The Harpsichordist

Chapter 16: The Music of the Night

Severus knew something was wrong when his blind Apparition took him to the middle of the circle of Death Eaters. He whirled around, seeing dark masks and robes, then saw that the Dark Lord had his wand raised against him.

"Crucio!" said the Dark Lord.

Severus fell, gasping in white-hot pain. He screamed and, in his pain, felt the Dark Lord enter his brain. It was like being put under the Imperius Curse, only without the pleasure. Rape of the mind.

He was making his first kill, a family of Muggles whose son had just been accepted at Hogwarts -- He was sitting in the Headmaster's office, snivelling over a cup of strong tea with brandy, confessing everything and begging for help -- He was learning Occlumency because his life depended on it -- He was looking at Lily Evans' dead body amidst the ruin of her cottage -- He was quietly celebrating with a bottle of Firewhisky that the terror of the past two years was gone --

He was watching a boy who looked like James being sorted -- He was helping Albus protect the Sorcerer's Stone from his former master -- He was listening to Harry Potter speak Parseltongue at the duelling club -- He was pointing his wand at Sirius Black and rejoicing that he would be the one to turn him over to the dementors, Sirius, who had not only tried to kill Severus, but had sent Lily to her death -- He was feeling his scar burn for the first time in thirteen years while Albus tried to figure out what had happened to Potter -- He was approaching the Dark Lord, paying for his treachery, begging for his life, offering his services as a spy into Dumbledore's school --

And through the blur of memories, all Severus could feel was pain and burning agony. He tried feebly to block Voldemort, and now he could think of the creature as Voldemort, because it didn't matter anymore, he was going to die, he was not going to get out of this circle alive --

He was staring at Wendy at the door of her cottage in America -- He was giving the bumbler Luke a tour of the school -- He was explaining to Davitt Moroney his decision to torture Wendy rather than kill her, in the hopes of saving her life -- He was realizing reluctantly that he had fallen in love for the first time in sixteen years -- He was kissing Wendy and caressing her inside his rooms, wanting her and getting her --

The pain ended; the curse had been lifted. The Death Eaters were jeering.

Lord Voldemort spoke. "So, Severus, you come like a faithful dog to your master's call?"

Should he even bother to respond? The game was up. He stayed silent.

"My faithful Death Eaters," said Voldemort to the watchers, "for the past year and a half, Severus has claimed to be one of us, to have our beliefs and desires, to wish only to do my bidding -- and yet I see in his mind that he has been the worst of traitors.

"He sent the Potters into hiding. He learned Occlumency to block his mind from mine, so that he could become a spy for the other side. I must confess that he was quite successful. I was fooled, I admit. But no longer. Crucio!"

Severus' screams seemed to bounce around the circle, heard and enjoyed, his agony feeding the Death Eater's appetites. Visions of the Longbottoms' lolling heads swum before his eyes. He couldn't think, couldn't focus on anything except the knives stuck in his nerves.

The curse was lifted again. Voldemort spoke, again. "Lucius has begun to pay off his debt to me, have you not, Lucius? His son has been quite informative from within Hogwarts, and Lucius has also observed suspicious behavior which he mentioned to me. I had been wondering as well, but Lucius was able to provide me with incontrovertible evidence that Severus has been serving a master other than myself -- and I learn from his mind that, even before Harry Potter, he went to none other than Albus Dumbledore and betrayed us all."

Many of the Death Eaters gasped melodramatically.

"But Severus will do one last service for me before I dispose of him." Severus raised his head and stared at Voldemort. "Where are the Lestranges?"

"I don't know," Severus said hoarsely, throat raw from the screaming. It was a half-truth -- he knew where they were supposed to be, but he was fuzzy on the exact geographical details.

"Liar," said Voldemort calmly. "You know. Tell me! Imperio!"

It was bliss. Freedom from pain, from thought.

Where are they? Just tell me where they are...

No, I won't.

Just tell me where...

No!

Just tell me where...

No!

"No, I won't!" he shouted.

"Crucio!" said Voldemort again, and, yet again, began rifling through Severus' memories.

Severus fought madly with him, fought like a cornered cat. Blood spurted from his nose; he could feel his nether regions wet with his own wastes. Sweat broke out all over his torso, dampening his back. He didn't have the energy to feel humiliated, and felt as though his consciousness was watching the scene from about four inches further back than it normally resided. Voldemort had him at a disadvantage -- when had he started using this technique of Legilimency combined with the Imperius Curse? Bloody hell, it worked far too well. The memory, slippery in his shaking mental hands, came zooming up obediently.

"You wanted to see me, Professor Dumbledore?" asks a black-haired, bespectacled boy.

"Yes, Mr. Potter. As I'm sure you're aware, the Lestranges are being kept in the school dungeons."

"Yes, I'd heard -- "

"We need to move them," Severus interrupts bluntly.

"And only you can open the door," Albus says.

Potter looks confused for a minute, then his eyes widen. "In there?"

"It's the best place -- completely inaccessible to most people."

"Can we get this over with, Headmaster?" Severus says. "I have lessons to teach."

"Right. If you'll go down and immobilize the Lestranges, Severus, I'll go with Harry to the bathroom. You can meet us there."

The dungeon corridors pass by with their flickering torches and intervals of darkness; the Lestranges are Stunned and put into Full-Body Binds, then levitated along in front of him towards the second floor.

The sign is still there: "Out of Order," but he ignores it, pushes open the door, and grimaces as Moaning Myrtle's sobs echo around the room.

Potter and the Headmaster stand beside the row of sinks. One of them has sunk out of sight, revealing a large round hole.

"I've seen that before," breathed Voldemort, lifting the curse.

Severus lay panting on the ground. He could smell blood and piss, sweat and feces, and the dirt in his nostrils.

"You've moved them to the Chamber of Secrets. Ingenious, really. I didn't think Albus could be so clever. They won't be able to get out, and only a Parselmouth can get in. And of course, Harry Potter and I are the only two Parselmouths in existence these days."

Severus groaned. This was definitely the end. He hadn't even been able to keep Voldemort from learning the last crucial piece of information. He knew he was going to die, tonight, without seeing Wendy one last time. Would she miss him as much as she missed Luke? He thought he might cry, and contemplated ghost-hood.

And then Severus realized that no one had confiscated his wand. He had Apparated into the circle and immediately been hit with the curse; no one had approached him since. Where had his wand fallen? Even as he thought this, he felt his its familiar length digging into his aching thigh, trapped between his body and the grass. It was still in one piece. Could he reach it in time? He had no idea how long Voldemort would want to torture him before killing him.

Severus made an effort to raise himself from the ground, faltered, and flopped back down to the catcalls of the surrounding Death Eaters. As he collapsed, his hand happened to become trapped under his right thigh. He shifted his position on the pretense of struggling to rise again and managed to get his fingers wrapped around the wand, the wood smooth under his callused fingers.

Blessed relief. He would live after all.

"Severus, you have been a grave disappointment," Voldemort was saying. "You joined us when you were so young, so hopeful, so talented at Potions and so unfeeling. I daresay having your heart broken did you some good -- although falling for a Mudblood was rather foolish. And now, you have fallen for a Muggle. A Muggle!" He raised his head and laughed coldly. "At least Lily Evans was a talented witch, Severus. This woman is nothing. Barely better than an animal, Severus. Tell me, do you rut like beasts?"

The Death Eaters roared with laughter.

"Traitor," hissed Voldemort.

Severus spat out some blood. If he could keep Voldemort talking -- the longer, the better. "How did you find out?" he croaked.

"Lucius, my friend, do you wish to tell him?"

"If you permit me, my Lord," said Lucius Malfoy's cold, smooth voice.

Severus turned his head as far as it went to the left; he could just see a tall, thin figure step forward from the circle of onlookers.

"You yourself told us that you'd been ... ah ... with the Muggle woman on Halloween; Draco has been observing the two of you at the High Table at Hogwarts. So scrupulously pleasant to each other -- but I believe his words were, 'They're worse than Weasleys.'"

Several of the Death Eaters laughed lewdly.

"Discretion used to be one of your strong points, Severus." Lucius chuckled, but it was a cold sound. "Such a pity that you've declined so far. Associating with Dumbledore must have dulled your abilities. Anyway," he drawled, sounding like his son, "the moment I knew for sure was when you came to find Draco at the Manor. Our master had been most suspicious about the presence he'd sensed in the bushes outside, though your rabbit was quite convincing. But two things betrayed you, Severus: there was mud on my floor, and the hearth was full of ashes."

What? thought Severus.

"Bones do not burn at that low temperature, Severus," continued Lucius. "Transfiguration wasn't your best mark in school, I recall. You passed your N.E.W.T. with an E, didn't you? What did you transfigure the rabbit from? A piece of plant, I suppose? You were hiding in the bushes, listening; our master arrived, and you had to distract him. Oh, it looked and smelled like an animal, Severus, but the rabbit burned like wood. I wondered to myself: why was a faithful Death Eater lying about his arrival? Had he heard useful information he could now relay to the other side? Of course he had -- you overheard us talking about Rigel and his poor parents. And so you scampered straight off to Dumbledore to tell him that something was going to happen. When Draco told me that the prisoners had been moved, I knew that it was on your information." Lucius spat; a gob of spittle landed on Severus' left ear. "Traitor," he hissed.

"Traitor," repeated Voldemort.

As Severus turned his head to watch, Voldemort stretched both arms out, palms up, welcoming the voices.

"Traitor," echoed the watchers. "Traitor, traitor, traitor," they chanted.

The word circled around him, bouncing from one Death Eater to another in an endless rhythm of accusation; it bound him in an agony of despair and self-recrimination. He deserved to die; he had betrayed his master and the cause; he was worse than the lowest criminal. He was a traitor...

"Traitor, traitor..."

He was worthless, he had betrayed them all...

"Traitor, traitor..."

He was a traitor... No. He was Severus Snape. He was Potions Master at Hogwarts, he helped save lives... he saved Wendy's life... Wendy...

"Traitor, traitor..."

Wendy.

Voldemort raised his hands above his head. The chanters stopped.

Voldemort knelt by Severus' head, which was only kept from flopping face first into the mud and grass by pure force of will. "Severus, my dear Severus," he said, almost warmly. "You were once my favorite, do you know? So young, so bitter, so determined. So clever, too. Clever enough to fool me for several years, in fact. I shall miss you, my dear Severus." Voldemort stood and aimed his wand. "Goodbye."

But Severus pointed his own wand at himself...

"Avada Kedavra!"

...and vanished just as a jet of green light hurtled towards him.

* * *
Fudge squirmed in his seat. What was Dumbledore playing at? First of all, the Muggle woman was still here. Her boyfriend -- Merlin, how he loathed that word, with all its connotations of impermanence and fleeting, flighty, meaningless sex -- was dead, the body donated to that shocking discipline the Muggles called "science," and she was still at Hogwarts. Teaching. Music!

Secondly, the Muggle woman was teaching... right, covered that.

No, he hadn't covered it, blast it! The Muggle woman was teaching. Teaching! At Hogwarts! Teaching music at Hogwarts, and she was a Muggle! What was the whole point, Fudge wanted to know. So much for what Dumbledore had blathered about, earlier in the year -- Muggles knowing what wizards didn't, and music being magic. Music was something that came out of a wireless set, or out of the Weird Sisters' instruments. Muggles made music, yes, and recorded it on those flat little DCs and tapes and gave concerts with mikeyfoons and speakeasies that often resulted in riots at night. Wizards made spells, and laws, and watched out for the poor Muggles who blundered into things they couldn't ever understand.

Thirdly, Dumbledore was presenting a concert -- a public concert, no less -- of music that that Muggle had made the students learn. Percy Weasley had told Fudge how excited his youngest brother was to be learning the recorder, but that it took a lot of time away from Quidditch. Taking time away from important subjects to learn a frivolity, a hobby!

A public concert! A public concert? There could be any number of Death Eaters sitting in the crowd... and the number of Muggle parents who had had to be brought in specially! Parents of Hogwarts students are not blanketed by the Statute of Secrecy, said Dumbledore's voice in his head. Dumbledore could stuff his Muggle-liaisons right up his...

That Muggle woman walked out on stage just then, and Fudge, uncomfortably aware that he was surrounded by Ministry members and was expected to behave, clapped politely.

She was dressed in something red and flowing, but it wasn't robes... it was pants... but it was flowing. How strange. Muggles and their fashions.

Fudge thumbed through his program. Prelude from the Fifth Suite for Unaccompanied Cello, it read. Joh. Seb. Bach (1685-1750). Wendy Maurits, cello (A. Stradivari, 1716)

There was a single chair on the raised platform that usually supported the Head Table. The Muggle sat down, settled the cello -- rather gracefully, Fudge had to admit -- between her knees, and began playing.

Merlin, it was ugly, Fudge thought. Just playing the strings -- and what was she fiddling with on top of the instrument? He shuddered as the intervals slipped and slided and whined like tired little witches after a day in Diagon Alley.

She stopped, not soon enough in Fudge's opinion, and he was about to bring his hands together when he noticed that the rest of the audience were still looking at her expectantly. A vague memory of some childhood event trickled through his brain... oh, yes. She'd been tuning.

Now she started to play.

Fudge hated having to admit things. And now he had to admit that she played well. The opening notes were low and sonorous, heavy with portents of things coming, and then those things did come, strict and measured, but flexible as well.

And there was something funny happening.

It wasn't anything he could quite see, or feel, or hear. It felt like the mood in the Great Hall became universal, unilateral. Like everyone was listening to her, and doing nothing else, thinking about nothing else.

And then Fudge stopped thinking for a while, too.

He applauded with the rest when she stopped playing, and shook himself mentally. Of course Muggles had talents; all the energy that doesn't go into magic must go somewhere, he thought.

The Muggle, who had disappeared behind the curtain, came back out on stage, minus her cello and accompanied by Albus Dumbledore.

"Welcome," Dumbledore said warmly, "welcome, all of you." He smiled. "I recognize many of your faces -- for some of you, I can distinctly recall the very reason for such clear recognition, though you are no longer as young, nor as terrified of being expelled, as you were then."

Several people laughed.

"Welcome to our first Christmas concert," Dumbledore continued. "The lovely woman you just heard playing is our Music professor, Wendy Maurits; she has recently moved from America to take up the job, and I'd say she is doing wonderfully. Our students have been working hard for several months to learn quite a lot of music from the very beginning. Some had more experience than others; many couldn't even read music, but Wendy has brought them along nicely, and we'll be seeing the results of their efforts tonight."

The Muggle cleared her throat and looked at a program she held. "First on the list tonight," she said, in a carrying but horribly American voice, "will be Hannah Abbott, playing the Deuxième Suite pour Clavecin by Jean-Henri D'Anglebert."

Dumbledore waved his wand, and a harpsichord appeared on the stage. He and the Muggle disappeared nto the side chamber.

Hannah Abbott then walked on, blond hair bound up in a loose knot, wearing lovely dress robes of deep plum. That girl was so like her mother, Fudge reflected. He could remember nine-year-old Hannah, bubbling and nervous, tripping over things. She'd grown up nicely.

Hannah seated herself at the harpsichord and began to play.

* * *
By the time Albus had announced intermission, Fudge was annoyed. He had been impressed. And surprised. He didn't like that combination. The two Muggles had turned out many excellent musicians, some of which had had absolutely no experience in performance before their classes here.

He accepted a goblet of punch from the Head Boy and beamed pleasantly around at the milling crowd, who were talking animatedly to each other of the concert and the success "Wendy" had achieved. They said the name so casually! Americans, he thought scathingly. Destroying such honorable positions.

The final piece before the break had been a madrigal group, singing something by... what was his name? Wilbur? Willard? Wilbye. John Wilbye. Rather fun, actually. The words were understandable, if a bit strange, and each of the emotions portrayed in the sappy poem of unrequited love had been clearly defined by the word-painting used in the music. Fudge had found his fingers tapping, and had quickly pretended to have a violent itch on his thigh.

Again, there had been a subtle layer of something else.

He wasn't going to call it magic.

Fudge managed to avoid talking to many people during the intermission. Unfortunately, he couldn't avoid the Weasleys, and had to congratulate them on the lovely performance their youngest son had given, some recorder sonata by some French guy: Lwahlay, no, Loeillet, funny spelling. But he was back in his seat in time to appear absorbed in the program when everyone else filed back into the Great Hall.

The Muggle woman appeared on stage; everyone clapped. Fudge put his hands together once or twice, unenthusiastically.

"To open the second half of our program," she said -- oh, how he hated the American 'r'! -- "we will have the Hogwarts choir, singing several selections from Johann Sebastian Bach's St. John Passion. Normally this piece requires three hours of performance, but, since this concert is already very long, we'll just give you some highlights."

A few people laughed; Fudge skimmed his program. There was a text and a translation.

Christus, der uns selig macht,
Kein Bös' hat begangen,
Der ward für uns in der Nacht
Als ein Dieb gefangen,
Geführt für gottlose Leut
Und fälschlich verklaget,
Verlacht, verhöhnt und verspeit,
Wie denn die Schrift saget.

Christ, who makes us blessed
and has done no wrong,
was for our sake, in the night,
seized like a thief,
taken before unbelievers,
and falsely accused,
derided, jeered at, spat upon,
as the Scripture tells us.

He snorted. Trust a Muggle to choose such religious lyrics. They had no sense of real awe.

The choir started singing. [1]

Fudge found that there were tears on his face. And he was thinking of Harry Potter. And he didn't speak any German.

"Kein Bös' hat begangen," and has done no wrong... "Und fälschlich verklaget, Verlacht, verhöhnt und verspeit," and falsely accused, derided, jeered at, spat upon...

Fudge surreptitiously wiped the tears from his face on the pretense of picking something out of his eyes.

The last chord of the choir died away; the piece had been no longer than sixty seconds. Many sniffles were heard echoing before the applause broke out, thunderous. Beside him, old Griselda Marchbanks shouted at her neighbor, "Just like that poor Potter boy! No one believed him, did they? And now where are we?"

Fudge ground his teeth, but quietly.

* * *
Vincent Crabbe knew he ought to be nervous, but he wasn't. He knew this piece; they'd practiced it, Colin knew his solo, and Wendy had glowed with pride at the final rehearsal the previous afternoon.

He heard Dumbledore announcing the piece, "Mein teurer Heiland, from J.S. Bach's St. John Passion, with Vincent Crabbe, baritone, and Colin Creevey, cello," took a deep breath, and walked out onto the stage.

He'd never had so many people watching him before, so many people clapping at him. It was wonderful, it was encouraging, it was... it was like the first time he'd cast a successful spell. Everyone wished him the best, everyone was rooting for him. He squinted into the audience and saw his mother and Auntie Mabel sitting a few rows back. They waved at him, and he gave them a smile.

Vincent heard a disturbance behind him and watched as Colin Creevey came struggling out onto the stage with his cello, which had somehow returned to full size.

The chorus tittered; trust Colin to mess up something as simple as a basic Reducio.

"Help!" Colin mouthed, in the general direction of the chorus.

Hermione Granger shook her pretty head, sighed, pulled out her wand, pointed it at the cello and said, very clearly, "Reducio."

The cello obediantly shrank to a size Colin could manage, and he sat down on the chair. Then he looked stricken again, shot an apologetic look at Wendy and Crabbe, and hustled off stage to a few snickers from the audience.

Blushing furiously, he returned with a long metal rod which he inserted into the end of the cello.

Vincent remembered: Colin was too short to manage the cello with just his legs, so Wendy had, after much dithering, eventually allowed him to use an endpin, shaking her head and muttering something about "authenticity..."

Colin fiddled with his bow, tuned, and gave Wendy a nod to show he was ready.

Wendy, in turn, shot a look at Dumbledore, who was seated at a small organ on one side of the stage, and Dumbledore nodded as well. Dumbledore leaned around Wendy to look at Colin, who grinned, wriggling slightly, then tensed his body slightly, moved his head up, and then back down to cue the tempo.

Here they went. [2]

Mein teurer Heiland, lass dich fragen,
Jesu, der du warest tot,
Da du nunmehr ans Kreuz geschlagen
Und selbst gesagt: Es ist vollbracht,
Lebest nun ohn Ende,
Bin ich vom Sterben frei gemacht?
In der letzten Todesnot
Nirgend mich hinwende
Kann ich durch deine Pein und Sterben
Das Himmelreich ererben?
Ist aller Welt Erlösung da
Als zu dir, der mich versühnt,
O du lieber Herre!
Du kannst vor Schmerzen zwar nichts sagen;
Gib mir nur, was du verdient,
Doch neigest du das Haupt
Und sprichst stillschweigend: ja.
Mehr ich nicht begehre!

My dearest Savior, let me ask you,
Jesus, you were dead,
as You are nailed to the cross,
and have yourself said, "It is accomplished,"
and now live forever;
am I released from death?
in death's extremity,
bring me nowhere but to You,
Can I gain the heavenly kingdom
through your suffering and death?
Is the whole world redeemed?
who have paid my debts,
my beloved Master!
Because of your pain, You cannot speak,
Give me only what You have won,
but bow your head
and silently say: "Yes."
I want no more than this!

* * *
Fudge listened, and was not happy. Why was the music so bloody good? How, in Merlin's name, had a Muggle managed to turn a rabble of reluctant students into a trained choir that sounded almost professional?

"Du kannst vor Schmerzen zwar nichts sagen..." "Because of your pain, You cannot speak."

Suddenly, Fudge's insides turned cold. He didn't know what was going on, but something, somewhere, had gone terribly wrong, and he wanted to be as far away from it as possible. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

The students on stage, too, looked apprehensive. They finished awkwardly, cutting off at different times and looking nervously at Dumbledore, but he, true to form, merely beamed at them. Whispers punctuated the applause. The relieved-looking choir shuffled off stage as Professor Maurits stepped on to introduce the next performers.

"Next," she said, her voice and hands shaking slightly. She cleared her throat. "Next," she repeated, "I'd like to introduce Neville Longbottom, Jane Gamble, James Gamble, and Cho Chang, performing music for four viols by Marin Marais."

* * *
Wendy was mostly pleased by the way the concert was going. Her Bach had been compelling, she thought, though not perfect. There had, again, been that nagging sense of Luke-ness in the air around her. The madrigal had gone excellently, the viol consort had only had to retune four times, as compared to their usual eight, and Neville had played brilliantly, like a true master of improvisation. But still, the Minister for Magic was sitting in the third row, looking disgruntled.

At the back of her mind, she was worried about Severus... correction. She had been worried at the back of her mind until that line in the last chorus. But now she knew, at the most fundamental level, that something had gone wrong, gone horribly wrong, and was desperately worried in the front of her mind.

But the show must go on. Wendy sighed. How many times had she thought that this past year? Far too many.

They had finally reached the last piece. Wendy stepped out on stage, relieved that in ten or twenty minutes she'd be able to escape to her bedroom, take off her shoes, and try to relax in a scented bath. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said to the crowd, "I'd like to thank all of you for coming tonight. We have as our final piece a very special performance by one of our most talented vocalists, Miss Ginevra Weasley, who will be singing Ariadne's Lament, as set by Monteverdi, accompanied by Mr. Harry Potter."

The crowd applauded, whistled, and whispered as the two students came on stage.

Harry and Ginny made a beautiful duet. Harry took his place at the keyboard; Ginny stood in front, a picture of poise and elegance in pale green. Harry looked at her, she nodded, and cued. [3]

Lasciatemi morire,
Lasciatemi morire!
E chi violete voi che mi comforte
in così dura sorte,
in così gran martire?
Lasciatemi morire

Let me die,
Let me die!
Who would you wish to comfort me
In so harsh a fate,
In such grievous torment?
Let me die...

Chills ran up and down Wendy's neck and spine. The aria was gorgeous and haunting, with that incredible dissonance at the beginning. No wonder it was still around after past three hundred and fifty years. It was the most profound plea for death after losing a lover. Wendy could identify far too well. She shut her eyes against the pain and wished that Severus were here, that he would get out of whatever trouble he was in.

* * *
Severus made his painful way up to the school. He had mis-Apparated when he left the circle, which was perhaps fortunate. No doubt the Death Eaters were waiting for him at the gates, having assumed he would go in that way. Truthfully, he had aimed for there but because he was so exhausted had landed several miles off, outside of Hogsmeade. He could see the castle outline against the sky and, shaking with the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse, stumbled towards it.

When he hit the High Street of the village, it was past closing time for all the shops. No lights were on except in the side streets, where the handful of villagers who weren't at the concert were putting children to bed, listening to the wireless, reading, or doing anything besides struggling up to the school with what felt like a chest full of broken ribs, a nervous system that wanted to jump out of his skin, and filthy, stinking robes that he couldn't clean because Voldemort would no doubt have put a tracking charm on his wand.

He had passed the shop before he noticed it. Honeydukes.

Severus furrowed his brow in concentration and leaned against the door for support.

Wasn't there a tunnel? Wormtail had been most helpful in explaining to Voldemort about all the secret entrances into the school. Severus gritted his teeth as one of his ribs gave a nasty throb. Should he risk it? Would Wormtail think about it? Would there be more Death Eaters at the gates? It had been at least an hour; maybe by now they would have assumed that he'd splinched himself -- to be honest, he almost had -- and left.

But how would he get into the shop and into the cellar? All the doors were locked. And how could he do it without his wand?

Ah, yes, he thought, relieved. He reached up to his hair and was extremely relieved to find one of them still in there. Wendy had been most insistent that he try them, and with a Disillusionment Charm on the things, no one could ever see them. He was lucky all his thrashing about in the Inner Circle hadn't dislodged all of them.

The Weasley twins would never, ever find out about this, Severus vowed, as he jiggled the hairpin in the lock.

* * *
Harry had studied the music quite hard for several weeks. Reading from figured bass was a completely new concept to him: looking at notes in the bass line, seeing the little numbers, figuring out the correct chord from those numbers, and then having to create an accompaniment that sounded good -- it was all quite complicated. He had much more respect for people who could improvise, now, because not only did he have to hit the right notes, he also had to make up noodly figures and embellishments, and use the singer's melody as part of his accompaniment. And all he had on the page was the bass line and a handful of numbers.

But tonight, something was guiding his hands, literally. He'd heard Luke play like this once, and it sounded just like that. He'd discovered strange things about music and magic over the past few months, but this performance really took the cake. He wondered idly if he needn't have practiced as much.

And Ginny! What a beautiful voice. Half the audience was crying openly, while the other half looked sad and uncomfortable. The meaning of the song had never before been so clear.

As they approached the final measures, their eyes met. Harry shivered, his stomach flip-flopping.

Misera! ancor do loco
a la tradita speme, e non si spegne,
fra tanto scherno ancor, d'amore il foco?
Spegni to, Morte, omai le fiamme indegne.
O madre, o padre, o de l'antico regno
superbi alberghi, ov'ebbi d'or la cuna,
o servi, o fifi amici (ahi Fato indegno!),
mirate ove m'ha scorto empia fortuna!
Mirate di che dual m'han fatto erede
l'amor mio, la mia fede, e l'altrui inganno.
Così va chi troppo ama e troppo crede.

Poor me! I still give rise to betrayed hope,
And has the fire of love not been extinguished yet,
Even among all this derision?
Death, blow out the unworthy flames.
O mother, o father, o noble abodes of the ancient
Realm, where I had a golden cradle,
O servants, o loyal friends (alas, unworthy Fate!),
Look where this cruel destiny has brought me!
Look what pain I inherited from my love,
My faith, and the deception of others.
This is what happens to those
Who love too much and believe too much.

The last notes of Ginny's voice died away, and the hall rang with silence for ten long seconds. Then all hell broke loose as the Death Eaters outside started their attack.

* * *
[1] scroll down and click on "Disc 2," number 1.
[2] "Disc 2," number 18.
[3] track 3