Ascent

She woke with her face pressed against Voldemort's side. His flesh was neither warm nor cold to the touch. At first, she did not want to move. She had no idea what time it was or how long she had cast healing spells or when Voldemort had regained enough strength to aid her with his own limited knowledge. She only knew with certainty that every inch of her body ached, which was probably nothing in comparison to how Voldemort felt. With a concerted effort, Hermione raised her head.

The bed showed evidence of dried blood, the covers and quilts rumpled from the efforts of all three of them. Carmen, too, had fallen asleep near the foot of the bed on his carpet, floating a few inches from the bed. Voldemort was not asleep. His crimson eyes were open and glittering as they stared at the ceiling. He looked down at her when Hermione pushed herself up. She groaned as she felt her joints crack. She ached to fall back onto the mattress but thought that she had encroached on Voldemort's tenuous hospitality long enough.

"How do you feel?" Hermione muttered, twisting her neck from side to side to work out the tension that seemed to have knotted in one big clump at the base.

"How do you think?" Voldemort asked. His voice was neither accusing nor unkind, simply straightforward. "I feel like Severus's hex series very nearly killed me. I suppose I should show a great amount of gratitude, for both you and Carmen. I don't expect I will ever tell him, but I can tell you."

Hermione blinked. She wanted to say something but felt it imprudent to comment on such an unusual confession.

"I'm not finished," Hermione replied. "I only healed what needed my immediate attention, and I'm not sure whether the surface improvements will hold, especially if your own magic decided to reject any incompatible inclusions."

His ribs expanded as he inhaled, but his breath caught and his chest contracted as he winced at some internal pain. Everything external was healed and white with only the pearly ghosts of scarring where Severus's hexes had ripped him apart. With his silent permission, Hermione entered into him briefly to assess his condition. It was better than she anticipated, just some residual tearing in places that she had tried to heal during her intuitive casting. Hissing as her muscles protested every movement she made, Hermione crawled over to Carmen and gently shook him awake.

"Yes, lady?" he muttered, his eyes bleary as he pushed himself up. He looked considerably less pained than Hermione or Voldemort. Hermione had not thought to check Carmen for any injury from the battle, but he did not appear to have sustained any curses or hexes. If he had, Carmen had dealt with them on his own.

"If you could, I'd appreciate if you'd find a house elf to bring some food in here while I continue healing."

"You mean that fabulous show last night was not enough?" Carmen asked. He looked at his master, noting that Voldemort had not moved an inch from where Carmen had seen him before falling asleep himself.

"It was foundational, and it saved him," Hermione replied. "The more thorough healing requires a more intricate series of spells. We managed quite a few of them before we..."

"Passed out?" Carmen offered.

"Yes, that. Food please, Carmen," she said.

"Right away, lady," Carmen replied, and he flew toward the door. He paused there at the threshold and turned back to where Hermione and Voldemort still rested. "My lord, do you want to know the outcome of the battle?"

"I suspect," Voldemort said quietly, "that we lost."

Carmen flushed a little on his dark cheeks. "But would you like a full report?"

"Yes," Voldemort replied, staring at the ceiling again. Carmen nodded without another word and left the room, shutting the door behind him. He knew better than to dwell too long on the subject of their loss.

It had been an experiment, something for the history books. When Voldemort paid attention back in History of Magic, he remembered the grandiosity of the wars, of the great battles, and he had considered such a battle for himself in the first war. Now that his numbers were so great, he wanted to try, anticipated a sweeping triumph and perhaps even an end to this tedious war. Although the Order had been outnumbered, they seemed to react better to face-to-face, hand-to-hand combat in contrast to the ingenuity and aggressive strategy of Voldemort's usual guerilla tactics. He had been confident that he would dominate the battlefield as well, but the Order had the unconsidered advantage of Hogwarts house elves and rogue Aurors. It was a small but significant advantage on their part. They also exhibited a few inventive proclivities - a few, but enough. The Weasley twins, for example, proved unusually formidable in the battle, even if one had been put out of commission near the beginning. And of course, there was Severus, with his instinctive grasp of magic. Voldemort had been fortunate that Hermione could engage with Severus's intricate spells. He had never seen her use intuitive magic before and suspected that it was not her usual talent.

The battle had started out in the Order's favor, with spectacular bangs here and there disabling Voldemort's troops courtesy of experimentation and invention. He had cruelty and mercilessness on his side, but the Aurors possessed the same qualities supported by their own self-righteousness. Time had improved the numbers on the Order's side as well as the skill. Potter's style was clumsy, but Voldemort acknowledged that he had enough power that rendered any grace or range nearly unnecessary. Intensity and unintelligence on the part of some of his inhuman allies accounted for the massacre of the Order's first-line troops, but their efficacy had been anticipated by the Order. When it came to direct strategy, Voldemort drastically underestimated his opponents. Next time - and there would be a next time - Voldemort would not be so foolish. He would not humiliate himself again.

He would have greater protection than Shielding Charms, even those of his own design. Voldemort swore to himself in the silence that Hermione could no longer dismiss the necessity of his immortality spells and other forms of defense. His caution on the battlefield had made him hesitant in a situation in which he could not be hesitant. He could not be crippled like this again.

Hermione made her way to the head of the bed and adjusted one of the pillows so that she could rest sitting up. She sighed in relief as she lay back. "Can you move?" she asked.

"I can," Voldemort answered. "But I do not hurt when I stay still."

"Try," Hermione replied. "It will ease the muscles."

"I notice that you are not moving very much yourself," Voldemort said.

"At least I am moving."

Voldemort groaned as he forced himself to sit up next to her, but she was right and each second made it easier to move in spite of the pain in his stomach.

"Is this how it feels when you milk Nagini?" Hermione asked. Her eyes were closed as she rested her head against the headboard.

"My muscles do ache when she gives me her poison, but I also grow sluggish and dizzy, and that is nothing like I feel now," Voldemort said. "Are you going to heal me, or are you going to ask inane questions?"

Hermione smiled slightly, but she knew that he was deadly serious. "I should not use magic on you again until I've eaten something substantial. The last thing I want to do is faint in the middle of an essential incantation. Between the sympathetic effects of the curses on you and the reparative magic, I don't trust myself with a wand."

Voldemort was silent for a moment. "Sympathetic effects. How sympathetic?"

"You know about those. I've felt them before and responded to them by helping you," Hermione said.

"Not enough to incapacitate you," Voldemort replied. "I've seen you cast more draining spells without fainting. You're nearly as immobile as I am."

Hermione opened her eyes again and looked at him. "You were dying a painful death. I felt every inch of it. It was... it was almost as though I were there. I saw through your eyes for a few moments. Enough to know I was feeling most of your pain, if not all of it."

"It seems an impractical ability for a Medicus to have, to feel every bit of pain and suffering of their client if the Medicus is meant to cure those with pain and suffering," Voldemort said.

Hermione shook her head. She could hear her tendons creak. "It's never been this way before. Ever. I'll admit that I have limited experience in the area, but... you were far away, and you were dying. And it nearly tore me apart until you were next to me again."

Voldemort did not comment on the matter of proximity to him. He did not have to. He had said he trusted her judgment when he first requested her presence at his side, but Hermione knew he wanted her there with him on the battlefield as long as he was vulnerable.

Once Carmen had brought them all food - Voldemort surprisingly had an appetite, consuming all his meat but only picking at the rest - Hermione was able to work with the rest of the damage, most superficial. When he stood from the bed, he needed Carmen's help to find his footing. Hermione thought that, were he a typical client, she would force him back into bed to rest. But she knew it would be fruitless to do so. All of his Death Eaters knew that he had fallen, and he had to show that he was not defeated, although such a public loss would severely damage his standing in the eyes of his followers. Somehow, he had to contain the dissidence among them and prove that there could be victory. That meant showing that he was not weakened at all, that instead he was fueled by the loss, driven to a more passionate fight against the other side.

She should have pulled the comforter over him and knocked him out with a Stunning spell, but instead, she helped him pull on another pair of heavy robes. The last pair was drenched in blood and torn; house elves would clean and repair them later. As he did up the fastenings, Hermione fetched some Strengthening Solution. It would only be temporary, but it would hopefully give him strength long enough to get through the next few hours without toppling over.

"They'll know how bad it was, which means that they'll know I healed you," Hermione said. "Do you want me there, or do you want them to see you alone?"

"For now, alone," Voldemort said. His voice was strained, but he uncorked the Strengthening Solution and drank it down in two swallows. She thought it brought some life to his face the way the blood replenishing spells had not, but that could have been wishful thinking. He kept his head back for a moment, inhaling slowly through his slitted nostrils as he waited for the potion to take effect. With the high color of his robes, the column of his pale neck seemed even longer than usual.

"I shouldn't go, not so soon after, but I think I need to leave for a few hours. If you really have no need of me, if I would only subvert your message..."

"Then go." He sounded a little stronger, and he squared his shoulders, pulling his wand out from the tangled and bloodied sheets. He gripped it firmly, and she remembered how he had joined her in the healing spells once she had staved off the worst of the curse effects. Even at his weakest, he was still a powerful man - she did not know whether he could be anything else. If he did not have that power, if he could not have that power, it would be the day he died. For a second, Hermione wished that he could keep his magic tethered to his physical body by sheer force of will, the way that he had stayed alive for fourteen years after the Killing Curse backfired on him. As she watched him then, she wished it were so, cold as it made her feel.

She leaned over and whispered in Carmen's ear. "Watch him. Please."

"You don't need to worry about me," Voldemort said softly, almost a purr. He then strode out of the room, his boots clicking sharply on the stone in the corridor. It was as if he had never been a hair's breadth from death, although the lingering stiffness and exhaustion Hermione felt told her otherwise.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Carmen replied. "But I don't think he'll need it today." Hermione did not either, although it meant that he would once again ignore her recommendation to curb the use of his magic, not hours after he had already overextended himself.

"I won't be gone long," she said. She Summoned her cloak to her and Disapparated.

v88888v

Hermione knocked on the door to Shannon Langley's quarters at the Medicus Order dormitories, hoping that she would be between clients and that she would not have to track Shannon down. To her relief, her mentor came to the door promptly.

She did not say anything when she saw Hermione at the door. She did not even look surprised. Her hand took Hermione's quietly and guided her inside. Shannon poured the tea and let Hermione settle into her chair, closing her eyes and breathing in the steam.

"Does the Dark Lord still live?" Shannon asked then. "The Wireless is saying they don't know yet."

"He's alive. The war is not yet over." Hermione sighed.

"You look terrible."

"It was a long night," Hermione said. She had not looked in a mirror before leaving the fortress, but she could imagine how she looked. Blood-stained clothes and hands, hair like a bramble bush, and dark circles deep under her eyes. However, her reason for visiting her old mentor was more important than tending to her appearance.

Shannon set down her tea cup and leaned forward on her elbows. Her face was a little more lined then when Hermione was apprenticed to her, but she appeared mostly the same - severe and somehow soft at the same time. Her gray eyes peered at Hermione.

"But it's more than that, isn't it?" Shannon said.

Hermione set her own tea down as well and ran her hands over her hair in a futile attempt to smooth it down.

"I was too far away from him when he was attacked. At least I think that's the reason. It was almost as though they were killing me through him." Hermione rubbed her lower ribs, which still ached with phantom memory. "I don't think I can leave him alone in this, but... how can I do this, Shannon? I don't know how I am supposed to be his Medicus and remain impartial. I've discussed that at length with the Elders, that there is no such thing as a truly nonpartisan Medicus. I can't imagine what the Oracle was thinking when it assigned me to him: a Medicus who couldn't be impartial even if she tried." She began pacing, her gestures becoming more pointed and forceful. "And now I don't know what to do for him. I cannot help him without taking his side and possibly tipping the scale of the war. That's decidedly not neutral. But I cannot, as a sworn Medicus, abandon him when he most needs my healing. No matter what I do for Voldemort, I break my vow to this Order. I just don't know what to do."

"And it's consuming you, isn't it? The Dark Arts, surrounded by it as you are. I don't have to look into your aura to see it, plain as day," Shannon said, standing. "When I heard about your binding to the Dark Lord, I knew it was a risk."

Hermione nodded. Shannon may have taught her how to keep the Dark Arts reined in, but that was for living in the world at large, where the Dark Arts were uncommon and discouraged - much as an addict must avoid his old haunts and contacts to avoid temptation.

Hermione stopped pacing and held out her hands, as though in supplication. "I did my best to fight them, but I can't heal him and resist them at the same time. To heal him is to use them."

Shannon sighed. "Believe me, Hermione, I understand. You don't have to justify yourself to me."

"Maybe you're not the one I'm justifying myself to."

"No Medicus could be better for him," Shannon said. "Do you see that?"

Hermione rubbed the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut tight. She shook her head. "No, I don't. I understand that there were aspects about the Dark Lord for which I was uniquely suited to know that another Medicus would have had to learn over time. But I can't see why the Oracle chose someone who could not be neutral to what the Dark Lord is. To the world, and to me."

"I remember the arguments that you had with the Elders about nonpartisanship," Shannon said, leading Hermione back to the sofa. "The trouble was that you could never see past your own experience."

Hermione let herself be herded and guided to sit down. "I'm listening."

"You know Medicus history. Since its inception, Medicus women have played many roles for their clients: healer, companion, lover, bodyguard. Whatever they needed. You say that if you help the Dark Lord or if you don't, you are breaking your vow of neutrality." Shannon took Hermione's face in her hands, stroking her cheeks lightly with her thumbs. Hermione could not quite look straight at her. "But a true Medicus is unconcerned with these questions. It isn't a failing if you have them. Medicus are human, and even with our vows, we still cannot always escape our own opinions and emotions. Nor should we. But it comes down to our simple calling, beyond those opinions and emotions, beyond the politics or lack thereof: to save our client. Nothing more, nothing less."

When Hermione raised her eyes to meet Shannon's, she felt unbearably cold. Somehow, she had always known the answer, but she had not wanted to believe it.

"Even if it means I help Voldemort win?"

"Yes."

"You would want that?"

"No," Shannon replied. She reached for her tea and took a sip. "Speaking truthfully as myself, no. As a Medicus, though, it means nothing to me - dynasties rise and fall. However, it wouldn't surprise me if he rose to power because you were at his side."

Hermione stood up again, her pale face yielding to an uneven flush of anger. "So why doesn't the other side just hire up a Medicus or two if that's all it takes to win a war? All they would have to do is bind someone to Harry and Albus and then we would be stuck in a détente, since no one would actually be able to attack the Medicus saving them."

"You know it's not that simple," Shannon replied calmly. "It has to be a legitimate ailment or need - not just the need to be protected in battle. Even more than that, the nature of the ailment has to be beyond the resources and expertise of the mediwizard community or require the almost constant presence of a healer. The Oracle reserves the right to deny any request if it does not meet the standards. The Medicus are worth every Knut their clients pay."

"But that's what it comes down to," Hermione said. "Protecting him in battle, shielding him from spells in a war that he chooses to fight. They won't be able to attack me in order to weaken him, not without the wrath of the Medicus Order called down on their heads. But he would be able to send out spells, and I could, too, in the interest of protecting him. For Merlin's sake, Shannon, how the hell does that make me nonpartisan? I might as well tattoo the Dark Mark on my face and start killing Muggles." She wasn't gesticulating or pacing now, but her expression became more and more agitated.

"If it weren't you, what would any other Medicus do?" Shannon asked. Her voice broke through the thickness of the air between them. Hermione felt like something was building up, roiling cold under her tense muscles and fingers tight around her arms. "What is the most basic thing that we do?

"Above all, a Medicus attends to what her clients needs, no matter what it is. If he needs you to be his warrior, you will send the hounds of hell on the heels of his enemies. If he needs you to embrace the Dark Arts and join him at his side, then you will strike fear into the hearts of his followers. If he needs these things, Hermione, don't think about what he stands for. All that matters is that you are his Medicus, soul-bound to him for the duration of his or your life."

Hermione clenched her hand around her wand, and her half-fall tea cup flung itself against the stone wall next to the window. There was a shattering of glass, and jagged edges reflected the cold, misty light from the overcast sky. A quick Reparo had it good as new on the carpet. Hermione's hand remained white-knuckled around the handle, but she stared sightlessly through the window into the mist. Shannon had not flinched - she recognized that Hermione was showing considerable restraint. She approached Hermione slowly, recognizing the almost palpable chill radiating from her young protégé. With her specialty in the Dark Arts, the older Medicus knew that knick-knacks could be fixed, but a Dark soul - especially one bound to a Darker soul - required caution. Hermione had always been stubbornly opposed to the darkness that had encroached upon her soul in her ignorance. But with the permission, even encouragement, to use those too seductive arts for the man who had helped cultivate them, the man against whom she had fought....

Gently, mindful of her sensitivity, Shannon slipped her arms around Hermione's shoulders. The girl was hard, unmoving, arms stiff at her sides. Shannon still held her close enough to feel her heart beating.

Then she whispered in Hermione's ear, "It may be the last thing that he wants, but you'll be what he needs."

As the words sank in, she folded her arms and held Shannon back. The embrace was not tight or emotional, and their hands were gentle on the other's shoulders. Hermione pulled away, rubbing the dry, bruised skin under her eyes.

She did not say thank you, but her expression was not quite as stony as it had been. She nodded to Shannon. "I need to be getting back."

"I know." Shannon wanted to kiss the girl, for luck, for patience, for strength, but she simply stroked the air after Hermione Apparated away. "Good luck."

v88888v

When Hermione pulled open the heavy doors to the audience chamber, she caught the tail end of Voldemort telling his followers that there would be another battle. She did not know what he had done to convince them that there was something still worth fighting for, that he was still powerful enough for their full numbers to be as quiet as obedient children. After returning from her meeting with Shannon, she had stopped by her quarters to change into her official Medicus robes. Her skin and hair were free of any traces of blood, and she had corralled her hair into a loose knot at the back of her head. She still needed to sleep, feeling her extremities tingling with manic, borrowed energy. As she raised her hands to push the door shut behind her, the loose sleeves of her robes fell back. Loose sleeves were impractical in midwinter, but the blue satin slithered down over her forearms, baring the Dark Mark with ease.

The irony was not lost on her that these robes had been altered from her Head Girl wardrobe. Her face was warm, flushed where it was not wan. There was a sense all at once that she was unbearably old and young, and it occurred to her that this fortress would always be home.

"You overestimated yourselves and so went into the battle thinking that you could defeat them with less than full committal, energy, passion. I, too, was complacent when so many of our other avenues of attack were so successful. After the New Year, our two sides will meet again."

Once again, his voice seemed to carry over the throng effortlessly. Perhaps it was the acoustics of the room. Perhaps it was Voldemort's magnetism, still remarkably intact after all that had happened the previous evening. He did not speak loudly, and yet Hermione did not have to strain to hear him - she could barely hear herself breathe.

"And when we do, remember this: I will not be defeated. This world thought me defeated before, and each time, I returned stronger. More determined than before to bring them to their knees before me, with all their foolishness and weakness. Look upon my mark you carry: a man who creates such a mark does not hide, does not cower, does not let one loss deter him. For thirteen years, I chose to live while my followers forgot me and feared my return. They dare not make that same mistake."

He paused, his fingers clenching around his wand. "But I am here, standing before you today, with the cowards of the battlefield laid low at my hands, as an example to the others among my followers who believe that one lost battle has left me fallen."

His eyes had been tracking each of his followers in the crowd, seeing into their minds to gauge their fear of him. They met Hermione's. He was staring straight at her when he continued. "Make no mistake. I have not fallen. I will not fall. When the next battle comes, I will not be taken by surprise to challenge your loyalty again. You will see the wrath of Lord Voldemort fall upon my foes. Not one shall escape the full extent of my power. And you, my followers, will lay to waste their blemished, unclean flesh. In the dawn of a new year, my Death Eaters, Black Dogs, and Cats' Paws will feast."

He raised his wand high, slicing in a graceful arc and stabbing the air above him. A wordless Morsmordre burst over the ceiling, the grinning skull widening its mouth for the passage of the serpent. Swept away by their Lord's passionate words, his followers all raised their own wands in a shout, then another and another, feeding the spell in the air with their energy and growing enthusiasm. Perhaps when they were out of the audience chamber and left to their own thoughts, the doubts would creep back in. But in his presence, as furious as he was that they had seen him so weak - so weak that he could not hide it - he was in rare, captivating form.

She waited as they were dismissed to continue to tend to their wounds and build up strength for the next battle to come. There were murmurs and glints of excitement in their eyes as they passed by her. She moved to the side but did not bow her head to avoid their looks. She held herself straight and composed. Some of them skirted around her, and some of their excitement faded from their eyes when they saw her. She was a reminder that their lord was not well in spite of how he presented himself, that their lord had to be saved. But there was no outright hostility, not even from those who had stood with Lucius in rebellion against Voldemort because of her.

When the last of them were crowded near the door and their footfalls began to echo in the empty space they left behind them, Hermione walked down the center carpet leading to the throne. Voldemort had lowered himself into it, looking more relaxed than Hermione thought he was. He did not close his eyes in weariness. They were alert, alive, peering up at her after she climbed the stairs and stood before him. He took in the stiffness of her stance, the clean and crisp robes, the wand held at her side, the sweep of her hair from her thin neck and the shadows pooled above her clavicle. So close to him, she knew he was exhausted and would use the next few days himself to recuperate, but those eyes...

"I've had more spectacular losses, but not many. And after the worst one, most of my followers fled in fear and disloyalty," Voldemort said. "I'm afraid that the primary reason that did not happen this time is because my followers no longer had anywhere to flee to."

"You sell your charisma short," Hermione said. "I think they bought it."

"Did you?"

"Most of it. Only because I know better what ails you. So the next battle is the day after New Year's?"

"Early that morning, yes," Voldemort replied. "The only consolation that I have is that Dumbledore's letter sounded like their army needed to recover as well. I will be ready. Did you find the answers you sought?"

She could not look him in the face as she fought not to kneel before him. It somehow seemed the right thing to do, but at the same time, it was all wrong.

"You won't have to go into battle without any defenses this time," Hermione said.

"Oh, you will let me have my immortality spells back?" The question was window-dressing. The pleasure hooded his eyes and made his wide mouth stretch into a curled, guiled smile. He wanted her to say it.

"No. I swore that, to the best of my ability, I would protect you from anyone who tries to hurt you, and I will heal you when they do. I will fight at your side."

He held out a hand for her to help him stand. She took it automatically, waiting until he had steadied himself. He did not let go of her as he pressed his lips lightly on her forehead. Her eyes closed in spite of its seal of approval. There was warmth in his palm from her own heat, but his mouth was cool.

"I didn't ask for a Medicus to win," he murmured near her ear. "But I think I just might. Come."

v88888v

She woke up before dawn the day after New Year's. A quick warming charm through the room, and she slid out from under the covers to get dressed. Nothing ceremonial this time, just a practical set of Medicus work robes. The sleeves were fitted. She would need full range of movement. A moment's pause, and she pulled down the cloak Voldemort had given her. With the shift of air as she pulled it over her shoulders, she felt herself settle into memory. It seemed fitting that she wear it. She wondered when she would earn her own silver hand. But her eyes were too dry to wallow for too long. Her lips were thin as she closed the door of her wardrobe. She couldn't look in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door.

If she thought about what she was going to do in about an hour and a half, she might freeze. Her hands were warm as she pulled the cloak around her, but the pit of her stomach and the base of her spine felt like cold stone. All she needed was a set of manacles around her wrists and a transfigured set of Severus's clothes. Once again, she pushed the guilt aside. She couldn't keep doing this. There were only a few people in the wizarding world who she still wished to please, and most of them knew that she was only doing her job - and these days, that job was like an Unbreakable Vow. After today, they may not accept that answer, but the Medicus Order (and perhaps Severus, of all the members of the Order of the Phoenix) would still take her in. And at least she knew - she knew - that she did not want to be doing this.

Hermione did not bother knocking as she went through the bathrooms to Voldemort's chambers. He was sitting in his armchair in front of the blazing fire with his robes wrapped around him. He did not look like he had slept, but there was an empty vial of Strengthening Solution on the table next to him, and he seemed alert and focused. He looked up when she came in.

Without preamble, he said, "I will need to go to the battle site first. You will Disapparate with me. The rest will follow in an hour. The battle starts precisely at first light - his phoenix will sound the call." He turned back to the fire, face expressionless.

"That's very generous of you," Hermione said.

"I'm willing to abide by the rules of engagement, with some room for improvisation, of course. Even the most formal duelists sometimes break the rules and accept their penalty in order to get the upper hand. In this case, however, like chess, the rules must be acknowledged. It is easier to maneuver within their confines, and those rules were why I wanted to try a direct battle at all. I can play chess on a board, but can I play chess on a battlefield?" Voldemort pushed himself standing, again reminding Hermione of the speed at which wizards could heal from terrible wounds, with the right magic. He was not cured by any means, but his health was as it was before the battle, save a few scars.

"Should we lose again in spite of the tactical changes, I will resume the more covert attacks that have been so successful since the beginning." He spoke a little softer then, as though talking to himself, "Successful, but not enough to conquer them. We are both gaining numbers as we are losing them. A stalemate like this cannot be sustained indefinitely. We must cripple them now, wipe out their numbers so that they cannot withstand ours."

He walked around the armchair and met here in the middle of the room. "You may believe that I live for this war, that I need it to continue because it is my nature to fight. I will admit that I do relish good torture, a good kill, and I don't care what I destroy in my path, if it is in my way. But I fought this war to win, Hermione, not to fight for the rest of my life. Which I intended to last forever. My quest was power, not destruction. And here I am, with more power than ever but still without the power that I have sought these last twenty years - now even without power that I once had. I'm sure that you are glad to hear it, that after all these years of running up the hill, I'm finally beginning to slip down."

Before she could answer, he closed a hand over her shoulder and pulled her into Side-Along Apparition. She stumbled against him for a moment, startled when her feet hit the ground of a wide, empty field. She did not know where they were - none of the geography looked familiar to her, not even based on descriptions that she might have read somewhere. It was still frigid cold, and she applied a warming charm to Voldemort when she saw he had not done so himself. Only when he turned to survey the stretch of field, peering over the roll of shallow hills, did she realized he had spoken the first words of doubt that she had heard from him. And he had shared it with her willingly.

"Slipping was inevitable at some point. However," she added a little grimly, "that doesn't mean that the time for your downfall is now."

"And you'll see to it, won't you?" He could have made the statement cutting, knowing, cruel. But instead, it was simply stated.

"I'll see to it that you don't die on this battlefield. That doesn't mean you won't lose. It's up to you or your followers to see that the day is won," Hermione replied.

He gave a harsh laugh. "Even if I am the last one standing and they cannot take me because you are at my side, I'm not sure I could count that as a loss."

"What shielding spells do you prefer? I would rather put them up myself - just so that you don't do any unnecessary spellwork until the battle itself."

An hour later, still dark but for a slightly lighter haze on the horizon, and the field was covered with shifting, restless bodies. Torches cast yellow light over the hoods and heads of one side and the other, separated by a fifty meter stretch of bare earth, the demilitarized zone. Most of the soldiers for each side were there, and those who weren't would be locked out of the shield spell that covered Voldemort's followers like a force field. There was a similar one shimmering slightly over Dumbledore's Army. From what Hermione could see, the Army's numbers were surprisingly small, but there was a considerable variety of soldiers: young and old, experienced and green, poor and rich. She could see the deep maroon of Auror robes in pockets here and there among the Army crowd. Near the back, the core leaders were kept safe, just as Voldemort and Hermione stayed away from the front lines of Voldemort's shadowy battalion.

Even with the shields up, Hermione kept a series of shields of her own making around herself and Voldemort. They were not impenetrable, but they were of Medicus design, which meant curses that could weaken and ultimately dissolve the shields were not common knowledge. Voldemort had, against her better judgment, erected an additional shield around his most valuable Death Eaters who surrounded the two of them in a series of concentric circles.

Although the crowds' murmurs were a steady drone, there was not much conversation. Voldemort stood at an angle with his right foot planted in front of him, ready to thrust forward with his first attack. Hermione stood three quarters turned away from him, so that she could cover his back and still see what was happening in front. She was warm under her charm, but her breath still fogged the air, and as the gray haze at the horizon lightened further, it billowed from her mouth in quivering little bursts. Regardless of her connections, regardless of her position as a Medicus and therefore untouchable, she was still undeniably terrified. She may have been a key figure in the war, but it had never been like this - never an outright battle like this. It had been bad enough when she worried about a handful of people at a time. She looked across the demilitarized zone and felt fear for all of them - but strangely, she also looked over Voldemort's followers and felt the same fear for some of them. Not all of them. Some she could stand dropping dead on the spot. But some she thought could stand a second chance. At the very least, she was not ready for them to die.

The moment that the gray haze tinged pink, Fawkes lifted into the air like a firework and gave a haunting call over the killing fields. The reaction was like a wave, from the front lines to the back as wands were arched and pointed at the enemy.

The first sets of curses were mild - the goal at this point was to wear down the shielding spells and to find enough weaknesses to push through. It would be a waste of energy and intention to let loose with the stronger spells before they could even harm the opponent. A few people on each side were hit by a penetrating spell, some collapsing under Jelly Legs or doubling over with Rictusempra, others vomiting onto the grass or losing their eyesight or being attacked by bees or locusts. Simple curses, something a student would use in Hogwarts halls.

The shields wouldn't last. If they had been put up more strongly - like those over the Quidditch World Cup during her fourth year, or over Hogwarts - then it wouldn't be much of a fight. The shields were simply meant to buy time. The shields around each faction's leader, however, would be trickier to break down.

The shielding spell over Dumbledore's Army faltered first, but the shield over Voldemort's followers was not far behind. The Death Eaters raised their wands and in one accord a giant wave of boiling water shot up from their wands and crashed down on Dumbledore's Army. Most had managed to cover themselves in a strong Bubble-Body Charm, but those who didn't and were still conscious Disapparated off the field to tend to their scalded bodies. Some Portkeys were created for the unconscious. But many couldn't spare the attention, and the reddened, blistered bodies just stayed there on the battlefield. Although she was too far away to see details, Hermione felt as though her eyesight had somehow magnified. She didn't need to see it closely to see them well enough.

The water gave way to steam as Dumbledore's Army countered with an enormous hand of fire, stretching out in more than five fingers over Voldemort's followers. Voldemort took control of the countermeasures, sweeping his arm around and under to push it up away from the black hoods before him. The hand swirled up and shot in a pillar into the sky before trying to curl back at the other side. Dumbledore, a blaze of blue and white behind the stronger shield, transfigured the fire into black burning tar that dripped down over the Death Eaters and Black Dogs. Voldemort conceded the attack and transfigured the tar into cool water. Death Eaters and Black Dogs were forced to remove their hooded cloaks that were now coated with the heavy, sticky, hot tar. There was no time to clean them, only to discard them.

The Black Dogs were the first to regroup, defending themselves and the Death Eaters against the volley of individual curses flung at them in the midst of their distraction, then throwing a few curses of their own. Both sides were violent, and while Dumbledore's Army was less likely to use Unforgiveables, that did not mean some of the soldiers didn't use them. And as Hermione had often noted: some curses that weren't Unforgiveable could be even more effective and terrible. Here on this battlefield, they were unbound by restrictions of peacetime and civilization. This was not about honor or protection; it would not do to simply be on the defensive. Both sides had to attack.

Hermione was surprised at how little Voldemort and Dumbledore - and the small circles around each leader - themselves fought. On occasion, there was a grand gesture against the other. She didn't know what their strategy was during the last battle, but the strategy this morning seemed to be to let the soldiers fight. Voldemort had taught his followers how to do most of the more damaging spells. For the few who had the power to wield the giant spells that could attack whole sections of the opposing army, Voldemort left it to them until there was a lull in battle. However, once the first sweeping attacks were made against each other, most of the fighting devolved into one-on-one dueling or small group against small group. Once the sun rose and flooded the green and bloodied earth in amber, the two factions had clashed and mingled in the middle. Slowly, the mix of different-colored robes started to widen toward the rear of each army, and the circles of protected and powerful followers nearest to the generals were broken.

Hermione tensed. Most glancing spells hit the shields, but a direct blow would be more of a concern, especially from a more powerful wizard or witch. The shield charm was strong, stronger than most, but it had its weak areas like any form of protection.

As Voldemort raised his wand to begin attacking the members of Dumbledore's Army closest to him, Hermione forced herself to hold back, to breathe in and out in a steady rhythm, to try to be aware of everything around her: the garbled nonsense of a thousand screamed spells at once, the stomping of feet, the crack of Apparition when the wounds became too much, the sound of Voldemort hissing spells in succession through the shields. She needed to find the silence in herself to be the best bodyguard for him - and she needed to hope that Dumbledore's Army would respect the navy blue of her robes. God help them if they didn't. While she dearly needed to protect Voldemort, she had no desire to see the other side lose.

With the first direct blast against the shield, Hermione almost fell back. The spell exploded in blue fire, deafening and disorienting her. Voldemort grabbed her wrist in time and with his left hand pointed his wand at the sky again. She couldn't hear his chanting with her damaged, dampened hearing - underneath the sensation of hearing through cotton, there was also the ringing of tinnitus. She was still a bit stunned, but at least her shield withstood it. When she finally found her balance again, she charmed her ears to heal. Her hearing came back with a pop.

Voldemort was still muttering, but she was more concerned about the white beard and mops of black hair and red hair coming her way. She could see them even through the mass of bodies between them. Her fingers brushed Voldemort's arm, and she stepped forward until she was half in front of him. Waves of hot rose light pulsed from her wand, not from any spell, but from a combination of the need to fortify the shield with her focus and the waves of fear that sank her stomach to somewhere between her knees. She couldn't see Severus with them or Remus, and that was a relief, but looking Ron in the face was surprisingly difficult to do - twisted in hatred as it was. The image pulled her right back to eight years ago, with explanations pouring in a font from her lips. The tip of his wand made an arc in the air before pointing directly at her. She focused on the shields and intuiting the spell before he finished casting it so that she could apply the counterspell if he was going to be so colossally stupid, please Ron, don't do this, don't throw it all away.

Harry almost tackled Ron to stop him from cursing her. The curse went wild, hitting a Death Eater who was preparing to Apparate out. The spell was Snape's, the Sectumsempra spell, but the original form rather than the one that Snape had perfected to use against Voldemort. Perhaps it was a testament to how long she had accepted his hatred of her that it didn't tear up her heart like it tore apart the Death Eater's flesh.

"Don't be a fool!" Harry shouted as they stumbled. A few Aurors deflected the spells around them so that their generals could focus on Voldemort and Hermione. It was the only reason one of them wasn't dead right now. "I told you, you can't attack her, you know you can't!"

"Merlin, you're still defending her, and she's fucking defending him!" His entire face was flushed in anger.

"She's doing her job," Harry said. His voice was quiet, but she could hear him, even through the din. She locked eyes with him, but she never stopped paying attention to Dumbledore. The old man might be insistent on Harry killing Voldemort because of the prophecy, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try to disable Voldemort if given the chance. Hermione flung a defensive deflective charm behind her as she heard the whistle of a spell coming directly at the shields, then brought her wand back in front of her, posed to duel for Voldemort if it came to that.

She opened her mouth to apologize, but the apology dried up in her throat. She was so tired of apologizing.

With his eyes still on hers, Harry spoke to her clearly and deliberately, "I'm attacking him, not you. If something hits you accidentally, it wasn't meant for you."

"The hell you say..." Ron began, but Dumbledore put a papery hand on his shoulder. His own aged face was stony, the immense power he held undeniable (not as much as Voldemort, Hermione noted), but his expression as he looked at her was not unkind or accusing. Hermione thought he was resigned to her position in this war. And although she could still damn him if she could, she appreciated that he, like Harry, could understand unpleasant realities.

In all of this, Voldemort said nothing, no snide remarks, no pointed and cutting insult or statement about Hermione's place by his side. He was still muttering his spell as he glared at Harry. When he finally finished, he lowered his wand to point at the young man. He did not seem angry or tense - the flow of his arm and the delicacy of his fingers around his wand were as if they had arranged a civilized meeting. Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. Voldemort was entirely too relaxed. After having been thoroughly attacked so early in the previous battle, for him to not be on his guard now was disquieting.

He stepped closer to Hermione, until his chest was near her shoulder. "Hermione, your left arm if you please." She held it out, and he pulled the fitted sleeve up over her Dark Mark. Ron's face somehow twisted more, and Harry winced.

"You don't have to flaunt her like that," Harry said through clenched teeth. His hand gripped his wand as if he thought it was Voldemort's neck. "We know about the Mark, and most of us have accepted her with it."

Just attack him, Harry. Don't pale just because I'm standing in the way, Hermione thought.

"Once again, Harry, thinking it's all about you," Voldemort replied. "Why would I wish my Medicus ill, to use her so callously against you? I merely wish to protect her."

"She's standing in front of you to protect you, you arse. What are you protecting her from?" Harry snapped.

They had been distracted by each other and all the commotion around them that they had barely noticed that the orange glow of the risen sun was eclipsed by clouds rolling in from the east. And rolling was the only word to describe it, because they were coming in at an unnatural speed, dark grayish green on the underbellies. The clouds were already half over the army when thunder cracked like a giant tree splitting in half over them. In the next few seconds, the shadow had crossed over the battlefield. When Harry whipped around to look at the source of the thunder, Voldemort pressed his wand against her Dark Mark. It heated but did not burn.

"Protego mortvoranos tempestas," he hissed, almost in her ear. She thought he lingered there, but she quickly dismissed it.

Harry had turned back and shot his first spell at the Dark Lord when the rains came. It was the altered Sectumsempra spell, and Voldemort was still straightening from where he had charmed her brand. Had he been alone, it might have worked to penetrate the shield charm and hit Voldemort with the same devastating force as the last time. But Harry could not have known that Hermione would know how to counter it, after devoting hours to intuitive healing of its effects. Harry's curse had spilled from his lips with the speed and ease of someone who had used it before, and often. Hermione could not catch the exact words of the spell, but even if she could not remember the exact words of the countercharm, she let her intuitive magic take hold of her again. It was still fresh enough in her mind that it was only a split second before she cast the seven-word countercurse that deflected the spell back to Harry. It had been close - the spell had penetrated the shield, although it still stood strong.

Startled as he was that the spell had been blocked, Harry was not as quick to realize it was returning to its origin. But Dumbledore jerked him out of the way of the glowing green light (just a shade or two greener than the Killing Curse) just in time so that it could hit another poor soul - Death Eater or Dumbledore's soldier, neither Dumbledore nor Harry knew. Neither of them cared.

Because the rain was eating through their skin. Only Dumbledore's Army. Dumbledore's head jerked up to stare back at Voldemort and Hermione, who seemed unaffected. If Dumbledore could have spared the attention, he would have also seen that the rain was just water to Voldemort's followers as well.

Dumbledore's Army screamed in pain, and those who kept their heads tried shielding spells, the Umbrella Charm, and the Impervius Charm. The latter was the first charm that Ron tried, and Dumbledore threw up shielding spell after shielding spell. While all of these charms worked for a time, they didn't work nearly long enough. The rain dissolved them as easily as they did skin. Through the chaotic beat of rain and roll of thunder, Hermione could also hear the chemical hiss of flesh and grass and clothing burning through. So focused was the other side on maintaining cover from the rain that they could not concentrate on protecting themselves from Voldemort's followers. And Harry could not protect himself from Voldemort, who stepped out from the dissolving shield charm around him and Hermione and hit Dumbledore with Cruciatus. Dumbledore was unable to stop fortifying the shield over Harry to shield himself, and he flew back, jerking and groaning to keep from screaming. The acid rain seared through his robes and into his flesh, and that's when he did began to scream, his crackled voice joining the cacophony of pain around them.

When the rain began to dissolve the shields faster than Harry could recast them, and when he saw how badly his side was doing under the tempestuous onslaught, he shot a shower of red sparks into the sky. In the hazy shadow of the storm, they were easy to see.

"Retreat!" he bellowed, grabbing Ron and yanking them both through the torrential rain to grab Dumbledore and Disapparate away.

Those who heard the call repeated it and Disapparated; those who couldn't were left to melt on the killing fields.

Voldemort turned to Hermione, noble and proud. He approached her and slid an arm around her shoulders. They were both wet and cold, but that was unimportant at the moment.

A wave of his wand, and the clouds above coalesced into the Dark Mark. Cheers and laughter of victory rose from the Death Eaters, Black Dogs, and Cat's Paws. A victory they needed to regain confidence in their master, who could now rest until the next battle knowing that his strategy was sound.

Leaving the storm to dispose of the dead and dissipate on its own with the absence of its originator, Voldemort Disapparated them both back to the fortress.

They appeared in Voldemort's chambers. He let her move away from him. She didn't scream at him for what he did to her friends, her side - what would be the point? And he did not hold his victory above her head. He didn't gloat about the ingeniousness of his spell, which he had appropriated from one of the Dark Arts books in his library and modified to make more lethal. She stared at him, and he stared at her, a curious thaw between them.

Then she turned her back on him and passed through his bathroom into hers. She removed her cold, sodden, heavy robes and left them in a heap on the tile. After locking the door between their quarters so that he would know for certain he was unwelcome, she sank into a hot bath and scrubbed until her skin was raw. What she was trying to rub out of herself was hard to say, but she felt she had to try.