Acid Test

James tells her to go upstairs. And she does. She's a good wife, a good mother and her baby needs her. Downstairs her husband is likely dying and she'll soon follow him, but she's a Gryffindor first and a pragmatist second.

She stumbles up the stairs with an awkwardness she thought banished with childhood. A tremble starts in her fingertips and eats along her nerves until she's just shaking, while she blindly tries to get to her boy. She notices the pale rose paper she forced James to hang and the twitching fingers of one hand grasp at it, involuntarily. It's pretty even when she's tearing it to shreds.

There's a break in her perception and she's in the nursery, not sure of what happened between the stairs and here. Her fingers hurt and when she rubs them together gently, they feel wet. There's a strip of wallpaper trailing from the back of her hand, stuck on with glue and blood. Blood hides the mess she's made, for a time.

Harry is crying, mewling really and his breaths come in soft, wet gasps. She used to find it endearing. Like the way he narrows his eyes and peers at her - he'll need glasses like his father. She wonders what she's supposed to be doing up here. With the betrayal of their Secret there is little that either of them can do against Him.

But she's a Gryffindor and she wraps Harry in a blanket and cradles him close. She holds her wand at her side loosely and her stance is textbook perfect; she's always been an excellent duelist. She remembers classes at Hogwarts - learning jellylegs and knee-reversing hexes, then later paying a dark Slytherin girl to teach her cruciatus behind the greenhouses. She taught her other things too and she remembers the way the girl held their hands around her wand and the way the girl breathed instructions in her ear.

"Power Lily. Power, will and focus. That's all one needs to work magic. We all of us learn that before we ever hear about Hogwarts, but that first wand breaks us of it." The girl had been fond of theory and she wonders absently, while bouncing Harry soothingly against her hip, what she's doing now. "Your wand is your focus Lily. Find your power and find your will."

There are screams coming from downstairs now and she cradles Harry closer. He snuffles like a puppy. She thinks of Sirius and suddenly wonders - why he'd insisted on Peter Keeping their Secret. She hushes her son. The screaming is over now and she twitches her wand impatiently, wishing it would just happen now. She lets trails of gold ribbon fall from it and melt on the floor beside her cheap shoes. It hardly matters.

There are footsteps coming up the stairs and now outside the door. Her heart speeds and she'll never be ready - for anything ever again. The door swings open and He walks in, tall, pale and thin in a way that goes beyond his gaunt frame. He steps into the room, dragging something that his robes obscure. But she knows.

She raises her wand arm and points.

He tugs hard and throws something forward. Her husband tumbles to the floor between them. He croaks out her name and blearily looks for her, though without his glasses, he won't find her. Part of her, separate from all this, notes how terribly romantic he's finally shown himself to be. His last word will be her name.

She looks away, to Him and he forms a thin, lipless smile. He's more snake than human maybe, if not something worse. "Lily Evans." It should be a whisper, hollow and harsh but it's warm and smooth and pleasant. She flashes on the idea of having Him over for tea sometime and allows herself a smirk. He smiles in return. "I've always rather enjoyed gallows humor myself." She doesn't even wonder how he understands.

He measures her with a quick flick of too-black eyes. She notices that, his eyes. They aren't really human any longer and she wonders - fleetingly - if they ever were. He nods, a gentle dip, full of knowledge and she suppresses a shiver and clutches Harry tighter. Part of her screams that she should be flinging curses, or trying to run, to do something. But faced with him she sees the futility.

And he knows. He knows she isn't running through her catalogue of hexes and fouler curses. That she's stuck between two syllables, neither particularly useful. Something like calculation, but infinitely faster blazes in his eyes and as suddenly he's decided something.

"If you kill him, you and the boy can live."

There is no time for hesitation and she's a Gryffindor - snap decisions come easier than breathing. She can choose and will know that she's right. There will be no regret.

He nods and - something moves. She feels the curse tickling down her spine and around her throat. His touch is light and deft and it wraps around Harry now, three times around.

She points her wand, sighting along her arm. She's always been comfortable doing it this way, though Professor Flitwick had tried to break her of the habit. She remembers duels and competitions she'd won, spells she'd cast.

Her husband calls out for her again and it's soft and wet, like Harry. She doesn't know what he wants.

Swish. Flick. Crucio.

His body shudders and jerks. She applies a little emphasis when he starts to scream and he bites straight through his tongue. When his blind eyes are really empty she ends the curse. She looks up into surprised eyes, but they're pleased too and she's almost satisfied. She sights again and speaks. Her power seeps out through her wand tip - it's not like other curses - and the room lights up, like it's Christmas morning and half the bulbs have gone out.

His body is still. Everything is.

She looks up and He is watching her, a little smile playing at the corners of his lipless mouth and she wonders at that. He points to the doorway and she goes. She's a Gryffindor and a pragmatist. There will be no regret.

~M~

She leaves the strip of wallpaper in the nursery and part of her protests that she's leaving more of herself in the house. She ignores this voice and steps out the door, Harry curled into the curve of her free arm. There is no such thing as beginnings and endings - people just are.

He walks two steps ahead of her and slightly to the left. She'd chosen her position without fuss and he'd arched an eyebrow and favoured her with a lipless smile. There was no reason to protest at this point, she thinks and stares grimly forward, ignoring the robed figures that collect around them.

Mrs. Jenkins - a Muggle, she corrects herself - stumbles into one of the robed figures. She babbles, something about taking out the trash, she wasn't spying on them, no, but one of them flicks a long, dark wand carelessly and the Muggle drops to its well manicured lawn. They move on without any discernable break in their progress.

They're not, she notes, in the mood to play tonight and that is just fine with her.

They march down the middle of the street and bright yellow of the streetlamps makes the slick black of their robes burn dully and their boots, wet from the puddles that dot the landscape, are metallic. Hard. She wonders if he checked the forecast before coming so the weather would compliment his plan. It's dramatic, she knows and any Muggle unlucky enough to be awake and watching is probably remembering any number of action films.

The Dark Mark hangs high over her house, bright in the now clear sky. She doesn't have to look.

Ahead at the crossing stands a single robed figure, wand pointed at a hovering cylinder of silver. When they're closer she notes that it's a series of circlets - snakes swallowing their tails. Portkeys, she thinks. The others part around Him as they approach and she soon stands in the center of a circle. The spell caster shakes its hood back and nods at her.

She'd wondered how He knew her, so well, really. When she sees the girl she knows.

The girl bows her head to Him, only lifting it when He pets her dark braids back with a skeletal hand. "There were no problems?" he asks.

The girl smiles brightly and she remembers sunny afternoons behind the greenhouses. "No. Since Moody the aurors have been less than friendly. No one wants to play anymore." He returns the girl's smile and she sees the human behind the snake and has to suppress a shiver.

"You know Ms. Evans," he says, nodding at her.

"It's Mrs. Potter," she automatically corrects.

"It really isn't," the girl says. She stares into the familiar cold brown eyes and thinks they can sense her acquiescence.

She jerks at the sound of a siren, still far off but coming closer quickly. A Muggle has gotten over its instinctive fear of strange things and called the police. Sharp fingers grasp her chin tightly and turn her face up to meet His stare. There is challenge and amusement, but also assessment. She hopes that he doesn't doubt her.

"Wilkes, you may stay and play with the good police officers, if you like." His voice is thick with command and irony.

The girl bows her head again. "Thank you, my lord."

He turns to the stacked rings and reaches out but she stops him, bringing her hand close to his. He looks down at her, gracing her with a faint teasing smile that causes her breath to catch. He is handsome, even now. She shifts Harry, then holds her baby out to Him, taking care not to wake the infant. He collects Harry and tucks the baby against his robe with quick, practiced motions. When Harry burbles, He pets him back into silence.

He favours her with another nod and reaches out for the top ring before she really registers the reality of the Dark Lord cradling her son in his arms. And before she can form words - though she isn't certain what they would be - He is gone.

Two other Death Eaters follow in quick succession and she's left with the girl and three others. The girl lowers the remaining rings to the cracked asphalt and faces the approaching sirens. She stands beside the girl and readies her wand, grateful for the robed figure that completes the line on her other side.

Lights are visible now and she catches her breath. She almost wishes that she wasn't the kind of woman that could do this, but instead decides to wish that she kills at least one of them. She's a Muggleborn and she knows that standing beside these people won't be enough.

The girl - Rosa - whistles cheerily.

The first car swings into view and Rosa lets it turn onto the drive before snapping out a curse that sets it afire. There is no pause between her yell and the spells execution. Rosa has always been good with curses and especially with exciting curses. She thinks this with something like fondness and is satisfied.

Inside the car the Muggles are screaming. She can't make out the sound over the squealing of the tires as the car swerves off the road, completely uncontrolled, but she can just make out the pain on the contorted faces. Their skin will soon catch fire like their clothes.

Another car turns onto the road and jerks to stop while the first one spins into a line of trashcans. Everything is still for a moment until the doors of both cars burst open - burning Muggles, clawing at their now bare and blackened skin, come from one and shaken but enraged police officers come from the other.

"It's most disappointing," Rosa says over their yelling. "That they don't carry those... is 'gun' the correct term?"

She murmurs a 'yes' and raises her wand. She will take the young blond.

"It would be far more interesting if they had even the slightest chance. Pity about the aurors."

"Pity," she agrees. She stalks forward to meet the blond.

"Evans!" She ignores the affronted call and keeps going. A Gryffindor doesn't wait.

The officers yell at her to drop to the ground and put her hands on her head and she screams back. The blond falls backwards to the ground, as his flesh splits open and his intestines spill out. His frantic mewling reminds her briefly of the time Sirius had gotten his paw into some broken glass. Like then she can smell the blood in the air.

The blond's partner breaks and runs. She wonders if the Death Eaters would prefer if he called for reinforcements. When he stumbles to the ground covered in spiders, she decides that the question has been answered.

She turns back to the others. Rosa is smiling, wide-eyed and the others are still nothing more than a mass of black fabric, their faces obscured by their hoods. They move over the bodies. One Muggle earns a boot to the head before the Death Eater finishes him.

"Wilkes," she says mildly. She knows that she's probably far gone in shock and she's glad of it.

Rosa calls them all back the portkeys. She leaves second last and doesn't look back.

~M~

They could be anywhere. The house is well kept and anonymous. The portraits hung over bright blue and yellow paper and the faint scent of cinnamon cookies, suggest that a family lived here not long ago. She wonders if the bodies are lying open in the basement, or if the Death Eater's incinerated them.

There are no signs that this is meant as a permanent base for them and she decides that they must meet in different locations each time. It's a good system, sensible, but He probably employs a whole phalanx of portkey specialists.

She follows the line of black-robed figures into the large living room. She'd always wanted a house like this one but she will never have anything like this again. She isn't sure what she will have, except her life and her son.

The Death Eaters move smoothly into a wide circle, their positions evidently predetermined and rather than hover ineffectually, she strides into the center, where He waits, Harry still curled in his grasp. Her baby looks comfortable with Him. She notes this for its oddity. Harry has never been comfortable with anyone other than his parents.

She stops short of him and bows her head in supplication, thinking that the submission will please him and that she really could use all the goodwill she can find, beg or steal. When he smiles warmly and hands over Harry, she sighs - breath she hadn't known she was holding. He doesn't dismiss her, so she stays near, unsure until he says firmly, "Down." She immediately drops to her knees and the motion is less graceful than she would have liked.

He calls for Wilkes and Rosa steps up to report. She mostly ignores their conversation in favor of peering around the circle, but for the occasional murmur of pleasure over her performance, which she files away to think on later. The Death Eaters have pulled their hoods down and she can't restrain her curiosity in this - everyone wants to know who they are. She notes public figures, coworkers and old classmates. Some she doesn't recognize at all. Her investigation earns her both nods and frowns, though the reaction to her presence seems mostly positive.

Why was He so interested in her family to deal with them personally and to make his offer? She thinks that she may never have the answer.

Her search stops on a familiar man. They stare at each other and she thinks that behind his customary sneer, there is despair. She nods in understanding and moves on. Beside him is another familiar man, the only other Gryffindor in the room. Peter is nervous and it's clear on his face as his emotions usually are not. She wants to tear out his throat with her teeth, but she's already made her choice. He is weak though, she thinks, and perhaps one day she'll have her chance.

When He burns His mark onto her forearm, she leans into the pain and thinks of Harry.