation for why Malfoy would seem so cowed by a thin and pale woman that looked as though she could barely keep herself upright. It suddenly made sense to him why Ginny would tell him to keep an eye on Malfoy, to keep him from betraying himself. It suddenly made sense why Malfoy had always been his worst and most demeaning at the beginning of the school year or just after holiday, when the influence of his mother would have been the greatest. Everyone might have been afraid of Lucius Malfoy's cruelty, but they had completely ignored the hidden danger that Narcissa Malfoy posed.

Ron hadn't thought twice about hexing Narcissa Malfoy. He was only partly surprised by Malfoy's reaction. But then, it was the teen's mother, and he was under a spell. He was sure that Malfoy would thank him later, when he could think for himself.

In the meantime, they had to get as far away from her as they could. Ron had no idea what the range of Narcissa's spells were, and he knew he wasn't her favorite person right now. He was a Weasley, right off the bat, and now he'd disrupted her spells around Draco. It would be only a matter of time before she tried to get revenge for that.

Draco was heavier than he looked. "Sodding git. You owe me."

Ron dragged Draco behind him, hoping Narcissa wouldn't take revenge now.

***

Eyes as silver as mirrors, hair as red as fire.

Draco was staring up at Ginny, who had a smile on her face. "I knew you could do it."

"But I didn't do anything! I couldn't stop her!"

"But you did, Draco. Don't you remember? She said you were resisting her. And why were you resisting her?"

"I was thinking of you," Draco whispered, reaching out for Ginny. His vision was just beginning to resolve into shapes, and she seemed to be the brightest thing within the gray mist, her skin bare and pale, hair long and red and her dress a bright and shiny yellow. "We were making plans for next year, that I would apply for the Potions apprenticeship, and live here in Hogwarts while you finish your NEWTS. We'd be together."

"And that is why she failed. This is why the Seventh of Seventh had caused her to fail. All of her most elaborate plots all left out something important."

"What?"

Ginny touched her lips with her fingertips, then reached out to touch Draco's chest. "The power of the human heart. It can be unstoppable."

Draco's breath hitched. "When will you be back?"

"This true night is almost done, and I can return to the proper stream of time."

"Soon," Draco breathed. His arms closed around her ghostly form. "Soon I'll hold you for real, kiss you for real."

Her lips touched his forehead, right where his mother's had, and he could feel a ghostly kind of warmth, the remembrance of the pressure in a kiss. "I'm with you, Draco, always. You have to remember that. You'll always have me."

Somehow the emptiness was easier to bear knowing this. He wasn't really alone, there wasn't really silence all around him. He had Ginny, and through her he had his connections to the rest of the world. He wasn't alone at all.

Knowing this made it easier to regain proper consciousness.

***

Hermione ducked and rolled away from a tangle of ropes. They bounced harmlessly off the stone walls, and she broke into a run. She had heard the most horrible thing, and she was too far away to be of any help...

McGonagall was up ahead, forced to use her wand in her left hand. It made her seem awkward, a first year holding a wand for the first time. Her aim was off, and she was forced to let Vector disable her opponent. Vector cast an aiming spell on McGonagall, then sped off into another tangle of activity.

"Professor!" Hermione shrieked, tripping as a spell caught up her feet. She crashed to the floor, and McGonagall sent a freezing spell over Hermione's head to the Death Eater that attacked her. "They said-"

It was too late.

One Death Eater transfigured another into a dragon, and it began to breathe fire. Most of the teachers and Order of the Phoenix members scrambled out of the way. Dumbledore was still in its path, and attempted to construct a barrier shield around the dragon. It was incomplete, and a jet of fire burst forth through the holes in the barrier. One blast caught Dumbledore in the chest, and he lit up like a candle wick. There were no screams, and he merely fell backward onto the ground without ceremony.

Hermione had always thought that it would be Voldemort that killed Dumbledore, if anyone was even capable of such a thing. She had never imagined it would be a Death Eater in the guise of a dragon.

The room was stunned. Dumbledore wasn't moving, and the fire had gone out. He was smoldering, smoke rising from his corpse.

And then the attacks began again.

***

Voldemort and Harry circled each other, slightly wary. Harry could still throw hexes and curses, but didn't want to do so just yet; it was likely that Voldemort didn't know this. His sword training was just about nonexistent, but Voldemort had to use a blade to cut him. If he didn't, there would be no calling on the Fates, and Harry didn't know if he was capable enough to take out Voldemort with his magic alone. He could feel the surge of magic within Voldemort, especially within the heart of the castle, among the junction lines. His own magic was enhanced as well, but he was practical enough by now not to think he was better.

Voldemort gave an experimental forward jab. Harry ducked and parried awkwardly, then backed away. "You will never win with a defense like that, boy," Voldemort hissed. The grin was hideous, reptilian flesh stretched over gaunt bone. "You might as well surrender now."

Too many people had died for him to merely bowl over and expose his throat. Harry knew that everyone upstairs was depending on him. He knew that no one else could kill Voldemort, no one else had any hope of defeating him. Trelawney's prediction had pretty much said that, and Harry knew that the vague nature of prophecies left some wiggle room in the interpretation. But in some aspects, they were always dead on.

They began to fence a bit, but Harry's stance was improper. Then again, so was Voldemort's. They ran at each other, steel clashing off of steel, and it was all Harry could do to keep the sword within his grasp. Fighting another person was much more difficult than stabbing a basilisk, and it took more coordination to keep the blade from slicing his arm off. It might have taken Voldemort a lot of magic to create a functional sword from a knife, but he had made it extra sharp and easy to wield.

Harry pretended to stumble, and shot a fireball into Voldemort's face. He shrieked, backing away from the flames. They were something that could pierce all of the preservative spells he had placed on himself. It had been explained in many classes that there was the cleansing nature of fire, purifying everything to its basic nature. Voldemort's was death, and magical fire would reduce him down to that state. Harry couldn't burn Voldemort to death, however, since it would just leave him without a body. He had no illusions about death anymore; Voldemort had cheated it once, and could do so again.

"You are more powerful than you pretend to be," Voldemort said, the voice a rasp of sandpaper over wood. "You should join me."

"I won't become an agent of death for you," Harry said. He was fully aware of the qualifier; he was fully planning on causing death tonight.

"You have a spark of darkness within you," Voldemort said, coming a step closer and trying to smile. "You could become great."

Harry heard Regina snort behind him, and had to smile. "Darkness isn't greatness."

"Neither is light."

"No. I'll make my own way."

The sneer was odd on Voldemort's face. He couldn't quite make the face properly, and it came out rather like a grimace of pain. "There is no other way. My forces are too strong, and we outnumber your pitiful excuse of an army."

"We'll fight to the death, every last one of us."

"Dumbledore's Army, indeed," Voldemort hissed in Parselmouth. "Did you think you could win against me? Did you think that somehow you would escape my attention? Did you think you could survive?"

Harry lunged with the sword, striking Voldemort in the heart and running him clear through. Harry had caught him when he least expected it, and had made sure to hit the heart in a single stroke. Or rather, where the heart should have been. To be perfectly honest, Harry wasn't completely certain if Voldemort's anatomy was arranged in a human way anymore. He could only hope that it did damage.

But Voldemort was laughing, and pushed himself backwards along the blade. "Stupid boy, you could never kill me, not without killing yourself. We're tied, the two of us, a single string of fate between us. You can't harm me without harming yourself."

Harry's blood ran cold. No one had mentioned this. It couldn't be a byproduct of Trelawney's prophecy. It couldn't be. Someone would have told him this, Dumbledore, Trelawney herself... Regina.

Harry turned to Regina, who should have been lying in a pool of blood and slowly dying behind him. But she was lying there sprawled with only a small puddle on her shirt. Her eyes were wide and alert, not slowly fading into death. She was staring at Harry intently, as if trying to tell him something without words. Her eyes flicked to Voldemort once, then immediately back to Harry. He didn't understand.

"Is he right?" Harry whispered, his voice cracking. Had she betrayed him, too?

Voldemort cackled gleefully, and fully dislodged himself from Harry's sword. "Poor boy, didn't anyone ever tell you the truth? Are you forever doomed to be subject to lies? Oh, I'm sure the old fool was well meaning. But he lied just the same. Is this your savior? Is this your role model in the Light side?" Voldemort's voice was mocking, and he was sure in his victory. Harry wasn't even holding the Sword of Gryffindor aloft anymore. "All that fight in you, and for what? You can't even hurt me properly. They didn't even train you properly. They used you for their purposes and said it was for your own good." Voldemort almost sounded apologetic, as if he was sorry that Harry's life had been a chess game. Harry had been given the starring role of pawn, and he had never known. "They lied to you, boy. You can't hurt me, you can't kill me.

"But I can kill you."

Harry blinked, and sidestepped just as Voldemort's sword came down right where his head would have been. As sharp as the blade was, it would have cleaved his head in two, then continued right down the rest of his body. Parted in the middle, he would have done nothing but bleed to death in the center of the most powerful magical junction in all of Scotland.

As it was, he had a rather nasty gash across his right forearm, enough to make him drop the Sword of Gryffindor.

Harry looked up, and began to speak as Voldemort began to laugh.

"Tezata rie lingana mis. Hae gourat siem uranis."

Regina began to laugh hysterically, and Voldemort threw his sword into her chest. Harry's jaw dropped open, and he backed up a step. That hadn't been part of the plan. The Fates were supposed to come now, they were supposed to come and get Voldemort and stop the killing before it was Harry's turn to die, Harry wasn't supposed to die now, Regina wasn't supposed to die now, it was all supposed to end tonight, it was one of the secrets of the dead, that the Fates were capable of intervention when they had been given weight and force and direction toward avenging the death of blood relatives....

Voldemort was holding the Sword of Gryffindor, seeing his blackened blood staining it. "I suppose you thought Gryffindor would overcome Slytherin?"

Harry caught sight of a vortex beginning to open. It was just behind Voldemort, just a small one. He could calm down now. The Fates were coming. The Fates would deal with Voldemort, the Fates would take care of everything.

Voldemort was advancing on Harry, and he felt the stones at his back. "Did you really think your little spell would work? With no magic here? When I've already fooled the sightless witches too many times over already? You'll just be another body, another dead boy. They won't know it's you."

A skeletal hand closed over Voldemort's wrist. It was gnarled and twisted with severe osteoarthritis, but there was untold power in that hand. With fear, Voldemort let go of the sword and turned around.

The vortex was a swirling mass of gray clouds and faint blinking lights in the distance. The three Fates were standing there, expectant. The Maiden was tall, with auburn hair and piercing green eyes, a cruel twist to her mouth. She looked as though she were craving the blood that would be shed. The Mother was shorter, older, calmer. Her eyes were slitted, waiting and watching, contemplating the tableau in front of her. The Crone had hold of Voldemort's wrist, her entire appearance one of extreme old age. Her form hid her true strength, and Voldemort was only beginning to discover this.

"The Fates are not blind, but bound by rules of blood and fire, steel and wire, bone and breath, love and death. You cannot outrun Fate."

Harry could almost smell the fear coming from Voldemort in waves. It was too easy. He had done endless amounts of training for this?

He yanked Voldemort's sword from Regina's chest, holding onto it tightly. The Fates were here, and so far, nothing was moving. Nothing was happening.

The Maiden turned her green eyes to Harry. "My boy, patience. All in good time."

The Mother turned to Regina as Harry froze. "My darling, time to rise. You're not meant to be dead just yet."

The Crone tightened her grip on Voldemort's wrist, and the bones crunched audibly. He tried to bend and evade her drip, but he couldn't. Her eyes narrowed, her lips thinned, and her expression was one of contempt. "You, despite all your learning and the time spent evading us, have done nothing but delay the inevitable. You have learned nothing of the Old Ways, and you have done nothing but annoy me. You did not escape, and you will not escape. Your soul is still that of a boy, and nothing more."

"I am the most powerful wizard..."

Bones snapped and ground to dust within the Crone's grip. "No one can cheat Fate."

Voldemort was letting out a high inhuman scream. The Maiden touched the center of his chest with her right hand, and she was beginning to pull something out of it. The Mother pushed her right hand into the back of Voldemort's head, the bones parting effortlessly. The Crone pushed her right hand into his abdomen, wrinkled flesh sinking easily through scarred greenish tissue. Voldemort was shaking, trembling, pleading incoherently for it to end. He reached out for the door to the cube room, willing it to open.

There were stones across the opening.

Regina laughed as Voldemort howled in despair. Harry was helping her up, and was wondering if she was slowly losing her mind. "I've turned the room, it bricked the door. You were never going to leave this place alive, you fucking fool."

Vengeance was an ugly, ugly thing.

The Three backed away at once, and the mortal shell of Voldemort broke apart. Harry felt a piercing pain in his chest, and found himself buckling to his knees. He didn't know how he could curl up into a ball, fists digging into his sternum to try and ease the pain. It felt as if something were shredding him from the inside out, as if he should be vomiting up blood. Regina was rubbing his back and making soothing noises, but made no move to cast a spell to ease his pain.

And then it was over.

Harry looked up, and there were nothing but three black crystals caught in the palms of the Fates' hands. Voldemort was gone.

"What happened?" he rasped.

The Fates joined hands, and the crystals fused into a single one. It resembled the Black Egg of Uncreation, as a matter of fact. Harry tried to make sense of what he was seeing, but couldn't. He didn't know what was going on. There was too much he didn't know.

"My dear boy," the Maiden said, squatting down in front of Harry. "You were the vehicle of vengeance. You called us here to mete justice. We have reduced that creature down to the whole of his essence, and it will be safely brought back with us. What you felt was the severing of the tie between the two of you. Trust me when I say it could be done in no other way."

"So it's over? I'm done?"

Her smile was ruefully amused, as if she knew something important that he didn't. "Oh dear, Harry..."

"Your direct role is finished here," the Mother chimed in, stepping forward. "But there is still more to be done."

"Above us, the battle continues," the Crone said, her voice a rasping and grating sound. It would haunt Harry's dreams for years. "We will send you where you are most needed, and you will complete what you were trained to do."

The room began to rotate, the floor shaking. Harry thought suddenly that it was a good thing he was already on his hands and knees, as he would have fallen. He felt spent somehow, though the battle with Voldemort was rather anticlimactic. Had he been training so long for that? Had he been so afraid for that?

The Mother began to chuckle as they retreated backward into the gray vortex. The Crone held Voldemort's remains tightly in her fist, then pressed it to her forehead. The Maiden could only smile serenely. "We know his plans, child. Be glad you were no part of them."

The Crone crushed the crystal into a fine powder, and it fell from between her fingers to the floor. "He is done. His thread is cut and finished, his pattern finished. He has played his role and he is done now."

"As it should be," the Mother said. "And now for the ducklings..."

"I'll do it," the Maiden said. She held her hands out. A fine mist was beginning to form, something that snaked out and around Harry and Regina. "Alley-oop!"

They were suddenly hurtled upward, through the ceiling and into the Great Hall.

***

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