Take My Hand

No one ever seemed to take time to admire the dark gray stone that constructed the whole of Hogwarts Castle. Oh sure, nearly every student and faculty member had paid their respects to the admiration of the sheer size and beauty that the school had to offer. But the abundant rough stone that comprised it...no one spared enough attention to notice. Often people stared at the stone walls, the stone floors, the stone ceilings...but without really seeing it. Without appreciation and without care. People stared at walls for reasons - to stare into vacant space for the purposes of losing themselves in thought - an innate respect for the chaotic, imperfect structure of the masonry went unobserved - a severe disrespect (according to some) for the material that held up the entire school. However, this evening, someone paid attention.

Tate Blackeberry sat on the window settee, her back against the wall of the alcove, one long arm extended. Her fingertips barely grazed the rough surface of the stone. Were an onlooker to happen upon the scene, he or she would've seen a nondescript figure lost in daydream, absentmindedly tracing finger patterns on the dark walls.

But there was no onlooker's subjugation, only the brutal cold imparted by the thick glass of the window and the howl of the wind outside.

Her skin was screaming. It occurred to her that her entire body might simply burst into bright flame in its haste to run. It was like her cells were shivering, dividing, and preparing to scatter in all directions. Her fingertips tingled with a nervous fire that twisted and turned mercilessly, causing endless goosebumps to rise on her tensed arms. Her heart was beating irregularly - fast, then slow, then fast again, and in all the wrong places - as though it were begging and pleading and beating against the prison of bone and sinew that encased it. It cried out desperately for freedom, and Tate began to fear her own heart would burst straight out of her chest and run away.

Ha, that'd be funny, she thought wryly, imagining what Lavender might do if a tiny, shrieking human heart with legs came hurtling past her. The smile didn't reach her mouth. Her teeth were chattering and this irritated her greatly. She had never been one to show weakness - she'd been conditioned not to. Show weakness or fear to an enemy, and show him the road to victory.

Never in her life had she encountered such anticipation and stark terror. It was beyond nausea, beyond tears, beyond screaming bloody murder.

Ten years for this, she whispered to herself, Remember your instruction. Who you are. She snorted when she realized her conscience was giving her a pep talk. It was ridiculous, but strangely calming. No, that was a lie - calm had ceased to exist since she had encountered Dobby the house-elf and discovered that the time had come. The Grey Man was awake, and the door to psychic demonic warfare was opening. It took months to arrange deals as such, but usually much longer to actually awaken the demon with whom the deal was constructed. Somehow Voldemort had managed to jump the gun. At best, they had three months to prepare. She was wasting time reminding herself of what she already knew, which was fine. Better than brooding, anyways.

The biting cold pierced her t-shirt. Usually, she could ignore this - it had been one of her first lessons after all. How to turn off her mind and faze out her surroundings until there was a single focus that blocked all other stimulus. Wonderingly, she reflected back upon her two month tenure at Hogwarts. She had played the part of the sheltered bird well - not too fragile, not too strong. Funnily enough, at muggle school, her fear of people was insurmountable, a delicate house of cards that was destined to crash. At magic school, she was fine...well, had been fine. People had been easier to read, but not in a simplistic way. They had just seemed...natural to her. In fleeting moments, it reminded her of being back with the boys and Niels.

She clenched her fists a bit tightly at the memories, drawing blood against her scarred palms. Her hands looked purple and deadened in the bluish light, thin skin stretched over bone. Like butter, scraped over too much bread, echoed a kindly voice in her head. She smiled slightly, briefly wondering if a Rivendell did, in fact, exist. Too bad Hermione is asleep - she'd know.

Tate continued to study and trace patterns on the granite masonry and proceeded to terrify herself into a restless doze, while Hermione tossed fitfully in her sleep.

*** *** ***

Hermione sat in the common room, immersed in her studying. People were being louder than she would have liked, but she sighed and continued her Arithmancy homework.

Suddenly, it felt as though the room began to shake. Her glass of water trembled, and toppled right off the end table. A low growl echoed off the walls. Students stopped their chatting and began to look around in confusion. And then...a blast louder than the Hogwarts Express hitting a brick wall at 200 miles per hour, and Hermione jumped a mile, scattering her books and papers all over the floor. She looked around in wild confusion to find Fred and George Weasley setting off Filibuster Fireworks, right behind her chair.

They were shouting in her face. "Wake up, Hermione!"

"Go 'way."

"Hermione, wake up!" They began to shake her. "HERMIONE, WAKE UP!" Hermione opened her eyes and found herself in her own bed, Tate shaking her. She sat up.

"What is it? Are you having more nightmares?" Tate shook her head, her eyes bursting with an unnamable fear.

"Something has happened. Can't you feel it?" Hermione stared at her, her mouth open, suddenly aware of an electrical smell. Tate placed her hand on Hermione's shoulder. Heat like fire diffused through her body, from the spot Tate had laid her hand, a horrible sense of dread and danger filling her. She could hear, smell, and even taste the evil all around her. Without a word, both jumped up and tore down the stairs to the Common Room.

Everyone was awake. Furniture had turned over, and books had fallen from their perches.

"What's going on?" Lavender was screaming, "It sounded like the castle was under attack!" Students were huddled together, some of them crying. H and R fought their way over to Hermione. Harry looked at her, his eyes showing his fear plainly.

"It's Voldemort," he whispered, "I can feel him." He passed a hand over his scar, which was now throbbing with pain.

Hermione shook her head, not wanting to believe. She opened her mouth to cite any other rational explanation that could be had, but Professor McGonagall stepped between them.

"You three," she demanded, looking pointedly at Ron, Hermione, and Harry, "Come with me now." Tate turned and disappeared through the girl's dormitory. Hermione, Ron, and Harry followed Professor McGonagall through the portrait hole. Struggling to keep up with the storming Professor, Hermione tripped, only to have Harry seize her shoulder before the ground rushed up to meet her, and on they went.

They stopped in front of a very familiar stone gargoyle.

"Pumpkin Pasty!" shouted Professor McGonagall. The gargoyle turned and revealed the doorway to Professor Dumbledore's office. Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed her through, and found themselves under the ice blue gaze of Professor Dumbledore.

"Much to my chagrin, we have no time for passing pleasantries," Dumbledore began, "Something very serious has happened. Hogwarts has sustained a massive attack." Hermione, suddenly unable to cope with the magnitude of the situation, sank to the floor on buckled knees. Harry knelt beside her, unable to do anything more than twist his fingers in her hair.

"What happened?" Ron posed his question in a broken, terrified voice. Professor McGonagall's face contorted, the prominent blue vein in her forehead pulsing with fear. Or maybe it was anger. Dumbledore looked severe.

"The Astronomy Tower was attacked with an Implosion Curse."

Hermione gasped. She knew how incredibly dark and detrimental the curse was. Moody, or rather, Barty Crouch posing as Moody, had discussed it with them.

"Two students, Susan Bones and Justin Finch-Fletchley, were killed in this devastating assault." Dumbledore looked with sympathy upon the horrified three. Hermione began crying silently. Ron was dumbstruck, his jaw hanging slack, eyes glazed over. Harry looked up, filled with a hollow, beaten sort of look.

"Voldemort," he spat. Dumbledore nodded to him.

"It seems that, once again, he will only be satisfied with the destruction of Academy, myself, and you. The situation stands as thus. Voldemort has awoken an ancient demon of the deep. There are only two people who can defeat it, and only one who can defeat Voldemort. Harry, your destiny lies as such. Despite our greatest efforts to find an alternate solution to this, it seems that only you will be able to successfully defeat Voldemort, however you cannot do so without the support and presence of your closest friends. At this point, I must ask Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley to return to the Gryffindor dorms." Harry squeezed Hermione's arms, unwilling to leave her in such a state. Dumbledore gazed at him kindly.

"We will not separate you three for long, but unfortunately, the temporary separation is unavoidable. I will speak with you soon, Harry." With a last glance toward Hermione, Harry disappeared through the door. Dumbledore turned his blue eyes to Hermione - their usual amusing twinkle was nowhere to be found. His voice was grave.

"Hermione, you are to leave Hogwarts, immediately, tonight, and you will leave with Ms. Blackeberry. You will go to an undisclosed location known only to myself. Once there, you will hide. You will not go out among civilization. No one must see you. We will attempt to defeat Voldemort without involving either of you, although that outcome is quite unlikely, even hopeless. When the time comes, the Order of Phoenix will come for you and either assist you in the battle or return you to Hogwarts. Do you understand?" Hermione could only stare at him. It seemed that someone had filled her insides with molten metal - everything burned and shuddered, and her eyes wouldn't focus right. Dumbledore's voice barely managed to penetrate her stupor.

"Hermione, do you know what a telepath is?" Hermione looked at him in confusion. A lesson? Now? Surely there was a better time for this. But, being Hermione Granger, she cleared her throat and spoke.

"A telepath is someone with incredible mental capabilities. They're sensitive to changes in emotion, environment, and atmosphere. They are marked, distinctly, and you can tell who will be a telepath at birth by mark and blood, although its pretty nondescript what the mark might be. It's individualized to each person. They're very rare."

Dumbledore nodded. "Very rare indeed. In fact, there are only 25 known living telepaths in the world today. They are all recorded, here, on this list." He held up a very yellowed sheet of parchment. He gestured to Hermione, and she came to stand at his side and looked at the list. Letters swam all over the page, and she began to tune Dumbledore out as her consciousness balked and scurried around like a caged animal.

"I understand that you believe yourself to be a normal individual. Ms. Blackeberry has informed me that you staunchly disbelieve her assessments of your latent powers. Therefore, I must offer you proof." He held the list up, so she could see it more clearly. The words came sharply into focus, partially, Hermione suspected, due to a charm.

"Read the names to me, if you please, Hermione."

"Aloucious H. Gribben. Albus Dumbledore. Niels K. Boltzmann. Lorelei D. G. Dunwich. Tom M. Riddle. Clione B. Novick. Bryan T. Matheson. Summerre.." Hermione's breath hitched sharply in her throat. She was getting closer. Dumbledore indicated she should read on. She began, shakily, again.

"Summerre...I can't pronounce this last name..."

Dumbledore nodded. "It as all right. Go on."

"Marion L. Cunningham. Hermione M. Granger. Regina H. S - S - Simon..." Hermione, realizing what she had just read, saw blue sparks in front of her eyes. Her knees gave out, and she sat down hard on the ground. This wasn't possible.

Of course it's possible, stupid! fumed her irate conscious, Stop being difficult! Tate had been dropping hints to her for months now, but still - she had known it wasn't possible. But her name...her name was on that list. The list didn't lie, it couldn't - it was bound by magical truth. Oh god, oh god, oh god... The world swam before her, and her throat constricted even tighter. A hand fell onto her shoulder, and she looked up into Dumbledore's solemn face.

"Your destiny awaits, Hermione. If Voldemort succeeds in completing the bargain with the Grey Man - which he will - you and Ms. Blackeberry will be the only defense against it. She will explain everything to you, as we have no time. I will deliver your farewells to Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley." Confusion clouded her vision and her mind, but something unspoken willed her to get up, and she was on her feet immediately. Before she could reach the door, Dumbledore stopped her. He gestured toward the wall behind his desk.

"Hermione Granger's dorm room," he said sharply, and the wall shimmered, like a reflective pool of water. Hazily, Hermione could make out her bedroom on the other side.

"Collect your belongings and pack them in your trunk. Take only what you must. Do not go to the Common Room, and do not open your door, should anyone knock upon it. Contact with other students would be ill advised, I fear." Hermione's heart sank, although she knew he was right - it would raise questions earlier than necessary. "When you have packed, walk back through your wall and you will find yourself in the Great Hall."

Hermione nodded, and walked quickly through the misty portal, into her bedroom.

Tate's side of the room was in complete disarray, clothes thrown haphazardly all over the bed, boxes torn open, books strewn across the floor. Flustered and rushed, Hermione crammed all of her clothes, books, and other knick knacks into her trunk.

"Nullus Onus," she muttered, and her trunk became as light as a feather. Seizing the handle, she easily pulled it through the iridescent ripples that still graced the wall.

One step through, and another out, and she was standing in front of Dumbledore in the Entrance Hall. Tate was a few feet away from him, looking at the floor. Hagrid came forward and took Hermione's trunk from her. He disappeared through the entrance doors. Dumbledore looked from Hermione to Tate. He lightly pushed her to stand next to Hermione, so they were both facing them. With one hand on Tate's shoulder, the other on Hermione's, he looked at them with something quite similar to admiration.

"The two of you will prepare. Use this," he produced a brightly colored paperback - it reminded Hermione faintly of the trashy romance novels her cousin Amye was so found of. She took it, pocketed it, and swallowed hard. This was it - she was leaving. She was leaving her two best friends behind. Terror began to invade her bloodstream. Dumbledore was talking...somehow, she forced herself to catch the last few words.

"Both of you...Your destiny awaits. I have every faith in all of you. Go."

Tate gently nudged Hermione, who seemed to wake up immediately. Without a word, they turned together and ran out the entrance doors. They passed Hagrid's Hut, the lake, and Hermione gasped a little bit as Tate plunged headlong into the Forbidden Forest.

"Tate, where the bloody hell are we going?" Hermione was horrified, as they had been pushing through some extremely dense thicket for the past ten minutes. It seemed to her they were a bit too deep in the Forbidden Forest for safety's sake.

"Shut up, will you?" came Tate's voice. "Trust me, just keep going." Hermione, not at all trusting anything at this moment, followed anyways, since she did not have a better suggestion at the moment. Sure enough, within a few minutes, Hermione could hear Hagrid's rough voice up ahead. A thorned branch struck her in the face, drawing a line of blood and she swore, pushing through the rest of the brush to reveal a clearing. Something very familiar rested in the clearing, and that familiar sight nearly gave Hermione a heart attack. Oh good lord, thought Hermione, I'm dreaming. There is not a goddamned plane in front of me right now. I'm going to wake up soon, and laugh myself silly. She tripped and stubbed her toe. Shit. There goes that idea. I would very much like to know what is going on. I really hope Hagrid is not planning on flying that.

Hagrid looked very grim. Wordlessly, he took the girls' trunks and crammed them into the wing compartment of the tiny aircraft. He slammed it shut, sighed heavily, and turned to face Hermione.

"Best of luck, 'Ermione. I'll be prayin' for yeh." Hagrid began to sniff, and harshly dragged a hand across his beetle-black eyes. One hand tugged on his beard.

"I'm a bit scared!" he sobbed, "But I know yeh'll be all right. Yeh always are. Wish I could come with yeh." He swept up Hermione, nearly crushing her in his arms. Hermione patted his back comfortingly, although she was so terrified she felt faint. He released her as well, and turned Tate.

"Don' know what the 'ell this ruddy thing is," he said gruffly, "But Dumbledore said it's been charmed. Won't run out of fuel, won't be picked up by any radar, magic or muggle, whatever all tha' means. Best of luck, my -" Whatever else he was planning to say was lost, as he began crying hysterically, and disappeared into the dark. Hermione's vision began to blur.

Tate took one look at Hermione's paling complexion and realized that time was of the essence. A few more seconds, and Hermione would either pass out, or refuse to get in the plane.

"Get in. Now." Tate seized her arm, and Hermione felt herself being pushed into the aircraft. Tate lifted her into the rear passenger seat, buckled her in as though she were a child, and then sat down at the controls. Hermione was looking at everything through a fog when the world began to spin. A loud whirring sound filled her ears. As the plane lifted off the ground, Hermione's head fell back and she saw only darkness...mingled with the nightmare that was blooming into a reality...

*** *** ***

The Gryffindor Common Room was heavy with pain. Students sat hunched over, huddled in packs, as though human contact would save them from the sub-zero evil that loomed over them like a black layer of ice. Professor McGonagall stood in front of the fireplace, addressing her house without her trademark severity. She spoke in a monotone voice that shook every once in a while. Her lips pursed together more tightly than normal as she calmly explained the dire events of the past few hours. There were no reactions as of yet. Minerva's words fell like massive bricks on the floor of a silent auditorium.

"Classes will be cancelled tomorrow as the faculty convenes with the Ministry of Magic. Several counselors have been called in to help students deal with the stress you will experience in lieu of these circumstances." She drew in a deep breath and surveyed the room in front of her. Eyes were glazed, jaws slackened, and no one seemed to be looking at her. Eyes were trained everywhere except upon the messenger. "I'd tell you to go to bed now, which you definitely should, but I'd be daft if I truly thought you would. I will be back in to check on you periodically throughout the night." She turned, and was gone, the portrait hole clanging hollowly behind her.

On the loveseat, which normally accommodated two small children comfortably, Seamus, Parvati, Lavender, and Dean were sandwiched together. Lavender gripped Dean's hands so tightly that blood circulation had been cut off for nearly fifteen minutes. Parvati stared unseeingly into the fire, tears pouring down her cheeks in an endless river. Seamus had a careless arm thrown around her, hugging his friend to his chest protectively. Her cutting gibes concerning Seamus's well known indiscretion behind Ginny's back were silent, for the first time since its occurrence. Neville sat in a chair, clutching Trevor to him feverishly, as though the oblivious toad was the only thing protecting him from the collapsing world. Everyone was lost in their thoughts, their nightmares, their fear. No one noticed the redheaded girl slip out of the portrait hole, in the fading firelight.

*** *** ***

A tiny spider carefully repaired a ragged hole in his web. He swore occasionally to himself as he painstakingly respun the necessary silk to close the opening. When his work was finally done, he lazily skittered over to the corner of his prided abode and prepared to feast upon some flies as a late supper. But before he even got close to the carefully wrapped bundles of sustenance, the silver object that often careened haphazardly across the floor slammed into the wall on which his spiderweb lay. The spider fumed uselessly as a multitude of blue sparks shot into the air. He screamed in fury as the left side of his web was disintegrated immediately by the airborne embers.

"Stupid kids!"

Draco Malfoy looked on lifelessly as the remote controlled car that he and Tate had worked so tirelessly to build was slowly consumed by blue fire. He didn't even bother to put the flame out with his wand.

What does it matter anyways? Draco dropped the remote control and scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He was tired, very tired, but couldn't sleep. Life wasn't making sense right now, nothing seemed coherent in his mind. Voldemort had attacked - the Astronomy Tower and most of the corridor leading to it was completely destroyed. Two Hufflepuffs were dead. Months ago, Draco might've even referred to the deceased as "useless", but now...now nothing came to mind except sorrow. Unconsciously, he rubbed at his forearm.

Often, in the middle of the night, Draco would wake up in cold sweats, his breathing irregular. In horror, he would tear at his forearm, scratching at an impurity that did not exist. He looked at his unblemished forearm even now. There was no dark mark to be seen, nothing but pure white flesh.

Why then, did it burn as though a mark existed there? It plagued him constantly, a never-ending whine in his brain, a constant reminder of the life he had rejected.

But that life hadn't rejected him. In his heart, he knew why the burn remained. Voldemort wanted him - he wanted him at all costs. However, the terms had changed now. Draco was a traitor, as hated as Severus Snape himself, and how ironic that Snape had been the first person he had come to for help.

Draco was so lost in his own thoughts that it barely registered in his mind when a slight grating noise issued from the entrance tunnel of the room. It was only when Ginny Weasley crawled into the room that he came back to reality.

She sat up quickly, almost guiltily, and assumed the most innocent pose possible.

"Ah. Weasley. Fancy meeting you here." She smiled, half heartedly.

"Do you mind? It's too...well, I'm sure you can understand." He nodded mechanically. "I just couldn't stay in the common room any longer."

"You do realize you are trespassing?" Draco looked at her through an icy veil of gray, and her face fell.

"Oh...I - I'll leave you be then." She turned, and made to exit the room when Draco seized her arm.

"No...you don't have to leave. I could use the company as much as you could." Warmth flooded Ginny's cheeks, and she felt herself smiling at him. Her breath hitched slightly as he smiled back.

*** *** ***

An incessant whirring noise brought Hermione out of her haze. She sat up slowly, and light pierced her eyes. Blinking hard, her eyes slowly adjusted to the blinding sunlight pouring through the windshield. Tate sat in the pilot's seat, maneuvering the plane through the fluffy white cloud they had just entered. She glanced back, alerted by Hermione's rustling sounds.

"Aha, you are awake. Come up here with me, girly. I could sure use the company. It's been hours since we left." Hermione roused herself, shaking away the last clings of sleep, and joined Tate at the front of the plane. The fuzzy white cloud faded, and Hermione looked down at blinding white landscape. Everything, except the tip tops of the trees, was covered in snow.

"Where are we?"

"Where we're going." Tate looked thoughtful. "America. Nearly there now." Hermione looked out the window with renewed interest. She had never been to America before. Her parents had always thought it to be vulgar and uneducational.

"See the dials?" Tate gestured to the meters on the dashboard. Every one of them was spinning out of control. "Dumbledore wasn't kidding. The place is magically protected. But don't worry," she added quickly, seeing the fear on Hermione's face, "I've flown to this house at least a hundred times. We'll get there in one piece. I've got the map right here." She tapped the side of her head.

Hermione's thoughts wandered back to the night before. Dumbledore swam back into her mind, and she suddenly recalled the deluge of information that had knocked her over. His words echoed in her mind...Instruct Hermione as you have been instructed...

"Why didn't you tell me?" Hermione eyed Tate closely. Tate gawked at her.

"I did! Well, I tried at least. You didn't believe me, which was a good thing, I guess, as I wasn't really supposed to tell you. Dumbledore said you would need to figure it out for yourself. She looked older and tired as she turned a sympathetic eye to Hermione. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know." Hermione took a breath, mulling over her thoughts.

"Alright," she said, "The scar on your right hand." Tate's face hardened considerably.

She moved her left hand back to the controls, and showed Hermione her right hand. Hermione held her breath, and felt that same sense of odd familiarity when she looked at the white scar on Tate's palm. The scar began right below her pinky finger and extended, diagonally, to well below her wrist.

"I can't explain it, per se," she said slowly. "It happened that day, in lab. Everything was on fire, and people were screaming. I just sat there, kind of oblivious to everything, totally in shock. I realized what I'd done, how far I'd gone. My hand just split open. It was me, I did it - like a reaction overload. Does that make any sense?" Hermione shook her head.

"It doesn't make a bit of sense. But I get it...somehow...in a really warped way." Tate smiled wryly.

"How is it you know how to pilot a plane? You...do know how to land, right?"

"I had piloting lessons when I was seven. Planes were highly utilized during my instruction, so I've been doing it for about nine years now."

"That's the second referral I've heard to this 'instruction'. What instruction? Did you get it at muggle school."

Tate shook her head. "I didn't go to muggle school. I only went for one semester, and that was last Fall." Hermione made to interject, but Tate glossed right over her interruption. "My 'instruction', as you say, came from Niels. I got my pertinent schooling, wand magic, and potion training from him. I had a language tutor for about six years, a flight instructor, and an engineering instructor. I did a lot of studying at military training facilities too, but that only began when I turned nine. Uh...let's see...I had a few temporary tutors who went over the Dark Arts with me, plus pertinent magic history - there was once this -"

"Wait, stop! You had tutors for magic? You told me you knew nothing about the existence of a magical community!" Tate bit her lip guiltily.

"Oh yeah...that. It was perhaps...a variation of the truth..."

"Try more like a bold-faced lie!"

"Oh all right fine - it was a lie. But in my defense, I knew very little concerning anything that didn't directly have to do with ancient pyrokinetic practices, the Dark Arts, and pretty much all history up until about 1960, excepting the chronology of Voldemort. I didn't know about Quidditch!"

"Oh, well that's practically nothing," Hermione scoffed, "You silly, stupid bint, I can't believe you managed to pull an act like that off! And here's me, believing every word and feeling sorry for you!"

"Hey now, that's out of line. I know about the Dark Arts, and the dark creatures that come along with it. I know about past history, but not in detail. Begging your pardon, but that leaves a rather huge amount of important stuff out, wouldn't ya say?"

"Oh fine, I suppose that's true. But why would you lie at all?"

"People don't ask questions if they think you have no answers."

Tate looked at Hermione expectantly, who appeared to be deep in though. Tate rolled her eyes, and decided to keep talking (in hopes it might curb any further anger Hermione might possibly develop). She ripped off her sleeve to catch Hermione's attention, and pointed to a lateral purple line on her left bicep. The coloring was so light, no one would've noticed its existence unless alerted so. But now that Hermione looked at it up close, she could tell the coloring was not typical of flesh.

"That's my mark," Tate said matter-of-factly, "The mark of a telepath." Realization dawned on Hermione.

"Dumbledore confirmed I was a telepath," she stuttered, "So where's my mark?" She sank down in defeat, briefly convinced that Dumbledore's faith was totally misplaced, and the Ministry had misprinted her name.

"I don't know how you can smile at a time like this!" she snapped at Tate, who continued to smile in an irritating, condescending way. She laid her hand on Hermione's, and closed her eyes, eliciting a confused, and slightly bewildered, stare from her. Tate moved her hand up Hermione's arm, down her side, moving to the side of her thigh. Hermione shivered a bit, but allowed Tate to continue down to her knee, and finally, to the back of her calf.

"There." Hermione grabbed the hem of her robes and yanked them up. She twisted her leg around, and looked at her calf. There was nothing, not a single mark, blemish, not even a freckle. Hermione looked at Tate, defeated. Tate smirked, withdrew a small vial from a hidden pocket in her jeans, and splashed the contents onto Hermione's leg. A burning sensation sprang up immediately, and Hermione yelled in pain.

"Don't touch it!" The sharp warning scared her good and clean. Hermione did not touch her leg, which was now green and frothing where the potion had hit. Smoke rose steadily off of it. Tate leaned over, made a rude noise in her throat, and spit on the frothing mess - earning herself a disgusted grimace from Hermione - and then wiped off the excess. A tiny silver cloud marked Hermione's calf. She stared in mute shock.

"What the - I've never seen that before..." She rubbed it, as if unconvinced. Tate nodded.

"Well, you wouldn't would you? It's got to be revealed. Usually happens by accident anyways. I mean, your blood is a dead give away, but you being born in a muggle hospital, I guess they didn't pick up on it right away. Anyways, telepaths sense each other, so Dumbledore probably had you on that list before you could walk."

"Dumbledore is a telepath?"

"Was there ever a doubt in your mind?" Hermione sighed, realizing she'd read his name on the list, and shrugged. "He's got a mark too, of course, but you can't see it like you might be able to see mine or yours." Tate continued, "It's on his knee. Apparently, it's some sort of map, but I can't remember. Can you imagine him in shorts?"

There was silence for a few minutes, as the unpleasant image seemingly danced in front of them. Hermione bit her lip in horror, and banished the disturbing idea. Harry's face surfaced in her mind. She winced as she imagined his fury at her failure to say goodbye.

"Are Harry and Ron to leave Hogwarts as well?"

Tate nodded, "Yeah, but I don't know where they were supposed to actually end up." The tone in her voice changed drastically. "However, I do know that Dumbledore was planning to take them in the opposite direction from us, and it was supposed to happen very shortly after we departed." Hermione raised an eyebrow. Tate was positively seething.

"And what'll they do?" Tate shrugged.

"I only know about our plan. The U.M.N. likes to operate on a "need to know" basis." Hermione nodded, and felt a pang of homesickness. She missed Harry, desperately, already.

"I wonder what they're doing now," she mused thoughtfully. Tate snorted furiously.

"No need. They're in the back, invisible, and completely mistaken in thinking they did the right thing." Hermione jerked upwards and stared at her, slack-jawed. A muffled string of swear words issued from the rear of the aircraft. Tate's mouth was drawn in a furious pout - her eyes remained vacant, but Hermione could feel the irritation emanating from her, in vibrant shades of purple.

A shock of red hair appeared, followed by Ron's lanky frame. Harry was dead asleep, next to him. Ron looked rather guilty, and smiled sheepishly. Hermione leapt out of her seat and threw herself upon Harry, who awoke with a rather girlish yelp.

"Oh Harry, I'd missed you so much already," Hermione was choked with tears, her heart nearly bursting with happiness. The three best friends remained in the back, none of them (most especially the two boys) wanting to test Tate's anger. After a minute or so, Ron slid up in the front passenger seat, and graced her with a half apologetic, half fearful face. She glanced at him sidelong, before shaking her head sarcastically.

"This is a remarkably stupid thing you've done," she said acidly.

Harry was quick to defend him. "Well we weren't about to leave Hermione alone."

"Appreciated," Tate ground out, trying very hard to get a hold of her temper, "But you are red-flagged, Harry. Everyone is looking for you. You two were supposed to divert the attention away from us, by leaving with Professor Dumbledore. Now that's all shot to hell, and I'll beat McGonagall is having a coronary."

"Are you saying we were bait?" asked Ron, looking shocked. Harry made a small noise in the back of his throat. He looked simply murderous, and Hermione forcefully put a hand on his shoulder.

"Bait," she echoed thoughtfully. "Not so much. Just a diversion. Y'all were supposed to take the attention off of us long enough for the cloaking spell to take effect. After we went off radar, activated the invisibility mechanism, and triggered whatever other charms necessary, y'all were supposed to return to Hogwarts. From thereon, y'all had a very covert little escape plan all worked out." She let out a deep exhalation.

"Pretty soon, it's going to be obvious y'all aren't at Hogwarts, and the only place you could've gone is on the little muggle plane that left in the middle of the night with two girls.

"But how in the world cou--" Tate silenced Ron with a glare that could cleave solid steel.

"Voldemort wouldn't be a formidable enemy if he wasn't smart. The Death Eaters have a great reconnaissance technique. The charms on this plane didn't take full effect until we actually flew over the coast of Scotland. They know we're heading west, and it won't be long before they know that she's," she jerked her head sharply at Hermione, "half of the equation designed to bring down their happy helper. That, plus y'alls highly publicized history together. A child could figure it out."

"So they'll know we're a threat against the balrog," concluded Hermione, "And they'll try to kill us." Tate paused.

"Actually, that's one thing working in our favor - it'll hopefully take them a while longer to figure that part out."

"Why," asked Harry. His voice was flat and lifeless and he was staring at the back of her seat with renewed hatred.

"Because, technically, I don't exist. If I don't exist, then there's no viable threat against the demon." Ron burst out laughing and Harry snorted in complete disbelief. He muttered something under his breath and Hermione jabbed him with her elbow. She edged closer to Tate's chair.

"Don't get me wrong Tate, but that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. How could you not exist?"

"Because, according to my records, I died, in jail, two and a half months ago."

"So," interjected Harry, "Big fucking deal. You 'die' in the muggle world and move straight into the wizarding world, using the same name. Really ingenious plan, I stand in awe." R unconsciously shrank back in his chair. He didn't want to be the random kid who got smacked by the furious girl.

"Well, Harry," Tate said dryly, "I wouldn't expect you to understand. There's a lot more to it beyond your limited range of knowledge." Harry opened his mouth to retort, but the plane suddenly jolted, and the three passengers who weren't buckled into their seats went toppling over one another.

"Buckle up," ordered Tate, "I'm going to land now. And if I'm not mistaken, it's going to be rather rough." Hermione suddenly felt cold all over as she watched the snow fall in thick white sheets over the windshield.

The remaining ten minutes of the ride were not pleasant. The tiny aircraft was jostled in all directions by the strong winds and snow. Ron turned a highly unpleasant shade of green when Tate began struggling furiously with the controls. The plane banked to the left, straightened, and then crashed into the side of a mountain.

Or so Hermione thought. The atmosphere as seen through the glass was hostile. The snow was blinding, and had nearly covered the windshield in the few minutes that they spent casting weightless spells on their trunks. Hermione cast warming spells over everyone, but, according to her calculations, they would afford little to no protection against the wind chill. Tate quickly explained that the house they would call home indefinitely was about fifty feet away from their position in the plane. How she could tell was beyond any of them, though.

It took all four of them to shove and force the door (which was hindered by the packed snow) open. Hermione gasped as the sub-zero winds poured into the plane, nearly knocking her over with their gale-force power. She was right, the warming spell was almost completely ineffective. The freezing cold air burned their hands and faces, and whipped their hair into their eyes. They hobbled out of the plane, Ron first, then Hermione, Harry, and finally Tate, who insisted on keeping up the rear. Harry glared at her lack of reaction to the climate. He, Ron, and Hermione couldn't stop shaking, and she acted as though someone had left a window open. He had no time to further pursue this annoyance however, as the snow formed a partition between him and his three companions. He vaguely heard Tate kick the door shut. Then they began to walk, in a single file line, trudging through the knee-deep snow. The heavy snow was falling like a white sheet now, blinding them. Ron walked right into a tree. Hermione gasped as he swore loudly and fell backward, right into her.

"There!" shouted Tate, her voice a mere whisper over the howling winds, "Just a little further, I can see the house!" Hermione struggled to keep up. Her robes were soaked up to her thighs from the snow. Her face felt as though it were being burned off by the harsh, relentless winds. She was losing feeling in her feet, her knees, and the numbing pains were slowly creeping up her thighs. Her mind began to cloud.

I should just sit down and rest. Yes, I think I'll do that. Really, all this is just a bit too much, I'll just sit here for one minute...

She sank into the snow, exhaustion overtaking her. Her mind was whirling, and she thought of nothing but closing her eyes and sleeping. The wind was howling like a banshee, and she began to drift away into a peaceful dream...

Rough hands seized her shoulders and dragged her up. She felt herself lifted and thrown over someone's broad shoulders. Her world faded.

H, struggling under the added weight of Hermione, fought his way to the front steps of the house on pure adrenaline. The reality and severity of the situation sliced through him like a white hot knife. They were kids, only sixteen years old. They were alone in a foreign country, surrounded by a raging blizzard. If one of them were to be injured, they could not call a doctor. There were no adults around at all. And the fate of the wizarding world - no - the whole world, rested on their shoulders. And he had gotten himself into this mess. Senses reeling, he kicked open the front door and stepped through.