Exitus Acta Probat

Author Notes: I'm very sorry this took so long for me to write. I'm also quite sure many of you will hate this chapter and be disappointed, but maybe I'm wrong. You can expect the next chapter much sooner, even if I am flabbergasted on how to proceed. Thanks to all my reviewers. Thanks to the new ones who just found the story, and the reviewers who have stuck with me for eons.

There are characters in this chapter that have not been heard of for awhile. If you forget who they are, I suggest skimming chapters 4-6. ;o)

Again, if you want to know the status of EAP and its progress, you can check out my lj. Feel free to ignore my ramblings that are non story related.

Last, love for Normio and her beta magic.

Chapter Thirteen: Interlude

Dark Lord's Hideout

Sunday, November 8^th, 1996

It was times like these that Rodolphus loathed the fact that he was the only high-ranking Death Eater who wasn't off his collective nut. Including his master, a traitorous voice whispered, before it was ruthlessly quashed by the large part of Rodolphus that wasn't looking forward to a few rounds of Cruciatus for his impudence. This meant it was up to him to say--

"My Lord, perhaps," he quailed as Bella and his master turned furious gazes upon him. He swallowed heavily, than tentatively continued. "Perhaps, instead of attacking right away, at dawn, we should take some time to train all the new recruits in the art of battle? To prepare ourselves, make a few plans?"

Lord Voldemort blinked, and contemplated for a moment. "It seems I was wrong about you, Rodolphus," he mused, rubbing his chin in his long-fingered hand. "Perhaps you are actually of some use. Very well. You have five days to train the others in Death Eater battle strategies," he barked to Narcissa and Bellatrix. "We can't risk waiting any longer and having the spies finding out and warning that flea-bitten mongrel, Lupin."

Rodolphus relaxed a fraction, breathing out in relief as Bella and Narcissa nodded their understanding and strode out of the room. His relief was short lived. It seemed he had overestimated his Lord's ability for forgiveness, as he turned to Rodolphus with an amused gleam in his slit eyes Rodolphus recognized all too well. He swallowed hard, and audibly.

"Since you have been so helpful, Rodolphus, I have a special assignment for you. You will assist my wife in anyway possible for the next three days. She seems to have grown inexplicably fond of you."

The evil red twinkle in his eyes was almost Dumbledore-esque, Rodolphus thought with a detached sort of horror.

The Cruciatus would be preferable to this.

Potions Dungeon

Monday, November 9^th, 1996

Harry Potter sat angrily in Potions, next to a glum, pouting Zabini. Thankfully, Snape was swooping around the other side of the room, and therefore was unable to penalize Gryffindor for Harry's violent poundings of his scarab beetles and furious muttered curses under his breath.

Then again, "the other side of the room" consisted of Crabbe, Millicent Bulstrode, Neville, Seamus, and Dean, so it wasn't as if Snape had far to glide to reign his fury upon him. They had to be the world's smallest class; Harry thought as he slammed his roots on the table and began viciously hacking them into pieces.

With Lavender, Tracey, and Dez dead, the four other Slytherin girls dead, Parvati god knows where, Nott in the hospital wing and Hermione--Harry ground his teeth as he flung his mashed up ingredients into the boys' simmering cauldron.

He was going to kill Hermione. What the holy hell had she been thinking, leaving him behind like that? He was their in to Riddle. He had the almost-sorted-into-Slytherin edge, the Parseltongue, the similar looks and background, brother wand, and a bloody great scar on his forehead courtesy of the bastard. What in Godric's name did Hermione have in common with him?

Yes, yes, besides the prefect thing. And overlooking the unholy obsession with grades, not to mention the fanatical reading. And besides the blatant disregard of rules they occasionally indulged in. And yes, okay, maybe they both kissed Professor arse, and were favored to be Head Boy and Head Girl respectively... Harry's mouth dropped open, his hand dangling uselessly in midair, dropping Newt's eyes out of its slackening grip. He didn't even notice Blaise's moody sighs and dark looks. He didn't

bat an eye as Neville's cauldron exploded across the dungeon, dousing everyone in the vicinity with the foul smelling antidote to dragon pox.

(Mr. Longbottom! Twelve billion points from Gryffindor for your never ceasing incompetence!)

Harry had finally, two days after Hermione had left, been hit with a realization, and was subsequently dumbfounded.

"My God! They're exactly alike! They're like the same person, cloned, besides the fact that she's a girl and he's a boy, obviously... but they're cut from the same cloth! Two sides of the same coin! Poured from the same mold! Separated at--"

"Potter!" Snape roared. It had taken him this long to recover his senses after Harry's bizarre, random outburst.

Harry started in surprise; he had forgotten where he was. Blaise was staring at him, open mouthed, along with the rest of the class, who all, for some unfathomable reason, were covered in a slimy substance, and Snape, whose hair was hanging in dripping, stringy ribbons, and was towering over him at his table.

"What, in the name of all that Salazar holds holy, are you babbling about?" he menaced in a deadly whisper.

"None of your business, sir," Harry snapped, recovering admirably.

"Oh, really?" Snape whispered in still more deadly a tone, placing his hands on the desk and looming into Harry's face, teeth bared. Blaise kicked him hard in the ankle as a warning. "And how is it not my business, Potter, when you shout deranged drivel in the middle of my lesson?"

"Er, sir--" Zabini foolishly attempted.

"Silence Zabini, you traitor!" Snape bellowed.

"How dare you call him a traitor!" Harry roared, standing up so he was face to face with Snape. "Last time I checked, he wasn't the one with a great big ugly skull on his arm!" He pointed his finger directly at Snape in accusation. Blaise buried his head in his hands with a moan, conceding defeat.

"I suppose," Snape whispered in satisfaction, standing upright again, splattering potion from his swinging locks, "you want detention every night for the rest of the year, Potter? I do need a few barrels of horned toads to be disemboweled," he added gleefully.

"Sir, you should look into these punishment fantasies of yours involving Potter," Millicent Bulstrode drawled from the other side of the dungeon. "It's frankly getting a little disturbing."

Snape was so stunned by this defect by one of his last few "loyal" students, that all he could do was mouth soundlessly. Before he could stop choking on air, the bell rang signaling the end of class, and the students rushed out before Snape could recover, and deduct enough points to delve into their seventh year.

Blaise had had to grab Harry by the back of his robes and use all of his bordering-on-a-man strength and drag him out and away from the homicidal lunatic posing as a Potions master. Clearly, Blaise thought grimly, Potter either had disciplinarian fantasies of his own, or a death wish. One that involved maniacal, greasy men bent on pain and destruction. Whether the former or latter disturbing explanation was true, one thing held; Potter had more issues than Witch Weekly.

"What. The bloody hell. Is wrong with you?" Blaise gritted out, breathing heavily through his nose. "Is there something in the air in Gryffindor tower that makes you all a bunch of reckless, self-sacrificing morons?" he ranted, as the trickle of students around them left.

Harry glowered. "I don't know why you care anyway, Zabini," he said coldly, "Hermione isn't around for you to try and impress anymore."

Blaise ground to a halt, his expression a mixture of shock and indignation.

"You know, Potter," he said, his voice shaking slightly with repressed emotion, "I actually thought you weren't a complete wanker. I actually thought you were worth getting to know. But all you really are is a selfish little sod with anger management issues."

Blaise turned and began walking away.

"Wait. Zabini," Harry said. Blaise stopped without turning round. "Look, I'm sorry," Harry began, "it's just it's--I love her, you know?"

"Yeah," Blaise replied, "I do," he turned and faced Harry. "But I love her too, Potter, and I still--"

"No," Harry cut him off. "You don't."

"Fuck you, Potter," Blaise replied, incensed, "don't tell me what I feel."

"You don't love her Zabini," Harry insisted earnestly, "you can't. It's not your fault. You don't even know her."

"Maybe," Blaise said doubtfully. "But I know I could."

"Maybe you could love her like she used to be, the old Hermione," said Harry slowly, "but there's.... she's killed people, Zabini. We've killed people, the two of us. Her mum's dead, Voldemort and Dolohov want her head on a pike..." Harry trailed off, a faraway look on his face. Blaise stood silent, and Harry shook his head a bit and continued. "But now she's different, she has to be to survive, and I don't think you could handle the darkness that is in her now."

"That's a load of bullocks, Potter," Zabini said coldly. "Hermione Granger, Golden Girl of Gryffindor tower, prefect, 'dark'? If you don't want me to date her, just admit it," he menaced, stepping right into Harry's face.

"I didn't say anything about that!" Harry said angrily. "I never said a bloody word about you two sleeping together, did I?"

Blaise's mouth snapped open, his expression flashing amazement before shuttering blank. "I don't know what you are talking about, Potter," he lied icily.

"Don't play dumb," Harry snarled, "I'm not an idiot, Zabini."

"It's none of your business!" declared Blaise.

Harry changed the subject. "You just revealed yourself, Blaise," he said tiredly, looking at the other boy with pity. "A minute ago, you just proved my point; you don't know Hermione at all. You love what you think she is, what she stands for in your mind. You can't love her like she deserves."

And with that, The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Smash-Hearts-Into-The-Dust walked away, leaving a stunned Slytherin in his wake.

First Floor Corridor

It was surreal; Morag reflected as she walked through the crowd of students in the corridor, everything was surreal since the night with Lisa Turpin, and Parvati Patil. She hadn't been sleeping much, for one, and she knew she wasn't alone. Trudging through the hall, pale and listless, she fit in quite well with the Hogwarts student population. It was the first time, really, that she realized she was in a crowd again; since so many had died, the castle seemed to loom larger, emptier, more menacing. Morag didn't know whether being in a crowd was comforting or not.

Justin Fintch-Fletchley was up ahead, standing next to Ernie, of course, who was holding hands with Millicent Bulstrode. If Hogwarts had been like it was a year ago, the gossip would be flying thick and fast. As it was now, their relationship barely caused a blip on the radar. Not paying attention, Morag bumped into someone.

"Oh, sorry," she said automatically, and recognized Neville Longbottom.

"It's alright," he said in his quiet voice, "it's crowded in here, innit?"

She nodded.

Neville made a game attempt to start conversation again.

"What do you think the assembly is about, Morag?"

She shrugged.

"I hope it isn't anything bad," Neville babbled nervously. Obviously, her silence was getting to him. "I don't think I can take anymore bad."

Morag was planning her non-response when they pushed through the crowd towards the entrance to the great hall and were squashed together again. She felt something decidedly sticky.

"What is that?" she said, alarmed, pointing at Neville's hair, where a glob of sickly green, smelly, slimy goo resided. Its brother goo now resided on her shoulder.

"Hmm?" Neville asked, distracted until he saw her shoulder. "Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry Morag!" he said, turning red alarmingly fast. "See--I was nervous and--exploded---thought I got it all..." he stammered, trying to wipe the goo off of her shoulder.

"Potions?" she asked wearily. She supposed she had that foul smelling goo to look forward to tomorrow.

"Yeah," Neville said weakly. "Look, I really am sorry about--"

"Oh, forget it," Morag said, feeling guilty about making poor Neville so on edge with her behavior.

By this time they had managed to squeeze through the doors and into the throng inside the Great Hall, where chattering students were making their way to the tables. Morag followed Neville to the Gryffindor table, where Dean Thomas and Michael Corner were holding hands, and Seamus--- She looked away.

"Morag!" someone cried out, in a desperate sort of voice as she sat next to Michael.

She had barely turned halfway round to look when Sam Capper flung himself into the empty seat beside her.

"There you are!" He said breathlessly. I've been looking for you everywhere!" He leaned in alarmingly close, as was his habit lately.

"I was in Defense Against the Dark Arts," she gently reminded him.

"Oh, oh--right!" Sam exclaimed, a faint flush covering his freckled face. He pulled a tattered piece of paper out of his robe pocket. "I guess I forgot all about this," he said sheepishly.

Morag smiled as best as she could. Capper had been following her everywhere ever since Eloise had put him under Imperius and forced him to kill Wayne and Theseus. She had finally just written him a copy of her schedule, to save herself a headache. She hadn't really known Sam all too well before the student death eater attacks, but hadn't that been the way it was with everyone before? Stick to your houses, no fraternization? She knew it was so.

Capper wasn't the only one on her tail constantly; she had two Hufflepuff puppies following her around; Sam and Tim Summerby, the Hufflepuff seeker. It was no mystery as to why; she had been the first one to comfort them after the initial horror, and both boys were sick with guilt and shame. Summerby was upset because he was the only Hufflepuff Seventh year spared, and he didn't know why, or how to come to grips with his brush with death. He still wouldn't tell anyone what exactly had happened with Eloise. Of course, Zacharias Smith, also a Seventh year Hufflepuff, hadn't died either, but Summerby thought that was different. Smith was meant to die. Smith had fought back, and saved Justin Fintch-Fletchley's life. Summerby had just lain immobilized while Eloise killed his roommates.

Sam's state was even worse. Morag knew Ernie and Justin had repeatedly told him they held no blame on him for what happened and that Wayne and Theseus would feel the same, that any of them would have done the same thing if it had been them under Imperius.

"But you weren't," was always Sam's monotonous response. "The rest of you were smart enough to get out of the way. If I had moved, too, we could've taken her down, all five of us, and Theseus and Wayne wouldn't be dead, and Eloise wouldn't be running around on the loose."

There was no arguing with him on this point, so Ernie and Justin just made helpless faces and tried fruitlessly to engage Sam back into their friendship.

Another blur of yellow and black whizzed into her vision, and suddenly Summerby was sitting next to Sam.

"Shove off, Capper," he said impatiently. "You sat next to her last time." Morag closed her eyes in horror. Neville was in shock, his mouth gaping open, Dean was trying to hide his snickering, and Michael was doing no such thing, and guffawing loudly. And Seamus....he was seeing the whole thing. She didn't even want to look at him. Morag knew that continuing to obsess over Seamus Finnigan was foolish after everything had happened, but it was the one shred of normalcy from her former life, (Quidditch had finally been suspended) and she clung to it like a pit-bull with a bone.

A loud bang interrupted her supreme embarrassment, and Morag turned to the Great Hall doors along with the rest of the students. By now, everyone had sat down with their friends at the tables; the houses so mixed and blended that it was impossible to tell where each and every student of a certain house was. The Professors had all importantly gathered at the long table, along with a few others, (Morag recognized the red hair of Fred, George, and Percy Weasley) and this was the atmosphere Harry Potter made his grand entrance into.

He was apparently in one of his moods. He stomped along the floor, his eyes narrowed until it looked impossible for him to even be able to see, his jaw was clenched, his cheek twitching, and a vein throbbed on his forehead. Yes. Definitely in one of his moods, Morag thought.

Potter seemed oblivious to the scene he was causing, as he stormed over to the former Gryffindor table and slumped into one of the empty seats besides Katie Bell.

"Well," Professor Snape's sneering, mocking voice breaking the silence, "now that Potter has had his attention seeking melodrama for the day, perhaps we can get started." Strangely, Harry appeared to have not heard a word the Potions Master said. Speaking of which....she did a double take. Sure, Snape was beyond greasy, but was that the same slimy green stuff in his hair that was now smudged onto her shoulder?

"Ah-hem, yes, Professor Snape, good idea, we shall get started," Professor Lupin broke in, before a fight could begin. Harry might not care that Snape was mocking him, but more than a few Professors, including Hagrid, were glaring at Snape. "Now---"

The doors banged open dramatically again.

"Oh, for the love of--" Lupin started exasperatedly.

Blaise Zabini stormed in. Morag had never really noticed Zabini before, she didn't think anyone had; they knew he existed but never gave him a second thought. When he started dating Hermione Granger, though... suddenly EVERYONE knew who he was. He was the new Mr. Popularity, people constantly waving to him and calling to him, and he had borne it amicably enough, if not in a slightly bewildered fashion, while Granger was still around. Now though, Granger had disappeared. Well, not disappeared. Potter and Lupin seemed to know what she was up to, and Zabini seemed to have an inkling, but the rest of them where completely in the dark.

If he had tolerated the attention before, now that Granger was gone, he had turned as hostile as Potter in one of his moods. He seemed to be constantly brooding, sneering, glaring, or giving moody sighs and dark looks. The amount of times in a day he said "piss off" to people was indescribably high. The rude gestures, the hostility towards all authority figures, and above all, his seething hatred of girls who were bent on "cheering him up" now that Granger seemed to have deserted him.... Well... frankly Zabini was now a bit scary.

And he was making as big of a scene as Potter had. Zabini NEVER made scenes. He might be rude and surly, but the yelling, facial twitching, and vein popping was all Potter. Zabini, however, seemed to have learned a little something from his mentor.

"POTTER!" he bellowed in a voice so loud and threatening it must have made Snape jealous. "POTTER YOU BASTARD, WE WEREN'T DONE!"

Morag's mind instantly went to a filthy, filthy place.

"YOU CAN'T JUST WALK AWAY FROM A WIZARD'S DUEL!" Zabini shrieked, sounding more than a little deranged.

Now Potter was paying attention.

"I can do whatever the bloody hell I want!" he snapped, yelling across the flabbergasted and frozen crowd in the room.

"I won't let you dishonor Hermione that way!" Zabini shouted dangerously.

You could almost hear every ear in the room perking up for the incoming gossip.

"I'm not dishonoring her!" Potter yelled indignantly, standing up, Katie Bell rolling her eyes beside him. "You're dishonoring her by not believing the truth!"

Morag believed this screaming match would've gone on much longer, with the level of fascination the occupants of the Great Hall were watching the two combatants, had not a voice interrupted, a voice both lower-pitched and more threatening.

"That is enough!" Viktor Krum, that is--Professor Krum yelled from the teacher's table. "I vill not have you discussing Herm-own-ninny's business like this! Both of you sit and be silent!"

Meekly, both boys sat and were silent.

Krum nodded once in satisfaction, and then sat back down, turning politely back to Lupin as if he had not just single-handedly controlled the two most out of control students at Hogwarts.

"Er, um, yes, thank you, Professor Krum," the headmaster stammered, regaining control of the assembly. "Even though there have been innumerable horrors in our lives lately," he began gravely; "you have all risen to the occasion magnificently. Instead of becoming more clannish, angrier, and paranoid, you have all opened your hearts to all of the students at Hogwarts, regaining the unity the Sorting Hat so wisely talked about. Here I see Hufflepuffs and Slytherins," he nodded at Ernie and Millicent, while Professor Snape looked to be retching in the background, "Ravenclaws and Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs," he gestured at Morag's group, "and even though we have just witnessed a quarrel between them, Slytherins and Gryffindors." At this, Professor Snape made an audible gagging noise. Professor Lupin's face spasmed. He moved on, reluctantly ignoring Snape.

"But as of now, I need all of you back at your old house tables; I need you sitting with all of your year mates around you. I need the first years at the head of the table closest to me, all the way in order to the seventh years at the end. This is only temporary, but a necessary component of what we will be discussing today. Please slowly and quietly make your way to the proper spots, filling in every empty seat."

The students looked confused, but did as Headmaster Lupin requested. Morag left the Gryffindor table, and Summerby and Capper, both looking stricken, walked to the Hufflepuff table without her. She sat next to Padma Patil at the Ravenclaw table. Michael Corner and Anthony Goldstein, the only boys left in their year, sat across from them. Marietta Edgecombe was silent and sad on Anthony's other side. Her fellow seventh year class was dwindled as well. Somewhere around twenty of her fellow 'Claws had been killed, making their table empty and haunted.

Morag looked around the hall as everyone slowly set into place. She was morbidly curious to see what the new Hogwarts' Houses looked like.

It was immediately clear the Slytherins had been hit the hardest, which was no surprise. Crabbe, Zabini, and Millicent Bulstrode were the only ones who remained from Morag's year.

Barely any Seventh years remained; Byron or Bryan or whatever his name was and Chris Jones were the only two she recognized, and Edith Lodgeman.

The third years were completely wiped out with the exception of Kyle Stebbins and three girls. Morag turned away, nauseous from the Slytherins. They were missing at least sixty students, and that was a generously low estimate at that.

Hufflepuff wasn't much better. Her eyes first hit her year mates again; poor Capper was sitting next to Hannah Abbot and Megan Jones, avoiding Ernie and Justin's eyes. Susan Bones sat next to Justin, and across from her was the lone duo of Seventh year Hufflepuffs; Tim Summerby and Zacharias Smith. Morag estimated at least twenty of the Badger's numbers were gone.

The Gryffindors were oddly lopsided. Harry Potter, Neville, Seamus and Dean were all there, but every girl from sixth year was gone. Morag wasn't sure whether to count Hermione Granger in their number. Perhaps she wasn't dead. Katie Bell was the sole Seventh Year female Gryffindor, with at least ten boys still left in her year. The Lionesses were outnumbered in every year down the line at Gryffindor. Their boys had gotten lucky.

When everyone was finally in place, Lupin spoke again.

"These are drastic times, which call for drastic measures." Snape coughed a loud "Clichéd!" into his fist. Lupin's hands ominously twisted on the podium he was behind, clearly wishing they were around the Potion Master's neck.

"Regular classes are to be put on hold for a week," Lupin declared, "to be replaced by seminars devoted to learning battle techniques, what to do if the school itself is attacked, and so on and so forth." He paused, as if expecting a rude interruption from Snape, and not receiving one, continued.

"Each year of students will be grouped together and taught spells and other skills on their level of knowledge and beyond. Professor Wood," he gestured to an unusually somber looking Oliver, "will be teaching everyone how to escape and evade attackers by broomstick. Those without broomsticks will be given one. Professor Snape will be teaching, alongside with Mr. Potter, a highly skilled course on dueling." At this, both Snape and Harry shrieked in unison.

"Lupin, if you expect me to work with that ungrateful, conceited little..."

"Professor you can't possibly force me to come in more contact with that slimy..."

Lupin had to raise his voice almost five octaves before he could drown them out. "Professor Krum will be teaching Advanced Dark Arts, and how to combat them when faced with them in battle. Professor Hagrid will be instructing you in magical beasts that can aid you when you are in need. Professor-"

"...highly incompetent, lazy brat with an ego the size of..."

"...overgrown bat on a power trip over little children that..."

Morag zoned out as Lupin steadfastly raised his voice and continued his monologue of Professors and their new courses. She picked up the relevant information: new schedules would be passed out immediately after assembly, the three Weasleys would also be teaching defensive classes, there would be additional classes for residents of Hogsmeade and some of the refugees in the castle, the Muggle families would be learning their own protective measures, and-- Morag suddenly, clearly, heard what Lupin said next.

"Also, I believe strongly that being knowledgeable in the arts of Muggle combat and Muggle espionage is crucial to defeat the Death Eaters and Voldemort."

(Mass wincing.)

"They think these arts are beneath them, and therefore would not know what to do if attacked by Muggle means. Luckily, we have with us, here in Hogsmeade, three experts in such Muggle arts, who have agreed to teach courses focusing on this knowledge. These three experts are here tonight, and I will have the honor of introducing you to them in a moment."

"Here to teach the art of spying is a Muggle woman of great stealth and subterfuge. But even more to our benefit, comes a warrior and his son, the latter of whom is the reigning Junior Inter-School Boxing Champion of the South East--"

An unidentifiable noise shrilly came from Potter.

"May I present to you Dudley Dursley, and his parents Petunia and Vernon!"

The scream of horror that followed this announcement broke approximately sixteen windows in the castle.

Sunday, September 10^th, 1943 : The Witching Hour

A group of hooded students sat on the outer edge of a circle drawn in blood, the interior containing a seven pointed, overlapping star known as the septagram. Candles were held in the right hand of every student, a handful of herbs in the other, with the exception of three. These other students held silk bags containing components of their spell. The first student spoke, their voice lowered and husky.

"If those who are foolish stand in your way, treat them cruelly and without mercy."

"Hail," the other hooded figures intoned.

The speaker threw a bloody pig's heart into the center of the septagram.

The student on the left of the first spoke: "When seeking power and knowledge, those who oppose you must be destroyed."

"Hail," was repeated.

The innards of an animal joined the pig's heart.

The student on the right of the first spoke next: "Respect the power of magic. Without magic, we are no more than animals."

"Hail," a third time.

Dry bones joined the innards and the pig's heart.

The First; "We serve our Master."

"Hail."

The Second; "We worship him in his wisdom."

"Hail."

The Third; "We seek power and he gives it to us."

"Hail!"

At this last and loudest hail, all present with hands full threw their various herbs into the center. Wands were withdrawn, spells were simultaneously cast. The candles were thrown last, igniting the mass in the center. Blue flames leapt and danced, crackled and fizzled, more beautifully than any diamond. Abruptly, the flames ceased and smoke, inky purple, rose sinuously from the wreckage.

The spell had been cast.