Harry Potter and the Battle for the Light

Halloween I

British Ministry of Magic, the Dark Lord's private quarters

Sunday 27th of October

Over the last seven years the Ministry of Magic had changed dramatically. No longer was there room for incompetence and bureaucracy. Those privileged enough to work in the government of the new era were required to obey without questions, to cooperate without hesitation and to work tirelessly until the noble goals of the Dark Lord were attained.

Indeed, much had changed since then. The new Ministry had been reformed in more ways than just personnel. The location was the same, of course, but the structure itself had undergone a series of improvements that ensured higher security and protection. New departments were added, old rooms were improved and private quarters had been constructed on the lower levels of the building to house the inner-circle of the Dark Lord. Those were necessary measures that the Ministry had been forced to take when the vigilante group known as the Order of the Phoenix started attacking the most prominent pure-blood families in England.

Among the new quarters added there was one that was strictly out of bounds. It was rumoured that those who dared knock the door were never seen again. Stories of a huge snake that wandered the lower levels of the Ministry and ate stranded workers had reached the ears of the personnel as well. Suffice to say that, even if Ministry workers were encouraged to travel the lower levels, no one would have agreed willingly, for they all thought the Dark Lord himself lived there.

Not all were prohibited from entering the Dark Lord's room, of course. Members of the inner-circle frequently visited the area to deliver their reports or attend confidential meetings in his presence.

That was why Draco Malfoy found himself in the lift of the Ministry of Magic with his fellow Death Eaters, sinking lower and lower. If there was one thing that the people currently occupying the lift had in common, it was fear. Draco understood that Lord Voldemort used fear as a tool, a means of leverage to coerce people into doing what he wanted. His Master also knew how to prize loyalty and success. There were very few times in the life of a Death Eater when they managed to earn his favour but, when they did, they felt empowered and gratified. The Dark Lord was very skilled when it came to leadership and he offered praise in such an alluring way that left the recipient always craving for more. Those few that witnessed the praise suffered from jealousy, anger and shame, emotions that Lord Voldemort carefully manipulated to exert the highest levels of devotion.

The lift suddenly came to a stop but no female voice or clanging bell announced their arrival; nobody needed directions down here for they all knew where they were going.

Draco stepped out of the lift with his fellow Death Eaters ahead of him. There was a long corridor lined with torches holding flickering green flames that marked the path to take. The floor, ceiling and walls were made of dark stone and no windows, doors or paintings adorned the bare walls. All Draco could see as he walked behind his colleagues was the dark cloaks on their backs and all he could hear the footsteps that echoed noisily in the corridor. He noticed that one of them seemed to walk with a limp and a grunt of pain escaped the man every now and then. Draco reflected that that man had to be Fenik, the one in charge of the Azkaban disaster, and the painful limp had to be product of the Dark Lord's limited tolerance for mistakes.

Draco craned his neck to look over the shoulders of his colleagues and spotted the familiar black blur at the end of the corridor. With every step they took the darkness seemed to retreat as well. He wasn't sure if it was his imagination or actual enchantments that created the effect, but it was frightening nonetheless. It felt like the Dark Lord himself was watching their every step and rejoiced from the fact that his loyal followers feared his very presence. It was like walking towards an oasis, only he dreaded what he would find at the end.

Unfortunately for Draco, it was no oasis.

Eventually the darkness faded away and the double-door made out of polished oak loomed into view. The first Death Eater that reached the door grabbed one of the gold knockers in the shape of a serpent and knocked twice. The sound echoed eerily in the silent corridor and no one dared speak. After a few seconds the door opened inwardly, seemingly of its own accord, and the Death Eaters started to file in; one by one. Draco took a deep breath, checked his mental barriers and stepped inside.

As part of a wealthy pure-blood family, Draco Malfoy was used to luxury and comforts. The Dark Lord's quarters, however, were decorated in such a way that he found himself both enthralled and terrified at the same time. Maybe it was what happened in this place or maybe it was who lived here, but Draco couldn't help the shiver that travelled down his spine.

The area was actually a meeting place, since the Dark Lord slept in his own personal Manor. In the centre of the room there was an enormous mahogany table with exquisitely done finishing details, including serpent-shaped legs and a few sections done in gold. A dozen armchairs were positioned around the rectangular table for them to sit but Draco made his way towards his designated place at a slow pace. No matter how unpleasant these meetings could be, the place in itself was mind-blowing. Since the Dark Lord hadn't arrived yet Draco could entertain himself with the surroundings and hope to occupy his mind with mundane subjects.

Like every place the Dark Lord inhabited, there were no windows. Illumination came in the form of a few torches that lined the walls and a blazing fireplace, located behind the seat of Draco's Master. The walls were made out of dark stones that looked to be very old. A lingering feeling of power and despair hung thickly in the room as he walked around. Draco could have sworn he smelled some blood in the air.

His colleagues were already silently sitting at the table and directing angry glares at him but he didn't care. The Dark Lord took pleasure in keeping his servants waiting for him to increase their anxiety and fear, so Draco knew there was still time to look around.

The only portrait in the room was of Salazar Slytherin himself, albeit an unmoving one. A beautiful silver tapestry weaved in silk hung above the fireplace, picturing a huge serpent coiled around the castle of Hogwarts with its jaws so wide open they had to be dislocated and its fangs extended menacingly. The heritage of the Dark Lord was denoted on the tapestry with a few Latin words written in a blood-red colour that circled around the picture of the snake. It literally translated as: "Lord Voldemort, blood heir of Salazar Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts' Four."

Draco resisted the urge to snort at the aphorism and, once he had concluded his observations of the room, took his place two seats away from the Dark Lord's. Draco haughtily returned the glares he was receiving from most members of the inner-circle. He knew why these people disliked him and he just couldn't bring himself to care. They were all jealous of Draco because of the leniency the Dark Lord extended him in regards to certain matters.

After his father's death at the hands of Severus Snape, the notorious traitor, Draco became the Lord of the most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy. His position granted him powers the rest of these people could only dream of wielding and an immense fortune that the Dark Lord appreciated. Moreover, he was very skilled when it came to politics and coercion, something his Master greatly valued too. Most members of the inner-circle were just magical muscle; a group of witches and wizards with above average power and very few political connections. They were the commanders of the Dark Lord's army, a purely confrontational force.

There were two others that shared Draco's privileges. Theodore Nott, Draco's ex-classmate, of the most Ancient and Noble House of Nott, wielded almost the same power as him. Nott didn't exude that palpable sense of arrogance and confidence that Draco had mastered years ago but it didn't matter to the Dark Lord. Nott was an excellent strategist and a quiet thinker. He was the only one that Lord Voldemort could trust with planning if he wasn't available to do it himself. Moreover, when the Dark Lord wanted an opinion, he was the first to be addressed.

The other member of the inner-circle that commanded the same respect Draco did was Lauren. Although she had joined the Death Eaters only four years ago, Lauren Linois was already a favourite of the Dark Lord. She had blonde hair that fell gracefully past her shoulders, bright blue eyes and sharp features that denoted her as a member of the powerful pure-blood Linois family of France. Lauren had been hand-picked by the Dark Lord when he witnessed ten of his Death Eaters being slaughtered by her in a random attack. She was the definition of the word cunning; her calm demeanour and friendly exterior were the perfect cover for a vicious personality and a vast amount of power. The Dark Lord usually sent her in charge of the Department of International Magical Cooperation to liaison with other governments, something Draco could not do due to his poor reputation with the governments of the Light. Needless to say, Lauren Linois often produced good results, which pleased her Master to no end.

Lauren and Draco's purpose in the Dark Lord's ranks was clear, but not simple by any means. Their orders regarding national territory were to attend meetings with vampires, werewolves, goblins and any other creatures with a human-like capacity of reasoning to convince them of joining the Dark Lord's forces. Internationally, their job was slightly more tedious and difficult. Dealing with other dark wizards was always a tiring experience. Furthermore, convincing them to rally themselves around a more powerful dark wizard was next to impossible.

The meetings took place generally in England, although he occasionally travelled to Bulgaria, Italy, France and America. Draco actually had a routine to keep, from which it was impossible to diverge; he would attend a meeting with Lauren in the presence of what the Dark Lord called his 'Dark Allies' and try to convince or pressure them into thinking that joining Lord Voldemort was in their best interests. Draco would then report to his master and attend another meeting with a different group of foreign dark wizards. The process could last for days at a time and Draco had to constantly keep his Occlumency shields in place, remember who he was meeting, what the Dark Lord offered to the different groups and decide how to best coerce them into acquiescing.

What made the meetings with foreign wizards an uncomfortable and potentially dangerous experience was the fact that none of them were aligned with the current governments. If things got out of hand in a meeting there was no stopping them from killing Draco and whoever was sent with him. Most governments were on the light's side, which forced Draco to attend clandestine gatherings of wizards and witches that stole, threatened, raped, tortured and killed their way through life.

However, Draco's tasks were far less dangerous than those that required direct confrontation. Nevertheless, he felt that he had enough to deal with.

Draco was well aware of the fact that the moment they all ceased to be useful the special positions they enjoyed were over. Actually, since Draco Malfoy wasn't the best of duellers or magically powerful, he could easily be disposed of. Whatever the Dark Lord planned to do when their usefulness waned he didn't care. Draco wasn't planning on staying very long anyway.

The members of the inner-circle were pulled out from their thoughtful silence when they heard a noise coming from behind the wall opposite to the tapestry. None of them attempted to unsheathe their wands for they all knew what was coming. Sure enough, after a few minutes, the wall shimmered green for a split-second and the Dark Lord stepped gracefully into the room.

He was wearing a long beautiful silver robe with emerald-green trimmings at the sleeves and collar that screamed for attention. The room seemed to get colder when his aura extended around the awed members of the inner-circle as the Dark Lord walked slowly towards his chair, the folds of his robes billowing in a non-existent wind. The sight would have been striking had it not been for the bold white head, slits for nostrils and fiery-red eyes that had once been a face.

The Dark Lord took his seat at the head of the table and surveyed the room, taking in their faces and expressions, feeding from their fear and anxiety. The servants that were present at this meeting weren't like the everyday Death Eaters that roamed the streets. These people were his Elites, the very best in different fields. Their Lord valued them above all others and they knew it. Still, even these people couldn't avoid diverting their gaze from the cold red eyes that seemed to bore into their very souls.

Draco tried his best not to shiver or show weakness for that was something Lord Voldemort did not tolerate at all. He tried to divert his thoughts to the surroundings and his previous inspection of the decoration. Carefully avoiding his views on the Dark Lord's supposed ancestry, he focused on the portrait of Salazar Slytherin and the finesse of the hand-carved table in front of him.

A few seconds passed in silence as the Dark Lord watched his loyal Elites, the inner-circle. Finally, he broke the silence.

"Welcome, my Death Eaters," he said smoothly, the words carrying around the room.

"Thank you, my Lord."

"You honour us with your presence, Master."

"I'm honoured to attend, my Lord."

Many comments followed the greeting as the Death Eaters one by one offered their reverence. When the voices died down they all turned to watch their Lord respectfully, waiting for the meeting to begin and the reason for their presence to be uncovered. Lord Voldemort seemed to be in a contemplative mood though, and the members of the inner-circle knew better than to interrupt it. Minutes passed in silence as the Emperor of Britain stare unfocusedly at the ceiling, pondering about something that eluded them.

"My Death Eaters," he finally said, still looking at the ceiling, "I have called this meeting for a very special purpose, one that I trust you will consider attentively." He abruptly lowered his gaze and fixed them with a glare, as if daring them to disobey. Many of them flinched and Draco did his best to keep his own eyes from looking down at his hands poised over the table. "There is a matter that has been personally paining me for years that I wish to have resolved," the Dark Lord continued silkily, his voice barely a whisper. Most members of the inner-circle sat straighter and squared their shoulders, listening attentively to what would ensure them favour above anyone else.

Lord Voldemort unexpectedly pulled his wand out from inside his left sleeve and held it loosely in his right hand, looking at it thoughtfully. "Several years ago there was a loyal Death Eater that had pledged his devotion and talents to me, been branded with my Dark Mark and held a special position of power in our midst," he said quietly, his face a mask that revealed nothing.

Several seconds passed in silence as they waited for their Lord to speak. Most, like Draco, knew what was coming. They knew to whom he was referring to and what he had done to offend Lord Voldemort. It had been a semi-public humiliation to discover Severus Snape's true allegiance in the midst of the Battle of Hogwarts, one that had been almost as bad as that time Potter had managed to injure the Dark Lord.

And the outburst came.

"Severus Snape," the Emperor hissed furiously as his gaze intensified, like a fire burning behind his eyes, daring them to make a comment or even think about it. The temperature dropped abruptly as the Dark Lord's aura extended and the torches flickered feebly. It was like a weak mist that spread around the room and it felt like ice, carrying a sense of power that sent shivers travelling down Draco's spine.

"Too long has the traitor been left alive," he continued menacingly. "I have asked of you a simple task, one that you have yet to fulfill, my Death Eaters." The threat was palpable; either comply or face the wrath of the Dark Lord.

Those that had been anticipating a new task to prove their worth slumped their shoulders unhopefully and looked away in shame. Six years had passed and they had all failed to find the traitor. "How is it that the best servants of Lord Voldemort, heir of Salazar Slytherin, have failed to bring me the traitor?" The silence stretched for a few minutes. Draco could tell that it was a rhetorical question and the fool who answered would be submitting himself for a few minutes of torture.

Nobody spoke.

"I bring you good news, my friends," the Dark Lord suddenly changed tone to a calmer and less threatening one. "The wards that protect the remaining resistance of the Order of the Phoenix have so far proved to be very strong. Something, I admit, did not think was possible," he continued. "And yet, I have found a solution. There is a way for us to penetrate the wards and squash the resistance!" he boasted powerfully. The members of the inner-circle voiced their congratulations and devotion, letting the Dark Lord know that he had their full support.

"Soon, my friends, I will reveal my plan," he addressed them all carefully, scanning their faces one by one. "I require an object to succeed, one that I will obtain soon." He then turned to address Stragern and Avery, the commanders of the Aurors and Death Eaters battalions respectively. "Do not take unnecessary risks, commanders. When the time comes we will need all of our forces available. Continue with the blood-purging activities but do not attempt open attacks."

"Of course, my Lord," Stragern said respectfully.

"We will do as you say, Master," proclaimed Avery with a polite nod of his head.

"Very well, my Death Eaters," the Dark Lord smiled coldly, clearly satisfied with the goings on. "Our activities for Halloween will take place as usual," he continued with sadistic pleasure etched across his pale face. "We will discuss special plans for the evening of the thirtieth that same day. Am I clear?"

The Death Eaters nodded and looked at each other in confusion, wondering what special plans the Dark Lord could be talking about. It didn't matter what it was or how much they thought about it though, their Master would only reveal his plans mere hours before it had to take place. The treason of one Severus Snape had reinforced a lesson Lord Voldemort had learned decades ago: never trust anyone.

"I expect reports regarding our political advances in Europe and America next time, Draco, Lauren," the Dark Lord said calmly. "The rebels have so far remained trapped in Britain but it would not be wise to dwell on this matter unnecessarily..." he trailed off quietly, leaving the threat hanging above them.

"Yes, my Lord, the advances are going well," Linois said proudly. Draco nodded his confirmation, already knowing that speaking any further would be asking for trouble.

"Very good," the Dark Lord answered thoughtfully. "We shall meet again on the thirtieth at dusk, do not be late and have our forces prepared. I will join the festivities myself," he finished coldly, his eyes dancing with mad glee. "Now, leave me!"

The members of the inner-circle stood up immediately and bowed at their Master. As one, they left the Dark Lord to his thoughts and exited the room, walking down the corridor that led to the lift.

Draco was deep in thought as they climbed towards the highest levels of the Ministry. As usual, Lord Voldemort hadn't been forthcoming with his plans and information, but had let on that something big was going to happen. Whatever it was he would find out soon enough but now he had other matters to attend to.

He stepped out of the lift in the Atrium and walked towards the fireplaces. Draco shuddered at the memory of Crabbe's out-of-control Fiendfyre as his eyes rested on the dancing flames of the hearth. Six years ago Crabbe and Goyle had died from their own stupidity and Draco's life had been saved by none other than Potter and Weasley. He would be forever grateful for their intervention but the shame would stick with him for the rest of his life; a life he owed to Harry Potter.

Draco Malfoy threw the floo-powder in the fireplace, intent in contacting the Order of the Phoenix as soon as possible.

Journal Entry #77

Sunday 27th of October, 2003

The resistance holds. We have been short of supplies lately but the Mountains provide. We've managed to overcome darkness, hunger, illness and death, yet there is a cloud of despair that hangs in the air, coming closer and closer as the 30th approaches.

That's when it all began for me, twenty two years ago. Was it fate? Is there such a thing as destiny? Is there a perfect being that knows the outcomes of our choices and thus allows us to live, for He has seen what it is to come?

These questions plague my mind every day. I can't find an answer despite how hard I try. It's like a circle, a never-ending line of reasoning that occupies my time and provides no answers. Sometimes I wish I could go back and change the beginnings of my life. Is it too much to ask? To live a full normal life with those that I love? Am I condemned to love and lose for as long as I live?

I once read the personal journal of a Warlock named Edilirius III, who lived during the times of the Dark Ages. It provided a fascinating insight regarding what happened and, more importantly, his experiences as he lived through it. I have discovered that the same questions that I can't answer are similar to those of this man. He wrote of his triumphs and failures, of love and loss. We are very similar yet so much time has passed between our lives. Are the questions that plague my mind the same that every person once in his life attempts to answer?

Before dying Edilirius wrote he had found an answer that answered his questions, and yet left them unanswered. He wrote and I quote: "Adversus solem ne loquitor." The phrase means, literally, "do not speak against the sun." I've thought about the possible interpretations that Edilirius could have chosen. I believe that, at the end of his life, he understood that there is no point in arguing against the unavoidable. It does sound like a possible answer and, as Edilirius wrote, it doesn't answer the questions but merely suggests leaving them in the dark.

I respect his views but they aren't good enough for me. I will continue to ponder on the subject until I come up with the answers I want. My life has been constantly aimed towards a last goal, everything happening along the lines of the Prophecy. If there is indeed a destiny but I do not understand it, how can I hope to fulfill it?

My mind denies me the answers and so I focus on my everyday responsibilities, and yet it is my soul that clutches to the past; Ginny. I have found and lost love too many times, but she is the one and only thing I can't let go. Am I selfish because of my feelings? Is it right to shun those that surround me to avoid the pain of losing another piece of my soul? I can feel myself torn in two directions and I am deeply afraid of my choices; my sanity.

There is an ever-present darkness that lurks in the back of my mind, watching my actions and decisions, judging my behaviour. It's biding its time, I can feel it, waiting for the chance to take control and do what my urges suggest I do. If it's a part of me, why do I fight it? Are there such things as natural and unnatural?

A wise man, a friend, once told me that it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Sometimes I wonder if there was more to Albus Dumbledore's knowledge that was never shared with me. For every stage of my life I've found that a different piece of wisdom he once offered me has been useful. Did he know what would happen? I've realized he made some mistakes concerning my education and well-being, but his plans usually seemed to work perfectly. Did he know this would happen all along and told me what I needed to hear?

Am I doing what is right or what is easy?

Harry J. Potter

End of entry.

Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, near The Valley

Tuesday 29th of October

A man in his early twenties had just gotten up and was tying the shoelaces of his trainers. He was wearing a dark blue track suit, courtesy of his best friend, and a headband to prevent his hair from obscuring his vision.

At six foot one he was easily among the tallest men of his village. He had dark brown hair that fell past his shoulders, lazily tied into a ponytail. A pair of penetrating blue eyes contrasted with his tanned skin. Working out had long ago become an everyday activity for him and his body had changed accordingly, leaving broad shoulders and bulky muscles as a result. Women usually said he was attractive and men claimed he was frightening, although that was probably due to his attitude.

The man finished dressing himself for the daily workout and walked out the door. It was a cloudy morning and although the sun was supposed to be visible by now, it was completely covered from view by a sheet of grey that stretched throughout the sky as far as the eye could see. The temperature was fairly low as winter was coming fast but heavy clothing wasn't strictly necessary yet; he was fine with his tracksuit.

After walking towards the mountains for a few minutes, just enjoying the peace of the morning, the man broke into a slow jog. He warmed up his muscles as he climbed the high hills, preparing for the next part of his daily exercises routine and eagerly looking forward to breakfast with his friends. It was Tuesday so that meant he didn't have to cook, an excellent piece of news for anyone who was hungry.

Neville patted his arms and back one last time to ensure he had both of his wands and his sword available and set his jog at a brutal pace through the treacherous mountains, far away from The Valley. This was the part of his exercises that he enjoyed the most: a chance to spend some time alone and think about his life. After all, it was his past that drove him forward, what picked him up when he fell and encouraged him to keep fighting even if all of his strength was already spent.

Neville Longbottom was a creature of habit. Over the years he had developed a steady routine that helped him stay in shape and hone his abilities; he would get up early in the morning to have a quick jog followed by a light breakfast, then he would finish the rest of his physical exercises. He usually had four hours to kill before lunch so he used them to pursue his independent studies, which were all related to dueling and battle tactics. After lunch he would either practice new spells and techniques by himself, join the team training sessions or carry out any specific tasks he had planned for the day. His routine was only interrupted when he had to leave The Valley to bring a newly-found muggleborn that was at risk after performing a first bout of accidental magic or some other task the Council needed him to carry out.

Unlike most fighters in The Valley, Neville found some sense of comfort in the monotony. He supposed people preferred to remain impulsive for a variety of reasons, mostly just to avoid thinking about what was going on around them or, more particularly, the personal losses they had suffered.

He had suffered the loss of loved ones himself but keeping a healthy routine allowed him those few precious moments of solitude to collect his thoughts and emotions. It wasn't exactly a good therapy, but Neville didn't think there were such things as the healing of the heart or soul.

Most members of his team were already scarred and those that weren't would be some day; it wasn't exactly a matter of 'if' rather than 'when'. Eventually something went wrong and those that survived had to deal with it as best as possible. Whatever happened in the course of their duties, it didn't stop them; they had to keep fighting until they won or died trying.

Neville's grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, had been among those that had died fighting for what she thought was right. She had taken a direct hit in the chest, a bone-breaking curse intended for a third-year Hufflepuff, when the Order members and Hogwarts students were fleeing from the massacre. At her age the injury had been too severe; her ribcage had been destroyed and her lungs had collapsed from the pressure. There had been nothing the healers could do to help and his grandmother had suffered more than fifteen minutes of agonizing pain until she finally breathed her last breath. Six years had passed already and Neville could still hear his grandmother's coughs of blood and the last words she had spoken to him before passing away.

"Do it again, dear. Make us proud..."

The relationship they had shared had been strained for years but, as Neville's confidence grew, they settled for a more comfortable one, if not a loving one. He wasn't surprised at her last words though, the message was fairly clear to him. It was the wording his grandmother had chosen that could make people wonder what she had been talking about but Neville understood; she had meant his mum and dad too.

During the week that the Bastion of the Light, namely Hogwarts, had held against the onslaught of Lord Voldemort and his allies, the Ministry, also under the maniac's command, had ordered the persecution of the family members of those involved in the resistance. It was meant as a means of leverage, one that had work really well with some of the fighters.

Towards the end, when it became clear that they would not concede defeat, more drastic measures were taken. Among the first severed heads that had been sent to Hogwarts were those of his parents. Alice and Frank Longbottom had been executed by the state, the official claim being that long-term patients consumed too much resources and battling against the rebels was the priority.

That evening Neville had had a bout of accidental magic for the first time in seven years. An earth-shattering explosion that shook the northern side of the castle alerted the resistance of a possible attack. They had rushed off to the Astronomy Tower only to find it had completely disappeared except for the floor, where Neville stood shaking with fury and his aura crackling out of control around him.

Although the battle had been lost and Hogwarts had fallen after a few days after that, Neville had been undeterred. He had trained hard and rough for the better part of two years and the day of his revenge finally arrived.

Neville grimaced at the thought and stopped his jog to stretch. If someone asked he would claim not being particularly proud of what he had done, but if the man responsible for his parents' murder were to recover Neville would do it again. He resumed his jog at a slower pace to shake off the soreness, heading towards The Valley to have breakfast with his friends. Even at the prospect of sharing a good laugh with them he couldn't avoid finishing his trail of memories, particularly the ones that involved Macnair.

The Order had discovered through their contacts that Walden Macnair had been the one responsible for the execution and later mailing the cut-off heads. In one of their frequent trips to muggle cities to retrieve a muggleborn Neville came face-to-face with him after two years of waiting.

The duel had been brief, not longer than a minute. Neville overpowered him quickly and proceeded to do what he had fantasized about doing for a long time: to torture the man. At first it had been a few superficial cuts and blows but soon he had wanted more. There really wasn't anything he could have done to him that compared to what Neville had suffered...

...But he did his best.

No one had dared interrupt him while he worked. They all knew the meeting was long overdue and personal revenge was a delicate thing amongst members of the Order. Some didn't approve but their opinions meant nothing. Only some of the individuals that hadn't suffered directly from Voldemort and the Death Eaters claimed that what the Order did with them was too cruel. Usually after they experienced first-hand the enemies' brutality their views turned upside down.

Whatever his friends had felt, he hadn't cared. By the time Neville had finished with Macnair he was barely recognizable; his face was marred with scars that would remain with him for the rest of his life, his spine was damaged too severely for him to walk again and the murderer of his parents had lost his mind. Neville had held him under the Cruciatus Curse for more than half an hour, enjoying every minute of the agonizing screams.

What provided Neville with the darkest and most sinister pleasure of all was the decision of letting Macnair live. At his request, Harry created a portkey that would go to St. Mungo's. It was the closest thing Neville could do to make the executioner of his parents pay since the man had had no family. That was why, after ignoring the pleas of some of his team members to just kill the man, Neville threw the portkey at Macnair and he was transported to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. No doubt the rest of his life would be filled with pain and completely void of meaning, perhaps even killed for the same reason his parents were killed. Whatever had happened to him, they never found out, and Neville didn't really care anymore; he had done what he had to already.

Harry and, surprisingly, Snape had whole-heartedly approved of his vengeance. The snarky ex-potions professor had gone so far as to call it 'poetic justice'.

With the darkest memories out of his mind Neville focused on the prospect of breakfast and Kreacher's fantastic cooking. Harry would undoubtedly notice his mood and bluntly tell him he looked like crap. Ron would say he had gotten intimate with Buckbeak after confusing it with a veela. Far from feeling insulted the comments always made him laugh. Trust Harry and Ron to tell you that, after a late night of drinking, with none other than Harry himself, followed by jogging for half an hour and remembering your parents' and grandmother's murders, you don't look like the prettiest girl in the party.

Harry had a knack for pulling him out of his bad moods, probably because he had many himself and knew what people wanted to hear and what they didn't. The Boy-Who-Lived had become a constant source of support and encouragement for him and Neville repaid the favor. They had both gone through too many disappointments and bad experiences, a fact that drove them together. They would sometimes stay up late at night, sharing drinks and stories of their past. Neville had heard some of the good times his parents had shared in school with James and Lily Potter. Likewise, Harry had some stories involving Frank and Alice. The nights were filled with grief and a twisted sort of happy sadness, a melancholy that would never go away. And although they both knew they would never fill the void that Frank, Alice, Augusta, James, Lily, Sirius and Ginny had left in them, at least they could share.

The last member of their group was, of course, Ronald Weasley. Neville had always thought the bloke was fun to be around with and a great person. Over the years both traits had somehow survived, so long as you caught him in a good mood.

Neville's relationship with Ron, while always close, had strengthened because of the time they shared training new recruits and practicing combat drills. They both were some of the best fighters in the Order of the Phoenix and the responsibility of toughening up their warriors often fell on them. Harry could've probably filled their role as well but it was really hard to train with a man that could bring down your whole team single-handedly.

Neville shared with each of them a special relationship and eventually they became inseparable. Most things they had to do the three of them did together. If there was something that only one of them could do, usually Harry, then the rest would tag along for support and to lend a helping hand. The only situations Neville and Harry refused to help Ron with were concerning the bedroom; they doubted Hermione would approve anyway.

Although the special trio they now shared originally included Hermione and not Neville, it wasn't entirely surprising to find out that things had changed. After all, she usually stayed in The Valley while the three men fought, often risking their lives. When you are in the midst of battle and your life is at stake you can only rely on your skills and your friends to watch your back. In a twisted sort of way there's no stronger friendship than the one forged by the hardships of war. The three of them shared victories, defeats, losses and every good or bad aspect that came with waging war against your corrupted government.

Of course, Hermione still played an important role in their friendship. Being married to Ron ensured she would never be pushed away but Harry and Neville loved her regardless of her husband. Neville could tell that sometimes Hermione felt left out though, especially when they trained or left The Valley to attend to their duties. While she could probably perform admirably Hermione had lost touch with the active side of the war because of her research and intelligence duties. Moreover, she had never had and never would possess the killer instinct that kept the fighters alive.

Neville's thoughts came to a halt when he reached the edge of The Valley. He slowed his pace to a slow walk, practically stopping. His thoughts had gotten the better of him today and his muscles were suffering accordingly. He would probably need to apply some smelly salve of Poppy's to soothe the pain and be able to train later.

As he walked Neville noticed the village, as usual, was completely deserted at this time of the morning. Of course, at seven in the morning, he didn't expect anyone to be walking about but Neville still thought it strange that people would wake up so late. He shrugged it off and remembered Ron's maxim about likes and dislikes: "Do with your arse what you please as long as they don't do what they please with your arse."Sure, it wasn't the best phrased motto in the wizarding world, but no one had ever called Ron a poet.

The dirt tracks were muddy from the light rain of the night before and Neville's boots got stuck every now and then as he walked towards the Training Facility. He was sure Ron and Harry were already there, probably wondering if they could eat all of Kreacher's food before Neville arrived. That would leave him mighty pissed but the little elf was always in the mood to cook for "Master Harry's trio".

Finally, the building loomed into view. It was rather large, really, but it was necessary. The Order hadn't spared much thought to decoration though, which was fine by Neville, but the little elves had refused to leave an ugly building for their masters. Eventually the Training Facility and its surroundings were transformed to look like a professional Quidditch pitch with a large building to the side that supposedly resembled the changing rooms. In Neville's opinion though, and any sane individual's, the "changing rooms" looked like anything but.

It was, for lack of a better word, a giant dome. It looked like half a sphere supported by a line of walls. Muggles said it resembled a gigantic carrousel, whatever that meant. The convex-shaped roof and the walls that supported it were made of light-coloured stone gathered from the surrounding mountains. Every few feet in between the walls the elves had placed marble columns to support the weight of the structure, although Neville suspected that most of it was done with magic. Between the columns there were rectangular-shaped windows located on the upper part of the walls. They were meant to illuminate the inside rather than to be used to look outside. A rather large set of double-doors made of dark wood that contrasted artistically with the walls and roof was the only entrance to the building.

An inexperienced onlooker would probably think it really was just a random field with an odd changing room but that was part of the cover they wanted. In the unlikely case of a break-in they could hide the villagers inside while Hermione activated the Fidelius Charm on the Training Facility. No one would expect to look for the missing rebels inside a Quidditch pitch and they would forget about it once the charm was complete.

It would have been convenient to just put the whole village under the Fidelius Charm but Hermione and Filius had explained it was impossible. It was just too big to work so they would have had to cast several charms. As a result, they would have many Secret Keepers which would dilute the power of the charm. Moreover, the amount of people that would have to know the secret would be too high and if one of them was captured then Voldemort could find out the general location and proceed to attack blindly. In the end it all came down to being sure that wards that ensured protection, not concealment, were properly cast and maintained for their security.

Neville crossed the field quickly, thinking about the delicious food, and pushed the door open. The entrance hall was a scarcely furnitured room; all along the walls there were many doors that led to different parts of the facility. It somewhat resembled the spinning room of the Department of Mysteries, which helped distract any intruder, but it exuded a much more comfortable feeling.

Through the first door on the left were the living quarters and dining rooms. Neville walked quietly through the long corridor lined with doors, wary of disturbing the trainees so early in the morning. To have the trainees sleep together was a practice that the Order had encouraged from the beginning, one which Neville and his friends had experienced themselves. It served the purpose of making sure that they got accustomed to each other and hopefully worked better together in the field.

The end of the corridor led to another circular room with two doors that separated the trainees' dining rooms from the active forces' one. Neville pushed the latter's door open and calmly strode inside, taking special care to keep a blank face so as to not reveal his thoughts. His mental barriers were already in place, a reflex taught by Snape and perfected by the random Legilimency attacks he performed. Neville knew Harry and Ron wouldn't try Legilimency on him, however accomplished as they were, but the greasy git had done a good job of forcing him to be alert at all times.

As he closed the door behind him the conversations that had been momentarily stopped resumed. Neville spotted Harry and Ron having breakfast at the farthest table from the entrance and walked towards them.

The room itself was rather boring; white walls, black floor and wooden tables. There were six tables available, one for each team, but the fighters sat wherever they liked to. Usually team members got along better between them than with others but that didn't mean they never talked during meals.

As Neville approached his friends' table he heard what appeared to be a conversation about ideal pets or familiars. Neville had a nice owl he trusted with deliveries but Harry had never gotten over the loss of Hedwig and refused to replace her. Apparently Ron was in the mood to argue again about it.

"I'm telling you, Harry, that damned animated-rope that follows you around is useless!" Ron said exasperatedly. "I mean, what can you do with a snake? Unless you're planning on dressing like Voldemort and do some comedy show Xen is useless!" He finished, his tone suggesting that there was nobody that could fault his logic. Of course, Neville also knew that Xen made a habit of scaring Ron as often as it could so he couldn't blame him.

Harry looked thoughtful for a moment and then answered.

"You know, I never thought about that," Harry said slowly, reaching to stroke his chin and appearing to be deep in thought. "Do you think I should shave my head? Maybe turning my eyes red is enough?"

Neville shook his head in amusement as the banter carried on and sat down beside Harry. Both Harry and Ron fell silent and looked at him up and down, assessing his appearance. Neville knew better than to interrupt, it was pointless, really, so he loaded up his plate with his favourites and waited for the inevitable comment.

"Hey, Nev, you look like crap," Harry said unabashedly.

"Thanks, Harry, you too," Neville greeted him.

"Good morning, mate," Ron said. "Tough night?" he asked cheekily.

"Not too bad, though the morning sure was," Neville joked. Deciding to get back at Ron he added, "Since we didn't hear someone shouting your name last night, Ron, is it safe to say you had a tough night too?"

Harry burst out laughing and Neville soon followed, unable to keep a straight face. Ron looked like someone had just slapped him in the face and was trying to figure out why. After a few seconds he looked like he had understood the joke but didn't appreciate it that much.

"I'll have you know, Mr. Stalker," he announced pompously, "that my performances are, first of all, private; concerning only me and my wife." He looked at the two of them seriously and they returned the expression. "You should also know that Filius taught me silencing charms," Ron finished with a straight face.

None of them could hold it any longer and burst out laughing loudly, drawing amused looks from some of their peers and annoyed glares from those that didn't particularly cared for early-morning noises. When the laughter died down the three of them returned to their food and the conversation stayed far away from any depressing thoughts. Just as Neville had learned to expect by now, his bad mood evaporated quickly and he was soon looking forward to the rest of the day.

"Any of you placed any bets on today's simulation?" Ron asked them.

"I have a case of butterbeers on Velost against Ackern," Harry said and they both looked expectantly at Neville.

"I'm going for the safe bet," Neville said and grinned. "Got a firewhisky on Harry against anyone."

"Thanks for the sentiment, Nev," Harry said.

"Yeah, most people feel that way, but there isn't much of a return profit if you bet on Harry," Ron said. "Only a few people bet against him. It's mostly just Severus."

"How angry do you think he'll be by the end of the simulation?" Neville asked hopefully. He had never quite liked the man and he didn't trust him either. Harry always insisted he trusted Snape completely but he had never explained why. Neville figured that if he trusted Harry blindly to lead them in this war he could restrain himself from making any comments about it. Harry probably knew what he was doing.

"In a purely Trelawney-like moment, I predict he'll be sporting a level-two glare," Ron answered happily.

Harry laughed but didn't say anything. Neville wasn't sure but it seemed to him that Harry was thinking about something important. Sure enough, after a few seconds he looked up and addressed Ron.

"Hey, any new thoughts about Halloween?" Harry asked. At Ron's hand-gesture he elaborated, "I mean about that memory Draco sent us. Special plans for tomorrow and that mysterious object?"

Ron looked thoughtful for a moment as he considered the situation. Neville hadn't been present for that meeting, only Council members had attended, but Harry and Ron had relayed the important information they had learned from the pensieve. Apparently there were big plans for the thirtieth, different from the usual attacks, but so far nobody knew what it was about since Malfoy hadn't been told. As for the object, they were all clueless as well. Had it not been Voldemort who said it Neville would have found the idea of an object penetrating the wards as ridiculous as Severus Snape mopping the floor and wearing an apron.

"I've got nothing for certain, obviously," Ron said seriously, unaware of Neville's mental image about a certain ex-professor dancing with a broom as his partner, "but I think that the object and those special plans Voldemort mentioned are related."

"How did you work that out?" Neville asked, feeling completely puzzled, as Snape's image exploded in a million pieces. "Unless you know what the object is or who has it there's no way of knowing, right?" Neville finished incredulously and Harry nodded his agreement.

Ron, astonishingly, lowered his fork and effectively interrupted his meal to ponder on how to answer the question. It looked like he was having real trouble in explaining his reasoning, which led Neville to believe he had actually no idea and was just speculating.

"I don't have a particular reason, to be honest," Ron said indifferently. "Just follow me on this one, okay?" Harry and Neville nodded. "For the past six years Halloween has been an excuse to taunt Harry about the loss of his parents, right?" They nodded again. "We all laugh our arses off because we in turn celebrate the night he was killed by a baby, right?" They nodded again and grinned; both of them thinking about that time they sent Voldemort a letter telling him just that.

"Well, doesn't it strike you as odd that for the first time in six years he suddenly wants to make special plans for the evening and also attend the 'festivities'?" Ron asked meaningfully. "And even worse, it also happens to match the time he is looking for a particular object to bring down our wards. I can't help but think there's too much of a coincidence for us to ignore."

Once again, Neville found he couldn't disagree with Ron's logic. He was living-proof about how good grades in school didn't necessarily reflect on the intelligence of an individual, a concept that Neville found encouraging. Far from being a decent strategist, as Snape claimed, Neville thought he was excellent. Although Neville had spent several years at Hogwarts being trounced by Ron at chess he had never expected the ability to apply to war. There were many more variables involved, unpredictable circumstances, unknown players and unlimited creativity that conveyed to make Neville's head spin. He contented himself with studying combat-strategy and leaving the greater schemes to the Council.

"I see what you mean," Harry said thoughtfully. "When we saw the whole meeting in the pensieve I had the impression that he was really anticipating Halloween for some reason. I just thought it was because of a particularly twisted torturing idea but maybe you're right. If Voldemort thinks that tomorrow he will get that object, or at least take a step closer to getting it, then that would explain his anticipation." Harry looked thoughtful for a moment as he scratched his scar. Finally he muttered, "It would also explain why this damn thing has been prickling so much..."

They soon concluded that there was no way of knowing what the maniac was planning and would have to wait until Halloween to find out. The atmosphere tensed dramatically after that reminder because they had lost many people in the last few years defending the muggles and muggleborns from the attacks.

Harry finished his breakfast, muttered something about having to talk to Snape and left the dining room. Neville and Ron finished a few minutes later and went to the gym that that barmy muggle had prepared to complete their exercises. While they walk towards what Neville called 'the weights room' Ron reminded him that they had a battle simulation exercise scheduled for today. Those were definitely fun but tiring and nerve-wracking as well.

Neville hoped he wasn't faced against Harry's team again so he could maybe win a bottle of firewhisky or a few butterbeers.

Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, Harry's Hut

Tuesday 29th of October

The room was dark already since the sun had long ago set for the day. A few embers still burned on the fireplace and occasionally exploded in a shower of sparks, providing some light for the man sitting on an armchair in front of the fire. The room was thick with white smoke that hung suspended in the air. Sometimes he would take a long pull from his pipe and blow out a ring that slowly lost its shape as the man nursed his drink.

Harry Potter was deep in thought. He had made a difficult decision in the morning and he was waiting for his guest in order to make some disturbing revelations. It would take time to convince his guest about the truthfulness of his information but he would get it done. Harry had decided that he could no longer ignore a dangerous part of this war and his friends had whole-heartedly agreed with him.

It had been Ron who had planted the seed of doubt in him. The conversation they had shared this morning had led him to believe that Voldemort had indeed realized that he was not the master of the Elder Wand. After all, legend said that the wielder of such a weapon would be unbeatable in a duel but Harry had managed to escape. Furthermore, Harry had watched the memory Draco had sent him again and noticed that Voldemort had been stroking the Elder Wand thoughtfully as he spoke. That fact, combined with the Dark Lord's claims about bringing down the wards that protected The Valley, was enough to make Harry nervous. Lord Voldemort had finally realized that the only way to destroy the rebels was to use the full power of the Elder Wand to pierce the wards.

In the Battle of Hogwarts Lord Voldemort had used the Elder Wand against him, assuming that the powers it possessed belonged naturally to him since the previous master was dead. His plan had backfired because Draco Malfoy had disarmed Albus before Severus had killed him. Given that Harry had disarmed Draco in Malfoy Manor he was sure that the Elder Wand had focused on him as its Master. Thus, Voldemort had attacked him mercilessly but had made a mistake, one that Harry had used to flee unscathed. Had he been using the full power of the Elder Wand Harry would be a lot less alive right now.

Still, nothing was confirmed and as far as Harry knew Severus could very well be the true Master. Whether that was correct or not Harry believed it to be irrelevant. If Lord Voldemort connected the dots he would think that, because Severus had killed Albus Dumbledore, the Elder Wand had pledged its alliance to him. Harry doubted that Voldemort would suspect Draco of once being the true Master. Moreover, Harry had urged Draco to spread word that he had been disarmed by Potter in his house. Lord Malfoy, as he insisted in being called, had complained about the shame of such comments but acquiesced in the end. If Voldemort ever traced the ownership of the Elder Wand he would hit a dead end in Draco and be forced to assume it was either Severus or Harry.

If Harry's plans had indeed worked then the price of Severus Snape's head had just doubled. As long as Harry didn't get disarmed or defeated by Voldemort the Elder Wand would never pass to him. However, Severus had to be kept alive at all costs. If he died at Voldemort's hand then they would find themselves in serious trouble. As soon as the Dark Lord realized that the powers of the Elder Wand still denied him he would know that Severus had never been the true Master. The logical connection would be to suspect Draco, and Harry was sure that Voldemort would kill the spy immediately. In the end, Harry's enemy would realize that Harry had been the true Master all along, the Order would lose an important spy and their potions master would be dead.

All in all, a situation Harry preferred to avoid.

Harry was jolted out of his thoughts by a loud but brief knock on the door. He settled his mental shields in place and stretched his legs lazily. This was not a conversation he wanted to have. He was dreading it. Still, his guest was waiting outside and Harry had already made his decision.

"Come in, Severus," Harry called loudly from his sitting position.

The front door creaked open and then closed noisily. The sound of footsteps reached his ears as Severus walked towards Harry's office. As soon as Harry saw him he had to make an effort not to burst out laughing. Severus looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world than in Harry's house. If the expression of disgust and the cold glare he was giving him were any indication, then Harry guessed that Severus was still angry about losing his bet in the morning.

"Take a seat, Severus. Care for a drink?" Harry asked politely. He figured that since he was pretty much going to drop a bomb on his head he could at least be respectful about it.

"Get on with it, Potter. I have better things to do than sit around drinking with you," Severus said impatiently. Harry resisted the urge to tell him that he had unknowingly made his comment rhyme but couldn't help the other words that left his mouth.

"But if you don't drink with me, where will you get firewhisky?" Harry asked innocently.

"That's it, Potter. I did not come here to be ridiculed," Severus said angrily. "You either tell me this important piece of information you mentioned or I will leave right now."

Harry sighed theatrically and pointed to the couch in front of him. Severus threw him another glare but complied. They sat in silence for a few seconds while Harry collected his thoughts. It would not be easy to say this and he didn't even know where to begin. However, the first thing he did was place a silencing charm around their general area. It wouldn't do any good for many people to know about this.

"Severus, what do you know about 'The Tale of the Three Brothers'?" he finally asked. In his surprise, Severus forgot to look menacing and Harry would have laughed at his expression if he hadn't been afraid of being hexed.

"You mean the one by Beedle the Bard?" he asked incredulously. Harry nodded, surprised that Severus knew of any children tales. "Potter, for your own well-being, I hope you didn't have me come here to talk about fairy tales."

"Well, not precisely," Harry said. "The tale in itself doesn't relate to the matter at hand but I thought it would be best to start from the beginning." Severus nodded jerkily and Harry took it as his cue to explain. "Do you remember the three items that Death presents to the three brothers of the story?"

"The wand, the stone and the cloak."

"Yes, that's correct," Harry said. "Although the story is, of course, a fairy tale, the items mentioned actually exist." Severus eyed him suspiciously but didn't say anything so Harry continued. "The three brothers of the story are actually the Peverell brothers. If I'm correct, I believe I am descended from the third brother, the one that owned the invisibility cloak."

Severus' eyes widened significantly and Harry had the fleeting suspicion that he had been either told by Dumbledore about his cloak or had known from his school days about James Potter owning such an object. Harry produced his wand and flicked it once. The silvery cloak came floating from his bedroom and landed on his outstretched hand. Wordlessly, Harry passed it to Severus.

"I'm sure you know about invisibility cloaks and how they are made," Harry said as Severus examined the cloak. "The cloak you're holding is, at the very least, forty years old. Charms don't last that long and Demiguise hair eventually loses its properties."

Severus continued his examination of the cloak. He ran his hand over the silky material and covered different parts of his body, confirming what Harry had said about the cloak still working perfectly.

"There's something else I can do to show you about the qualities of that cloak, Severus," Harry said calmly. Severus nodded and waited expectantly. "Wear the cloak and you'll see."

Severus stood up and covered himself completely with the invisibility cloak, effectively disappearing from view. Harry pointed his wand at him and said 'Accio invisibility-cloak' but nothing happened. Bewildered, Severus took off the third Hallow and wordlessly gave it back to Harry.

"Invisibility cloaks, like most items, can be summoned or damaged," Harry said seriously. "This cloak, however, is unique. It is believed that the Peverell brothers themselves were the ones that created the three Hallows mentioned in the story."

"Are you saying that there's a wand that is unbeatable?" Severus asked incredulously.

"I don't know if it's unbeatable, to be honest with you," Harry said carefully. He had never even thought about it, but if the wand was supposed to be unbeatable, then how had Dumbledore beaten Grindelwald? "I do know that it's extremely powerful and any average wizard would become as powerful as Dumbledore had been with it. You've heard about the Wand of Destiny, the Elder Wand and many other ridiculous names throughout history, right?" Severus nodded, now looking more troubled than surprised.

"Severus, I don't know how to say this so I'm just going go to ahead and say it, all right?" Severus nodded slowly. Harry stood up and walked towards the glass-cabinet. He picked a half-full bottle of firewhisky and poured a healthy amount in a clean glass. Severus eyed him emotionlessly but accepted the drink. Severus didn't know it yet, but Harry was sure he would appreciate the numbing feeling soon enough.

Harry braced himself for the inevitable outburst and spoke the words that would change Severus' role in this war forever. "Albus Dumbledore was the Master of the Elder Wand."

Predictably, since Severus was far from a stupid man, Harry found himself at the receiving end of many insults, questions and then insults again once he answered the questions. Severus had worked his involvement in the matter rather quickly and demanded a full explanation on how the Elder Wand passed from wizard to wizard, why Harry had kept it from him and what he was planning to do in the future. When Harry told him that he had allowed Voldemort to get to the Elder Wand first, Severus just slumped back in the couch and closed his eyes as if asking for patience to some greater-being.

"In the name of all you hold sacred, you Gryffindorish idiot, please explain why you took such a stupid course of action," Severus said desperately and downed the firewhisky in one gulp. Harry had expected the insults but it was slightly unnerving to see the cold man lose his composure like this.

"By the time I had figured out what was going on and who had had the Elder Wand Voldemort was already at the gates of Hogwarts," Harry explained. He summoned the bottle from its place and offered it to Severus. He nodded gratefully and refilled his glass. A few seconds passed in silence as they nursed their drinks and Harry lit his pipe.

"It was that night, wasn't it?" Severus asked unexpectedly. At Harry's raised eyebrow he elaborated. "The night he came to Hogwarts without previous notice and told me to leave him on the grounds, wasn't it? That's when he took the wand from Albus' tombstone." It was not a question but a statement. "Yes, that was it. But that means he never knew I was the true master or he would have killed me right away..." Severus trailed off.

"No, he didn't know," Harry agreed. "He probably thought that once the Master died whoever claimed the wand as his would be the true Master. Voldemort has been hunting you ever since because you betrayed him. I don't know when he realized that the wand didn't work for him as it should but that's when you became his first priority. Severus, you are now Voldemort's main target," Harry finished seriously.

Severus nodded shakily and they both fell silent once again. Harry knew it was a lot to digest. Even if Severus considered being Voldemort's first priority to be troubling, it was nothing to the discovery of the Elder Wand. If Voldemort ever became the Master of the wand there was no telling what could happen. There would be no stopping him. The only time Harry had managed to injure the Dark Lord it had been because his power had been relatively unknown. Voldemort had underestimated him and suffered accordingly. Now, however, they were evenly matched, or perhaps Voldemort being slightly more powerful, and he would not underestimate Harry again. Should the Elder Wand fall into the wrong hands then Harry would find himself completely outclassed.

"I'm not the true Master, am I?" Severus asked suddenly. Harry jerked involuntarily and looked at him. "I can't be. I killed Albus on his orders so I never defeated him. Does the power of the wand disappear when the wielder dies undefeated like Albus? Or does the wand choose a new Master on its own?" Severus asked mainly to himself. Harry watched apprehensively, waiting to see if he made the connection. Suddenly his face lost the colour it had left and his eyes widened comically. "Oh Merlin...Draco?" he whispered.

Harry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He really could've done without Severus figuring out Draco's involvement. Apparently the ex-professor was much more intelligent than he had given him credit for.

"Very good, Severus. Draco Malfoy was once the Master of the Elder Wand since he disarmed Albus before he died," Harry explained.

"Then who is the true Master now?" Severus asked, clearly dreading the answer.

"I am," Harry said slowly.

"You?" Severus asked. Had Harry not known him any better he would have said that Severus looked even hopeful at the prospect.

"Yes, we believe it's me," Harry explained. "I disarmed Draco at Malfoy Manor so I'm the logical option. I don't think the Master has to be beaten using the Elder Wand since that would be, in theory, impossible." Severus nodded. "Ever since I took Draco's wand from him by force I haven't been defeated or disarmed, which means I'm still the true Master. Someone may have disarmed me while training but I don't think it counts. Besides, it has been a long time since I've been defeated in training, probably having beaten most of the fighters here too. Anyhow, I have no doubt that I'm still the Master of the Elder Wand."

"Everything sounds logical, Potter, but there is one thing I do not understand," Severus said. Harry gestured for him to ask. "I was under the impression that the Dark Lord hit you with the killing curse again. You said in a Council meeting that the Dark Lord had to kill you personally for the 'greater good', yet you did not know why you survived. Even Albus told me that you had to be killed by his hand to destroy a piece of his soul that had attached itself to your body. If the Dark Lord 'killed' you, isn't he the Master of the Elder Wand? While I am asking, how did you survive the killing curse again? Further, somehow I don't think you spent your whole seventh year tracking down the Elder Wand. In fact, you said that you discovered its location the day of the Battle of Hogwarts. That being the case, what did you do all year?"

Harry once again found himself impressed with the snide man's reasoning capabilities. Should he answer the questions? Doing so required to explain about Horcruxes, a task that would be exhausting and potentially dangerous. Harry supposed he could always tell Snape that he couldn't answer the question right now but that wouldn't go down well with him. Harry needed Severus' cooperation for his plan and didn't want to alienate the man if it could be avoided.

"All right, Severus, I supposed I should tell you," Harry said once he had made his decision. "Remember that you can't tell anybody about the things I have told you and will tell you tonight. Only Ron and Hermione know about the Hallows and what I'm about to tell you." Severus nodded.

"Normally I would ask you to take an Unbreakable Vow for me to disclose this information," Harry began, "but that wouldn't be practical. If I somehow don't make it through this war then someone else should know the whole story. I have no choice but to trust your discretion. Severus, please think carefully before telling anyone about this. If I'm still alive at the time, ask for my permission first. If I'm not, it will be up to you to decide. Agreed?"

Once Severus had agreed to the conditions Harry proceeded to explain everything he knew about the Horcruxes, which ones he had destroyed and how Nagini was still very much alive. He emphasized the fact that Nagini had to be killed before Voldemort could be. Since there were hundreds of wizards and witches who knew about the first part of the Prophecy, Harry didn't feel like he had to tell Severus about the second part. Still, he tried not to leave anything missing that could later lead to their downfall.

During the two hours that took for Harry to explain everything he saw more emotions pass through Severus' face that he had ever seen before and the bottle of firewhisky rapidly became empty. He supposed it was a lot to take in, really. Voldemort had been practically immortal before Harry, Ron and Hermione had set off together to carry out the daunting task of tracking and destroying the Horcruxes.

Once Harry finished relaying the whole story they both fell silent. Severus was no doubt thinking about the whole thing and trying to piece everything together. After a few minutes of silence Severus asked a question that only Ron, Hermione and a few ex-members of the DA had asked before.

"How did you become so powerful if you're not using any special wand?" Severus asked calmly; now comfortably back to his usual demeanour. "I assume you have not been messing about with Magical Rituals you do not understand, Potter. What did you do?"

"Well, I'm not completely sure to be honest," Harry answered slowly. He had thought about this when his power started fluctuating after the Battle of Hogwarts but he wasn't sure about the explanation he had come up with. Maybe Severus would have some ideas. "I guess it's related to the fact that Voldemort killed the piece of his soul that had taken sanctuary inside my body. Now that it's gone I have come into my full powers. It could also be that I'm growing up. I've heard that magical cores grow until the wizard is around thirty years old."

"Correct, Potter," Severus said and nodded once. "While your magical core will still grow for a few more years, the changes will be relatively small. A wizard of your current power can usually be singled-out at a young age." He lectured knowledgably. "However, since you never...excelled in school and your power was relatively normal, I wouldn't have guessed." Severus sneered at him, probably thinking about Harry's fairly average scores and skills while at school.

"You're right," Harry answered calmly. It hadn't taken him long to get used to Severus' less than kind comments. "Hermione said that maybe Voldemort's soul had placed itself around my magical core, preventing its growth. She said that that would've been the logical course of action because a weak wizard facing Voldemort is a dead wizard."

"Granger, as much as it pains me to say it, is right, Potter," Severus said. "The piece of the Dark Lord's soul had probably been restraining your magical core's natural growth all those years. That would explain the rather violent bouts of accidental magic you had during three months after you 'died'."

Indeed, Harry remembered those vividly. They had been completely unpredictable and sometimes quite dangerous. One time he had been practicing the blasting curse, one of his favourites, and he had accidentally overpowered it. The usual deep red of the curse came out almost black and destroyed not only his training target but the whole surrounding area.

"That would be correct, Severus," Harry said calmly, trying hard not to look embarrassed about it. "We all agreed that Voldemort's soul had been using my magical core to fuel itself and that is why I could see through Voldemort's eyes and why I'm a Parselmouth. The question we haven't been able to answer is the following: if the piece of his soul is gone and I no longer have visions, why can I still talk to snakes?"

"Do you even know how Parseltongue works, Potter?" Severus asked. Harry shook his head. He only knew that if he concentrated he could hiss the words and the snake would answer. "Did it not occur to you to investigate your ability to make the most out of it? You do not know how it works and what this ability entails, Potter. Frankly, I had thought you had read all about it."

Severus clearly thought Harry was out of his mind. Many wizards considered the ability to be dark but some thought it to be a blessing. Many pure-bloods would give away their first-born son to have the ability. Like all rare traits, opinions about it differed according to who you asked about it.

Harry had found it to be highly useful, especially when dealing with his new pet. Xen had been found slithering about in The Valley by a terrified muggle who had called for help to get rid of it. Harry had gone to assist since everybody knew he could talk to them. Being as poisonous as the black mambas were said to be, more so since it was of a magical species, it had been best to avoid attacking it altogether. Harry had found the snake to be quite amusing and sarcastic though, prompting him to adopt the creature as his familiar.

Come to think about it, the only explanation Harry had ever found about why people considered Parseltongue to be a dark trait was because both Slytherin and Voldemort had had the ability. It couldn't be just that, could it? Apparently Severus knew why it was so Harry decided to ask.

"There are many reasons, Potter," Severus explained. "The most important one is that the darkest and most powerful rituals require the willing assistance of different types of snakes, something only a Parselmouth could get." Harry nodded as he explained. "Another reason is that the person wields the power to command."

"Em, sorry, what?" Harry asked quizzically.

"Use your brain, Potter!" Severus said exasperatedly. "Have you ever ordered Xen to do something?" Harry nodded slowly, thinking about how Xen had obeyed immediately. "Your snake did not choose to obey, it was forced to. Parseltongue is not a language that can be learned, Potter, only inherited. It is your magical core that produces the words, not your brain. When you speak Parseltongue the words are laced with magic. Thus, the magic allows you to command the snake."

Harry still felt a little confused. There were, however, a few points of the explanation that made a lot of sense according to his experience. As early as in his second year, he had discovered that it was easier to say the words when in the presence of a snake. Even when he spoke Parseltongue he had trouble telling the difference between the weird hissing noises and English. If Severus was to be believed, then that was because it was not actually his brain that formed the noises but his magical core.

Since Voldemort's soul had attached itself to his magic it made sense that some of his abilities had been absorbed by Harry. After all, he had been living with that damn thing inside his body for around sixteen years. Having a piece of soul attached to his magical core was bound to leave a mark even after it was gone.

There was one thing that Harry didn't understand though.

"You said that snakes are forced to obey because of the magic the words wield, right?" Severus nodded. "If that's the case, how come the basilisk still tried to kill me in my second year?"

"Well, did you tell it to stop attacking you, Potter?"

Harry looked at him incredulously. Surely it couldn't have been that easy, could it? Just tell the little snake to lie down like a good puppy and it would have obeyed him? The look on his face must have registered his shock for Severus answered the unasked question.

"No, Potter, it would not have worked anyway, but you should have tried," Severus explained patiently, or as patiently as he could. "Once a Parselmouth issues an order the snake is forced to obey. Even if another Parselmouth gives it the opposite order the snake will have to obey the first one. I am not sure, but if the first command it received is somehow impossible to carry out or if it has already succeeded, then another Parselmouth would, theoretically, be able to issue a different order."

"All right, thank you, that makes sense," Harry said slowly. He didn't know if he should be glad that in order to disable the basilisk he had done the right thing or regret the fact that maybe he could've saved its life. Having a basilisk as his familiar would've been impractical given that whole killing-eyes business, but it certainly would've had its advantages. The possibility of owning a creature that could kill with merely a glance, not to mention its size and poison, definitely had some appeal. Harry filed away the information to revise later and asked, "I don't suppose you have many books about Parselmouths, do you?"

"Obviously not, Potter. In fact, the reason your snake and I get along well is that I cannot understand what it says," Severus sneered. "I only have one tome that generally describes what can be done with the ability and some history about it." Harry smiled suggestively and Severus sighed. "Yes, Potter, you can borrow it. However, if I find any damage on it I will use your body-parts to feed the half-giant's colony of Acromantulas. Are we clear?"

Some things never changed.

"Yes, Severus, don't worry about it," Harry said seriously, inwardly laughing at the suggestion. Aragog had practically declared him the Lord of the Acromantula after Hagrid had told him about the fate of the basilisk. Apparently the colony wasn't too thrilled about having their mortal enemy living so nearby. If there was someone who could walk right up to Aragog and poke its eight eyes with a stick, it was Harry.

"Very well, Potter, I believe the evening has been informative, to say the least." Harry smiled and nodded. "I will take my leave now. Would it be too much trouble to ask you to inform me or Minerva of such important things in the future? Perhaps not after six years?"

"I will do my best, Severus," Harry said amusedly. They both stood up and tentatively shook their hands. Severus looked like he might wipe it clean as soon as he got to his house but Harry was confident that at least he would consider cooperating with Harry's plans. "Good night, Severus."

Severus nodded and walked towards the front door. Harry heard the door open, close and a few colourful curses about the blasted weather. As he passed by Harry's window on the way to his secluded home Harry heard some comments about how he could probably publish a best-seller with all the 'Gryffindorish stunts' Harry had somehow pulled off over the years. Severus had been definitely affected by the amount of alcohol he had ingested and it showed, much to Harry's amusement.

Harry was hit by sudden inspiration and walked towards his glass-cabinet. He pulled out a dusty bottle of Ogden's finest and opened the window. Since Severus had been so...well, not so Severus-like considering the circumstances and what he had been told, Harry decided that a little gift of appreciation was in order. With a swish of his wand he levitated the bottle towards the retreating back of the Potions Master and nudged his head gently with it. His kind act of the day done, Harry started to close the window when he heard a last comment.

"Oh, good, maybe I will pass out and actually get some rest," Severus said sarcastically as he drunkenly walked away.