Refraction

"The trouble with oaths of the form, death before dishonor, is that eventually, given enough time and abrasion, they separate the world into just two sorts of people: the dead, and the forsworn. It's a survivor's problem, this one."

-Lois McMaster Bujold

* * *

(Luna's journal, Winter 1999)

Prison

Dear readers,

Since my last entry, I have been captured by an Evil Overlord. Also, the food has not been up to par for some weeks. Life is quite irritating.

As to the Evil Overlord: he has foolishly left me my journal and quill, that I may pass on important wisdom to future generations. At least, I may until he realizes that I have the journal, at which point he will burn it, and quite possibly me as well. Until then...

Life Lessons:

I'm sure I would have many more valuable lessons re: capture by Evil Overlords, but I was too unconscious/recovering-from-unconsciousness to learn any more. I choose to blame blood loss, as opposed to, say, criminal incompetence. In my defence, there was a fair bit of blood loss.

I hear that Dean came up behind Harry and stabbed Draco's father in the neck with a butter knife. Must have taken a lot of adrenaline-induced strength to do that, I guess. I hear that after that Draco pushed past them, cast Incendio, and burned his father up. Dean told me, before they came for us. We all knew they were going to come for us. We all pretty much stood around and let them take us. I didn't learn anything from that. I suppose the blood loss affected my analytical abilities.

Be that as it may, I'm now trapped in a very tiny stone room with Dean and Draco. Harry's gone. We don't know where Harry is at all. Draco isn't dealing well with that. Draco is...not entirely sane, just at the moment. Perhaps he will succeed in his mission to scratch a hole through the door, but I suspect he's just going to wind up having no fingernails.

Dean isn't doing particularly well either. But me, hey, I'm fantastic.

It's my fault anyway.

* * *

(Seamus Finnigan, June 24, 1999)

Battlefield

I don't trust Harry Potter. I haven't for years. Why should I, eh? What's he done to prove he's trustworthy? Shows up with Diggory's dead body, dreams he's fackin You-Know-Who, spends all his time with bleedin Draco Malfoy, gets Mrs Weasley killed, shows up around Ginny's dead body...

Dean always said, "At least he's good at teaching Defence." Sure, I admit he is. And I also believe it was self-interest and nothing but when he taught us Defence--so we could be his front line. No. I never trusted him.

Still, I never expected this.

Look at him now. Side by side with Draco Malfoy and You-Know-Who himself. I always believed he hated You-Know-Who; thought him being hateful was pretty much the only thing you could count on. Looks like I was wrong again. There he is, disgusting with blood and dirt, lookin around like he owns the whole damn battlefield.

Nobody owns a battlefield, Potter.

I'll kill him. Someone has to. Someone has to stop him. Jesus, someone should have done it years ago!

I'm walking towards him, and I know it won't be hard to cast Avada Kedavra--I've never hated anyone in my life as much as I hate Harry Potter right now. But just as I raise my wand, just as the words get to my lips, something hits me from the back. I'm being pushed, I fight it and I don't want to go, but I'm seeing green...

Damn you, Potter, I'm thinking as I'm ripped from my body. God damn you.

Then it's black and cold.

* * *

(Harry, Winter 1999)

Prison

Draco once told me, remember the enemy is human.

The enemy is human.

Yes.

Why hasn't he killed me yet? I've been talking for an hour. I know why he hasn't killed me. I know. Once I'm dead, it won't feel like a victory. It's only a victory when he sees me give up. I know.

"You look just like your mother, did you know that?"

See him? Watch him. Human mind broken behind snake eyes. I see. I see him. I can see it all, now. But he's not speaking to me. Getting more upset by the minute, but not speaking. Don't ignore me, Tom. You wanted me, after all.

"When you were sixteen, you looked just like her. But it's still there. The hands. The structure of your face. I don't know if you ever noticed that. You were so worried about your father, weren't you?"

I see you, Tom Riddle. We break the same way, you and I.

Talk to me, Tom. Talk to me.

"You are your mother's son. Despite everything. Still your mother's son. She gave you magic. She made your life worth living. She's all that's keeping you alive now, isn't she?"

He's turned away now, and I know why. He's crying. Maybe no tears, maybe he thinks it's rage, but he's crying all the same. Angry, and crying for his mother. Terrifying Dark Lord? No. People don't change. People never change. My enemy is human.

"Merope. That was her name, wasn't it?"

"Silence, boy!" he's hissing. Yes. Talk to me. Talk to me. He's lashing out. Finally. I know lashing out. I know why.

"I never could find anything she was interested in, though. Do you know? Do you even know who your mother was?"

He whirls to face me, grabs me by the throat, wand, magic forgotten, blazing red eyes filled with tears that look like blood. He seems utterly insane, and he's choking me. I know I've won. I've already won. If he kills me now, I've still won. He'll never be sure of himself again. I smile a little.

"What would you know of my mother, boy?" He shakes me. "What would you know of me?" Oh, yes. I've won.

"I know you," I manage to hiss past his grip on my neck.

He lets me go and steps back, eyes wide, bewildered. Trying to hide fear. "You're nothing but a boy. You know nothing!" Shouting. Losing control. Good.

"I know you," I whisper, so he has to step closer to hear. And he does step closer. "You made me."

"Made you?" He's trying to sound angry. Not confused. Not lost. Not scared.

"Made, yes--more than my parents. Almost a father, aren't you? Almost my father. Tell me. Tell me." He's so focused now. Every word I say. "Would your mother be proud of you now?" He freezes, looking insanely enraged. Right now. "Oh," I sound apologetic. "I suppose you wouldn't know. Would you?"

He snarls. He backhands me across the face. He flees.

I slump back, letting the chains pull at my arms, cut my wrists. I lick the blood from my newly split lip. Poor lip. It takes a lot of abuse.

"Remember," I whisper to the cell, "the enemy is human."

I laugh.

* * *

(Ernie Macmillan, June 24, 1999)

Battlefield

Professor Dumbledore called us to battle, and to battle we went. Bravely onward and so on, and the DA more than holding its own, I'm proud to say!

Now, circumstances here aren't entirely what we had been led to believe. There are a great many more Death Eaters than we had been told there would be, for a start, and we seem to have allowed them the high ground--but we're brave enough to face them, surely! Hasn't Harry Potter himself trained us as his valued friends?

And there...is Harry.

Harry is standing with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Draco Malfoy. This must be his fault, it must. I knew he was bad for Harry, knew he was evil...how could we have let this happen? We were meant to watch meant to protect meant to--

But no, no. Harry would never be duped by Malfoy; it simply isn't possible. No, it can't be. Harry must have a plan or a plot--he and Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley were always plotting, weren't they? Certainly...

But Ron looks bewildered, and Hermione looks afraid.

Harry could be plotting alone, couldn't he? Of course, of course he could. It would be like him, wouldn't it, to refuse to risk his friends? Yes, very like, because he knows that any of us would sacrifice ourselves for him, and he only wants the best for everyone. He's a good leader, Harry. The best man I know.

Yes, that must be it. It's a plan. Clever! How better to destroy the Death Eater ranks than by infiltration? Yes, Harry has things well under control. I was a fool to--

* * *

(Luna's journal, Winter 1999)

Prison

I suppose I'm content. A strange thing, since I seem to be locked in a room belonging to an Evil Overlord with two of my companions missing-presumed-dead.

Still. Content.

Dean and I were left alone after Harry took Draco away. Left with just Harry's letter. I stuck the letter in this journal. The letter from Trelawney. Read it. And now Harry will try to save Voldemort, because that's the way he's choosing to interpret it, because he is a very stupid boy. He's gone now, though, and there's nothing I can do for him anymore.

Dean and I panicked for a few hours after Harry and Draco left, and we read the letter. We had to give it up--no one can keep up a good panic for very long. You just get too tired. We sat on the couch, a worn out kind of afraid. I edged over to him. He held me. We didn't speak. There really wasn't anything to say. I kissed him. After all, we were probably going to die soon, and I'd wanted to for years. He kissed me back, maybe for the same reasons. I can hope. Things progressed. He made love to me on a bed in Voldemort's house, gently but intensely, as aware as I was that we probably wouldn't live out the week. He was awkward, and so was I, and it was obvious that neither of us had done anything like it before, and for me, at least, it hurt. A lot. Like, stabbing pain you know not what of. And yet it still managed to be strangely...comforting? Yes. It was comforting.

Hormones. Figure them.

He's asleep now. He didn't sleep last night, and I doubt any of us got more than two hours the night before. I've been sitting here, mentally listing all the horrible ways he could get killed. I can't help it. His skin is so soft, his bones so fragile, his mind so vulnerable. And there's nothing I can do to protect him, any more than I can protect Harry. I want to wrap myself around him and never let anyone else come near him, but I know he wouldn't let me. Independent artist type, you know.

Doom, I say. Doom. At the risk of sounding a little melancholy. At least we had this. We can look back on it. When we're dead.

I think I'll write a little introductory note to this book for my dad. If it survives, I have an awful suspicion that it will be the only thing that does. Huh. Outlived by my own ratty journal. That's just sad. Well. Might as well get all the misery out of my system before Dean wakes up, so intro it is.

* * *

(Pansy, June 24, 1999)

Battlefield

24 June 1999. I Apparate onto the battlefield, and check for my alleged leader. I always check for him first, you see, because he's more dangerous to me than any combination of enemies could possibly be.

Just a tip: commanding through fear? It doesn't really work.

So I check up on my leader, as usual. He's standing behind Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy, the Dark Lord's right hand man? Why, Draco, you howling hypocrite.

All of Bellatrix's insane ranting suddenly makes sense. She's been replaced--and not just replaced, but replaced by a renegade family member. It's a wonder she hasn't killed anyone over it. Of course, I haven't seen Vince around lately...

But wait...that's Harry Potter standing next to Draco. Harry Potter. Ah, I see now. They're up to something.

I hate Harry Potter. I'm perfectly sincere on this point: he's a socially inept, semi-homicidal, out-of-control maniac. That being said...he would never side with the Dark Lunatic. Never.

This isn't because he's a good person, mind. It isn't because of his noble love for peace and fairness and muggles and mudbloods. It's because he's a revenge-driven psychotic who's wanted Our Snake Man dead since he was a sperm.

So they've pulled the wool over Our Loony's eyes. I don't really know how they managed it, but I can't imagine it was all that difficult. The man (and I use the term as loosely as possible) is mental--how hard can it be to confuse a nutcase?

Despite that, I am proud of Draco. Here I was worried that he was turning horrifically Gryffindor, and it turns out that he was turning his Gryffindor into a Slytherin the whole time. Well done, Draco.

I really should have suspected something when Snape mysteriously became too "ill" for the battle. Snape's always had better self-preservation skills than the rest of us--except maybe Thee, who I note isn't here at all. On either side.

Draco and Potter could be up to any number of things, but Draco's always been pretty thorough. I imagine we'll all be killed in the end, because nothing else would be safe for his boy. Of course, his boy's going to be in trouble anyway, because the Gryffindors aren't going to understand why he seems to be on the wrong side. Simple tools, Gryffindors.

Blaise is standing next to me, looking a complacent idiot. A rabid lamb, marching to the slaughter. I just don't have the energy to pity something like Blaise. I'd tell him we're about to be brutally mass-murdered, but he might have time to run away before it happens. Wouldn't want that.

I don't think I'll run. There's not much point, really. I knew it would come to this in the end...or something like it. It's better than Azkaban. Knowing Draco, his kills will at least be quick. I had no choice.

No, that's not true, is it? I had choices. None of them were good, but they were choices. I chose this--I choose this. We all did. It's not quite death before dishonor...but it's as near as I could come, given the circumstances.

We did the best we could. I did, Draco did, Potter did...even the Lunatic and Dumbledore did, in their own ways. Is it really our fault that our best wasn't good enough?

I suppose I'll die facing the enemy. Why not? It's the least I can do.

* * *

(Draco, Winter 1999)

Prison

I was already walking toward the door when I heard him. Heard his whisper.

"Stay with me."

He'd taken me from the cell. He didn't tell me how he came to be free. He gave some note to Luna, and left without a word to anyone. He's not well. He's not normal. He's almost as badly off as he was after Will, but he won't tell me why. I suppose I can guess.

He took me down to this room--this sweet, cozy room--and he asked me to speak to Voldemort. As if I were no more to him than some sort of envoy to the Dark. I'm not his pet (but i am his pet and i would die for him and i would kill for him and i already have and who am i kidding) and I wasn't just going to stay there when he...but, stay with me. It didn't fit.

"You don't have to talk to him," he said when I turned.

"Then why did you ask me to, Potter?" He flinched, and I shouldn't have been hard on him, but I couldn't help myself. "Why am I here?"

"I only asked because...well. It doesn't matter."

"Potter. It matters."

"Well, I...your, your fathers are similar. If your mother'd been a Muggle, they would have been almost identical. I thought..."

"You thought Voldemort and I could bond over our bastard fathers. How sweet." I couldn't believe him, I couldn't believe (didn't want to believe)--"Thank you, Potter. It warms me to think you wanted me intimate with the Dark Lord. Truly." I didn't have to take this kind of shit, not now. Not from him. Not from anyone, and I was leaving. Didn't know where I was going...

"Wait, no! You don't have to! Draco, stay. Please. Stay with me." I turned back to face him, and his eyes were filled with tears, tears he wouldn't allow to spill over. Why do I make him cry so often? I've never, ever seen him cry with anyone but me. "I don't care if you talk to him," he said. Quiet. Crushed. I crush him so easily--and he was crushed before I came. "I don't care. I wanted you with me. I don't want to be alone, don't want to do this alone. Please. Please. I--"

Then I was kissing him, kissing him to make him happy, to make him not cry, to make him realize that I loved him, that I couldn't leave him. Kissing him because he wanted me there. He wanted me with him.

When I finally stepped back, he looked a bit dazed and breathless. I hadn't been gentle. "Oh." He was whispering again. "I thought you were mad at me."

I moved close to him again, pulled him to me, ran my hands over him, checking--checking that he was still there, still whole, still as I remembered. Body whole, mind broken again. I hadn't seen him since Voldemort took him away. I hadn't known, hadn't even known he was alive. And he hadn't let me know. "I was mad at you," I admitted, and maybe I was a bit breathless too.

"But...oh, but. . . ." He often tries to speak when he's...distracted. It never works very well. "Just...just stay. Please. Promise...oh...promise me." He was trying harder than usual to get the words out. I may have been trying harder than usual to distract him. "I, I don't care if you...ah! talk to him. I don't." I kissed him briefly, and this time I was gentle. He rubbed his cheek against mine. Neither of us had shaved, of course. "Stay with me," he whispered into my ear. "Just stay with me."

I knew I would speak to Voldemort. I had no will with Harry, none at all. Still haven't. It feels wrong when we're not walking in step. At the time, I supposed it was far too late to begin worrying about it. About my greatest weakness. Personified.

* * *

(Ron, June 24, 1999)

Battlefield

I didn't really think he'd be there. I had never really believed...I mean, Seamus was convinced he was Voldemort's right-hand man, but Seamus never really knew him.

Dumbledore called us and we went. To war, as we thought. I don't know just where he sent us, even now. A big empty field somewhere. Ruins of some kind off to one side. Could've been anywhere. He moved us around like pawns, and I still can't decide whether or not I resent that. Harry at least asked for suggestions; Harry always tried to protect us. I didn't feel protected this time. I didn't even feel valued.

Voldemort was there, but we all knew he would be. I looked for Lucius Malfoy, found Draco instead. Horrible sinking feeling. Looked to Voldemort's right hand, and saw Harry. For a minute all I could think was that there'd be no living with Seamus after this.

He looked insane. Really insane, not playing at it like he did sometimes at school. I just didn't realize, at school, that he was only playing at it. His eyes were glowing, and he looked like he might be able to destroy everyone on the field with them alone. He was terrifying, and he was on the wrong side of the battlefield. I wondered whose blood he was wearing.

He started talking, and he sounded like a stranger. The night we found out about Malfoy was only a hint of this--and it hadn't lasted near as long. Felt the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

"I found the prophecy," he said. His voice was calm, and cold as ice, and it cut through the sounds of battle like a knife. That's what he was like, really. Like a weapon all the way around, and not a person at all. Wasn't til later I started wondering what prophecy he was talking about.

"I had my reasons," Dumbledore said, and he sounded terribly old and tired. "It was necessary, Harry. It was necessary." I knew right then who was going to win, and I knew it wasn't going to be us. I had no doubt.

Harry hissed, I mean hissed, almost Parseltongue, "You always had reasons." Voldemort was standing behind him and smiling. I guess I'd never thought about how ugly smiling snake-men would be before.

Then Draco and Harry stood back in line with Voldemort, and they all raised their wands. They didn't bother to cast silently. Wasn't like Dumbledore could have done anything about it either way.

The phrase "Avada Kedavra" sounds really beautiful in chorus. Like a prayer.

Dumbledore died. I knew he would. Even he wasn't strong enough to stand up to the two most powerful wizards in the world, and one who was arguably number four.

The battle went on, I guess. I didn't notice. Blind luck I wasn't killed, really. Or maybe it wasn't blind luck--I mean, I was right there. They could've killed me if they'd wanted to. They didn't.

I hear all the Death Eaters died. I hear Fred and George had planted explosives all over the field. No one seems to know how they knew in advance exactly where Voldemort was going to turn up, but no one's asking them questions, either. They're heroes again. It suits them.

I hear that Neville killed Voldemort, which is sort of a turn up for the books. I hear that Harry and Draco fought over Voldemort until he died, then vanished. I hear we had almost no losses.

It doesn't feel like that. I think I'm still stuck in that moment when I realized there was no earthly way Dumbledore could win. And there wasn't. There wasn't. So why did we win?

* * *

(Harry, Winter 1999)

Prison

"Is it working?" Draco asked. He looked worried. He often looks worried, around me.

"I think so." I shut the door behind me and leaned against the handle. "He let me out again, didn't he?"

"To get rid of you."

"No. If he wanted, really wanted to get rid of me, he'd just kill me. Part of him still wants to see me defeated before I die. The rest...is curious. I think that's a good sign."

Draco frowned at me dubiously.

I pushed off the door, tripped on my first step, and crashed into him. My mind was...really far behind. All it had noticed was that in Draco's arms was a good place to be. Everything else faded out until Draco said, "Harry, love, if you're going to pass out, might we sit down first?"

I mumbled something at him. Don't remember what. Don't think he cared, because he pulled me down onto the couch and tucked me more firmly against him. I can't believe how plush that house was. I knew Tom's mother must have decorated it, but he'd never changed anything, or gotten bloodstains on it, or even changed the feel of it--hell, it still felt like a woman lived there.

Draco was rubbing my back, and little trails of tingling heat followed his fingers. That's what he is--warm. Always warm. I cuddled into his shoulder and twisted the front of his shirt in my hands, trying to melt right into him. He makes fun of me for the cuddling. I notice he never asks me to cuddle less. He's a funny one, Draco; he never admits to liking the things he likes most. Not unless circumstances are extreme and he can plead head trauma afterwards.

He didn't ask me anything more about Tom. One question. He only ever let himself ask the one question, after my sessions with Tom. Then he'd fret silently until I told him something else. Then he'd fret over whatever else I'd told him. Silly boy.

"Hey, at least he didn't hit me this time." Silent fretting. "He asked a question again. He's doing that more, now."

"That's good, then." He wanted to ask me what the question had been. It was driving him mad not to know. He didn't ask.

"He asked if I could remember my parents." I frowned, wondering again about that, and so I didn't notice Draco clench his fists and go cold.

"He's never asked you personal questions before," he said tightly. "Is that a good sign?"

"I think it must be--"

"Harry," Draco hissed; only then did I notice how horribly tense he was. "The man is a monster. He asked you--of all people--to talk about your dead parents. He's evil, Harry--beyond saving. Give. Up."

I guess I was worried--he was so upset--but "He's not a monster, Draco. You said it yourself. That I should remember my enemy is human."

"After he's dead," he said, voice cracking. "Remember he's human after he's dead, Harry! Compassion just now is going to get you killed."

"I can save him."

"No you can't."

"Why not?"

"He is insane. His mind is broken. You can't save people after they've grown up, love. Their minds lose the ability to change."

"Oh, yes? The mind of a madman doesn't change? Even normal minds can change a little--how much more could you derail a mind already derailed, Draco? His mind changes all the time--I can hardly keep up with it."

"No. His...his direction changes, maybe. Where he's aiming his craziness. He'll always be crazy, though, Harry. He's not going to be fixed, or saved. It's too late, far too late for that now."

"Too late to be fixed or saved, maybe. Not too late to be used."

"What?"

"Let's...change his direction."

Draco paused. He hadn't expected this from me, this statement of near-evil. He didn't know that this was what I'd planned on from the beginning; that all my research had aimed for this goal. He didn't know how long I'd been in a dark grey area, morally.

He didn't need to know.

Prophecy or no, I wasn't going to be able to save Tom. After all, it's hard to save someone you've always wanted dead. Isn't it?

"You want him to hate someone else," Draco was saying hoarsely. I nodded against his chest. "Who did you have in mind?"

I grinned. Perhaps evilly. "Dumbledore." Even I could hear the bitterness in my voice.

"Of course." He laughed. Not a pleasant sound. "Gods. All we'd have to do would be to tell him the truth." I nodded again. "Harry, it's so simple. It's almost..." beautiful? Poetic? Ironic? Perfect? Despicable? He didn't finish the sentence. How could he? We were going to twist a broken mind and kill a former ally on the off-chance that it might save a world. How could he describe that? How could anyone?

"I suppose I'll have to help you, then," he said wearily. I think he knew there was no point, telling me. I had known he would help, and he knew I had known. What I know that he knows that I know of his thoughts. I guess we've always been a tangle.

* * *

(Fred & George Weasley, June 24, 1999)

Battlefield

We've always been fond of young Harry, haven't we?

Of course we have.

We'd do nigh on anything for the little maniac.

Of course we would.

And, not to detract from Ronniekins--

--never meaning a word against ickle Ronniekins--

--but we've always rather looked upon Harry as the younger brother we, well...

...never had.

In view of this, and in the noble tradition of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, we decided to obey his letter absolutely to the letter.

It's true it was something of a shock, seeing him next to Voldemort like that--

--but we've always had supreme confidence in young Harry, and he's always played things close to the chest. We respect that.

And his letter had said, "Battle on 24 June."

Nice and clear, it was.

So it wasn't that we were completely unprepared. He even gave us a map, and he'd marked out where the Death Eaters would stand--

--and they were standing there--

--and he'd asked for "some really impressive explosions." He even gave us a recommendation, didn't he?

Nightshade and powdered basilisk tooth, 2:5, in excess tears of willow.

Of course, we'd tried that ages before--

--that is to say, immediately after Malfoy first mentioned it to us--

--and we'd improved somewhat on the recipe.

Turns out that a touch of good old muggle H₂SO₄--

--that's sulfuric acid--

--makes the willow tears awfully unstable. Volatile, that's the ticket.

So we came up with these little dissolving packets--actually, most things dissolve in sulfuric acid--such that the sulfuric acid bled through into the willow tears, then dissolved the membrane between fluids and solids and then--

We're really very lucky that the timing of the battle worked out so well. We might have blown up half a field for nothing.

Or blown up everyone on our side, if they'd made the mistake of, well, charging.

That would have been embarrassing.

But, fortunately, it all worked like a charm. Now we're telling people that we had some sort of switch or spell to set off the explosions, lest they worry too much.

No point in worrying after the fact. Actually, some sort of control might have been a good idea.

Pity we didn't think of it.

But back to Harry...

Ah, Harry. We do confess to being a bit alarmed when he turned up all crazed and bloody with Malfoy and Voldemort.

We don't have anything against Malfoy, mind--we pretty much figure he's been Harry's bitch from day one, but--

--well, it was still a wee bit worrying. We got over it, though.

We got over it once the explosives exploded, and we realized that he'd told us to put them in the right place.

We plan on pretending it was much earlier, though, if Harry ever asks.

Really, it would have been, if it hadn't been for all that murdering of Dumbledore, and so on.

Exactly. So we maintain it wasn't our fault that we remembered our faith in Harry after the explosions.

By then old Voldie was down anyway. Neville Longbottom. Who knew he had it in him?

Of course, Harry and Malfoy were still defending the old corpse, but--

--Harry'd just got Voldemort to walk all his Death Eaters into a trap, hadn't he? It was brilliant. The cleanup would've taken years, otherwise.

We just figured Harry'd made it so that Voldemort and Malfoy were both his bitches.

He's a clever little sod, Harry. We're terribly proud of him.

Terribly proud. Of course...he's always been good at talking to snakes. We should have known.

He'll have to run off now, no doubt--got the mob after him and all.

We'll find him, though. We have this theory on how to get around Secret Keepers--

--especially if we know who the Secret Keeper is--

--and it's got to be Malfoy.

Maybe we'll send them Christmas presents. They'll probably be lonely after a while, we figure.

* * *

(Draco, Winter 1999)

Prison

And I find myself, despite all my pledges, prayers, and promises, chatting with Tom Marvolo Riddle (as was).

All former plans aside, I'm dazzled by the sheer patheticness of this creature to whom my father belonged. My father was a proud man. Apparently fear can conquer even the most resolute pride.

I don't know why, but for the first time since I killed my father, I find myself wondering what's become of my mother.

But I'm distracted in the face of the enemy, and that will not do. I can't let my Harry down, after all. I would accuse Harry of being my personal Dark Lord, but I don't stay with him out of fear. Alas, it is far more complicated than that.

"I know what you're trying to do," I tell the sociopath in front of me, and am disturbed to find I speak truth. I understand a sociopath. I feel so much better about myself.

He paces and inspects the torture implements on the far wall. I don't know why he bothers--we both know he won't torture me. The first time I followed Harry in, I confess I was worried. This must be the fifth time. The magic has died, I'm afraid.

"You still hate your father. There's no point, you know. You killed him. Now he'll never respect you, he'll never admit he was wrong, he'll never love you--whatever you wanted him to be or do, he won't. You've made it impossible. You can't fix that by clearing the planet of everything that reminds you of him."

He doesn't say anything. He never does, when I'm in the room alone. When Harry's here, he screams and sobs and threatens and throws things. Perhaps they have a special connection. I'm so envious.

"You hate Harry because you think he defeated you. Harry had nothing to do with it, you know--Harry never has anything to do with it. Harry is the most manipulated person I know." I'm beginning to be worried about how much truth is going into this brainwashing-the-evil-guy program. There, he turned his head. Yes, we have contact!

"When you really think about it, the only person--after your father, who, alas, you can't kill more than once--the only person who has deliberately done anything to harm you is the same one who's been manipulating Harry. He's the man who stole Snape from you, the man who destroyed Crouch, the man--"

"Albus Dumbledore," he hisses.

Well done; we have participation. Shall we make it a group effort?

He stalks out of the room. Apparently not a group effort, then. I'll let him stew...

He always does this. He walks out and leaves the door open, and Harry and I wander in and out at will. Not that we can leave the building, of course, but I still feel that letting us wander at all is behaviour unbecoming an evil maniac.

But why did he take Harry's chains off in the first place? Why does he listen to us? Why does Harry talk to him again and again? Why do I let Harry persuade me to do the same? Does Harry really believe we can drive him into a murderous rage against Dumbledore? If so, why?

I don't have answers for any of these questions. I just talk to murderous sociopaths during the day, and sleep with my quite-possibly-bipolar lover at night. My life is the sick joke of a depraved god.

* * *

(Harry, June 24, 1999)

Battlefield

I saw Ron's face after I killed Dumbledore. I saw.

Still, it's a relief that Dumbledore is dead. At least we accomplished something today. The Death Eaters are largely dead or imprisoned; I killed quite a few myself. Fred and George exceeded my expectations, as always. All to the good.

Draco lived. He had to.

Tom is dead. It was not the plan, though it may be for the best. I don't know what we'd have done with him, after. We probably would have had to kill him ourselves. He died at my feet. Draco and I were trying to save him; I don't know why. We are not salvation. There might have been a touching, dying-on-the-battlefield moment between us. There wasn't. It hadn't been that sort of war. He stopped breathing, and Draco and I left.

The end.

I suppose it was tragic. To seem so close to redemption, and then fall.

We picked up Dean and Luna, and we ran. Must keep moving. We've learned our lesson about small places. Big cities, different countries, tourist attractions all over the world. For a time. For years, maybe. Draco will tell me if, when, we can stop. He says we should split up, two and two. He's right, as he usually is, but I won't allow it. Together in exile. How poetic, I tell him. He lets me.

We all know we'll never be welcome here again.

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1999)

Prison

Harry and Draco just came back and from what I can gather Voldemort is dead and we're all in serious trouble and I'm not just sure how that works, but I'm going to find out, damn it.

They tried to leave without us but I pointed out Ginny and suspicion and hurrah for stubbornness I win.

Leaving this for Dad. Here Dad.

And tell Hermione and Ron--Harry loves them. He tried to push them away because he knew this would happen. Something like this. He loves them and he misses them. Tell them.

That's it, we're going.

I love you, Dad. I'm sorry.

Luna

* * *

(Hermione, June 24, 1999)

Battlefield

I saw him there, about to murder the man who'd kept him safe for most of his life. He was beautiful in that moment, covered in sweat and blood and tears, rain and mud, like war paint. His hair was wild, and his eyes were nearly glowing green. He looked like a mad god of war; the sort that spits the babies of his enemies and roasts them over flames. He was lit by lightning and fire and the flash of curses.

Draco stood beside and behind, Patroclus to Harry's Achilles. Voldemort was behind them both, like the face of the Furies.

I couldn't believe it. I still can't. I have no choice.

The three of them raised their wands, and Albus Dumbledore died in a flash of green. Voldemort was struck from the side by Neville's curse, and Harry and Draco stood over him, protecting him from...us. I didn't see them kill anyone but Dumbledore. It doesn't make any sort of sense.

They stood over Voldemort for a long time, pushing back all comers, then, suddenly, they were gone. Voldemort had died on the ground while they fought over him, killed by the curse Harry had worked so hard to find less than a year before; killed by a boy Harry had helped to turn into a man capable of casting that curse.

We fought on in grief and confusion, and, eventually, the Death Eaters were all messily dead. The Death Eaters were gone. Voldemort was gone. We had won, but it didn't feel like a victory. It still doesn't.

Fred and George have miraculously produced a map showing where the old house that was Voldemort's base is located. After all the other miracles they've produced during this war, no one's even bothered to ask where the map came from. Of course, if anyone tried, I'm convinced they wouldn't answer--they've been bizarrely close-mouthed since they left school. No one's asking about that, either, it seems. No one asks the heroes the important questions.

I'm taking a team tomorrow to see this base of Voldemort's. Some think we'll find Luna and Dean trapped there, perhaps dead. They hope we might even find Draco and Harry. I rather doubt it. Any of it.

So few died on our side, and yet we're all bereft. Aside from Dumbledore, we lost Sybill Trelawney, Amos Diggory, Alastor Moody, Nymphadora Tonks, Cho Chang, Seamus Finnigan, Padma Patil, Hannah Abbott, Ernie Macmillan, and Percy Weasley...if Percy was, in fact, a loss for our side. The DA took most of the losses. They were the center of everything, after all. Thanks to Harry.

Many, many more were injured, physically or mentally. Neville, in particular, is not what he once was. To put it mildly. And I don't think Ron will walk again. Severed spinal cord. There are dozens of others. As wars go, however, our losses are...ridiculously slight, mostly thanks to Fred and George, and their inexplicable knowledge of where the battle would be. I've become accustomed to not understanding anything, though, so it doesn't bother me as much as it might have some years back. I should thank Harry for that as well.

Harry. The reason our victory tastes like defeat. What don't we owe to Harry? Our strength, our training, our very survival over the years, the spell that finally destroyed the enemy. We owe him everything, and yet nothing. Did he turn? Why would he--how could he? How much of this was planned--revenge against the wizarding world because it didn't trust him? Slytherin enough to make us miserable, Gryffindor enough to save us anyway? Perhaps. Perhaps he went mad over Ginny's death. Perhaps he went mad over everything. I don't know. I don't know. For us? Against us? Both? I don't know.

The party line is that his mind was controlled--by Voldemort, by Draco, by Bellatrix Lestrange (still missing)--by anyone at all. Everyone chooses to ignore the fact that he could throw off the Imperius Curse by age 14. I find that self-delusion doesn't help me. Nothing does.

I'll go in defeated triumph, then, to Voldemort's Lair. And I'll try to pick up the pieces.

* * *

(Luna's journal, Winter 1999)

Prison

Here, Dad. Just for you. I've been writing it since first year at Hogwarts. Seems so long ago, now. Possibly because it was. I've done a bit of editing, but it's essentially the same as ever. This is a story about Life. Mine, specifically. Well, no, I suppose I'm really the narrator. This is a story about People I Found Interesting, and All Those Things I Never Told You. It was always intended for you. Enjoy.

I'm sorry things turned out this way. Whatever you hear, whatever you choose to believe, believe that I always loved you. I'm sorry.

Luna

* * *

(Neville, June 24, 1999)

Battlefield

I almost...I almost expected it to be this way.

Anyone could see what Harry was trying to do, and anyone could see that it wasn't going to work--because Voldemort had to die, and Harry should have known that too. He didn't, though. Because he's Harry.

He's Harry, and I'm me, and maybe that's why it all went the way it went. Because Harry doesn't follow through. Because people always pay too much attention to him. Because nobody knows Resanguinis as well as I do.

It's not an easy curse to use, and if it took Harry to figure out that we needed it, it took me to cast it. I know everything about that spell, everything--who invented it (and why, and for whom), when it was used (and why, and on whom), and every variation, from the straight break to the sort of curse that ensures the cursed one will never be able to look on his family again and live. Not even Hermione knows about the variations.

I know even more about Resanguinis than I know about the Cruciatus Curse.

It was a relief to finally cast it. Relief, like...like casting out the possibility that my grandmother would decide the family would do better without my incompetence; that Uncle Algie would finally get tired of my weakness; that I would do something so stupid as to be unforgivable--gone, gone, gone in a rush of green, and it's the same colour as the Killing Curse, and it makes a strange sort of sense.

Gone, gone, gone, because who could say I'm not part of the family now, Uncle Algie? I killed Voldemort; I killed him; I was crueler than Harry Potter dared to be. Voldemort has all eternity without his family now--I cast the cruelest curse there is, and no contact even after death and I tell myself it was necessary, but that wasn't why I cast that one--whywhywhy?--because I could so I did and no one knew enough to stop me. And they don't know what I did, not really, not even now, and I'm not sorry he deserved it, he did, he did, and Harry, Harry was wrong. Neville had the drop on everyone this time and I know what they all say, but let them, let them laugh now, because they, they think I killed Voldemort and I'm a hero, but I, I know I tortured him forever and I can laugh at them now, and they can call me weak and I don't care.

Let them, let them call me weak. They were wrong and so was Harry. They were the weak ones. Weak. Worthless. I was the one who saved them. I saved them. I did. I.

* * *

* * *

(Merope Riddle (d.1926), Summer 1999)

She, she, she came into my house. Hmm hmm. My house. Hello. So many new people suddenly, all new. Sunlight broken on the threshold. Tommy has friends, I always hoped, no one came, he said he was popular i didn't know and then screaming screaming bloodonthewalls

But these were new, different. These, they were young and they talked, just talked noscreaming. (peaceful?). Tom cried, I don't know. They stayed, stayed and left noscreamsnoblood. Different.

(No one sees me, no one sees, it-is-not-fit-for-the-dead-to-walk-among-the-living my husband told me, he told. I must walk but not among, no one may see. Not even my Tom. not even my son)

Tom is not here but this one is. Before it happened, once it happened, ones came angry with fire, bright, shivering on walls, scattering from brands ?wands? perfect red-orange-blue halo. sent them away, i sent. kept their bones. mine. this house. hurt my tom, hurt my house, you won't you can't

This one is different, again different, this sharp girl. She looks just looks room to room to room. . .she sees the crying room, with Tom crying but she does not see tom crying only i see him alone with the boy on the wall the boy burning (my tom used to burn but now poisonagedeath he smolders myfaultmyfaultmyfault) the burning boy tied to the wall he is making my tom cry but he is not ?sad? so i leave ?left?I, I did not make the burning boy leave.

She goes to the room with the two and the sounds pleasure?pain?goodpain and silence comfort warmth. They were peace in the midst of panic. There has never been anything like them in this house, dark and light mingling like art like beauty. Almost I kept them. But I let them go. i always let them all go.

The sharp girl, she goes around, around, all around the house, but these two rooms again and again and again. . . Perhaps she hears the screaming in the room, the crying room with chains. She might hear the strange-lost-comfort, the room with the bed with the messy sheets. nonono. no one hears. i hear i always hear alone.

She searches ?searched? looking. She finds the book, the lost girl's secrets, her paniccryingcomfort book. Sad to forget, she'll be sad. The sharp girl reads the lost girl's book. She won't, she can't understand her secrets for she is too sharp too bright too hard, I think she is too sharp that girl was soft and blurred and lost. Boy was lost, her quiet boy, they, they soft velvet ones, so strange in this house, my house. The sharp one knows something, she cries, she reads on and on and on.

The paper falls out, out of the secretbook. Questions, questions for the burning boy. The burning one made my Tom cry. The other one, the glass boy, he spoke to him softly with his words ice, spoke to my Tom, Tom nodded, Tom listening with the ice burningandcutting. But the burning boy made him cry. They asked, all asked why the burning boy talked to my Tom. The burning boy gave the paper, the answers (he took the glass boy away to my Tom). It is answers, but it is sadness and anger and hate, for the glass boy it is hate.

The sharp girl reads the paper. For the sharp girl it is despair and pain and guilt (i know despairpainguilt)

The paper flutters to the floor.

The house is ?was? empty, no one, no secretcrying book, no paper answering with pain. just me again, me and the screamsbloodpainloss. i stay, alone, the only onewhostays. I Always Let Them Go. they leave me their tears.

but my tom always comes back to me